Whispers: An anthology of Fantasy and Horror

GRADUATION by Richard Christian Matheson

January 15

Dear Mom and Dad:

It has been an expectedly hectic first week; unpacking, organizing, getting scheduled in classes, and of course, fraternizing with the locals to secure promise of later aid should I need it. I don’t think I will. My room is nice though it has a view which Robert Frost would scoff at; perhaps a transfer to a better location later this semester is possible. We’ll see.

I had a little run-in with the administration when I arrived; a trivial technicality. Something about too much luggage. At least more than the other dormitory students brought with them. I cleared it up with a little glib knowhow. As always. Some of the guys on my floor look as if they might be enjoyable and if I’m lucky maybe one or two will be interesting to talk to as well. But I can’t chase after “impossible rainbows.” That should sound familiar, Dad, its from your private collection and has been gone over a “few” times. A few. But maybe this time, it’s true. Anyway, the dormitory looks as if it’s going to work out well. Pass the word to you-know-who. I’m sure it will interest him.

The dinner tonight was an absolute abomination. It could easily have been some medieval mélange concocted by the college gardener utilizing lawn improver, machinist’s oil, and ground-up old men. And I question even the quality of those ingredients. I may die tonight of poisoning. Maybe if I’m lucky it will strike quickly and leave no marks. Don’t want Dad’s old school to lose its accreditation after all. However, I’m a little concerned that the townspeople will be kept awake tonight by the sounds of 247 “well-fed” freshmen looking at their reflections in the toilet bowl. Today while I was buying books an upperclassman called me green for not getting used ones. If he was in any way referring to the way my face looks right now, he should be hired by some psychic foundation. He can tell the future.

Anyway, Mom, I certainly do miss your cooking. Almost as much as I miss my stomach’s equilibrium. Ugh.

The room gets cold early with the snow and all. But I have plenty of blankets (remember the excessive luggage? . . . you guessed it) so that poses no difficulty. I’ll probably pick up a small heater next week, first free day I get. For now I’ll manage with hot tea, the collected works of Charles Dickens, and warm memories of all of you back home. Until I write again, I send my love and an abundance of sneezes.

Here’s looking achoo . . .

Yours regurgitatively,

February 2

Dear Mom and Dad:

Greetings from Antarctica. It is unbelievably cold up here. If you can imagine your son as a hybrid between a popsicle and a slab of marble, you’ve got the right idea, just make it a little colder. In a word, freezing. In another word, numbing. In two other words, liquid oxygen. I may be picking up that heater sooner than I thought. I see no future in becoming a glacier.

I met my professors today, all of whom seem interested and dedicated. My Calculus class might be a trifle dreary, but, then, numbers put a damper on things any way you look at it. The other courses look promising so far. Tell you-know-who that he-knows-who is genuinely excited about something. I’m sure he’ll be cheered by that forecast of future involvements.

Burping is very popular in my wing of the dormitory and some of the guys have been explaining its physical principles to me, complete with sonic demonstrations to validate their theories. One guy, Jim, who looks a little like a bull dog with slightly bigger eyes (and a much bigger stomach) apparently holds the record in two prestigious areas: he drinks the most and belches the loudest. For your own personal information files, he also seems to know the fewest words a person can possess and still communicate with. I estimate that the exact number of words is a high 1 digit counting number, but I could still be going too easily on him. His belches, however, are enormously awesome. He is able (he whispered to me when I bumped into his drunken body in the hallway last night) to make time stand still temporarily with one of his burps.

Furthermore (he said), that would be one of his lesser efforts. Were he to launch a truly prize-winning belch (he said) civilization as we know it would be obliterated and the earth’s atmosphere rendered noxious for 2,000 years. Personally, I feel he exaggerates a bit. Maybe 1,500 years.

