Yes, your new shoes are haunted
There’s no doubt about it. Your new shoes are haunted. Hell, they couldn’t be more haunted if they tried.
So how did you end up with a pair of haunted shoes?
(Really? You can’t remember? It must be all the possessing of your soul that’s been going on.)
Here’s the story of how you ended up with haunted shoes, told in 10 easy steps, because I’m running out of supernatural beings for teenaged girls to date:
1. We told you not to go to the murder house. But would you listen to us? No. No, you would not. “Don’t go to the murder house,” we said. “What’s that?” you replied. “I wasn’t listening, because I’m too busy going off to the murder house.”
Murder houses are the Disneyland of hauntings.
2. “And if you must go to the murder house, don’t buy anything at the estate sale,” we suggested.
But you were all hot to buy something at the murder house, weren’t you? “If I buy something at the murder house estate sale, then I’ll be the owner of something that I bought at the murder house estate sale,” you said, both logically and repetitively.
"Also, I can't WAIT to hold one of those little numbered signs."
3. So you went to the murder house estate sale, despite our strenuous objections, and there you began bidding. Really, you wanted to get the murder house steak knife set, which wasn’t actually used in the commission of any murders in the murder house, but still seemed pretty cool and possibly like it might be worth something on e-bay. “Genuine murder house steak knife set,” you considered as a listing.
4. Unfortunately, the bidding went a little beyond your price range, and someone else ended up with the steak knife set as well as the dead-eyed porcelain doll. To tell you the truth, we think you dodged a bullet there. Haunted shoes are bad enough, but those porcelain dolls are instruments of Satan himself.
"Why, yes, I do house thousands of horrors inside my tiny, porcelain body. How did you know?"
5. But when the haunted shoes came up, you managed to score them. “What’s a little blood on shoes?” the auctioneer said, while his assistant held up the blood-stained shoes while wearing a thick pair of gloves. “It gives them personality,” the auctioneer encouraged.
Let it not be said of you that you couldn't be easily persuaded by an enthusiastic auctioneer.
6. So when the estate sale was over, you went home with a pair of bloody shoes. “In fact,” you thought to yourself, “there seems to be even more blood on them now than when I first bought them, sort of like that elevator of blood in The Shining.”
After working at a mortuary for several months, I find myself desensitized to things like elevators of blood. Hell on my clothing, though.
7. And that’s when the haunting began. First it was the ghostly rapping and footsteps, and then it was the brief appearance of apparitions standing at the edge of your bed just as you were about to drop off to sleep, and finally it was the possessions.
Gah! I'm being haunted by a red, downward-pointing arrow!
8. That’s right, I said “Possessions.” We told you and told you: “Don’t wear the blood-stained shoes you bought at the murder house estate sale. Are you crazy?” “But they fit so nicely, and they’re quite stylish,” you said, and slipped them onto your feet, and slipped off into some kind of fugue state.
Your fugue state is less like a collection of short stories and more like a "how the hell did I get here and where did this head I'm carrying come from?" sort of thing.
9. And that’s how you ended up here. “Here?” Yes. In the murder house, gripping a set of steak knives and a dead-eyed porcelain doll. Also, you were moaning something about your eternal slumber being disturbed and how all must pay and something about “this soul now belongs to us.”
10. So, anyway, yes, your shoes are haunted, and, yes, your soul is now in the possession of the spirits that haunt the murder house. But if you manage to get control of your faculties long enough to throw the haunted items out the window to us, we promise we’ll put them up on e-bay in your memory.
Don't worry! We'll make sure you're memorialized as stupidly as "Arson," the little girl who "ironically" died in a fire.
