Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

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 said.

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