“He’s already taken three kids, but the cops don’t believe he exists” A captivated audience of pre-teens hung on Billy Davitt’s every word. Like a preacher delivering a sermon, he stood on top of the monkey bars warning all those that would listen about the
Traveling Man.
“What does he look like Billy?” a bubbly fourth-grader asked nervously
Billy had the spirit of a showman, waving his hands dramatically as he spoke, “The Traveling Man rides around in a rusted old sedan, black as a starless night. He wears a bright red suit with a matching fedora, caked in blood and grime. But the only way to
really know if it’s the Traveling Man is if you can catch a glimpse of his face,” pausing dramatically, the audience drew closer, “His nose curves downwards, drooping below his chin; his eyes sit precariously below his hairline, beady pupils darting in opposite directions; and most terrifying of all, his mouth reaches from ear to ear, filled with razor-sharp teeth!”
The older kids gasped, while some of the younger ones burst into tears, likely to be plagued by nightmares for weeks. Billy didn’t care what happened to them, as long as he was the center of attention -- he loved that.
“You’re a damn liar. There’s no such thing as The Traveling Man,” Hank Reynolds, a burly thirteen-year-old who’d been held back at least once, meandered into the fray.
Billy’s face grew stone-cold, his arms falling to his slide. “I’m a liar? Well, then I suppose no one here wants to know how to keep the Traveling Man from taking them, since he doesn’t exist. That’s fine, I got stuff to do anyway.” Despite his age, he knew how to work a crowd like a seasoned veteran.
A chorus of boos rained down on Hank, followed by anxious pleas for Billy to continue. He demurred for a moment, milking it as long as he could. Finally, once the kids had reached a fevered pitch, he continued.
“If you encounter him, look away and keep walking, that’s your
only chance. It sounds simple, but it’s so much harder than you think. The Traveling Man is as crafty as they come, and he can lure you in unexpected ways. If you wave, smile, or acknowledge him in any way, you’re already dead,” the playground was deathly silent, Billy soaked it in, “Here’s the thing, he
will take one of us. The question is, will it be you?”
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Rain slid down the classroom windows, weaving elegant trails through water droplets and bird poop. Billy was absent again, he was absent a lot. He’d show up to class maybe half the time, and when he did come to school, he’d come late.
You’d think such egregious levels of truancy would raise some eyebrows, but we lived in a tight-knit community that didn’t take kindly to intrusions from outsiders, especially the government. It also didn’t hurt that Billy was a holy terror that teachers despised, so in their eyes when it came to Billy, less was more.
I was Billy’s only friend, although that label was probably too familiar for him. For someone who loved attention, he sure hated people, most people that is. Billy was full of contradictions, embodied by his self-christened slogan, ‘the smartest, dumbest, most humble kid who ever lived.’
“Maybe
he got him,” Anytime Billy was absent for more than a day, the whispers would start.
The Traveling Man had become a verifiable urban legend, spreading far beyond the walls of the school. Rumors bounced around the town with frightening speed, and soon, the Traveling Man had taken on an identity all his own.
Descriptions changed, accounts varied, and the lore began to grow. The Traveling Man owns a pet monkey possessed by a demon, he’s the product of a secret government experiment gone awry, he’s a cosmic entity who traveled to earth to unleash a thousand-year dark reign -- the stories kept getting more outlandish. When Billy
was in school, and we had a chance to talk, it was clear that he loved what the Traveling Man had become.
“They’re saying what?” He’d exclaim, feigning surprise. Billy kept closer tabs on the rumors than I did, but he loved hearing it from me. In fact, it was practically the only thing we’d talk about.
Billy continued his ‘sermons’, pouring gasoline on an already raging fire. His eyes burned with that same fire as he spoke, the crowds growing larger each time. Even the teachers would stand on the periphery, listening closely to what Billy had to say. Grinning like a madman, his descriptions of the Traveling Man grew increasingly violent and morbid.
Eventually, it got too much for me. The whole damn town was buzzing and people started to change their behavior. Most notably, you didn’t see kids on the streets at night anymore, probably cowering behind locked doors and drawn blinds. Billy didn’t care how scared or anxious the town became, as long as people listened to him.
