by Robert Bloch
Helen started forward, only to stumble back as a huge gust of wind roared through the doorway from the darkness beyond. Reeling, she forced herself forward again but as she did so, something rolled through the darkness to bar her path.
Filling the threshold before her was a gigantic staring eyeball.
Helen slammed the door and twisted around, sobbing.
Half-blinded by tears of mingled frustration and frantic fear, she watched Anthony advancing toward her down the hallway. The anger had drained from his face; now his expression was one of contrition and concern.
“I can’t help it, Helen,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt anybody. If you’ll just come back—”
He reached out and took her hand. Almost without realizing it, Helen found herself moving with him along the hall.
Through her sobs she heard his voice sounding plaintively.
“You don’t understand. Nobody does. All I have to do is wish for something and it happens.”
Now they were in the parlor once more. Blinking away her tears, Helen looked up and saw the family still huddled motionless against the far wall, paralyzed with shock. Beside her, Anthony was still speaking.
“Please, Helen, you’ve got to believe me! I can do anything. Anything!”
As if to demonstrate, he turned toward the silent television set. The group against the wall stared speechless in agonized expectation. Despite herself, Helen was staring, too.
And now the television set started to vibrate. Sparks flew forth from the screen. The cabinet began to glow, incandescent with an inner energy that enveloped it in flickering flame. With a hideous grating screech, the top of the set ripped apart, bursting before a force that boiled upward from within.
Then the opening widened splitting the set in half. A whirling, snarling form spun upward, streaming out into the room and enlarging as it emerged. The swirling figure was that of a cartoon dragon, but as it grew, it changed into something far more horrifying—something three-dimensional—a living, pulsating reality. Its eyes were gigantic glaring globes of fire and its breath was a jet of flame.
Helen swayed back, closing her eyes. “Wish it away, Anthony!” she panted. “Wish it away!”
A surging sound rose. Helen forced her eyes open as with blinding speed the huge form dwindled, collapsing back into the yawning fissure of the shattered television set. Then, with a final flicker, it shimmered away, together with the ruined remnants of the set itself.
There was a moment of utter silence.
Helen stared at the family cringing against the wall, stared at the boy beside her. He too was surveying the room, and when at last he turned toward her, his face was a mask of misery.
“I hate this house,” he murmured. “I hate everything about it.”
Suffused with sudden purpose, his voice rose.
“I wish it all away!”
Succumbing to dreadful impulse, Helen turned her gaze toward the figures cowering against the wall. Again, no spells were uttered, no wands waved. But as she watched, one by one, they all disappeared.
Mother, Father, Uncle Walt, vanished into—
Nothingness.
The room itself had melted away. Helen turned, her eyes searching the darkness, finding nothing but the night surrounding her on all sides. Nothing but the night—and Anthony, standing beside her in empty space.
“Where—where are we?” she faltered.
Anthony stared at her bleakly. “Nowhere.”
Helen’s voice echoed through emptiness. “Where are the others?”
“I sent them wherever they wanted to go.” Anthony’s voice trembled. “Away from me.”
Helen looked down at the boy. Suddenly, standing here in the darkness, he seemed utterly helpless, utterly forlorn. There was nothing monstrous about him now—all she saw was a lost, lonely little boy. Bracing herself, she took him by the shoulder and bent forward, meeting his gaze eye-to-eye.
“Anthony,” she whispered. “Take us back.”
The child’s stare wavered. “So you can leave, too?”
She sensed the accusation in his voice, but his eyes held only hopelessness and his face was white with fear.
Helen hesitated, then took a deep breath.
“I won’t leave you,” she said. “Take us back, Anthony. Take us back, so you and I can try again.”
The boy stared at her without speaking, his eyes shining with sudden hope, then dulling in doubt and despair.
Helen shook her head. “I’m not lying to you, Anthony.” Now the words came unbidden, from somewhere deep within her. “You need someone to teach you. Somebody to help you understand this gift you have—this terrible, wonderful gift. A gift you must control. We must learn how to use it wisely.” She took another deep breath. “The two of us can learn together.”
Anthony looked up anxiously. “You’ll stay with me?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
Helen nodded; there was no turning back. “Always.”
Anthony smiled. “Okay,” he said.
Reaching out, he took her hand. For a moment they stood together in the darkness. Then something flickered, and the emptiness around them was filled with recognizable reality once more.
Utter blackness faded into the ordinary shadows of normal light. Looking around, Helen saw that she and Anthony were standing on the same spot formerly occupied by the house. It was gone now, but surrounding her were the barren fields through which she had driven, and in the distance she recognized the road that wound its way back into the bordering trees.
Smiling in relief, she waited for Anthony to speak.
He nodded quickly. “Let’s go.”
Helen turned, then halted, frowning.
Although the house was gone, the driveway before it was still intact. Intact and empty—her car was nowhere to be seen.
For a moment Helen hesitated, remembering her own words. This was a new beginning; they must learn together, learn how to control Anthony’s power, using it only to serve its proper purpose. She must be careful not to encourage any further demonstrations until they both were sure what the consequences might be. On the other hand, they did need wheels in order to leave here in an ordinary fashion.
