Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

Walking over to the tarantula, I looked down at it. Bulbous and hairy, it clambered sluggishly across the rock. I looked around and saw Ann at the glass door, looking at it in panicked revulsion.

I looked around again and saw a shovel leaning against the house. Moving to it, I picked it up and returned to the tarantula. I angled the blade in front of it until it had crawled onto the metal. Then, carrying the shovel to the edge of the deck, I flung the spider as far as I could, wondering, as it arced across the pool and into the ivy, whether it was real or not. Did it exist on its own or only because Ann feared it?

I looked toward the family room door as it was opened slightly. And my heart leaped as I saw a look of childlike gratitude on Ann’s face. “Thank you,” she murmured. Even in Hell there can be gratitude, I thought in wonder.

I moved quickly to strengthen my position. “I noticed that your Sparklett’s bottle is empty,” I said. “May I put up a new one for you?”

She looked immediately suspicious and I almost groaned at the sight. “What do you want?” she asked.

I forced myself to smile. “Just to say hello,” I told her. “Invite you to my house for coffee.”

“I told you I don’t leave,” she said.

“Don’t you ever go for walks?” I asked, trying to sound pleasantly casual. She and I had walked a lot in Hidden Hills.

I wanted her to realize her isolation and to question it.

She questioned nothing, turning from me as though my words had offended her. I followed her inside the house and shut the glass door. As I did, Ann turned to look at me and Ginger growled again, her neck fur raised. A vision of endlessly futile attempts to reach Ann’s mind assailed me. I struggled with despair again.

Then I became aware of the dozens of framed photographs on the walls and another idea occurred. If I could get her to look at one of the photographs of me, the obvious similarity to my present appearance might impress her.

Ignoring Ginger’s growl, I moved to the nearest wall and looked for a photograph of myself.

All the photographs were faded and impossible to make out.

Why did that happen? I wondered. Was it part of Ann’s selfdenying punishment? I was going to mention it, then changed my mind. It could only disturb her.

Another idea. I turned to her and said, “I wasn’t really telling you the truth before.”

She looked at me, suspiciously uncertain.

“My wife and I are separated,” I said, “but not in the way you may think. We’re separated by death.”

I felt myself wince at the spasmodic shudder my words caused in her, the look on her face as though a knife had just been plunged into her heart.

Still, I had to pursue it, hoping I was finally on the right track. “Her name was Ann too,” I said.

“You like it here in Hidden Hills?” she asked as though I hadn’t spoken.

“Did you hear me?” I asked.

“Where did you live before?”

“I said her name was Ann.”

The shudder again, the expression of staggered dismay.

Then the empty look returning. She moved away from me, headed for the kitchen. Ann, come back , I wanted to say; I almost did. I wanted to shout: It’s me, don’t you understand?!

I didn’t. And, like a cold weight in my chest, depression returned. I tried to resist but, this time, I was less successful. Some of it remained.

“Look at this place,” Ann said. She spoke as though she was alone, her voice mechanical. I had the feeling it was part of the process she endured; constant repetition of the details of her plight reinforcing her bondage to them. “Nothing works,” she said. “The food is spoiling. I can’t open cans because there’s no electricity and the hand opener is gone. Without water, I can’t do the dishes and they keep piling up. There’s no TV; I think it’s broken anyway. No radio, no phonograph, no music. No heat except for scraps of wood I burn; the house is chilly all the time. I have to go to bed at dark because there are no lights and all the candles are gone. The rubbish company never picks up anymore. The whole place smells of trash and garbage. And I can’t complain about anything because the phone is out.”

She broke off her somber catechism with a laugh that chilled me.

“Put up a Sparklett’s bottle?” she said. “They haven’t made a delivery in such a long time I can’t remember the last one.” She laughed again, a dreadful, bitter sound. “The good life,” she said. “I swear to God I feel like a character in some Neil Simon play, everything around me falling apart, everything inside me shriveling.”

A sob shook her body and I started toward her instinctively. Ginger blocked my way, teeth bared, a fierce growl rumbling in her chest. She looked like a hound of hell, I thought, despair returning again.

I looked at Ann. I knew exactly what she was doing but I had no strength to stop her.

She was fleeing from the truth by immersing herself in the relative safety of afflictive details-the sheltering of melancholy.

“WHAT DO YOU DRINK?” I ASKED HER AS ANOTHER IDEA CAME.

She looked at me as though I were a fool.

“What do you drink?” I repeated. “If the water’s off and you have no Sparklett’s.”

“I don’t know,” she muttered, glaring at me. “Juice or-”

“Isn’t it spoiled?” I interrupted.

“ Canned juice; I don’t know.”

“You said-”

She turned away from me.

“What do you eat?” I persisted.

“I can’t cook without electricity,” she said as if it were an answer rather than an evasion.

“Are you hungry now?” I asked.

Again, that baleful look.

“Are you ever hungry?”

“Not often,” she answered coldly.

Was any of this getting through to her? I was growing weary of tortuous effort. Rashly, I made my point direct. “Do you ever eat or drink?”

She averted her eyes with a hiss of irritation. “What do you think?” she snapped.

I tried walking closer to her only to stop as Ginger growled again. “Why does she keep doing that?” I asked. I sounded irritated now. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You couldn’t if you wanted to,” she said.

I almost answered in kind. God help me, Robert. There to assist her and I almost responded with anger. Closing my eyes, I fought to regain my motivation.

When I opened my eyes again, I noticed her car outside and yet another notion came.

“Is that the only car you have?” I asked.

For the third time, that critical look. “We all have cars,” she said.

“Where are they then?”

“Being used , of course.”

“By your children?”

“Obviously.”

“What about you husband’s car?”

“I told you he was in an accident,” she said, stiffening.

“Someone said you have a camper.”

“We do.”

“Where is it?”

She looked at the place where we had always kept it parked and a look of confusion distorted her face. She’d never even thought about it before , the realization came.

“Do you know where it is?” I prodded.

She turned on me in annoyance. “It’s being repaired ,” she said.

“Where?” I asked.

She blinked, looked momentarily disturbed. Then the vacant look was back again. “I don’t remember,” she said. “I’m sure I have it written down some-”

She broke off as I pointed at her car. “How did it get dented?”

“Someone hit it in a parking lot while I was shopping.”