Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

A Salesman’s Tale by David Dean

A harrowing story of phantoms — and revenge...

They’re back. The woman and the girl. I keep pretending I haven’t noticed them, but I have. I certainly have.

They don’t seem to be looking for me, though I must be the reason they’ve returned. Why else do the dead come back but to haunt their killers?

So far, they appear dazed and lethargic. They just sit very still, facing the altar, as if gathering strength. They remind me of moths that have just crawled from their cocoons, weak and quivering, not quite recognizable until they’ve dried and spread their wings. Maybe that’s how they’ve gotten so close without me noticing, and more importantly, remembering. They’ve been taking shape and mass for so long that it’s been almost imperceptible.

To think that it was only a few weeks ago that I first noticed the woman at all! Even then I didn’t recognize her. She crept in unannounced.

Now, I can hardly keep my eyes off them. Each Sunday, as Barb and the kids and I enter the church, I look for them. They’re never there when we arrive. I always spot them later, already sitting amongst the other parishioners, as if they’d never left the church. I never see them enter. That wouldn’t be their way. This is far more unnerving. The woman knows I have to show up each Sunday. What excuse would I give Barb or the Monsignor? After all, I’m a family man. I’m not about to let the two of them disrupt my life just by occupying a pew! They tried once before and look where it got them!

I admit, I’m a little curious, too.

She was always demanding... in more ways than one, if you know what I mean. She wanted me to be part of her, and the girl’s, life. And I was... for a while. I was still in the sales department and spent a lot of time on the road and away from home. Naturally, I was not averse to a little feminine companionship. In fact, the city she lived in was one that my company did a lot of business in, so it was convenient. For both of us.

She was one of those recently divorced young mothers whose husband’s whereabouts are unknown. No child support, no family, no skills, and no future. I was a godsend. She was appreciative. The girl was quiet. I never made any promises!

I did not, however, tell her that I had a wife and kids two states away. She didn’t even know my real name. Each time I’d roll into town I’d make sure I tossed my wallet and wedding ring into my briefcase, which I’d leave in the car. I knew I was being eyed for promotion and I couldn’t afford a scandal. I had my sights on the main office.

I always made a point of showing up after dark and leaving before light. The neighbors never really saw me or my car. It was a different company car each week, in any case.

Everything was just fine. I liked the woman. The woman was crazy about me. The little girl was a problem. She was too quiet. She reminded me of her father, whom I never met. I seemed to find her around every corner. Never smiling, never speaking. She watched me a lot. I knew she didn’t like me. I even mentioned it to her mother a few times. She would always find a way to take my mind off the girl though, at least for a while. I took to thumping her when her mother wasn’t around. Not hard, just enough to make her stay clear. I knew the woman would find out, but what could she do?

Then I got the promotion. I would not be returning to that town on any regular basis. I decided to tell them. Why? I’m not sure. If I had just walked out, like any other time, and not come back, that would have been the end of it. They could never have traced me. They didn’t even know my name. The woman believed I worked for my company’s biggest rival! That was one of my little jokes.

Maybe I wanted to see how much I meant to the woman. A few tears shed on my behalf seemed appropriate. I also wanted a shot at the little girl. I had decided to make her the reason for my leaving. Something for her mother to mull over in my absence. It would have made for a neat wrap-up except for one thing. My timing was bad.

Instead of waiting till the next morning, when I was preparing to leave, to break the news, I told them the night before. I had looked forward to an evening of tearful pleas and enticing promises and that’s exactly what I got. I fell asleep, with a good meal in my belly, to the pleasing sounds of the woman lashing out at the daughter.

When I woke the next morning I found mother and daughter waiting for me at the kitchen table. They had my briefcase open and my driver’s license and company cards spread out before them. They sat side by side and looked at me. They had closed ranks. I knew this was the girl’s doing. She had been suspicious of me all along and after last night had decided to do something about it.

They both sat there without saying a word. They looked pale and dark around the eyes. They looked as if they had sat there all night waiting for me. Just like they do in church now. They never looked more like mother and daughter. I was afraid. They had power over me.

Looking into their eyes, I only took a moment to decide. Along with my papers and ID, they had brought in my samples. My samples are surgical instruments and a neatly wrapped package of them lay right inside the briefcase. I reached in, unwrapped them, and went to work.

That was many long years ago and I haven’t given it much thought since. They were dead. Now they’re back. But they’re weak. Just like before. Laughably weak. I’m not easily frightened.

