Silently Seeking Soles
Yesterday, I wrapped up a short story that has been simmering for a mere 25 years. It all started with a bizarre true story about a taxidermist who fell in love with a badger he was preserving—yes, really. That story became Beatrice Never Leaves, a dark, haunting look at obsession and the things we just can’t let go of.
But, based on your lovely feedback, I decided to shift gears and try moving my pacing from decades to under 24 hours. While scrolling through recent headlines, I came across a gem of a story: a Greek man convicted for repeatedly sneaking into neighbors’ yards to smell their shoes. I thought to myself, Well, that’s got potential!
And thus, here’s a story about a completely different man. Any similarities to anyone you might know are, of course, entirely coincidental. ?
Enjoy, and do let me know what you think!
Silently Seeking Soles
Theo hadn’t meant to become a collector. It just… happened.
He liked shoes. Not in the way most people did, with their neatly arranged collections of sneakers or polished dress shoes. Theo didn’t care about brands or style. What fascinated him was the scent. Shoes carried stories—the places they’d been, the steps they’d taken, the sweat, the dirt—everything. Shoes weren’t just objects; they were portals. With the right pair, Theo was convinced he could slip into someone else’s life and live it, all without leaving his bed.
He justified it as “research.” Each night, after his research, Theo would sit down with his notebook. It read like a sommelier’s journal, each page starting with a one-line description—concise, almost clinical. But beneath those lines, in the tiniest of script, he tried to bring what those shoes had experienced to life, crafting moments, emotions, and scenes in readiness for him to try that life on:
- “Work boots—muddy, heavy, scent of motor oil. Feels like hard work, exhaustion.”
In fine print: Fingers caked with dirt, knuckles cracking as he lifts another load. This is a man who hasn’t known rest for years. A body that keeps moving, even when the spirit lags behind. - “Office shoes—leather, faint smell of paper and dust. Feels like boredom, monotony.”
The desk is cluttered, papers shuffled, moments ticking by. Her thoughts wander, a dull ache forming behind her eyes. It’s a life of repetition, days blending into each other. - “House slippers—vanilla, detergent, old wood floors. Feels like comfort, familiarity.”
She shuffles slowly, the warmth of home surrounding her. The smell of baking wafts through the air. Here, time slows. The world outside doesn’t matter. Everything she needs is here, in these worn halls.
He wasn’t just cataloging smells—it was crafting lives. With each deep breath, Theo imagined slipping into that person’s world, walking a mile in their shoes, then waking the next morning with the memory of someone else’s existence. Gender didn’t matter. Shoes were neutral. Theo was an equal-opportunity life-borrower.
He had tried his own life, once. Sniffed his worn-out sneakers late one night. The scent had been… dull. A stale, empty smell. “Disappointment” was all he wrote in the journal. His life held nothing he wanted to revisit.
Dissatisfaction
Theo’s life wasn’t bad; it was just… empty. He worked as a postal carrier, delivering the same letters and packages to the same houses, day after day. The job wasn’t demanding, but the routine of it—knowing exactly where to walk, which houses to stop at, who would wave and who wouldn’t—made each day bleed into the next.
He’d tried to find meaning in it once. Told himself there was something noble about being the town’s silent lifeline, delivering important news, letters from loved ones. But it wasn’t enough. There was no connection, no sense of belonging. Everyone had their place—families, couples, retirees—but Theo? He was just passing through, never a part of their lives, only a witness.
His house was small, his nights quiet. The TV was always on in the background, the static hum of it filling the silence. But it never drowned out the gnawing feeling inside him—the feeling that his own life was shrinking. He watched people—families at dinner, couples walking hand-in-hand, retirees laughing with friends—living lives that seemed full in ways his never had been.
So, when he started his research, it was a way to escape that emptiness. To slip into someone else’s world, even if only for a night.
Springwood, the small Midwestern town Theo called home, didn’t offer much variety. Theo knew every pair of shoes, every path they traveled. For months, he had started to panic, feeling like he was running out of lives to borrow. He began rationing his research, visiting fewer homes and wondering if he’d have to start revisiting shoes, even though that felt wrong. The thought of sniffing the same pair twice made him uneasy—too intrusive, too familiar.
When the new development started on the edge of town, it felt like a miracle. A lifeline. Fresh shoes, fresh stories. The relief was overwhelming. Theo could breathe again. His world had expanded, just enough to keep him going.
