| Short Story |
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Flight of Imagination
By Michael C. Keith
Fear is that little darkroom where negatives are
developed.
-- Michael Pritchard
Emil Robard took a seat in the passenger waiting area at the gate of his
impending flight at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Early as usual he
scanned the pages of two local newspapers, checked his notes for his
business presentation, and watched several planes taxi in and out of various
gates up and down the concourse. His aircraft was already in place and was
being prepped for its flight to Charlotte where he would make a connection to
Las Vegas.
While he looked out at the 737 that would carry him on the first leg of his trip,
he noticed the pilot moving about the cockpit. It was over an hour before
departure, so Emil was curious to see someone already there. The copilot
was not yet in place and the waiting room was just beginning to fill with other
passengers.
It was a good weather day with the only storms hundreds of miles to the
south far beyond the path of his flight. Emil had checked the forecast on his
laptop that morning, and he looked forward to catching up on some sleep
while airborne. Vegas would be the fifth stop on his business trip, and he was
feeling the effects of a week and a half on the road and the usual insomnia
that he experienced when traveling.
Nowhere was his fatigue more evident than in his eyes. For two days he’d
been unable to tolerate his contact lens for more than a couple hours at a
stretch without his eyes burning and his vision blurring. Less than an hour
ago he had put them back in and already they were causing him discomfort,
so he planned to see his eye doctor as soon as he returned home. He
thought his optical issue might have something to do with the stale air
circulating in the plane’s cabin because the problem had intensified since
leaving home. His eyes were particularly sensitive to sunlight and now it
occurred to him he was probably aggravating things by staring out the window
of the passenger area to his waiting jet. Yet his curiosity in the pilot’s activity
outweighed his common sense and prevented him from turning away from the
glare outside.
The pain in Emil’s eyes was beginning to intensify when he saw the pilot
press his face against the cockpit’s windshield and grin broadly revealing a
dark toothless chasm. Emil shuddered and turned away to see if anyone else
had witnessed the bizarre scene, but the line of seats facing the plane
remained empty. When he reluctantly returned his gaze to the cockpit, the
pilot’s face had morphed into something akin to the masks on display at
Halloween. His features had become grotesquely exaggerated and deformed
and his lips quivered as they formed words, whose meaning eventually
became terrifyingly clear to Emil.
“You will die,” was the message conveyed by the hideously transformed
figure in the cockpit.
Again, Emil looked around to see if anyone else was witnessing the freakish
scene, but he was alone in his horrifying experience. Maybe the whole thing
was the result of one of his silent migraines, he thought, yet when he closed
his eyes to determine if there was the light storm that constituted these rare
attacks his heart dropped. Nothing. Not even a floating ember in the
darkness behind his closed eyelids.
Twenty years ago, he had experienced what he thought was a hallucination
while at the supermarket. When approaching the cashier he noticed that the
faces of other customers had become contorted and disfigured. Shaken by
the incident he hurried home and gulped two Xanax and applied a cold
compress to his forehead and within minutes things felt like they were
returning to normal. While the event frightened and disturbed him, he soon
forgot about it until it happened again while he was driving to work a few
months later. He suddenly realized that he was unable to discern half the
lettering on license plates and road signs. This prompted him to call his
ophthalmologist, who diagnosed his symptoms as a phantom migraine.
“I have good and bad news for you,” said the eye doctor, and Emil braced
himself for the worst but was told he was experiencing migraine attacks sans
headache. “You’re one of the lucky ones, Mr. Robard. You only get a light
show and not the pounding. Consider yourself fortunate. It shouldn’t happen
often. Just shut your eyes and take a break when they do. It’s nothing to
worry about.”
But what was happening before him now was definitely something to worry
about, thought Emil. As his panic grew he seized on the notion that he was
witnessing the actions of a terrorist—a terrorist like those who flew out of the
very same airport on September 11. With that idea now firmly planted in his
mind he dashed to the ticket counter to inform the airline official. He was so
agitated that he could barely speak, but after several deep breathes, he
managed to get the essence of his message across.
“T-t-terrorist in the cockpit of the plane,” he choked out.
“What, sir?” asked the nonplussed airline employee.
“A terrorist on the plane. In the cockpit!” Emil repeated breathlessly. “Look,
come over and see for yourself.”
The airline representative followed Emil to the window and looked carefully at
the parked plane.
“Sorry, sir, but I don’t see anything,” she reported, and indeed the cockpit
was empty.
