Richard Matheson: Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

She reached up and caressed his cheek. “I love you,” she said.

Norman twitched and made a startled noise.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He sniffed. “What’s that?” He looked around the kitchen. “Is the garbage out?” he asked.

She answered quietly. “Yes, Norman.”

“Well, something sure as hell smells awful in here. Maybe—” He broke off, seeing the expression on her face. She pressed her lips together and, suddenly, it dawned on him. “Honey, you don’t think I’m saying—”

“Well, aren’t you?” Her voice was faint and trembling.

“Adeline, come on.”

“First, I taste sour. Now—”

He stopped her with a lingering kiss.

“I love you,” he said, “understand? I love you. Do you think I’d try to hurt you?”

She shivered in his arms. “You do hurt me,” she whispered.

He held her close and stroked her hair. He kissed her gently on the lips, the cheeks, the eyes. He told her again and again how much he loved her.

He tried to ignore the smell.

Instantly, his eyes were open and he was listening. He stared up sightlessly into the darkness. Why had he woken up? He turned his head and reached across the mattress. As he touched her, Adeline stirred a little in her sleep.

Norman twisted over on his side and wriggled close to her. He pressed against the yielding warmth of her body, his hand slipping languidly across her hip. He lay his cheek against her back and started drifting downward into sleep again.

Suddenly, his eyes flared open. Aghast, he put his nostrils to her skin and sniffed. An icy barb of dread hooked at his brain; my God, what’s wrong? He sniffed again, harder. He lay against her, motionless, trying not to panic.

If his senses of taste and smell were atrophying, he could understand, accept. They weren’t, though. Even as he lay there, he could taste the acrid flavour of the coffee that he’d drunk that night. He could smell the faint odour of mashed-out cigarettes in the ashtray on his bedside table. With the least effort, he could smell the wool of the blanket over them.

Then why? She was the most important thing in his life. It was torture to him that, in bits and pieces, she was fading from his senses.

It had been a favourite restaurant since their days of courtship.

They liked the food, the tranquil atmosphere, the small ensemble which played for dining and for dancing. Searching in his mind, Norman had chosen it as the place where they could best discuss this problem. Already, he was sorry that he had. There was no atmosphere that could relieve the tension he was feeling; and expressing.

“What else can it be?” he asked, unhappily. “It’s nothing physical.” He pushed aside his untouched supper. “It’s got to be my mind.”

“But why, Norman?”

“If I only knew,” he answered.

She put her hand on his. “Please don’t worry,” she said.

“How can I help it?” he asked. “It’s a nightmare. I’ve lost part of you, Adeline.”

“Darling, don’t,” she begged, “I can’t bear to see you unhappy”

“I am unhappy,” he said. He rubbed a finger on the tablecloth. “And I’ve just about made up my mind to see an analyst.” He looked up. “It’s got to be my mind,” he repeated. “And- damnit!-I resent it. I want to root it out.”

He forced a smile, seeing the fear in her eyes.

“Oh, the hell with it,” he said. “I’ll go to an analyst; he’ll fix me up. Come on, let’s dance.”

She managed to return his smile.

“Lady, you’re just plain gorgeous,” he told her as they came together on the dance floor.

“Oh, I love you so,” she whispered.

It was in the middle of their dance that the feel of her began to change.

Norman held her tightly, his cheek forced close to hers so that she wouldn’t see the sickened expression on his face.

And now it’s gone?” finished Dr. Bernstrom. Norman expelled a burst of smoke and jabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Correct,” he said, angrily.

“When?”

“This morning,” answered Norman. The skin grew taut across his cheeks. “No taste. No smell.” He shuddered fitfully “And now no sense of touch.”

His voice broke. “What’s wrong?” he pleaded. “What kind of breakdown is this?”

“Not an incomprehensible one,” said Bernstrom.

Norman looked at him anxiously. “What then?” he asked. “Remember what I said: it has to do only with my wife. Outside of her—”

“I understand,” said Bernstrom.

“Then what is it?”

“You’ve heard of hysterical blindness.”

“Yes.”

“Hysterical deafness.”

“Yes, but—”

“Is there any reason, then, there couldn’t be an hysterical restraint of the other senses as well?”

“All right, but why?”

Dr. Bernstrom smiled.

“That, I presume,” he said, “is why you came to see me.”

Sooner or later, the notion had to come. No amount of love could stay it. It came now as he sat alone in the living room, staring at the blur of letters on a newspaper page.

Look at the facts. Last Wednesday night, he’d kissed her and, frowning, said, “You taste sour, honey.” She’d tightened, drawn away. At the time, he’d taken her reaction at its obvious value: she felt insulted. Now, he tried to summon up a detailed memory of her behaviour afterward.

Because, on Thursday morning, he’d been unable to taste her at all.

Norman glanced guiltily toward the kitchen where Adeline was cleaning up. Except for the sound of her occasional footsteps, the house was silent.

Look at the facts, his mind persisted. He leaned back in the chair and started to review them.

Next, on Saturday, had come that dankly fetid stench. Granted, she should feel resentment if he’d accused her of being its source. But he hadn’t; he was sure of it. He’d looked around the kitchen, asked her if she’d put the garbage out. Yet, instantly, she’d assumed that he was talking about her.

And, that night, when he’d woken up, he couldn’t smell her.

Norman closed his eyes. His mind must really be in trouble if he could justify such thoughts. He loved Adeline; needed her. How could he allow himself to believe that she was, in any way, responsible for what had happened?

Then, in the restaurant, his mind went on, unbidden, while they were dancing, she’d, suddenly, felt cold to him. She’d suddenly felt-he could not evade the word- pulpy.

And, then, this morning—

Norman flung aside the paper. Stop it! Trembling, he stared across the room with angry, frightened eyes. It’s me, he told himself, me! He wasn’t going to let his mind destroy the most beautiful thing in his life. He wasn’t going to let—

It was as if he’d turned to stone, lips parted, eyes widened, blank. Then, slowly-so slowly that he heard the delicate crackling of bones in his neck-he turned to look toward the kitchen. Adeline was moving around.

Only it wasn’t footsteps he heard.

He was barely conscious of his body as he stood. Compelled, he drifted from the living room and across the dining alcove, slippers noiseless on the carpeting. He stopped outside the kitchen door, his face a mask of something like revulsion as he listened to the sounds she made in moving.

Silence then. Bracing himself, he pushed open the door. Adeline was standing at the opened refrigerator. She turned and smiled.

“I was just about to bring you—” She stopped and looked at him uncertainly. “Norman?” she said.

He couldn’t speak. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at her.

“Norman, what is it?” she asked.