Nightmare At 20,000 Feet

by Richard Matheson

Feet stepped on. No apology, 8.29 a.m., bus, woman, 9.

  Driver telling me to go to back of bus, 8.33 a.m., bus, male, 9-

  Then Mr Jasper found himself standing again beside the man with the uncommon cold. He did not take the pad from his pocket but his eyes closed and his teeth clamped together bitterly. Later he erased the original grading for the man.

  10! he wrote in a fury.

  And at lunch, amidst usual antagonisations, Mr Jasper, with a fierce and jaundiced eye, saw system to it all.

  He seized on a blank pad page.

  1. At least one irritation per five minutes. (Twelve per hour.) Not perfectly timed. Some occurring two in a minute.

  Clever. Trying to throw me off the track by breaking continuity.

  2. Each of the 12 hourly irritations is worse than the one before. The last of the 12 almost makes me explode.

  THEORY: By placing the irritations so that each one tops the preceding one the final hourly addition is thus designed to provide maximum nerve impact: i.e. - Steering me into insanity!

  He sat there, his soup getting cold, a wild scientific lustre to his eyes, investigatory heat churning up his system. Yes, by Heaven, yes, yes, yes!

  But he must make sure.

  He finished his lunch, ignoring smoke and chattering and unpalatable food. He slunk back to his counter. He spent a joyous afternoon scribbling down entries in his journal of convulsions.

  The system held.

  It stood firm before unbiased test. One irritation per five minutes. Some of them, naturally, were so subtle that only a man with Mr Jasper's intuitive grasp, a man with a quest, could notice them. These aggravations were underplayed.

  And cleverly so! – realised Mr Jasper. Underplayed and intended to dupe.

  Well, he would not be duped.

  Tie rack knocked over, 1.18 p.m., store, female, 7.

  Fly walking on hand, 1.43 p.m., store, female (?), 8.

  Faucet in washroom splashing clothes, 2.19 p.m., store (sex), 9.

  Refusal to buy tie because torn, 2.38 p.m., store, WOMAN, 10.

  These were typical entries for the afternoon.

  They were jotted down with a bellicose satisfaction by a shaking Mr Jasper. A Mr Jasper whose incredible theory was being vindicated.

  About three o'clock he decided to eliminate those numbers from one to five since no provocations were mild enough to be judged so leniently.

  By four he had discarded every grading but nine and ten.

  By five he was seriously considering a new system which began at ten and ranged up to twenty-five.

  Mr Jasper had planned to compile at least a week's annotations before preparing his case. But, somehow, the shocks of the day weakened him. His entries grew more heated, his penmanship less legible.

  And, at eleven that night, as the people next door got their second wind and resumed their party with a great shout of laughter, Mr Jasper hurled his pad against the wall with a choking oath and stood there trembling violently. It was definite.

  They were out to get him.

  Suppose, he thought, there was a secret legion in the world. And that their prime devotion was to drive him from his senses.

  Wouldn't it be possible for them to do this insidious thing without another soul knowing it? Couldn't they arrange their maddening little intrusions on his sanity so cleverly that it might always seem as if he were at fault; that he was only a hypersensitive little man who saw malicious intent in every accidental irritation? Wasn't that possible?

  Yes. His mind pounded out the acceptance over and over.

  It was conceivable, feasible, possible and, by heaven, he believed it!

  Why not? Couldn't there be a great sinister legion of people who met in secret cellars by guttering candlelight? And sat there, beady eyes shining with nasty intent, as their leader spoke of more plans for driving Mr Jasper straight to hell?

  Sure! Agent X assigned to the row behind Mr Jasper at a movie, there to talk during parts of the picture in which Mr Jasper was most absorbed, there to rattle paper bags at regular intervals, there to masticate popcorn deafeningly until Mr Jasper hunched up, blind-raging, into the aisle and stomped back to another seat.

  And here, Agent Y would take over with candy and crinkly wrappers and extra moist sneezes.

  Possible. More than possible. It could have been going on for years without his ever acquiring the slightest inkling of its existence. A subtle, diabolical intrigue, near impossible to detect. But now, at last, stripped of its concealing robes, shown in all its naked, awful reality.

