Jennifer Hudak

The Witch Trap

Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 48

These floors, original to the house, have witnessed the turn of two centuries. The shoe concealed beneath them is older. Laces replaced, soul thrice mended, the shoe still bears the impression of the big toe that for years pressed against the worn upper. Now, it rests mateless between floor joists, a curiosity for spiders and mice. No longer a shoe, but a summons.

The witch smells what has been hidden--leather, dirt, and sweat--and cannot help herself. She makes her way down the chimney, into the walls, beneath the floor, and into the shoe, expecting to find human flesh inside. Once trapped, the witch beats immaterial fists inside of the toe box. She wails for the sky, for her horned god, for the crescent moon above. But it's no use. Eventually, she fades. The shoe absorbs the witch, becoming more than what it was.