Richard Matheson - Ride the Nightmare

She was still asleep, lying on her back, her lips parted, a curl of hair twisted across her forehead. On any other day she’d be up by now, out with the neighborhood children.

Chris turned and walked across the living room. In the kitchen, he could hear the dishwasher operating. It clicked once and there was a sibilant rush of water from its nozzle.

He found Helen in the alley, scrubbing blood spots from the sidewalk. She didn’t see him at first. He stood on the porch and watched her, twitching at the sound the wire brush made on the concrete. He remembered dragging Cliffs lifeless body down the alley. Apparently, it had bled all the way.

He remembered, too, the druglike horror of the burial, the long drive home, the painfully silent preparation for bed. The sleepless lying in darkness, wanting to move close to Helen, to put his arms around her, to feel her body pressing close. Lying there in wordless agony, filled with thoughts about the years passed by. Fearing that she lay beside him wondering how many lies there’d been in the seven years of their relationship; knowing that there had only been the one. Listening to hear if she were still awake. Lying tortured by indecision until the only sleep that could come came at last—the hollow, uncleansing sleep of exhaustion.

Helen turned her head and saw him. Chris stepped down off the porch, feeling the chill of the morning air through his pajamas.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“I’m almost done.”

Helen looked back at her work and he saw how her fingers tensed on the wooden handle of the brush.

“I should have done it last night,” he said. “I didn’t think.”

He stood awkwardly, watching her scrub. Then he glanced around. There was a lot of dampness in the air. A whitish mist hovered above the rooftops of the houses.

She had finished now. Chris extended his hand to help her up but she acted as if she didn’t see it. Pushing to her feet, she dropped the brush into the pail of red-tinged water. Chris picked up the pail.

“I’ll empty it,” he said.

Helen nodded once and went into the house. Chris watched her until she’d closed the door behind herself.

As he started for the garage, he glanced at Grace and Jack’s house. What if they had come home, he thought. He swallowed nervously as he opened and shut the side garage door and edged past the bumper of the Ford, heading for the laundry tub. He hadn’t felt this for years: this guilty apprehension of the criminal.

The thought sent such a wave of sickened revelation through him that he almost cried aloud. It had taken him so long to overcome his attitude of constant wariness. Now, in one night, it had returned.

“No!”

Chris spoke the word angrily as he emptied the pail and ran cold water into it. He wouldn’t let it degrade him to the pettish animal he’d been in those early years. He wouldn’t.

Chris put down the pail and opened the car door. Picking up the flashlight from the seat he searched the back floor. There were several dark stains where the blood had soaked through the blanket. He’d clean them today. Otherwise someone might see them sometime. No point in taking the risk. Getting out of the car, Chris began checking the floor of the garage. There were blood spots all around. He gritted his teeth seeing them. There was evidence everywhere.

That was the most nightmarish aspect of killing. Even after the shock of taking life had passed and the offensive dead had been put away, there were so many details to be taken care of: spots to remove, objects to dispose of, hours to account for, movements to be explained. Lies and lies mounting like girders for some hideous skyscraper which you built in detail, then hoped no one would ever see.

He began cleaning up the blood.

Helen was in the kitchen booth staring at her hands clasped on the table.

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly. Chris stood looking down at her, wishing he could thrust their lives six months forward. When this worst part would be over and the strengths of their relationship would be returning.

Helen glanced up at him, then down at her hands again. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, “about those men.”

“What about them?”

“What if they come here?” she asked.

“They won’t.”

“What if they do?”

“They’re wanted by the law, Helen,” he told her.

“So was—he.”

“He was out of his mind.”

“Maybe they are too.”

Chris tried to smile. “What do you want me to say, honey?” he asked.

“It’s not a question of wanting you to say anything,” she said. “It’s question of safety. We have Connie to think of.”

“All right.” He nodded. “I’m willing to do anything you say.”

“I think we should go to my mother’s for a while,” she said.

“All right,” he said. “When do you want to go?”

For a moment, he felt that she was planning to leave him and he fought the idea. This was only temporary; he’d make certain of that.

“Well,” she said, “if they’re going to come, it might be at any time.”

”You want to go now.” he said quietly.

She closed her eyes. “Chris, please,” she begged.

“Have I said anything?”

“Honey, I’m doing it for Connie’s sake,” she said. “I’m not trying to run out on you.”

“I know,” he said.

“I need a little time, Chris,” she said. “I’m trying to be loyal but—please don’t expect too much at first.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and she pressed it once. “I’ll drive you there.” he said.

She nodded. Then, pushing to her feet, she walked over to the dishwasher which had stopped. She turned off the hot water and unclipped the faucet attachment, sliding the double hose into place. Unplugging the wire, she rolled the dishwasher against the wall. Chris watched her for a moment, then turned and walked out of the kitchen.

In the hall, he began dialing the store before he realized it wasn’t open yet. He dumped the receiver onto its cradle and walked into the bedroom. It would be all right, he told himself. It was just a matter of time.

When he’d finished dressing, he went into the bathroom to shave.

“Daddy, can I get up?” Connie asked.

“Of course,” he answered.

He heard her scramble out of bed. In a moment, she came padding into the bathroom in her striped pajamas, blond hair hanging tousled across her cheeks.

“I slept good, Daddy,” she told him.

“Good.” He leaned over to kiss her.

“Did you sleep good?”

“Yes, little troll. Very good.”

Connie smiled at the name he gave her. “I slept good and you slept good,” she said.

She watched intently as he finished shaving. “Will I shave someday?” she asked.

“I hope not,” he asked.

“When I’m six and a half?” she asked.

“Girls don’t shave their faces. You’d better get dressed now.”

“I have to eat my breakfast first,” she said.

“Oh. All right, Mommy will give it to you.”

“Is she in the kitchen?”

”Yes.”

“I’ll see you then,” said Connie, leaving.

“All right.”

As he combed his hair, he heard Helen telling Connie that they were going to Grandma’s house for a while.

“How long while?” Connie asked.

“I don’t know, honey,” Helen told her. Chris felt a tremor in his stomach muscles. Just a little while, he thought.

“You and me and Daddy?”

“Daddy has to stay and watch the store,” said Helen.

“Oh, foo,“ said Connie.

“One or two eggs?” Helen asked him as he sat down at the kitchen table.

“Just coffee, please.”

“You’ll get—” she began, then broke off.