The Best of Richard Matheson

by Richard Matheson

  One day Ernie Willaker was coming home from school with two of his friends. They walked on the other side of the street when they saw Mr. Hawkins in his front yard standing by the picket fence.

  “Lad!” they heard him call. “Come here, lad!”

  “He means you, Ernie,” teased one of the boys.

  “He does not,” said Ernie.

  Mr. Hawkins pointed a finger at Ernie. “Come here, lad!” he called.

  Ernie glanced nervously at his friends.

  “Go on,” said one of them. “What’re ya scared of?”

  “Who’s scared?” said Ernie. “My ma says I have to come home right after school is all.”

  “Yella,” said his other friend. “You’re scared of old man Hawkins.”

  “Who’s scared!”

  “Go on, then.”

  “Lad!” called Mr. Hawkins. “Come here, lad.”

  “Well.” Ernie hesitated. “Don’t go nowhere,” he said.

  “We won’t. We’ll stick around.”

  “Well—” Ernie braced himself and crossed the street, trying to look casual. He shifted his books to his left hand and brushed back his hair with his right. Dig me a hole, he says, muttered in his brain.

  Ernie stepped up to the picket fence. “Yes, sir?” he asked.

  “Come closer, lad,” the old man said, his dark eyes shining.

  Ernie took a forward step.

  “Now you aren’t afraid of Mister Hawkins, are you?” said the old man winking.

  “No, sir,” Ernie said.

  “Good,” said the old man. “Now listen, lad. How would you like a big surprise?”

  Ernie glanced across his shoulder. His friends were still there. He grinned at them. Suddenly he gasped as a gaunt hand clamped over his right arm. “Hey, leggo!” Ernie cried out.

  “Take it easy, lad,” soothed Mr. Hawkins. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

  Ernie tugged. Tears sprang into his eyes as the old man drew him closer. From the corner of an eye Ernie saw his two friends running down the street.

  “L-leggo,” Ernie sobbed.

  “Shortly,” said the old man. “Now then, would you like a big surprise?”

  “No-no, thanks, mister.”

  “Sure you would,” said Mr. Hawkins. Ernie smelled his breath and tried to pull away, but Mr. Hawkins’s grip was like iron.

  “You know where Mr. Miller’s field is?” asked Mr. Hawkins.

  “Y-yeah.”

  “You know where the big oak tree is?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

  “You go to the oak tree in Mr. Miller’s field. and face towards the church steeple. You understand?”

  “Y-y-yeah.”

  The old man drew him closer. “You stand there and you walk ten paces. You understand? Ten paces.”

  “Yeah—”

  “You walk ten paces and you dig down ten feet. How many feet?” He prodded Ernie’s chest with a boney finger.

  “T-ten,” said Ernie.

  “That’s it,” said the old man. “Face the steeple, walk ten paces, dig ten feet—and there you’ll find a big surprise.” He winked at Ernie. “Will you do it, lad?”

  “I—yeah, sure. Sure.”

  Mr. Hawkins let go and Ernie jumped away. His arm felt completely numb.

  “Don’t forget, now,” the old man said.

  Ernie whirled and ran down the street as fast as he could. He found his friends waiting at the corner.

  “Did he try and murder you?” one of them whispered.

  “Nanh,” said Ernie. “He ain’t so m-much.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “What d’ya s’pose?”

  They started down the street, all chanting it.

  Dig me a hole, he said,

  Winking his eyes,

  And you will find

  big surprise.

  Every afternoon they went to Mr. Miller’s field and sat under the big oak tree.

  “You think there’s somethin’ down there really?”

  “Nanh.”

  “What if there was though?”

  “What?”

  “Gold, maybe.”

  They talked about it every day, and every day they faced the steeple and walked ten paces. They stood on the spot and scuffed the earth with the tips of their sneakers.

  “You s’pose there’s gold down there really?”

  “Why should he tell us?”

  “Yeah, why not dig it up himself?”

