The Twilight Zone, Season 1

Narrator:
The place is here, the time is now, and the journey into the shadows that we're about to watch could be our journey.

Narrator:
Up there, up there in the vastness of space, in the void that is sky, up there is an enemy known as isolation. It sits there in the stars waiting, waiting with the patience of eons, forever waiting... in the Twilight Zone.

[With a few minutes to midnight, Bookman does his best to distract Death]

Mr. Bookman:
And now, the final offer. My very best. What I now present has never been sold any where else in these entirety of the world. I offer...one servant, for all eternity. One man, to travel with you along the cosmos, to entice, to assist in whatever way I can. Because you see, my good sir...I offer you...

[The clock chimes midnight, and Maggie begins to stir]

Mr. Death:
Why...it's midnight! It's past midnight and I've missed my appointment!

Mr. Death:
You realize, of course, that you've reached the terms of our deal.

Mr. Bookman:
That's right.

[Pause]

Mr. Bookman:
...But it was pretty great, wasn't it?

Mr. Death:
Yes, it was, Mr. Bookman. One for the ages.

Mr. Bookman:
That's right. One for the ages.

Mr. Death:
Now, come along.

Mr. Bookman:
All right, all right. I'm ready...wait.

[He goes to his pitchman's case and folds it up. Death looks at him curiously.]

Mr. Bookman:
You never know who may need something up there. Hm? Up there?

Mr. Death:
Up there, Mr. Bookman. You made it.

Narrator:
Portrait of a town drunk named Al Denton. This is a man who's begun his dying early - a long, agonizing route through a maze of bottles. Al Denton, who would probably give an arm or a leg or a part of his soul to have another chance, to be able to rise up and shake the dirt from his body and the bad dreams that infest his consciousness. In the parlance of the times, this is a peddler, a rather fanciful-looking little man in a black frock coat. And this is the third principal character of our story. Its function: perhaps to give Mr. Al Denton his second chance.

Narrator:
Mr. Henry Fate, dealer in utensils and pots and pans, liniments and potions. A fanciful little man in a black frock coat who can help a man climbing out of a pit - or another man from falling into one. Because, you see, fate can work that way in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Picture of a woman looking at a picture. Movie great of another time, once-brilliant star in a firmament no longer a part of the sky, eclipsed by the movement of earth and time. Barbara Jean Trenton, whose world is a projection room, whose dreams are made out of celluloid. Barbara Jean Trenton, struck down by hit-and-run years and lying on the unhappy pavement, trying desperately to get the license number of fleeting fame.

Narrator:
To the wishes that come true, to the strange, mystic strength of the human animal, who can take a wishful dream and give it a dimension of its own. To Barbara Jean Trenton, movie queen of another era, who has changed the blank tomb of an empty projection screen into a private world. It can happen in the Twilight Zone.

Martin Sloan:
[to his younger self] Martin, I only wanted to tell you that this is a wonderful time of life for you. Don't let any of it go by without enjoying it. There won't be any more merry-go-rounds, no more cotton candy, no more band concerts. I only wanted to tell you that this is a wonderful time for you. Now. Here. That's all, Martin. That's all I wanted to tell you. God help me. That's all I wanted to tell you.

Narrator:
Martin Sloan, age thirty-six, vice-president in charge of media. Successful in most things but not in the one effort that all men try at some time in their lives - trying to go home again. And also like all men perhaps there'll be an occasion, maybe a summer night sometime, when he'll look up from what he's doing and listen to the distant music of a calliope, and hear the voices and the laughter of the people and the places of his past. And perhaps across his mind there'll flit a little errant wish, that a man might not have to become old, never outgrow the parks and the merry-go-rounds of his youth. And he'll smile then too because he'll know it is just an errant wish, some wisp of memory not too important really, some laughing ghosts that cross a man's mind, that are a part of the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
You're about to meet a hypochondriac. Witness Mr. Walter Bedeker, age forty-four, afraid of the following: death, disease, other people, germs, draft, and everything else. He has one interest in life, and that's Walter Bedeker. One preoccupation: the life and well-being of Walter Bedeker. One abiding concern about society: that if Walter Bedeker should die, how will it survive without him?

Narrator:
There's a saying, 'Every man is put on Earth condemned to die, time and method of execution unknown.' Perhaps this is as it should be. Case in point: Walter Bedeker, lately deceased, a little man with such a yen to live. Beaten by the Devil, by his own boredom, and by the scheme of things in this, the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Witness if you will a dungeon, made out of mountains, salt flats and sand that stretch to infinity. The dungeon has an inmate: James A. Corry. And this is his residence: a metal shack. An old touring car that squats in the sun and goes nowhere - for there is nowhere to go. For the record let it be known that James A. Corry is a convicted criminal placed in solitary confinement. Confinement in this case stretches as far as the eye can see, because this particular dungeon is on an asteroid nine million miles from the Earth. Now witness if you will a man's mind and body shrivelling in the sun, a man dying of loneliness.

Narrator:
On a microscopic piece of sand that floats through space is a fragment of a man's life. Left to rust is the place he lived in and the machines he used. Without use, they will disintegrate from the wind and the sand and the years that act upon them; all of Mr. Corry's machines - including the one made in his image, kept alive by love, but now obsolete in the Twilight Zone.

Henry Bemis:
"Collected Works of Dickens!" "Collected Works of George Bernard Shaw!" "Poems by Browning, Shelley, Keats!" "Greatest Authors of the World!" Books! Books! All the books I need! All the books-all the books I'll ever WANT! Shelley, Shakespeare, Shaw, all the books I want!

Henry Bemis:
And the very best thing, the very, VERY best thing of all, is that there's time now. There's all the time I need, all the time I want. Time, time, time. (sighs) There's time enough, at last!

