The Unworn Slippers

Every summer, my cousins and I would migrate to my aunt’s house in the small farming town of Albuera, where the rice paddies shimmered like gold coins under the relentless sun. The house itself was an old two-story structure, its wooden stairs groaning like a tired beast with every step. We were five kids that summer: Mateo, the eldest, then the twins, Isabela and Sofia, my brother Carlo, and me, little Anna. We’d spend our days chasing dragonflies along the irrigation canals, building forts from bamboo, and daring each other to climb the gnarled acacia tree whose roots clutched the riverbank like skeletal fingers. Nights were different. Nights, we huddled in the sala, the only light coming from a kerosene lamp that cast monstrous shadows on the walls, and we told stories—mostly made-up tales of duwendes and kapres. But one story, Auntie Lita never told. She’d just stare at the corner of the room where a pair of worn slippers lay perfectly aligned, as if waiting for someone who would never come.

It was my sister Carlo who found them first. They were hidden beneath the stairs, a lady’s beaded slippers, emerald green, so old that the beads had dulled to a murky gray. We dusted them off, and Sofia, always the daring one, slipped her feet into them. They fit perfectly, as if made for her. That’s when we started noticing Elsa. At first, it was just a lingering scent of jasmine, sweet and nauseating, in rooms where no flowers bloomed. Then, late at night, we’d hear the soft pad of footsteps on the wooden floor—light, unhurried, like a woman walking in those very slippers. We’d hold our breath, listening, but the house would fall silent, save for the chirping of crickets outside. I told myself it was my imagination, the aftereffects of too many ghost stories. But one evening, I saw her—a figure in white, the hem of her long dress trailing, her face hidden by a cascade of black hair. She stood at the end of the hallway, her feet bare, and as she shuffled closer, I saw that where her toes should have been, there was nothing—just a dark, hollow void. I screamed, and when the others arrived, the hallway was empty. But for a brief moment, I swear I saw the green slippers on the floor, now damp, as if they had been walked in the rain.

The next day, the slippers were gone. I searched the entire house, but they had vanished. Sofia, the one who had worn them, said she felt a chill whenever she passed the spot beneath the stairs. That night, she began to sleepwalk. We found her standing in the garden at midnight, her eyes open but unseeing, and in her hand, the slippers, which she must have hidden away. When we shook her awake, she looked at us with a panic we’d never seen before. ‘She says they’re hers,’ Sofia whispered. ‘She wants them back.’

We decided to burn the slippers. It seemed the safest thing. We built a bonfire in the yard, and one by one, we tossed them in. The beads melted, the leather curled, and a terrible smell filled the air—like burning hair and camphor. As the flames died, we felt a sense of relief. We thought it was over. But that night, Carlo woke up screaming. He said a woman with long hair was standing in his room, pointing a bony finger at the spot where the slippers had once rested. When we turned on the lights, we saw the outline of two feet burned into the wooden floor, perfectly shaped like the soles of the slippers. And from that night on, the footsteps continued, but now they were accompanied by a faint, sorrowful humming—a lullaby, out of tune, that seemed to come from the walls themselves.

Auntie Lita finally broke her silence. She told us that decades ago, a young woman named Dolores had lived in that house. She was a seamstress, known for her beautiful beaded slippers. She had died in a fire that consumed the old bamboo shack behind the house, and her body had never been found. The slippers were all that remained. Auntie Lita had kept them, a memento, but she’d always felt the woman’s presence. ‘She’s not evil,’ Auntie Lita said, her voice trembling. ‘She’s just longing. She wants her slippers, so she can walk in peace.’

But the slippers were gone, destroyed. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had done something terrible. That night, as I lay in bed, I heard the familiar pad of footsteps approaching my door. The knob turned slowly. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying, and the door creaked open. I felt a cold breath on my face, and a voice, soft as a moth’s wing, whispered: ‘You should have left them.’ When I opened my eyes, the room was empty, but on my pillow lay a single bead, green and still gleaming, wet with what looked like a tear. And outside my window, I saw a figure in white, walking across the moonlit field, her feet bare, trailing a wisp of smoke behind her.