The man who lived next door to himself by Frank Owen, I had not
lived in the old house on Sheridan Square. A week before I received a
visit from my next door neighbor, and at once my interest was aroused.
His name was Aladina Vizeraine, and he was full blooded Persian from Sultanabad.
Never have I met a man who was more learned and cultured than he.
The Oriental and the Occidental had contributed their best to his knowledge. He was
both a doctor of medicine and philosophy, and an ardent devotee of research work
of any kind. There was nothing about his appearance that would have caused comment
as he passed along the street, unless one remarked on his finely molded,
clear cut features and the intense brilliance of his keen black eyes. He dressed
simply in dark clothes of American make, and the quietness of his manner gave
him dignity and even charm. His voice was as distinct and clear as though
he had studied elocution for years, Yet so soft did he speak, though
words seem to be but echoes of a dream. Since we are evidently to
be neighbors, for a considerable time, he said slowly. I thought it
would not be out of place for me to call and introduce myself. As
a rule, when a man moves into a country town, all the neighbors
visit him almost immediately. This is not the custom in the city. Yet,
how much more loathsome and cold is the great metropolis. To walk among
crowds and to behold no familiar face is worse than to journey alone through the
desert. At my invitation, he seated himself in a great chair by the
side of the open hearth, a companion one to mine, and together we
talked about a miscellania of trivial things until an unearthly hour. It was,
I thought, the beginning of a friendship which was to continue for many a
long day. But if I had known that evening, how close that friendship
was destined to be, my eyes would have bulged from their sockets in stark,
raving terror. That evening was one of many which we spent together.
We had much in common, we found, for we were both writers,
and both of us were intensely interested in unusual things. For years, said
Aladdin of Vishrain one evening, as we sat smoking cigars before the fire in
my rooms. I have been somewhat a student of psychology, psychoanalysis, spiritualism,
and the transition of souls. In our religion, we are all like
children. The Christian scoff at the Yogi and the Theosophist, the Buddhists and
the Mohammedans look down on people of all other religions? Is it not amusing
every man thinks his own belief is the true religion. The south Sea islander
worshiping the moon and the stars, and the Siamese refusing to kill rattlesnakes and
looking with awe at sacred tigers, the natives of India bowing before sick white
elephants. Is not life a most interesting enigma? We imagine that we have
advanced a great deal since the Stone Age, but have we actually progressed at
all? Does not the recent European conflict prove that the caveman is still very
much alive within us? The changes recorded have been solely in exterior things such
as stress and manners. Man scoffed at Morse when he spoke of his telegraph.
But it came to be, and now we have radio as well.
We have learned to pick up messages from the very ether about us. Someday
other things will be accomplished quite easily, which are now only spoken of in
theory. Science is still very much in its infancy. For more than ten
years, I have believed that it would be possible for two men to exchange
their souls if they were in the proper key, in perfect harmony, and
tuned with one another. That is to say, to put it more concisely,
I believe that it might be possible for your soul to enter my body
and my soul to enter your body. And when I speak of a soul,
I mean all that intangible part of a person that is mental, his
mind, thoughts, likes and dislikes, ideas, et cetera. The great
Caruso used to tap a glass with a knife and then sing the same note
as came from the tinkling glass. When the two notes met at exactly the
same moment, the glass was shattered to atoms. You see, the notes
opposed each other. Now, if two natures or souls were in perfect harmony,
without opposition of any kind, who knows what might be accomplished if the
impulse of both were toward the same object. I am deeply interested in what
you say. I told him it is a rather wild theory. But I
am sufficient of a scientist never to laugh at anything. Only fools ridicule that
which they do not understand. I am glad to hear you speak like that,
he went on, for had your manner been otherwise, I would have
turned dominated the present conversation when I finished speaking a moment ago. However,
since you are so obviously interested, I will proceed to acquaint you with my
theory. As he spoke, he drew from his pocket a round crystal ball,
about three inches in diameter. It was so clear and polished that it
shone in the fire glow like a great round diamond. It was so clear
and polished that it shone in the fire glow like a great round diamond.
