Richard Matheson - Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

Hal broke the heavy silence.

“What can we do?” he asked in a voice that bordered on uneasiness.

“Stay with me,” said Mr. Morgan, “so they can’t get me.”

Jean looked nervously at Hal.

“I won’t bother you,” said Mr. Morgan. “I won’t even sit here, I’ll sit across the room. Just so I can see you.”

He stood up quickly and took out his notebook.

“Will you watch this?” he asked.

Before they could say another word, he left their table and walked across the dining room, weaving in and out among the white-clothed tables. About fifty feet from them, he sat down, facing them. They saw him reach forward and turn on the table lamp.

“What do we do now?” asked Jean.

“We’ll stay here a little while,” said Hal. “Nurse the bottle along. When it’s empty, we’ll go to bed.”

“Do we have to stay?”

“Honey, who knows what’s going on in that mind of his? I don’t want to take any chances.”

Jean closed her eyes and exhaled wearily. “What a way to polish off a vacation,” she said.

Hal reached over and picked up the notebook. As he did, he became conscious of the crickets rasping outside. He flipped through the pages. They were arranged in alphabetical order, on each page three letters with their pulse equivalents.

“He’s watching us,” said Jean.

“Forget him.”

Jean leaned over and looked at the notebook with him. Her eyes moved over the arrangements of dots and dashes.

“You think there’s anything to this?” she asked.

“Let’s hope not,” said Hal.

He tried to listen to the crickets’ noise and find some point of comparison with the notes. He couldn’t. After several minutes, he shut the book.

When the wine bottle was empty, Hal stood. “Beddy-bye,” he said.

Before Jean was on her feet, Mr. Morgan was halfway to their table. “You’re leaving?” he asked.

“Mr. Morgan, it’s almost eleven,” Hal said. “We’re tired. I’m sorry but we have to go to bed.”

The small man stood wordless, looking from one to the other with pleading, hopeless eyes. He seemed about to speak, then his narrow shoulders slumped and his gaze dropped to the floor. They heard him swallowing.

“You’ll take care of the book?” he asked.

“Don’t you want it?”

“No.” Mr. Morgan turned away. After a few paces, he stopped and glanced back across his shoulder. “Could you leave your door open so I can-call?”

“All right, Mr. Morgan,” he said.

A faint smile twitched Mr. Morgan’s lips.

“Thank you,” he said and walked away.

It was after four when the screaming woke them. Hal felt Jean’s fingers clutching at his arm as they both jolted to a sitting position, staring into the darkness.

“What is it?” gasped Jean.

“I don’t know.” Hal threw off the covers and dropped his feet to the floor.

“Don’t leave me!” said Jean.

“Come on then!”

The hall had a dim bulb burning overhead. Hal sprinted over the floorboards towards Mr. Morgan’s room. The door to it was closed although it had been left open before. Hal banged his fist on it. “Mr. Morgan!” he called.

Inside the room, there was a sudden, rustling, crackling sound-like that of a million, wildly shaken tambourines. The noise made Hal’s hand jerk back convulsively from the door knob.

“What’s that?” Jean asked in a terrified whisper.

He didn’t answer. They stood immobile, not knowing what to do. Then, inside, the noise stopped. Hal took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The scream gagged in Jean’s throat.

Lying in a pool of blood splotched moonlight was Mr. Morgan, his skin raked open as if by a thousand tiny razor blades. There was a gaping hole in the window screen.

Jean stood paralyzed, a fist pressed against her mouth while Hal moved to Mr. Morgan’s side. He knelt down beside the motionless man and felt at Mr. Morgan’s chest where the pyjama top had been sliced to ribbons. The faintest of heartbeats pulsed beneath his trembling fingers.

Mr. Morgan opened his eyes. Wide, staring eyes that recognized nothing, that looked right through Hal.

“P-H-I-L-I-P M-A-X-W-E-L-L.” Mr. Morgan spelled out the name in a bubbling voice.

“M-A-R-Y G-A-B-R-I-E-L,” spelled Mr. Morgan, eyes stark and glazed.

His chest lurched once. His eyes widened.

“J-O-H-N M-O-R-G-A-N,” he spelled.

Then his eyes began focusing on Hal. There was a terrible rattling in his throat. As though the sounds were wrenched from him one by one by a power beyond his own, he spoke again.

“H-A-R-O-L-D G-A-L-L-O-W-A-Y,” he spelled, “J-E-A-N G-A-L-L-O-W-A-Y”

Then they were alone with a dead man.

And outside in the night, a million crickets rubbed their wings together.

Just before he left the house on Thursday morning, Adeline asked him, “Do I still taste sour to you?”

Norman looked at her reproachfully.

“Well, do I?”

He slipped his arms around her waist and nibbled at her throat.

“Tell me now,” said Adeline.

Norman looked submissive.

“Aren’t you going to let me live it down?” he asked.

“Well, you said it, darling. And on our first anniversary too!”

He pressed his cheek to hers. “So I said it,” he murmured. “Can’t I be allowed a faux pas now and then?”

“You haven’t answered me.”

“Do you taste sour? Of course you don’t.” He held her close and breathed the fragrance of her hair. “Forgiven?”

She kissed the tip of his nose and smiled and, once more, he could only marvel at the fortune which had bestowed on him such a magnificent wife. Starting their second year of marriage, they were still like honeymooners.

Norman raised her face and kissed her.

“Be damned,” he said.

“What’s wrong? Am I sour again?”

“No.” He looked confused. “Now I can’t taste you at all.”

Now you can’t taste her at all,” said Dr. Phillips.

Norman smiled. “I know it sounds ridiculous,” he said.

“Well, it’s unique, I’ll give it that,” said Phillips.

“More than you think,” added Norman, his smile grown a trifle laboured.

“How so?”

“I have no trouble tasting anything else.”

Dr. Phillips peered at him awhile before he spoke. “Can you smell her?” he asked then.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. What’s that got to do with—” Norman stopped. “You mean that the senses of taste and smell go together,” he said.

Phillips nodded. “If you can smell her, you should be able to taste her.”

“I suppose,” said Norman, “but I can’t.”

Dr. Phillips grunted wryly. “Quite a poser.”

“No ideas?” asked Norman.

“Not offhand,” said Phillips, “though I suspect it’s allergy of some kind.”

Norman looked disturbed.

“I hope I find out soon,” he said.

A deline looked up from her stirring as he came into the kitchen. “What did Dr. Phillips say?”

“That I’m allergic to you.”

“He didn’t say that,” she scolded.

“Sure he did.”

“Be serious now.”

“He said I have to take some allergy tests.”

“He doesn’t think it’s anything to worry about, does he?” asked Adeline.

“No.”

“Oh, good.” She looked relieved.

“Good, nothing,” he grumbled. “The taste of you is one of the few pleasures I have in life.”

“You stop that.” She removed his hands and went on stirring. Norman slid his arm around her and rubbed his nose on the back of her neck. “Wish I could taste you,” he said. “I like your flavour.”