Life Insurance

Heat poured off the blacktop in waves, shimmering in the summer haze. A smell of coal fire washed by as black formal shoes, at first polished and bright, grew dusty crunching down the shoulder of highway 58. The oxfords paused before a sign, it read; ‘Welcome to Millsville’

“Ah, hello Millsville”

The owner of the shoes wore a simple black and white suit that wouldn’t look out of place on insurance salesmen in the 1950’s. In his hand, a case that swung without care as he walked, a generic “Insurance” embossed onto the lid. Bradshaw, the insurance salesman, strolled into town gazing at the simple, small buildings with the eye of a tourist. He marveled at the diner and old courthouse, and cheerily chatted with anyone who passed by. Mostly, he caught the ear of elderly couples who were all too eager to discuss the weather, politics, and local happenings. Bradshaw never offered his services in the insurance business unless they asked.

“You sell life insurance?” A heavyset mother of two looked the man up and down. “Just, out on the street?”

Bradshaw nodded, holding out a business card. “Yes, for you or a loved one, I offer assistance in the event of an accident. Furthermore I-”

“Like, door to door? You don’t have an office?” the woman said, interrupting his spiel. “You don’t have an email address?” She flipped the card over, muttering now. “No phone number?”

“Ah, no ma’am, my religion forbids the use of technology, so all sales are done as we are, face to face.”

The woman nodded, screwing her face up in confusion as she did. “I see.”

“I’ll be in town for a little while, if you are are looking to have your life insurance needs tended to, I’ll be around.”

The woman seemed to be full of unanswered questions, and was about to ask when a sudden crash erupted behind her. A weathered and faded soda machine had slipped off its four wooden blocks and fell, collapsing onto the sidewalk like a shot animal.

“Christopher! Anna!” The mother marched away, shouting at her two children who stood near the machine.

“It just fell over!” one said.

“We only pushed the buttons, it’s not our fault!” said the other.

The woman wasn’t having any of it. She cursed and shouted at the two, and was only interrupted when the owner of the shop stepped out. He shouted at the woman, demanding payment for his clearly ruined machine. She returned the shouts with louder ones of her own. Before long other shop owners and pedestrians had walked their way over to the commotion, and were currently taking sides, adding to the din of cursing and yelling.

Bradshaw, grinning, walked casually away. “I think I’ll like this town,” he said as he strolled further down Millsville’s main street.

Bradshaw met many of the locals who lived within the town’s borders by the end of the first few months. He then began making trips along the small roads that lead out town and into the countryside beyond. Dusty shoes, black and white suite, suitcase. Some even began to recognize him by name.

“Hey Mr. Bradshaw!” came a woman’s voice from a small economy car, loaded with groceries. The beat up sedan slowed to a crawl near Bradshaw on the side of the road. “You need a lift?”

“Oh, no thank you Mrs. Simmons. You know I can’t be using machinery.”

“Right, but it’s not like you’re operating it? I’m the one driving and all.”

“Still, technology, machinery…” he waved his hand above his head vaguely.

“I know, I know. Your religion, right? Well, if you get down the road, about three miles up ahead is my house. Swing on by, will you?”

Bradshaw gave her a large, attractive smile. “Oh, I will.”

Mrs. Simmons gave back a sharp grin as she nodded. The car pulled away, leaving Bradshaw to his thoughts. Mrs. Simmons wasn’t the only woman in town who had cozied up to the stranger. He wasn’t thick and strong like the men who farmed or raised cattle, instead he was lean, v-tapered, and devilishly handsome. He never turned away an opportunity to get closer with those who lived in town, especially when they wanted to get much closer.

The road continued on, winding between fields, infrequently birthing driveways. One such driveway soon turned into a dirt road that led up to a farm. There were a decent number of people who lived in the farmlands that stretched around Millsville. Within a siege of corn and cabbages, Millsville itself was a tiny dot of civilization, miles and miles away from anything else like it.

Bradshaw was almost to the porch of a great white farmhouse when the sound of a shotgun racking halted his steps.

“You! Why are you on my land? You’re trespassing boy!” A middle aged man with a crew cut and a shotgun shouted through the screen door.

“Good morning sir!” Bradshaw called out. “I’m just a door to door insurance salesman, I promise I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Oh, you’re not going to hurt me? Ha! You’re at the ass end of double ought buck shot! I’d like to see you try!”

