Careful - by Ray O'Bannon


Madge turned at the faint sound of the doorbell, wondering who in the world it could possibly be. She wasn't expecting anyone this afternoon, and had been enjoying her gardening before this rude and most unwelcome interruption. Couldn't the world leave an old lady to her Azaleas, just this once? She rose and began absently brushing the soil from her gardening apron as she made her way to the back door. Setting her basket of gardening tools on the kitchen counter, she crossed the short hallway into the living room of her small tidy cottage. The late afternoon light cast the shadow of a figure through the frosted glass of the front door. Not particularly tall, rather short in fact, but she could sense that it was a male. She had the impression of it being a salesman. And then she was groping blindly for the coffee table to avoid falling, her mind filled with the sudden vibrant blue images.

Even as a child, Madge had experienced the visions. Not often, only once or twice a year. Flashes of the future lit in a vivid blue glare that painfully stung the back of her eyes. Fragmentary glimpses of events that always came true within a short time. Always. And the vision that filled her mind now as she stumbled dizzily across her living room involved something made of cold shiny steel. It sliced madly downwards, and droplets began cascading fountain-like through the air, droplets that could only be blood no matter how blue the lighting.

She steadied herself against the frame of the front door, her mind clearing gradually. She looked up to see the visitor's shadow looming before her, the man waiting impatiently just a few feet away on the other side of the frosted glass panel. She could almost feel his breath on her face, in spite of the glass. And as she reached for the doorknob a small voice began chittering in the back of her head, saying "no, no, you mustn't open it, don't let him in, oh no you mustn't do that no no no".

"May I help you?" She knew as she beheld her visitor that the voice had been right, that she should never have opened the door. But after all, what could one do? She couldn't just leave the man standing out there and her conscience would never have forgiven her pretending not to be home. She had, after all, been raised in a world where polite behavior was a virtue to be maintained at all times. And so, of course, she had opened the door to this shadowy figure that alarmed her so dreadfully. His smile seemed somehow oily, and the eyes above the smile struck her as disinterested, cold...like shiny lifeless steel.
"Madge Harlow?" he asked as he shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. "I'm Sammy Ridgeway, Halsteader Insurance Company." The hand he held out seemed pale as a dead fish, but was held with a peculiar steadiness that somehow unnerved her. She saw him glancing past her into the living room.
"I'm sorry, young man. I don't accept solicitations of any kind, so if you'll excuse me..."
"No, Ma'am, this is about your current insurance policy. We've been unable to reach you by telephone and I have several forms that require your signature."
She thought back to that day a few months ago when she had gotten so angry at a phone sales 'representative' who had called at 10:30 at night just to try to sale linoleum. The very notion of phone sales had always appalled her. Hadn't anyone any manners whatsoever anymore?!! And to call so late at night, when anyone with any sense was asleep! She had flung the little plastic phone (which she could never figure out anyway) against the wall, breaking it into useless shards. She felt wonderfully vindicated. The next day she had laughed over tea with Sally and Regina about how silly she had been. She had intended to replace the phone, but she received so few calls anymore that it had simply slipped her mind. And now fate had sent her a reminder in the form of this unpleasant young man with his oily smile and briefcase full of obligations.
"Won't you come in?"

The man glided through the doorway and stood glancing about the cottage.
"You live here alone, then?" he asked with a casualness that somehow made her skin crawl. Better to just ignore the question altogether.
"Won't you have a seat, Mr. Ridgeway?" and she gestured towards the sofa. But rather than seating himself there, the man quickly stepped over to the recliner that sat facing the television and the front door. As he settled himself down his eyes seemed to dart between the doorway and the front windows for a moment. Madge sat uneasily on the edge of the sofa as the man clicked open his briefcase. The tiny metal latches made an oddly hollow sound as he opened them, and Madge was reminded, for no particular reason she could fathom, of latches opening on a coffin. Now why should a coffin have latches? She chuckled quietly to herself. Blue sparks danced around the edges of her vision for a moment. The man opened the lid of the briefcase and she could see the bright little gold initials attached to the lid. They were J.P.B.

