The Salesman

Dracula is the obvious inspiration for this short tale.

The Salesman

The case was only getting heavier in my hand. I had been lugging it through this neighborhood for half a day, and as the sun was dropping in the West, the houses seemed to be getting farther apart. They had been close together, neat bungalows with crisp curtains and bright yellow marigolds in identical window boxes. Somehow this last street had changed, or maybe it was just my tiredness and depression making me see the worst.

The last two houses I had past had been derelict. Instead of bright marigolds, there were weeds and peeling paint and sharply worded no trespassing signs. The final driveway was long and shrouded by massive trees, their great canopies blocking the fading light. I could turn back now. My job was finished no matter the results of this final house. I had failed for the second day in a row to sell any of the super duper, miraculous, miniature vacuums that I carried in my case. The little bungalows had been well equipped with every imaginable cleaning gadget, or so they said. The refusals were polite, but absolute, and they pulled the door closed with the practice of homeowners frequently faced with the over earnest religious type looking for willing or unwilling converts.

Not only would I get a pink slip today, but I would be ridiculed for my entire ineptness at selling the miracle dust zapper, found only in the sturdy traveling case. Its mighty magic couldn’t be bought at the local Walmart or Amazon or even late night TV for insomniacs desperate to hear the voice of the telephone operator. No, I had the miracle in my case. Get a special deal only today--buy the amazing dust zapper and receive the fabulous and wondrous boomerang broom for free. The last broom you’ll ever buy.

Ridiculous! Preposterous. Only the naive would ever consider such an obviously useless contraption. I’d spilled some rice yesterday, and the amazing and stupendous mini vacuum had sounded like a hippopotamus with bronchitis as it wheezed and labored to suck up the stray grains. 

I shivered as the wind rustled the leaves on the trees. It had been a hot day; I’d been sweating a few minutes ago. A storm must be blowing in. Rain spattered against my cheeks, and far off I heard the distant rumble of thunder. The house was in view, a massive three stories of stone and small barred windows. Two enormous locust trees flanked the driveway, my eyes drawn to their long and sharp thorns. Ivy climbed the porch railing and covered one side of the house, the dark green appearing to strangulate the very structure that supported it.

I looked back up the driveway. Rain was pelting against the cracked asphalt, and I scrambled up the few steps to the porch. I could take refuge here and pretend no one was home. I tapped on the door; a knock that wouldn’t have been heard by a person standing shoulder to shoulder with me. I avoided the brass knocker, someone’s attempt at humor. It was a dragon’s head with ruby red eyes. The talons of the dragon were perched below on the postbox, a tiny human grasped in one clawed foot.

The door swung open from my inaudible knock. A thin man, his skin hanging off his gaunt cheeks, stared at me. “May I help you?” His voice was hoarse, as if unused to forming greetings to strangers, but his manners were impeccable. He hadn’t yet threatened me with hidden firearms, vicious dogs, or a phone call to the police for trespassing; he hadn’t even insisted that he wasn’t interested.

I pressed my calling card into his cold palm. “I’m Victor with the Electra Vacuum Cleaner Company.”

“The master is fascinated by new inventions. This way please.”

A portable vacuum was hardly a new invention, but I followed the man into the house, standing still and stupefied as he shut the door and turned the key before pocketing the ancient piece of brass. The hall was enormous with a vaulted ceiling well above my head where a massive crystal chandelier sparkled with the light of real candles. 

He, the unnamed butler, must have notice my eyes on the candles. “Power is irregular here during a storm. I have made preparations by lighting the candles.”

“I see.” I didn’t see. The candles were impossibly high; It would take hours on a ladder to light them.

“This way, sir.”

I was escorted down the length of the hall, my shoes clacking on the white marble, my eyes and brain barely having a chance to register the pictures and tapestries on the walls.

“Chandler?” A man rose from behind a massive wood desk, his face even paler than his servant’s. “What have you here?”

Why did I feel I’d entered some haunted house that had escaped seasonal closing and was now peopled with the Adam’s family reincarnated?

“A salesman, sir,” Chandler, the butler said with crisp precision.

“Very good.”

Very good. No one said very good to a salesman. They showed me to the door. They didn’t settle down in a study that was consumed by an icy chill despite the calendar marked August and the fire in the grate. 

“Sit. Show me your wares,” The man behind the desk demanded.

I turned to set my case down when my eyes caught a flicker of movement. A serpent slithered against the table leg. 

Snakes. I hate snakes. I threw the case, spinning for the door. Chandler grabbed my arm, his grip unbreakable as his master advanced toward me. His lips were drawn back, showing a glittering row of sharpened daggers in his mouth.

“Be still. We have been awaiting you.”

****

I blinked. A man in a heavy firefighter’s coat and helmet stood over me. The room was illuminated with a veritable forest of lamps: desk lamps, table lamps, modern chandeliers with white canisters, and sparkly doodads that looked more decorative than practical. Chandler was in blue jeans and a polo shirt, and the master stood with a glass of water that he was pressing into the fireman’s hand.

A gloved hand grasped my wrist and felt for a pulse while a second person listened to my chest and shown a flashlight in my eyes.

“What day is it? Who is the President? What did you have for breakfast?”

Tuesday, Obama, cereal,” I answered without thinking.

“I see no damage,” the uniformed man said, removing his latex gloves. “I’d recommend you see your own doctor. You’ve had a bump on the head.”

“We will see to his medical needs,” the master said smoothly. His smile was broad and friendly with even and beautifully white teeth. “I hadn’t realized our rugs and furniture could be so dangerous.” He reached down and took my hand. “We’ll just get you comfortable in the bedroom while we wait for the doctor.”

For a second I saw that flash behind his eyes, but it was too late. My hand was trapped in his, and the paramedics were already at the door. I rubbed my forehead and blinked. 

It had to be the knock on the head, didn’t it?