This thoughts fear came from the east, he said slowly. And there are
many legendary tales connected with it. It is said that he who possesses it
can have what he desires. Whether or not there is any truth in this,
I cannot say. And yet you are my friend. Our personalities are
in harmony, and that is all I desire. If you are agreeable,
we will attempt right now to materialize my theory. He did not wait for
me to assent. He took my acquiescence for granted. He walked over and
placed the ball in the center of the small teakwood table. Then he placed
two chairs beside the table so that they were directly opposite each other. As
he did so, he said, come, and who knows, perhaps it
will be your good fortune to be a participant in one of the greatest discoveries
of the age. He seated himself at the table. Before you sit down,
he directed, swish off the lights for a room in darkness save for
the glow of the fire. He is far more fitting for such an experiment
as we are to attempt, than one that is brilliantly lighted. After doing
as he desired, plunging the room in semi darkness, I sat down opposite
him. Now he said, slowly, you must concentrate your whole mind on
this experiment. KU says that the imagination controls the will. Perhaps he is
right. I never argue, but I think the imagination and the will both
react on one another. We are desirous of exchanging souls, or perhaps I
should say personalities, for the word soul at best is a rather ambiguous term
suited mostly to the art of poets. You must let your gaze rest intently
on the crystal ball. You must will it to make the exchange, and
you must let your imagination make you believe that the exchange has been effected.
I will do the same thing. And if we can make our desires coincide
perfectly at the exact moment through the medium of the crystal ball, what we
desire will assuredly come to pass. It is written that a man can have
what he wishes if he wants it sufficiently enough. He ceased speaking, and
we both focused our gaze intently on the crystal ball. The room was in
utter silence. It was in the back of the house, so no discordant
sound from the street shattered the solitude, which was so intense that it seemed
to hang about the room in folds, and the far corners of the room
seemed to be enveloped in curtains of velvet black. No object was discernible except
that queer little crystal globulate, which shimmered fantastically in the fire glow, seeming
to scintillate with a dozen different prismatic colors. And now, as we sat
staring at it. It suddenly commenced to glow with a strange blue light.
All the other tones of color faded. Evidently the fire in the grate had
burned low, and only a bit of blue flame remained. And yet the
color of the crystal ball increased steadily. The light intensified. It was almost
blinding. It blurred my vision. Everything grew hazy, as though I were
enveloped in a fog. The silence was as cold as death. I seemed
to be losing consciousness. Then steadily the crystal ball came back into focus again,
My vision cleared, the blue flame had died out, and again the
scintillating colors returned. It was the most odd experience, But odter still was
the realization that I was gazing at the crystal ball from the other side of
the table. It was as though I had changed my seat. With a
cry of surprise, I jumped to my feet, for I knew that I
had not moved since I had seated myself at the table. As I rose,
I knocked over the table and the crystal ball crashed to the ground and
was shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. This rain quickly switched on the lights.
What have you done? He fairly shrieked. Now we are engulfed in
a frightful calamity. We can never again get back our own personalities. As
I looked into his eyes, my blood turned cold, for I was gazing
into my own face. The experiment had proved successful. I scarcely know how
to set down the events that followed. There is so much that I would
like to write, so much I wished to record, and yet it is
hard to set down the things that have an important bearing on my particular case.
For a while that night, vis Rain and I raved about that room
as though we were mad. We cursed and raved as though we had ceased
to be human. Often we hear folks envying each other, expressing a desire
to be in someone else's place. Now that particular position had been vouchsafed to
me, and I found little pleasure in it. I longed to be in
my own body again. The body, at best is but a shell in
which we live. But it is the shell by which we are known,
the tangible thing by which our friends recognize us. Probably the day will eventually
come when men will cease to form opinions and impressions from exteriors. Again,
we had raved about the room for an hour, or perhaps it was longer,
for neither of us had any thought of time. We sat down beside
the open fire again and tried to sanely reason out the strange problem with which
we were confronted. We had changed bodies. I say we advisedly, because
the real old man lives inside each one of us. The smug, hypocritical
smile, and the exaggerated burst of assumed enthusiasm are not the earmarks of a
real person. This Rain's soul and personality were within my body, but nevertheless,
he was still this Rain. After we had talked and argued and theorized
for a great while, we finally decided that we would change houses voluntarily,
even as we had changed bodies. This would mechanically prevent people from talking,
and besides, we were not to be inconvenienced in the slightest because we could
visit back and forth as often as we desired. It was thus that I
found myself in the peculiar position of living next door to myself. Luckily,
both Visrain and I lived alone, so there was no one to complicate matters.
