The Best of Richard Matheson

by Richard Matheson

  Without meaning to, but driven by an impulse of nervous fear, she raised the glass and drank. The glacial trickle in her throat sent another shudder rippling through her. Then further shoots of liquored heat budded in her veins and a numbness settled in her temples. Through parted lips, she forced out a shaking breath.

  Now a restless, murmuring movement started through the room, the sound of it like willows in a soughing wind. Peggy dared not lift her gaze to the purpled silence of the stage. She stared down at the shifting glimmer of her drink, feeling muscle strands draw tightly in her stomach, feeling the hollow thumping of her heart. I’d like to leave, please let’s leave.

  The music labored toward a rasping dissonant climax, it’s brass components struggling, in vain, for unity.

  A hand stroked once at Peggy’s leg and it was the hand of Popeye, the sailor man, who muttered roupily, “Olive Oyl, you is my goil.” She barely felt or heard. Automatonlike, she raised the cold and sweating glass again and felt the chilling in her throat and then the flaring network of warmth inside her.

  SWISH!

  The curtain swept open with such a rush, she almost dropped her glass. It thumped down heavily on the table, swamp water cascading up its sides and raining on her hand. The music exploded shrapnel of ear-cutting cacophony and her body jerked. On the tablecloth, her hands twitched white on white while claws of uncontrollable demand pulled up her frightened eyes.

  The music fled, frothing behind a wake of swelling drum rolls.

  The nightclub was a wordless crypt, all breathing checked.

  Cobwebs of smoke drifted in the purple light across the stage.

  No sound except the muffled, rolling drum.

  Peggy’s body was a petrifaction in its chair, smitten to rock around her leaping heart, while, through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness, she looked up in horror to where it stood.

  It had been a woman.

  Her hair was black, a framing of snarled ebony for the tallow mask that was her face. Her shadow-rimmed eyes were closed behind lids as smooth and white as ivory. Her mouth, a lipless and unmoving line, stood like a clotted sword wound beneath her nose. Her throat, her shoulders and her arms were white, were motionless. At her sides, protruding from the sleeve ends of the green transparency she wore, hung alabaster hands.

  Across this marble statue, the spotlights coated purple shimmer.

  Still paralyzed, Peggy stared up at its motionless features, her fingers knitted in a bloodless tangle on her lap. The pulse of drumbeats in the air seemed to fill her body, its rhythm altering her heartbeat.

  In the black emptiness behind her, she heard Len muttering, “I love my wife but, oh, you corpse,” and heard the wheeze of helpless snickers that escaped from Bud and Barbara. The cold still rose in her, a silent tidal dread.

  Somewhere in the smoke-fogged darkness, a man cleared viscid nervousness from his throat and a murmur of appreciative relief strained through the audience.

  Still no motion on the stage, no sound but the sluggish cadence of the drum, thumping at the silence like someone seeking entrance at a far-off door. The thing that was a nameless victim of the plague stood palely rigid while the distillation sluiced through its blood-clogged veins.

  Now the drum throbs hastened like the pulsebeat of a rising panic. Peggy felt the chill begin to swallow her. Her throat started tightening, her breathing was a string of lip-parted gasps.

  The loopy’s eyelid twitched.

  Abrupt, black, straining silence webbed from the room. Even the breath choked off in Peggy’s throat when she saw the pale eyes flutter open. Something creaked in the stillness; her body pressed back unconsciously against the chair. Her eyes were wide, unblinking circles that sucked into her brain the sight of the thing that had been a woman.

  Music again; a brass-throated moaning from the dark, like some animal made of welded horns mewling its derangement in a midnight alley.

  Suddenly, the right arm of the loopy jerked at its side, the tendons contracted. The left arm twitched alike, snapped out, then fell back and thudded in purple-white limpness against the thigh. The right arm out, the left arm out, the right, the left-right-left-right—like marionette arms twitching from an amateur’s dangling strings.

  The music caught the time, drum brushes scratching out a rhythm for the convulsions of the loopy’s muscles. Peggy pressed back further, her body numbed and cold, her face a livid, staring mask in the fringes of the stage light.