The woman and child are sitting four rows directly in front of my family and me when suddenly the priest raises his voice and points at them. I don’t know what he’s saying as I’m a little distracted, understandably. I glance up just in time to see him single them out as if they’re an example or proof of his sermon. A number of people in the congregation turn to look at them. I’m not sure, but I think one or two glance in my direction also.

As if animated by the priest’s gesture, the woman begins to slowly, almost mechanically turn her head to the left. I know instantly that she is scanning the church for me. The effort seems to cost her dearly. Her skin is pale and has a sickly, feverish glow. Her head stops turning just short of looking over her shoulder. She gazes for a few moments into the pews on her left. Then, without turning her head or body any further, her eyes, or should I say eye, as I can only see the one, begins to shift further yet to the left. It reminds me of an animal that is too sick or wounded to move, trying to see its executioner walking up behind it. The eye travels with painstaking slowness to the outer corner of the socket and stops, straining. On her full lips is just the slightest smile. I shift a few inches to my right, nudging Austin over. He kicks me. At this moment I’m glad to be behind her.

She holds that pose for just a few moments longer and then turns slowly forward. She didn’t see me but she knows I’m here. The girl never moves. She’s like a large doll propped up front as a good example to other children.

I’ve decided against taking communion today. The idea of walking into her field of vision makes my palms sweat. Not that I’m afraid, but she may call out something. They are gathering strength.

It’s next Sunday already, and here we are back at Mass again. All of us. I didn’t really want to come. Not because of them, they can’t hurt me, I know that, but because I haven’t been sleeping well. It’s not unusual for a man who carries a lot of responsibility.

Barbara nudges me to stand for prayer, as I’ve been daydreaming. I notice as I do that the woman and girl are standing also. I hadn’t seen them do that before now. They usually remain seated. I also notice they’re only three rows in front of us now. They’ve crept up!

As I watch, the little girl snakes her spindly arm around the woman’s waist. The arm seems grubby or bruised. I imagine my fingerprints etched in purple on her pale flesh. The woman raises her head, squares her shoulders and begins slowly to turn in my direction. I cannot look away.

Her face is vacant and unanimated as her gaze sweeps across the worshipers. When she reaches about three-quarters profile, she stops. I realize that I’m holding my breath. With what I imagine as an almost audible click the head swivels an inch more to the right and stops again. I am in her line of vision. She sees me.

The eyes quicken and focus. They are large and almond-shaped, the blue so brilliant that they seem lit from within. The skin is like milk, with high spots of color at the cheeks. The lips are full and moist and slightly parted. The woman’s face is framed by dark, humid tendrils of hair, giving the impression that she has just risen from a warm and active bed. She looks exactly as she did the last night I saw her. I’m suddenly weak with longing. I feel tears welling up. She smiles. As if acknowledging the distress she has caused, the corners of her mouth turn up. Just the hint of a smile. A smirk, really. She’s letting me know that she’s not so weak anymore. I hear myself speak her name and then bite down hard on my lip, wishing I could call it back. I taste my blood, warm and salty in my mouth.

Barbara has me by the arm and is whispering something urgent in my ear. A number of people are staring at me. I turn away with an effort and begin up the aisle. I feel her eyes burning into my back and the only thing that keeps me from running is the weakness in my knees.

I step out into a brilliant, cold day and think of her parted lips revealing small, yellowing teeth. As I bring my handkerchief to my mouth, I picture those same teeth crushing my bones and faint.

It’s Sunday morning again and I’m lying here wondering what they want and what I’m going to do. I can guess what they want. I think I know. What do all ghosts want? They want their murderer known. A sordid disclosure of his hidden past! Isn’t that the way these stories go? The killer exposed like something poisonous found under a rock, pleading for forgiveness from a horrified world?

They won’t find me that easily. I was always smarter than the woman; she knows that. She even told me so on occasion. I wouldn’t be where I am today if I weren’t. And they wouldn’t be where they are if they hadn’t tried to outsmart me! They must have felt pretty smug sitting there with my future spread out over their kitchen table. I wonder how smug they felt when I unwrapped my little present?

That’s it, isn’t it? Initiative. I must take action. It’s no good lying about the house, pretending to be ill and waiting for God only knows what! Barbara knows something isn’t right. We haven’t had sex for a week! Since last Sunday, I just can’t do it! And the children. Every time they’re around I start to get weepy. I can’t explain it, and they just stare at me as if I were a stranger. So I must do something... and I think I know what. I’m going to beat them to the punch!

