Richard Matheson: Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

As he left he saw the Mortons getting in their car, Bianca wordless, both Walters ill at ease. Up the street, a police car was parked in front of Arthur Jefferson’s house.

Theodore went to church with Donald Gorse who said that Eleanor was feeling ill.

“I’m so sorry,” Theodore said.

That afternoon, he spent a while at the Jefferson house helping clear away the charred debris of their back porch. When he saw the slashed rubber pool he drove immediately to a drug store and bought another one.

“But they love that pool,” said Theodore, when Patty Jefferson protested. “You told me so yourself.”

He winked at Arthur Jefferson but Jefferson was not communicative that afternoon.

Early in the evening Theodore saw Alston’s dog walking in the street. He got his BB gun and, from the bedroom window, soundlessly, fired. The dog nipped fiercely at its side and spun around. Then, whimpering, it started home.

Several minutes later, Theodore went outside and started pulling up the door to the garage. He saw the old man hurrying down his alley, the dog in his arms.

“What’s wrong?” asked Theodore.

“Don’t know,” said Alston in a breathless, frightened voice. “He’s hurt.”

“Quickly!” said Theodore. “Into my car!”

He rushed Alston and the dog to the nearest veterinary, passing three stop signs and groaning when the old man held his hand up, palsiedly, and whimpered, “ Blood!”

For three hours Theodore sat in the veterinary’s waiting room until the old man staggered forth, his face a greyish white.

“No,” said Theodore, jumping to his feet.

He led the old man, weeping, to the car and drove him home. There, Alston said he’d rather be alone so Theodore left. Shortly afterward, the black and white police car rolled to a stop in front of Alston’s house and the old man led the two officers past Theodore’s house.

In a while, Theodore heard angry shouting up the street. It lasted quite a long time.

“Good evening,” said Theodore. He bowed.

Eleanor Gorse nodded stiffly.

“I’ve brought you and your father a casserole,” said Theodore, smiling, holding up a towel-wrapped dish. When she told him that her father was gone for the night, Theodore clucked and sighed as if he hadn’t seen the old man drive away that afternoon.

“Well then,” he said, proffering the dish, “for you. With my sincerest compliments.”

Stepping off the porch he saw Arthur Jefferson and Henry Putnam standing under a street lamp down the block. While he watched, Arthur Jefferson struck the other man and, suddenly, they were brawling in the gutter. Theodore broke into a hurried run.

“But this is terrible!” he gasped, pulling the men apart.

“Stay out of this!” warned Jefferson, then, to Putnam, challenged, “You better tell me how that paint can got under your porch! The police may believe it was an accident I found that matchbook in my alley but I don’t!”

“I’ll tell you nothing,” Putnam said, contemptuously. “ Coon.”

“Coon! Oh, of course! You’d be the first to believe that, you stupid—!”

Five times Theodore stood between them. It wasn’t until Jefferson had, accidentally, struck him on the nose that tension faded. Curtly, Jefferson apologized; then, with a murderous look at Putnam, left.

“Sorry he hit you,” Putnam sympathized. “Damned nigger.”

“Oh, surely you’re mistaken,” Theodore said, daubing at his nostrils. “Mr. Jefferson told me how afraid he was of people believing this talk. Because of the value of his two houses, you know.”

“Two?” asked Putnam.

“Yes, he owns the vacant house next door to his,” said Theodore. “I assumed you knew.”

“No,” said Putnam warily.

“Well, you see,” said Theodore, “if people think Mr. Jefferson is a Negro, the value of his houses will go down.”

“So will the values of all of them,” said Putnam, glaring across the street. “That dirty, son-of-a—”

Theodore patted his shoulder. “How are your wife’s parents enjoying their stay in New York?” he asked as if changing the subject.

“They’re on their way back,” said Putnam.

“Good,” said Theodore.

He went home and read the funny papers for an hour. Then he went out.

It was a florid faced Eleanor Gorse who opened to his knock. Her bathrobe was disarrayed, her dark eyes feverish.

“May I get my dish?” asked Theodore politely.

She grunted, stepping back jerkily. His hand, in passing, brushed on hers. She twitched away as if he’d stabbed her.

“Ah, you’ve eaten it all,” said Theodore, noticing the tiny residue of powder on the bottom of the dish. He turned. “When will your father return?” he asked.

Her body seemed to tense. “After midnight,” she muttered.

Theodore stepped to the wall switch and cut off the light. He heard her gasp in the darkness. “No,” she muttered.

“Is this what you want, Eleanor?” he asked, grabbing harshly.

Her embrace was a mindless, fiery swallow. There was nothing but ovening flesh beneath her robe.

Later, when she lay snoring satedly on the kitchen floor, Theodore retrieved the camera he’d left outside the door.

Drawing down the shades, he arranged Eleanor’s limbs and took twelve exposures. Then he went home and washed the dish.

Before retiring, he dialled the phone.

“Western Union,” he said. “I have a message for Mrs. Irma Putnam of 12070 Sylmar Street.”

“That’s me,” she said.

“Both parents killed in auto collision this afternoon,” said Theodore. “Await word regarding disposition of bodies. Chief of Police, Tulsa, Okla—”

At the other end of the line there was a strangled gasp, a thud; then Henry Putnam’s cry of “Irma!” Theodore hung up.

After the ambulance had come and gone, he went outside and tore up thirty-five of Joseph Alston’s ivy plants. He left, in the debris, another matchbook reading Putnam’s Wines and Liquors.

In the morning, when Donald Gorse had gone to work, Theodore went over. Eleanor tried to shut the door on him but he pushed in.

“I want money,” he said. “These are my collateral.” He threw down copies of the photographs and Eleanor recoiled, gagging. “Your father will receive a set of these tonight,” he said, “unless I get two hundred dollars.”

“But I—!”

“Tonight.”

He left and drove downtown to the Jeremiah Osborne Realty office where he signed over, to Mr. George Jackson, the vacant house at 12069 Sylmar Street. He shook Mr. Jackson’s hand.

“Don’t you worry now,” he comforted. “The people next door are black too.”

When he returned home, there was a police car in front of the Backus house.

“What happened?” he asked Joseph Alston who was sitting quietly on his porch.

“Mrs. Backus,” said the old man lifelessly. “She tried to kill Mrs. Ferrel.”

“Is that right?” said Theodore.

That night, in his office, he made his entries on page 700 of the book.

Mrs. Ferrel dying of knife wounds in local hospital. Mrs. Backus in jail; suspects husband of adultery. J. Alston accused of dog poisoning, probably more. Putnam boys accused of shooting Alston’s dog, ruining his lawn. Mrs. Putnam dead of heart attack. Mr. Putnam being sued for property destruction. Jeffersons thought to be black. McCanns and Mortons deadly enemies. Katherine McCann believed to have had relations with Walter Morton, Jr. Morton, Jr. being sent to school in Washington. Eleanor Gorse has hanged herself Job completed.