  Mr Jasper lay abed, cogitating.

  No, he thought with a scant remainder of rationality, it is silly. It is a point outlandishly taken.

  Why should these people do these things? That was all one had to ask. What was their motive?

  Wasn't it absurd to think that all these people were out to get him? Dead, Mr Jasper was worth nothing. Certainly his two thousand dollar policy subdivided among a vast hidden legion would not amount to more than three or four cents a plotter. Even if he were to be coerced into naming them all as his beneficiaries.

  Why, then, did Mr Jasper find himself drifting helplessly into the kitchenette? Why, then, did he stand there so long, balancing the long carving knife in his hand? And why did he shake when he thought of his idea?

  Unless it was true.

  Before he retired Mr Jasper put the carving blade into its cardboard sheath. Then, almost automatically, he found himself sliding the knife into the inside pocket of his suit coat.

  And, horizontal in the blackness, eyes open, his flat chest rising and falling with unsteady beat, he sent out his bleak ultimatum to the legion that might be: 'If you are there, I will take no more.'

  Then there was Albert Radenhausen, Junior, again at four in the morning. Jolting Mr Jasper into waking state, touching one more match to his inflammable system. There were the footsteps, the car horns, the dogs barking, the blinds rattling, the faucet dripping, the blankets bunching, the pillow flattening, the pyjamas twisting. And morning with its burning toast and bad coffee and broken cup and loud radio upstairs and broken shoelace.

  And Mr Jasper's body grew rigid with unspeakable fury and he whined and hissed and his muscles petrified and his hands shook and he almost wept. Forgotten was his pad and list, lost in violent temper. Only one thing remained. And that… was self-defence.

  For Mr Jasper knew then there was a legion of plotters and he knew also that the legion was redoubling its efforts because he did know and would fight back.

  He fled the apartment and hurried down the street, his mind tormented. He must get control, he must! It was the crucial moment, the time of ferment. If he let the course of things go on unimpeded, the madness would come and the legion would have its victim.

  Self-defence!

  He stood, white-jawed and quivering, at the bus stop, trying with utmost vigour to resist. Never mind that exploding exhaust! Forget that strident giggle of passing female agent. Ignore the rising, mounting crescendo of split nerves. They would not win! His mind a rigid, waiting spring, Mr Jasper vowed victory.

  On the bus, the man's nostrils drew mightily and people bumped into Mr Jasper and he gasped and knew that any moment he was going to scream and it would happen.

  Sniff, sniff! went the man -SNIFF!

  Mr Jasper moved away tensely. The man had never sniffed that loudly before. It was in the plan. Mr Jasper's hand fluttered up to touch the hard length of knife beneath his coat.

  He shoved through packed commuters. Someone stepped on his foot. He hissed. His shoelace broke again. He bent over to fix it, and someone's knee hit the side of his head. He straightened up dizzily in the lurching bus, a strangled curse almost prying through his pressed, white lips.

  One last hope remaining. Could he escape? The question punched away his senses. A new apartment? He'd moved before. On what he could afford there was no way of finding anything better. He'd always have the same type of neighbours.

  A car instead of
bus travel? He couldn't afford it.

  Leave his miserable job? All sales jobs were just as bad and it was all he knew and he was getting older.

  And even if he changed everything – everything! – the legion would still pursue him, tracking him down ruthlessly from tension to tension until the inevitable breakdown.

  He was trapped.

  And, suddenly, standing there with all the people looking at him, Mr Jasper saw the hours ahead, the days, the years -an agonizing, crushing heap of annoyances and irritations and mind-searing aggravations. His head snapped around as he looked at everybody.

  And his hair almost stood on end because he realised that all the people in the bus were members of the legion too. And he was helpless in their midst, a pawn to be buffeted about by their vicious, inhuman presence, his rights and individual sanctities endlessly subject to their malevolent conspiracy.

  'No!' He screamed it out at them.

  And his hand flew in beneath his coat like an avenging bird. And the blade flashed and the legion backed away screaming and, with a frenzied lunge, Mr Jasper fought his war for sanity.

