By Ryan Marie Ketterer
I first saw it when I woke from my nap that afternoon. There was netting on my feet.
It swirled over and around, completely enclosing my toes and heels and ankles. I tugged at it, but it held. At least it didn’t hinder my movement, but what an odd thing to wake to. Maybe Alan had done it, as a joke, or a surprise? Perturbed, I went downstairs, wiggling my toes along the way, in between the netting on my feet.
I asked him, “Why is there netting on my feet?”
Alan replied, “Does it have holes?”
“Well, yes, it’s netting.” I indicated toward my feet.
“That’s okay, then.” He sipped his coffee and stepped away.
* * *
Alan had left for his regular afternoon tennis match. The kids were at soccer. Or was it field hockey? But here I was, alone, with netting on my feet.
How was I to get anything done? Tomorrow was the school bake sale, and there were cookies to make. So many cookies.
I dug through the cabinets, hunting for each and every ingredient I would need. The bag of sugar was nearly empty, but I might be able to get by. There was no flour in sight though.
Was I to go to the store with netting on my feet?
I prepared a list and gathered my things. How was I to put shoes on?
I sat by the garage door and tried pulling at the netting on my feet once again. It would not come off.
I didn’t want anyone to see the netting, so I pulled calf-high socks over my feet. I could feel its holes pressing against my skin. I hoped it wouldn’t leave a pattern, the netting on my feet.
* * *
The store was bustling, and I was overwhelmed at my current circumstances. Each step I took up and down the aisles, the netting squeezed my heels, my toes, the arches of my feet.
I found the flour, chocolate chips, and other items needed for the cookies I had to bake for tomorrow’s bake sale.
But I could not focus, not on some silly baking. I tried to think of ways I could remove it, the thing that brought all of this discomfort, this netting on my feet.
At the meat counter, Dale was working. Dale always worked the meat counter. He smiled when he saw me.
“Back for those tenderloins again, are you?” he asked.
“Not today, Dale,” I said. “I want some of the pork chops, the ones on sale.”
“How are things?” Dale asked while he wrapped the meat in paper. “Nice weather out there.”
“Yes, nice weather, but I’ve got some problems with my feet. There is netting there, on my feet.”
“Ah, yes, but it’s got holes, right?” Dale handed the pork chops to me with a smile.
“Yes,” I said, taking the meat from him, increasingly uncertain. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
* * *
I only had two bags of groceries on my walk home. A light shopping day, thankfully. At the end of our driveway, my shoe caught the edge of something, and I tripped, dropping the bags.
A tomato rolled across the sidewalk and the flour had split open.
“Oh dear,” I said to the empty street around me.
I looked around, seeking out the reason I fell, but saw only netting, poking out from the top of my calf-high socks. My socks were now, unlike earlier when I initially put them on, bulging.
Inside, I peeled my socks off and nearly cried when I saw it. The netting had grown thicker, more dense. Fragments of it were so long, I was not sure how I would be able to travel around on foot.
I rummaged in the kitchen drawer for our scissors, but they could not be found anywhere. Alan had a terrible habit of putting them somewhere else each time he used them.
A few trips and a couple muttered curses later, I settled on a steak knife. I would try to at least trim some of the longer netting so it didn’t hinder my movement so terribly. The serrated blade was almost entirely useless, though, getting caught in the fine web of the netting on my feet.
I sawed and I sawed, but I only managed to nick my ankle with the tip of the blade. No pieces of the netting managed to break, fall, or even loosen.
How ever would I bake cookies?
I pulled my high socks back on, stuffing the thickening netting inside the folds of wool, and scampered carefully around the house, preparing the ingredients.
From the kitchen window, I saw Louise and William in their yard, arranging new potted plants and sweeping the patio. Alan and William occasionally played tennis together.
I knocked on the window above the sink and waved. Louise smiled and beckoned me outside.
“Lovely day today,” she called from the other side of the fence.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve had the weirdest thing, though. There’s netting on my feet.”
“Ah, yeah, but if the netting’s got holes, then nothing to worry about, right?” William looked unconcerned and stepped into their house.
“The netting is not normal,” I said to Louise. “I’ve fallen once already, and it seems to be growing.” I gestured towards my bulging socks.
“Oh, you always were a worry-wart! I remember back in college, a girl had netting on her feet, but she’s got a PhD now, you know.”
“What does that—”
“Anyways, Bill and I are having a small get-together over the weekend,” Louise said. “It’d be great if you and Alan came over. I think there’s a ball game on.”
I sighed. “Alan says they might make it to the championship this year.”
William stepped back outside. “Championship? Oh hell, there’s no way!”
“Oh hush, Bill,” Louise said, waving him away and turning back to me. “Any special plans tonight?”
“I need to make cookies for the bake sale happening at the kids’ school tomorrow,” I said. “But this netting, it really does hinder me.”
Louise and William wrap up their outdoor chores.
“Those bake sales always do so well,” Louise said. “I heard if they make enough, the baseball team will get uniforms. Isn’t that so great?”
“With the netting on my—”
“It was so good to see you,” William said. “We’ve got to get ready though. We have dinner reservations down at that new Italian place tonight.”
Louise and William stepped inside their home.
Inside, I stared at the baking ingredients. The cookies would have to wait.