  The loopy’s right foot moved now, jerking up inflexibly as the distillation constricted muscles in its leg. A second and a third contraction caused the leg to twitch, the left leg flung out in a violent spasm and then the woman’s body lurched stiffly forward, filming the transparent silk to its light and shadow.

  Peggy heard the sudden hiss of breath that passed the clenching teeth of Bud and Len and a wave of nausea sprayed foaming sickness up her stomach walls. Before her eyes, the stage abruptly undulated with a watery glitter and it seemed as if the flailing loopy was headed straight for her.

  Gasping dizzily, she pressed back in horror, unable to take her eyes from its now agitated face.

  She watched the mouth jerk to a gaping cavity, then a twisted scar that split into a wound again. She saw the dark nostrils twitching, saw writhing flesh beneath the ivory cheeks, saw furrows dug and undug in the purple whiteness of the forehead. She saw one lifeless eye wink monstrously and heard the gasp of startled laughter in the room.

  While music blared into a fit of grating noise, the woman’s arms and legs kept jerking with convulsive cramps that threw her body around the purpled stage like a full-sized rag doll given spastic life.

  It was nightmare in an endless sleep. Peggy shivered in helpless terror as she watched the loopy’s twisting, leaping dance. The blood in her had turned to ice; there was no life in her but the endless, pounding stagger of her heart. Her eyes were frozen spheres staring at the woman’s body writhing white and flaccid underneath the clinging silk.

  Then, something went wrong.

  Up till then, its muscular seizures had bound the loopy to an area of several yards before the amber flat which was the background for its paroxysmal dance. Now its erratic surging drove the loopy toward the stage-encircling rail.

  Peggy heard the thump and creaking strain of wood as the loopy’s hip collided with the rail. She cringed into a shuddering knot, her eyes still raised fixedly to the purple-splashed face whose every feature was deformed by throes of warping convulsion.

  The loopy staggered back and Peggy saw and heard its leprous hands slapping with a fitful rhythm at its silk-scaled thighs.

  Again it sprang forward like a maniac marionette and the woman’s stomach thudded sickeningly into the railing wood. The dark mouth gaped, clamped shut and then the loopy twisted through a jerking revolution and crashed back against the rail again, almost above the table where Peggy sat.

  Peggy couldn’t breathe. She sat rooted to the chair, her lips a trembling circle of stricken dread, a pounding of blood at her temples as she watched the loopy spin again, its arms a blur of flailing white.

  The lurid bleaching of its face dropped toward Peggy as the loopy crashed into the waist-high rail again and bent across its top. The mask of lavender-rained whiteness hung above her, dark eyes twitching open into a hideous stare.

  Peggy felt the floor begin to move and the livid face was blurred with darkness, then reappeared in a burst of luminosity. Sound fled on brass-shoed feet, then plunged into her brain again—a smearing discord.

  The loopy kept on jerking forward, driving itself against the rail as though it meant to scale it. With every spastic lurch, the diaphanous silk fluttered like a film about its body and every savage collision with the railing tautened the green transparency across its swollen flesh. Peggy looked up in rigid muteness at the loopy’s fierce attack on the railing, her eyes unable to escape t
he wild distortion of the woman’s face with its black frame of tangled, snapping hair.

  What happened then happened in a blurring passage of seconds.

  The grim-faced man came rushing across the purple-lighted stage; the thing that had been a woman went crashing, twitching, flailing at the rail, doubling over it, the spasmodic hitching flinging up its muscle-knotted legs.

  A clawing fall.

  Peggy lurched back in her chair and the scream that started in her throat was forced back into a strangled gag as the loopy came crashing down onto the table, its limbs a thrash of naked whiteness.

  Barbara screamed, the audience gasped and Peggy saw, on the fringe of vision, Bud jumping up, his face a twist of stunned surprise.

  The loopy flopped and twisted on the table like a new-caught fish. The music stopped, grinding into silence; a rush of agitated murmur filled the room and blackness swept in brain-submerging waves across Peggy’s mind.

  Then the cold white hand slapped across her mouth, the dark eyes stared at her in purple light and Peggy felt the darkness flooding.

  The horror-smoke room went turning on its side.

  —

  Consciousness. It flickered in her brain like gauze-veiled candlelight. A murmuring of sound, a blur of shadow before her eyes.

