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The face that stared back at Blaisdell
by Edward Carty Rannick. These are the

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facts in Blaisdell's Queer case, taken
from a communication addressed to his best friend,

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doctor Maynard Hamilton. Doctor Hamilton vouchsafes
no explanation, nor do I Indeed,

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there are phenomenon in this world that
cannot be explained. As Hamlet pointed

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out to Horatio in the much quoted
speech, the statements given here were contained

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in a carefully written paper in Blaisdell's
handwriting that was found in Blaisdell's desk by

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doctor Hamilton several days after the man's
death. From this paper he has pieced

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together the extraordinary narrative that follows one
Blaisdell thinks it must have been shortly after

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midnight when he fell asleep. Horrible
nightmares racked him as he tossed upon his

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bed, and one of them was
so frightful that he woke up with a

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scream, or thought he did.
At any rate, He suddenly found himself

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in the center of his bedchamber,
dressing with feverish haste. And here is

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the queer part of the narrative,
for he affirms that while he was dressing,

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another man lay in his bed,
an exact counterpart of himself. This

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other ego lay quietly asleep, his
head on his arm. Blaisdell studied him

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carefully and said he felt as a
locust must field when he looks at his

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outworn shell. All the time he
was dressing, Blaisdell said he seemed to

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be impelled to haste by queer promptings
that were as insistent as if some person

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were at his elbow, saying hurry, hurry. He finished his dressing in

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mad excitement, and then hurried out
of the room, casting a backward glance

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over his shoulder at his sleeping counterpart. Once outside his apartment house in Gramercy

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Park, Blaisdell hurried along his persistent
mentor, seeming to walk at his elbow.

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A puzzling feature of this nocturnal prowl
was that he felt a sense of

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familiarity, a feeling that he was
on his way to keep an appointment that

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could not be postponed. The streets
were deserted except for an occasional prowler or

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a patrolman, who made the night
echo with sharp blows from his club as

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he struck a metal post, occasionally
to remind the unlawful that the law was

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abroad. On on hurried Blaisdell.
By this time he had lost all sense

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of location, but he was aware
that he was in a downtown section of

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New York, a section he had
never visited during his waking moments. But

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although he knew that he had never
been in this neighborhood during his conscious moments,

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he felt that he was on familiar
territory. Finally, he paused in

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front of an old, three story
brownstone front residence in Washington Square, Paused

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with the air of one who has
reached his destination. He walked up the

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steps and let himself into the house
with a pass key. Nor did it

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seem strange to him that he had
a pass key for a house that he

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had never visited during his waking moments. It all seemed ordinary and commonplace.

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Blaisdell quietly mounted the stairs until he
reached the second floor, and there he

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paused before a closed door. Overcome
by a suffocating sense of fear and repugnance,

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he half turned away and then retraced
his steps, as if fascinated.

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Something seemed to warn him away from
the ominous door. Behind which lay a

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mystery that the everyday Blaisdell, millionaire
and bomballant, did not care to penetrate,

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but which this nocturnal prowling Blaisdell seemed
to insist upon. Then, without

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any conscious volition on his part,
Blaisdell placed his hand on the knob,

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and the door opened noiselessly. He
found himself in a large square living room,

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tastefully furnished and lined with built in
bookcases full of handsomely bound volumes.

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Everywhere he looked he saw bizarre weapons
of defense, and men in Chinese and

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Japanese armor looked threateningly at him from
dim corners of the room. It was

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either the apartment of an art connoisseur
or a globe trotter with a propensity for

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the unusual. From this room,
he stepped into a bed chamber and then

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started back with a little gasp.
It was a luxuriously furnished room that appeared

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to have been transplanted by Aladdin's wonderful
lamp straight from the perfume scented orient.

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Blaisdell advanced further into the room,
and his feet sank into a wonderful mosslike

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carpet. To one side of the
room was an old fashioned four poster bed

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topped by a crimson canopy. In
the exact center of this bed lay a

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man asleep with his mouth open.
There was something familiar about the sleeper,

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and Blaisdell drew closer and gazed at
him steadily. He was an Oldish man

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with a sallow complexion and a wisp
of a beard that was slightly tinged with

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gray. The ghost of a smile
lingered upon his lips, a cruel smile

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that sleep could not make gentle or
mirthful. And as he gazed upon the

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stranger, rage grew in Blaisdell's heart, a rage so furious that it almost

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suffocated him. Without a moment's hesitation, he seized the sleeper by the throat

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and began throttling him. The man
struggled furiously, his eyes popped open,

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and gazed up at Blaisdell's with a
look of freezing despair. A slight froth

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gathered upon his purpled lips, and
he squirmed and writhed like a snake in

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Blaisdell's unrelenting grasp. God how he
struggled, Blaisdell's fingers sank into the throat

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as if it were satin, and
then suddenly there were no more struggles.

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The body fell back inertly as the
steel like fingers relaxed. Blaisdell pulled the

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bedclothes over the mask of horror and
stole quietly from the room. He felt

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that his errand had been accomplished.
As he went back over the root that

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he had just pursued, he felt
again that weird sense of unfamiliarity that had

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at first possessed him, and this
feeling of strangeness increased as he neared his

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own apartment house. He walked in
and hurried past the sleeping hallboy without waking

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him. Once inside his apartment,
he rushed into the bedroom, but his

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counter was gone. Blaisdelle undressed with
fumbling fingers, but his head had scarcely

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touched the pillow before he was sound
asleep. Two a shaft of sunlight fell

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across Blaisdell's face, and he woke
with a shudder. Ugh, what a

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horrible nightmare, he said aloud.
I feel as if I actually did kill

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that man. Then he gawned and
rang for his valet. After a casual

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breakfast, he was glancing through the
newspaper when he received the shock that changed

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him from a careless clubman to a
nervous wreck. Queer murder in Washington Square.