“Please, for once, can we not talk about
him. I’m sick of hearing about the Traveling Man,” exasperated with Billy’s incessant talking, the words just slipped out.
Billy’s face dropped, he looked as if I’d slapped him repeatedly. Without saying a word, he stood up from the lunch table and walked to the bathroom. I didn’t get a chance to speak to Billy again until the final bell rang. I was feeling guilty, and with the weekend rapidly approaching, I wouldn’t have a chance to see him until next week.
“I’m sorry man, I didn’t mean to offend you.” He was already halfway across the parking lot by the time I’d finished. He leaped into his stepdad's barely running pickup, a gas station cigar stuck between his chapped lips. Billy didn’t even glance back as they revved onto the street, a plume of thick smoke and gravel left in their wake.
Billy was absent the following week, and then the next, and then the next as well. The school was bursting with gossip, every student had their own theory about what had happened to him. All of them involved the Traveling Man, of course, but each story had its own spin or variation.
I was one of the few who didn’t believe in the Traveling Man, I was there when Billy birthed him from his twisted imagination. Silently, I watched the legend grow into something sinister. Although the Traveling Man wasn’t real, the terror he inspired very much was. Lost in the fear and speculation was the truth about Billy’s disappearance, and it seemed I was the only one concerned with that truth.
When I approached teachers and administrators to inquire, they’d pat me on the head and say something like, “You’re a kind boy, far too kind for that Billy Davitt. Either way, we can’t divulge personal information to students.”
It was obvious that they didn’t give a shit, Billy’s prolonged absence was a blessing to them. Truant or not, they weren’t going to investigate a thing. It didn’t hurt that most people in town were immensely intimidated by Billy’s alcoholic, gun-toting stepdad. The man had more tattoos than brain cells, and probably just as many weapons.
The school was derelict in its duty and that wasn’t going to change. Feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders, guilt weighing me down, I made a bold decision -- something I never did. If no one else would investigate, then that duty was my own. Mind on fire, I walked out of school that day with one goal in mind, to find Billy.
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With a backpack stuffed with snacks, a flashlight, and a BB gun, I snuck out of my bedroom window around 10:30 pm. My parents were early risers, so they’d been asleep for almost an hour by the time I tip-toed into the darkened streets. I was the good kid, the one who never misbehaved, so I knew my parents would never check on me. Until about 6am, I was in the clear
It took almost an hour to arrive at Billy’s house, skulking through alleys and tree-lined paths. His family lived on a dirt-filled acre, littered with junked cars and rusted tools. The house itself was in complete disrepair, rotted trim and shingles hanging on for dear life.
Carefully stepping around the trash, I approached from the back. A light buzzed on the porch, a faint glow illuminating the splintered wood. The rest of the house remained dark, ominously looming over the filthy fiefdom.
What am I doing here? As my anxiety grew, I began to second guess my decision. I wasn’t sure what I even expected to accomplish by ‘investigating’, what clues could I hope to find? I clearly wasn’t being driven by logic, my reasoning was much more base.
I stood there silently, an internal civil war raging. Two parts of my brain delivered two completely different opinions. Should I stay or should I go? The simplest questions often have the most difficult answers.
Before I could snap myself out of my indecisive trance, the sound of a car engine and gravel crunching did it for me. A pair of yellow-headlights appeared at the end of the roadway leading to Billy’s house, moving at a slight crawl. Jumping behind a mound of asphalt, I watched as the car cut its light and continued down the drive.
A rusted, black sedan drifted to a halt in front of Billy’s garage. It idled momentarily before the engine sputtered into silence. Trembling, and not from the cold, I peered cautiously from my hiding place.
A bulky man, in a bright red suit with a matching hat, stepped out of the car. He walked towards the front of the home, but his movements were disjointed and inhuman. Swaying like a sapling in the wind, he veered in an uneven pattern with each step he took. With his massive arms, the man violently knocked over a row of empty paint cans. Bending down, he picked one of the cans up and charged a decaying truck sitting on cinder blocks. With a forceful swing, he smashed the back windows, sending shards of glass flying across the yard.
Holy shit, he’s real, I muttered to myself.
A light snapped on inside Billy’s house on the second floor. Much paler than the last time I’d seen him, I saw Billy appear at the window, staring intently into the yard. The Traveling Man noticed the light, tilting his head towards the source.
