Night of the Living Thread
by Wade Albert White

I'll never forget the night my socks came back to kill me. The argyle dress pair. Black and yellow on green with reinforced heel and toe, eighty-five percent worsted wool, fifteen percent stretch nylon. I knew they were trouble from the beginning, but I kept making excuses. I wanted to believe I was wrong. It was only a matter of time, though, before someone paid the price for my carelessness. I should have trusted my instincts.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name's Stuart. Stuart Fickle. I'm thirty-seven years old. Single. I live at--that is, I lived at 47 Main Street. It's an old Victorian home, white with blue trim. I'd always wanted something in that style, and this one was breathtaking with its pitched, gabled roof, regency regalia, and a veranda that had originally framed the house entirely but whose south side had at some point been converted into a sun porch. The house is still there, on the northeast side of the intersection where Main meets Queen, opposite the post office. I've never gone back, though. Who could?

I worked just four blocks west as the manager of a footwear store called Feet First. It was my absolute dream job. You see, I had this thing for feet--a fetish, really. Always did. I mean, who can resist that coy protrusion of the ankle, or how the arch flows seamlessly into the instep, or the elegance of five perfectly straight and manicured toenails. I still get shivers just thinking about it. But, of course, as so often happens, one fetish led to another, and that's when trouble began. Love of feet became love of footwear, and the most intimate of all footwear was the sock, those beautiful, caressing cylinders of knitted comfort. Socks became my passion. Socks became my life.

Those were carefree days, when love was free and the lines between relationships were fluid. A person could wear a pair of socks one day and discard them the next, and none but the most conservative thought anything of it. I gloried in it, thrived on it, disregarding any possible consequences.

That's when we met, on a warm, breezy day in the early summer. The Argyles had been delivered to the store the day before, but I'd been off enjoying the beach with a sassy little pair of bright-orange cotton crew socks. Audrey, one of the store clerks, placed the new pair front and center in the display window. She claimed she just tossed them in there without a second thought, but that little matchmaker knew exactly what she was doing. She knew I couldn't resist. Oh, I tried to play hard to get for a couple of days, but I expect they saw right through that.

It was wonderful at first. Nights out on the town. Dinners. Movies. I bought a special brush to remove their lint, and no shoe was too expensive to ensure their comfort and protection. I even sat outside the dry cleaners and pressed my nose against the glass whenever they were in there. People started talking like they always did. "Another one of his flings," they'd say when they thought I wasn't listening. But I didn't care. To hell with them. To hell with the world.

Eventually, though, that initial spark wore off and life became routine once again. We went out less and less often, and began arguing over things like extra rinse cycles and choice of fabric softener. I started coming home later too, hoping maybe they had already gone to the sock drawer for the night. Then the Fall line came in at the store and the new sports socks caught my eye. Sleek, stretch to fit, and with no heel so you could put them on whichever way you wished. I was in heaven.

It was the beginning of the end.

Trouble started small. Rumours began circulating about misdoings in the wash. I found buttons pulled off some of the shirts, and loose threads on any clothing were needlessly, and even cruelly, unravelled. I would often open the drawer to find the Argyle pair lying stony-faced at the front and the rest of the socks all huddled near the back. But nobody talked. Not a peep. Fear ruled their world now. I knew I should have done something about it, but I kept putting it off, ignoring the warning signs. Then came that fateful night in November, and time ran out.

I had drunk too much wine and passed out in the front parlour in my Lafayette Low-Leg Recliner with a cherry finish. When I awoke, there they were, lying on the floor near the door, blocking the only exit from the room. They said nothing, but stared accusingly at me. I stood up and started talking--babbling, really--saying anything and everything that came to mind, hoping to delay whatever action they intended for as long as possible. I said we needed to discuss things, that maybe we could try and work things out, come to an understanding. They didn't move or say a word. As I backed into the table my hand slid along the surface to where it encountered something cold and metallic. Earlier that day I had been working on a collage of shoe advertisements. The scissors were still out.

As I stood there trembling I knew this was it.

Me or them.

So I lunged.

My hand rose and fell. Once. Twice. Three times. Light from the solid brass sconces on either side of my limestone fireplace with its ornately carved Romanesque capitals glinted off four inches of sharpened stainless steel as I slashed sideways and back, parried and thrust. I must have blacked out, because when I opened my eyes sometime later I was lying face down on the floor with small bits of wool scattered about.

I considered calling my lawyer. I could claim it was a crime of passion and plead temporary insanity. Surely a judge would understand how crazy life gets, how mistakes can be made. But I knew all the elements were against me. It was no secret the Argyles and I had been on the outs, and I had both motive and opportunity. I decided to get rid of the evidence.