Helen made her decision, lips framing a question. “My car—?”
Anthony smiled, then made a small offhand gesture.
Instantly the car was back in the driveway, parked directly before them.
“Okay?” Anthony smiled at her. “Can we go now?”
Helen nodded. Together they moved to the car and Helen opened the door, waiting while Anthony slid across to the right-hand passenger-seat. Then she took her place before the wheel, closing the door behind her.
Suddenly she frowned and the boy glanced up at her questioningly.
“What’s the matter?”
Helen shook her head. “I forgot.” She gestured toward the ignition. “I don’t have the key—it’s in my purse—”
But as she spoke, something flicked between her fingers. Staring down, she saw the car key nestling in her palm; at the same moment she sensed the pressure of her purse against her lap.
Anthony was smiling.
Helen sighed, shaking her head in mingled relief and admonition. “Let’s not do too much of that anymore,” she murmured.
“Okay,” said Anthony.
Helen started the engine, then headed the car back down the road leading to the trees. As she did so, she found herself making mental notes. She really must do something about Anthony’s vocabulary—he’d just said “okay” three times in five minutes; and she would have to teach him something about grooming—his hair was badly in need of combing, and that soiled outfit he wore was a positive disgrace.
Somehow the prospect didn’t dismay her—if anything, the thought of teaching again filled her with joyful anticipation.
So much to teach, so much to learn—
Helen glanced at Anthony and he smiled, his face radiant with a happiness so great tha
t he seemed unable to contain it. Beaming up at her, he made a little gesture with both his hands.
Suddenly the sky brightened into morning sunlight and as Helen stared wide-eyed through the windshield, the bare fields bordering the road ahead blossomed out into bright and shining banks of flowers.
Helen shook her head reprovingly. “Anthony!”
But as she spoke, she smiled.
Anthony smiled with her. The whole world was smiling now as the car sped through the fields of flowers and into the twilight of the trees beyond.
S E G M E N T
4
Story by
GEORGE CLAYTON JOHNSON
Screenplay by
GEORGE CLAYTON JOHNSON
and
RICHARD MATHESON
and
JOSH ROGAN
The plane plunged into the twilight.
From his window-seat just forward of the right wing, Mr. Valentine blinked out at the darkening sky. Then, frowning, he consulted his wristwatch.
Three o’clock. Too early, much too early for twilight. And yet, the clouds encircling the aircraft were violet, almost purple. Peering ahead, Valentine noted a deepening darkness beyond. His frown deepened in response.
Thunderclouds?
Oh no, not that. It couldn’t be. Not after the way he’d checked the weather reports in the morning paper. Clear skies all the way—that’s what the map showed and only fifteen minutes ago the captain’s voice had crackled a cheery greeting over the intercom, announcing the promise of a smooth on-course flight at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet.
Sorry, Captain. I don’t like your altitude. And your prediction is for the birds.
Or would be, if there were any birds. But birds were too smart to venture up to that height. Only a fool would take such a risk, and only a fool would put his faith in the smarmy reassurance of a pilot who was paid to offer it to a captive audience of passengers.
Surely the captain must have seen the cloud banks ahead. Unless, of course, he was blind. In which case he shouldn’t be flying.
And neither should I, Valentine told himself.
But there was no help for it. The conference opened tomorrow morning and neither automobile nor Amtrak could cross the continent in eighteen hours. He’d asked for a week off in advance with the thought in mind—either driving or taking the train—but his production supervisor had vetoed that idea in a hurry.
“Sorry, no way. We’re working shorthanded as it is, and you’ve got that Carver job to finish up before you go. Why waste all that time when you can hop on a plane Thursday afternoon and still get a good night’s rest before Friday’s program starts? I mean, what’s your problem?”
I’m scared, that’s the problem. Only Valentine couldn’t tell him that. It’s been eighty years since the Wright Brothers took off at Kitty Hawk, and nobody’s afraid of flying anymore.
A glance around the cabin confirmed Valentine’s thought. There were two stewardesses up front near the galley—one quite young and the other in her thirties—chatting calmly together, smiling as if they didn’t have a care in the world. But of course they’d be calm. Even if they weren’t, they’d look calm; that was part of their job.
The passengers seemed to be calm, too. As a matter of fact, most of them had turned off their reading lamps and were dozing. In one of the seats ahead, an enormous man had assumed the fetal position; a fat baby, with his head resting against the window. Nearby, a young couple reclined in entwined embrace. An elderly couple across the aisle from them slept without touching one another, their indifference born of long association. In the seat directly before him, a mother sat beside a little girl, her impassivity a sharp contrast to her daughter’s wriggling. No one seemed troubled by the slight rocking motion of the plane or by the presence of the purple clouds gathering beyond the window.
So why was he upset? Valentine frowned. Obviously there was no sense trying to rest—the way he felt, sleep was out of the question. But perhaps work might spell salvation. He reached up and turned on the reading lamp, pulled out his tray table. Groping into his opened briefcase on the empty seat beside him, Valentine produced the tools of his trade—a note pad, a pocket calculator, and a textbook. He opened the volume to a page indicated by a bookmark and concentrated on the array of equations thus revealed. Taking a ballpoint pen from his breast pocket, he unscrewed the cap and held the point over the blank note pad. For a moment he stared at the letters and numerals on the page of the textbook, only to find his eyes blurring.