  MAN STABS SIX IN CROWDED BUS; IS SHOT BY POLICE

  No Motive Found For Wild Attack

  9 – LONG DISTANCE CALL

  Just before the telephone rang, storm winds toppled the tree outside her window and jolted Miss Keene from her dreaming sleep. She flung herself up with a gasp, her frail hands crumpling twists of sheet in either palm. Beneath her flesh-less chest the heart jerked taut, the sluggish blood spurted. She sat in rigid muteness, her eyes staring at the night.In another second, the telephone rang.

  Who on earth? The question shaped unwittingly in her brain. Her thin hand faltered in the darkness, the fingers searching a moment and then Miss Elva Keene drew the cool receiver to her ear.

  'Hello,’ she said.

  Outside a cannon of thunder shook the night, twitching Miss Keene's crippled legs. I've missed the voice, she thought, the thunder has blotted out the voice.

  'Hello,' she said again.

  There was no sound. Miss Keene waited in expectant lethargy. Then she repeated, 'Hel-lo,' in a cracking voice. Outside the thunder crashed again.

  Still no voice spoke, not even the sound of a phone being disconnected met her ears. Her wavering hand reached out and thumped down the receiver with an angry motion.

  'Inconsideration,' she muttered, thudding back on her pillow. Already her infirm back ached from the effort of sitting.

  She forced out a weary breath. Now she'd have to suffer through the whole tormenting process of going to sleep again – the composing of jaded muscles, the ignoring of abrasive pain in her legs, the endless, frustrating struggle to turn off the faucet in her brain and keep unwanted thoughts from dripping. Oh, well, it had to be done; Nurse Phillips insisted on proper rest. Elva Keene breathed slowly and deeply, drew the covers to her chin and laboured hopefully for sleep.

  In vain.

  Her eyes opened and, turning her face to the window, she watched the storm move off on lightning legs. Why can't I sleep, she fretted, why must I always lie here awake like this?

  She knew the answer without effort. When a life was dull, the smallest element added seemed unnaturally intriguing. And life for Miss Keene was the sorry pattern of lying flat' or being propped on pillows, reading books which Nurse Phillips brought from the town library, getting nourishment, rest, medication, listening to her tiny radio – and waiting, waiting for something different to happen.

  Like the telephone call that wasn't a call.

  There hadn't even been the sound of a receiver replaced in its cradle. Miss Keene didn't understand that. Why would anyone call her exchange and then listen silently while she said 'Hello,' over and over again? Had it actually been anyone calling?

  What she should have done, she realised then, was to keep listening until the other person tired of the joke and put down the receiver. What she should have done was to speak out forcefully about the inconsideration of a prankish call to a crippled maiden lady, in the middle of a stormy night. Then, if there had been someone listening, whoever it was would have been properly chastened by her angry words and…

  'Well, of course.'

  She said it aloud in the darkness, punctuating the sentence with a cluck of somewhat relieved disgust. Of course, the telephone was out of order. Someone had tried to contact her, perhaps Nurse Phillips to see if she was all right. But the other end of the line had broken down in some way, allowing her phone to ring but no verbal communication to be made. Well, of course, that was the case.

  Miss Keene nodded once and closed her eyes gently. Now to sleep, she thought. Far away, beyond the county, the storm cleared its murky throat. I hope no one is worrying, Elva Keene thought, that would be too bad.

  She was thinking that when the telephone rang again.

  There, she thought, they are trying to reach me again. She reached out hurriedly in the darkness, fumbled until she felt the receiver, then pulled it to her ear.

  'Hello,' said Miss Keene.

  Silence.

  Her throat contracted. She knew what was wrong, of course, but she didn't like it, no, not at all.

  'Hello?' she said tentatively, not yet certain that she was wasting breath.

  There was no reply. She waited a moment, then spoke a third time, a little impatient now, loudly, her shrill voice ringing in the dark bedroom. 'Hello!'

  Nothing. Miss Keene had the sudden urge to fling, the receiver away. She forced down that curious instinct – no, she must wait; wait and listen to hear if anyone hung up the phone on the other end of the line.

