Pilgrimage to Earth

FEAR IN THE NIGHT

She heard herself screaming as she woke up and knew she must have been screaming for long seconds. It was cold in the room but she was covered with perspiration; it rolled down her face and shoulders, down the front of her nightgown. Her back was damp with sweat and the sheet beneath her was damp.

Immediately she began to shiver.

“Are you all right⁵” her husband asked.

For a few moments she couldn’t answer. Her knees were drawn up and she coiled her arms tightly around them, trying to stop shuddering. Her husband was a dark mass beside her, a long dark cylinder against the faintly glimmering sheet. Looking at him, she began trembling again.

“Will it help if I snap on the light?” he asked.

“No!” she said sharply. “Don’t move—please!”

And then there was only the steady ticking of the clock, but somehow that was filled with menace also.

“Did it happen again?”

“Yes,” she said. “Just the same. For Lord’s sake, don’t touch me!” He had started to move toward her, dark and sinuous against the sheet, and she was trembling violently again.

“The dream,” he began cautiously, “was it...was I...?” Delicately, he left it unvoiced, shifting his position on the bed slightly, carefully so she wouldn’t be frightened.

But she was getting a grip on herself again. She unclenched her hands, putting the palms hard and flat against the bed.

“Yes,” she said. “The snakes again. They were crawling all over me. Big ones and little ones, hundreds of them. The room was filled with them and more were coming in the door, through the windows. The closet was filled with snakes, so full they were coming under the door onto the floor—”

“Easy,” he said. “Sure you want to talk about it?”

She didn’t answer.

“Want the light on yet?” he asked her gently.

She hesitated, then said, “Not yet. I don’t dare just yet.”

“Oh,” he said in a tone of complete understanding. “Then the other part of the dream—”

“Yes.”

“Look, perhaps you shouldn’t talk about it.”

“Let’s talk about it.” She tried to laugh but it came out a cough. “You’d think I’d be getting used to it. For how many nights now?”

The dream always began with the little snake, slowly crawling across her arm, watching her with evil red eyes. She flung it from her, sitting up in bed. Then another slithered across the covers, fatter, faster. She flung that one away too, getting quickly out of bed and standing on the floor. Then there was one under her foot and then one was coiled in her hair, over her eyes, and through the now- opened door came still more, forcing her back on the bed, screaming, reaching for her husband.

But in the dream her husband wasn’t there. In the bed beside her, a long dark cylinder against the faintly glimmering sheets, was a tremendous snake. She didn’t realize it until her arms were around it.

“Turn on the light now,” she commanded. Her muscles contracted, straining against each other as light flooded the room. Her thighs tensed, ready to hurl her out of bed if....

But it was her husband after all.

“Dear Lord,” she breathed and relaxed completely, sagging against the mattress.

“Surprised?” he asked her, grinning wryly.

“Each time,” she told him, “each time I’m sure you won’t be there. I’m sure there’ll be a snake there.” She touched his arm just to make sure.

“You see how foolish it all is?” he said softly, soothingly. “If only you would forget. If you would only have confidence in me these nightmares would pass.”

“I know,” she said, drinking in the details of the room. The little telephone table was immensely reassuring with its litter of scribbled lists and messages. The scarred mahogany bureau was an old friend, as was the little radio, and the newspaper on the floor. And how sane her emerald-green dress was, thrown carelessly across the slipper chair!

“The doctor told you the same thing,” he said. “When we were having our trouble you associated me with everything that went wrong, everything that hurt you. And now that our troubles are over, you still do.”

“Not consciously,” she said, “I swear, not consciously.”

“But you do it all the same,” he insisted. “Remember when I wanted the divorce? When I told you I’d never loved you? Remember how you hated me then, even though you wouldn’t let me go?” He paused for breath. “You hated Helen and me. That has taken its toll. The hate has remained under our reconciliation.”

“I don’t believe I ever hated you,” she said. “Only Helen—that skinny little monkey!”

“Mustn’t speak ill of those departed from trouble,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose I drove her to that breakdown. I can’t say I’m sorry. Do you think she’s haunting me?”

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” he said. “She was high-strung, nervous, artistic. A neurotic type.”

“I’ll get over all this now that Helen’s gone.” She smiled at him and the lines of worry on her forehead vanished. “I’m so crazy about you,” she murmured, running her fingers through his light-brown hair. “I’d never let you go.”

“You’d better not.” He smiled back at her. “I don’t want to go.”

“Just help me.”

“With all I’ve got.” He bent forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “But, darling, unless you get over these nightmares—featuring me as the principal villain—I’ll have to—”

“Don’t say it,” she murmured quickly. “I can’t bear the thought. And we are past the bad time.”

He nodded.

“You’re right, though,” she said. “I think I’ll try a different psychiatrist. I can’t stand much more of this. These dreams, night after night.”

“And they’re getting worse,” he reminded her, frowning. “At first it was only once in a while but now it’s every night. Soon, if you don’t do something, it’ll be—”

“All right,” she said. “Don’t talk about it.”

“I have to. I’m getting worried. If this snake fixation keeps up, you’ll be taking a knife to me while I’m asleep one of these nights.”

“Never,” she told him. “But don’t talk about it. I want to forget it. I don’t think it’ll happen again. Do you?”

“I hope not,” he said.

She reached across him and turned off the light, kissed him and closed her eyes.

After a few minutes she turned over on her side. In half an hour she rolled over again, said something incoherent and was quiet. After twenty minutes more she had shrugged one shoulder but, other than that, made no motion.

Her husband was a dark mass beside her, propped up on one elbow. He lay in the darkness, thinking, listening to her breathe, hearing the tick of the clock. Then he stretched out at full length.

Slowly he untied the cord of his pajamas and pulled until he had a foot of it free. Then he drew back the covers. Very gently he rolled toward her with the cord in his hand, listening to her breathing. He placed the cord against her arm. Slowly, allowing himself seconds to an inch, he pulled the cord along her arm.

Presently she moaned.