Using a putty knife, I scraped the sordid remains into an old shoebox, and dumped the shoebox into the half full garbage bag in the kitchen. I vacuumed the room thoroughly, even under the chair cushions and behind the drapes. Afterwards I stumbled upstairs and half dragged myself into the bedroom. Terrible dreams haunted me that night.

The next morning I called in sick to work. I was still in a panic and I wanted the ordeal over and done with.

I dragged the garbage bag out to the curb. The clasp on the lid of my fifty-five gallon molded polyethylene bear resistant garbage can was jammed and I had to wrestle with it for a minute. Once the lid was off, I stuffed the bag as far down into the can as possible, with a few final thumps for good measure. At that moment, with one foot still half in the can, I caught sight of old Mrs. Corbin, my next door neighbour, peeking out her front window at me. Probably wondering what I was doing putting out garbage two days before pickup, the nosy old bat.

I snapped the clasp firmly on the lid and beat a hasty retreat. Inside, I collapsed against the door, unable to make my legs carry me any further. I checked through the mail slot in my front door and saw that Mrs. Corbin was still at her front window looking out at my garbage can. We could have spent all day that way, me watching her watching the can.

I barely ate the rest of the day, and I didn't bother changing out of my pyjamas. And I definitely didn't go anywhere near the front parlour.

The air was chill that evening, but I liked the cold so I left the window open and allowed the refreshing night air to wash over me, cleansing me. I awoke well after midnight to the tick-tick-ticking of the Windsor grandfather clock in the upper hallway--a precise, mechanical timepiece with a deep, resonate chime, beautifully stained cherry wood, and brass accents. As I lay there counting away the seconds, I caught a faint whisper traveling in on the crisp night air.

Soak, rinse, spin.

I blinked hard several times and I tried to shake the drowsiness from my head. The whisper came again.

Soak, rinse, spin.

Soak, rinse, spin.

I pulled the covers tighter. The moonlight played shadows across the wall, but I knew it was only the trees and scolded myself for an over-active imagination.

Soak, rinse, spin, Stuart.

My eyes widened.

We're coming for you, Stuart.

I bolted upright in bed. That was no trick of the wind. I threw on my sculpted terry cloth bathrobe and my bargain bin no-slip shower slippers and made for the stairs, the slappity-slap of my flip-flops trailing me all the way to the main floor. I paused at the bottom, heart racing, blood pounding in my ears. The house was quiet. Then I caught a faint creaking noise from the direction of the front hallway.

The mail slot.

Keeping my back to the wall I inched my way over the basement stairs thinking I could go down and exit through the wood-store entrance. There was no lock, so I wedged a dented old dustpan under the stairway door as best I could before descending. I didn't dare turn on the lights for fear of drawing attention, instead feeling my way through the abandoned objects and clutter strewn about: a bicycle with a missing front wheel, the ironing board, my collection of two thousand vintage matchbox cars.

When I reached the outside door I found it jammed from the other side. I gave it a few good thumps with my shoulder, praying the sound didn't carry, but the door wouldn't budge. As I reconsidered the possible escape routes, I caught the sound of a metal dustpan scraping against linoleum. I moved back in the direction of the ironing board and felt around for my Kenmore Deluxe Steam Iron with stainless steel soleplate surface and adjustable steam. I fumbled with the plug as I ran my fingers over the face of the nearby outlet searching for the prong holes.

Soak, rinse, spin, Stuart.

The plug sparked as I drove it home. I could feel the iron immediately begin to warm.

We see you, Stuart.

I blinked the sweat from my eyes.

We're coming for you, Stuart.

Seconds dragged by. I remembered to hold the iron upright lest the automatic shutoff kick in. The light sound of wool brushing on concrete was my only warning.

I lashed out blindly, lost my balance, and stumbled forward onto the cold, hard floor. As I landed I nearly lost my grip on the handle, and the metal bottom of the iron rang loud against the concrete. I scrambled back into a sitting position, my eyes darting back and forth into the blackness all around.

A few coarse fibres tickled the back of my hand, and I rolled to my left and swung again.

This time I connected.

An inhuman scream tore through my head, and the smell of bitter almonds invaded my nostrils--hydrogen cyanide, produced by burning wool. It was the intoxicating smell of hope to me that night. It meant I still had a chance to live. I kept the iron out in front of me, barely able to hold on to it with my shaking hands. The house was silent once again.

