Speaker 1: 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