MicroHorror

“Just put your feet in those bowling shoes, Scott,” Jayme said, pulling the socks out of Scott’s hands and swatting his shoulder with them.

“Come on,” Scott said. “This isn’t funny. Give ’em back.”

Jayme stood up and dangled the socks over Scott’s head, yanking them just out of his reach as he tried to grab them.

Jayme jumped back as Scott stood up, holding out his hand. “I’m not kidding.”

“Me neither,” Jayme said, smiling as she stuffed the socks down the front of her shirt.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Really? You’re going to act like that?”

“Act like what?” Robbie asked, walking up with a pair of bowling shoes in his hands. He sat down in the plastic red chair and bent over to take off his Keens. He took a pair of balled up socks from his pocket and began to put them on.

“See! Robbie is wearing socks,” Scott said, watching Robbie lace up the brown and cream bowling shoes.

“Who doesn’t wear socks?” Robbie asked.

Scott started to speak, but Jayme put her hand over his mouth. “Scott wants to turn his socks inside out while they’re in the shoes.”

Scott pushed her hand away. “They’re rentals,” he said. “If I turn the socks inside out now, then only the inside touches the shoes. Then, when I turn them back right side out, my shoes will stay clean.”

“But then your feet are touching the tainted side of the socks,” Jayme said, throwing her hands up in the air. “It makes no sense.”

Robbie stood up, walking toward the lanes in front of them. “I knew you had a thing with germs, Scott, but this is rubbish. Just put your feet in the shoes and let’s go.”

Jayme smiled and followed Robbie, who was already stepping up to the lane, a bright blue ball in his hand.

Scott sat back down and stared at his bare feet. Muttering under his breath, he began to unlace the clown-colored shoes. Cringing, his right foot went down into the shoe.

Scott unlocked the door to his home. His two dogs met him, jumping and wagging their tails.

“You guys must be hungry, huh?” he said, letting them in. It had been a late night. Robbie, always competitive, had insisted on four more extra games, only letting them leave when he had beaten Scott and Jayme. Then, of course, they had wanted dinner, which had evolved into drinks at the local pub. The whole night his feet had felt itchy, almost burning, something Scott attributed to his own irrational fears and morbid imagination. He knew there was nothing sinister growing in those rented bowling shoes, but his mind had some mental block that he couldn’t get past.

He fed the dogs and walked to his bedroom, wanting nothing more than a shower. He took off his watch, placing it on the bedside table. He sat on the bed and took off his tennis shoes before heading to the bathroom. Turning on the hot water, he let the steam roll into the bathroom, fogging up the mirrors and filling the room. He undressed, tossing his clothes into the laundry basket.

Scott stepped into the shower, letting the water run over his face. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked down, wanting the water to massage his aching neck.

Scott screamed and jumped back, his hands groping for the shower wall. Bright red blood, foamy with air bubbles, swirled around the drain, mingling with the water. His feet were eaten with holes from his toes up to his ankle, exposing sinewy muscles and pieces of white bone. His feet were hissing as the drops of water hit them, dissolving more skin as he watched. The pain hit him now; he slumped to the shower floor. The burning was crawling up his leg now, giving his skin the look of finely woven lace.

“Damn those socks, Jayme,” he cried, letting the pain overtake his body.