Richard Matheson - Ride the Nightmare

Instinctively, she started back. Then she saw a movement by the kitchen door and knew that he was still inside.

She whirled at a sound. The man was trying to open a window in Connie’s room. She went in, recoiled against the wall, gaze fastening to the shadow at the back window. No, her mind begged, no, he can’t get in. He can’t.

On the bed, Connie muttered in her sleep. Helen dug every nail into her palms until the biting pain drove away the blackness that threatened to envelop her. Bracing herself, she pushed off from the wall and edged across the room, her eyes never leaving the window. She saw the man’s arms reach up, heard him tugging at the frame. Connie started fussing again. Oh, God, don’t wake up! She almost cried the words aloud. If only Chris would come, if only she could call him.

The man turned and walked away from the window.

Breath rushed from Helen’s lungs and she became conscious of a cold sweat trickling down her back and sides. Hurriedly, she leaned over the bed and, drawing a Kleenex from her bathrobe pocket, patted gently at the dew of perspiration across Connie’s forehead. Her trembling fingers brushed aside the soft hairs, then drew back the spread so that Connie had only a sheet and blanket over her.

Straightening up, she turned quickly toward the hall. She’d call the police again. What was the matter with them? Chris had told them he’d been threatened. Didn’t that mean anything to—?

In the kitchen, a window was broken in.

There was a cry of pain, then the sound of the door banging violently against the cupboard. As Helen rushed across the living room, there was another cry, then a scuffle of shoes on the linoleum. Her left slipper flew off but she kept on running.

“God damn—!” She heard the fury of the man’s voice. Another cry of pain, a rushing sound, then a loud crash as someone, colliding with the dishwasher, knocked it over. Helen lurched into the kitchen doorway and saw a figure near the doorway.

“Chris?” she gasped.

The figure recoiled a step. The man’s harsh voice surrounded her. “Put on the light,” he ordered.

“Don’t shoot!”

“The light!”

Her shaking hand felt along the wall until it touched the switch, then pushed it up.

He was short, lean. Helen stared at his white face, at the tangled black hair across his forehead. She looked at the revolver he was holding in his hand. As the man leaned back against the kitchen door to close it, she saw blood running across the hand and dripping to the linoleum in bright spots.

Chris’s groan made her glance over to where he was struggling up from the floor in a debris of broken dishes and silverware. She saw a red welt rising on the side of his jaw and a ragged scratch across his cheek as if he’d been struck with the pistol barrel.

She looked back at the man. He was standing by the booth now; a man dressed in a stained serge suit that had been sewn together in places; a man who had a young face yet something old and terrible in his eyes.

“So.” He panted as he spoke. “I found you, Chris. I found you.”

“You’re making a mistake!” said Helen. “Can’t you see he’s not the one you’re after! Our name is Martin!”

She shivered as the man’s pale blue eyes turned on her. His lips flexed back from yellowish teeth in what was more a grimace than a smile.

“Martin, hanh?” he said.

The burst of hope she felt lasted only a second, vanishing as hatred returned to the man’s expression. He looked over at Chris who was on his feet now, holding on to the sink.

“Thought you could change your name,” he said. “Thought that was all you had to do. Just change your name and we’d never find you.”

Chris caught his breath and Helen started at the shocked expression on his face.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said the man, still breathing hard, we. You thought you saw the last of us, didn’t you? Thought you really pulled a fast one.”

“You’ve made a mistake,” Helen told him. “Don’t you—?”

“Shut up!”

Helen shrank back and the man forced the thin, mirthless smile back to his lips.

“Thought you’d never see us again, didn’t you, Chrissie boy? Thought you were safe and sound.”

“Chris—” said Helen.

Now the man leaned back against the booth. Holding the revolver loosely, he pushed himself up onto the table and let his legs swing idly above the floor.

“I been waiting a long time for this, Chrissie boy,” he said. “For a long time I figured you got away from us. Then I saw that picture in Life magazine, you know? That was a lucky break for me. wasn’t it?”

The photograph in Life had shown Chris with the Santa Monica Wildcats, the boy’s baseball team he sponsored. In an exhibition game, they had managed to beat the Hollywood Stars 7-5. Helen recalled that Chris hadn’t wanted to be in that picture.

“We’re going to Mexico but I had to stop and see you first, didn’t I, Chrissie boy?” said the man. “I been waiting a long time for this.”

“You better go,” said Helen. The police are coming and—”

She broke off as the man’s face hardened and he raised his gun.

“No!” she gasped, one hand reaching out as though to stop him.

The man relaxed and the smile returned to his lips. He didn’t even look at Helen.

“Now you didn’t call the police, did you, Chrissie boy?” he said. “I know you wouldn’t do that because, if you did, you’d go to jail, wouldn’t you? And you don’t want to go to jail, do you?”

Helen looked over at Chris with sickened eyes. The room seemed to waver around her. “Chris, you did call the—”

All of it fell into a pattern then. Chris’s strange reaction to the call, his refusal to let her telephone the police, his telling her that they couldn’t go over to Bill Albert’s house, his plan to go outside with a knife and stop the man before she could find out that…

Helen felt herself trembling with a sickness of despair which welled up in her before she could control it. With a body-wracking sob, she turned away, one hand thrown across her eyes.

“Stay right here,” the man’s voice ordered and she stopped, leaning against the door jamb.

“Helen—” She heard Chris’s pleading voice.

“You mean you haven’t told her?” the man asked.

“Leave her alone.” Chris muttered.

“But I think she should know all about it, don’t you, Chrissie boy?” said the man. “I think every wife should know all about her husband. That wasn’t nice of you, not telling her about your wicked past.” He clucked mockingly. “Shame on you, Chrissie boy.”

Helen barely heard him. It was as if the shock of discovery had drained the powers of her senses. Through a blur of tears she saw the living room stir gelatinously. The sound of the man’s voice faltered, one moment fading into silence, the next, flaring in her eardrums. Of smell and taste there was nothing and her flesh seemed numb as she leaned against the door frame.

Now the man seemed to notice, for the first time, that he was bleeding

“Stuck me in the arm, didn’t you, Chrissie boy?” he said, almost amusedly. “Well, we’ll make up for that, won’t we?”

Abruptly, Helen turned, her heart jolting in slow, heavy beats, remembering that the man had come to kill Chris. “Maybe my husband didn’t call the police,” she said, “but I did.”

The man glanced over. “Good try, lady,” he said. “Just shut your mouth and maybe you won’t get hurt.”

“I tell you the police are—”

“Helen, don’t.” The sound of Chris’s defeated voice made her stop.

Chris turned to the man.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ll go with you. Just leave my wife alone.”