Flight of Imagination
by Michael 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 it does. 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 a 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 plane 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.