by Jack Finney
THE THIRD LEVEL
by Jack Finney
Rinehart & Company, Inc.
New York Toronto
Published simultaneously in Canada by
Clarke, Irwin & Co., Ltd., Toronto
Copyright, 1949, 1950, 1951, 1952, 1955, 1956, 1957, by Jack Finney
Copyright, 1948, by The Curtis Publishing Company
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved
Table of Contents
The Third Level
Such Interesting Neighbors
I'm Scared
Cousin Len's Wonderful Adjective Cellar
Of Missing Persons
Something in a Cloud
There is a Tide...
Behind the News
Quit Zoomin' Those Hands Through the Air
A Dash of Spring
Second Chance
Contents of the Dead Man's Pocket
The Third Level
The presidents of the New York Central and the New York, New Haven and Hartford railroads will swear on a stack of timetables that there are only two. But I say there are three, because I've been on the third level at Grand Central Station. Yes, I've taken the obvious step: I talked to a psychiatrist friend of mine, among others. I told him about the third level at Grand Central Station, and he said it was a waking-dream wish fulfillment. He said I was unhappy. That made my wife kind of mad, but he explained that he meant the modern world is full of insecurity, fear, war, worry and all the rest of it, and that I just want to escape. Well, hell, who doesn't? Everybody I know wants to escape, but they don't wander down into any third level at Grand Central Station.
But that's the reason, he said, and my friends all agreed. Everything points to it, they claimed. My stamp collecting, for example; that's a temporary refuge from reality. Well, maybe, but my grandfather didn't need any refuge from reality; things were pretty nice and peaceful in his day, from all I hear, and he started my collection. It's a nice collection, too, blocks of four of practically every U.S. issue, first-day covers, and so on. President Roosevelt collected stamps, too, you know.
Anyway, here's what happened at Grand Central. One night last summer I worked late at the office. I was in a hurry to get uptown to my apartment so I decided to take the subway from, Grand Central because it's faster than the bus.
Now, I don't know why this should have happened to me. I'm just an ordinary guy named Charley, thirty-one years old, and I was wearing a tan gabardine suit and a straw hat with a fancy band; I passed a dozen men who looked just like me. And I wasn't trying to escape from anything; I just wanted to get home to Louisa, my wife.
I turned into Grand Central from Vanderbilt Avenue, and went down the steps to the first level, where you take trains like the Twentieth Century. Then I walked down another flight to the second level, where the suburban trains leave from, ducked into an arched doorway heading for the subway — and got lost. That's easy to do. I've been in and out of Grand Central hundreds of times, but I'm always bumping into new doorways and stairs and corridors. Once I got into a tunnel about a mile long and came out in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel. Another time I came up in an office building on Forty-sixth Street, three blocks away.
Sometimes I think Grand Central is growing like a tree, pushing out new corridors and staircases like roots. There's probably a long tunnel that nobody knows about feeling its way under the city right now, on its way to Times Square, and maybe another to Central Park. And maybe — because for so many people through the years Grand Central has been an exit, a way of escape — maybe that's how the tunnel I got into … But I never told my psychiatrist friend about that idea.
The corridor I was in began angling left and slanting downward and I thought that was wrong, but I kept on walking. All I could hear was the empty sound of my own footsteps and I didn't pass a soul. Then I heard that sort of hollow roar ahead that means open space and people talking. The tunnel turned sharp left; I went down a short flight of stairs and came out on the third level at Grand Central Station. For just a moment I thought I was back on the second level, but I saw the room was smaller, there were fewer ticket windows and train gates, and the information booth in the center was wood and old-looking. And the man in the booth wore a green eyeshade and long black sleeve protectors. The lights were dim and sort of flickering. Then I saw why; they were open-flame gaslights.