My feet tingled from the continued bulging inside my socks, and I realized that I would no longer be able to contain the netting on my feet.
* * *
I had intended to return to the kitchen and finish the cookies for tomorrow’s bake sale, but the netting had gotten worse. I sprawled on our bed, just wishing I could move, to be productive. A whole day, and what had I accomplished? I was useless with this netting on my feet.
The front door slammed.
“Honey, I’m home!”
I didn’t want to move.
“Honey!”
I heard Alan’s feet on the hardwood stairs.
He stepped into the bedroom and saw me there, lying on our bed, surrounded by netting.
“I took the kids over to the rec center,” Alan said. “Some sort of movie night, I think.”
Good, I couldn’t deal with the kids in this state.
“Alan, it’s getting worse, the netting on my feet.”
He glanced back at me from the closet as he hung his jacket.
“Oh, it’s no bother,” he said. “It has holes. I wish you’d stop complaining all the time.”
He showered, shaved, and stepped from the bathroom. “What’s for dinner?”
I remembered the cookies. I never made the cookies.
“Maybe you can whip up that chicken dish I like?” Alan asked.
I bought pork chops today, not chicken. Alan didn’t like pork chops. How could I forget?
I climbed from the edge of the bed, the netting on my feet flowering around me, compressing not only below my ankles, but also my legs, all the way above my knees. There were pinpricks as I stood, my feet on fire from the numbness.
“Alan, how am I to cook for you with this netting on my feet?”
He stared at me, dumbfounded. “It’s quite simple, really. Go downstairs and cook.”
* * *
I made the pork chops for dinner. Alan muttered under his breath the entire time we ate.
I was worried that the netting, expanding as it was, might get into the food, but it held strong, never flaking away. Tightening and tightening, and growing all the same.
As I cleaned up after our meal, I saw the ripped bag of flour sitting on the counter. The cookies would have to wait. Maybe a full night’s sleep would help. Didn’t Louise say she knew a woman with the netting who went on to get a degree? Certainly it must not get any worse? Perhaps it might die down overnight, the netting on my feet.
Alan had a few glasses of whiskey while watching a ballgame on the television.
“This team could go all the way, you know!”
I didn’t care about the ballgame, about winning or losing. I only cared to remove the netting from my feet.
“I think I best lie down,” I told Alan. “The netting has become too much. It’s almost at my waist now.”
Alan cheered at the TV and took another sip of his drink.
I climbed up to the second floor, the netting hindering my progress, getting stuck between the slats of the staircase. Certainly people didn’t live with this netting every day. How could I even set foot outside in such a state?
I somehow fell asleep. I must have been worn out by the netting on my feet.
I was awoken what felt like hours later, when Alan climbed into bed.
“Share some of the blanket, woman,” he said.
I tried to shift some of the quilt his way, but the netting had become so thick, taking up most of our bed.
“It’s the netting—”
“You need to stop blaming your problems on all the little things,” Alan said. “Netting or not, make some room.”
I curled up on the edge of the bed, pulling my netting with me.
* * *
Two days passed before I finally called the doctor. He came while the children were at school, shaking Alan’s hand and talking about last night’s ballgame before addressing me.
“Doctor, it’s this netting.” My words were muffled by the netting in my mouth. “It’s everywhere now, after starting on my feet.”
“Do not jump to conclusions.” The doctor was a scholarly man, with horn-rimmed glasses and a permanent frown. “Let’s draw some blood.”
I sighed and rolled up my sleeve to reveal more netting.
“I’m going to need you to clear an area here,” the doctor said, tapping at the netting on my arm. “Otherwise, we won’t be able to find a vein.”
“Doctor, it’s not my blood that is the problem. It’s the netting that started on my feet.”
“Now, now. Don’t be hysterical. Without a blood draw, I’m afraid there’s not much I can do.”
Did no one see that the netting consumes me? Did no one care?
Alan came into the room with the microplane from the kitchen. He smiled at me and held it up. “Why not just remove some of the netting with this?”
“I can’t…” I shook my head in disbelief. “That would take off my skin.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” the doctor said. “Why don’t we give that a try?”
Alan handed the microplane to the doctor. I pulled my sleeve over my arm and over my netting. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Maybe you should leave now, doctor.”
“After all I’ve had to listen to this week, and we finally have a doctor here?” Alan was angry now. “Let’s get that netting off your arm so we can figure out what’s wrong with you.”
And so they tried. The doctor used the microplane to grate and grate at the netting on my arm, but of course it didn’t work. My skin was the only thing that flaked away.
At least he got his blood sample.
* * *
The doctor called the next morning. “Unfortunately, the blood sample we got wasn’t enough to determine anything.
“I think what you need is just some rest at this stage. Maybe a better diet,” the doctor continued. “Don’t stress so much about the netting. It has holes.”
I wanted to reply, to nod, to even see the phone that Alan so graciously held nearby, but I could not, because of the netting in my eyes and the netting down my throat.
End.
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Ryan Marie Ketterer is from Malden, Massachusetts. Her work can be found in Clarkesworld, Cosmic Horror Monthly, and several other magazines and anthologies. She’s a fan of the weird and uncanny, and her writing draws most of its influence from the works of Shirley Jackson and Thomas Ligotti. When she isn’t writing stories, Ryan is writing code for a software startup or training for another road race. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram at @RyanMarie47.