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That was the headline he read,
and then followed the account of the

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crime. A private policeman, while
doing his rounds, had found the front

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door of an old brownstone residence open
and had investigated. On the second floor.

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He had found another door ajar,
and going in, had found a

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man lying in a queer bed that
was overhung by a red canopy. He

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was about to steal quietly out when
something in the huddled attitude of the sleeper

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attracted his attention, and he then
discovered that the man had been strangled.

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The marks of fingers were plainly visible
upon his throat. The police investigation had

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established the fact that the man's name
was Stephen R. Rollins, a famous

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traveler and authority on spiritualism. He
had lived for years in the Orient,

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and a monograph of his on a
cult phenomenon had attracted much attention in scientific

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circles. My God, said Blaisdell, as the paper fell from his trembling

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hands. My God, did I
go to that man's apartment while I was

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in the grip of a nightmare and
murdered him. Did I? These questions

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nearly drove him frantic. What should
he do? What course of action was

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there for him to pursue? If
he went to the police and told him

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that he Herman Blaisdell, descended of
a fine old New York family, had

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gone forth into the night and killed
a man he had never seen before in

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his sleep. What would they think
of him? They would probably shrug their

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shoulders and advise him to consult an
alienist. And yet this man, this

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Stephen R. Rollins, was dead, and his description and that of his

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apartment coincided in every detail with the
place that Blaisdell had visited in his dream.

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But was it a dream? And
who was the other man that lay

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in his bed? As he went
out? These questions revolved in his mind

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like a vicious circle, almost driving
him insane. Blaisdell aged after that,

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he looked ten years older, and
his friend were alarmed about him. Doctor

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Hamilton advised a change of environment and
rigorous physical exercise, otherwise he would not

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be responsible for the consequences. The
man jumped at every sound and had a

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mortal terror of the night. He
would put off going to bed until the

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latest possible moment, and then always
slept with a light in his room.

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Sometimes his valet would come quavering to
his bedside in the night, frightened out

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of his wits by the frightful screams
from Blaisdell. I didn't do it.

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I didn't do it. I couldn't
have done it, he would scream,

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his eyes staring. The thing is
impossible, the thing is impossible. When

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these spells were upon him, he
would shake, and it would finally be

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necessary for his valet to give him
a sleeping powder. These things became noised

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abroad, and he resigned from his
clubs and went no more, and declined

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all invitations. He was a broken
man, a hopeless hypochondriac, just a

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morbid victim of nerves or drink,
said his friends, and dropped him.

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Things went on like this for months, and then one day Blaisdell read another

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item in the newspaper that dumbfounded him. It detailed the arrest of a man

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named Franklin Sears, who was charged
with the murder of Stephen R. Rullins.

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But he couldn't have murdered him.
I murdered him, murdered him.

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In my sleep, mumbled Blaisdell.
That afternoon, one of the sensational newspapers

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published a picture of Franklin Sears,
and Blaisdell cried aloud in new fright.

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His valet found him with a newspaper
in his hands, mouthing and trembling,

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his nerves, vibrating like a taunt
piano wire. For the face that stared

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back at Blaisdell from the front page
was his own face, yet Franklin Sear's

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name was under it. Three later, Sears confessed to the murder. He

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told the police that he and Rollins
had been chums and college mates. Rollins

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had fallen madly in love with Sear's
beautiful sister and had persuaded her to go

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away with him under promise of marriage. They had gone to South America,

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where Rollins had a massed of fortune, and had then visited the Orient.

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She begged Rollins to make her his
wife, but he refused and finally deserted

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her. A serious illness followed,
and she sent for her brother, who

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promised her that he would not rest
until her betrayer had been brought to book.

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She died, assured that he would
avenge her, and he had kept

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his word, although he had to
trail Rollins all over the world before he

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finally ran him down in Washington Square. Blaisdell followed the developments in the Sears

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case with absorbed attention. He read
the newspaper feverishly and finally decided that he

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could stand the suspense no longer.
He determined to go to the tombs,

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confront his counterpart and tell him the
story of the nightmare. Surely there was

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an explanation of it all. There
must be an explanation. He had decided

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to visit Sears the next day when
the last queer thing happened in the tragic

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series of happenings. On the morning
of Blaisdell's intended visit, Doctor Hamilton read

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in his morning newspaper that Franklin Sears, the murderer of Stephen R. Rollins,

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had committed suicide in the tombs by
hanging himself to one of the bars

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by his suspenders. The paper commented
upon the somewhat unusual fact that the prisoner's

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watch was found on his body,
and that it had stopped at three o'clock.

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It was just a few minutes past
three when the body was discovered,

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still warm, Doctor Hamilton had scarcely
finished reading this account when his telephone bell

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rang. The excited voice of Blaisdell's
valet asked him to come at once to

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his master's apartment, as something terrible
had happened. He responded at once,

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and when he was ushered into Blaisdell's
bedroom by the white faced valet, he

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saw at once that he could do
nothing further for his friend. Blaisdell was

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dead, and it was very evident
from the stiffness of his body that he

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had been dead for many hours.
It ain't his being dead that's so terrible,

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said the trembling valet. It's it's
well. Look there, he pointed

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to the throat of the dead man. There was the distinct mark of a

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rope upon it, and this mark
extended clear around his head. He he

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couldn't have hung himself, quavered the
valet, because I was the first person

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who saw him, and there ain't
any rope. Some unaccountable impulse made doctor

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Hamilton pick up Blaisdell's watch from the
dresser. It had stopped running, the

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hands recording the hour of three o'clock. The end of the face that stared

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back at Blaisdell by Edwin Cardi Renk