Jim doesn’t stop burping until 1 or 2 in the morning, which makes studying a degree harder. It’s like having a baby in the dorm, with Jim erupting and gurgling into the a.m. hours. Except that he weighs 300 pounds. But I’m learning to live with it. Occasionally, he gets to be more than a petty annoyance and I get upset, but it’s really nothing to worry about. So tell you-know-who to not put himself into a state. I’m fine.

If we could harness the secret of Jim’s aberration and regulate it at timed intervals perhaps Yellowstone Park would be interested. Oh well, he’ll probably quiet down soon. I miss you all a lot and send my fondest love. Until I thaw out again, bye for now.

Bundlingly yours . . .

P.S. Avoid telling you-know-who I’m “cold” up here. He has this thing about that word.

February 22

Dear Mom and Dad:

An enlivening new roommate has entered my monastic quarters. He is slight in frame and says very little; a simple kind of person with a dearth of affinities, except for cheese, which he loves. I call him Hannibal owing to his fearlessly exploratory nature. You see Hannibal, while not easy to detect, is very much present. He comes out to mingle only during the evening. The late evening. More precisely, that part of the evening when I like to try and catch some sleep. Hannibal is evidently on a different schedule than I.

In short, I have mouse trouble.

Hannibal, in all fairness, is but one of the offenders. He is joined each evening by a host of other raucous marauders who squeal and scratch until dawn, determined to disturb my rest. They’re actually quite cute, but are, regardless of angelic appearances, a steadily unappreciated annoyance.

I mentioned my visitors to some of the other students in the dormitory and they said I wasn’t the only victim of the whiskered nocturnal regime. They advised setting traps and, failing that, to use a poison which can be purchased from the student store. It is rumored to yield foolproof results. I know it sounds all together like a cross borrowing from Walt Disney and an Edgar Allan Poe story, but, regrettably, I must do something.

As an alternate plan, I thought of possibly speaking with a brainy flutist I know from orchestra class, who is quite talented. Whether or not he would care to revivify a gothic tale simply for the benefit of my slumberous tranquility is something we will have to discuss. Also the question of playing and walking at the same time may come up. But I’ll try to circumvent that aspect. It’s a slightly off-beat gig but it seems an improvement on the other method. I’ll speak with him.

My classes are going fairly well, with no serious laggings in any subject despite the effects of Jim and Hannibal’s henchmen upon my alertness. Thanks for the letter and a very special thanks for those fantastic cookies, Mom. They were delicious. You really made my day. And the travelling scent of your generosity made me quite sought after for a “little sample” of what food can really taste like. Jim went ape over them and said he wouldn’t mind taking the whole next box off my hands. Which is something like a man with no legs admitting that he, occasionally, limps. Good old Jim. He’ll probably eat himself to death one day. Although it would take him at least two days to do it right.

In light of the popularity of your largess, I have determined that everybody else must have the same immense regard for the school cook I do. He is acquiring a definite reputation, the likes of which has been shared by a handful of historical figures. Like Lizzie Borden, Jack the Ripper, and endless other notables. The man has no regard for the human taste bud. All in all, I’m convinced that our chef will most assuredly go to hell.

Anyway, Mom, thanks again for the cookies. They were eaten with rapturous abandon. And you may have saved several students from ulcers. What better compliment? All my love to everyone back home. Including you-know-who.

Thwarted by burps, squeaks, and bad food . . .

P.S. I think Jim (our resident sulphur spring) finally knows what its like being kept up at night. He too has mouse trouble. (At least someone will visit him.)

March 9

Dear Mom and Dad:

Got in a small amount of trouble today as a result of being late to class and complicating matters by arguing with my professor over a dumb thing he said about me.

You see, in Philosophy I, as it is taught by Marshall B. Francis, you are not allowed an impregnable viewpoint. It must always be open to comment. And he says he likes to analyze. I told him he likes to shred and butcher. Whereupon he requested a “formal presentation of my personal philosophy of life’s purpose.”

Since, as you know, my philosophy responds unfavorably to direct assault, I refused. Mistake number one.

