Short Story: Door to Door
"I think you might want to buy a knife."
Claudia's eye never wavered from the peephole as her left hand rose carefully to grasp the button at the end of the security chain.
Even though she wanted to shriek, or puke, or run.
The scrawny young man standing on her well-lit front porch didn't seem very threatening. He actually looked a bit like a grown-up Harry Potter, with his mousy hair and wire spectacles and refusal to raise his head and try to look threateningly yet fruitlessly in backwards through the peephole, like all proper late-night potential dangers should.
Still, she was freaked. She asked him to repeat himself as she quietly pinned home a security device designed to stop any intruder, so long as any intruder weighed less than ninety pounds and wasn't intent on getting inside.
"Please," said the stranger out front. "I think you might want to buy a knife."
Claudia's eye never wavered from the peephole as her left hand rose carefully to grasp the button at the end of the security chain.
Even though she wanted to shriek, or puke, or run.
The scrawny young man standing on her well-lit front porch didn't seem very threatening. He actually looked a bit like a grown-up Harry Potter, with his mousy hair and wire spectacles and refusal to raise his head and try to look threateningly yet fruitlessly in backwards through the peephole, like all proper late-night potential dangers should.
Still, she was freaked. She asked him to repeat himself as she quietly pinned home a security device designed to stop any intruder, so long as any intruder weighed less than ninety pounds and wasn't intent on getting inside.
"Please," said the stranger out front. "I think you might want to buy a knife."
It was almost one in the morning. The TV was quiet. Fifteen minutes earlier, Claudia's cell phone had been sitting on the coffee table, within three arms' length; now, it was off charging in the bedroom. When she looked, she could see the land-line phone on the wall in her bright, sane kitchen, roughly fourteen miles from her current position behind the chained front door with the frightening young man on the other side of it.
"I don't need a knife right now, thanks." She actually stretched her hand out toward the kitchen phone, like she was drowning in a period piece, and began following the panicked momentum it inspired. "Let me go ask my boyfriend, he's just in the other room."
The stranger knocked again. He didn't pound; he knocked. Somehow, it was worse.
"Seriously, ma'am, listen to me." His voice wafted through the wood, reasonable, a bit shaky, devoid of hope. "I think you might want to buy a knife."
"This is a neighborhood watch neighborhood!" Claudia hollered, from somewhere around where the weakening gravitational pull of the peephole began to battle with the strengthening gravitational pull of the phone. She stood, in limbo. "People can see you on my porch!"
Say something tough.
"Motherfucker!"
Yeah, you really sold that.
She tiptoe-stumbled the rest of the way into the kitchen, pulled the handset from its cradle, pushed the giant idiot-proof TALK button on its underbelly. Having the phone at her ear pretty much meant that she was talking to the cops, which pretty much meant that they were on their way to yank the oddly restrained psychotic off her porch, which pretty much meant that this was pretty much over. Her breath slowed. She began to think about exactly what she'd say to the 911 operator, to devise a way to describe what was happening.
She began to realize she would have to make it sound like more than a semi-harmless-looking guy trying to sell her a knife at a weird hour.
She began to realize the call wasn't going through.
"Lady, please!" The door jumped on its hinges. "You really, really NEED TO BUY A KNIFE!"
Claudia shrieked and tossed the useless land-line aside; it skittered across the old tile and slid under the microwave cart. She leaned heavy against the salmon wall of the kitchen, hyperventilating, and started to slide into a crouch. What stopped her, as suddenly and surely as death, was an image of herself doing it, just like every stupid victim in every one of the stupid slasher flicks she loved to deride, to dismiss.
Are you gonna be that?
She decided she wasn't.
She counted, surely more quickly than it seemed, to ten, and straightened her legs, thankful for the wall at her back when the lightheadedness came. She mentally rocked herself, building inertia for the trip through the living room to the bedroom, and her cell. The nutcase could've gotten in by now if he'd wanted; either he didn't, or he wanted Claudia to be a whimpering boneless puddle by the time he did, and that wasn't going to happen.
Almost, but not quite.
Claudia pushed off from the pink kitchen wall, and sailed through the archway into the living room. Her eyes never left the front door as she negotiated the strait between the entertainment center and the cocktail table, and adjusted her trajectory, dead reckoning by the single old-fashioned light fixture hanging in the hall. It wasn't until she made the turn into the hall that she quit her vigil, and it wasn't until she quit her vigil that it came to her that the party on the front porch had been awfully quiet for at least a minute, and maybe longer.
First the phone, then the peephole.
She didn't need the bedroom light to locate her Nokia on the nightstand. All remained silent as she waited for it to fire up, then dialed 911, knowing it would trigger the phone's GPS locator and the cops would come whether she said anything or not. When she looked up from the phone's display, she was a little surprised to find she was back in the living room, facing the front door.
A tinny female voice asked what was her emergency.
Claudia put one hand on the center of the door, slid forward, put her eye to the lens.
No one was on the porch.
The tinny female voice repeated itself.
She raised her other hand, the one with the talkative phone in it, to the security chain.
And, just like every stupid victim in every one of the stupid slasher flicks she loved to deride, to dismiss, she opened the door.
* * *
Sitting behind the hedge that lined the yard directly across the street, quaking, his knees tucked up to his chin, the Knife Salesman watched them flow from the roof, from the darkest shadows of the lawn, from either side of the porch, to funnel through the narrow slice of light between the front door and the jamb.
When she started to scream, he pulled his glasses off to wipe his eyes, then began to clean the lenses compulsively. She didn't scream for long. When he put his spectacles back on, he saw the front door was closed again.
