Twilight Zone The Movie (14 page)

“Now do you realize you’ll never get away?” she shouted. “You think it was an accident you came here? He
made
it happen! He brought you here just like he brought us here and kept us! Just the way he’ll keep you!” She nodded, but her voice raced on.

“Or maybe he’ll get mad at you someday like he did with his
real
sister and cripple you and take away your mouth so you can’t yell at him, or maybe do what he did to his
real
mother and father—”

For an instant Anthony closed his eyes, wincing in pain. Then he opened them once more, staring at the girl. Softly, very softly, he spoke:

“Time for you to go now, Ethel.”

Helen took a step forward. “Anthony, don’t—”

But Anthony ignored her. He faced Ethel, smiling his secret smile.

“It’s a special surprise. I just made it up.”

Ethel moaned, shaking her head as Anthony’s voice rose. “I’m wishing you to
Cartoonland!”

Ethel vanished.

Not in a puff of smoke. Not in a blind flash. She simply—disappeared.

Helen stood frozen. Ice water trickled in her veins, her limbs were numb with cold, but it was not physical chill that set her trembling. This wasn’t the first time she had seen someone disappear before her very eyes; she’d watched magic acts on the stage, where the conjurer waved his wand and a shapely assistant had seemingly vanished from behind a black cloth or the confines of a closed cabinet. And in fantasy films a wizard might mutter an incantation that caused another character to fade from the screen. But this prosaically furnished parlor was not a stage set and the small boy standing before her wasn’t a magician. He hadn’t waved a wand or uttered a spell and Ethel had not been obliterated by means of a movie’s special effects.

This was reality. The parlor was real. The people in it, including Ethel, actually existed.

Or
had
existed. Because now Ethel was gone. A small boy uttered a simple sentence and Ethel became a nonperson.

It was the cold reality that sent shivers along Helen’s spine.

And now the small boy was smiling at her.

“I told you cartoons are good,” Anthony said. “Anything can happen in them!”

He turned, pointing toward the television set.

Helen followed his gaze to the screen, where animated figures of goblins and witches were chasing their victim. Now the object of their pursuit glanced back and Helen stared in shock at the familiar face.

Ethel was in the cartoon!

For a moment her panic-stricken features filled the screen, mouth opened to sound a shriek, which rose against a blaring background of merry music.

Then Anthony’s hand rose in a sweeping gesture, for all the world like one of Helen’s former pupils using an eraser to wipe a blackboard clean.

The screen went blank.

And Anthony, in a dreadful parody of Bugs Bunny, stuttered
“Th-th-th-th-that’s all, Ethel!”

With a gasp, Helen turned and ran for the door. Behind her she heard the family’s cries, heard the boy’s sharply shouted command, but she didn’t look back.

Now, racing down the hall, she reached the front door and tugged at the handle. For one fearful moment she thought it was locked; then, suddenly surrendering to her strength, it flew open.

Helen started forward, only to stumble back as a huge gust of wind roared through the doorway from the darkness beyond. Reeling, she forced herself forward again but as she did so, something rolled through the darkness to bar her path.

Filling the threshold before her was a gigantic staring eyeball.

Helen slammed the door and twisted around, sobbing.

Half-blinded by tears of mingled frustration and frantic fear, she watched Anthony advancing toward her down the hallway. The anger had drained from his face; now his expression was one of contrition and concern.

“I can’t help it, Helen,” he said. “I don’t
want
to hurt anybody. If you’ll just come back—”

He reached out and took her hand. Almost without realizing it, Helen found herself moving with him along the hall.

Through her sobs she heard his voice sounding plaintively.

“You don’t understand. Nobody does. All I have to do is wish for something and it happens.”

Now they were in the parlor once more. Blinking away her tears, Helen looked up and saw the family still huddled motionless against the far wall, paralyzed with shock. Beside her, Anthony was still speaking.

“Please, Helen, you’ve got to believe me! I can do anything.
Anything!”

