The Travelling Man: Chapter 1

"The Know." The Man. The case.

They all stood on the front porch and looked at the worn-out valise without speaking. A cane leaned on the door jamb next to it, as though someone had set down their luggage, rung the bell, and then hurriedly reconsidered the visit altogether. Katherine stepped outside and looked around; no one was there. It was evening, and a person could have been hiding in the deeper shadows of their property...but Katherine didn't feel anyone.

"I don't know," she answered Hedda, before the child had even asked her question. Katherine had the know, as had her grandmother. Her mother had been as blind, deaf, and dumb as a post when it came to navigating above the sky, but Katherine had apparently inherited the gift in full. Sometimes she knew what was going to happen, like when Hedda was about to ask who left the case. Other times, she could sense people around her, sometimes up to a quarter of a mile off. Her deja-vu was often a warning sign, and her family always heeded her interpretations.

Katherine was not a witch, but what she was versus what others thought of her were sadly very different. Even in this day and age, precious few in town would even look at her, let alone talk to her. So for someone to have come to her home, and with a travelling case, was more than a little odd.

She tilted her head back and breathed out slowly three times. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she looked above the sky in all directions. Jamieson was plowing his north field; she could feel his sweat and the mule's exhaustion. Birta, the German woman from town, was visiting the Wolcotts. She shone in Katherine's "sky" like a white little sun. Katherine suspected Birta had the know, as well; when she turned her focus to the little old woman's energy, Katherine felt her return the attention and fork the sign of the evil eye at her. Closer to home, Katherine could feel how much Tammie needed to go to the bathroom.

But there was no one else, near or far.

Katherine came back to the here-and-now, turned, and ushered the three girls back into the house. "Tammie, go right upstairs and go potty. Mind me, now."

As the little girl ran up the stairs, Katherine looked at the cane for several moments, drawn to it for some reason. She reached out, and the moment she touched it, a hundred images flashed through her mind's eye, a thousand, a hundred thousand! A baby born dead, a fire in an apartment building, a bucket of boiled crabs, an abandoned car, a toy soldier— everything, every image of every kind, all at once in a flash. She recoiled, pulling her hand back with a hoarse scream, as if the cane were a cobra instead of mute wood. And as she stood staring at the knurled old walking stick, she heard something rustle behind her. When she whirled around, there was a man standing about three feet from her.

He was tall and thin, frail-looking, about sixty, if she had to guess. He had a white handlebar mustache and bushy white eyebrows. Other than that, he was completely bald. He tipped his hat. "I'm Wellington Beckhalter," he said without preamble. His accent was not what she had expected. She would have thought this mysterious man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere would have an exotic accent— Egyptian or even far-eastern. But he sounded more like he was from no place more mundane than the Midwest, like her— say Cincinnati, maybe. "I think you've been expecting me."

"Wh...What do you want? I'm not expecting anyone, no one at all," Katherine stammered, completely off her guard.

"I'm here for lodging," the man returned affably, speaking as if the reason were simple and he was explaining it to a child.

Her brow creased. "What makes you think you can stay here? This isn't an inn or bed-and-breakfast. This is my home; now... I think... I think perhaps you'd better leave, Mr. Burkhart."

Beckhalter smiled. "It's Beckhalter, but that's alright. You see, though, Katherine, my luggage is already here." He pointed to the weathered old leather bag. "My reservation is inside." His eyes seemed to grow in his face, to pulse. His voice was low and rhythmic. Katherine's eyes dropped to the brown case, seemingly of their own volition.

Ketherine felt like a stranger in her own body. Even though her mind shrieked against it, she opened the door wider and actually welcomed Wellington Beckhalter inside, staring at the old valise the whole time.

He picked up his case and entered the house. He looked around, nodding approvingly. "You have a very nice home, Katherine."

"How do you know my name?" Katherine asked. She was afraid, but she could do nothing to expel this man, the very object of her fear. No, not the man. His case was what she feared.

Beckhalter continued as though she hadn't spoken. "Your grandmother would have been proud to see the care with which you live." His eyes— those pulsing, disconcerting eyes— settled back on her. "She was not so tidy as you, you know."

Katherine stood, dumbstruck. Her grandmother, in addition to being gifted (afflicted?) with the know had been a terrible hoarder. Katherine found her voice, though it was small and weak, like a little girl's. "You have to leave. My husband will be home."

Beckhalter laughed a rich, deep laugh. "He's not due home for hours, for ages, Katherine. We both know that." He set the case on the floor, and her gaze returned to it.

"You wish to know more about me, don't you? You need to understand me, to 'know' me. Open it, Katherine. Open it; you'll find exactly what you need to see," the man purred soothingly.

Katherine watched her hand reach out toward the bag. In the back of her mind, alarm bells screamed. No! If I touch it, I'll go mad! But her hand did touch the bag, unclasped it and opened it. Inside, she saw...darkness. A deep, impenetrable darkness, like the bag was a well a hundred fathoms deep.

"Do you see what's inside?" Beckhalter intoned hypnotically.

"I... No, I can't..."

"But certainly you 'know' what's inside, don't you?" She could hear a leering smile in his pulsing, rhythmic speech.

Again, as though compelled by a force outside her, she felt her head tip back, felt her eyes roll back, and she was looking above the sky. She looked around. She saw the mule, the farmer, the bright little sun of the German woman— but no one else. Wellington Beckhalter was inexplicably invisible to her inner eye. She thought she heard him chuckle as she failed to see him.

Then her focus was drawn down, down, down to the worn case, over its weathered hide and crooked handle, into its black maw. She found Beckhalter was right. She could see into the case. She saw exactly why he was here, and why he was here to stay. She shuddered as she saw the place he had stayed last, and the place before that. She saw his cane, and it did change into a cobra. And she thought she saw one more thing, something that her mind didn't want to acknowledge. She thought she saw—

It was at that moment that Louise began to scream in pain and terror.

NOTES : ▶︎

For the contest: "Chapter One" 
Prompt: A pictured of a beaten-up old valise-style carrying case on an abandoned road
Word Count: 1,206