Nightmare At 20,000 Feet

by Richard Matheson

  He was just putting down his third cup of well-creamed coffee when footsteps sounded in the hall. Mr Ketchum smiled. Good timing, he thought. He stood.

  Chief Shipley stopped outside the cell. 'Had your breakfast?'

  Mr Ketchum nodded. If the chief expected thanks he was in for a sad surprise. Mr Ketchum picked up his coat.

  The chief didn't move.

  'Well …?' said Mr Ketchum after a few minutes. He tried to put it coldly and authoritatively. It came out somewhat less.

  Chief Shipley looked at him expressionlessly. Mr Ketchum felt his breath faltering.

  'May I inquire -?' he began.

  'Judge isn't in yet,' said Shipley.

  'But…' Mr Ketchum didn't know what to say.

  'Just came into tell you,' said Shipley. He turned and was gone.

  Mr Ketchum was furious. He looked down at the remains of his breakfast as if they contained the answer to this situation. He drummed a fist against his thigh. Insufferable! What were they trying to do – intimidate him? Well, by God-

  –they were succeeding.

  Mr Ketchum walked over to the bars. He looked up and down the empty hallway. There was a cold knot inside him. The food seemed to have turned to dry lead in his stomach. He banged the heel of his right hand once against the cold bar. By God! By God!

  It was two o'clock in the afternoon when Chief Shipley and the old policeman came to the cell door. Wordlessly the policeman opened it. Mr Ketchum stepped into the hallway and waited again, putting on his coat while the door was relocked.

  He walked in short, inflexible strides between the two men, not even glancing at the picture on the wall. 'Where are we going?' he asked.

  'Judge is sick,' said Shipley. 'We're taking you out to his house to pay your fine.'

  Mr Ketchum sucked in his breath. He wouldn't argue with them; he just wouldn't. 'All right,' he said. 'If that's the way you have to do it.'

  'Only way to do it,' said the chief, looking ahead, his face an expressionless mask.

  Mr Ketchum pressed down the corners of a slim smile. This was better. It was almost over now. He'd pay his fine and clear out.

  It was foggy outside. Sea mist rolled across the street like driven smoke. Mr Ketchum pulled on his hat and shuddered. The damp air seemed to filter through his flesh and dew itself around his bones. Nasty day, he thought. He moved down the steps, eyes searching for his Ford.

  The old policeman opened the back door of the police car and Shipley gestured towards the inside.

  'What about my car?' Mr Ketchum asked.

  'We'll come back here after you see the judge,' said Shipley.

  'Oh. I…'

  Mr Ketchum hesitated. Then he bent over and squeezed into the car, dropping down on the back seat. He shivered as the cold of the leather pierced trouser wool. He edged over as the chief got in.

  The policeman slammed the door shut. Again that hollow sound, like the slamming of a coffin lid in a crypt. Mr Ketchum grimaced as the simile occurred to him.

  The policeman got into the car and Mr Ketchum heard the motor cough into liquid life. He sat there breathing slowly and deeply while the policeman out-choked warmth into the engine. He looked out the window at his left.

  The fog was just like smoke. They might have been parked in a burning garage. Except for that bone-gripping dampness. Mr Ketchum cleared his throat. He heard the chief shift on the seat beside him.

  'Cold,' Mr Ketchum said, automatically.

  The chief said nothing.

  Mr Ketchum pressed back as the car pulled away from the kerb, V-turned and started slowly down the fog-veiled street. He listened to the crisp sibilance of the tyres on wet paving, the rhythmic swish of the wipers as they cleared off circle segments on the misted windshield.

  After a moment he looked at his watch. Almost three. Half a day shot in this blasted Zachry.

  He looked out through the window again as the town ghosted past. He thought he saw brick buildings along the kerb but he wasn't sure. He looked down at his white hands, then glanced over at Shipley. The chief was sitting stiffly upright on the seat, staring straight ahead. Mr Ketchum swallowed. The air seemed stagnant in his lungs.

  On Main Street the fog seemed thinner. Probably the sea breezes, Mr Ketchum thought. He looked up and down the street. All the stores and offices looked closed. He glanced at the other side of the street. Same thing.