He told me if I didn’t cooperate he’d have me leave the class and withdraw all credit from my participation thus far. I thought this unfair, so we started yelling at one another and in the clouded ferocity of our exchanges I accidentally slashed him on the cheek with my pen. It wasn’t deep, but it scared him a lot. It wasn’t at all like it may seem; I say that only because I know what you’re probably thinking. Believe me, it was just a freak accident with one lost temper responding to another.

We talked in the infirmary later and he said he understood and would allow me a second chance. After that kindness, I volunteered my philosophy without hesitation (rather sheepishly), and he smiled at my completion of the apologies. He said that sometimes you have to be willing to fight for your beliefs and that he respected my actions in class, saving the accident, of course. I think we’ll be great friends by the end of the year (if he doesn’t get infected and die); however, philosophers consider life to be a danger so I guess it wouldn’t surprise him too much.

It is still very cold with no trace of warmth. Jim continues to noisily burn (or is it burp) the midnight oil much to the chagrin of everyone in the dorm. If a sonic boom occurred during the evening, it would be completely overlooked. Buried.

Once again, my love to all of you back home, and I sure would like to hear from you, so please write. Better not tell you-know-who what happened to me today. He’ll get the wrong impression. He has enough people to worry about as it is.

With new-found philosophy,

P.S. Hannibal is no longer with me. He and his men are squeaking across those great Alps in the sky. That poison really was foolproof.

March 18

Dear Mom and Dad:

My social horizons are expanding here in Isolation City. In one day, I met the remainder of my floormates (truly a rogues’ gallery) at a party and also a very nice girl who works as my lab partner.

I met my across-the-hall neighbor quite by chance over a game of poker. I beat him over and over and he had to write me a few IOUs. When I asked him what room he was in (so I might stop by and “collect”), it turned out to be the room directly across from mine. It’s weird how you can overlook someone who is right under your nose. Anyway, he’s a nice guy, but is badly in need of tutoring in the finer points of the gentlemanly wager. He is absolutely the worst gambler I have ever encountered. I suspect that his brain has decomposed from excessive exposure to Jim, who is his favorite card player. They play to one another’s caliber it seems. Two drunks leading each other home.

My neighbor’s name is Marcum Standile, Jr. As a rather unusual point of insight into his personal life, we figured out tonight (in my room after the party) that Marcum owes roughly $40,000 to various other dormitory inhabitants with whom he has played poker. This sum is exceeded only by Jim’s, whose debts accrued in two short months to a figure which is something akin to the annual budget for Red China. Perhaps my training in calculus is coming in handy for once.

I’ll write more about Susie later. Everything is pretty good academically speaking and the sun is, even, occasionally making a token appearance. Miss you very much and send all my love.

With endless computation,

P.S. Got a letter from you-know-who. Guess he took the accident a little too seriously. Tell him to relax.

April 4

Dear Mom and Dad:

I’m rich! Marcum got his monthly allotment from his financially overstuffed folks and came through with over $40 for yours truly. So far, this much money has me in quite an influential position since word of my monetary windfall has spread like an epidemic. I am popular beyond belief. I’ve considered opening up a loan service (with determined interest) so as to make the entire endeavor worth my expended energy as well as expended funds. An idea which I took from a movie with George Segal, “King Rat.” The entire prison camp where he was (also) being held captive by the enemy, had less money than George so he became the nucleus of all existing finance. The concept appeals to me. I’ll probably just buy a heater and an electric blanket, though. Fancy dies so quickly in a young man’s heart. Sniff.

I am referred to alternately as “Rockefeller” or “Pal,” depending on the plight of who I’m speaking with. I never dreamed any one person could have so many “Pals.” Last night someone pinned a sign to my door that says “Fort Knox North.” It’s only right. Being rich is such toil. Tell you-know-who I will use it wisely.