There were brass spittoons on the floor, and across the station a glint of light caught my eye; a man was pulling a gold watch from his vest pocket. He snapped open the cover, glanced at his watch, and frowned. He wore a derby hat, a black four-buttoned suit with tiny lapels, and he had a big, black, handle-bar mustache. Then I looked around and saw that everyone in the station was dressed like eighteen-ninety-something; I never saw so many beards, sideburns and fancy mustaches in my life. A woman walked in through the train gate; she wore a dress with, leg-of-mutton sleeves and skirts to the top of her high-buttoned shoes. Back of her, out on the tracks, I caught a glimpse of a locomotive, a very small Currier & Ives locomotive with a funnel-shaped stack. And then I knew.
To make sure, I walked over to a newsboy and glanced at the stack of papers at his feet. It was the World; and the World hasn't been published for years. The lead story said something about President Cleveland. I've found that front page since, in the Public Library files, and it was printed June 11, 1894.
I turned toward the ticket windows knowing that here — on the third level at Grand Central — I could buy tickets that would take Louisa and me anywhere in the United States we wanted to go. In the year 1894. And I wanted two tickets to Galesburg, Illinois.
Have you ever been there? It's a wonderful town still, with big old frame houses, huge lawns and tremendous trees whose branches meet overhead and roof the streets. And in 1894, summer evenings were twice as long, and people sat out on their lawns, the men smoking cigars and talking quietly, the women waving palm-leaf fans, with the fireflies all around, in a peaceful world. To be back there with the First World War still twenty years off, and World War II over forty years in the future … I wanted two tickets for that.
The clerk figured the fare — he glanced at my fancy hatband, but he figured the fare — and I had enough for two coach tickets, one way. But when I counted out the money and looked up, the clerk was staring at me. He nodded at the bills. That ain't money, mister, he said, and if you're trying to skin me you won't get very far, and he glanced at the cash drawer beside him. Of course the money in his drawer was old-style bills, half again as big as the money we use nowadays, and different-looking. I turned away and got out fast. There's nothing nice about jail, even in 1894.
And that was that. I left the same way I came, I suppose. Next day, during lunch hour, I drew three hundred dollars out of the bank, nearly all we had, and bought old-style currency (that really worried my psychiatrist friend). You can buy old money at almost any coin dealer's, but you have to pay a premium. My three hundred dollars bought less than two hundred in old-style bills, but I didn't care; eggs were thirteen cents a dozen in 1894.
But I've never again found the corridor that leads to the third level at Grand Central Station, although I've tried often enough.
Louisa was pretty worried when I told her all this, and didn't want me to look for the third level any more, and after a while I stopped; I went back to my stamps. But now we're both looking, every week end, because now we have proof that the third level is still there. My friend Sam Weiner disappeared! Nobody knew where, but I sort of suspected because Sam's a city boy, and I used to tell him about Galesburg — I went to school there — and he always said he liked the sound of the place. And that's where he is, all right. In 1894.
Because one night, fussing with my s
tamp collection, I found — well, do you know what a first-day cover is? When a new stamp is issued, stamp collectors buy some and use them to mail envelopes to themselves on the very first day of sale; and the postmark proves the date. The envelope is called a first-day cover. They're never opened; you just put blank paper in the envelope.
That night, among my oldest first-day covers, I found one that shouldn't have been there. But there it was. It was there because someone had mailed it to my grandfather at his home in Galesburg; that's what the address on the envelope said. And it had been there since July 18, 1894 — the postmark showed that — yet I didn't remember it at all. The stamp was a six-cent, dull brown, with a picture of President Garfield. Naturally, when the envelope came to Granddad in the mail, it went right into his collection and stayed there — till I took it out and opened it.
The paper inside wasn't blank. It read:
941 Willard Street
Galesburg, Illinois
July 18, 1894
Charley:
I got to wishing that you were right. Then I got to believing you were right. And, Charley, it's true; I found the third level! I've been here two weeks, and right now, down the street at the Dalys', someone is playing a piano, and they're all out on the front Porch singing, “Seeing Nellie home.” And I'm invited over for lemonade. Come on back, Charley and Louisa. Keep looking till you find the third level! It's worth it, believe me!