I searched around and located my flashlight, but I wasn't in any way prepared for what I was about to see. Twisted, blackened fibres with wisps of smoke still curling upwards to the ceiling. A single sock was bunched on the floor, and it was apparent from where I was standing that I'd burned half of the toe clean away. My stomach heaved. I turned my head and retched several times before regaining control of myself. Cold beads of sweat covered my face.

Get a hold of yourself, Stuart, I told myself. There's still one more out there.

I took the body with me thinking I could still cover my tracks and put myself in the clear. The walk out to the car took an eternity. After dumping the remains into the trunk, I slid into the driver's seat of my classic red and white striped 1962 Chevrolet Impala convertible with the soft leather interior. I engaged the ignition, and the headlights lit the side of my house and revealed the rake those devious bastards had shoved through the handles on the wood-store doors. I slammed my foot onto the accelerator and flattened two of Mrs. Corbin's garbage cans on the way out.

My emotions dictated my actions from there on out. I formulated no plan other than to obey the overwhelming impulse to get out of town. I almost made it too. But just past a sign indicating less than two miles to the town limits, red and blue lights flickered in my mirrors and a brief whoop from a siren told me it was all over.

Damn, I thought as I checked the rear-view mirror. That was the last thing I needed.

My tires crunched gravel as I pulled to the shoulder. I fidgeted with the steering wheel as the officer exited her vehicle and strode up to stand beside my window.

"Good evening, sir," she said. "I'll need to see your license and registration."

"I-Is there a problem, officer?" I asked as I dug through my wallet. I couldn't keep my voice from shaking.

"Probably nothing to worry about," she said. "We've had a few disturbing reports come in tonight, and just to be sure we're checking all vehicles in a fifteen mile radius." She played her flashlight across my bathrobe. "An interesting choice of attire this evening, sir. Are you in a hurry to be someplace?"

I smiled weakly. "Last minute pyjama party?"

She frowned. "I think I'm going to need to do a search." She gestured with her flashlight. "If you could step out of the car, please, and hand me the keys."

I complied. I stood shivering at the side of the road, my robe flickering in the breeze, while she went through the car, front and back. When she finished, she walked around to the trunk.

"Is that really necessary?" I called over.

She eyed me for a moment, then inserted the key.

A shadow loomed over her.

She turned and screamed.

I ran.

There were no sounds of pursuit, no laboured breathing, no cackles of demented laughter. Only the whistle of a night's cool breeze through the tops of the forest and the odd scratching or tearing noise every time my robe dragged on a branch. But soon I heard a voice, barely a whisper at first, rise above everything else.

This little piggy went to market, Stuart.

I glanced left and right, but kept my frantic pace.

This little piggy stayed home, Stuart.

Branches whipped my face and tore at my robe. Thorns scratched my face and hands.

This little piggy ate roast beef, Stuart.

I redoubled my effort, but my breathing was becoming laboured and every step threatened to send me crashing to the forest floor.

This little piggy said you're mine, Stuart.

I burst into a clearing and rolled my right ankle on a jutting stone. The ground came rushing up to meet me, knocking the wind out of me with a cold, hard thump. That rock actually saved my life, for I had landed only feet away from a precipice that would have sent me spinning helplessly to a certain death.

I could barely see through the tears, and I gritted my teeth against the fire in my foot. I saw it, though, as I lay there on the earth gasping for breath, a blur near the clearing's edge, its ragged form flitting through the undergrowth, the moon chasing it between the shadows. Soundlessly it came, straight out of the woods and in a direct line for me. I braced myself for the end.

A shot rang out.

And then another.

And another.

The first barely grazed it, but it served to stop the sock in its tracks long enough for the other two to find their target. I watched as the Argyle was punched from the ledge and out into the nothingness beyond. The officer stood back at the tree line, a bloody gash across her forehead. I scrambled over to the edge on my hands and knees, and caught a brief and final glimpse as the sock floated serenely into the welcoming pool of blackness below.

They never did find that second body. Their best guess was that some wild animal or other had beaten them to it, though what any animal was going to wear with only one ruined Argyle sock was beyond me.

I did take comfort in one thought: the nightmare was finally over.

The incident was ruled self-defence, though the eyes of the judge told me he suspected more. Much more. I hooked up with the officer who had pulled me over that night--Heidi Heel was her name. We dated for a while, but as with most relationships founded on these types of adrenaline rushes, it didn't last.

So here I am, alone once more. I couldn't return to the old house, of course, not after that. The memories were still too vivid, the wounds too fresh. I bought a place across town, as far away from the old house as possible, and took a job at a glove shop instead.

It seemed much more sensible.

The End

Story copyright Wade Albert White, published by the Fortean Bureau
http://www.forteanbureau.com