  'Where is everybody?' he asked.

  'What?'

  'I said where is everybody?'

  'Home,' the chief said.

  'Rut it's Wednesday,' said Mr Ketchum. 'Aren't your -stores open?'

  'Bad day,' said Shipley. 'Not worth it.'

  Mr Ketchum glanced at the sallow faced chief, then withdrew his look hastily. He felt cold premonition spidering in his stomach again. What in God's name is this? he asked himself. It had been bad enough in the cell. Here, tracking through this sea of mist, it was altogether worse.

  'That's right,' he heard his nerve-sparked voice saying. There are only sixty-seven people, aren't there?'

  The chief said nothing.

  'How… h-how old is Zachry?'

  In the silence he heard the chiefs finger joints crackle dryly.

  'Hundred fifty years,' said Shipley.

  'That old,' said Mr Ketchum. He swallowed with effort. His throat hurt a little. Come on, he told himself. Relax.

  'How come it's named Zachry?' The words spilled out, uncontrolled.

  'Noah Zachry founded it,' said the chief.

  'Oh. Oh. I see. I guess that picture in the station…?'

  That's right,' said Shipley.

  Mr Ketchum blinked. So that was Noah Zachry, founder of this town they were driving through –

  –block after block after block. There was a cold, heavy sinking in Mr Ketchum's stomach as the idea came to him.

  In a town so big, why were there only 67 people?

  He opened his mouth to ask it, then couldn't. The answer might be wrong.

  'Why are there only -?' The words came out anyway before he could stop them. His body jolted at the shock of hearing them.

  'What?'

  'Nothing, nothing. That is – ' Mr Ketchum drew in a shaking breath. No help for it. He had to know.

  'How come there are only sixty-seven?’

  'They go away,' said Shipley.

  Mr Ketchum blinked. The answer came as such an anticlimax. His brow furrowed. Well, what else? he asked himself defensively. Remote antiquated, Zachry would have little attraction for its younger generations. Mass gravitation to more interesting places would be inevitable.

  The heavy man settled back against the seat. Of course. Think how much I want to leave the dump, he thought, and I don't even live here.

  His gaze slid forward through the windshield, caught by something. A banner hanging across the street, barbecue tonight. Celebration, he thought. They probably went berserk every fortnight and had themselves a rip roaring taffy pull or fishnet-mending orgy.

  'Who was Zachry anyway?' he asked. The silence was getting to him again.

  'Sea captain,' said the chief.

  'Oh?'

  'Whaled in the South Seas,' said Shipley.

  Abruptly, Main Street ended. The police car veered left on to a dirt road. Out the window Mr Ketchum watched shadowy bushes glide by. There was only the sound of the engine labouring in second and of gravelly dirt spitting out from under the tyres. Where does the judge live, on a mountain top? He shifted his weight and grunted.

  The fog began thinning now. Mr Ketchum could see grass and trees, all with a greyish cast to them. The car turned and faced the ocean. Mr Ketchum looked down at the opaque carpet of fog below. The car kept turning. It faced the crest of the hill again.

  Mr Ketchum coughed softly. 'Is… uh, that the judge's house up there?' he asked.

  'Yes,' the chief answered.

  'High,' said Mr Ketchum.

  The car kept turning on the narrow, dirt road, now facing the ocean, now Zachry, now t
he bleak, hill-topping house. It was a greyish white house, three storeys high, at each end of it the crag of an attic tower. It looked as old as Zachry itself, thought Mr Ketchum. The car turned. He was facing the fog-crusted ocean again.

  Mr Ketchum looked down at his hands. Was it a deception of the light or were they really shaking? He tried to swallow but there was no moisture in his throat and he coughed instead, rattlingly. This was so stupid, he thought; there's no reason in the world for this. He saw his hands clench together.

  The car was moving up the final rise towards the house now. Mr Ketchum felt his breaths shortening. I don't want to go, he heard someone saying in his mind. He felt a sudden urge to shove out the door and run. Muscles tensed emphatically.