Probably, in cases like this, it’s the remorse and regret that eventually wear a person down and make him do something stupid. But what if that person were to rid himself of the so-called guilt by confession, and I don’t mean to the authorities? They suggested the answer themselves by appearing at Mass. I’ll be first in line for the confessional! The church has to forgive, and after that, what power could they have over me?

The church is almost empty upon our arrival, which is no surprise as we’re nearly thirty minutes early. I’ve convinced Barb that I must attend confession prior to Mass. She wants to ask questions but is afraid, I think. I scan the interior quickly as we enter, just to make sure. They’re not here. I would have been very surprised if they were. Everything is going as I’d hoped.

I get Barb and the children situated in our usual spot, which is on the opposite side of the church and somewhat forward of the confessional. I genuflect, turn, and cross the aisles to the booth. I can see that there’s no one ahead of me by virtue of a small light fixture attached to the side of the booth. A red light is illuminated when the confessional is in use, and a green when it is vacant and a priest is on duty within. The green lamp is on. I kneel at the nearest pew to say a quick prayer before entering, in case a priest is watching, and glance underneath the half-curtain shrouding the entrance as I do so.

In the dimly lit interior I see small, white legs ending in a scruffy pair of Mary Janes. The feet are on the floor pointing in my direction and I see, even in this dim light, that the legs are lacerated in many places, forming a crisscross pattern. The wounds are not bleeding, having dried without healing. The child on the other side of this curtain is clearly not kneeling for confession. Suddenly I’m aware of the priest at the front of the church, attending the altar. I realize now that there is no one to hear her confession. That’s not why she’s there. She is waiting for me to pull back that curtain and join her there in the darkness.

I stand up, swaying, and begin walking away. My legs will barely support me and I grab at several people on my way, who must think I’m drunk. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder for fear that she’ll come out of that box behind me. I don’t want to see her face! Barb is clutching a child in each arm and staring at me white-faced as I stumble towards the door. She doesn’t see the woman kneeling not ten feet from them stand and slowly begin that awful turn. I shout a warning as I rush out through the doorway.

It’s Sunday again! No matter. I’m not going to Mass today. A simple solution to a complex problem. They can have the church. I’ll stay right here at home. Not that it makes much difference.

Barbara took the kids and left last Sunday, right after my little episode at confession. She’s frightened. Austin and Vivian, picking up on their mother’s mood, just stared at me while Barb packed. That made me very uncomfortable. They ran when I tried to hold them. I was in no condition to make them stay.

Barb’s suspicious, too, I think. She says I shouted out the word “murder” as I fled church last week. I know I didn’t say that, I was trying to warn her of the woman. It’s funny under the circumstances that she should hear that, though I can’t recall what I did say.

I haven’t been in to work all this week, either. The office has phoned several times and left messages on my answering machine, but with Barb gone I just can’t seem to find the energy to lie about being ill. Barb used to do that for me sometimes. In fact, I can’t seem to summon up any energy at all. Perhaps they’re draining me. Maybe that’s how they’ve grown in strength. By sucking out my strength and resolve, they leave behind a vacuum that draws in all the weaker emotions, like guilt and remorse. I can almost feel them forming a lump in my chest. Something hard yet brittle. If I press down on my rib cage I can feel it crack and slide from underneath the pressure of my palm. Tears spring to my eyes, and my muscles become weak and flaccid, unable to support me. It’s a sickening feeling. Mostly, I just lie here and pretend not to notice.

It’s a bright, sunny day out, though it rained most of last night. The rain made me wakeful as I kept thinking that I could hear voices just beneath my bedroom window. The gurgling of water through the gutters was the cause. Still, I was expectant. Several times the sound of the rain blowing through the shrubbery put me in mind of women in long dresses strolling through the yard. Dresses that would trail across the grass as they walked, rustling slightly. It was a peculiar thought and I guess that’s why I dreamt so strangely afterwards.

I must have fallen asleep close to dawn. In my dream, the sun was rising above the drenched earth. My house had that clean, windswept but slightly drowned look that it probably has this very moment. I was lying in my bed, dreaming, when there was just the slightest of sounds. The soft scrape of a tiny shoe on the walkway leading to my front door. Barely audible, yet instantly recognized.

I felt myself trying desperately to wake up, but I couldn’t seem to open my eyes! Even though I was dreaming, I couldn’t see! Somehow, I managed to sit up in bed and I began to force my eyelids apart with my fingers. Then I could see again.