Emil knew his claim sounded ridiculous in light of how normal things now
appeared but he was convinced he had witnessed something malevolent and
likely dangerous.
“Are you alright, sir?” inquired the airline employee casting a suspicious eye
at him.
Fearing he might be reported to the authorities, Emil quickly explained the
problems he was having with his contact lens and offered as short summary
of the silent migraines that played tricks on his vision.
“I’m fine. Just need to rest the old peepers, I guess,” he offered with feigned
conviction.
The attendant returned to her station with an expression that suggested she
was not totally convinced by his explanation. In the remaining time before the
gate was opened to his flight he resisted the urge to look at the cockpit and
agonized over whether to board the plane when it came the moment to do so.
Just seconds before the door closed to the gate he decided to board, and this
he did with a terrible sense of foreboding and uncertainty about the wisdom of
his decision. When he reached the open door to the cockpit, he braved a
look inside and his fears were instantly mollified. At the controls were a gray-
haired female pilot and her young male copilot.
“Thank God,” Emil muttered to himself as he passed two smiling flight
attendants and made his way to his window seat in the economy section.
To his satisfaction the seat next to his was empty and Emil thought he had
lucked out since the rest of the plane appeared totally full. He removed his
contact lens case from his pocket and took out his troublesome lens from his
burning eyes. A feeling of relief replaced his anxiety. Everything is going to
be fine, he thought, as the captain announced they would be taking off as
soon as a late passenger boarded.
“Damn! There goes the room to stretch out in,” he grumbled removing his
sports jacket and briefcase from the vacant seat.
Through blurred vision he could barely make out the image of the person
coming up the aisle who would take the place next to him. Far from feeling
social Emil turned his head away from the advancing figure and peered out
the window as the plain began to rev up its engines. He could feel the late
arrival’s body settling in next to him, and then he could make out a reflection
in the cabin window. A jab of icy air accosted his neck and back and made
him shiver as he recognized his seatmate. The specter he had beheld from
the passenger waiting area glared back at him wildly.
“You will die,” mouthed the grotesque reflection in the cabin window as the
plane taxied down the runway.
* * * *
Michael C. Keith is the author of several books, articles, and short stories.
He teaches Communication at Boston College.
By Michael C. Keith
Fear is that little darkroom where negatives are
developed.
-- Michael Pritchard
Emil Robard took a seat in the passenger waiting area at the gate of his
impending flight at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Early as usual he
scanned the pages of two local newspapers, checked his notes for his
business presentation, and watched several planes taxi in and out of various
gates up and down the concourse. His aircraft was already in place and was
being prepped for its flight to Charlotte where he would make a connection to
Las Vegas.
While he looked out at the 737 that would carry him on the first leg of his trip,
he noticed the pilot moving about the cockpit. It was over an hour before
departure, so Emil was curious to see someone already there. The copilot
was not yet in place and the waiting room was just beginning to fill with other
passengers.
It was a good weather day with the only storms hundreds of miles to the
south far beyond the path of his flight. Emil had checked the forecast on his
laptop that morning, and he looked forward to catching up on some sleep
while airborne. Vegas would be the fifth stop on his business trip, and he was
feeling the effects of a week and a half on the road and the usual insomnia
that he experienced when traveling.
Nowhere was his fatigue more evident than in his eyes. For two days he’d
been unable to tolerate his contact lens for more than a couple hours at a
stretch without his eyes burning and his vision blurring. Less than an hour
ago he had put them back in and already they were causing him discomfort,
so he planned to see his eye doctor as soon as he returned home. He
thought his optical issue might have something to do with the stale air
circulating in the plane’s cabin because the problem had intensified since
leaving home. His eyes were particularly sensitive to sunlight and now it
occurred to him he was probably aggravating things by staring out the window
of the passenger area to his waiting jet. Yet his curiosity in the pilot’s activity
outweighed his common sense and prevented him from turning away from the
glare outside.
The pain in Emil’s eyes was beginning to intensify when he saw the pilot
press his face against the cockpit’s windshield and grin broadly revealing a
dark toothless chasm. Emil shuddered and turned away to see if anyone else
had witnessed the bizarre scene, but the line of seats facing the plane
remained empty. When he reluctantly returned his gaze to the cockpit, the
pilot’s face had morphed into something akin to the masks on display at
Halloween. His features had become grotesquely exaggerated and deformed
and his lips quivered as they formed words, whose meaning eventually
became terrifyingly clear to Emil.