  He closed his eyes. For God's sake, stop it! he yelled at himself. There was nothing wrong about this but his distorted interpretation of it. These were modern times. Things had explanations and people had reasons. Zachry's people had a reason too; a narrow distrust of city dwellers. This was their socially acceptable revenge. That made sense. After all –

  The car stopped. The chief pushed open the door on his side and got out. The policeman reached back and opened the other door for Mr Ketchum. The heavy man found one of his legs and foot to be numb. He had to clutch at the top of the door for support. He stamped the foot on the ground.

  'Went to sleep,' he said.

  Neither of the men answered. Mr Ketchum glanced at the house; he squinted. He had seen a dark green drape slip back into place? He winced and made a startled noise as his arm was touched and the chief gestured towards the house. The three men started towards it.

  'I, uh… don't have much cash on me, I'm afraid/ he said. 'I hope a traveller's check will be all right.'

  'Yes,' said the chief.

  They went up to the porch steps, stopped in front of the door. The policeman turned a big, brass key-head and Mr Ketchum heard a bell ring tinnily inside. He stood looking through the door curtains. Inside, he could make out the skeletal form of a hat rack. He shifted weight and the boards creaked under him. The policeman rang the bell again.

  'Maybe he's – too sick,' Mr Ketchum suggested faintly.

  Neither of the men looked at him. Mr Ketchum felt his muscles tensing. He glanced back over his shoulder. Could they catch him if he ran for it?

  He looked back disgustedly. You pay your fine and you leave, he explained patiently to himself. That's all; you pay your fine and you leave.

  Inside the house there was dark movement. Mr Ketchum looked up, startled in spite of himself. A tall woman was approaching the door.

  The door opened. The woman was thin, wearing an ankle-length black dress with a white oval pin at her throat. Her face was swarthy, seamed with threadlike lines. Mr Ketchum slipped off his hat automatically.

  'Come in,' said the woman.

  Mr Ketchum stepped into the hall.

  'You can leave your hat there,' said the woman, pointing towards the hat rack that looked like a tree ravaged by flame. Mr Ketchum dropped his hat over one of the dark pegs. As he did, his eye was caught by a large painting near the foot of the staircase. He started to speak but the woman said, 'This way.'

  They started down the hall. Mr Ketchum stared at the painting as they passed it.

  'Who's that woman,' he asked, 'standing next to Zachry?'

  'His wife,' said the chief.

  'But she-'

  Mr Ketchum's voice broke off suddenly as he heard a whimper rising in his throat. Shocked, he drowned it out with a sudden clearing of the throat. He felt ashamed of himself. Still… Zachry's wife?

  The woman opened a door. 'Wait in here,’ she said.

  The heavy man walked in. He turned to say something to the chief. Just in time to see the door shut.

  'Say, uh…' He walked to the door and put his hand on the knob. It didn't turn.

  He frowned. He ignored the pile-driver beats of his heart. 'Hey, what's going on?' Cheerily bluff, his voice echoed off the walls. Mr Ketchum turned and looked around. The room was empty. It was a square empty room.

  He turned back to the door, lips moving as he sought the proper words.

  'Okay,' he said, abruptly, 'it's very -' He twisted the knob sharply. 'Okay, it's a very funny joke.' By God, he was mad. 'I've taken all I'm -'

  He whirled at the sound, teeth bared.

  There was nothing. The room was still empty. He looked around dizzily. What was that sound? A dull sound, like water rushing.

  'Hey,' he said automatically. He turned to the door. 'Hey!' he yelled, 'cut it out! Who do you think you are anyway?'

  He turned on weakening legs. The sound was louder. Mr Ketchum ran a hand over his brow. It was covered with sweat. It was warm in there.

  'Okay, okay,' he said, 'it's a fine joke but -'

  Before he could go on, his voice had corkscrewed into an awful, wracking sob. Mr Ketchum staggered a little. He stared at the room. He whirled and fell back against the door. His out flung hand touched the wall and jerked away.

  It was hot.

  'Huh?' he asked incredulously.

  This was impossible. This was a joke. This was their deranged idea of a little joke. It was a game they played. Scare the City Slicker was the name of the game.

  'Okay!' he yelled. 'Okay? It's funny, it's very funny! Now let me out of here or there's going to be trouble!'