Narrator:
The best laid plans of mice and men and Henry Bemis, the small man in the glasses who wanted nothing but time. Henry Bemis, now just a part of a smashed landscape, just a piece of the rubble, just a fragment of what man has deeded to himself. Mr. Henry Bemis in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Twelve o'clock noon. An ordinary scene, an ordinary city. Lunchtime for thousands of ordinary people. To most of them, this hour will be a rest, a pleasant break in the day's routine. To most, but not all. To Edward Hall, time is an enemy, and the hour to come is a matter of life and death.

Narrator:
They say a dream takes only a second or so, and yet in that second a man can live a lifetime. He can suffer and die, and who's to say which is the greater reality: the one we know or the one in dreams, between heaven, the sky, the earth in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Her name is the S.S. Queen of Glasgow. Her registry: British. Gross tonnage: five thousand. Age: indeterminate. At this moment she's one day out of Liverpool, her destination New York. Duly recorded on this ship's log is the sailing time, course to destination, weather conditions, temperature, longitude and latitude. But what is never recorded in a log is the fear that washes over a deck like fog and ocean spray. Fear like the throbbing strokes of engine pistons, each like a heartbeat, parceling out every hour into breathless minutes of watching, waiting and dreading. For the year is 1942, and this particular ship has lost its convoy. It travels alone like an aged blind thing groping through the unfriendly dark, stalked by unseen periscopes of steel killers. Yes, the Queen of Glasgow is a frightened ship, and she carries with her a premonition of death.

Narrator:
The S.S. Queen of Glasgow, heading for New York, and the time is 1942. For one man, it is always 1942, and this man will ride the ghost of that ship every night for eternity. This is what is meant by paying the fiddler. This is the comeuppance awaiting every man when the ledger of his life is opened and examined, the tally made, and then the reward or the penalty paid. And in the case of Carl Lanser, former Kapitan Leutnant, Navy of the Third Reich, this is the penalty. This is the justice meted out. This is judgment night in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Her name: X-20. Her type: an experimental interceptor. Recent history: a crash landing in the Mojave Desert after a thirty-one hour flight nine hundred miles into space. Incidental data: the ship, with the men who flew her, disappeared from the radar screen for twenty-four hours. But the shrouds that cover mysteries are not always made out of a tarpaulin, as this man will soon find out on the other side of a hospital door.

Narrator:
Once upon a time, there was a man named Harrington, a man named Forbes, a man named Gart. They used to exist, but don't any longer. Someone or something took them somewhere. At least they are no longer a part of the memory of man. And as to the X-20 supposed to be housed here in this hangar, this too does not exist. And if any of you have any questions concerning an aircraft and three men who flew her, speak softly of them, and only in the Twilight Zone.

Renard:
Why does it have to stop?

Pedott:
Because the things you need most, I can't supply.

Renard:
What are they?

Pedott:
Serenity, peace of mind, humor, the ability to laugh at one's self. Those are things you need the most, but it's beyond my power to give them to you.

Renard:
C'mon old man, tell me - are these what I need?

Pedott:
I didn't say they were. But I'll tell you something - they happen to be what I need.

Narrator:
His name is Arch Hammer. He's thirty-six years old. He's been a salesman, a dispatcher, a truck driver, a con man, a bookie, and a part-time bartender. This is a cheap man, a nickel and dime man, with a cheapness that goes past the suit and the shirt; a cheapness of mind, a cheapness of taste, a tawdry little shine on the seat of his conscience, and a dark-room squint at a world whose sunlight has never gotten through to him. But Mr. Hammer has a talent, discovered at a very early age. This much he does have. He can make his face change. He can twitch a muscle, move a jaw, concentrate on the cast of his eyes, and he can change his face. He can change it into anything he wants. Mr. Archie Hammer, jack of all trades, has just checked in at three-eighty a night, with two bags, some newspaper clippings, a most odd talent, and a master plan to destroy some lives.

Narrator:
He was Arch Hammer, a cheap little man who just checked in. He was Johnny Foster, who played a trumpet and was loved beyond words. He was Virgil Sterig, with money in his pocket. He was Andy Marshak, who got some of his agony back on a sidewalk in front of a cheap hotel. Hammer, Foster, Sterig, Marshak - and all four of them were dying.

Narrator:
Quitting time at the plant. Time for supper now. Time for families. Time for a cool drink on a porch. Time for the quiet rustle of leaf-laden trees that screen out the moon. And underneath it all, behind the eyes of the men, hanging invisible over the summer night, is a horror without words. For this is the stillness before storm. This is the eve of the end.

Narrator:
Behind a tiny ship heading into space is a doomed planet on the verge of suicide. Ahead lies a place called Earth, the third planet from the sun. And for William Sturka and the men and women with him, it's the eve of the beginning in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Her name is the Arrow One. She represents four and a half years of planning, preparation and training, and a thousand years of science and mathematics and the projected dreams and hopes of not only a nation but a world. She is the first manned aircraft into space. And this is the countdown, the last five seconds before man shot an arrow into the air.

Narrator:
Practical joke perpetrated by Mother Nature and a combination of improbable events. Practical joke wearing the trappings of nightmare, of terror, of desperation. Small human drama played out in…the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Her name is Nan Adams. She's twenty-seven years old. Her occupation: buyer at a New York department store, at present on vacation, driving cross-country to Los Angeles, California, from Manhattan. Minor incident on Highway 11 in Pennsylvania, perhaps to be filed away under accidents you walk away from. But from this moment on, Nan Adams's companion on a trip to California will be terror; her route - fear; her destination - quite unknown.

Narrator:
Nan Adams, age twenty-seven. She was driving to California, to Los Angeles. She didn't make it. There was a detour through the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Gibbs, three days and two nights, all expenses paid, at a Las Vegas hotel, won by virtue of Mrs. Gibbs's knack with a phrase. But unbeknownst to either Mr. or Mrs. Gibbs is the fact that there's a prize in their package neither expected nor bargained for. In just a moment one of them will succumb to an illness worse than any virus can produce, a most inoperative, deadly, life-shattering affliction known as the fever.