“You will die,” was the message conveyed by the hideously transformed
figure in the cockpit.
Again, Emil looked around to see if anyone else was witnessing the freakish
scene, but he was alone in his horrifying experience. Maybe the whole thing
was the result of one of his silent migraines, he thought, yet when he closed
his eyes to determine if there was the light storm that constituted these rare
attacks his heart dropped. Nothing. Not even a floating ember in the
darkness behind his closed eyelids.
Twenty years ago, he had experienced what he thought was a hallucination
while at the supermarket. When approaching the cashier he noticed that the
faces of other customers had become contorted and disfigured. Shaken by
the incident he hurried home and gulped two Xanax and applied a cold
compress to his forehead and within minutes things felt like they were
returning to normal. While the event frightened and disturbed him, he soon
forgot about it until it happened again while he was driving to work a few
months later. He suddenly realized that he was unable to discern half the
lettering on license plates and road signs. This prompted him to call his
ophthalmologist, who diagnosed his symptoms as a phantom migraine.
“I have good and bad news for you,” said the eye doctor, and Emil braced
himself for the worst but was told he was experiencing migraine attacks sans
headache. “You’re one of the lucky ones, Mr. Robard. You only get a light
show and not the pounding. Consider yourself fortunate. It shouldn’t happen
often. Just shut your eyes and take a break when they do. It’s nothing to
worry about.”
But what was happening before him now was definitely something to worry
about, thought Emil. As his panic grew he seized on the notion that he was
witnessing the actions of a terrorist—a terrorist like those who flew out of the
very same airport on September 11. With that idea now firmly planted in his
mind he dashed to the ticket counter to inform the airline official. He was so
agitated that he could barely speak, but after several deep breathes, he
managed to get the essence of his message across.
“T-t-terrorist in the cockpit of the plane,” he choked out.
“What, sir?” asked the nonplussed airline employee.
“A terrorist on the plane. In the cockpit!” Emil repeated breathlessly. “Look,
come over and see for yourself.”
The airline representative followed Emil to the window and looked carefully at
the parked plane.
“Sorry, sir, but I don’t see anything,” she reported, and indeed the cockpit
was empty.
Emil knew his claim sounded ridiculous in light of how normal things now
appeared but he was convinced he had witnessed something malevolent and
likely dangerous.
“Are you alright, sir?” inquired the airline employee casting a suspicious eye
at him.
Fearing he might be reported to the authorities, Emil quickly explained the
problems he was having with his contact lens and offered as short summary
of the silent migraines that played tricks on his vision.
“I’m fine. Just need to rest the old peepers, I guess,” he offered with feigned
conviction.
The attendant returned to her station with an expression that suggested she
was not totally convinced by his explanation. In the remaining time before the
gate was opened to his flight he resisted the urge to look at the cockpit and
agonized over whether to board the plane when it came the moment to do so.
Just seconds before the door closed to the gate he decided to board, and this
he did with a terrible sense of foreboding and uncertainty about the wisdom of
his decision. When he reached the open door to the cockpit, he braved a
look inside and his fears were instantly mollified. At the controls were a gray-
haired female pilot and her young male copilot.
“Thank God,” Emil muttered to himself as he passed two smiling flight
attendants and made his way to his window seat in the economy section.
To his satisfaction the seat next to his was empty and Emil thought he had
lucked out since the rest of the plane appeared totally full. He removed his
contact lens case from his pocket and took out his troublesome lens from his
burning eyes. A feeling of relief replaced his anxiety. Everything is going to
be fine, he thought, as the captain announced they would be taking off as
soon as a late passenger boarded.
“Damn! There goes the room to stretch out in,” he grumbled removing his
sports jacket and briefcase from the vacant seat.
Through blurred vision he could barely make out the image of the person
coming up the aisle who would take the place next to him. Far from feeling
social Emil turned his head away from the advancing figure and peered out
the window as the plain began to rev up its engines. He could feel the late
arrival’s body settling in next to him, and then he could make out a reflection
in the cabin window. A jab of icy air accosted his neck and back and made
him shiver as he recognized his seatmate. The specter he had beheld from
the passenger waiting area glared back at him wildly.
“You will die,” mouthed the grotesque reflection in the cabin window as the
plane taxied down the runway.
* * * *
Michael C. Keith is the author of several books, articles, and short stories.
He teaches Communication at Boston College.
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