Although that is not strictly true. For Visrain had a Japanese servant named
Koto, who was the very acme off. He seemed to anticipate his master's
every want, and it was a source of keen enjoyment to be waited on
by him. My nearest relative Dwelt in San Francisco, an aunt with whom
I never corresponded. She was as interested in me as though I did not
exist at all, And as for myself, I heartily reciprocated the compliment.
I was not anxious to build up a friendship with the eccentric old lady,
because I realized that by so doing I might be bothered with visits from her,
and this I wish to avoid. At best. I have but little
patience, and can only tolerate people with whom I have much in common.
Such a person was Vera Gray, an artist who lived in Greenwich Village and
earned a splendid living drawing cover designs for the national magazines. Vera was a
girl in a million, a deep thinker, and at the same same time
more beautiful than any of the mudels who posed for her. She had skin
like old ivory, and the olive tone to her complexion, together with her
wondrous taste in dress made of her a most alluring girl. She was tall
and slim, and her white hands were the most graceful and expressive I have
ever beheld. They made almost a symphony in loveliness. I suppose I am
writing rather madly, Yet I assure you I am sane enough. I have
recently been examined by three alienists, and while they admit that I am somewhat
queer, they have unanimously stated that my mentality is far above the average.
But I am getting ahead of my story. It is hard, when writing
a narrative of this sort to keep the sequence of events in their proper order.
Although I hated to mention Vera Gray to his reign, I knew that
I had to do so, for if I had disappeared entirely, she would
have immediately raised an alarm and publicity more than anything else we desired to avoid.
You must call on Vera Gray, I told VI Rain, and I
think it might be wise for me to accompany you. That will help to
lessen the chances of your making a bad blunder. Talk very little, and
consult me whenever the opportunity presents itself. At this interview. We must be
extremely careful. A few evenings later we visited Vera. Gray Luck was with
us, for there were several other persons in her apartment, and one young
fellow in particular, Gordon Harris, wished to do all the talking. He
went into ecstasies over Vera's paintings and had something to say about every one she
exhibited. Only once did she I get an opportunity to converse together. I
am delighted that you came tonight, she said, sincerely, because you interest
me in a rather strange way. You seem to remind me of someone I
know very well. Yet I am positive that I have never beheld your face
before until tonight. Sometime, I hope you will come to tea and we
can have a rather interesting chat together when none of these ceaseless talkers are present.
I suppose it is rather unconventional for me to invite you when you are
a total stranger to me, But I feel that we have something in common,
as though we knew each other years ago. She laughed softly. Perhaps,
she said, the theosophists are right, after all, and you and
I were friends more than ten thousand years ago. I had no time to
answer for Gordon Harris came and claimed her attention, and I cannot say that
I was sorry for under the circumstances to such a speech. What is there
for me to say? As we walked home, another complication arose. This
Rain confessed to me that he loved her. She is the most adorably perfect
girl I have ever known, he told me, And I am the most
miserable of men, no doubt. As long as my personality is in your
body, I could go in and win her. But I hate the deception,
and I wouldn't want to do anything that was unfair to you. For
already I think I have caused you trouble enough. But despite his words to
the contrary, this Rain did make love to Vera Gray, and she seemed
far more attracted to him than she had ever been to me. I am
never unhappy when I am with you, she told him frankly, No matter
how trivial is the subject we discuss, I am always interested. You used
to bore me sometimes, but now all that has passed. This Rain placed
his arm about her. Something stronger than life, stronger than death, is
drawing us together, he breathed tensely. There is no use in either of
us fighting against it. It is destiny Allah wills that we should live united.
He drew her, unresisting to him. Promise me. He said that
you will marry me before summer comes, And in a fit of recklessness,
she promised. Late that night, this rain made known his perfidity to me.