Narrator:
Mr. Franklin Gibbs, visitor to Las Vegas, who lost his money, his reason, and finally his life to an inanimate metal machine variously described as a one-armed bandit, a slot machine or, in Mr. Franklin Gibbs's words, a monster with a will all its own. For our purposes we'll stick with the latter definition because we're in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Witness Flight Lieutenant William Terrance Decker, Royal Flying Corps, returning from a patrol somewhere over France. The year is 1917. The problem is that the Lieutenant is hopelessly lost. Lieutenant Decker will soon discover that a man can be lost not only in terms of maps and miles, but also in time, and time in this case can be measured in eternities.

Narrator:
Dialogue from a play, Hamlet to Horatio: "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Dialogue from a play written long before men took to the sky. There are more things in heaven and earth, and in the sky, that perhaps can be dreamt of. And somewhere in between heaven, the sky, the earth, lies the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Infantry platoon, U.S. Army, Philippine Islands, 1945. These are the faces of the young men who fight. As if some omniscient painter had mixed a tube of oils that were at one time earth brown, dust gray, blood red, beard black, and fear - yellow white, and these men were the models. For this is the province of combat and these are the faces of war.

Narrator:
From William Shakespeare, Richard the Third, a small excerpt. The line reads, 'He has come to open the purple testament of bleeding war.' And for Lieutenant William Fitzgerald, A Company, First Platoon, the testament is closed. Lieutenant Fitzgerald has found the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
The time is the day after tomorrow. The place: a far corner of the universe. The cast of characters: three men lost amongst the stars, three men sharing the common urgency of all men lost - they're looking for home. And in a moment they'll find home, not a home that is a place to be seen but a strange, unexplainable experience to be felt.

Narrator:
Kirby, Webber, and Meyers, three men lost. They shared a common wish, a simple one, really - they wanted to be aboard their ship, headed for home. And fate, a laughing fate, a practical jokester with a smile that stretched across the stars, saw to it that they got their wish, with just one reservation: the wish came true, but only in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Millicent Barnes, age twenty-five, young woman waiting for a bus on a rainy November night. Not a very imaginative type is Miss Barnes, not given to undue anxiety or fears, or for that matter even the most temporal flights of fancy. Like most young career women, she has a generic classification as a, quote, girl with a head on her shoulders, end of quote. All of which is mentioned now because in just a moment the head on Miss Barnes's shoulders will be put to a test. Circumstances will assault her sense of reality and a chain of nightmares will put her sanity on a block. Millicent Barnes, who in one minute will wonder is she's going mad.

Narrator:
Obscure metaphysical explanation to cover a phenomenon, reasons dredged out of the shadows to explain away that which cannot be explained. Call it parallel planes or just insanity. Whatever it is, you find it in the Twilight Zone.

Charlie:
Look! Look, I swear it isn't me! I swear it isn't! But I know who it is! I know who the monster is! I know who it is that doesn't belong among us! I swear I know who it is!

Don:
Alright, Charlie, let's hear it.

Charlie:
It's...it's...

Les:
Well, what are you waiting for!

Don:
Come on Charlie, come on!

Old Man:
Who is it, Charlie? Tell us!

Charlie:
It's the kid! It's Tommy! He's the one!

Narrator:
The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs, and explosions, and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, ideas, prejudices, to be found only in the minds of men. For the record, prejudices can kill and suspicion can destroy. A thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own for the children and the children yet unborn. And the pity of it is, is that these things cannot be confined to the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
You're looking at a tableau of reality, things of substance, of physical material: a desk, a window, a light. These things exist and have dimension. Now this is Arthur Curtis, age thirty-six, who also is real. He has flesh and blood, muscle and mind. But in just a moment we will see how thin a line separates that which we assume to be real with that manufactured inside of a mind.

Narrator:
The modus operandi for the departure from life is usually a pine box of such and such dimensions, and this is the ultimate in reality. But there are other ways for a man to exit from life. Take the case of Arthur Curtis, age thirty-six. His departure was along a highway with an exit sign that reads 'This way to escape.' Arthur Curtis, en route to the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
You're looking at Act One, Scene One, of a nightmare, one not restricted to witching hours or dark, rainswept nights. Professor Walter Jameson, popular beyond words, who talks of the past as if it were the present, who conjures up the dead as if they were alive. In the view of this man, Professor Samuel Kittridge, Walter Jameson has access to knowledge that couldn't come out of a volume of history, but rather from a book on black magic, which is to say that this nightmare begins at noon.

Narrator:
Last stop on a long journey, as yet another human being returns to the vast nothingness that is the beginning and into the dust that is always the end.

Narrator:
You are looking at a species of flimsy little two-legged animal with extremely small heads whose name is Man. Warren Marcusson, age thirty-five. Samuel A. Conrad, age thirty-one... They're taking a highway into space, Man unshackling himself and sending his tiny, grouping fingers up into the unknown. Their destination is Mars, and in just a moment we'll land there with them.

Narrator:
Species of animal brought back alive. Interesting similarity in physical characteristics to human beings in head, trunk, arms, legs, hands, feet. Very tiny undeveloped brain; comes from primitive planet named Earth. Samuel Conrad has found the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Commonplace, if somewhat grim, unsocial event known as a necktie party. The guest of dishonor a cowboy named Joe Caswell, just a moment away from a rope, a short dance several feet off the ground, and then the dark eternity of all evil men. Mr. Joe Caswell, who, when the good Lord passed out a conscience, a heart, a feeling for fellow men, must have been out for a beer and missed out. Mr. Joe Caswell, in the last quiet moment of a violent life.

Narrator:
This is November, 1880, the aftermath of a necktie party. The victim's name - Paul Johnson, a minor-league criminal and the taker of another human life. No comment on his death save this: justice can span years. Retribution is not subject to a calendar. Tonight's case in point in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
In this corner of the universe, a prizefighter named Bolie Jackson, one hundred eighty-three pounds and an hour and a half away from a comeback at St. Nick's Arena. Mr. Bolie Jackson, who by the standards of his profession is an aging, over-the-hill relic of what was, and who now sees a reflection of a man who has left too many pieces of his youth in too many stadiums for too many years before too many screaming people. Mr. Bolie Jackson, who might do well to look for some gentle magic in the hard-surfaced glass that stares back at him.