“Do you also shoot delivery drivers? Have you taken pot shots at the mailman recently?”

The man spat. “Mailbox is at the bottom of the road, which is where my land starts. I’m within my rights! I could shoot you dead right now!” The man seemed to get more energized, his silhouette shifting side to side. This wasn’t the first time Bradshaw had been threatened as he made his rounds, but this was probably the most excitable one.

“To shoot me, legally, I would have to be a threat, no? Is my suitcase and tie threatening to you Mr. Burnett?”

Mr. Burnett froze, his brain working. Bradshaw had been making it up as he went along. For all he knew, this state or county might have a law that allowed people to shoot anybody wherever and whenever they liked. But people didn’t tend to research much. They heard from their neighbor, who heard from his uncle, who’s wife works down at the courthouse. They KNEW the law and felt very comfortable acting on it, until someone questioned them.

“You. Get the fuck off of my property or I will fill you full of holes goddammit!”

Bradshaw shrugged and took a step back. “The name’s Bradshaw, if you ever are in need of life insurance, you can find me in town.”

“I don’t give a fuck asshole!” said the man. “Get. Off. Of. My. Fucking. Land.”

Bradshaw turned around, and began walking away, relaxing his arms a distance away. He didn’t want to cause trouble, not yet, he just wanted to get his name around. Bradshaw made his way back down to the road, and strolled along, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. In some aspects, this wasn’t too far from the truth. Most didn’t take well to Mr. Bradshaw, the tall, attractive, insurance salesman. But others…

A few miles passed under his feet and Bradshaw found himself at the next turnoff. He strolled down the gravel road, the stones crunching as he made his way between two large fields of grass. A ranch style house snuggled between a large garage and an old, disused, red barn. Mrs. Simmons’s car rested out front, a ticking sound came from the cooling engine. A large dog’s booming voice echoed from the house as he made it to the door. He knocked. A few moments passed before footsteps thumped over to the door. It swung open, revealing Mrs. Simmons in what one might call home wear, others would say it was dangerously close to a negligee. She certainly wasn’t wearing that earlier.

“Hi! Sorry for Rosco, he’s always barking at visitors,” she said as she brushed her hair out of her face. “How was the walk?”

Bradshaw smiled at her awkward small talk. “Fine, Mrs. Simmons, fine.”

“Carol.”

“Carol.” He smiled. “Okay Carol, would you like to talk inside? Is Mr. Simmons home?”

“No, no. He’s out on some job on the other side of the county. I took the boys over to the neighbors earlier, I-“

Bradshaw cut her off by leaning in, kissing her. As he pulled away, her mouth opened and closed a few times. She was hoping for this, but needed a moment to compose herself. She grabbed his tie and pulled him inside.

Evening fell as Bradshaw made his way down the driveway, back to the road. Headlights swung into the turnoff and slowed. A large red truck, rough from a day’s work creaked to a stop.

“Hey now, you lost mister?” a bull headed man spoke as he leaned out, looking Bradshaw over.

“Lost? No, not me, I don’t get lost very easily.” Bradshaw grinned. “You must be Mr. Simmons, is that right?”

The man nodded.

“The name’s Bradshaw, I am a life insurance salesman. I was stopping by your house to offer my wares to your family, I was afraid I had missed you.”

Mr. Simmons’s expression became less severe as he listened. “Ah, you go door to door? Now that is something that isn’t seen much anymore. Did my wife buy anything from you?”

Bradshaw shook his head and put on his best helpless look. “No, I’m afraid not. But that’s just fine, I don’t ever push my services on others, but if you are ever in need of me, I’ll be in town. I’ve told Carol much the same.”

Mr. Simmons’s approving smile faltered a little as his wife’s name slipped through this stranger’s lips. Bradshaw said his goodbyes, and turned down a ride into town. Mr. Simmons couldn’t help but stew on the man’s words. Bradshaw, on the other hand, felt like that went perfectly. He strode along the highway, swinging his suitcase like a happy kid. He enjoyed the waning hours of the day, as the world became dark. It reminded him of home, it reminded him of happier times. But for now, he had a job to do.

The following months went much the same as the first. Bradshaw visited more and more homes, some multiple times. He was an expert at earning the ire of many just by existing, and others by his mannerisms. He talked like a city slicker, and appeared to enjoy the hateful glares that came his way.

