The Traveling Salesman & The Farmer’s Daughter

He liked Morganville the moment he drove into town. Not because it was quaint, or at all attractive. Most of the buildings on Main Street were boarded up. Other than a few cars parked outside the only open restaurant, the streets were empty. Hard times were evident everywhere. Shop signs were so weathered and faded they had become unreadable hieroglyphics from better times. All of the windows of the derelict IGA grocery on the outskirts of town were broken. Despair hung over Morganville like a layer of smog. He thought it was perfect.

When he checked into the Mountaineer Motel a few miles outside the city limits, he was even more sure of his decision to spend the next few days prospecting the area. In addition to overnight rooms, the motel rented six fully furnished cabins situated respectfully apart in the pine woods, assuring guests of privacy and a pristine view of the mountains. He had his pick and chose cabin six, the most secluded, paying cash in advance for a week. He signed the register as M. Webster. When the desk clerk asked him why he was in town, he muttered, “Business.”

It was one of the few rules he followed. Beyond the essential personal information one was required to provide in order to navigate the twenty-first century, he revealed little about himself. In all his years on the road, he came and went with little notice mostly because his appearance was unremarkable. He prided himself on being normal in nearly every way — another faceless road warrior among hundreds wearing wrinkle-free suits and toting sample cases. M. Webster cultivated his anonymity with discipline, like a body builder, feeding off the rush from the pursuit of total perfection.

On his second day in Morganville, he rose early, partook of the free breakfast at the motel, read the classified section of the local paper over his coffee, and then, sample case secured in the trunk of his car, drove off for a day of cold call prospecting.

Even more than the sale itself, he loved making cold calls. As was his nature, he likened prospecting to playing a lottery game of random house numbers. To win, you must play. And playing meant knocking on every door. He preferred remote, rundown farmhouses. That morning he had noticed two likely prospects in the classifieds — both family owned farms in foreclosure forced to sell off their equipment and livestock.

The sunny fall morning suited him. He felt young and filled with energy as he drove through the open undeveloped countryside — a rare sight these days, when most of the available real estate was covered with sprawling gated communities, each one protected to the hilt by 24-hour security and “No Soliciting” signs.

His kind had become outcasts — not only were they barred from making a living, door to door sales people were denigrated as a public nuisance and often the target of crude jokes. Once the unheralded pioneer of the great consumer age, they peddled the world’s goods to the doorsteps of rural families for generations. No more. His chosen vocation was already an endangered species years before online shopping changed everything, everywhere. The manageable analog world he knew and thrived in was gone. In its place, the invasive, all knowing internet, with its instant background checks, narcissistic virtual communities, and incessant demand for passwords, confounded and infuriated him. He was, without apology, a confirmed luddite. Loss of one’s privacy, he believed, was too high a price for online global access. And in his precarious world, the loss of privacy came with serious consequences.

For the past year, he had been on top of his game — he was more ruthless, yes — but in every way that counted, more fulfilled. His collection of newspaper clippings about his successes had grown into quite a pile. He got a thrill out of openly reading about himself whenever he was in a crowded cafe or on the train. Of course, it was reckless behavior, but there was a part of him longing to be recognized for his work. From time to time, his need was greater than his caution, but he only revealed his secrets to those he knew would take them to the grave.

That perfect fall morning, he felt optimistic as he drove along the quarter mile dirt road leading to the Harvey farmhouse: a faded, three-story Victorian that looked as if it had been deserted years ago. When he pulled up in front, a large black dog crawled from under the porch, stretched, and wagged its tail before wandering off. A friendly dog, he thought, as he got out of his car. Another good sign.

He removed his heavy aluminum sample case from the trunk and made his way to the front door. It promised to be a hot day. He was already perspiring, and it was just ten o’clock. After pushing it twice, he decided that the doorbell was out of order and was about to knock when the door opened to reveal a girl of about twelve. She was dressed in a white party dress and wore black leather Mary Janes with white socks. Her long black hair was tied back with a white ribbon.

He wasn’t expecting a child. He said his name and proffered his business card. “Are your parents home?”

The girl peered at his card, but didn’t take it. “You want to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Harvey?”

“If it’s convenient,” he said, beginning to feel less optimistic. “If not, I can stop by at a better time.”

“They’re not home,” she said, sounding more adult than she looked. “If you like, you can wait in the parlor for them.” She opened the door and he stepped inside. “It’s the room at the end of the hall.”

He hated waiting, but it would give him time to consider the best way to deal with the girl. He paused before entering the room and looked over his shoulder. She was still standing in the vestibule, her green eyes luminous in the darkness. After he dealt with the Harveys, he would have to kill her. He never left witnesses.

But when he walked into the parlor, the girl was sitting on a velvet love seat, as if she had been waiting there all along. He pretended her unexplained appearance was nothing unusual and took a seat in a straight back chair across from her, placing his sample case protectively between his knees.

“What do you have in that metal case?”

“The tools of my trade,” he said, patting the case with one hand. “Where, exactly, are your parents? Will they be home soon?”

She shrugged. If she knew, she wasn’t about to tell him. “I’ll show you something you’ve never seen before, and then, you must show me what’s in your case.”

He was immediately on his guard. Her explicit offer flummoxed him, while it stirred all that was unholy in him. There was something about her that was not at all childlike. He sensed danger. But what kind of danger, when he was the dangerous one? “You’ll see everything when your parents arrive, and not before. I promise.”

“Are you sure you want to wait, Mr. Webster?”

“For your parents?”

“No, silly.” She moved over to make room for him. “Sit next to me, so you can get a good look.”

Did she think he was a fool? His instincts, honed from years of survival, urged him to leave and never look back. “I have a lot of calls to make,” he said, checking his wristwatch.

“Suit yourself,” she said, looking disappointed.

That she didn’t protest intrigued him. Perhaps he was being too paranoid. What difference did it make if he had some fun before he took care of business? The girl and her parents would not live to see the sun rise tomorrow anyway. Go with the flow, he told himself.

“Okay, young lady. You win. It’s a deal.”

She waited until he was seated next to her and then she removed her right shoe and sock. She lifted her bare foot so he could get a good look.

He leaned forward, not believing what he was seeing. Instead of a flat nail on her big toe, there was a long curved canine claw. He was certain it was a prosthetic, obviously some kind of joke toy, like plastic vomit. But the closer he looked, the more real it seemed.

Pleased with herself, she removed her other shoe and sock to reveal the same anomaly on her left toe. “You can touch if you like,” she said, as she wiggled her toes in front of him.

Unable to resist, he touched one claw, and then another. They were authentic.

“That’s not all,” she said. She slipped off the loveseat and stood before him.

His heart raced with expectation as she placed her hands on his shoulders and gently pulled him closer, opening her mouth wide to display her long canine teeth. Before he could react, she lunged forward and sank her fangs into his throat, piercing the carotid artery. He struggled, but her venomous bite paralyzed him. When he was still, she perched upon his chest like a bird of prey and tore at his throat, feasting until she was full.

Published in The Monsters We Forgot, Vol 2 by Soteira Press 2019.