My lab partner and I have become even better friends in the past few weeks. I think I mentioned in the last letter that her name is Susie, actually Susan Johnson. What I failed to include in that brief description is that she is kind of like my girlfriend, is stunningly beautiful and intelligent and popular and maybe the first girl, since Beth’s death, that I really care about. Without pouring forth excessives about Susie, I’ll simply say that I know you’d love her. She is quite a unique person and around here that’s a godsend, the prevailing ambiance being composed of uptight females. I only hope that she feels the same about me. But that will come in time. I think it would crush me if she were just experiencing feelings of friendship. But I suspect that her eyes are the best spokesman for her affections and they tell me everything is going perfect. Tell you-know-who not to hold his breath. She isn’t at all like Beth, so don’t let him even attempt to connect things. Beth was just something that happened. I’m sorry about it, but it was, after all, an accident and I think I would resent you-know-who making more of this than there is. Or maybe making less of it. It feels right to me. Not like with Beth. So please keep you-know-who off the subject completely; it’s not fair.

By the way, I think I might make the dean’s list, so cross your fingers. Philosophy I is going very well and Marshall B. Francis and I are becoming friends of the close variety. As I predicted.

I miss you all very much and send my love. Please write.

With Krupp-like fortune,

P.S. Thanks for the latest batch of cookies, Mom. I’m not sure I can eat all of them myself. Plenty of willing mouths around here, though.

April 17

Dear Mom and Dad:

Terrible news. Remember Jim, the guy who belched and kept everybody up? He was found this morning, in his room, dead. The school won’t issue any kind of statement, but everyone thinks it might have been suicide. I don’t think there was a note or anything, and it could have just been an accident.

If it was suicide, it would have made a lot of sense, speaking strictly in terms of motivation. He wasn’t a very happy person, his weight and all making him almost completely socially ostracized. He was only 20 years old. It’s a shame things like this have to happen.

It certainly is going to be quiet around here without his belching and carryings-on; which is kind of a relief even if the circumstances are so tragic. Nobody has mentioned the funeral but I hear his parents are going to have him buried locally. That’s the nicest thing they could do for him. He really liked the college and the town and everything, and although unhappy, was happier here than he would have been anywhere else. It’s going to be abnormally quiet around here. Maybe with the improved conditions we’ll get some new scholars out of this dorm. I know I’ll sleep better. Still, I feel as if every death has a meaning; a reason for happening. I may bring that up in Philosophy I. Anyway, it’s a damn shame about Jim. Marcum lost a great card partner.

On a slightly cheerier note, Susie and I are still seeing each other, but I have a difficult time figuring her out. Maybe she isn’t the demonstrative type. If that is the case, I can understand her reticence, but if not, I can’t help wondering what’s wrong. We talk all the time but she doesn’t seem to be able to let me know she cares. It’s odd because Beth was similar in that way.

I’m sure time will make its own decision. Sound familiar, Dad? It’s another one of your polished “classics.” What would life be without my father’s inimitable cracker-barreling? A bit more relaxing perhaps . . .

Incidentally, the loan business is beginning to take shape. I’ll write more about it later. For now, it’s looking quite hopeful. Monte Carlo, here I come.

Pass the word to you-know-who, about my business. It’s what he likes to hear. Former client makes good and all that stuff. You know.

Miss you all very much and send my deepest love.

Destined to be wealthy (but in semi-mourning),

P.S. My room is starting to bother me. Maybe a change!

April 25

Dear Mom and Dad:

You-know-who wrote me a letter I received today. He wants me to come home. The onslaught of Jim’s death along with the isolating geography up here has him surprisingly alarmed. He feels that the milieu is just too strenuous for me to manage. I disagree with him completely and feel that I’m taking Jim’s death very well. I’m not overreacting beyond what is reasonable. After all, Jim and I were almost complete strangers. Maybe the ease of detachment comes because of that.

I wrote you-know-who tonight after dinner, but I think a word from you might help to quell his skepticism. I know you told him about the death out of good conscience, but, as I recommended, it may have been a bad idea. All in all, I couldn’t be happier and the thought of leaving depresses me very much. I think my letter will stand on its own merit, but a word from you would assist the cause enormously.