Narrator:
Mr. Bolie Jackson, a hundred and eighty-three pounds, who left a second chance lying in a heap on a rosin-spattered canvas at St. Nick's Arena. Mr. Bolie Jackson, who shares the most common ailment of all men, the strange and perverse disinclination to believe in a miracle, the kind of miracle to come from the mind of a little boy, perhaps only to be found in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Portrait of a man at work, the only work he's ever done, the only work he knows. His name is Henry Francis Valentine but he calls himself Rocky, because that's the way his life has been - rocky and perilous and uphill at a dead run all the way. He's tired now, tired of running or wanting, of waiting for the breaks that come to others but never to him, never to Rocky Valentine. A scared, angry little man. He thinks it's all over now but he's wrong. For Rocky Valentine, it's just the beginning.

Narrator:
A scared, angry little man who never got a break. Now he has everything he's ever wanted and he's going to have to live with it for eternity in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Month of November, hot chocolate, and a small cameo of a child's face, imperfect only in its solemnity. And these are the improbable ingredients to a human emotion, an emotion, say, like fear. But in a moment this woman, Helen Foley, will realize fear. She will understand what are the properties of terror. A little girl will lead her by the hand and walk with her into a nightmare.

Narrator:
Miss Helen Foley, who has lived in night and who will wake up to morning. Miss Helen Foley, who took a dark spot from the tapestry of her life and rubbed it clean, then stepped back a few paces and got a good look at the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
This is Gart Williams, age thirty-eight, a man protected by a suit of armor all held together by one bolt. Just a moment ago, someone removed the bolt, and Mr. Williams's protection fell away from him and left him a naked target. He's been cannonaded this afternoon by all the enemies of his life. His insecurity has shelled him, his sensitivity has straddled him with humiliation, his deep-rooted disquiet about his own worth has zeroed in on him, landed on target, and blown him apart. Mr. Gart Williams, ad agency exec, who in just a moment will move into the Twilight Zone - in a desperate search for survival.

Narrator:
Willoughby? Maybe it's wishful thinking nestled in a hidden part of a man's mind, or maybe it's the last stop in the vast design of things, or perhaps, for a man like Mr. Gart Williams, who climbed on a world that went by too fast, it's a place around the bend where he could jump off. Willoughby? Whatever it is, it comes with sunlight and serenity, and is a part of the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Mr. Roger Shackleforth. Age: youthful twenties. Occupation: being in love. Not just in love, but madly, passionately, illogically, miserably, all-consumingly in love, with a young woman named Leila who has a vague recollection of his face and even less than a passing interest. In a moment you'll see a switch, because Mr. Roger Shackleforth, the young gentleman so much in love, will take a short but very meaningful journey into the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Mr. Roger Shackleforth, who has discovered at this late date that love can be as sticky as a vat of molasses, as unpalatable as a hunk of spoiled yeast, and as all-consuming as a six-alarm fire in a bamboo and canvas tent. Case history of a lover boy who should never have entered the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Joey Crown, musician with an odd, intense face, whose life is a quest for impossible things like flowers in concrete or like trying to pluck a note of music out of the air and put it under glass to treasure...Joey Crown, musician with an odd, intense face, who in a moment will try to leave the Earth and discover the middle ground, the place we call the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Joey Crown, who makes music, and who discovered something about life; that it can be rich and rewarding and full of beauty, just like the music he played, if a person would only pause to look and to listen. Joey Crown, who got his clue in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
In the parlance of the twentieth century, this is an oddball. His name is James B.W. Bevis, and his tastes lean toward stuffed animals, zither music, professional football, Charles Dickens, moose heads, carnivals, dogs, children, and young ladies. Mr. Bevis is accident prone, a little vague, a little discombobulated, with a life that possesses all the security of a floating crap game. But this can be said of our Mr. Bevis: without him, without his warmth, without his kindness, the world would be a considerably poorer place, albeit perhaps a little saner.

Narrator:
Mr. James B.W. Bevis, who believes in a magic all his own. The magic of a child's smile, the magic of liking and being liked, the strange and wondrous mysticism that is the simple act of living. Mr. James B.W. Bevis, species of twentieth-century male, who has his own private and special Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Express elevator to the ninth floor of a department store, carrying Miss Marsha White on a most prosaic, ordinary, run of the mill errand. Miss Marsha White on the ninth floor, specialties department, looking for a gold thimble. The odds are she'll find it, but there are even better odds that she'll find something else, because this isn't just a department store. This happens to be the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Marsha White in her normal and natural state…But it makes you wonder, doesn't it? Just how normal are we? Just who are the people we nod our hellos to as we pass on the street? A rather good question to ask, particularly in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
What you're looking at is a ghost, once alive but now deceased. Once upon a time, it was a baseball stadium that housed a major-league ballclub known as the Hoboken Zephyrs. Now it houses nothing but memories and a wind that stirs in the high grass of what was once an outfield, a wind that sometimes bears a faint, ghostly resemblance to the roar of a crowd that once sat here. We're back in time now, when the Hoboken Zephyrs were still a part of the National League and this mausoleum of memories was an honest-to-Pete stadium. But since this is strictly a story of make-believe, it has to start this way. Once upon a time, in Hoboken, New Jersey, it was tryout day. And though he's not yet on the field, you're about to meet a most unusual fellow, a left-handed pitched named Casey.

Narrator:
Once upon a time there was a major-league baseball team called the Hoboken Zephyrs who, during the last year of their existence, wound up in last place and shortly thereafter wound up in oblivion. There's a rumor, unsubstantiated of course, that a manager named McGarry took them to the West Coast and wound up with several pennants and a couple of world's championships. This team had a pitching staff that made history. Of course, none of them smiled very much, but it happens to be a fact that they pitched like nothing human. And if you're interested as to where these gentlemen came from, you might check under 'B' for baseball, in the Twilight Zone.

