Nightmare at 20,000 Feet

“That, I presume,” he said, “is why you came to see me.”

Sooner or later, the notion had to come. No amount of love could stay it. It came now as he sat alone in the living room, staring at the blur of letters on a newspaper page.

Look at the facts. Last Wednesday night, he’d kissed her and, frowning, said, “You taste sour, honey.” She’d tightened, drawn away. At the time, he’d taken her reaction at its obvious value: she felt insulted. Now, he tried to summon up a detailed memory of her behaviour afterward.

Because, on Thursday morning, he’d been unable to taste her at all.

Norman glanced guiltily toward the kitchen where Adeline was cleaning up. Except for the sound of her occasional footsteps, the house was silent.

Look at the facts, his mind persisted. He leaned back in the chair and started to review them.

Next, on Saturday, had come that dankly fetid stench. Granted, she should feel resentment if he’d accused her of being its source. But he hadn’t; he was sure of it. He’d looked around the kitchen, asked her if she’d put the garbage out. Yet, instantly, she’d assumed that he was talking about her.

And, that night, when he’d woken up, he couldn’t smell her.

Norman closed his eyes. His mind must really be in trouble if he could justify such thoughts. He loved Adeline; needed her. How could he allow himself to believe that she was, in any way, responsible for what had happened?

Then, in the restaurant, his mind went on, unbidden, while they were dancing, she’d, suddenly, felt cold to him. She’d suddenly felt-he could not evade the word-pulpy.

And, then, this morning—

Norman flung aside the paper. Stop it! Trembling, he stared across the room with angry, frightened eyes. It’s me, he told himself, me! He wasn’t going to let his mind destroy the most beautiful thing in his life. He wasn’t going to let—

It was as if he’d turned to stone, lips parted, eyes widened, blank. Then, slowly-so slowly that he heard the delicate crackling of bones in his neck-he turned to look toward the kitchen. Adeline was moving around.

Only it wasn’t footsteps he heard.

He was barely conscious of his body as he stood. Compelled, he drifted from the living room and across the dining alcove, slippers noiseless on the carpeting. He stopped outside the kitchen door, his face a mask of something like revulsion as he listened to the sounds she made in moving.

Silence then. Bracing himself, he pushed open the door. Adeline was standing at the opened refrigerator. She turned and smiled.

“I was just about to bring you—” She stopped and looked at him uncertainly. “Norman?” she said.

He couldn’t speak. He stood frozen in the doorway, staring at her.

“Norman, what is it?” she asked.

He shivered violently.

Adeline put down the dish of chocolate pudding and hurried toward him. He couldn’t help himself; he shrank back with a tremulous cry, his face twisted, stricken.

“Norman, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” he whimpered.

Again, she started for him, halting at his cry of terror. Suddenly, her face grew hard as if with angry understanding.

“What is it now?” she asked. “I want to know.”

He could only shake his head.

“I want to know, Norman!”

“No.” Faintly, frightenedly.

She pressed trembling lips together. “I can’t take much more of this,” she said. “I mean it, Norman.”

He jerked aside as she passed him. Twisting around, he watched her going up the stairs, his expression one of horror as he listened to the noises that she made. Jamming palsied hands across his ears, he stood shivering uncontrollably. It’s me! he told himself again, again; until the words began to lose their meaning-me, it’s me, it’s me, it’s me!

Upstairs, the bedroom door slammed shut. Norman lowered his hands and moved unevenly to the stairs. She had to know that he loved her, that he wanted to believe it was his mind. She had to understand.

Opening the bedroom door, he felt his way through the darkness and sat on the bed. He heard her turn and knew that she was looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m… sick.”

“No,” she said. Her voice was lifeless.

Norman stared at her. “What?”

“There’s no problem with other people, our friends, tradesmen…” she said. “They don’t see me enough. With you, it’s different. We’re together too often. The strain of hiding it from you hour after hour, day after day, for a whole year, is too much for me. I’ve lost the power to control your mind. All I can do is-blank away your senses one by one.”

“You’re not—”

“-telling you those things are real? I am. They’re real. The taste, the smell, the-and what you heard tonight.”

He sat immobile, staring at the dark form of her.

“I should have taken all your senses when it started,” she said. “It would have been easy then. Now it’s too late.”

“What are you talking about?” He could barely speak.

“It isn’t fair!” cried her voice. “I’ve been a good wife to you! Why should I have to go back? I won’t go back! I’ll find somebody else. I won’t make the same mistake next time!”

Norman jerked away from her and stood on wavering legs, his fingers clutching for the lamp.

“Don’t touch it!” ordered the voice.

The light flared blindingly into his eyes. He heard a thrashing on the bed and whirled. He couldn’t even scream. Sound coagulated in his throat as he watched the shapeless mass rear upward, dripping decay.

“All right!” the words exploded in his brain with the illusion of sound. “All right, then know me!”

All his senses flooded back at once. The air was clotted with the smell of her. Norman recoiled, lost balance, fell. He saw the mouldering bulk rise from the bed and start for him. Then his mind was swallowed in consuming blackness and it seemed as if he fled along a night-swept hall pursued by a suppliant voice which kept repeating endlessly, “Please! I don’t want to go back! None of us want to go back!

Love me, let me stay with you! love me, love me, love me…”

19 – THE LIKENESS OF JULIE

OCTOBER.

Eddy Foster had never noticed the girl in his English class until that day.

It wasn’t because she sat behind him. Any number of times, he’d glanced around while Professor Euston was writing on the blackboard or reading to them from College Literature. Any number of times, he’d seen her as he left or entered the classroom. Occasionally, he’d passed her in the hallways or on the campus. Once, she’d even touched him on the shoulder during class and handed him a pencil which had fallen from his pocket.

Still, he’d never noticed her the way he noticed other girls. First of all, she had no figure-or if she did she kept it hidden under loose-fitting clothes. Second, she wasn’t pretty and she looked too young. Third, her voice was faint and high-pitched.

Which made it curious that he should notice her that day. All through class, he’d been thinking about the redhead in the first row. In the theatre of his mind he’d staged her-and himself-through an endless carnal play. He