Valentine blinked, but his vision did not clear. Neither did his thoughts. How could a man put his mind to math, concentrate on abstract theory, in the midst of menacing reality? And the reality was all around him; the reality of shuddering motion, the reality of swollen storm clouds just beyond the windowpane.
Valentine put down his pen and shut the book, but he couldn’t shut out his thoughts. Perhaps it was time to face the truth. Just what was there about flying that troubled him so greatly? Where did his exaggerated dislike of air travel come from?
Could it be the commercials? Even when sitting in the security of his own home, with no seat belts trapping him into his easy chair, he had always been conscious of a vague irritation when confronted by the paeans of praise for flight, which emanated from his television screen. All those images of scenic grandeur and jumbo jets sailing serenely through the blue and cloudless skies over shining seas—all those unseen heavenly choirs chanting about the high adventure and low fares to be found in the skies—what nonsense! Most of the flights he had taken offered nothing of visual grandeur; what he usually saw from his window were clouds and smog, or a combination of both. And the fare-structure had always been a source of irritation to him. It seemed to turn out that so-called bargain rates were offered only to family groups traveling at some ungodly hour of the night to one of a very few major cities. The moment you embarked on a journey at a sensible hour, traveling alone, the rates escalated to astronomical proportions. Why did it cost $99 to fly three thousand miles across the country as opposed to $400 or $500 for a journey one-third that distance? No matter how loudly the choir sang or how often the offscreen announcer boasted of bargains—fair or unfair—Valentine always seemed to end up trapped in a situation like this.
Trapped.
That was the operative word. The whole trip was a trap. That’s how you started—trapped in a tangle of traffic as you approached the airport. Trapped in a maze of jammed parking lots. Trapped in a staggering, stumbling dash from lot to terminal, hefting the bulky burden of your luggage. Trapped in the line waiting at the passenger counter. Trapped in the anxiety of anticipation once you reached it: Were your tickets in order? Was your flight departing on time? Could you be certain, once you checked in, that your luggage would be put through to its proper destination?
Then, of course, there was the business of passing through the security check. The X-ray eye scrutinizing the contents of your hand-luggage was bad enough, but the cold, fishy stare of the security people was even worse. Foolish, of course, but Valentine always went through the procedure with the feelings of a felon; the whole thing reminded him all too vividly of police procedure. He half expected one of the uniformed guards to grab him by the collar with a curt command: “Up against the wall, clasp both hands behind your head. It is my duty to warn you that you have the right to remain silent; anything you say may be used in evidence.”
Then there was a long walk to the terminal gate, the endless plodding through the white-walled corridor under the harsh glare of fluorescent illumination. The last mile.
Only worse. At least the prisoner condemned to execution could expect to reach his destination and pass through the little green door without interruption. But air terminal procedure was different. Once at the gate, you stood in line again, waiting for the door to open. From overhead came the canned cacophony of tape recordings, punctuated abruptly by an announcer squawking static-riddled gibberish, which involuntarily evoked one’s nerve
-racked attention. Would your name be called to report to the nearest telephone? Was your flight going to be delayed for an extra hour? Standing before the departure gate was always an ordeal, and even if you could disregard what issued overhead, there was no way to ignore the presence of your fellow prisoners. Correction—fellow passengers. But as far as Valentine was concerned, he heartily wished that those passengers had been in prison. Perhaps he was squeamish; he preferred to think of himself merely as a private person who lacked the normal quotient of gregariousness. Whatever it was, he disliked the close proximity of young mothers with squalling infants in their arms or the overweight oldsters who seemed to think it necessary to embark on a flight to Philadelphia wearing cowboy hats with brims pulled down to shadow their fat, bespectacled faces. Again, at least the condemned man is granted the privilege of taking his seat in the electric chair alone; he doesn’t have to put up with the indignity of a crying baby seated beside him, or the presence of one of those pseudo-cowboys who will talk him to death during the journey into oblivion. Better to suffer the brief pain of electrocution than the endless agony of elocution.
Valentine sighed softly. This was nit-picking, he knew, over-dramatization. All he was doing was trying to forestall the ultimate reality—the fear that possessed him after the waiting interval at the terminal—the terminal illness, ending when he finally boarded his flight.
Again, the situation contrasted unfavorably with that of a condemned prisoner. When they put you in the electric chair, you at least have the comfort of knowing that you don’t have to lay out an exorbitant sum—to say nothing of an exorbitant tax—to pay for your seat; and no one sentenced to death is expected to strap himself into the hot seat. He doesn’t have to sit there in endless anticipation of what is to come; he doesn’t have to listen to the sound of the engines revving up and wonder whether or not they seem to be in proper working order. He doesn’t have to endure the long, slow, bumpy shudder of movement as the plane heads into position for its takeoff at a distant runway. He doesn’t face the repetition of the engines’ roaring, followed by the thrust of acceleration as the plane suddenly swoops forward with a surge of shrieking sound as it seeks to rise.