  “Because he’s too old, stupid.”

  “Yeah? Well, if there’s gold down there we split it three ways.” They became more and more curious. At night they dreamed about gold. They wrote gold in their schoolbooks. They thought about all the things they could buy with gold. They started walking past Mr. Hawkins’s house to see if he’d call them again and they could ask him if it was gold. But he never called them.

  Then, one day, they were coming home from school and they saw Mr. Hawkins talking to another boy.

  “He told us we could have the gold!” said Ernie.

  “Yeah!” they stormed angrily. “Let’s go!”

  They ran to Ernie’s house and Ernie went down to the cellar and got shovels. They ran up the street, over lots, across the dump, and into Mr. Miller’s field. They stood under the oak tree, faced the steeple, and paced ten times.

  “Dig,” said Ernie.

  Their shovels sank into the black earth. They dug without speaking, breath whistling through their nostrils. When the hole was about three feet deep, they rested.

  “You think there’s gold down there really?”

  “I don’t know but we’re gonna find out before that other kid does.”

  “Yeah!”

  “Hey, how we gonna get out if we dig ten feet?” one of them said.

  “We’ll cut out steps,” said Ernie.

  They started digging again. For over an hour they shoveled out the cool, wormy earth and piled it high around the hole. It stained their clothes and their skin. When the hole was over their heads one of them went to get a pail and a rope. Ernie and the other boy kept digging and throwing the earth out of the hole. After a while the dirt rained back on their heads and they stopped. They sat on the damp earth wearily, waiting for the other boy to come back. Their hands and arms were brown with earth.

  “How far’re we down?” wondered the boy.

  “Six feet,” estimated Ernie.

  The other boy came back and they started working again. They kept digging and digging until their bones ached.

  “Aaah, the heck with it,” said the boy who was pulling up the pail. “There ain’t nothin’ down there.”

  “He said ten feet,” Ernie insisted.

  “Well, I’m quittin’,” said the boy.

  “You’re yella!”

  “Tough,” said the boy.

  Ernie turned to the boy beside him. “You’ll have to pull the dirt up,” he said.

  “Oh—okay,” muttered the boy.

  Ernie kept digging. When he looked up now, it seemed as if the sides of the hole were shaking and it was all going to cave in on him. He was trembling with fatigue.

  “Come on,” the other boy finally called down. “There ain’t nothin’ down there. You dug ten feet.”

  “Not yet,” gasped Ernie.

  “How deep ya goin’, China?”

  Ernie leaned against the side of the hole and gritted his teeth. A fat worm crawled out of the earth and tumbled to the bottom of the hole.

  “I’m goin’ home,” said the other boy. “I’ll catch it if I’m late for supper.”

  “You’re yella too,” said Ernie miserably.

  “Aaaaah—tough.”

  Ernie twisted his shoulders painfully. “Well, the
gold is all mine,” he called up.

  “There ain’t no gold,” said the other boy.

  “Tie the rope to something so I can get out when I find the gold,” said Ernie.

  The boy snickered. He tied the rope to a bush and let it dangle down into the hole. Ernie looked up and saw the crooked rectangle of darkening sky. The boy’s face appeared, looking down.

  “You better not get stuck down there,” he said.

  “I ain’t gettin’ stuck.” Ernie looked down angrily and drove the shovel into the ground. He could feel his friend’s eyes on his back.

  “Ain’t you scared?” asked the other boy.

  “What of?” snapped Ernie without looking up.

  “I dunno,” said the boy.

  Ernie dug.

  “Well,” said the boy, “I’ll see ya.”

  Ernie grunted. He heard the boy’s footsteps move away. He looked around the hole and a faint whimper sounded in his throat. He felt cold.

  “Well, I ain’t leavin’,” he mumbled. The gold was his. He wasn’t going to leave it for that other kid.

  He dug furiously, piling the dirt on the other side of the hole. It kept getting darker.

  “A little more,” he told himself, gasping. “Then I’m goin’ home with the gold.”