The note was signed Sam.
At the stamp and coin store I go to, I found out that Sam bought eight hundred dollars' worth of old-style currency. That ought to set him up in a nice little hay, feed and grain business; he always said that's what he really wished he could do, and he certainly can't go back to his old business. Not in Galesburg, Illinois, in 1894. His old business? Why, Sam was my psychiatrist.
Such Interesting Neighbors
I can't honestly say I knew from the start that there was something queer about the Hellenbeks. I did notice some strange things right away, and wondered about them, but I shrugged them off. They were nice people, I liked them, and everyone has a few odd little tricks.
We were watching from our sun-parlor windows the day they arrived; not snooping or prying, you understand, but naturally we were curious. Nell and I are pretty sociable and we were hoping a couple around our own ages would move into the new house next door.
I was just finishing breakfast — it was a Saturday and I wasn't working — and Nell was running the vacuum cleaner over the sun-parlor rug. I heard the vacuum shut off, and Nell called out, Here they are, Al! and I ran in and we got our first look at the Hellenbeks.
He was helping her from a cab, and I got a good look at him and his wife. They seemed to be just about our ages, the man maybe thirty-two or so and his wife in her middle twenties. She was rather pretty, and he had a nice, agreeable kind of face.
Newlyweds? Nell said, a little excited.
Why?
Their clothes are all brand-new. Even the shoes. And so's the bag.
Yeah, maybe you're right. I watched for a second or so, then said, Foreigners, too, I think, showing Nell I was pretty observant myself.
Why do you think so?
He's having trouble with the local currency. He was, too. He couldn't seem to pick out the right change, and finally he held out his hand and let the driver find the right coins.
But we were wrong on both counts. They'd been married three years, we found out later, had both been born in the States, and had lived here nearly all their lives.
Furniture deliveries began arriving next door within half an hour; everything new, all bought from local merchants. We live in San Rafael, California, in a neighborhood of small houses. Mostly young people live here, and it's a friendly, informal place. So after a while I got into an old pair of flannels and sneakers and wandered over to get acquainted and lend a hand if I could, and I cut across the two lawns. As I came up to their house, I heard them talking in the living room. Here's a picture of Truman, he said, and I heard a newspaper rattle.
Truman, she said, kind of thoughtfully. Let's see now; doesn't Roosevelt come next?
No. Truman comes after Roosevelt.
I think you're wrong, dear, she said. It's Truman, then Roosevelt, then —
When my feet hit their front steps, the talk stopped. At the door I knocked and glanced in; they were sitting on the living-room floor, and Ted Hellenbek was just scrambling to his feet. They'd been unpacking a carton of dishes and there was a bunch of wadded-up old newspapers lying around, and I guess they'd been looking at those. Ted came to the door. He'd changed to a T-shirt, slacks and moccasins, all brand-new.
I'm Al Lewis from next door, I said. Thought maybe I could give you a hand.
Glad to know you. He pushed the door open, then stuck out his hand. I'm Ted Hellenbek, and he grinned in a nice friendly way. His wife got up from the floor, and Ted introduced us. Her name was Ann.
Well, I worked around with them the rest of the morning, helping them unpack things, and we got the place into pretty good order. While we were working, Ted told me they'd been living in South America — he didn't say where or why — and that they'd sold everything they had down there, except the clothes they traveled in and a few personal belongings, rather than pay shipping expenses. That sounded perfectly reasonable and sensible, except that a few days later Ann told Nell their house in South America had burned down and they'd lost everything.