The forms he handed her looked entirely authentic. The Halsteader Insurance Company emblem floated neatly over several pages of statistics, quotients, and various clauses and stipulations. Of course, Madge's poor confused mind simply glazed over after a short while. He assured her that she didn't owe them any money beyond the payments she had already made, and that he only needed her signature on the various pages.

She stared down at the pen he held towards her. There seemed to be something odd in the way he held it, somehow more the way one might brandish a knife. Her hand shook slightly as she accepted the instrument, but his hand never wavered, never moved. It floated there between them like a pale dead fish for a moment longer before sliding back to the briefcase with a dry rustling of paper. The cheap plastic pen felt horrifyingly cold in her palm. She signed the various forms quickly and handed them back to him without leaning any closer than she had to. His pale hands shot out to retrieve them, and now there was nowhere to look except back up into his face, and Madge found herself exceedingly reluctant to meet those cold steely eyes. He tucked away the forms in a tidy little stack, but left the briefcase open on his lap. He smiled that oily smile.

"Y'know, you really should be more careful, Ma'am." But rather than concern in his voice, she thought she noticed a hint of laughter. "I mean, you let me come waltzing right in, and that's a pretty bad idea considering what's been going on around here lately." And there it was out in the open, the topic she had known was coming but had fervently wished to avoid. "All this talk going 'round about a murderer on the loose, and those seven missing people...gosh, I'd be a lot more careful if I were you. I mean, I could be anybody."

Was this a game? Why was he taunting her so brazenly? "Don't be a fool" said the rational part of her mind, "He's just a man from Halsteader Insurance." But that nervous little voice in the back of her skull was shouting "Run! Get out! Get AWAY from him!"
"Would you like a glass of tea?" She rose slowly and began stepping toward the kitchen, which waited a few yards behind the man like a pale green sanctuary. She would have to walk by the recliner, walk right by him, and suddenly the cozy little cottage wasn't cozy at all. Suddenly it felt like the belly of the beast as the man's cold gray eyes stared up at her.

"You know what I hear the killer did to them?" The eyes sparkled and the oily smile widened. "I heard they were all torn into..."
"Yes, I've heard all the sordid rumors on the television, and I'd really rather nor discuss it if you please." She was momentarily astonished at her boldness, but after all there was a point at which bad manners simply must be protested. She stepped confidently past him and began to enter the kitchen. But something caught the corner of her vision, and she glanced back over her shoulder. The sun had dropped low in the sky, reddish light now filling the living room. Looking over the man's shoulder into the open briefcase, she caught her breath violently as the dying sunlight glittered brightly across the dagger's blade.

It was the sort of military dagger she recalled seeing attached to the ends of rifle barrels in old war movies. It sat atop the legal forms like a horrible chrome serpent, and everything about it screamed "Pierce, Rip, Puncture!" She turned back towards the kitchen in silent desperation, ignoring the little inner voice that was only screeching incoherently at this point anyway.

"Don't get me wrong, Ma'am, I don't wanna scare you or anything." There must be something! Just stay calm! "I'm just saying you gotta be careful, that's all." There, on the counter! The gardening spade! "You can't trust anybody anymore, you gotta watch out for yourself." He turned to face her as she stepped back into the living room, his cruel shiny little eyes laughing.

"You just can't be too c…" The gardening spade flashed downward in a blur of crimson sunlight, cutting into the man's throat. Madge smiled at how his wide staring eyes suddenly resembled nickels as he fell to the floor. The spray of blood was suprisingly thick as she dragged his trembling form into the kitchen. Thank heavens for linoleum floors. Still, she thought, they didn't need to call you at all hours of the night. And she scowled about how rude the world had become as she disposed of the body.

The trunk she had found in the toolshed had been large enough, though the rusty latches had given her some difficulty. It had fit neatly enough into the hole she had dug in her garden, and it now rested peacefully beside the other seven containers she had buried there. The Azaleas she had planted above it were doing nicely, and Madge smiled to herself in satisfaction.
"You needn't worry, young man. I'm very careful" she whispered as she patted the soil gently. "Always have been. Always will be."