Business is in full swing here in Fort Knox North. I’ve made over $15 in interest this week. Once again, I’m baffled as to how to spend the newly mounting sums. Perhaps a place where liquor and painted women are available to book-weary students? However, I’ll probably squander my gain away on decent food. The indigenous delicacies are becoming as palatable as boiled sheet metal. (But nowhere near as tender.) Really disgusting. I look forward to a meal by the greatest cook in the known world. I hope you’re listening, Mom.

Food can destroy all faculties but humor, I’ve discovered. In fact, the worse the food the better the humor of those who must eat it or so it seems. Next to maggots the students at this school have the second best senses of humor. Maggots must be uproarious. And they don’t even have to knock ’em dead. It’s taken care of. Just the opposite here: the chef is trying to knock us dead. Comparatively speaking, I would welcome the chance to become a maggot.

I talked to the dean of housing today about changing rooms and he told me (morbidly enough) that the only available room is Jim’s. It seemed grisly at first, but I gave it serious thought and am going to move in tomorrow. It’s been cleaned up (all but boiled out) so there is no trace of anything that indicated someone lived in it. Or died in it. For obvious reasons, I think you would agree, telling you-know-who would just fuel the flame. He can’t expect everyone to react to death the same way. It doesn’t spook me to be in Jim’s room.

I wonder, though, if his spirit will inhabit my lungs and create zombie burps. All, no doubt, from your cookies, Mom. He was really hooked. Phantom gases are an interesting concept, but don’t exactly arrest me esthetically. Quiet, I think I hear a cookie crumbling.

My studies are going exceptionally well. Something interesting happened in Philosophy I today. Remember I told you I was going to mention the point about Jim’s death maybe being the happiest salvation he could have chosen? Well, I made the point today and nobody would talk about it. They all seemed disturbed about the personalized nature of the question since it wasn’t just a hypothetical inquiry. Some people even made peculiar comments. People are unpredictable when it comes to death.

Things are “OK” with Susie. We’re supposed to go to a concert tonight. Will tell you about that in next letter. Miss you all hugely and send my fondest love.

Sleeping better,

P.S. Susie may get my class ring tonight. Lucky girl.

April 26

Dear Mom and Dad:

Something ghastly has happened. It’s hard to even write this letter as I am extremely upset.

Susie and I returned from the school auditorium sometime after midnight, following the concert, and sneaked into my dormitory room to listen to some music. I had planned to ask Susie how she felt about me after we settled down. The concert had been very stimulating and we were both being quite verbal, competing for each others audience as many thoughts were occurring to both of us. We talked for several hours and were almost exhausted from the conversation before quieting down.

As we sat listening to the music, on my bed together, I bent over to her cheek and, kissing her gently, asked her how she felt about our relationship and where it was going. She was silent for what must have been minutes. Then she spoke. In almost a pale whisper she said that we would always be good friends and that her regard for me was quite sincere but that she couldn’t feel romantically about me ever. She didn’t explain why, even though I asked her over and over.

Maybe the fact that I was tired had something to do with it, but I began to cry and couldn’t stop. Her admission had taken me entirely by surprise. I had thought things were just beginning to take shape.

I guess Susie sensed that my hurt was larger than even the tears revealed for she got up from the bed to walk to the other side of the room. Working things out in her mind, I guess. She walked to the window to let in some air. As she raised it I could feel the cold wind rush in, and I looked up to see Susie’s hair blowing as she kneeled near the window, looking out over the fields. It was so quiet that the whole thing seemed like a dream; the cold air plunging in on us, the music playing with muted beauty for us alone, the near darkness making shadowy nothings of our separateness.

Susie leaned out the window, and I watched her, transfixed, thinking that what she had said was a story, that she was only playing. She only continued in her silence, staring into the night’s blackness.

I guess she wanted more air or something because she raised the window, and as I rose to help her with it, a screaming cut the air.

She had fallen out the window.