The days passed, and soon, time brought an end to summer, and welcomed fall. The heat only grew, however, and before long, a sweltering thanksgiving approached. The annual gathering of the small town’s population was held in the town hall that sat behind the old courthouse. As long as the small town had existed, they had always gathered to celebrate thanksgiving together, to not gather for the holiday seemed foreign to them. As the meal came to a close, and the townsfolk relaxed, many stepped into the back, into a makeshift pub, provided by the owner of the local sports bar, The Dugout.

“He’s some kind of cult member, I heard.” A woman spoke loudly enough to be overheard to the tables around her. “He don’t have a phone, he don’t drive, he don’t seem to have nothin except for that damn case!”

“I swear,” a wiry old man spoke up, “I see that feller walking down the road all the goddamn time. I was down in Lita, saw him going door to door, then drove all the way across the county and saw him again! Walking down Emerett road! He claims he can’t use machinery, but how the hell does he get plum across the county that fast? That asshole’s a liar if I’ve ever seen one.”

The group murmured in agreement. Several had spotted similar sights over the past months, he seemed to always be around, no matter where you went.

“I saw him skulking around the quarry pools, spying on young girls,” the bull-headed man, Mr. Simmons, spoke up. “He just slowly walked around, in his suit, he didn’t even attempt to swim, he just watched.”

Angry murmurs and gasps of scandalized air huffed through the bar.

“He just watched a bunch of girls swimmin? We need to do something about that horrid man.” A rotund woman spoke out as she fanned herself.

“Who’s girls were swimming? It wasn’t mine was it?”

The bull-headed Mr. Simmons frowned. “It was Priscilla’s girls and a few of their friends. They’re just high schoolers! He’s a creep!”

The group took the man’s words as proof of Bradshaw’s evil deeds, renewing their murmurs and cursing.

“He didn’t seem like a bad man to me,” came a woman’s voice. The bar turned as one to Mr and Mrs. Letterman.

“And how the fuck would you know?” asked Mr. Letterman. “He could be a murderer. Some cult member stalking around our homes.”

“Oh Frank, shush!” Mrs. Letterman turned to him. “Mr. Bradshaw has been nothing but nice, there’s no reason to vilify him. He’s been in town for what? A year now? A whole year and he hasn’t hurt nobody.”

Mr. Letterman wanted to explode in anger, but he held it in. Mrs. Letterman would be getting an earful later. A vein bulged over his forehead as he gripped a beer glass.

“I don’t think he’s that bad, he seems like a nice, genuine man to me.” Mrs. Jones spoke up from her table.

“I saw him stop by your house only yesterday, Mrs. Jones,” said the large woman, “he was selling insurance was he? He didn’t leave for a couple of hours. How long exactly does it take to explain life insurance, huh?”

Mrs. Jones was a terrible liar, and the whole town knew it. They also knew her husband had run out on her, and was nowhere to be found, but she was still married. Married women shouldn’t be welcoming visitors of his type. There was already plenty of rumors of the insurance salesman visiting her more than a couple of times.

“Oh, well, he was just nice. I brought out some sweet tea and we chatted is all,” she said, cheeks blushing and hands wringing as she spoke.

The entire bar murmured, and Mr. Letterman’s scowl deepened.

“Now, now,” said a ball shaped man, sweat dripping from his head as he stood from his barstool, “the man is not from here, and he’s surely not used to us folk, just as we aren’t used to him. I’ve had a visit from him and he seemed… a bit odd, to be sure, but not insomuch insidious or, or… evil.” The man waved his hands, not finding the words he wanted. “The point is, unless he’s done something actually illegal, let’s not go lynching strangers over the way they talk.”

This round man was the current mayor of Millsville, and had never quite given up rubbing elbows with his constituents. He always knew how to ease or rile up a crowd, and this time was no different. The angry muttering began to die down. After all, it was true. Bradshaw had broken no laws, he hadn’t harmed anyone, he hadn’t even uttered a single cruel or vicious word since arriving. As the group began to simmer down, the door that led outside from the bar swung open.

“Oh, Mr. Bradshaw!” Mrs. Jones called out, brightening.

The group turned as one, as the subject of their discussion for the past few hours suddenly arrived before them. Bradshaw crept along, nodding with a smile towards Mrs. Jones, before taking a seat at the end of the bar.