As they made eye contact, the color from Billy’s face drained until he was ashen white. He ran to turn off the light to his room, but he’d already been spotted. Bolting through the back porch, the man charged through the screened door, skidding into Billy’s kitchen.
Paralyzed with fear, I remained hidden and motionless, but still able to see and hear everything. The light in Billy’s room flickered to life once more and the Traveling Man swayed in the doorframe, his face covered in shadows. Although I couldn’t see Billy, the Traveling Man was clearly staring at something. Then, with sickening speed, he pounced.
From there, all I could hear were the screams -- agonized, tortured screams. I begged my body to move, to get out of there, but it wouldn’t listen. Planted like a statue, I heard it all, until the silence grew deafening and the lights were extinguished.
As soon as the cries ceased, a switch went off in my head. It was an out of body experience fleeing the scene, I felt as if I was being controlled by a wireless remote. My movements were not conscious, neither were my thoughts -- it was pure survival mode.
My legs burned to the point I thought they’d disappear in wisps of smoke. Collapsing on my front stoop, I pounded on the door until my terrified parents found me. I rambled incoherently, spit dripping from my mouth.
“He - he - he got Billy. He - he - he’s coming.” I stuttered through chattering teeth.
That’s about as much as my parents could get from me. Overwhelmed by shame, fear, and morbidity, I wrapped my arms around my legs and wouldn’t say another word.
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Shortly after the incident, we moved. I distinctly remember my mom whispering on the phone, “My son is traumatized enough as it is, I won’t make him relive that nightmare another day longer.”
It took another two years to discover the truth of that night, my parents kept that under lock and key for some time. I’m not sure why they eventually relented, but on a frigid winter night, my dad took me into his study and firmly shut the door. Whiskey in hand, he let it all out.
Billy’s stepdad was a serial abuser, the whole town knew it. He’d been a cop for many years before the bottle got the best of him, but he still had many close friends on the force. No one dared mess with him, between his hair-trigger fuse and police connections, he was practically untouchable.
After years of torment, Bily’s mom finally got sick of him and kicked him out. She was met with threats of violence, against her and Billy, but she remained steadfast in her decision -- for a little while that is. The night she let him move back, he got rip-roaringly drunk and flew into a rage when she turned down his sexual advances. Billy tried to get in his way to defend his mother, but ended up becoming the target of his wrath.
“Billy didn’t make it kiddo, but he’s a real hero, and because of his actions, his mother lived,” Dad choked back tears as he told me about Billy’s passing.
Jaw agape, tears streamed down my cheeks. Billy hadn’t invented a monster, he’d just changed its name. I’d always thought of Billy as an attention hound, but in reality, he was just a scared boy hoping someone, anyone, would listen to his cries for help.
“Dad, I saw everything. I saw his stepdad drive up, with his horrible red suit, and I didn’t do anything as he scrambled up those stairs and beat Billy to death.” The trickle of tears became a torrent, a flood carrying away my innocence.
“Wow, wow, wow -- slow down. I think you may have some details mixed up bud, you
couldn’t have seen it happen.” Dad replied reassuringly.
“What do you mean, couldn’t?” I asked perplexed, the tears slowing down.
“I didn’t want to get into this level of detail with you, but Billy was shot, and he wasn’t shot at night -- this happened in the middle of the day. There’s also another detail I didn’t get a chance to say yet, they found Billy’s stepdad dead at the scene. He did have bruises on him, but that was from falling down the stairs after having a stroke,” Dad took a deep swig of his glass, “Sometimes when we’re scared, and especially if it’s dark, our mind plays tricks on us. You probably saw his stepdad, at the end of an extreme bender, and your brain filled in the rest of the details after the fact.”
“I need to lay down for a bit, can I be excused?” It’s all I could think to say.
My brain was a fog of confusion, piecing together fuzzy and repressed memories. There was something from that night that I had never mentioned, a key detail that to this day leaves me in a cold sweat.
As I fled the scene, running as fast as my chubby legs could take me, I felt an intense urge to look back at the house. Unable to fight that urge, I glanced back just before I reached the treeline surrounding Billy’s property.
In the second-story window, waving emphatically and staring as I went, was a man in a red, grime-covered suit.