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Speaker 1: The face that stared back at Blaisdell by Edward Carty Rannick.

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These are the facts in Blaisdell's Queer case, taken from

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a communication addressed to his best friend, doctor Maynard Hamilton.

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Doctor Hamilton vouchsafes no explanation, nor do I Indeed, there

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are phenomenon in this world that cannot be explained. As

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Hamlet pointed out to Horatio in the much quoted speech,

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the statements given here were contained in a carefully written

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paper in Blaisdell's handwriting that was found in Blaisdell's desk

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by doctor Hamilton several days after the man's death. From

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this paper he has pieced together the extraordinary narrative that

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follows one Blaisdell thinks it must have been shortly after

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midnight when he fell asleep. Horrible nightmares racked him as

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he tossed upon his bed, and one of them was

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so frightful that he woke up with a scream, or

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

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

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And here is the queer part of the narrative, for

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he affirms that while he was dressing, another man lay

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in his bed, an exact counterpart of himself. This other

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ego lay quietly asleep, his head on his arm. Blaisdell

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studied him carefully and said he felt as a locust

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must field when he looks at his outworn shell. All

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the time he was dressing, Blaisdell said he seemed to

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be impelled to haste by queer promptings that were as

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insistent as if some person were at his elbow, saying hurry, hurry.

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He finished his dressing in mad excitement, and then hurried

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out of the room, casting a backward glance over his

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shoulder at his sleeping counterpart. Once outside his apartment house

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in Gramercy Park, Blaisdell hurried along his persistent mentor, seeming

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to walk at his elbow. A puzzling feature of this

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nocturnal prowl was that he felt a sense of familiarity,

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a feeling that he was on his way to keep

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an appointment that could not be postponed. The streets were

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deserted except for an occasional prowler or a patrolman, who

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made the night echo with sharp blows from his club

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as he struck a metal post, occasionally to remind the

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unlawful that the law was abroad. On on hurried Blaisdell.

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By this time he had lost all sense of location,

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but he was aware that he was in a downtown

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section of New York, a section he had never visited

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during his waking moments. But although he knew that he

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had never been in this neighborhood during his conscious moments,

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

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paused in front of an old, three story brownstone front

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residence in Washington Square, Paused with the air of one

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who has reached his destination. He walked up the steps

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and let himself into the house with a pass key.

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Nor did it seem strange to him that he had

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a pass key for a house that he had never

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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,

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and there he paused before a closed door. Overcome by

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a suffocating sense of fear and repugnance, he half turned

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away and then retraced his steps, as if fascinated. Something

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seemed to warn him away from the ominous door. Behind

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which lay a mystery that the everyday Blaisdell, millionaire and bomballant,

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did not care to penetrate, but which this nocturnal prowling

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Blaisdell seemed to insist upon. Then, without any conscious volition

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on his part, Blaisdell placed his hand on the knob,

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and the door opened noiselessly. He found himself in a

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large square living room, tastefully furnished and lined with built

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in bookcases full of handsomely bound volumes. Everywhere he looked

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he saw bizarre weapons of defense, and men in Chinese

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and Japanese armor looked threateningly at him from dim corners

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of the room. It was either the apartment of an

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art connoisseur or a globe trotter with a propensity for

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

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chamber and then started back with a little gasp. It

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was a luxuriously furnished room that appeared to have been

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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

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into a wonderful mosslike carpet. To one side of the

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room was an old fashioned four poster bed topped by

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a crimson canopy. In the exact center of this bed

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lay a man asleep with his mouth open. There was

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something familiar about the sleeper, and Blaisdell drew closer and

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gazed at him steadily. He was an Oldish man with

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a sallow complexion and a wisp of a beard that

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was slightly tinged with gray. The ghost of a smile

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lingered upon his lips, a cruel smile that sleep could

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not make gentle or mirthful. And as he gazed upon

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the stranger, rage grew in Blaisdell's heart, a rage so

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furious that it almost suffocated him. Without a moment's hesitation,

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he seized the sleeper by the throat and began throttling him.

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The man struggled furiously, his eyes popped open, and gazed

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up at Blaisdell's with a look of freezing despair. A

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slight froth gathered upon his purpled lips, and he squirmed

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and writhed like a snake in Blaisdell's unrelenting grasp. God

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how he struggled, Blaisdell's fingers sank into the throat as

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if it were satin, and then suddenly there were no

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more struggles. The body fell back inertly as the steel

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like fingers relaxed. Blaisdell pulled the bedclothes over the mask

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of horror and stole quietly from the room. He felt

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that his errand had been accomplished. As he went back

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over the root that he had just pursued, he felt

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again that weird sense of unfamiliarity that had at first

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possessed him, and this feeling of strangeness increased as he

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neared his own apartment house. He walked in and hurried

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past the sleeping hallboy without waking him. Once inside his apartment,

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he rushed into the bedroom, but his counter was gone.

