Richard Matheson: Ride the Nightmare

“Now what’s the hurry, Chrissie boy?” asked the man. “We got plenty of time to chat—” his voice lowered.

“Before I kill you.”

“No.”

The man turned again and looked at Helen. “Lady, I told you to keep your mouth shut,” he said.

“Why do you want to kill him?” she asked in a shaking voice. “You—”

“Hold it.”

Helen stopped. Then, hearing what the man did, she began to tremble. The man looked past her into the living room. “You know.” he said, “that sounds just like a little girl.”

The sound of Connie’s crying seemed to fill the house.

“So you got a little girl,” the man said. Chris seemed to lean forward.

“A little girl,” said the man. “Now that’s real sweet.”

“I said I’d go with you,” said Chris.

“Yeah, that’s what you said. Isn’t it?”

The man’s amiable tone degraded in an instant, his face became a mask of animosity And what if I don’t want you to come with me?” he said.

Helen glanced across her shoulder automatically. Please, may I—?” she began, then broke off as the man slid off the table edge.

“Cliff. I’m warning you,” said Chris.

The man seemed to snarl but there was no sound. “You’re warning me.” he said. “That’s funny, Chrissie boy.” He glanced over toward the living room. “All these years,” he said, “I been trying to figure out a way to pay you back.” His frail chest shuddered with breath. “But I never could till now.”

“Cliff. I’m warning you—!” said Chris, his face whitening.

“Shut up!” flared the man. “You’re not warning anybody!”

Helen remained in the doorway as he edged toward her. She stared at him with unbelieving eyes.

“You’re not—?” she started faintly.

“Get out of my way.” said the man.

Chris took a step away from the sink. “You’re not going to touch my girl,” he said.

“I’m not, hanh?” The man’s voice broke stridently. “I’ll show you whether I am or not!” He bumped against Helen and turned quickly, his dark eyes probing at her. She smelled the sweetish odor of whiskey on his breath and shrank back with a grimace.

“Look out,” he muttered and tried to pass her. Helen lost her balance and fell toward him, hands clutching out for support.

“Get away—!” His voice exploded in her ear as he shoved at her.

It happened so quickly that the man had no chance to raise his gun before Chris was charging into him. clamping rigid fingers over his wrist. Helen went stumbling back into the living room, collided with the edge of the sofa and fell across its arm.

As she pushed up, she saw Chris and the man struggling in the kitchen. Chris was holding the man’s wrist away from himself, the man was trying to push the barrel end against Chris’s stomach. They slipped and twisted on the smooth linoleum, teeth clenched, lips drawn back in frozen grimaces. Helen stood watching them, torn between her instinct to help Chris and her need to get Connie out of the house.

Suddenly, the man’s right foot kicked out and Chris lost balance. He started falling and lurched his trunk forward to regain equilibrium. The two of them went thudding against the booth. The table shifted on its pivot and Chris dropped off heavily onto the yellow booth, the man bent over him.

Helen ran at him but his left shoe, kicking out, glanced off her shoulder stunningly and she reeled back against the stove, gasping as her side rammed against one of the control knobs.

In her bedroom, Connie called, “Mommy?” in a frightened voice. Helen aimed instinctively toward her, then back again.

The man was forcing down the grip that Chris still had on his wrist. He had the advantage of gravity, his right leg pinning Chris against the booth, the weight of his body adding to his strength. As Helen pushed away from the stove, she saw Chris throw a pleading look across the man’s shoulder.

She rushed at the man again, catching at his suit, but he twisted way from her. The pistol was only inches from Chris’s forehead now. Desperately, he tried to free himself, his body lurching spasmodically, but the man’s leg held him pinned. Again, Helen grabbed the man’s arm, again his left foot shot out. almost knocking her legs from under her. She staggered backward with a gasp.

“Helen, the knife!”

She stiffened, looking blankly at Chris’s straining face.

Her eyes fled down across the floor and picked out the white-handled carving knife he’d held before. Mechanically, she started for it, hardly aware of the glass splinter that gouged into the sole of her bare foot.

“No, you don’t!” cried the man.

Whirling, Helen was just in time to see his body flung backward from the booth as Chris, one knee raised, shoved him away. The man went flailing across the floor. He crashed against the toppled dishwasher and fell across it, the revolver flying from his fingers and sliding underneath the stove. Helen shrank against the wall as Chris came running at the man.

The man shot out his hand and grabbed the carving knife. Lunging upward, he tried to drive it into Chris’s chest. Chris flung up his arm and deflected the stab. The man drew back his arm again and Chris jumped forward, grabbing at his wrist with both hands. For a few seconds, the two of them stood immobile, trembling. Then, abruptly, the man’s arm seemed to crumple, the knife was arcing downward, the blade tip turning in, and all sound had disappeared in the man’s choking gasp.

For a moment he looked at Chris in dumb astonishment. Then he lowered his eyes and gaped down at his own hand still clutching the handle of the knife that was buried in his chest.

“You goddam—” he started in a dull, flat voice.

Then he twisted around and his white face came falling toward Helen. She felt his bony fingers clutching at her breasts, her stomach, sliding down her legs. She heard his chin thud on the floor, his forehead pressing on the hem of her robe.

She couldn’t move She stared down at the motionless figure, her mouth open, watching the scarlet thread that was beginning to extend itself across the floor.

Chris fell on his knees beside the man, rolling him onto his side so that one pale blue eye stared upward. His hand slid under the man’s coat and held a moment. Then his face was raised to Helen, his voice faint against the crying of their child.

Dead, he whispered.

The sound of his voice seemed to release her. Gagging, she stumbled toward the sink, almost falling as the weight of the man’s head held back the bottom of her robe. She jerked herself free and heard the man’s head thump on the door.

She lost her supper then. Chris came over and put his hand against her forehead but she twisted away. He stood beside her helplessly.

When it was over. Helen leaned against the sink panting weakly. Her hand reached automatically for the faucet and the rush of water began to clean the sink.

In the bedroom, Connie was screaming. Chris said, “I’ll go to her,” and turned away.

“No.” Pulling down a dish towel, Helen dried herself, not even looking at him as she started for the door. Her stomach muscles tensed again as she saw the man’s blood running across the linoleum. She walked past the body quickly, drying her eyes with the towel. She tried not to think. Her baby was crying, that was all that mattered.

Connie was sitting up in bed.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Helen asked, hardly recognizing her voice.

“Mommy!”

As she sank down on the bed, Helen realized how exhausted she felt. She put her arms around Connie and kissed her cheek.

“It’s all right, baby” she murmured. She smoothed back the hair from Connie’s forehead. “It’s all right. Mommy’s here.”