  So she waited.

  The bedroom was very quiet now, but Elva Keene kept straining to hear; either the sound of a receiver going down or the buzz which usually follows. Her chest rose and fell in delicate lurches, she closed her eyes in concentration, then opened them again and blinked at the darkness. There was no sound from the telephone; not a click, not a buzz, not a sound of someone putting down a receiver.

  'Hello!' she cried suddenly, then pushed away the receiver.

  She missed her target. The receiver dropped and thumped once on the rug. Miss Keene nervously clicked on the lamp, wincing as the leprous bulb light filled her eyes. Quickly, she lay on her side and tried to reach the silent, voiceless telephone.

  But she couldn't stretch far enough and crippled legs prevented her from rising. Her throat tightened. My God, must she leave it there all night, silent and mystifying.

  Remembering then, she reached out abruptly and pressed the cradle arm. On the floor, the receiver clicked, then began to buzz normally. Elva Keene swallowed and drew in a shaking breath as she slumped back on her pillow.

  She threw out hooks of reason then and pulled herself back from panic. This is ridiculous, she thought, getting upset over such a trivial and easily explained incident. It was the storm, the night, the way in which I'd been shocked from sleep. (What was it that had awakened me?) AH these things piled on the mountain of teeth-grinding monotony that's my life. Yes, it was bad, very bad. But it wasn't the incident that was bad. It was her reaction to it.

  Miss Elva Keen numbed herself to further premonitions. 'I shall sleep now' she ordered her body with a petulant shake. She lay very still and relaxed. From the floor she could hear the telephone buzzing like the drone of far-off bees. She ignored it.

  Early the next morning, after Nurse Phillips had taken away the breakfast dishes, Elva Keen called the telephone company.

  This is Miss Elva,' she told the operator.

  'Oh, yes, Miss Elva,' said the operator, a Miss Finch. 'Can I help you?'

  'Last night my telephone rang twice,' said Elva Keene. 'But when I answered it, no one spoke. And I didn't hear any receiver drop. I didn't even hear a dial tone – just silence.'

  'Well, I'll tell you, Miss Elva,' said the cheery voice of Miss Finch, 'that storm last night just about ruined half our service. We're being flooded with calls about knocked down lines and bad connections. I'
d say you're pretty lucky your phone is working at all.'

  'Then you think it was probably a bad connection,' prompted Miss Keene, 'caused by the storm?'

  'Oh, yes, Miss Elva, that's all.'

  'Do you think it will happen again?'

  'Oh, it may,' said Miss Finch. 'It may. I really couldn't tell you, Miss Elva. But if it does happen again, you just call me and then I'll have one of our men check on it.'

  'All right,' said Miss Elva. 'Thank you, dear.'

  She lay on her pillows all morning in a relaxed torpor. It gives one a satisfied feeling, she thought, to solve a mystery, slight as it is. It had been a terrible storm that caused the bad connection. And no wonder when it had even knocked down the ancient oak-tree beside the house. That was the noise that had awakened me of course, and a pity it was that the dear tree had fallen. How it shaded the house in hot summer months. Oh, well, I suppose I should be grateful, she thought, that the tree fell across the road and not across the house.

  The day passed uneventfully, an amalgam of eating, reading Angela Thirkell and the mail (two throw-away advertisements and the light bill), plus brief chats with Nurse Phillips. Indeed, routine had set in so properly that when the telephone rang early that evening, she picked it up without even thinking.

  'Hello,' she said.

  Silence.

  It brought her back for a second. Then she called Nurse Phillips.

  'What is it?' asked the portly woman as she trudged across the bedroom rug.

  'This is what I was telling you about,' said Elva Keene, holding out the receiver. 'Listen!'

  Nurse Phillips took the receiver in her hand and pushed back grey locks with the earpiece. Her placid face remained placid. 'There's nobody there,' she observed.

  'That's right,' said Miss Keene. 'That's right. Now you just listen and see if you can hear a receiver being put down. I'm sure you won't.'

  Nurse Phillips listened for a moment, then shook her head. 'I don't hear anything,' she said and hung up.