Leaves rustled behind him, despite the lack of wind. He felt wet, vaporous weight on his right shoulder, cold and moist on that side of his neck.
"You broke the rules," it hissed.
The Knife Salesman didn't answer.
"You begged her."
He tried to shrug away. It was like trying to shrug away from humidity, from fog.
"And so there is another customer."
"No!" He shook his head, eyes clamped shut, negating it, negating everything. "I won't."
"If you go, there is a chance." There was a chilly mirth to its consideration. "If you do not, well ... "
Sharp metal slid between his stomach and his thigh, heavy in his lap. After a moment, he wrapped his right hand around the ancient handle.
"You should hurry," it said, brisk, businesslike. "In thirty minutes, Mister Reginald Brewster of 419 Seventh Avenue North is going to find himself in dire need of a knife."
"I don't need a knife right now, thanks." She actually stretched her hand out toward the kitchen phone, like she was drowning in a period piece, and began following the panicked momentum it inspired. "Let me go ask my boyfriend, he's just in the other room."
The stranger knocked again. He didn't pound; he knocked. Somehow, it was worse.
"Seriously, ma'am, listen to me." His voice wafted through the wood, reasonable, a bit shaky, devoid of hope. "I think you might want to buy a knife."
"This is a neighborhood watch neighborhood!" Claudia hollered, from somewhere around where the weakening gravitational pull of the peephole began to battle with the strengthening gravitational pull of the phone. She stood, in limbo. "People can see you on my porch!"
Say something tough.
"Motherfucker!"
Yeah, you really sold that.
She tiptoe-stumbled the rest of the way into the kitchen, pulled the handset from its cradle, pushed the giant idiot-proof TALK button on its underbelly. Having the phone at her ear pretty much meant that she was talking to the cops, which pretty much meant that they were on their way to yank the oddly restrained psychotic off her porch, which pretty much meant that this was pretty much over. Her breath slowed. She began to think about exactly what she'd say to the 911 operator, to devise a way to describe what was happening.
She began to realize she would have to make it sound like more than a semi-harmless-looking guy trying to sell her a knife at a weird hour.
She began to realize the call wasn't going through.
"Lady, please!" The door jumped on its hinges. "You really, really NEED TO BUY A KNIFE!"
Claudia shrieked and tossed the useless land-line aside; it skittered across the old tile and slid under the microwave cart. She leaned heavy against the salmon wall of the kitchen, hyperventilating, and started to slide into a crouch. What stopped her, as suddenly and surely as death, was an image of herself doing it, just like every stupid victim in every one of the stupid slasher flicks she loved to deride, to dismiss.
Are you gonna be that?
She decided she wasn't.
She counted, surely more quickly than it seemed, to ten, and straightened her legs, thankful for the wall at her back when the lightheadedness came. She mentally rocked herself, building inertia for the trip through the living room to the bedroom, and her cell. The nutcase could've gotten in by now if he'd wanted; either he didn't, or he wanted Claudia to be a whimpering boneless puddle by the time he did, and that wasn't going to happen.
Almost, but not quite.
Claudia pushed off from the pink kitchen wall, and sailed through the archway into the living room. Her eyes never left the front door as she negotiated the strait between the entertainment center and the cocktail table, and adjusted her trajectory, dead reckoning by the single old-fashioned light fixture hanging in the hall. It wasn't until she made the turn into the hall that she quit her vigil, and it wasn't until she quit her vigil that it came to her that the party on the front porch had been awfully quiet for at least a minute, and maybe longer.
First the phone, then the peephole.
She didn't need the bedroom light to locate her Nokia on the nightstand. All remained silent as she waited for it to fire up, then dialed 911, knowing it would trigger the phone's GPS locator and the cops would come whether she said anything or not. When she looked up from the phone's display, she was a little surprised to find she was back in the living room, facing the front door.
A tinny female voice asked what was her emergency.
Claudia put one hand on the center of the door, slid forward, put her eye to the lens.
No one was on the porch.
The tinny female voice repeated itself.
She raised her other hand, the one with the talkative phone in it, to the security chain.
And, just like every stupid victim in every one of the stupid slasher flicks she loved to deride, to dismiss, she opened the door.
* * *
Sitting behind the hedge that lined the yard directly across the street, quaking, his knees tucked up to his chin, the Knife Salesman watched them flow from the roof, from the darkest shadows of the lawn, from either side of the porch, to funnel through the narrow slice of light between the front door and the jamb.
When she started to scream, he pulled his glasses off to wipe his eyes, then began to clean the lenses compulsively. She didn't scream for long. When he put his spectacles back on, he saw the front door was closed again.
Leaves rustled behind him, despite the lack of wind. He felt wet, vaporous weight on his right shoulder, cold and moist on that side of his neck.
"You broke the rules," it hissed.
The Knife Salesman didn't answer.
"You begged her."
He tried to shrug away. It was like trying to shrug away from humidity, from fog.
"And so there is another customer."
"No!" He shook his head, eyes clamped shut, negating it, negating everything. "I won't."
"If you go, there is a chance." There was a chilly mirth to its consideration. "If you do not, well ... "
Sharp metal slid between his stomach and his thigh, heavy in his lap. After a moment, he wrapped his right hand around the ancient handle.
"You should hurry," it said, brisk, businesslike. "In thirty minutes, Mister Reginald Brewster of 419 Seventh Avenue North is going to find himself in dire need of a knife."
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Coffee's for closers.
Yes. More, please.