She kept screaming until she hit the walkway below. Then there was silence again. She was taken to the hospital and operated on for a fractured skull, broken shoulder, and internal injuries.

She was pronounced dead at 6:30 this morning.

The police questioned me today about the accident but seemed satisfied that it was a tragic mishap. They could, I’m sure, see that my grief was genuine.

I am left with almost nothing now. Susie was everything I worked for other than school, and without her here, that means nothing. I am thinking of coming home. You-know-who needn’t say anything to you or me about what he thinks. He’s wrong. And, at this point, I don’t need advice. My treatment will be mine alone from now on. I don’t want interference from him any more.

I am very seriously depressed. I keep thinking that, had Susie told me long ago that she cared we wouldn’t have spent so long, last night, in my room. If only she had cared, everything might have been different. I think these thoughts must occur to anyone who loses someone cherished. I didn’t think something like this could happen to me. I find it hard to go on without someone caring. If you don’t care about someone who cares about you, why should you even exist? Without that there is no reason.

In deepest hopelessness,

P.S. Maybe no letters from me until I feel better.

April 28

Dear Mom and Dad:

Things are no better with me than my last letter reported. Since Susie’s death I am unable to concentrate on studies and am falling seriously behind in my classes. I sit alone most of the time in my room, watching the fields as the wind’s lickings and swirlings create giant patterns. Before today, I had thought it the most beautiful view in the dorm.

Speaking of the dorm, I now find myself unable to associate with any of the other dorm residents. They all remind me of Susie. I almost hate this building because it remembers everything that happened in it. It will not forget anything and each time I get inside it I feel subsumed by its creaking examinations of me. I am now easily given to imaginings about many things and question all things. I trust only myself now.

My loan business is being attended to assiduously with the scrutiny of a watchmaker fearing he has left out a part from a shipment of hundreds of timepieces. I am losing money now. The clientele is not paying me back punctually or with owed amounts adequately covered. Everybody on my floor and many people scattered throughout the building have taken out loans. Almost none have returned them. I am almost at my wit’s end trying to get the money. But you can’t torture people to get it. I’m really getting desperate. I have such contempt for those who borrow things and either refuse to return them or consciously allow themselves to let their obligation slide through negligence. Negligence should beget negligence. It’s only fair that way.

I have been going to concerts the past two nights. They seem to help me relax. I despise returning to the dormitory more and more. Everytime I get inside I feel suffocated. I realize that I must try to adjust and get back into the swing of things, but it is not easy. I am trying. Tell you-know-who.

That’s all I can tell you. I can’t foresee much of anything now. My dearest love to both of you. Please write.

Confused with sickness,

April 30

Dear Mom and Dad:

Last night, almost as if the dormitory knew my hate for it (like a dog who senses its masters loathings), it took its own life along with the lives of many inside its cradling horror.

As I walked back from a 10:30 concert (Chopin) at the campus center, I came upon the dormitory burning bright orange in the black chill of the night. Firemen say it was caused by an electrical short circuiting or something. Nineteen students were eaten by flames, unable to escape the building. The remains were charred beyond recognition and teeth and dental records are being matched up to discern who the students were.

It doesn’t seem to matter who someone is once he is dead. Only what he did while he lived. An honorable life will not tolerate an impure death. But the life that deceives and cloaks its meaning with artifice and insensitivity cannot die reasonably. Perhaps Marshall B. Francis would have something to say about that. All death seems to need is an attached philosophy to resolve its meaning. Otherwise it is just an end. I may talk to him.

There is nothing left for me now of course. I am numbed by the death which surrounds me here. My room and belongings were destroyed in the fire, and the purpose of my schooling has become inconsequential to both myself and what I want.

I will try another school, in another place. Things must be different elsewhere. Somewhere there must be a safe place. A place where things such as what I have seen haven’t happened. If there is, I will find it.

I’m catching a plane tomorrow at noon and should arrive at about 5:30. My love to you until then.

Forward looking,

P.S. I got an A in philosophy.