The Missing Loafers

Living at the top of the old Jenkins Building, I had a routine: every morning, I’d slide on my scuffed loafers by the patio door in my small studio and take my coffee out to the narrow balcony. The view of the overgrown courtyard below was my only luxury. I’d placed those loafers in the same spot for two years, ever since I’d moved in.

Yesterday, after a thorough cleaning and taking out the trash, I left the loafers at their usual spot. I’d been wearing them just minutes before, so I didn’t think twice. After making my coffee and settling into my armchair with a book, I remembered I needed to check the mail. I walked to the door, but the loafers were gone. I checked under the bed, the closet, the bathroom—nowhere. A cold sweat broke out. I never misplaced things. I lived alone; no one else had a key.

Despite my unease, I decided to go barefoot to check the hall. The building’s hallway was dim, with a flickering fluorescent light. As I got to the elevator, I saw my loafers at the far end, near the exit stairwell. They were neatly placed, side by side, as if waiting for me. My first instinct was relief, but then a knot tightened in my stomach. My apartment was at the opposite end of the hall. How had they gotten there? I retrieved them, my hands trembling.

The next morning, I put my coffee on the small table by the balcony and stepped out. When I turned back inside to grab my book, I screamed. The loafers were sitting in the middle of the room, facing me, perfectly aligned with the door. I had left them on the balcony just moments before. My heart pounded as I replayed my actions—I had definitely slid them off at the patio door, not brought them inside.

I tried to rationalize: maybe I had brought them in without thinking? I was tired. But deep down, I knew I hadn’t. I shoved them into the closet and shut the door.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard a soft scraping sound from the closet. When I finally forced myself to check, the closet door was ajar, and the loafers were on the floor, facing me. I slammed the door and leaned against it, but the scraping continued, rhythmic, like an impatient tapping. I grabbed a flashlight and opened the door again, ready for anything. The loafers were still, but they were now positioned with the toes pointing directly at my bed.

By the third day, I was desperate. I decided to test the motion: I placed them on the balcony and went back inside to watch through the window. I waited. Nothing. I went to the kitchen, and when I returned, they were on the threshold, just inside. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft.

I called my landlord, a gruff old man named Mr. Grimaldi. He listened, then sighed. ‘Harold, that apartment has had… before you moved in, a woman lived there. She left her shoes by that door every night, but she threw herself off the balcony.’ He paused. ‘They say her feet were always bare in the funeral.’

I nearly dropped the phone. ‘Why would that affect my loafers?’ I asked, my voice shaky. ‘Because,’ he said slowly, ‘she always wore a pair of white sneakers, and her boyfriend, who never visited, left his brown loafers by that same door. He blamed himself and moved away. I guess that door has a habit of collecting shoes.’

That night, I packed my loafers in a bag and tossed them in a public dumpster three blocks away. I slept in my boots. At dawn, I woke to the sound of knocking. I opened the door, and there were my loafers, sitting on the welcome mat. The laces were knotted together in a bow.

I knew then that my departure was imminent. But before I left, I decided to look into the history of the building. I discovered that the previous tenant wasn’t the only one. Over the years, several residents reported their shoes moving on their own. The door, I learned, had been taken from the original building, which had burned down in a fire. The owner, a cobbler, had perished, and his final pair of handmade leather shoes had never been claimed. They were buried in the courtyard, he had said.

Now, as I write this, I’m packing my other belongings. My loafers are back on the balcony, right where I first left them. I don’t know if they’ll follow me, but I’ve realized that sometimes, the stories we live in are not ours to control. The courtyard below, overgrown with weeds, is silent. But I keep hearing a faint shuffling, as if bare feet are pacing on the wooden floor, waiting for me to forget them once more.