Ride the Nightmare

RIDE THE NIGHTMARE by Richard Matheson

WEDNESDAY NIGHT

Chapter One

In the hall, the telephone rang.

“Now who’s that at this hour?” Helen said, straightening up from the dishwasher.

“I’ll bite—who?” asked Chris.

Helen made a face at him. “You,” she said, “’are just the funniest.”

“I try”

“Sure you do.”

Smiling, Helen left the kitchen and walked across the living room, her slippers making a muffled sound on the rug. In the hall, the telephone jangled stridently. They should have had it installed in the kitchen, she thought. It was an old thought; one which recurred every time the telephone rang after Connie had been put to bed.

Helen’s fingers closed over the coolness of the phone and cut off its ringing. Pushing back a lock of hair with the receiver, she held it to her ear.

“Hello,” she said.

“I want to talk to Chris Phillips,” said a man’s voice.

Helen felt herself bristle. The voice was so sharp, so demanding.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You have the wrong number.”

Was that a laugh? It sounded more like a viscid clearing of the throat.

“I don’t think so.” said the man.

A look of irritation tightened Helen’s face.

“I’m sorry but our name is Martin,” she said.

“Never mind that,” the man said, and Helen got a vision of teeth clenching, of lips drawn back. “Put Chris on the phone I said.”

Helen shivered. “I’m afraid—” she started.

“I said put Chris on!”

Helen stared blankly at the receiver.

“You his wife?” the man asked.

“Yes. Now would you—?”

“So old Chris is married,” said the man.

“You have the wrong number,“ said Helen.

“You just put Chris on.” said the man. “You just put him on.”

Impulsively, Helen clumped the receiver onto the table and headed back toward the kitchen, wondering why she hadn’t hung up. Obviously, the man had a wrong number. It was just that he sounded so certain of himself. He’d intimidated her with his rude assurance.

“Who was it?” asked Chris

“Some man,” she told him, frowning. “He wants to talk to Chris.”

“So what’s the mystery?” he asked. “I’m Chris.”

“Chris Phillips.” she said before he’d finished.

He made a scoffing sound. “So what are we talking about?”

“He’s—still on the line,” she told him.

Chris looked surprised “How come? Didn’t you tell him he had a wrong number?”

“Yes, but—” She shrugged and looked exasperated. “He wouldn’t listen. He just said—put Chris on.”

He looked at her, a faint smile edging up the corners of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What’s our name, lady?”

She shrugged. “So all right.” she said. “You tell him.”

“Yes, my love.” Chris got up and walked out of the kitchen. Helen Stood motionless beside the dishwasher listening to his stockinged feet thud across the living room. For some reason her heartbeat was unnaturally fast.

In the hall, Chris said: “Hello.”

Helen found herself straining to hear the man’s reply as if his voice were audible.

“I’m sorry.” she heard Chris say. “You’ve made a mistake. My name is—”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry,” said Chris. “My name is Martin.” His voice was louder now. Helen moved toward the living room.

“Now, listen.” said Chris. “I’m telling you you’re making a mistake.”

Helen stood in the doorway looking toward the shadowy figure of her husband in the hall.

“My name is Martin, I tell you!”

Helen took an involuntary step into the living room, her heart beating even faster. She could feel it pummeling beneath her breast.

Chris shouted: “What?!”

When she reached him, he was trembling in the semi-darkness of the hall, staring into the receiver. She could hear the sharp buzzing of the dial tone.

“Chris, what is it?” she asked

His face was blank as he turned to her. Slowly, he lowered the receiver, feeling for its cradle The dial tone stopped.

“Who was it? Did you know him?”

He shook his head.

“What did he say?”

“He said he was going to kill me,” he told her.

“He said—” She couldn’t finish. A vacuum of dread swept across her and. for a moment, she thought she was going to faint. “Chris,” she murmured, clutching his arm.

He looked at her dazedly. “Chris, it was a wrong number.”

“Of course it was,” he said, hollowly.

“Well… who was he? Why should he—”

“I don’t know.”

“But that doesn’t make—” She broke off, hearing a shrill quality in her voice. Taking in a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. “What did he say, Chris? Just that—”

“Just that he was going to kill me.”

“But that doesn’t make sense!”

“I know,” he muttered.

“Maybe it’s a joke,” she said.

Chris didn’t answer.

“You know how your friends at the club are always—”

“No.” He shook his head. “It’s not a joke.”

“Call the police,” she said.

“But what if—”

“What?”