Chilling tales for the restless night

Cursed shoes

Paris, 1960.

Annette wandered through the narrow, rain-slicked streets of Montmartre, her coat pulled tightly around her against the October chill. The city was alive with its usual magic—laughter spilling from cafés, artists setting up their easels along the cobblestone roads—but to her, it all felt distant, a world she could never belong to.

Annette had always felt invisible. At twenty-four, she worked as a seamstress in a small tailor's shop, stitching gowns for the wealthy women who attended the grand soirées she could only dream of. She had always felt out of place in a city so glamorous. Paris was a city for the beautiful and the bold, and she was neither. She thought herself plain—her face too angular, her body too thin. No matter how hard she tried, she never seemed to catch the eye of the society that sparkled around her. She longed to be one of them, to be seen, admired, desired.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she turned a corner onto a narrow, dimly lit street. Something caught her eye—a small, elegant box sitting on the ground as if it had been left there by mistake. She stopped, looking around. The street was empty, save for the faint glow of a streetlamp flickering overhead. Curiosity got the better of her, and she bent down, picking up the box.

It was heavier than she expected, wrapped in dark blue velvet with a gold emblem stamped on top. The name *Delacroix et Fils*, a high-end shoe boutique just down the street, was embossed in gold letters. Annette's heart raced. She knew that store—the shoes they sold were beautiful, expensive, and utterly out of her reach.

She glanced around again, but there was no one in sight. The box had clearly been lost or forgotten, left out in the cold for her to find. The temptation was too great. She had never owned anything so luxurious, so finely made. Surely, just one peek wouldn't hurt.

Annette slipped off the ribbon and slowly lifted the lid. Inside was the most exquisite pair of shoes she had ever seen. They were black, glossy, and delicate, with impossibly high heels and intricate lacework running along the edges. They looked as though they had never been worn. She ran her fingers over the leather, feeling a strange warmth from them. It was as if the shoes were whispering to her, beckoning her to try them on.

For a moment, Annette hesitated. She knew she should return them to the boutique, but as she stared at the shoes, something shifted inside her. A voice, faint and distant, seemed to whisper in her mind: *You deserve them. Why shouldn't you have something beautiful?*

Without thinking further, she slipped off her worn flats and slid her feet into the shoes. They fit perfectly, as though they had been made just for her. The moment she stood up, a rush of energy flowed through her. She felt taller, more confident, as if the world suddenly saw her in a different light.

From that night on, Annette's life began to change. At first, it was small things—a smile from the grocer she passed every morning, a compliment from a stranger on the street. But as the days wore on, the changes grew more noticeable. When she wore the shoes, people seemed drawn to her. Men, who had once passed her by without a second glance, now turned their heads, admiring her with a mix of desire and envy. Women whispered about her as she walked through the streets, their voices tinged with jealousy.

And it wasn't just people. Opportunities started falling into her lap. She was invited to exclusive gatherings, met people she had only ever read about in magazines, and soon found herself mingling with the very elite of Paris society. Her plain dresses no longer mattered—no one noticed what she wore when she had the shoes on. All they saw was Annette, radiant and captivating.

The shoes were magic, she was sure of it. They had transformed her, made her someone else—someone better.

But the changes came at a price.