  Breath dripped like syrup from her mouth.

  “Here, Peg.”

  She heard Bud’s voice and felt the chilly metal of a flask neck pressed against lips. She swallowed, twisting slightly at the trickle of fire in her throat and stomach, then coughed and pushed away the flask with deadened fingers.

  Behind her, a rustling movement. “Hey, she’s back,” Len said. “Ol’ Olive Oyl is back.”

  “You feel all right?” asked Barbara.

  She felt all right. Her heart was like a drum hanging from piano wire in her chest, slowly, slowly beaten. Her hands and feet were numb, not with cold but with a sultry torpor. Thoughts moved with a tranquil lethargy, her brain a leisurely machine imbedded in swaths of woolly packing.

  She felt all right.

  Peggy looked across the night with sleepy eyes. They were on a hilltop, the braked convertible crouching on a jutting edge. Far below, the country slept, a carpet of light and shadow beneath the chalky moon.

  An arm snake moved around her waist. “Where are we?” she asked him in a languid voice.

  “Few miles outside school,” Bud said. “How d’ya feel, honey?”

  She stretched, her body a delicious strain of muscles. She sagged back, limp, against his arm.

  “Wonderful,” she murmured with a dizzy smile and scratched the tiny itching bump on her left shoulder. Warmth radiated through her flesh; the night was a sabled glow. There seemed—somewhere—to be a memory, but it crouched in secret behind folds of thick content.

  “Woman, you were out,” laughed Bud; and Barbara added and Len added, “Were you!” and “Olive Oyl went plunko!”

  “Out?” Her casual murmur went unheard.

  The flask went around and Peggy drank again, relaxing further as the liquor needled fire through her veins.

  “Man, I never saw a loopy dance like that!” Len said.

  A momentary chill across her back, then warmth again. “Oh,” said Peggy, “that’s right. I forgot.”

  She smiled.

  “That was what I calls a grand finale!” Len said, dragging back his willing date, who murmured, “Lenny boy.”

  “LUP,” Bud muttered, nuzzling at Peggy’s hair. “Son of a gun.” He reached out idly for the radio knob.

  LUP (Lifeless Undead Phenomenon)—This freak of physiological abnormality was discovered during the war when, following certain germ-gas attacks, many of the dead troops were found erect and performing the spasmodic gyrations which later became know as the “loopy’s” (LUP’s) dance. The particular germ spray responsible was later distilled and is now used in carefully controlled experiments which are conducted only under the strictest of legal license and supervision.

  Music surrounded them, its melancholy fingers touching at their hearts. Peggy leaned against her date and felt no need to curb exploring hands. Somewhere, deep within the jellied layers of her mind, there was something trying to escape. It fluttered like a frantic moth imprisoned in congealing wax, struggling wildly but only growing weaker in attempt as the chrysalis hardened.

  Four voices sang softly in the night.

  “If the world is here tomorrow

  I’ll be waiting, dear, for you

  If the stars are there tomorrow

  I’ll be wishing on them too.”

  Four young voices singing, a murmur in immensity. Four bodies, two by two, slackly warm and drugged. A singing, an embracing—a wordless accepting.

  “Star light, star bright

  Let there be another night.”

  The singing ended but the song went on.

  A young girl sighed.

  “Isn’t it romantic?” said Olive Oyl.

  MAN WITH A CLUB

  Jeez, wait’ll I tell you what happened last night, Mack. I swear you’ll never believe it. You’ll think I’m nuts. But I swear Mack, I swear I seen it with my own eyes.

  I was out with Dot. You know, the broad that lives down near Prospict Park. Yeah, you remember her.

  Well, we was going up the Paramount t’see Frankie Laine. Sat’day night, you know. Puttin’ on the dog. Show, feed, take her home, give’er the old one two.

  Well, anyway, I guess it was, oh, seven thirty when we come up from the I.R.T. station. Forty secon’ street. Time Square. You know the place. Where they got stores down the stairs. They sell jelly apples and stuff. Yeah, yeah, that’s right.

  So we come up the street, see? It’s jus’ like any time. You know, all the t’eatres lit up, people walkin’ around. I grab Dot’s arm and we head for Broadway.

