The Reversed Shoes

I never believed in the supernatural, not really. Ghost stories were entertainment, something to shiver at around a campfire before returning to the safety of reason. But after a particularly dull business trip to the outskirts of Salem, Massachusetts, I found myself with an extra day and a nagging curiosity. A colleague had mentioned a hotel, the old Cranston House, rumored to be haunted by a former owner who had died under mysterious circumstances. I booked a room, half hoping for a thrill, half expecting a night of uninterrupted sleep.

The Cranston House was a sprawling Victorian manor, all creaking wood and faded wallpaper, nestled on a hill overlooking the fog-shrouded bay. The check-in was pleasant enough; the clerk, an elderly woman with watery eyes, handed me an old-fashioned brass key and warned me to keep my door locked at night, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze. I ignored it, attributing it to the eccentricity of small-town folk.

My room, number 17, was at the end of a long, dim corridor. The decor was antique and musty, with a four-poster bed draped in heavy velvet and a wardrobe that seemed to lean slightly, as if fatigued. I unpacked, watched a bit of television that was mostly static, and then decided to explore the grounds. The mansion had a labyrinthine garden, overgrown with thorny roses and gnarled oaks, their branches scraping against the windows like skeletal fingers. I walked until dusk, the chill of the sea air seeping into my bones, and then returned to my room.

That night, I lay in bed, listening to the house settle. The floorboards groaned, the pipes clanked, and the wind outside howled through the eaves. I was just drifting off when I heard it: a faint, rhythmic tapping from the wall beside my bed. Three taps, a pause, then three more. I sat up, heart beating a little faster, and listened. Nothing. I laughed at myself, attributing it to a dripping pipe, and tried to sleep. But the tapping returned, this time from the direction of the wardrobe. And then, unmistakably, a woman’s voice, soft and mournful, as if coming from a great distance: ‘He’s here… he’s here…’

The voice faded, and silence enveloped the room. I fumbled for the lamp, but the bulb flickered and died. A cold draft swept across my face, and I felt a presence, a weight of malice that pressed down on my chest. I threw off the covers and scrambled for the door, but it wouldn’t budge, as if something on the other side was holding it shut. I shouted for help, but my voice came out as a dry rasp. Panic clawed at my throat.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the cold lifted, and the door swung open with a creak. I stumbled into the hallway, which was lit by a single, flickering sconce. The corridor seemed longer than before, stretching into darkness. I ran, my flip-flops slapping against the threadbare runner, until I reached the lobby. It was deserted, but on the front desk, a single item lay: a pair of my own sneakers, which I had left in my room, placed side by side, facing opposite directions.

I stood there, stunned. How could they have gotten here? I looked around for a prank, but there was no one. I scooped up the sneakers and, with a trembling hand, managed to rouse the manager, a gruff man named Harrison, from a back office. He looked at the shoes, at my pale face, and sighed. ‘The wife,’ he said, ‘she likes to play tricks. She was the one who died in that room, you know. Jumped from the window, back in ’62. She never liked guests in her room.’ He handed me a different key, to a room on the first floor, closer to the lobby, and said, ‘Best if you stay there tonight.’

I didn’t argue. I took the new key and locked myself in a small, sterile room that smelled of bleach and air freshener. I placed the sneakers on the floor beside the bed, facing each other, and lay down, fully clothed, keeping one eye on the door. I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes again, the room was pitch black. My wristwatch showed 3:45 a.m. I fumbled for the light switch, and when the light came on, the sneakers were gone. In their place, on the nightstand, was a small, antique locket with a faded photograph inside: a woman with a sad smile, and behind her, the very house I was in. I didn’t touch it. I grabbed my phone and booked a flight out the next morning, not bothering to check out.

As I drove to the airport at dawn, the locket still sat on that nightstand, a silent souvenir of a night I would never forget. I never told anyone the full story, but sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see those sneakers, facing opposite directions, and I hear the woman’s voice again: ‘He’s here… he’s here…’ I don’t know who ‘he’ is, but I hope I never meet him. The Marshwood Inn is a name I’ve learned to avoid, and I always check my shoes before I go to bed. Some things, I’ve learned, are better left unseen.

Now, months later, I’m writing this in a motel room on the other side of the country. I still check the floor before I sleep. And last night, I woke at 3:45 a.m. to find my sneakers, facing opposite directions, at the foot of my bed. I packed my bags and drove all night, but I know it won’t matter. Wherever I go, they follow. I have seen the other side, and it wants me back.