Rod Serling:
We hope you enjoyed tonight's romantic story on the Twilight Zone. At the same time we want you to realize that it was of course purely fictional. In real life such ridiculous nonsense could never-

Gregory West:
Rod...you shouldn't...you shouldn't say such things as "nonsense" and "ridiculous".

Rod Serling:
Well, that's the way it goes.

Narrator:
Leaving Mr. Gregory West, still shy, quiet, very happy - and apparently in complete control of the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Some push for what they need; some push for what they want. Some people, like Peter Jay Novins, just push. If they do it hard enough and long enough, something might just push back... from the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Peter Jay Novins, both victor and victim, of a brief struggle for custody of a man's soul. A man who lost himself... and found himself... on a lonely battlefield, somewhere in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Wouldn't it be nice if once in a while everyone would just shut up and stop pestering you. Wouldn't it be great to have the time to finish a thought or spin a daydream. To think out loud without being required to explain exactly what you meant. If you had the power, would you dare to use it, even knowing that silence may have voices of it's own... to the Twilight Zone?

Narrator:
A question trembles in the silence: Why did this remarkable thing happen to this perfectly ordinary man? It may not matter why the world shifted so drastically for him. Existence is slippery at the best of times. What does matter is that Bill Lowery isn't ordinary. He's one of us. A man determined to prevail in the world that was, and the world that is, or the world that will be...in the Twilight Zone.

Curt Lockridge:
But, wait, wait, wait, tell me, why did you come here! ...why?

Alien/Dr.Vaugh Heilman:
Just curious.

Narrator:
Imagine yourself a visitor to many worlds, drifting on the solar wind, a thousand voices singing in your memory. Now imagine you're this man, who can only guess at the wonders he might have known, wonders that exist for him now only as a riddle...from The Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Ah, Jackie, Jackie. You're a small-timer, a roof-crawler, a poke pincher, a nickel-and-dime grifter with salt in your dreams and ashes in your pockets. Don't cut that wire, Jackie. Don't open that window. You won't be able to jimmy yourself out as easily as you got in. That's not the big score in there...it's the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Now he is John, no longer Jackie. Perhaps not Brother John, brother to all men, but at least fit to walk among men who care. Because caring is part of the secret, the secret we all learn. That the heart cannot heal what the eye cannot see. Not even...in the Twilight Zone.

Mother:
How about I teach you a new word. You ready? Here's your new word: comb. As in comb you hair. Try it sometime.

Father:
Do you expect me to look like James Bond or somebody. I'm in construction, for crying out loud!

Mother:
I'm not asking for James Bond, just something closer to the human race.

Father:
[Burp!] How's that?

Mother:
You're grotesque!

Narrator:
Bob Spindler, new owner and sole customer of The Kentucky Rye, a hell of a tavern. Where last call goes on forever, in The Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Carol Shelton, photographer, a modern woman with an age-old problem. She can make the artistic choices of light and shadow, which capture a lifetime of human pain or grandeur on film. But like each of us, she has trouble sometimes choosing which road of life to travel, especially when that road winds deep among the shadows...of The Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
The song unsung. The wish unfulfilled. Even with the dream in hand, there is the chill of an eternal loss ...fading ...fading. For every choice made, wrong or right, a thousand alternatives denied. When tomorrow calls, sometimes the heart must be denied. For Carol Shelton, there will be other tomorrows, other joys, and yet ...fading ...fading. For one trembling instant, she was given the opportunity to take snapshots of an alternate future. Snapshots forever undeveloped in the darkness...of The Twilight Zone.

Mary Ellen:
What in God's name is that?

Janice:
[reading on the lamp] "Rub me and your wish will come true."

Mary Ellen:
Straight out of The Thief of Baghdad.

Janice:
Oh! Wait, there's more!

Mary Ellen:
What?

Janice:
"Certain restrictions may apply."

Price:
Mr. Trooper, you don't want me in your territory, believe me. Not with the body count I've got in my head.

Price:
Listen, I came home walking on the bodies of my friends. Now you think you know what that's like?

Bob:
War is over, Mr. Price, no need to bring it back.

Price:
Bring it back? It never went away, not for me!

Narrator:
What if Paul Marano had turned right instead of left? Hit the brakes a millisecond quicker? Or if... if... if...

Narrator:
The delicate thistledown of romance blows willy-nilly in the scented breeze of chance. On the other hand, perhaps true love is just a crap shoot with the dice loaded and the odds rigged from on high Mount Olympus, a condo for immortals in that subdivision called The Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
He reached out with his mind, searching for some trace of her... but found only silence. Peter Wood, was alone.... A new year with new friends and a new confidence and, in time, he began to doubt whether it had ever really happened. Until, one day... [Charity tells him to go to Bear Rock] Harmon Brook is very different today. Its water's not quite as pure, its banks lined with tract homes and shopping centers, but Bear Rock is still there. And so is a message, a message from a girl long gone, and yet, never really gone in heart and mind. [Peter finds inscription] A last remembrance of friendship and first love. A love that will live, only and always, in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
We're told that damned places exist. Buildings where madness permeates the very bricks and mortar. We're told that sometimes dedication and kindness can purge the evil from those walls. This has merely been a story. Life isn't really like this, is it? A lesson to be learned in the study halls of the Twilight Zone.

Billy:
Why must that hour never toll?

Gaspar:
The lost hour must never come. If it strikes 12, eternal night falls, of which there is no recall. The light, the wind, the stars, this magnificent place we call the universe, it all ends. And in its place, waiting, always waiting, hungering to be fed, is darkness. No new beginnings, no world without end. Just the infinite emptiness.

Narrator:
Like a wind crying endlessly through the universe, time carries away the names and deeds of conquerors and commoners alike. And all that we were, all that remains is in the memories of those who cared we came this way for a brief moment. A blessing of the 18th Egyptian Dynasty: God be between you and harm in all the empty places you walk.