As if to demonstrate, he turned toward the silent television set. The group against the wall stared speechless in agonized expectation. Despite herself, Helen was staring, too.

And now the television set started to vibrate. Sparks flew forth from the screen. The cabinet began to glow, incandescent with an inner energy that enveloped it in flickering flame. With a hideous grating screech, the top of the set ripped apart, bursting before a force that boiled upward from within.

Then the opening widened splitting the set in half. A whirling, snarling form spun upward, streaming out into the room and enlarging as it emerged. The swirling figure was that of a cartoon dragon, but as it grew, it changed into something far more horrifying—something three-dimensional—a living, pulsating reality. Its eyes were gigantic glaring globes of fire and its breath was a jet of flame.

Helen swayed back, closing her eyes. “Wish it away, Anthony!” she panted.
“Wish it away!”

A surging sound rose. Helen forced her eyes open as with blinding speed the huge form dwindled, collapsing back into the yawning fissure of the shattered television set. Then, with a final flicker, it shimmered away, together with the ruined remnants of the set itself.

There was a moment of utter silence.

Helen stared at the family cringing against the wall, stared at the boy beside her. He too was surveying the room, and when at last he turned toward her, his face was a mask of misery.

“I hate this house,” he murmured. “I hate everything about it.”

Suffused with sudden purpose, his voice rose.

“I wish it
all
away!”

Succumbing to dreadful impulse, Helen turned her gaze toward the figures cowering against the wall. Again, no spells were uttered, no wands waved. But as she watched, one by one, they all disappeared.

Mother, Father, Uncle Walt, vanished into—

Nothingness.

The room itself had melted away. Helen turned, her eyes searching the darkness, finding nothing but the night surrounding her on all sides. Nothing but the night—and Anthony, standing beside her in empty space.

“Where—where are we?” she faltered.

Anthony stared at her bleakly. “Nowhere.”

Helen’s voice echoed through emptiness. “Where are the others?”

“I sent them wherever they wanted to go.” Anthony’s voice trembled. “Away from me.”

Helen looked down at the boy. Suddenly, standing here in the darkness, he seemed utterly helpless, utterly forlorn. There was nothing monstrous about him now—all she saw was a lost, lonely little boy. Bracing herself, she took him by the shoulder and bent forward, meeting his gaze eye-to-eye.

“Anthony,” she whispered. “Take us back.”

The child’s stare wavered. “So
you
can leave, too?”

She sensed the accusation in his voice, but his eyes held only hopelessness and his face was white with fear.

Helen hesitated, then took a deep breath.

“I won’t leave you,” she said. “Take us back, Anthony. Take us back, so you and I can try again.”

The boy stared at her without speaking, his eyes shining with sudden hope, then dulling in doubt and despair.

Helen shook her head. “I’m not lying to you, Anthony.” Now the words came unbidden, from somewhere deep within her. “You need someone to teach you. Somebody to help you understand this gift you have—this terrible,
wonderful
gift. A gift you must control. We must learn how to use it wisely.” She took another deep breath. “The two of us can learn together.”

Anthony looked up anxiously. “You’ll stay with me?”

“Yes.”

“Always?”

Helen nodded; there was no turning back. “Always.”

Anthony smiled. “Okay,” he said.

Reaching out, he took her hand. For a moment they stood together in the darkness. Then something flickered, and the emptiness around them was filled with recognizable reality once more.

Utter blackness faded into the ordinary shadows of normal light. Looking around, Helen saw that she and Anthony were standing on the same spot formerly occupied by the house. It was gone now, but surrounding her were the barren fields through which she had driven, and in the distance she recognized the road that wound its way back into the bordering trees.

Smiling in relief, she waited for Anthony to speak.

He nodded quickly. “Let’s go.”

Helen turned, then halted, frowning.

Although the house was gone, the driveway before it was still intact. Intact and empty—her car was nowhere to be seen.