“What are you doing here? You aren’t invited.” said Mr. Letterman. Bradshaw had sat right next him.

Mrs. Letterman grabbed his shoulder, pulling him away from the man. “Frank, leave him be, I told him to come. We’ve welcomed visitors in the past, it should be fine, right?”

Mr. Letterman ignored her. “I thought you had your religion? But you come over to drink? Was that all a damn lie?”

“Oh, no Mr. Letterman, I can assure you my religious faith is as strong as ever, but my faith says nothing about drinking.” He held up a hand to the burly Hank, the bartender. “A dry martini, please.”

Hank looked him over without moving. “Don’t have vermouth.”

“No vermouth? Ah, I had worried that might have been a bit of a stretch for a bar around here. I’m sure you have whiskey, no? I’ll take a whiskey, neat.”

The faces of the bartender and guests twitched. None could pinpoint what it was, what had grated against their nerves so harshly, but the feelings of raw anger rushed up again. Was he being a prick? Snide? Yeah, maybe, but the anger and fury seemed exaggerated for what the man had said.

“Listen asshole,” Mr. Letterman started.

“Frank!” Mrs. Letterman shouted. “He didn’t do nothin!”

“Stop defending him! Why are you on his side, huh? What did he tell you?” Mr. Letterman glared at his wife, who glared right back.

“Don’t fight because of me,” came Bradshaw’s voice, “I just wanted a drink after walking all day. Mr. Ringer, I just came back from chatting with your wife, Abigail. And Mr. Turner, I had quite the vigorous discussion with your Lindsey earlier today. I don’t see why we can’t get along as well.”

The two men he mentioned bristled. They hadn’t even taken a major role in the angry discussions earlier, but somehow the words from Bradshaw burned at their reason.

“You stay the fuck away from my family,” said Mr. Turner. He glared at Bradshaw, who’s expression seemed to enjoy the attention.

“I only offer my services to those who request it, I don’t force what I offer onto anybody.” Bradshaw stood, slowly as he spoke. “I had hoped we could be good friends, the people of the little town of Millsville. Which, by the way has no mills, isn’t that strange?”

Mr. Letterman stood, glaring only inches away from Bradshaw. “You should just go on your way, nobody in town wants you around, nobody wants your fucking life insurance.”

Bradshaw smiled. “Why, Mr. Letterman, I’d be a remiss if I didn’t mention your wife bought a plan for you and her just yesterday.”

“You were at my house…”

“Why yes, Abby invited me back and we had quite the lovely time, I gave you a very generous deal if I do say so myself.”

Mr. Letterman turned back to his wife. “You invited him over? I told you not to speak to this creep anymore.”

Mrs. Letterman’s eyes darted around, avoiding her husband’s. “I just… it sounded like a good idea, and we don’t have life insurance, and what if something happens…”

“I told you not to! How the fuck will we get into contact with someone without a fucking phone? How does that even make sense?” He turned back to Bradshaw. “How did you contact my wife anyways if you don’t use a fucking phone?”

“Mr. Letterman, I just happened to be nearby and stopped in.”

A thick, hardworking fist struck Bradshaw in the teeth. Bradshaw’s face rocked back, but he otherwise didn’t move. A grin appeared over his mouth, blood outlining his teeth.

“Stay the fuck out of my home!” Mr. Letterman shouted at the bloody man.

Mrs. Letterman screamed, “Frank!” The other bar patrons tensed at the violence.

“Oh, Mr. Letterman,” Bradshaw looked back down, he seemed to lean over the stout and powerful Letterman. “Do you know the meaning of thanksgiving? Of this meal?”

Mr. Letterman halted in his movements, he stared at Bradshaw with a confused look. He wasn’t a bad man, he hadn’t struck anyone since he was in grade school. Why was he so damn angry, so afraid when he looked at him?

“When the small towns that spread over the new world like a pox began to starve, they asked the heavens for salvation. They had murdered the natives, and had stolen what they could, but it wasn’t enough, it was never enough.”