There were Mrs. Jackson’s old house shoes—faded pink with little roses on the toe. They smelled of lavender detergent, with a hint of dust from her long afternoons spent knitting in front of the TV. Theo could almost feel the slow, steady rhythm of her days, the warmth of her quiet routines.
But it wasn’t just the scent that drew him in. The worn fabric of the slippers reminded him of a mother he’d never known. Theo had never sniffed Mrs. Jackson’s slippers twice, but he checked on them often. He liked to straighten them on her porch, move them out of the rain if she’d left them too close to the edge. Mrs. Jackson was absent-minded like that—she had three pairs of the same slippers, always misplacing or forgetting them. Theo thought of it as a small service he performed for her, a way to protect those small pieces of her life, even though she had no idea he was doing it.
Then there were Karen’s high heels—scuffed from walking on the cracked sidewalks downtown. They smelled like cigarette smoke and office cleaner. He imagined late nights spent typing up reports for the local insurance firm, the grind of trying to make ends meet in a town where nothing ever changed.
Theo had rules, though. Sniff a pair once, record the experience, and move on. He never sniffed the same shoes twice. That would be weird. Intrusive, even. One sniff was enough. To do it again felt… wrong, like crossing some invisible line he wasn’t supposed to.
Caught
One night, Theo was crouched in Mr. Dunbar’s backyard, just about to inhale the familiar scent of earth and mulch from the old man’s gardening boots, when a flashlight cut through the darkness.
“Theodore, is that you?”
Theo froze. His heart slammed in his chest. Slowly, he looked up. Mr. Dunbar was standing on his back porch, staring at him with disbelief. The retired hardware store owner shook his head, blinking in shock.
“I—I was just… uh…” Theo stammered. His mind raced, searching for something to say. How could he explain this? How could he tell Mr. Dunbar that he was just borrowing—trying on lives through the scent of shoes? No one would ever believe that.
“You better get out of here,” Mr. Dunbar said, his voice stern but confused. “Before I call the sheriff.”
Theo bolted. He’d never run so fast in his life. He didn’t stop until he reached his front door, slamming it behind him, sweat running down his back.
The Courtroom and the Town’s Reaction
The courthouse in Springwood was small, but Theo felt like the whole town was watching him as he sat in the center of the room. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Not his neighbors, not his coworkers from the post office, and certainly not the judge.
Judge Harper flipped through the case file, clearly baffled.
“Theodore Crenshaw,” she said, her voice stern but with a hint of disbelief. “You’ve been caught sneaking into your neighbors’ yards at night… to smell their shoes. Is that right?”
Theo swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
The judge sighed, taking off her reading glasses. “Why on earth would you do something like that?”
Theo wanted to explain—wanted to tell her it wasn’t about the shoes, not really. It was about the lives they carried, the moments he could borrow, the escape from his own dull existence. But when he opened his mouth, the words came out tangled and wrong.
“I… I just like the way they smell.”
The courtroom erupted in whispers, and Theo’s face burned. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. Faces he recognized—neighbors, people he delivered mail to every day—looked at him with a mix of shock and disgust. Mrs. Wilson was there, shaking her head slowly, while Mr. Dunbar whispered to someone beside him. The town felt small, suffocating.
“Mr. Crenshaw, I’m imposing a $250 fine and ordering you to undergo a psychological evaluation, followed by six months of mandatory therapy. And for everyone’s sake—stay away from your neighbors’ shoes.”
Theo’s Realization
Springwood was small, but the gossip spread fast. Theo could feel the weight of it when he returned to his postal route. People watched him now, whispered behind their hands as he delivered their mail. He pretended not to notice, but the shame crawled up his neck whenever he passed a familiar face. Mrs. Wilson didn’t smile at him anymore. Mr. Dunbar wouldn’t even meet his eyes.
But it wasn’t just the whispers. It was the shoes.
Theo noticed that shoes were getting harder to come by. For the first few days after the trial, nothing seemed different. But as the weeks went by, the changes became obvious. No more boots left out to dry on porches. No slippers resting by the door after a long day of gardening. Even when he knew people had been outside, the shoes were gone before he made his rounds.