For a moment Helen hesitated, remembering her own words. This was a new beginning; they must learn together, learn how to control Anthony’s power, using it only to serve its proper purpose. She must be careful not to encourage any further demonstrations until they both were sure what the consequences might be. On the other hand, they
did
need wheels in order to leave here in an ordinary fashion.

Helen made her decision, lips framing a question. “My car—?”

Anthony smiled, then made a small offhand gesture.

Instantly the car was back in the driveway, parked directly before them.

“Okay?” Anthony smiled at her. “Can we go now?”

Helen nodded. Together they moved to the car and Helen opened the door, waiting while Anthony slid across to the right-hand passenger-seat. Then she took her place before the wheel, closing the door behind her.

Suddenly she frowned and the boy glanced up at her questioningly.

“What’s the matter?”

Helen shook her head. “I forgot.” She gestured toward the ignition. “I don’t have the key—it’s in my purse—”

But as she spoke, something flicked between her fingers. Staring down, she saw the car key nestling in her palm; at the same moment she sensed the pressure of her purse against her lap.

Anthony was smiling.

Helen sighed, shaking her head in mingled relief and admonition. “Let’s not do too much of that anymore,” she murmured.

“Okay,” said Anthony.

Helen started the engine, then headed the car back down the road leading to the trees. As she did so, she found herself making mental notes. She really must do something about Anthony’s vocabulary—he’d just said “okay” three times in five minutes; and she would have to teach him something about grooming—his hair was badly in need of combing, and that soiled outfit he wore was a positive disgrace.

Somehow the prospect didn’t dismay her—if anything, the thought of teaching again filled her with joyful anticipation.

So much to teach, so much to learn—

Helen glanced at Anthony and he smiled, his face radiant with a happiness so great that he seemed unable to contain it. Beaming up at her, he made a little gesture with both his hands.

Suddenly the sky brightened into morning sunlight and as Helen stared wide-eyed through the windshield, the bare fields bordering the road ahead blossomed out into bright and shining banks of flowers.

Helen shook her head reprovingly. “Anthony!”

But as she spoke, she smiled.

Anthony smiled with her. The whole world was smiling now as the car sped through the fields of flowers and into the twilight of the trees beyond.

S E G M E N T

4

Story by
G
EORGE
C
LAYTON
J
OHNSON

Screenplay by
G
EORGE
C
LAYTON
J
OHNSON
and
R
ICHARD
M
ATHESON
and
J
OSH
R
OGAN

The plane plunged into the twilight.

From his window-seat just forward of the right wing, Mr. Valentine blinked out at the darkening sky. Then, frowning, he consulted his wristwatch.

Three o’clock. Too early, much too early for twilight. And yet, the clouds encircling the aircraft were violet, almost purple. Peering ahead, Valentine noted a deepening darkness beyond. His frown deepened in response.

Thunderclouds?

Oh no, not that.
It couldn’t be. Not after the way he’d checked the weather reports in the morning paper. Clear skies all the way—that’s what the map showed and only fifteen minutes ago the captain’s voice had crackled a cheery greeting over the intercom, announcing the promise of a smooth on-course flight at an altitude of thirty-five thousand feet.

Sorry, Captain. I don’t like your altitude. And your prediction is for the birds.

Or would be, if there were any birds. But birds were too smart to venture up to that height. Only a fool would take such a risk, and only a fool would put his faith in the smarmy reassurance of a pilot who was paid to offer it to a captive audience of passengers.

Surely the captain must have seen the cloud banks ahead. Unless, of course, he was blind. In which case he shouldn’t be flying.

And neither should I,
Valentine told himself.

But there was no help for it. The conference opened tomorrow morning and neither automobile nor Amtrak could cross the continent in eighteen hours. He’d asked for a week off in advance with the thought in mind—either driving or taking the train—but his production supervisor had vetoed that idea in a hurry.

“Sorry, no way. We’re working shorthanded as it is, and you’ve got that Carver job to finish up before you go. Why waste all that time when you can hop on a plane Thursday afternoon and still get a good night’s rest before Friday’s program starts? I mean, what’s your problem?”