Bradshaw stood taller, his face looking towards the rafters with a face of devotion. “As they starved and fought over the last of their spoils, they were offered a reprieve, they would live long, and fat, and happy, all they needed to pay in return was their descendants. You know something Mr. Letterman, people of Millsville?” Bradshaw looked back down over the crowd. “These people had already passed through famine and disease. They laughed in their hearts, as they had no descendants, there wasn’t a single child left in the towns, there was nothing to take. They agreed, thinking they had outsmarted this being that came to their aid. They took the offer, and they lived happily ever after.”

Bradshaw looked down at the townsfolk, who all stared back with a strange look.

“The fuck are you talking about?” an old man shouted over. “You stupid or something?”

The large woman spoke. “He’s in some cult! I told you! He ain’t right in the head. And he’s been going to our homes, talking this useless shit!”

Bradshaw smiled. “I am merely here to collect on your debts.”

The blood from his nose dripped onto the floor, and soaked through the wooden boards. A faint cracking noise echoed under their feet, but the townsfolk didn’t hear it. They were shouting again, standing one by one, and stepping forward towards the man. They didn’t understand why this man repulsed them, why they grew so angry with him, but the longer they were in front of him, the more they wanted to do… something, anything. A glass flew through the air, breaking on the salesman’s face. Bradshaw stepped forward, and was rewarded with another punch. The group pummeled the figure, striking maddeningly, as if desperate to extinguish a flame that threatened to burn them all. Terror, fury, the strikes contained a terrible will to survive, what they were surviving didn’t seem important. Only that Mr. Bradshaw needed to go away, he needed to die.

Mrs. Letterman, Mrs. Jones, and the mayor, all who had defended Bradshaw tried to grab and pull the crazed members of the town off the man. They were shocked and confused, they didn’t feel the same revulsion the others felt, they didn’t understand why their friends and loved ones would act so violently. The townsfolk turned their attentions to the three, and began striking them as well. Pummeling and beating them until they laid still on the floor. Another unheard crack echoed beneath the town. Bradshaw persisted, laughing through the blood and broken teeth.

A knife was produced, a broken bottle cut down. The townsfolk regained themselves as Bradshaw slowed, then stopped his cackling, then his breathing. The salesman laid, dead, his clothes torn and bloodied as if attacked by a pack of dogs.

Mr. Letterman stumbled off of his wife. She twitched, still alive, but he had beaten her, hard. Over and over he had battered the woman’s face, bouncing her skull off the hardwood. What had come over him? He glanced over, the mayor had his throat cut open in a jagged line. He was wasn’t moving or breathing, he only bled like a pig. Mrs. Jones was crumpled in a corner, unmoving.

The townsfolk all cast their gazes around the bloody and broken room, unsure of what just happened, unsure of what had they had just done.

A cackle burbled through the throat of the dead Bradshaw as he grinned. “And so, it is time, to pay what you owe.” The townsfolk stepped back, the large woman turned, running as quickly as she could, a bloody, broken beer bottle clutched in her hand. She didn’t make it far. A black thread became visible, connected to the man, as it always had been. It grew taught, yanking her off of her feet.

“The blood of the innocent, and blood of the messenger, the blood of the past, and the blood of the future.” Bradshaw smiled as his body began to erupt with a thousand shadowy threads. The threads reached out to those in the hall, those still in town, those who lived on the outskirts. The threads grew taught, then they began to pull. Not on their bodies, nor hands, or heads. A tug, and a shade erupted from the old wiry man’s chest, his body falling limp. Then another, and another. The souls pulled out were black like night. Tainted, twisted, and long, long overdue.

Bradshaw gripped the threads, and yanked. A thousand threads pulled throughout the surrounding lands. They pulled on the twenty in the bar, and hundreds in the hall nearby. Many were still eating as a dark lines ripped their life away. Families that had moved here, and others who had married into the town screamed in horror as death erupted around them. But for those who called Millsville their home, those who had lived where their fathers had before them, they could only give a short, silent shout, before falling wherever they stood.

Those that could, ran from the hall in terror. Some feebly clung onto their husbands or wives, sons, and daughters. The survivors could only scream in pitiful agony, at the town of death that had become of Millsville. None noticed the corpse rising in the back room. It stepped over the carnage, and smoothed its clothes as the suit reformed itself, growing clean and whole. He picked up his suitcase left by the stool, and stepped, out of the hall, and onto the shoulder of a highway. Shiny black oxfords grew dusty as they approached a large sign. It read “Welcome to Collerton!”

“Haaa, Hello Collerton.”