Storm Born

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I’d seen weirder things than a haunted shoe, but not many.

The Nike Pegasus sat on the office’s desk, inoffensive, colored in shades of gray, white, and orange. Some of the laces were loosened, and a bit of dirt clung around the soles. It was the left shoe.

As for me, well…underneath my knee-length coat, I had a Glock.22 loaded with bullets carrying a higher-than-legal steel content. A cartridge of silver ones rested in the coat’s pocket. Two athames lay sheathed on my other hip, one silver-bladed and one iron. Stuck into my belt near them was a wand, hand-carved oak and loaded with enough charmed gems to probably blow up the desk in the corner if I wanted to.

To say I felt overdressed was something of an understatement.

“So,” I said, keeping my voice as neutral as possible, “what makes you think your shoe is…uh, possessed?”

Brian Montgomery, late thirties with a receding hairline in serious denial, eyed the shoe nervously and moistened his lips. “It always trips me up when I’m out running. Every time. And it’s always moving around. I mean, I never actually see it, but…like, I’ll take them off near the door, then I come back and find this one under the bed or something. And sometimes…sometimes I touch it, and it feels cold…really cold…like…” He groped for similes and finally picked the tritest one. “Like ice.”

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