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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/areyawinninsun on 2026-05-17 01:01:54+00:00.

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I’m a door-to-door salesman. Saleswoman, actually, but sometimes I’d like to forget that part, especially when I get another weird smile or a wink from a potential buyer. I’ve heard before that this job is a definition of asking for it, because if coming to your house and saying "May I come in?" doesn’t constitute imposing yourself, then what does? I came to them first, after all.

I will not bore you with the details about what I sell, because frankly, it doesn’t matter. I will say that I’m working for a charity, mostly because it makes me feel better about myself, but also because people who will answer their door for a noble cause are slightly different from those who will do it for, let’s say, cable. They’re usually much lonelier.

As my boss likes to remind me, I’m not there to listen to their stories. I still do, sometimes, because a successful sale requires building a relationship. I’m very good at it. It may not seem believable, since I’m spilling my tea onto the online void as we speak, but I genuinely love people, and they also seem to genuinely love me. This leaves me with frequent employee of the month awards and a ton of personal tangents that nobody else wanted to carry. I like the tangents a lot; they’re usually quite endearing. Sometimes they’re tearful, though. And very rarely, they’re scary.

When I started this job, the only other girl on the team told me: You will meet people who will want to scare you. It was the best advice and the smartest warning I’ve ever gotten from anyone. I try to keep that in mind whenever certain stiffness fills the air and they lower their voices, whenever I become painfully aware of double-locked doors and very thick walls. But I don’t get scared easily, and the truth is, I don’t meet people like that very often.

Perhaps that’s why the creepy encounters I’ve had hold a special place in my memory. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I have to admit that, despite what my coworker said, it’s not always their intention to freak me out. Sometimes they’re demented, sometimes they’re scared themselves. Sometimes I can’t tell. Take Mr. Rogers, for instance.

I met Mr. Rogers when I was checking out a new estate. We have just gotten a permit to work there; I believe I was the first one to do so. It wasn’t actually new – just a couple of older apartment buildings and a lot of much, much older people. I tried to remain optimistic, but the outlook wasn’t great. I love the elderly, I truly do, but they have little money and a lot of time, and as much as I enjoy their tangents, I also have to make quota.

So, after I had gone through three six-floor buildings without even getting close to a sale, I should have called my boss and told him it’s a desert (he likes using metaphors like that). I wish I’d done that, but I’m not a quitter, so I took a deep breath and rang another doorbell.

took him forever to open the door, and if not for the footsteps I heard inside, I would’ve left long before the hinges started to weep. He was very short, which gave him an almost comedic quality, especially next to the giant door. The doorknob was at the height of his neck. He was wearing a Saint Mary necklace, to which he unknowingly clung when he saw me, as if I were there to haunt him. I have to say I’m very tall. I smile a lot, though; his face immediately brightened when his eyes finally reached mine.

"Oh, hello! Yes, please, come in," he said, before I could even ask. I went inside.

can tell a lot about someone by their house. If you see enough houses, you notice most people are the same. Mr. Roger’s apartment had all the characteristics of an old person’s apartment: dark wood furniture, thick carpet, ugly curtains, framed photos standing on the cupboards – except for the smell. It certainly wasn’t dusty and old, but it also wasn’t particularly good, just very artificial. I had trouble saying if the producer went for sandalwood or strawberry. I figured Mr. Rogers had to have serious gastral problems and probably thought a very strong air freshener did the trick.

We chatted for a bit. He offered me tea, which I accepted. Normally I politely decline, but his apartment was so small that I could see everything he was doing in the kitchen from the couch. I imagined the bathroom had to be very tiny. There was one more room, but it was closed. I could see the light pouring from under the door.

We sat down with the tea, and as I was listing the reasons to donate to our charity specifically, ideally by using the monthly plan, he fixed his gaze on my face and said:

"You look like my wife."

