Nightmare at 20,000 Feet: Horror Stories (36 page)

  "Darling, don't," she begged, "I can't bear to see you unhappy"

  "I
am
unhappy," he said. He rubbed a finger on the tablecloth. "And I've just about made up my mind to see an analyst." He looked up. "It's got to be my mind," he repeated. "And- damnit!-I resent it. I want to root it out."

  He forced a smile, seeing the fear in her eyes.

  "Oh, the hell with it," he said. "I'll go to an analyst; he'll fix me up. Come on, let's dance."

  She managed to return his smile.

  "Lady, you're just plain gorgeous," he told her as they came together on the dance floor.

"Oh, I love you so,"
she whispered.

  It was in the middle of their dance that the feel of her began to change.

  Norman held her tightly, his cheek forced close to hers so that she wouldn't see the sickened expression on his face.

  And now it's gone?" finished Dr. Bernstrom. Norman expelled a burst of smoke and jabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Correct," he said, angrily.

  "When?"

  "This morning," answered Norman. The skin grew taut across his cheeks. "No taste. No smell." He shuddered fitfully "And now no sense of touch."

  His voice broke. "What's wrong?" he pleaded. "What kind of breakdown
is
this?"

  "Not an incomprehensible one," said Bernstrom.

  Norman looked at him anxiously. "What then?" he asked. "Remember what I said: it has to do only with my wife. Outside of her-"

  "I understand," said Bernstrom.

"Then what is it?"

  "You've heard of hysterical blindness."

  "Yes."

  "Hysterical deafness."

  "Yes, but-"

  "Is there any reason, then, there couldn't be an hysterical restraint of the other senses as well?"

  "All right, but why?"

  Dr. Bernstrom smiled.

  "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 was just raising the curtain on another act when he heard the voice behind him.

  "Professor?" it asked.

  "Yes, Miss Eldridge."

  Eddy glanced across his shoulder as Miss Eldridge asked a question about
Beowulf.
He saw the plainness of her little girl's face, heard her faltering voice, noticed the loose yellow sweater she was wearing. And, as he watched, the thought came suddenly to him.

Take her.

  Eddy turned back quickly, his heartbeat jolting as if he'd spoken the words aloud. He repressed a grin. What a screwy idea that was. Take
her?
With no figure? With that kid's face of hers?

  That was when he realized it was her face which had given him the idea. The very childishness of it seemed to needle him perversely.

  There was a noise behind him. Eddy glanced back. The girl had dropped her pen and was bending down to get it. Eddy felt a crawling tingle in his flesh as he saw the strain of her bust against the tautening sweater. Maybe she had a figure after all. That was more exciting yet. A child afraid to show her ripening body. The notion struck dark fire in Eddy's mind.

EIdridge, Julie,
read the year book.
St. Louis, Arts & Sciences.
As he'd expected, she belonged to no sorority or organizations. He looked at her photograph and she seemed to spring alive in his imaginations-shy, withdrawn, existing in a shell of warped repressions. He had to have her.

  Why? He asked himself the question endlessly but no logical answer ever came. Still, visions of her were never long out of his mind-the two of them locked in a cabin at the
Hiway Motel,
the wall heater crowding their lungs with oven air while they rioted in each other's flesh; he and this degraded innocent.

  The bell had rung and, as the students left the classroom, Julie dropped her books.

  "Here, let me pick them up," said Eddy.

  "Oh." She stood motionless while he collected them. From the corners of his eyes, he saw the ivory smoothness of her legs. He shuddered and stood with the books.

  "Here," he said.

  "Thank you." Her eyes lowered and the faintest of colour touched her cheeks. She wasn't so bad-looking, Eddy thought. And she did have a figure. Not much of one but a figure.

  "What is it we're supposed to read for tomorrow?" he heard himself asking.

  "The-'Wife of Bath's Tale,' isn't it?" she asked.

  "Oh, is that it?" Ask her for a date, he thought.

  "Yes. I think so."

  He nodded. Ask her now, he thought.

  "Well," said Julie. She began to turn away.

  Eddy smiled remotely at her and felt his stomach muscles trembling.

  "Be seeing you," he said.

  We stood in the darkness staring at her window. Inside the room, the light went on as Julie came back from the bathroom. She wore a terry cloth robe and was carrying a towel, a washcloth, and a plastic soap box. Eddy watched her put the washcloth and soap box on her bureau and sit down on the bed.

  He stood there rigidly, watching her with eyes that did not blink. What was he doing here? he thought. If anybody caught him, he'd be arrested. He had to leave.

  Julie stood. She undid the sash at her waist and the bathrobe slipped to the floor. Eddy froze. He parted his lips, sucking at the damp air. She had the body of a woman-full-hipped with breasts that both jutted and hung. And with that pretty child's face-Eddy felt hot breath forcing out between his lips. He muttered,
"Julie, Julie, Julie-"
Julie turned away to dress.