  Then I see a bunch o’ guys across the street. So I figure it’s probably some drunk cuttin’ up. You know. So I says to Dot—come on let’s go see what everybody’s lookin’ at.

  So she says—Aw come on, we wantta get a good seat. So I says . . . haah? Course I don’t let no broad crack the whip over me. Come on I say. So I pull her arm and we cross the street even though she don’t wanna.

  So there’s a big crowd there, see? There’s so many people I can’t see what’s up. So I taps a guy on the shoulder and I says—what’s goin’ on? He don’t know. He gives me a shrug. Is it some guy drunk? I says to him. He don’t know. He says he thinks it’s some guy who ain’t got on no clothes. Yeah! That’s what the guy said. Woid fo’ woid.

  So Dot says—let’s go, will ya? I give her the eye. You know. Cut it out I says. If there’s a guy without no clothes, you’ll be the first one’ll wanna see it, I says. So she gets all snooty. You know, like all broads get. Sure.

  So anyway, we stick around. I push more in the crowd so I can see. Everyone is kinda quiet. You know how crowds is when they’re lookin’ at somethin’. Like remember how quiet we all was when we was all watching old man Riley when the truck run over him? Yeah, that’s right. Quiet like that.

  So I keep shovin’. And Dot comes with me too. She knows what’s good for ’er. She ain’t givin’ me up. Not with my dough she ain’t. Bet your sweet . . . haah? Awright, awright, I’m tellin’ ya, ain’t I? Don’t get ’em in a sling.

  So we get up to the front practically and we see what’s up.

  It’s a guy. Yeah. The guy had clothes on too. Yeah, ya slob, what didja think, I was gonna say he was bareass on Time Square? Haa haa, ya jerk!

  So this guy has on like a bathin’ suit see? Like made of fur. You know. Like Tarzan wears. But he don’t look like no Tarzan. He looks like one of them apes Tarzan fights. Lots of muscles. Jeez he was more musclebound than them weight lifters down the “Y”. Muscles all over ’im. Covered with ’em!

  Covered with hair too. Like
a ape. Ya know how cold it was last night? Well this guy wasn’t even cold—that’s how hairy he was.

  But scared? Jeez, was he scared. Scared stiff. He had his back to a store window. You know the one, where they sell jewelry for ninety-nine cents. Yeah, near that t’eatre.

  Inside the store this guy is starin’ out at this other guy. This ape, this guy in Tarzan clothes. Yeah.

  This guy has a club in his hand too. Big crappin’ thing! Like a ballbat only lot fatter. Covered with bumps. Yeah. Like them cavemen used to carry. Yeah . . . haah? Wait a secon’ will ya? I’ll get to it. You ain’t heard nothin’ yet. This is a kick.

  So we look at this jerk, see? Dot pulls back sort of. What’s the matter I says to her, ya sorry he ain’t got no clothes on? She don’t say nothin’. Just looks white in the gills. Dames. You know.

  So I turn to this old jerk next to me. I ask him—who is this guy? But he don’t know.

  Where’d he come from, I say to him. He shakes his head.

  He looked cockeyed, this old jerk. He was staring at this other guy with the club. And his hands is closed like he was prayin’ or somethin’. Yeah! Aah, ya meet ’em all over. ’Specially in Time Square. Ha! You said it Mack. Ain’t it the truth?

  So, anyway, where the hell am I? Haah? Oh, yeah.

  So I ask this slob once more another question. I asks him how long he’s standin’ there. He turns and looks at me like he gonna jump me. Yeah. Jeez, Mack, no crap.

  Then he says—just a little while. He turns away again and starts in starin’ at the crazy guy with the club. He has a book under his arm too. Whattaya mean who? The old jerk I mean. He keeps starin’ at this guy with the club.

  So Dot pulls my arm. Come on, she says, let’s go. I pull away. Let go woman, I says. I want to see what goes. So I look up front again.

  This hairy guy is showin’ his teeth at everybody, see? Yeah. Like an animal. Some broads in the crowd is pullin’ their dates back. Come on, come on, they’re sayin’. Jeez. Broads. Ya can’t argue with ’em. They’re too dumb. You know.