Narrator:
Maury Winkler, struggling playwright and occasional bill payer. Maury knows that all the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players. What Maury doesn't know is he is about to take center stage in an off-Broadway production in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Just a friendly game of cards. It doesn't take much to buy into this game, but buying out may be something else entirely. You see, there's a wild card on the table in a deck that's been reshuffled and cut...in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
There's an old saying, oft told, but seldom heeded: never deal with the devil. But if by chance you must, it's nice to know he can be a good sport. Just a friendly game of cards among a friendly group of guys, who have just come back...from the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
As we walk through life, if we learn nothing else, we learn the only sure things are death and taxes. Well, one out of two isn't bad. And haven't we all said "You can't take it with you"? Another comforting adage without exceptions in the real world, that somehow goes all wonky when considering exit lines, delivered...in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
There is a place where everything that's ever been lost can be found again. A place where lost hopes, lost dreams, lost chances wait for someone to reclaim them. But before you can find them, first you must become lost...in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
You won't find it in the Yellow Pages or advertised in the local papers. Its reputation is spread purely by word-of-mouth, from one satisfied customer to another. But if, like most of us, you've lost something in your time, look for this door. And if you don't find it at first, don't lose hope, because even that can be found again...in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
When you're thirteen years old, you're supposed to be beyond those childhood fears of things that go bump in the night. Supposed to be. But for Danny Hayes, those fears are about to rear up before him, from the shadows...of the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
The perfect crime is the one nobody realizes has been committed. Every day, we commit a dozen perfect crimes in our mind, and we never get punished, because those crimes never happen. That's the way it is in the real world. But murder, like a bad meal, has a way of repeating, especially when the bloody stroke is struck…in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
They say every road goes somewhere. But that isn't so. Roads are just there. It is we who do the moving. They stop where we stop, not caring whether we follow them to our chosen destination or...into the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
He had to go back; it was that simple. Back to the place where his anger had first taken root. Back to find the turning point which had set him on the road to success . . . and loneliness. Because here, in a small Ohio town, lived the shadows of the boy he used to be and the man he could have become. Gus Rosenthal is returning home . . . to the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
It's rather bittersweet how we spend so much time trying to justify ourselves to the shadows of those who are long gone. And even if they were alive, would they remember? Would they recall what they had said or done that made you spend the rest of your life proving yourself? And if you could go back, wouldn't you learn that you were always the master of your fate? And if you learned that great truth, wouldn't it free you of a useless burden. Dead cargo...from the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
And bending down beside the glowing bars, murmur, a little sadly, how love fled and paced upon the mountains overhead and hid her face among a crowd of stars. A variation on William Butler Yeats to all those who have loved and lost, and loved again, on Earth or...in the Twilight Zone.

Demon:
[just after being summoned] Two words, babe: 'Eternal Damnation.' We in business?

Narrator:
Another of our continuing tips on what to do if the Devil shows up on your doorstep. A public service announcement from the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
What do you get the woman who has everything, but respect? Ask Karen Billings, recipient of a very unusual and definitely non-returnable present. Because this year, for Christmas, Karen Billings received...the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
The survey ship Magellan, bearing with it the last legacy of a long-dead people. A legacy to be kept and cherished and, in time, bequeathed to a world still unborn. From the current inhabitants...of the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Ancient maps included unknown lands labeled "terra incognita," and warnings like, "here, there be tigers." Modern maps of an enlightened world show no such disclaimers. Perhaps they should. Perhaps even today, there are realms which cannot be charted anywhere...outside the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
In the days to come, when human beings navigate the great depths of space, they'll eventually come to a small planet in a distant galaxy. It's a pleasant place, but quite unlike the Earth. There's one unusual similarity, however: shamrocks grow there in great profusion. Brought they say by one Liam O'Shaughnessy, lately of Earth and now residing in one of the greener corners...of the Twilight Zone.

Harry:
[writing a restaurant review] "Mr. Lee's Chinese Cuisine. If you love your Pekingese, don't ask for a doggy bag."

Narrator:
Check please, for Mr. Harry Folger. For whom the phrase "dim sum" is not merely a description, but a damnation. A man who finds himself sitting down to a single, neverending course of just desserts. Prepared for him in the kitchens of the Twilight Zone.

Bendictson:
Toby, there are things in the night worse than me. Things so terrible that I've spent a hundred and forty seven years running from them. Things that wait and hide, and if one of my kind stays too long in a place, they come out. Real monsters, Toby. Real beasts.

Bendictson:
Midnight. Not twelve on the clock, but mid-night. When twilight and dawn are evenly balanced, one no stronger than the other. Each pulling against the other in the opposite direction, so that the very fabric of the night is torn apart. Midnight ... when the monsters come out.

Alien Ambassador:
I think you have misunderstood me. Your savagery is an issue. That's true. But, you see, on the thousands of planets under our control, we breed warriors, gentleman. Warriors to fight for us across the galaxy! In your case, your savagery has not bred true. You are woefully backwards in the act of war. you fight erratically and clumsily. Your weapons are shockingly crude. And worst of all, in your hearts you long for peace. A small talent for war. Too small. Too small to be of any use to us.

Narrator:
If we are pawns of dark powers, then even our highest aspirations become a grim joke. But if not, then no one will goad us toward world peace or take it away once we have achieved it. Doubters please note, you've just seen it achieved once, however briefly, in The Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Time, a handy fiction to explain why everything doesn't happen all at once. Or maybe we're the fiction, moving minute by minute...through the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
It's a world much like our own, yet much unlike it. A twisted mirror of reality, in which a man can find himself cast out, made invisible by public acclamation, belonging no longer to society, but only to the gray reaches...of the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
A small footnote found in the court records of some parallel world. The name of Mitchell Chaplin, who served his sentence of invisibility and learned his lesson well. Too well. This time, however, he will wear his invisibility like a shield of glory. A shield forged in the very heart...of the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Women, it is said, rarely go out with men who say "now, spit". A good example: Dr. Myron Mandel, who put a tooth under his pillow and wished for love, but probably should've settled for a quarter.