In all fairness to him, I must admit that he confessed everything quite
openly. There is no use fighting against love, he cried. It is
the most subtle, poisoned known. Do you think I am happy? I
am the most miserable man in all the world. First, I rob you
of your now, I have robbed you of your love. Nowhere on earth
is there so vile a thief as I. But I am poisoned by love.
I cannot. I will not live without vera gray Yet I am unworthy
of her. He stormed and raged up and down the room like a caged
beast. I said no word, because I realized that none was needed.
His own conscience was scouring his soul far worse than anything I could have said.
I just sat there, carved of stone, watching the torment which he
was suffering. His eyes glistened as though he were almost mad. He tore
up and down the room, as though he wished to escape from himself.
But that is not strictly true. He was unhappy because he wished to escape
from myself. It was my body which had caused him all his sorrow.
Finally I arose from my chair. I think I will go to bed,
I told him simply. He made no answer, and I left the room
and walked back to the house next door. He in five minutes. I
was in bed, but I could not sleep. I lay and tossed upon
my pillow, as though I were the victim of acute insomnia. And yet
somehow, although I feigned weariness, I knew that I was really far from
sleep. There seemed to be an ominous silence in the air, a calm
such as might proceed a deadly tropical storm. It seemed to me as though
some dreadful calamity was imminent. But what that calamity was, I had not
the faintest idea My room was as dark as the inside of a coffin.
I could not distinguish a thing because of the heavy curtains, which were carefully
drawn across the windows. The blackness was so intense that it seemed people with
all sorts of wild wraiths and distorted forms. I knew the hallucinations were but
the imagining of my overwrought nerves. Yet the great bulk of blackness seemed to
bear down upon me as though it were a solid thing. I felt as
though I were suffocating, as though I were engulfed alive in a pit of
blackness. My forehead was cold with a dank sweat, and my hands shook
as though I were a hundred years old. I switched on the electric lights
and looked at my face, or rather, I should say Visrain's face in
the mirror. It was ashen gray. Hastily I dressed. I seemed impelled
onward by some great hidden force. When I had finished dressing, I crept
cautiously down the stairs. I was careful to make no sound that would awaken
Koto, who slept in a little room off the lower hall silent. I
crept from the house and stole to the house next door. I unlocked the
front door and entered like a thief. I had no trouble in effecting an
entrance. Because this Rain and I carried keys to both houses. We believed
it would more readily facilitate matters if we did so. Inside, I found
the light in the living room still burning. I walked to the threshold,
and there I stopped, as though frozen to ice. And well I might,
for the sight which I beheld was the most awful man ever gazed upon.
In the chair was my own body. Blood was trickling sluggishly from a
bullet wound in the right temple. By the side of the table lay a
revolver facing a problem which he could not solve. This rain had blown out
his brains. For one brief moment I gazed at the ghastly sight. Then
my overwrought nerves brod, and I slipped to the floor, unconscious. How
long I remained so I do not know, for when I opened my eyes
it was broad daylight. In the chair, the body still sat, and
I imagined an eerie smile hovered over the rigid lips, as though it were
grinning at me. I rose to my feet. My head ached dully,
and I walked like a man who had been ill for ages. I could
scarcely drag one foot after the other. I seated myself in a chair opposite
the lifeless body and stared at it as though my very gaze could rekindle it
with life again. Now my predicament was worse than ever. My body was
dead, sitting grotesquely before me in a great chair. I was surprised that
the expression on its face could ever be so frightful. Lost to me,
also was my friend. What had happened to his soul? I did not
know. Perhaps it also was in the room with me. I shuddered as
I thought that now his rain would try to reclaim his body. The days
that immediately followed I can only look back on as a nightmare. I did
not employ an undertaker to embomb the body, nor did I make any attempt
to see that it was decently buried. Under the circumstances, I doubt if
any one else would have done so either. Despite the ghastly, blood clotted,
repulsive face, the body was mine and I was still alive. I
could not make myself believe that my body was really dead. As the days
dragged on, I found myself more and more often creeping into the house next
door to gaze into that face, which was turning a sickly blue. Sometimes
I used to frantically shake the loathesome corpse, as though it were only sleeping,
and that if I tried hard enough, I could awaken it. It
drew me to it like a magnet. Many a night I remained with the
hideous thing till dawn. I think at the time I must have been slightly
insane. Yet, as I have written, three alienists have recently examined me,
and they pronounced my mind to be in excellent condition. Still, my
actions were not those of a sane person. I used to sit and talk
to the corpse by the hour. I argued and expostulated with it. Sometimes
I attempted to make it eat and drink. Once I even succeeded in pouring
a bit of liquor through the set lips. A thing which gave me hope
was the fact that the beard on the face continued to grow. How could
a corpse be dead, I argued, and the beard still grow. I
have since learned that it is a perfectly natural phenomenon, that it is quite
usual for a man's hair to grow after he has ceased to live. And
now it seemed to me that my cup of despair was filled to the brim,
that no further calamity could be added to it. Yet the figure had
still another horror in store for me. One night, as I bent over
the corpse, I suddenly became conscious that I was not alone in the house.
