Read Online Nightmare at 20,000 Feet: Horror Stories by Richard Matheson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Matheson
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Horror, Short Stories, American, Horror Tales, Short Stories (Single Author), Fiction / Horror, Horror Fiction, Horror - General
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want to argue anymore. I'm too tired to argue."
"It's easier to just pack and run away."
She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were very dark and unhappy.
"Run away?" she said. "After eighteen years you accuse me of that? Eighteen years of watching you destroy yourself. And me along with you. Oh, don't look surprised. I'm sure you know you've driven me half insane too."
She turned away and he saw her shoulders twitch. She brushed some tears from her eyes.
"It's n-not just because you hit me," she said. "You kept saying that last night when I said I was leaving. Do you think it would matter if…" She took a deep breath. "If it meant you were angry with me? If it was that I could be hit every day. But you didn't hit me. I'm nothing to you. I'm not wanted."
"Oh, stop being so…"
"No," she broke in. "That's why I'm going. Because I can't bear to watch you hate me more every day for something that… that isn't my fault."
"I suppose you…"
"Oh, don't say anymore," she said, getting up. She hurried out of the room and he heard her walk into the living room. He stared at the dressing table.
Don't say anymore?-his mind asked as though she were still there. Well, there's more to say; lots more. You don't seem to realize what I've lost. You don't seem to understand. I had hopes, oh God, what hopes I had. I was going to write prose to make the people sit up and gasp. I was going to tell them things they needed badly to know. I was going to tell them in so entertaining a way that they would never realize that the truth was getting to them. I was going to create immortal works.
Now when I die, I shall only be dead. I am trapped in this depressing village, entombed in a college of science where men gape at dust and do not even know that there are stars above their heads. And what can I do, what can…?
The thoughts broke off. He looked miserably at her perfume bottles, at the powder box that tinkled "Always" when the cover was lifted off.
I'll remember you. Always.
With a heart that's true. Always.
The words are childish and comical, he thought. But his throat contracted and he felt himself shudder.
"Sally," he said. So quietly that he could hardly hear it himself.
After a while he got up and dressed.
While he was putting on his trousers a rug slid from under him and he had to grab the dresser for support. He glared down, heart pounding in the total fury he had learned to summon in the space of seconds.
"Damn you," he muttered.
He forgot Sally. He forgot everything. He just wanted to get even with the rug. He kicked it violently under the bed. The anger plunged down and disappeared. He shook his head. I'm sick, he thought. He thought of going in to her and telling her he was sick.
His mouth tightened as he went into the bathroom. I'm not sick, he thought. Not in body anyway. It's my mind that's ill and she only makes it worse.
The bathroom was still damply warm from her use of it. He opened the window a trifle and got a splinter in his finger. He cursed the window in a muffled voice. He looked up. Why so quiet? he asked. So she won't hear me?
"Damn you!" he snarled loudly at the window. And he picked at his finger until he had pulled out the sliver of wood.
He jerked at the cabinet door. It stuck. His face reddened. He pulled harder and the door flew open and cracked him on the wrist. He spun about and grabbed his wrist, threw back his head with a whining gasp. *
He stood there, eyes clouded with pain, staring at the ceiling. He looked at the crack that ran in a crazy meandering line across the ceiling. Then he closed his eyes.
And began to sense something. Intangible. A sense of menace. He wondered about it. Why it's myself, of course, he answered then. It is the moral decrepitude of my own subconscious. It is bawling out to me, saying: You are to be punished for driving your poor wife away to her mother's arms. You
"It's easier to just pack and run away."
She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were very dark and unhappy.
"Run away?" she said. "After eighteen years you accuse me of that? Eighteen years of watching you destroy yourself. And me along with you. Oh, don't look surprised. I'm sure you know you've driven me half insane too."
She turned away and he saw her shoulders twitch. She brushed some tears from her eyes.
"It's n-not just because you hit me," she said. "You kept saying that last night when I said I was leaving. Do you think it would matter if…" She took a deep breath. "If it meant you were angry with me? If it was that I could be hit every day. But you didn't hit me. I'm nothing to you. I'm not wanted."
"Oh, stop being so…"
"No," she broke in. "That's why I'm going. Because I can't bear to watch you hate me more every day for something that… that isn't my fault."
"I suppose you…"
"Oh, don't say anymore," she said, getting up. She hurried out of the room and he heard her walk into the living room. He stared at the dressing table.
Don't say anymore?-his mind asked as though she were still there. Well, there's more to say; lots more. You don't seem to realize what I've lost. You don't seem to understand. I had hopes, oh God, what hopes I had. I was going to write prose to make the people sit up and gasp. I was going to tell them things they needed badly to know. I was going to tell them in so entertaining a way that they would never realize that the truth was getting to them. I was going to create immortal works.
Now when I die, I shall only be dead. I am trapped in this depressing village, entombed in a college of science where men gape at dust and do not even know that there are stars above their heads. And what can I do, what can…?
The thoughts broke off. He looked miserably at her perfume bottles, at the powder box that tinkled "Always" when the cover was lifted off.
I'll remember you. Always.
With a heart that's true. Always.
The words are childish and comical, he thought. But his throat contracted and he felt himself shudder.
"Sally," he said. So quietly that he could hardly hear it himself.
After a while he got up and dressed.
While he was putting on his trousers a rug slid from under him and he had to grab the dresser for support. He glared down, heart pounding in the total fury he had learned to summon in the space of seconds.
"Damn you," he muttered.
He forgot Sally. He forgot everything. He just wanted to get even with the rug. He kicked it violently under the bed. The anger plunged down and disappeared. He shook his head. I'm sick, he thought. He thought of going in to her and telling her he was sick.
His mouth tightened as he went into the bathroom. I'm not sick, he thought. Not in body anyway. It's my mind that's ill and she only makes it worse.
The bathroom was still damply warm from her use of it. He opened the window a trifle and got a splinter in his finger. He cursed the window in a muffled voice. He looked up. Why so quiet? he asked. So she won't hear me?
"Damn you!" he snarled loudly at the window. And he picked at his finger until he had pulled out the sliver of wood.
He jerked at the cabinet door. It stuck. His face reddened. He pulled harder and the door flew open and cracked him on the wrist. He spun about and grabbed his wrist, threw back his head with a whining gasp. *
He stood there, eyes clouded with pain, staring at the ceiling. He looked at the crack that ran in a crazy meandering line across the ceiling. Then he closed his eyes.
And began to sense something. Intangible. A sense of menace. He wondered about it. Why it's myself, of course, he answered then. It is the moral decrepitude of my own subconscious. It is bawling out to me, saying: You are to be punished for driving your poor wife away to her mother's arms. You
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