Nightmare At 20,000 Feet by Richard Matheson
Authors: Richard Matheson
Tags: General Interest
Ads: Link
about on the floor. The curtains seemed to writhe around him like serpents. He screamed again. He tore at them wildly. His eyes were terror-stricken.
He threw them off and lurched up suddenly, staggering around for balance. The pain in his hands assailed him. He looked at them. They were like raw butcher meat, skin hanging down in shreds. He had to bandage them. He turned toward the bathroom.
At his first step the rug slid from under him, the rug he had kicked aside. He felt himself rush through the air. He reached down his hands instinctively to block the fall.
The white pain made his body leap. One finger snapped. Splinters shot into his raw fingers, he felt a burning pain in one ankle.
He tried to scramble up but the floor was like ice under him. He was deadly silent. His heart thudded in his chest. He tried to rise again. He fell, hissing with pain.
The bookshelf loomed over him. He cried out and flung up an arm. The case came crashing down on him. The top shelf drove into his skull. Black waves dashed over him, a sharp blade of pain drove into his head. Books showered over him. He rolled on his side with a groan. He tried to crawl out from underneath. He shoved the books aside weakly and they fell open. He felt the page edges slicing into his fingers like razor blades.
The pain cleared his head. He sat up and hurled the books aside. He kicked the bookcase back against the wall. The back fell off it and it crashed down.
He rose up, the room spinning before his eyes. He staggered into the wall, tried to hold on. The wall shifted under his hands it seemed. He couldn't hold on. He slipped to his knees, pushed up again.
"Bandage myself," he muttered hoarsely.
The words filled his brain. He staggered up through the quivering dining room, into the bathroom.
He stopped. No! Get out of the house! He knew it was not his will that brought him in there.
He tried to turn but he slipped on the tiles and cracked his elbow against the edge of the bathtub. A shooting pain barbed into his upper arm. The arm went numb. He sprawled on the floor, writhing in pain. The walls clouded; they welled around him like a blank shroud.
He sat up, breath tearing at his throat. He pushed himself up with a gasp. His arm shot out, he pulled open the cabinet door. It flew open against his cheek, tearing a jagged rip in the soft flesh.
His head snapped back. The crack in the ceiling looked like a wide idiot smile on a blank, white face. He lowered his head, whimpering in fright. He tried to back away.
His hand reached out. For iodine, for gauze!-his mind cried.
His hand came out with the razor.
It flopped in his hand like a new caught fish. His other hand reached in. For iodine, for gauze!-shrieked his mind.
His hand came out with dental floss. It flooded out of the tube like an endless white worm. It coiled around his throat and shoulders. It choked him.
The long shiny blade slipped from its sheath.
He could not stop his hand. It drew the razor heavily across his chest. It slit open the shirt. It sliced a valley through his chest. Blood spurted out.
He tried to hurl away the razor. It stuck to his hand. It slashed at him, at his arms and hands and legs and body.
At his throat.
A scream of utter horror flooded from his lips. He ran from the bathroom, staggering wildly into the living room.
"Sally!" he screamed, "Sally, Sally, Sally…"
The razor touched his throat. The room went black. Pain. Life ebbing away into the night. Silence over all the world.
The next day Dr. Morton came.
He called the police.
And later the coroner wrote in his report:
Died of self-inflicted wounds.
7 – DISAPPEARING ACT
These entries are from a school notebook which was found two weeks ago in a Brooklyn candy store. Next to it on the counter was a half finished cup of coffee. The owner of the store said no one had been there for three hours prior to the time he first noticed the book.
Saturday morning early
I shouldn't be writing this. What if Mary
He threw them off and lurched up suddenly, staggering around for balance. The pain in his hands assailed him. He looked at them. They were like raw butcher meat, skin hanging down in shreds. He had to bandage them. He turned toward the bathroom.
At his first step the rug slid from under him, the rug he had kicked aside. He felt himself rush through the air. He reached down his hands instinctively to block the fall.
The white pain made his body leap. One finger snapped. Splinters shot into his raw fingers, he felt a burning pain in one ankle.
He tried to scramble up but the floor was like ice under him. He was deadly silent. His heart thudded in his chest. He tried to rise again. He fell, hissing with pain.
The bookshelf loomed over him. He cried out and flung up an arm. The case came crashing down on him. The top shelf drove into his skull. Black waves dashed over him, a sharp blade of pain drove into his head. Books showered over him. He rolled on his side with a groan. He tried to crawl out from underneath. He shoved the books aside weakly and they fell open. He felt the page edges slicing into his fingers like razor blades.
The pain cleared his head. He sat up and hurled the books aside. He kicked the bookcase back against the wall. The back fell off it and it crashed down.
He rose up, the room spinning before his eyes. He staggered into the wall, tried to hold on. The wall shifted under his hands it seemed. He couldn't hold on. He slipped to his knees, pushed up again.
"Bandage myself," he muttered hoarsely.
The words filled his brain. He staggered up through the quivering dining room, into the bathroom.
He stopped. No! Get out of the house! He knew it was not his will that brought him in there.
He tried to turn but he slipped on the tiles and cracked his elbow against the edge of the bathtub. A shooting pain barbed into his upper arm. The arm went numb. He sprawled on the floor, writhing in pain. The walls clouded; they welled around him like a blank shroud.
He sat up, breath tearing at his throat. He pushed himself up with a gasp. His arm shot out, he pulled open the cabinet door. It flew open against his cheek, tearing a jagged rip in the soft flesh.
His head snapped back. The crack in the ceiling looked like a wide idiot smile on a blank, white face. He lowered his head, whimpering in fright. He tried to back away.
His hand reached out. For iodine, for gauze!-his mind cried.
His hand came out with the razor.
It flopped in his hand like a new caught fish. His other hand reached in. For iodine, for gauze!-shrieked his mind.
His hand came out with dental floss. It flooded out of the tube like an endless white worm. It coiled around his throat and shoulders. It choked him.
The long shiny blade slipped from its sheath.
He could not stop his hand. It drew the razor heavily across his chest. It slit open the shirt. It sliced a valley through his chest. Blood spurted out.
He tried to hurl away the razor. It stuck to his hand. It slashed at him, at his arms and hands and legs and body.
At his throat.
A scream of utter horror flooded from his lips. He ran from the bathroom, staggering wildly into the living room.
"Sally!" he screamed, "Sally, Sally, Sally…"
The razor touched his throat. The room went black. Pain. Life ebbing away into the night. Silence over all the world.
The next day Dr. Morton came.
He called the police.
And later the coroner wrote in his report:
Died of self-inflicted wounds.
7 – DISAPPEARING ACT
These entries are from a school notebook which was found two weeks ago in a Brooklyn candy store. Next to it on the counter was a half finished cup of coffee. The owner of the store said no one had been there for three hours prior to the time he first noticed the book.
Saturday morning early
I shouldn't be writing this. What if Mary
Similar Books
