The Box: Uncanny Stories by Richard Matheson

said.
    Sylvia looked up from the television set. “What is?” she asked.
    He told her.
    “
What
!” She rose from her chair, aghast.
    They stood looking at each other a moment. Then Sylvia strode to the phone and picked up the receiver. She spun the dial and told the operator, “
I want the police
.”
    “Strange business,” said the policeman who arrived a few minutes later.
    “Strange indeed,” mused Frank.
    “Well, what are you going to
do
about it?” challenged Sylvia.
    “Not much we
can
do right off, ma’am,” explained the policeman. “Nothing to go on.”
    “But my description—” said Frank.
    “We can’t go around arresting every woman wesee in spike heels and a white blouse,” said the policeman. “If she comes back, you let us know. Probably just a sorority prank, though.”
    “Perhaps he’s right,” said Frank when the patrol car had driven off.
    Sylvia replied, “He’d better be.”
     
    S trangest thing happened last night,” said Frank to Maxwell as they drove to work.
    Maxwell snickered. “Yeah, she came to our house, too,” he said.
    “She did?” Frank glanced over, startled, at his grinning neighbor.
    “Yeah,” said Maxwell. “Just my luck the old lady had to answer the door.”
    Frank stiffened. “
We
called the police,” he said.
    “What for?” asked Maxwell. “Why fight it?”
    Frank’s brow furrowed. “You mean you—don’t think it was a sorority girl prank?” he asked.
    “Hell, no, man,” said Maxwell, “it’s for real.” He began to sing:
I’m just a poor little
    door-to-door whore;
    A want-to-be-good
    But misunderstood . . .
    “What on earth?” asked Frank.
    “Heard it at a stag party,” said Maxwell. “Guess this isn’t the first town they’ve hit.”
    “
Good Lord
,” muttered Frank, blanching.
    “Why not?” asked Maxwell. “It was just a matter of time. Why should they let all that home trade go to waste?”
    “That’s
execrable
,” declared Frank.
    “Hell it is,” said Maxwell. “It’s progress.”
     
    T he second one came that night; a black-root blonde, slit-skirted and sweatered to within an inch of her breathing life.
    “
Hel
-lo, honey,” she said when Frank opened the door. “The name’s Janie. Interested?”
    Frank stood rigid to the heels. “I—” he said.
    “Twenty-three and fancy free,” said Janie.
    Frank shut the door, quivering.
    “
Again
?” asked Sylvia as he tottered back.
    “Yes,” he mumbled.
    “Did you get her address and phone number so we can tell the police?”
    “I forgot,” he said.
    “Oh!” Sylvia stamped her mule. “You said you were going to.”
    “I know.” Frank swallowed. “Her name was—Janie.”
    “That’s a
big
help,” Sylvia said. She shivered. “
Now
what are we going to do?”
    Frank shook his head.
    “Oh, this is
monstrous
,” she said. “That we should be exposed to such—” She trembled with fury.
    Frank embraced her. “Courage,” he whispered.
    “I’ll get a dog,” she said. “A vicious one.”
    “No, no,” he said, “we’ll call the police again. They’ll simply have to station someone out here.”
    Sylvia began to cry. “It’s monstrous,” she sobbed, “that’s all.”
    “Monstrous,” he agreed.
     
    W hat’s that you’re humming?” she asked at breakfast.
    He almost spewed out whole wheat toast.
    “Nothing,” he said, choking. “Just a song I heard.”
    She patted him on the back. “Oh.”
    He left the house, mildly shaken. It
is
monstrous, he thought.
    That morning, Sylvia bought a sign at a hardware store and hammered it into the front lawn. It read NO SOLICITING . She underlined the SOLICITING . Later she went out again and underlined the underline.
     
    C ame right to your door, you say?” asked the FBI man Frank phoned from the office.
    “
Right to the door
,” repeated Frank, “bold as you please.”
    “My, my,” said the FBI man. He clucked.
    “Notwithstanding,” said Frank sternly, “the police have refused to