At first, Theo tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was the weather—rain had been in the forecast for days. But then he realized the truth. The whole town must have been talking about him, warning each other to keep their shoes inside. His chest tightened at the thought. Without shoes, there were no lives to borrow, no new experiences to escape into. The walls of his small house felt like they were closing in.
Mrs. Jackson’s Response
But Mrs. Jackson was different. She hadn’t been in the courtroom that day, which Theo took as a silent show of support. In truth, she had simply forgotten, distracted by her granddaughter’s visit. She’d meant to attend, curious about the fuss, but now she was glad she hadn’t gone. To her, the town was overreacting. Theo had paid his fine, and in her mind, serving his time—whether it was on a therapist’s couch or not—was enough.
One afternoon, she received a package while Theo was on his route. She looked him straight in the eye, her smile warm and genuine.
“Don’t pay any mind to all the talk, Theo,” she said kindly. “People overreact to things they don’t understand.”
That moment stayed with Theo, replaying in his mind over and over. Mrs. Jackson hadn’t treated him like the others. She hadn’t turned away or whispered about him when his back was turned.
She understood.
Maybe she didn’t think what he did was so strange. Maybe she knew he wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. And when he saw her slippers left out on her porch a few days later, it didn’t feel like a coincidence. She was giving him permission. She’s helping me, Theo told himself, clinging to the idea. She’s giving me another chance.
Therapy with Dr. Caldwell
Dr. Caldwell was the town’s only therapist, and Theo had never imagined he’d end up sitting in her office, explaining his behavior. She was in her sixties, no-nonsense, with a pen poised over her notepad, waiting for Theo to speak.
“So, Theo,” she began, “why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?”
Theo shifted in his seat, trying to find the right words. “It’s not about the shoes,” he said, glancing at the floor. “It’s about… the stories. When I smell someone’s shoes, it’s like I can slip into their life for a little while. Don’t you ever wonder what it’s like to live someone else’s life? Their shoes hold all of that.”
Dr. Caldwell raised an eyebrow. “And this is why you’re sniffing women’s shoes, too?”
Theo nodded. “Exactly. Men, women, it doesn’t matter. Shoes are shoes. I’m not trying to be weird. I just want to experience something different. The shoes let me do that.”
Dr. Caldwell leaned forward, her voice calm but firm. “Is that really why you think you’re doing this, Theo? Or is it possible that you’re trying to escape something about your own life?”
He didn’t answer, but the question lodged itself in his mind, looping long after the session ended. She just doesn’t get it, he thought. I’m not escaping anything. I’m just trying on something new.
Desperation Sets In
Weeks passed, and the lack of shoes became suffocating. Theo began to grow desperate. The journal entries slowed. His routine was fractured. Every night, he walked the same streets, hoping to find a pair he hadn’t borrowed yet, but the town had closed ranks. It was clear now: they were all talking about him, warning each other. He saw it in the way they looked at him—warily, avoiding eye contact. The shoes were gone, and he was being shut out of their lives.
And yet, one evening, as he walked past Mrs. Jackson’s house, he saw them—her old pink slippers. Earthy and familiar, sitting by the back door, just waiting.
Theo’s breath caught. It had been weeks since he’d seen anyone leave anything out. Surely, she wouldn’t have forgotten—everyone knew what had happened. He stared at the slippers, and something inside him shifted. Maybe Mrs. Jackson wasn’t being careless. Maybe she knew. Maybe she was leaving them out for him. Trying to help him.
She understands, Theo told himself, clinging to the idea. She’s giving me another chance.
It couldn’t be a mistake. Not after everything that had happened. She must have meant for him to find them.
Breaking the Rule
He hadn’t planned to sniff the same pair twice. That was the rule.
But there they were, like old friends, full of stories he hadn’t finished.
Just one more time, Theo thought. It’s just one more time. No one will know.
He stepped forward, hand twitching. He could already imagine the soft lavender scent, the weight of her life filling him up, wrapping around him like a warm blanket. His heart raced, the internal tug-of-war raging. Don’t do it, he thought. You’ll cross the line. His last rule. His final boundary. But the pull was too strong.
The line between borrowing and intruding blurred—and he ignored it.
His fingers hovered over the slippers, his breath catching. The final rule—the one he swore he’d never break.
He reached for the shoes anyway.
Mrs. Jackson understands me.
© 2024 Robert M. Ford. All rights reserved.