Narrator:
Visiting hours have just ended at City General Hospital, but this man never needs permission to enter. He comes to places like these quite frequently during the visitors last hours, with a visitor's pass printed in... the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
You're now leaving scenic Winfield, population: sixty-two; median age: one hundred and twelve. There's not much to do here, but you do it for a very long time. Look for it off the beaten path, just south of the middle of nowhere, on the backroads...of the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
In his mind, he starts to hear a song, a song of alien thoughts speaking without voice, welcoming him. Matthew Forman, once a sleeper standing outside time, has found his place at last. A voyager touching the farthest shores...of the Twilight Zone.

Georgie:
Last chance, Gramma! Stop fooling around! Wake up or Mom will chew me out for letting you die.

Uncle Doug:
Medea was someone's mother. Messalina, Lucretia Borgia, Typhoid Mary. Mothers every one of them.

Narrator:
Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear, where radio was king and the special effects were as big as your imagination. All recorded live in the studios of...the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Consider for a moment if you were a leprechaun, making your home under the roots of trees or in the hollows between rocks. Wouldn't you want to get away from it all now and then? A winter in Pismo Beach? A summer trip to Disneyland where no one would even notice you? But if you really were a leprechaun, where else would you vacation but in the Twilight Zone?

Manager:
Sounds to me you've been taken in by a lot of secular intellectual propaganda. I've been only in charge here for a short while. My predecessor wasn't a religious man. He thought this was a job just like any other where you could compromise every now and then. But you can't. Not when your keeping the land clean. As it says in Psalms: "The ungodly are like the chaff which the wind driveth away. Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous." Sinners, John... the murderers, the muggers, the hustlers, the pornographers, atheists, heathens, and so-called humanists.

Johnny:
You mean... anyone who doesn't measure up to your standards.

Manager:
Not my standards, John. The only standards that matter. Age-old inviolate standards that God-fearing people have observed for centuries.

Narrator:
Centuries ago, Hell was reached by chalk-white horses pulling shuttered coaches; by Spanish galleons borne on black sails through uncharted seas. Legend has it Leonardo da Vinci was once commissioned to build a flying machine to carry souls to Hell, but it never returned from its maiden flight. But along this particular road to Hell lies redemption for the damned as well as for drivers who have found work... in The Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Often the most perplexing mysteries have the simplest solutions, the most complex questions, the simplest answers. Sometimes we seek them long and hard only to find the solutions and the answers lie right before us in a reference book, under "T" for the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Man is a questioning creature, constantly striving for answers. But there is some knowledge for which he's not yet ready. Secrets once learned overwhelm him. Secrets that for now are best left undisturbed...in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Let's hear it for him, ladies and gentlemen. A big hand for Billy Diamond, a mad-cap kind of guy who'll make you laugh until it hurts, late of Hollywood and Las Vegas, now leaving 'em rolling in the aisles...of the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
Adam Grant, a nondescript man found guilty of murder and sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead. Like most other criminals caught in the wheels of justice he's scared, right down to the marrow of his bones. But it isn't prison that scares him, the long, silent nights of waiting, the slow walk to the hanging room, or even death itself. It's something else that holds Adam Grant in the hot, sweaty grip of fear, something worse than any punishment this world has to offer, something found only in the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
We know that a dream can be real, but what if reality is only a dream? We exist, of course, but how? In what way? As we believe, as flesh and blood human beings, or are we simply playing parts in someone else's feverish, complicated nightmare? Think about it and then ask yourself, "Do you live here in this country? In this world? Or do you live instead...in the Twilight Zone?

Narrator:
Rosemarie Miletti, oldest of five children. Always responsible, always dependable. Time and dreams sacrificed to family and duty. Rosemarie, soon to receive a gift of time offered by one who can least afford it. A first fleeting glimpse...into the Twilight Zone.

Narrator:
To live life fully, one should hear the melody the world makes. Pity those who stumble through their years without ever hearing the song. The greatest gift we can bestow on those we love is to help them hear it. One life ends, another begins. But the song of life fills the universe, even into the last highest darkened balcony row...in the Twilight Zone.

Mr. Orson:
Son, if I sent that story out on the AP wire, Mr. AP himself would come out here and rip out my teletype with his own, bare hands.

Sheriff:
Go ahead, son. Why don't you tell the major what you saw - the fiery meteor, the bug-eyed monsters, the death ray.

Merlin:
I have no doubt that you'll be at my side when I set my new Arthur on the throne of England.

Lancelot:
Kings are mere ornaments in this time, Merlin. People prefer to choose their own leaders now.

Merlin:
What a foolish notion. How can they understand what's best for them?

Narrator:
Once upon a time, there was a realm of myth and magic-a high, bright dream that shimmered briefly and then was gone, leaving only memories and one ageless, weary, slightly tarnished hero who proved at last that wisdom and valor go hand in hand, on Earth, in Camelot, and...in the Twilight Zone.

Rod Serling:
Street scene. Summer. The present. Man on a sidewalk named Lew Bookman, age sixtyish. Occupation: pitchman. Lew Bookman, a fixture of the summer. A rather minor component to a hot July. A nondescript, commonplace little man whose life is a treadmill built out of sidewalks. In just a moment Lew Bookman will have to concern himself with survival. Because as of three-o-clock this hot July afternoon, he'll be stalked by...Mr. Death.

Rod Serling:
Lewis J. Bookman, age sixtyish. Occupation: pitchman. Formerly a fixture of the summer. Formerly a rather minor component to a hot July. But throughout his life, a man beloved by the children...and therefore a most important man. Couldn't happen you say? Probably not in most places, but it did happen...in the Twilight Zone.

Rod Serling:
Martin Sloane, age thirty-six. Occupation: vice president, ad agency, in charge of media. This is not just a Sunday drive for Martin Sloane. He perhaps doesn't know it at the time, but it's an exodus. Somewhere up the road, he's looking for sanity. And somewhere up the road, he'll find something else.