Maybe half an hour after I arrived, some bedding was delivered — blankets, pillows, linen, stuff like that. Ann picked up the two pillows, put cases on them, and turned toward the bedroom. Now, it was broad daylight, the bedroom door was closed, and it was made of solid wood. But Ann walked straight into that door and fell. I couldn't figure out how she came to do it; it was as though she expected the door to open by itself or something. That's what Ted said, too, going over to help her up. Be careful, honey, he said, and laughed a little, making a joke of it. You'll have to learn, you know, that doors won't open themselves.
Around eleven thirty or so, some books arrived, quite a slew of them, and all new. We were squatting on the floor, unpacking them, and Ted picked up a book, showed me the title, and said, Have you read this?
It was The Far Reaches, by a Walter Braden. No, I said. I read the reviews a week or so ago, and they weren't so hot.
I know, Ted said, and he had a funny smile on his face. And yet it's a great book. Just think, he went on, and shook his head a little, you can buy this now, a new copy, first edition, for three dollars. Yet in — oh, a hundred and forty years, say, a copy like this might be worth five to eight thousand dollars.
Could be, I said, and shrugged; but what kind of a remark is that? Sure, any book you want to name might be valuable someday, but why that book? And why a hundred and forty years? And why five to eight thousand dollars, particularly? Well, that's the kind of thing I mean about the Hellenbeks. It wasn't that anything big or dramatic or really out of the way happened that first day. It was just that every once in a while one or the other would do or say something that wasn't quite right.
Most of the time, though, things were perfectly ordinary and normal. We talked and laughed and kidded around a lot, and I knew I was going to like the Hellenbeks and that Nelly would, too.
In the afternoon we got pretty hot and thirsty, so I went home and brought back some beer. This time Nelly came with me, met the new people, and invited them over for supper. Nelly complimented Ann on the nice things she had, and Ann thanked her and apologized, the way a woman will, because things were kind of dusty. Then she went out to the kitchen, came back with a dustcloth, and started dusting around. It was a white cloth with a small green pattern, and it got pretty dirty, and when she wiped off the window sills it was really streaked.
Then Ann leaned out the front window, shook the cloth once, and — it was clean again. I mean completely clean; the dirt, every trace of it, shook right out. She did that several times, dusting around the room and then shaking the cloth out,
and it shook out white every time.
Well, Nelly sat there with her mouth hanging open, and finally she said, Where in the world did you get that dustcloth?
Ann glanced down at the cloth in her hand, then looked up at Nelly again and said, Why, it's just an old rag, from one of Ted's old suits. Then suddenly she blushed.
I'd have blushed too; did you ever see a man's suit, white with a little green pattern?
Nell said, Well, I never saw a dustcloth before that would shake out perfectly clean. Mine certainly don't.
Ann turned even redder, looking absolutely confused, and — I'd say scared. She mumbled something about cloth in South America, glanced at Ted, and then put the back of her wrist up against her forehead, and for an instant I'd have sworn she was going to cry.
But Ted got up fast, put his arm around Ann's waist and turned her a little so her back was toward us, and said something about how she'd been working too hard and was tired. His eyes, though, as he stood looking at us over Ann's shoulder, were hard and defiant. For a moment you almost got the feeling that it was the two of them against the world, that Ted was protecting Ann against us.
Then Nelly ran a hand admiringly over the top of the end table beside her and said how much she liked it, and Ann turned and smiled and thanked her. Nelly got up and led Ann off to the bedroom, telling her not to try to do too much all in one day, and when they came out a little later everything was all right.
We got to know the Hellenbeks pretty well. They were casual, easygoing, and always good company. In no time Nelly and Ann were doing their marketing together, dropping in on each other during the day, and trading recipes.
At night, out watering our lawns or cutting the grass or something, Ted and I would usually bat the breeze about one thing or another till it got dark. We talked politics, high prices, gardening, stuff like that. He knew plenty about politics and world events, and it was surprising the way his predictions would turn out. At first I offered to bet with him about a few things we disagreed about, but he never would and I'm glad he didn't; he was seldom wrong when it came to guessing what was going to happen.