  He stepped hard on the shovel and there was a hollow sound beneath him. Ernie felt a shudder running up his back. He forced himself to keep on digging. Will I give them the horse laugh, he thought. Will I give them—

  He had uncovered part of a box—a long box. He stood there looking down at the wood and shivering. And you will find—

  Quivering, Ernie stood on top of the box and stamped on it. A deeply hollow sound struck his ears. He dug away more earth and his shovel scraped on the ancient wood. He couldn’t uncover the entire box—it was too long.

  Then he saw that the box had a two-part cover and there was a clasp on each part.

  Ernie clenched his teeth and struck the clasp with the edge of his shovel. Half of the cover opened.

  Ernie screamed. He fell back against the earth wall and stared in voiceless horror at the man who was sitting up.

  “Surprise!” said Mr. Hawkins.

  A VISIT TO SANTA CLAUS

  All the way across the dark parking lot, Richard kept sighing sulkily.

  “All right, that’s e-nough,” Helen said to him when they reached the car. “We’ll see him on Tuesday. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Wanna see ’im now,” Richard said, twitching with a sob.

  Ken was reaching for the keys, trying not to drop the packages in his arms. “Oh,” he said irritably, “I’ll take him.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, shifting her bundles and shivering in the cold wind that raced across the car-packed lot.

  “I mean I’ll take him now,” he said, fumbling for the door lock.

  “Now?” she asked. “It’s too late now. Why didn’t you take him while we were in the store? There was plenty of time then.”

  “So I’ll take him now. What’s the difference?”

  “I wanna see Sanna Claus!” Richard broke in, looking intently at Helen. “Mama, I wanna see Sanna Claus now!”

  “Not now, Richard,” Helen said, shaking her head. She dumped her bundles on the front seat and straightened her arms with a groan. “That’s e-nough, I said,” she warned as Richard began whining again. “Mommy’s too tired to walk all the way back to the store.”

  “You don’t have to go,” Ken told her, throwing his packages in beside hers. “I’ll take him in myself.” He turned on the light.

  “Mama, please, Mama? Please?”

  She made herself a place on the seat and sank down with a weary grunt. He noticed the lock of unkempt brown hair dangling across her forehead, the caking dryness of her lipstick.

  “Well, what made you change your mind now?” she asked tiredly. “I only asked you about a hundred times to take him while we were in the store.”

  “For God’s sake, what’s the difference?” he snapped. “Do you want to drive back here on Tuesday just to see Santa Claus?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then . . .” He noticed the wrinkles in her stockings as she pulled her legs around and faced the front of the car. She looked old and sour in the dim light. It gave him an odd sensation in his stomach.

  “Please, Mama?” Richard was begging as if Helen were all authority, Ken thought, as if he, the father, had no say at all. Well, that was probably the way it was.

  Helen stared glumly at the windshield, then reached back and turned off the light. Two hours of being exposed to frantic Christmas shoppers, never-strained sales people, Richard’s constant demands to see Santa Claus, and Ken’s irritating refusals to take him had jaded her.

  “And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?” she asked.

  “It’ll only be a few minutes, for God’s sake,” Ken answered. He’d been on hooks all night, either remote and uncommunicative or snapping nervously at her and Richard.

  “Oh, go a-head,” she said, arranging her coat over her legs, “and please hurry.”

  “Sanna Claus, Sanna Claus!” Richard shouted, tugging joyously at his father’s topcoat.

  “All right!” Ken flared. “Stop pulling at me, for God’s sake!”

  “Joy to the world. The Lord has come,” Helen said, her sigh one of disgust.

  “Yeah, sure,” Ken said bitterly, grabbing at Richard’s hand. “Come on.”

  Helen pulled the car door shut, and Ken noticed she didn’t push down the button to lock it. She might though, after they’d gone. The keys!—the thought exploded suddenly, and he drove his hand into his topcoat pocket, his palsied fingers tightening over their cold metal. A dry swallow moved his throat and he sucked in cold air shakily, heartbeats thudding like a fist inside his chest. Take it easy, he told himself, just . . . take it easy.