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Blaisdelle undressed with fumbling fingers, but his head had scarcely

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touched the pillow before he was sound asleep. Two a

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shaft of sunlight fell across Blaisdell's face, and he woke

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with a shudder. Ugh, what a horrible nightmare, he said aloud.

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I feel as if I actually did kill that man.

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Then he gawned and rang for his valet. After a

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casual breakfast, he was glancing through the newspaper when he

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received the shock that changed him from a careless clubman

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to a nervous wreck. Queer murder in Washington Square. That

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was the headline he read, and then followed the account

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of the crime. A private policeman, while doing his rounds,

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had found the front door of an old brownstone residence

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open and had investigated. On the second floor. He had

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

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man lying in a queer bed that was overhung by

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a red canopy. He was about to steal quietly out

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when something in the huddled attitude of the sleeper attracted

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his attention, and he then discovered that the man had

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been strangled. The marks of fingers were plainly visible upon

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his throat. The police investigation had established the fact that

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the man's name was Stephen R. Rollins, a famous traveler

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and authority on spiritualism. He had lived for years in

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the Orient, and a monograph of his on a cult

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phenomenon had attracted much attention in scientific circles. My God,

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said Blaisdell, as the paper fell from his trembling hands.

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

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I was in the grip of a nightmare and murdered him.

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Did I? These questions nearly drove him frantic. What should

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he do? What course of action was there for him

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to pursue? If he went to the police and told

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him that he Herman Blaisdell, descended of a fine old

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New York family, had gone forth into the night and

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killed a man he had never seen before in his sleep.

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What would they think of him? They would probably shrug

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their shoulders and advise him to consult an alienist. And

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yet this man, this Stephen R. Rollins, was dead, and

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his description and that of his apartment coincided in every

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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

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man that lay in his bed? As he went out?

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These questions revolved in his mind like a vicious circle,

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almost driving him insane. Blaisdell aged after that, he looked

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

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Doctor Hamilton advised a change of environment and rigorous physical exercise,

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otherwise he would not be responsible for the consequences. The

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man jumped at every sound and had a mortal terror

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of the night. He would put off going to bed

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until the latest possible moment, and then always slept with

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a light in his room. Sometimes his valet would come

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quavering to his bedside in the night, frightened out of

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

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do it. I didn't do it. I couldn't have done it,

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he would scream, his eyes staring. The thing is impossible,

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the thing is impossible. When these spells were upon him,

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he would shake, and it would finally be necessary for

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his valet to give him a sleeping powder. These things

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became noised abroad, and he resigned from his clubs and

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went no more, and declined all invitations. He was a

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broken man, a hopeless hypochondriac, just a morbid victim of

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nerves or drink, said his friends, and dropped him. Things

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went on like this for months, and then one day

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Blaisdell read another item in the newspaper that dumbfounded him.

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It detailed the arrest of a man named Franklin Sears,

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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

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sensational newspapers published a picture of Franklin Sears, and Blaisdell

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cried aloud in new fright. His valet found him with

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a newspaper in his hands, mouthing and trembling, his nerves,

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vibrating like a taunt piano wire. For the face that

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stared back at Blaisdell from the front page was his

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own face, yet Franklin Sear's name was under it. Three later,

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Sears confessed to the murder. He told the police that

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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

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had persuaded her to go away with him under promise

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of marriage. They had gone to South America, where Rollins

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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

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refused and finally deserted her. A serious illness followed, and

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she sent for her brother, who promised her that he

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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

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had kept his word, although he had to trail Rollins

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all over the world before he finally ran him down

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in Washington Square. Blaisdell followed the developments in the Sears

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case with absorbed attention. He read the newspaper feverishly and

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finally decided that he could stand the suspense no longer.

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He determined to go to the tombs, confront his counterpart

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and tell him the story of the nightmare. Surely there

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was an explanation of it all. There must be an explanation.

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He had decided to visit Sears the next day when

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the last queer thing happened in the tragic series of happenings.

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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

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Stephen R. Rollins, had committed suicide in the tombs by

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hanging himself to one of the bars by his suspenders.

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The paper commented upon the somewhat unusual fact that the

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prisoner's watch was found on his body, and that it

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had stopped at three o'clock. It was just a few

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minutes past three when the body was discovered, still warm,

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Doctor Hamilton had scarcely finished reading this account when his

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telephone bell rang. The excited voice of Blaisdell's valet asked

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him to come at once to his master's apartment, as

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something terrible had happened. He responded at once, and when

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

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he saw at once that he could do nothing further

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for his friend. Blaisdell was dead, and it was very

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evident from the stiffness of his body that he had

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been dead for many hours. It ain't his being dead

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that's so terrible, said the trembling valet. It's it's well.

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Look there, he pointed to the throat of the dead man.

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There was the distinct mark of a rope upon it,

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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

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the first person who saw him, and there ain't any rope.

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Some unaccountable impulse made doctor Hamilton pick up Blaisdell's watch

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from the dresser. It had stopped running, the hands recording

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the hour of three o'clock. The end of the face

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that stared back at Blaisdell by Edwin Cardi Renk