The Red Letters

It was late.

I was up reading articles, like you do.

Some news about weird scientific developments,

Political gibberish, the stuff the cool kids say,

And then something else.

I scroll down, and there’s this article screaming in red text:

MURDERER AT LARGE.

Now, I have to explain.

There are lots of things that scare me. Some are relatively normal, like death and finances.

But things like these… Not so much.

I grew up reading scary stories, and we all know how that works out.

Like my parents, firm in logic, always told me:

Don’t be stupid. Don’t walk around at night with a full wallet. Always keep your phone with you, and you’ll be fine.

I can safely say, after thirty-odd years of no trouble, that this method works.

The crazy people just want your money. Plain and simple.

I believed that too–another thing in my toolkit provided by my parents.

If you don’t ask for trouble, you’re not going to get it.

Stay out of trouble, and there’ll be no trouble.

All of these things pass through my mind. An automatic filter, you could say, where the fear is shot down instantly.

I scroll past more articles, more events that put any sort of functioning brain into clinical depression.

I ask why I do this to myself. Is life too happy right now?

So I begin scrolling up–clambering for a scrap of positivity in the sea of abandoned hope.

And staring right back at me once again, are those large, red letters.

MURDERER AT LARGE.

Of course, I have to tell you:

Though my filter is strong, though I’ve been told again and again that I’m not effected by these sorts of things, there’s always a voice that urges the opposite.

The voice is just as urgent as those letters.

But I calm my unease. I’m not asking for trouble.

I’m in my studio apartment reading news articles.

There’s a security guard on watch most nights, and if anyone wants to start trouble, they can go to him.

But I made the mistake of clicking the article.

The guys face is a year’s worth of nightmares:

Colorless skin, lidless eyes sunken in his head,

Mouth half-open, as if for some insect to crawl out.

My instinct is to scroll down, but I’m petrified.

Now, you see, that’s when the filter really starts to lose its power.

I turn to look at the front door, or rather, the window by the front door.

I can’t help but think about what I would do if I saw that face there.

The thought is nearly impossible. But what would my parents say?

Get your phone?

Call the police?

That’s a fair enough answer. What else can you do?

But then I’m reminded again:

You don’t get trouble if you don’t ask for it.

But then you start to realize…

Some crazy people don’t care about getting your money.

That’s why they’re crazy.

Their sense of reality is eroded.

All they care to see is the look on your face…

And WHAT?

I have to snap myself out of that mindset. It’s like a train–one you have to get off of before it’s gone too far.

Alright, I tell myself, just go back and page through the news.

But deep down I know this option is no better.

I need something else. Something worth a laugh, just to get my mind away from that face.

Then as I’m getting ready to page out, I see that title again.

MURDERER AT LARGE.

Next to those words, is the mugshot. The thumbnail for the snippet of text.

Somehow I’d missed it before, but how could I?

Murderer at large. Ha.

I didn’t even bother to properly read it.

And I know I shouldn’t have thought of that, because of course that’s all I can think about now.

I try to page through collections of humorous anecdotes, but that’s just a distraction from the real only option.

I tell myself that if I can get more information, perhaps I’ll realize that my fear is pointless. Nothing to fear.

But then I remember that I’ll have to see that face again.

Is it worth it?

Perhaps so. The discomfort is going to be eradicated by the knowledge I’m going to be alright.

But is this asking for trouble?

It’s damning either way. Screw it.

I tabbed back to the article, failing to mentally prepare myself for the awful visage.

I have to ignore it. And when those eyes flash up on my screen once again, I scroll down to the safe world of letters and words and sentences.

The text floats past. This guy was a college student. Same one I went to.

Then one day he decides to hack off his dorm mate’s limbs. The dorm mate, being his brother.

I say I’m reading this, but all I’m really thinking about is this Stephen King recording.

A live show, where he introduces his story explaining the likelihood of people following you home.

Getting into your house without you knowing.

Suggesting that the position of your shower curtain is important to note.

But you can’t think about those things.

You just can’t.

So whatever. This guy’s a nut, he’s armed, and he’s in my area.

Great. I think. Fucking great.

And as if the sick bastard wanted to hand me a response,

There’s a knock at my door.

My brain instinctively hops on the nonsense.

People in horror films would answer the door.

But that’s a damning feeling, because who in their sane mind wouldn’t answer the door, unless they knew something terrible was standing just outside.

I tell myself that I’m that person, and I’ll be damned for both responses being the wrong one.

To heck with it. Sure, I’ll answer the door.

But not before taking a look through that peephole.

Soon enough, I’m pressed to the entry like I’m honing in seismic abilities.

Should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to see squat on a completely lightless doorstep.

And if I turn on the light, whoever it is will know I’m home.

So I wait–pulling my face away from the eye hole, and lean my back up against the door with held breath.

For some reason, whoever it is never knocked again.

Just once.

Nothing more.

But whatever. Surely, whoever it is, assuming they don’t have the face of a waterlogged corpse, can come back in the morning like any reasonable person would.

But killers are not reasonable,

Or at least, so I’ve heard.

They want to feel what it’s like to stick the knife in.

To hear the sounds that’ll gurgle up from your throat.

See th–

And I was shaken from the mental visage.

The doorknob.

Jiggling.

Screw it, I thought, there’s… No reason to wig out.

“Who is it?” I call, failing to sound unaffected.

I hear a swallow, and then the faintest voice say, “Postman. You have a package.”

“Leave it on the doorstep!” I said, realizing too late how harsh that sounded.

Another moment goes by, and I think he’s shifting around under his clothes out there.

“I can’t do that, sir. I need a signature.”

I figured now was about the right time to catch him red handed.

“What are you doing out on delivery this late?”

Then he didn’t say another word.

Shoes scuffled away outside,

And I didn’t turn my back on my way to the couch.

Serves me right.

Never looking at one of those articles again.

Ever.