Richard Matheson - Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

Her mother didn’t speak. Amelia felt her stomach muscles drawing taut. I won’t be able to eat tonight, she thought.

She was conscious suddenly of huddling over the telephone.

She forced herself to sit erect. I’m thirty-three years old, she thought. Reaching out, she lifted the doll from its box. “You should see what I’m giving him for his birthday,” she said. “I found it in a curio shop on Third Avenue. It’s a genuine Zuni fetish doll, extremely rare. Arthur is a buff on anthropology. That’s why I got it for him.”

There was silence on the line. All right, don’t talk, Amelia thought. “It’s a hunting fetish,” she continued, trying hard to sound untroubled. “It’s supposed to have the spirit of a Zuni hunter trapped inside it. There’s a golden chain around it to prevent the spirit from—” She couldn’t think of the word; ran a shaking finger over the chain. “-escaping, I guess,” she said. “His name is He Who Kills. You should see his face.” She felt warm tears trickling down her cheeks.

“Have a good time,” said her mother, hanging up.

Amelia stared at the receiver, listening to the dial tone. Why is it always like this? she thought. She dropped the receiver onto its cradle and set aside the telephone. The darkening room looked blurred to her. She stood the doll on the coffee-table edge and pushed to her feet. I’ll take my bath now, she told herself. I’ll meet him and we’ll have a lovely time. She walked across the living room. A lovely time, her mind repeated emptily. She knew it wasn’t possible. Oh, Monti she thought. She clenched her fists in helpless fury as she went into the bedroom.

In the living room, the doll fell off the table edge. It landed head down and the spear point, sticking into the carpet, braced the doll’s legs in the air.

The fine, gold chain began to slither downward.

It was almost dark when Amelia came back into the living room. She had taken off her clothes and was wearing her terrycloth robe. In the bathroom, water was running into the tub.

She sat on the sofa and placed the telephone on her lap. For several minutes, she stared at it. At last, with a heavy sigh, she lifted the receiver and dialled a number.

“Arthur?” she said when he answered;

“Yes?” Amelia knew the tone-pleasant but suspecting. She couldn’t speak.

“Your mother,” Arthur finally said.

That cold, heavy sinking in her stomach. “It’s our night together,” she explained. “Every Friday—” She stopped and waited. Arthur didn’t speak. “I’ve mentioned it before,” she said.

“I know you’ve mentioned it,” he said.

Amelia rubbed at her temple.

“She’s still running your life, isn’t she?” he said.

Amelia tensed. “I just don’t want to hurt her feelings anymore,” she said. “My moving out was hard enough on her.”

“I don’t want to hurt her feelings either,” Arthur said. “But how many birthdays a year do I have? We planned on this.”

“I know.” She felt her stomach muscles tightening again.

“Are you really going to let her do this to you?” Arthur asked. “One Friday night out of the whole year?”

Amelia closed her eyes. Her lips moved soundlessly. I just can’t hurt her feelings anymore, she thought. She swallowed. “She’s my mother,” she said.

“Very well,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was looking forward to it, but—” He paused. “I’m sorry,” he said. He hung up quietly.

Amelia sat in silence for a long time, listening to the dial tone. She started when the recorded voice said loudly, “Please hang up.” Putting the receiver down, she replaced the telephone on its table. So much for my birthday present, she thought. It would be pointless to give it to Arthur now. She reached out, switching on the table lamp. She’d take the doll back tomorrow.

The doll was not on the coffee table. Looking down, Amelia saw the gold chain lying on the carpet. She eased off the sofa edge onto her knees and picked it up, dropping it into the wooden box. The doll was not beneath the coffee table. Bending over, Amelia felt around underneath the sofa.

She cried out, jerking back her hand. Straightening up, she turned to the lamp and looked at her hand. There was something wedged beneath the index fingernail. She shivered as she plucked it out. It was the head of the doll’s spear. She dropped it into the box and put the finger in her mouth. Bending over again, she felt around more cautiously beneath the sofa.

She couldn’t find the doll. Standing with a weary groan, she started pulling one end of the sofa from the wall. It was terribly heavy. She recalled the night that she and her mother had shopped for the furniture. She’d wanted to furnish the apartment in Danish modern. Mother had insisted on this heavy, maple sofa; it had been on sale. Amelia grunted as she dragged it from the wall. She was conscious of the water running in the bathroom. She’d better turn it off soon.

She looked at the section of carpet she’d cleared, catching sight of the spear shaft. The doll was not beside it. Amelia picked it up and set it on the coffee table. The doll was caught beneath the sofa, she decided; when she’d moved the sofa, she had moved the doll as well.

She thought she heard a sound behind her-fragile, skittering. Amelia turned. The sound had stopped. She felt a chill move up the backs of her legs. “It’s He Who Kills,” she said with a smile. “He’s taken off his chain and gone—”

She broke off suddenly. There had definitely been a noise inside the kitchen; a metallic, rasping sound. Amelia swallowed nervously. What’s going on? she thought. She walked across the living room and reached into the kitchen, switching on the light. She peered inside. Everything looked normal. Her gaze moved falteringly across the stove, the pan of water on it, the table and chair, the drawers and cabinet doors all shut, the electric clock, the small refrigerator with the cookbook lying on top of it, the picture on the wall, the knife rack fastened to the cabinet side—

—its small knife missing.

Amelia stared at the knife rack. Don’t be silly, she told herself. She’d put the knife in the drawer, that’s all. Stepping into the kitchen, she pulled out the silverware drawer. The knife was not inside it.

Another sound made her look down quickly at the floor. She gasped in shock. For several moments, she could not react; then, stepping to the doorway, she looked into the living room, her heartbeat thudding. Had it been imagination? She was sure she’d seen a movement.

“Oh, come on,” she said. She made a disparaging sound. She hadn’t seen a thing.

Across the room, the lamp went out.

Amelia jumped so startledly, she rammed her right elbow against the doorjamb. Crying out, she clutched the elbow with her left hand, eyes closed momentarily, her face a mask of pain.

She opened her eyes and looked into the darkened living room. “Come on,” she told herself in aggravation. Three sounds plus a burned-out bulb did not add up to anything as idiotic as—

She willed away the thought. She had to turn the water off. Leaving the kitchen, she started for the hall. She rubbed her elbow, grimacing.

There was another sound. Amelia froze. Something was coming across the carpet toward her. She looked down dumbly. No, she thought.

She saw it then-a rapid movement near the floor. There was a glint of metal, instantly, a stabbing pain in her right calf. Amelia gasped. She kicked out blindly. Pain again. She felt warm blood running down her skin. She turned and lunged into the hall. The throw rug slipped beneath her and she fell against the wall, hot pain lancing through her right ankle. She clutched at the wall to keep from falling, then went sprawling on her side. She thrashed around with a sob of fear.