Henry Bemis:
[laments the destruction of his glasses] That's not fair! That's not fair at all! There was time now. There was all the time I needed...! [tears up] That's not fair! That's not fair!

Rod Serling:
You're looking at Mr. Fred Renard, who carries on his shoulder a chip the size of the national debt. This is a sour man. A friendless man. A lonely man. A grasping, compulsive, nervous man. This is a man who has lived thirty-six undistinguished, meaningless, pointless, failure-laden years...and, who at this moment, looks for an escape. Any escape. Anyway, anything, anybody to get out of the rut. And this little old man...is just what Mr. Renard is waiting for.

Rod Serling:
Street scene. Night. Traffic accident. Victim named Fred Renard, gentleman with a sour face, to whom contentment came with difficulty. Fred Renard, who took all that was needed...in the Twilight Zone.

Rod Serling:
Now you make tracks, Mr. Correy. You move out and up like some kind of ghostly Billy club was tapping at your ankle and telling you that it was later than you think. You scrabble up rock hills and feel hot sand underneath your feet and, every now and then, take a look over your shoulder at a giant sun suspended in a dead and motionless sky like an unblinking eye that probes at the back of your head in a prolonged accusation. [pause] Mr. Correy, last remaining member of a doomed crew, keep moving. Make tracks Mr. Correy. Push up and push out, because if you stop... if you stop, maybe sanity will get you by the throat. Maybe realization will pry open your mind and the horror that you left down in the sand will seep in. Yeah, Mr. Correy, yeah, you better keep moving. That's the order of the moment: keep moving.

Rod Serling:
Maple Street, USA. Late summer. A tree-lined little world of front porch gliders, barbecues, the laughter of children and the bell of an ice cream vendor. [pause] At the sound of the roar and the flash of light, it will be precisely 6:43 PM on Maple Street [roaring and dialogue] This is Maple Street on a late Saturday afternoon. Maple Street...in the last calm and reflective moment...before the monsters came.

Rod Serling:
The home of Mr. Gregory West, one of America's most noted playwrights. The office of Mr. Gregory West. Mr. Gregory West—shy, quiet, and at the moment, very happy. Mary—warm, affectionate. [dialogue between Gregory and Mary before the camera pans to Victoria] And the final ingredient: Mrs. Gregory West.

Peter Jay Novins:
[to his alter-ego on the other end of the phone] What do you mean I can't lead a happy life? What do you know about it?

Peter Jay Novins:
What do I know about your life? Who do you think you're talking to? This is me, Novins. Me!

Peter Jay Novins:
There's nothing wrong with my life! Not one thing! Nothing! [pause] So what's so wrong with it, wise guy?

Peter Jay Novins:
Everything! Just about every piece of a stinks on ice. The sad part is, you know it, and you still won't make repairs. Well, that changes. From today on, that changes.

Radio newscaster:
I... I can't believe this is happening. It's... it's all over. We've... just had a confirmation the first Soviet missile will reach the U.S. airspace in a matter of minutes. OK... OK... those of you listening should immediately go to the nearest public shelter. What's the point? It's over! It's over! We're history. Yeah, OK, I'll tell them. War... nuclear war has just broken out between the United States and Russia. ICBMs... full-scale nuclear war... There's not much... this is it. This is the end. We've had a verification Soviet missiles have entered U.S. airspace...

Cathy Lowery:
How was your morning?

Bill Lowery:
Pretty good, I guess. Except for one really strange thing that happened. I was leaving work, and this kid - Robbie? works in the mail room? - he stops me and he says...

Cathy Lowery:
Excuse me, sweetie, I don't mean to interrupt you, but this is gonna be done pretty quick and I wanted you to look in on Donnie before we eat.

Bill Lowery:
Is something the matter?

Cathy Lowery:
His cold's getting worse. He's so pale and awfully congested and he didn't touch his dinosaur when I took it in to him.

Bill Lowery:
[startled] What? What did you say?

Cathy Lowery:
I said, I think Donnie's cold is getting worse.

Bill Lowery:
No no no. Did you say "dinosaur"?

Cathy Lowery:
Mm-hmm, he wouldn't touch it and it's his favorite: tuna-fish.

Bill Lowery:
Why are you saying "dinosaur"?

Cathy Lowery:
What do you expect me to say?

Bill Lowery:
Did Robbie or someone for work call you and tell you to say "dinosaur" as a joke or something?

Cathy Lowery:
Robbie? Who's Robbie? Why would he call me?

Bill Lowery:
Then why are you saying "dinosaur" instead of "lunch"?

Cathy Lowery:
"Dinosaur instead of lunch," Bill, what are you talking about?

Bill Lowery:
Can't you hear what you're saying? You're saying Donnie wouldn't touch his *dinosaur*!

Cathy Lowery:
[confused] I know. And I'm a little worried.

Bill Lowery:
"Dinosaur"? Come on, Kathy, i-it's "lunch"! The word is "lunch"!

Cathy Lowery:
[annoyed] "Lunch"? What has "lunch" got to do with anything?

Bill Lowery:
"What has lunch got to do with any - ?"? All right. Okay. What does "lunch" mean?

Cathy Lowery:
[unsure] Bill, you know what "lunch" means.

Bill Lowery:
[angrily demanding] What does it mean! Tell me!

Cathy Lowery:
[a little afraid] It's a color.

Bob Spindler:
[after the man claims Bob was responsible for his having a serious accident the night before] You're crazy; I don't have to listen to this. Who do you think you are?

Stranger:
The guy you killed.

Todd Ettinger:
I hope you get to spend the rest of his life with that uncontrollable Fury, 'cause I'm certainly going to spend my life in one!

Tony:
[after learning that the Devil was in disguise] Ain't nothing about the money, it's the principle of the thing, you know?

Peter:
Yeah, yeah that's right. You know, a guy wants to sit in and play poker with some guys, he should come up and say, you know, 'Hello, hi, I'm the Prince of Darkness. Can I sit in for a few hands?'