I glanced at one of the photos on the cupboard, a black-and-white wedding one. I had to admit I was a bit similar to her. I turned back to him and almost jumped; he leaned so much closer to me in those two seconds that I could now watch his wrinkles from up close. I was scared if I looked into his eyes, I’d see a predator, but I only saw an inspector, as if he was checking if my nose was exactly as straight as hers. It was worse somehow.

Then he just leaned back and smiled. I suddenly noticed how white his eyebrows were, and how most of his wrinkles writhed around the corners of his eyes. I recently noticed the first laughter lines on my face, too. I smiled back at him.

"I’ll show you the photos," he said. "She was very pretty."

With that, he got up and went straight to the bookshelf. I suppressed a sigh. I know it sounds like a TV trope, but I can’t overstate how often the elderly show me their photo albums. As long as I still close the sale, I’m fine with it, but I wasn’t sure about this one, and even though he seemed rather sweet, I wasn’t looking forward to being compared to his wife any more.

"Here," he said, handing me the album. "You can browse, and I’ll look for my wallet in the meantime."

I looked up.

"Oh, sir, I’m sorry, but we don’t take cash," I said. It’s always the first thing I mention, but people – especially old people – forget.

"I know, you need the bank account number," he answered, fumbling through his stuff. "I have it in my wallet. I’m not good at technology like you kids these days."

I tried not to show my surprise. I focused on the photo album instead. There weren’t really any recent ones, and you know how time likes to pester old photos, but even in those blurry pictures I very easily recognized myself. I was holding the album so tightly that my knuckles turned white. Her nose really was as straight as mine.

"Can’t find it, I’m afraid," he sighed. "Must be in the bedroom."

He just stood there, looking at me hopelessly.

In my line of work, you have to learn very quickly how to recognize excuses. Confrontation is scarier than death, and people will do everything to avoid it, so if after a twenty-minute chat they suddenly don’t have any more time for "all the formalities", they’re lying. I have encountered the most elaborate and idiotic excuses, but no experience could have prepared me for leaving the wallet in another room. It surprised me so much I didn’t know what to say. But before I was able to come up with an answer, he said:

"She must have locked it again."

He came up to the bedroom door. He tried the handle a couple of times, but to no avail.

"I’m sorry, who?"

"She always does this," Mr Rogers complained, ignoring my question. He reached into his pants pockets and pulled out a dirty handkerchief and a couple of pennies.

"Goddamn it!" he shouted so loudly I jumped in my seat. "She locked the key in, too. Fucking always happens. Always."

He started pacing around the room, running his hands through what was left of his hair. I didn’t expect him to be so fast, with all that energy hidden inside his tiny body, as if waiting for enough anger to erupt. I could’ve sworn he was slouching when I came in, but the passion straightened him up. He suddenly seemed twenty years younger.

He grabbed his glasses and phone from the kitchen counter.

"I have to call her," he said, awkwardly punching the password on his phone. "She has to fix this."

I started to get up. I wasn’t really sure what was going on, but I doubted whoever Mr. Rogers was calling would solve the problem, since it seemed to be more or less in his head.

"You know, sir, we don’t have to do this now. I can come here on another day, let you handle this now —

"No!" he looked up from the phone, staring at me from behind the thick glasses.

"Stay. She has to open up. She can’t do this forever."

I was still trying to reach the front door while I heard the phone signal. He had a typical old person’s sound settings, which would probably let me hear a whole conversation, *if* that were to happen – whoever he was calling wasn’t picking up. He tried the number three more times, with his eyes locked on me all the time. The glasses made them look exceedingly bulbous. It would actually be quite funny if my heart wasn’t racing.

After the third unsuccessful dial, I asked calmly:

"Mr. Rogers, maybe you could call someone else?"

Somehow my question gave him a pause. He sat down on the couch and scratched his head.

"My son has a spare key," he said. "Let’s try him."

I breathed a sigh of relief. I considered leaving for a moment, but eventually I sat down in a chair in front of him.

His son did pick up, and, without even the slightest bit of confusion about the locked door, said he’d be right there.

"He’ll be here in ten minutes," the old man clarified. "Listen, honey, I’m very sorry. I did...

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