  He pounded at the door. Suddenly he kicked it. The room was getting hotter. It was almost as hot as an –

  Mr Ketchum was petrified. His mouth sagged open.

  The questions they'd asked him. The loose way the clothes fit everyone he'd met. The rich food they'd given him to eat. The empty streets. The savage like swarthy colouring of the men, of the woman. The way they'd all looked at him. And the woman in the painting, Noah Zachry's wife – a native woman with her teeth filed to a point.

  BARBECUE TONIGHT.

  Mr Ketchum screamed. He kicked and pounded on the door. He threw his heavy body against it. He shrieked at the people outside.

  'Let me out! Let me out! LET… ME… OUT!'

  The worst part about it was, he just couldn't believe it was really happening.

  14 – THE HOLIDAY MAN

  "You'll be late, " she said.He leaned back tiredly in his chair.

  "I know," he answered.

  They were in the kitchen having breakfast. David hadn't eaten much. Mostly, he'd drunk black coffee and stared at the tablecloth. There were thin lines running through it that looked like intersecting highways.

  "Well?" she said.

  He shivered and took his eyes from the tablecloth.

  "Yes," he said. "All right."

  He kept sitting there.

  "David," she said.

  "I know, I know," he said, "I'll be late." He wasn't angry. There was no anger left in him.

  "You certainly will," she said, buttering her toast. She spread on thick raspberry jam, then bit off a piece and chewed it cracklingly.

  David got up and walked across the kitchen. At the door he stopped and turned. He stared at the back of her head.

  "Why couldn't I?" he asked again.

  "Because you can't," she said. "That's all."

  "But why?"

  "Because they need you," she said. "Because they pay you well and you couldn't do anything else. Isn't it obvious?"

  "They could find someone else."

  "Oh, stop it," she said. "You know they couldn't."

  He closed his hands into fists. "Why should I be the one?" he asked.

  She didn't answer. She sat eating her toast.

  "Jean?"

  "There's nothing more to say," she said, chewing. She turned around. "Now, will you go?" she said. "You shouldn't be late today."

  David felt a chill in his flesh.

  "No," he said, "not today."

  He walked out of the kitchen and went upstairs. There, he brushed his teeth, polished his shoes and put on a tie. Before eight he was down again. He went into the kitchen.

  "Goodbye," he sai
d.

  She tilted up her cheek for him and he kissed it. "Bye, dear," she said. "Have a-" She stopped abruptly.

  "-nice day?" he finished for her. "Thank you." He turned away. "I'll have a lovely day."

  Long ago he had stopped driving a car. Mornings he walked to the railroad station. He didn't even like to ride with someone else or take a bus.

  At the station he stood outside on the platform waiting for the train. He had no newspaper. He never bought them any more. He didn't like to read the papers.

  "Mornin', Garret."

  He turned and saw Henry Coulter who also worked in the city. Coulter patted him on the back.

  "Good morning," David said.

  "How's it goin'?" Coulter asked.

  "Fine. Thank you."

  "Good. Lookin' forward to the Fourth?"

  David swallowed. "Well…" he began.

  "Myself, I'm takin' the family to the woods," said Coulter. "No lousy fireworks for us. Pilin' into the old bus and headin' out till the fireworks are over."

  "Driving," said David.

  "Yes, sir," said Coulter. "Far as we can."

  It began by itself. No, he thought; not now. He forced it back into its darkness.

  "-tising business," Coulter finished.

  "What?" he asked.

  "Said I trust things are goin' well in the advertising business."

  David cleared his throat.

  "Oh, yes," he said. "Fine." He always forgot about the lie he'd told Coulter.

  When the train arrived he sat in the No Smoking car, knowing that Coulter always smoked a cigar en route. He didn't want to sit with Coulter. Not now.

  All the way to the city he sat looking out the window. Mostly he watched road and highway traffic; but, once, while the train rattled over a bridge, he stared down at the mirror like surface of a lake. Once he put his head back and looked up at the sun.

  He was actually to the elevator when he stopped.

  "Up?" said the man in the maroon uniform. He looked at David steadily. "Up?" he said. Then he closed the rolling doors.