I had not heard a sound, nor had I caught the faintest glimpse
of anyone. But still I was sure there was at least one other person
in the house besides myself. At such moments, it seems as though a
man has a supernatural sixth sense buried in his subconscious mind, which warns him
of approaching danger. To say I was shocked would not nearly have described my
condition. I was in a panic. Fear made of me a total wreck.
The very marrow froze in my bones, and I felt as sick and
weak, as though I were a plague victim. Even in my fear,
I realized that I was in a most unexplainable position, unless the hidden personage
should prove to be the soul of Alladina Visrayn. As the thought came to
me, the curtains at the end of the room parted slightly, and through
the opening I could see the muzzle of a revolver leveled directly at me.
As I beheld it, I quickly switched off the electric lights plunging the room
into absolute darkness. Then I made a wild leap for the other door.
But in the darkness I tripped over the corpse with such force that I dragged
it from the chair, and together we fell to the floor with a dull
thud. Now had me absolutely in its power, I lost my reason.
Instead of trying to get away, I commenced wrestling with a lifeless body,
and as I wrestled, there came to my already weakened nerves another severe shock.
As we writhed about the floor, two hands clutched at my throat and
anchored there with a frightful grip. It seemed as though the dead had come
back to life again. Then other hands grasped my arms and legs. There
seemed to be at least a half dozen bodies bending over me. In that
moment, my strength seemed to multiply. Dread made of me a formidable opponent.
I became a machine. I flung my arms about in every direction like
flails. Sometimes my fists crashed against warm flesh, and I could hear the
grunts of my adversaries as the blo struck home. But the hands around my
throat gripped tighter I could scarcely breathe. I struggled terribly for breath. For
one bit of air, I would have given all I possessed in the world.
Finally, someone mercifully turned on the lights, and to my horror,
I found myself surrounded by policemen, none too gently. They slipped a pair
of handcuffs over my wrists, but I did not care for the one who
held my throat released his grip and I could breathe again. Now I am
sitting in a prison cell. I am to be tried next week for murder,
the murder of my own self. They would not allow me to be
released on bail, for in the eyes of the world, I have taken
a human life. Ever since my disappearance, detectives have been searching for me.
It was Vera Gray who raised the alarm. Now I am writing the
truth story of all that has transpired. I intend to present it at my
trial. What the verdict will be, I cannot say, nor do I
really care. For they have buried my body, and Vera has gone into
mourning because she believes I am dead. Even if I am acquitted, What
does a future hold in store for me? I have been examined by three
alienists since I have been in prison. They are unanimous in declaring me,
saying, perhaps this will help my case somewhat. I also intend to see
Vera. I shall recall to her countless little incidents that happened in the past,
that are known only to her and me. I believe in time,
when my story becomes known, I will be acquitted, but it may take
months. And afterwards. What have I to look forward to? Nothing but
memories, memories of very which are sadly beautiful, Memories of my dead bodies
sitting upright in the house next door, which are so ghastly that they will
haunt me forever. I will be just a poor, broken down bit of
humanity, a man who once lived next door to himself and has ceased to
be happy now that his neighbor is gone. The End of the Man who
lived next door to Himself by Frank Owen