My room was flooded with the morning sun and I could see that I was alone, but as sometimes happens with dreams, I could see outside my house as well. As if I were floating, disembodied, above my home looking down at the vacant scene. There was no one there, only an empty, concrete pathway leading to my front door, which was standing wide open!

I wanted desperately to rejoin my body, which was hidden beneath the roof now, and warn myself! There was someone in the house with me! Then, as is the nature of dreams, I was there. Sitting up in bed, staring at my bedroom doorway. Waiting for them to step into my vision. There was a loud bang in the hallway, followed by silence. I choked off a scream. Then the whispering began. Just outside of my line of vision. Hushed, conspiratorial tones, as if a course of action was being discussed. Finally, the conversation ended and I could hear small female laughter drifting away.

I awoke sitting up in bed, staring at my bedroom doorway. I could feel a cool, fresh breeze blowing into my room. I slept with all windows and doors closed and locked.

When I went into the hall, I could see small patches of damp leading to my room and returning to the front door, which stood open. I noticed the hall closet was also open and a shambles. An old briefcase lay on the bare floor in front of it. I recognized it. This was what had made the loud bang in my dream. It had been flung from its shelf. It would contain my samples.

I picked it up, carried it into the kitchen, and set it on the table. I didn’t need to look inside. They were still there. I had never bothered to remove them. The police would never connect me with the scene and even if they did, I had thoroughly cleaned the instruments. Even so, I don’t know why I’ve kept them. Easier than getting rid of them, I suppose.

I walked into the living room and closed the front door. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel so much frightened as disappointed. I was weak, after all. They could now come and go in my life as they pleased and I was powerless to stop them. I knew what they were waiting for. My wife and children were gone, my career as good as finished. Only one thing was left and they were waiting for it. Confession. Humiliation. But I think I know something that they don’t want me to.

Confession only occurs if there’s guilt and conscience and they are drawing mine out and nurturing it. It’s become a cancer that I can’t ignore or trust, yet it’s mine! That’s the key! Ultimately, I can remove it. They may have underestimated me, after all.

I have a few shots to steady my nerves and take the parcel from the briefcase. Originally, I was studying to be a doctor, but financial hardships diverted me to business. Even so, I remained on the fringes and still take great pride in the instruments we manufacture. As I unwrap them, I can see they gleam as if new.

Something strikes the windowpane in the kitchen door, startling me, and I drop a surgical knife with a clatter. The door is locked and I’m not foolish enough to open it. Standing off to one side, I tease back the curtain and put my eye to the glass. A cardinal, bright as a splash of blood, lies broken on my rear stoop. My eyes are drawn in the direction it came from. That’s what they’ve been waiting for.

The two of them are standing close together under a barren maple tree, facing the door. The woman’s eyes are riveted on mine. The child’s face remains an accusing shadow. As if on cue, the woman begins moving across the lawn toward me, her face a mask of rage, flecked with spittle. Somehow, she knows what I intend to do. I can see her mouth working grotesquely, grinding without sound. Her stride is impossibly long and she covers the distance with a nightmarish speed. I can’t take my eyes from her and it’s only an involuntary reaction that makes me fall back, releasing the curtain just as she reaches the door. I see her silhouette on the other side of the material. I expect her face to thrust through the glass! But the glass does not break and the door does not burst open. She remains as she is, a frozen outline on the fabric, radiating hatred. l watch, unable to move, and understand how strong they have become. By the end of the day they will not have to wait for me to sleep to enter this house. No barrier will stop them. Now is my only chance to act! Knowing this, I can turn my back on my guardian and begin to work. I reach for a scalpel.

Suicide is never a pretty sight and this one was particularly gruesome. The detective-lieutenant surveyed the carnage and grimaced. How, he asked himself, could a person open himself from sternum to pelvis? Surely there were easier, less agonizing ways to kill oneself? He would have to wait for the medical examiner’s report, but he felt certain that this old boy had done some digging around while he was at it. What in the world for?

As the wrecked body was being carried out and the scene-of-crime officers began their exhaustive cataloguing, the lieutenant held a scrap of paper up to his eyes. He clasped it with a pair of tweezers and reread its contents. It should have pleased him but it didn’t. On this piece of paper was both the explanation for the suicide and quite probably the solution to a ten-year-old double slaying. In other words, a confession. It must have been written by the eviscerated man, as all the doors were dead-bolted from the inside, but his experience told him that it was in a distinctly feminine hand.