  He knew enough not to look back. It would be like taking one more look at a funeral. He stared up, deliberately, at the glittering neon wreath on the department store roof. He could barely feel Richard’s hand on his. His other hand clutched at the keys in his pocket. He wouldn’t look back, he—

  “Ken!”

  His body clamped in a spasmodic start as her voice rang out thinly in the huge lot. Automatically, he turned and saw her standing by the Ford, looking at them.

  “Leave the keys!” she called. “I’ll drive around to the front of the store so you don’t have to walk all the way back here!”

  He stared blankly at her, feeling the sudden cramped tightness of his stomach muscles.

  “That’s—” He cleared his throat, almost furiously. “It’s not that far!” he called back.

  He turned away before she could answer, noticing how Richard glanced at him. His heartbeat was like a club swung against the wall of his chest.

  “Mama’s calling,” Richard said.

  “You want to see Santa Claus or not?” Ken demanded sharply.

  “Y-es.”

  “Then shut up!”

  He swallowed again painfully and lengthened his stride. Why did that have to happen? A shudder ran down his back. He looked up at the neon wreath again, but he could still see Helen standing by the car in her green corduroy coat, one arm raised a little, her eyes on him. He could still hear her voice—so you don’t have to walk all the way back here!—sounding thin and plaintive over the buffeting night wind.

  He felt that wind chilling his cheeks now as his and Richard’s shoes made a crisp, uneven sound on the gravel-strewn asphalt. Seventy yards, maybe it was seventy yards to the store. Was that the sound of their car door slamming shut? She was probably angry. If she pushed down the button, it would be harder to—

  The man in the dark, sagging-brimmed hat stood at the end of the aisle. Ken pretended not to see him, but the air seemed
rarefied suddenly, as though he were beyond atmosphere, trudging in an icy darkness that was nearly vacuum. It was the constriction around his heart that made him feel that way, the apparent inability of his lungs to hold in breath.

  “Does Sanna Claus love me?” Richard asked.

  Ken’s chest labored with forced breathing. “Yes, yes,” he said, “he—does.” The man just stood there staring up at the sky, both hands deep in the pockets of his old checked overcoat, as if he were waiting for his wife to come out of the department store. But he wasn’t. Ken’s fingers grew rigid on the keys. His legs felt like heavy wood carrying him closer to the man.

  I won’t do it, he thought suddenly. He’d walk right by the man, take Richard to see Santa Claus, return to the car, go home, forget about it. He felt incapable and without strength. Helen alone in the Ford, sitting beside their Christmas packages, waiting for her husband and son to return. The thought sent strange electric pricklings through his body. I just won’t do it. He heard the words as if someone were speaking them in his mind. I just won’t—

  His hand was growing cold and numb on the keys as, unconscious of it, he cut off the flow of blood to his fingers.

  He had to do it; it was the only way. He wasn’t going to return to the nerve-knotting frustration that was his present, the dreary expanse that was his future. Interior rages were poisoning him. For his own health it had to be done, for what was left of his life.

  They reached the end of the aisle and walked past the man.

  Richard cried, “Daddy, you dropped the keys!”

  “Come on!” He pulled at Richard’s hand, forcing himself not to look back over his shoulder.

  “But you did, Daddy!”

  “I said—!”

  Ken’s voice broke off abruptly as Richard pulled away from him and ran to where the ring of keys lay on the asphalt. He stared with helpless eyes at the man who hadn’t budged from his place. The man appeared to shrug, but Ken couldn’t see what his expression was beneath the wide hat brim.

  Richard came running back with the keys. “Here, Daddy.”

  Ken slid them into his topcoat pocket with shaking fingers, a sick dismay twisting his insides. It won’t work, he thought, feeling both an agony of disappointment and an agony of wrenching guilt.