THOUGHT TRANSCRIPT ENDS.
00:19
COINCIDENCE
I call this my Mobius strip story. Meaning that, once begun, it twists back into itself endlessly. As you’ll discover when you read the final page.
It is rooted in an actual event. I was alone in New York, on a business trip to see publishers, staying at a hotel in Manhattan. It was late and I was sleeping. A man’s voice woke me from the adjoining room. The man was repeating the same words over and over in an agonized tone: “I’ve killed... I’ve killed... I’ve killed...”
Alarmed, I was about to phone the front desk when the voice stopped, and did not resume. By morning, the man was gone.
For years I wondered about that tortured individual on the other side of the wall. Who was he? Who was his victim—or victims? Had he killed in cold blood? Or in war? Was he insane? Or simply caught up in a nightmare?
I gave myself some answers to these questions when I wrote “Coincidence.”
COINCIDENCE
When Harry Dobson’s wife suggested they spend their last night together (before Harry’s trip) in a New York hotel he agreed. It was to be a kind of instant second honeymoon, and Harry savored the drive down from Westport with his wife cuddled close to him. It reminded him of the early days, before the house and kids had aged them both. The kids were grown and gone, but the house in Westport, with its high upkeep and higher taxes, dragged at Harry like a weight. He enjoyed the overnight stay in a New York hotel, enjoyed the sexual passion he was still able to inspire in Margaret.
What Harry Dobson didn’t enjoy was having his wife bump him awake with a naked hip at 6 a.m. in the morning.
“What’s wrong?” he wanted to know.
“Its the man in the next room,” whispered Margaret, pressing close to him in the double bed. “He’s been moaning. He woke me up.”
“So he’s probably sick, maybe drunk. Who cares?”
“It’s what he’s moaning that spooks me,” said Margaret. “I want you to listen. I think he’s some kind of maniac.”
“Okay, okay,” Harry grunted. And he listened to the agonized words which filtered through the thin walls of the hotel room.
“I’ve killed,” moaned the man. “I’ve killed. I’ve killed.”
“He keeps repeating that over and over,” Margaret whispered. “I think you’d better do something.”
“Do what?” asked Harry, propping himself against the pillow to light a cigarette. “Maybe he’s just having a bad dream.”
“But he keeps saying it over and over. It really spooks me. We could be next door to a murderer.”
“So what do you suggest?”
She blinked at him, absently stroking her left breast. “Call the manager. Have someone investigate.”
Harry sighed, kicked off the blankets and padded barefoot to the house phone on the dresser. He picked up the receiver, waited for the switchboard to acknowledge.
“This is Harry Dobson in room 203. There’s a character next door who’s moaning about having killed somebody. He’s been keeping us awake. Yeah... he’s in 202. Right next door.”
Harry listened, holding the phone, slowly stubbing out his cigarette on the glass top of the dresser.
“What’s happening?” asked Harry’s wife.
“They’re checking to see who’s in 202.”
“He’s stopped moaning,” she said.
“No, no,” said Harry into the receiver. “I’m in 203. Okay, forget it, just forget it.”
He slammed down the phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“The stupid idiot on the desk has my name down for both rooms!”
“Couldn’t it be a coincidence?” Margaret asked. “I mean, your name isn’t that unusual. There must be several Harry Dobsons in New York.”
“Not door-to-door in the same damn hotel,” he said. “Anyhow, they claim they can’t do anything about the guy and unless he gets violent in there to just ignore him.” He shook his head. “That’s New York for you.”
“I think we’d better leave,” said Margaret. She got up and walked to the bathroom.
Harry blew out his breath in disgust, got his pants off the chair and began dressing. He was scheduled to fly back to L.A. this morning anyhow, so he’d get to the airport a little early. He could have breakfast there.
He and his wife left the hotel room.
In the elevator she told him she’d write him at least once a week while he was gone. He was sweet, she told him, and if it hadn’t been for the maniac in 202 their night together would have been beautiful.
“Sure,” said Harry Dobson.
They said goodbye in the lobby. Then Harry checked out, giving the desk clerk hell for mixing up the room numbers.
“I represent a major firm,” he told the clerk. “I’m an important man, dammit! What if someone wanted to reach me? My messages might have gone to a nut in 202. Do you understand me?”
The desk clerk said he was very sorry.
Harry walked out to a cab. Gray rain drizzled down from a soot-colored sky and a chill November wind blew the rain against Harrys face.
“Kennedy airport,” he said to the driver. But before he climbed into the taxi he paused. He’s watching you. That bastard in 202 is watching you. Harry shaded his eyes against the rain and peered upward at the second-floor street window of room 202.
A tall man was at the open window, ignoring the blowing rain, glaring down at him. The mans face was dark with anger.
Harry stared, unblinking. Jesus! He even looks like me. Like an older version of me. No wonder the clerk mixed us up. Well, to hell with him!
By the time his jet soared away from New York Harry Dobson put the man from 202 firmly out of his thoughts. Harry was concerned with the report he’d be making to the sales manager back in California. He was working out some statistics on a board in his lap when he happened to notice the passenger in the window seat directly across the aisle.
What—it’s him! Can’t be. Left him back in New York.
The passenger had been reading a magazine; now he raised his head and swung his eyes slowly towards Harry Dobson. Cold hatred flowed from those eyes.
The tourist section was only half filled and Harry had no trouble getting another seat several rows back. Damned if he’d sit there and let this creep give him the evil eye. Maybe Margaret was right; maybe the guy was some kind of maniac.
At Los Angeles International Harry was the first passenger to disembark. Inside the airport building he arranged for a porter to collect his flight baggage. Then he waited for it in a cab near the door. Harry didn’t want to risk running into the weirdo at the baggage pickup.
So far so good. The guy was nowhere in sight.
His baggage arrived and Harry tipped the porter and gave the taxi driver an address in West Los Angeles. As the car rolled on to the freeway Harry relaxed. Apparently the creep had made no attempt to follow him. It was over.
Harry paid the driver, carried his bags into the rented apartment, took a bottle from his briefcase and poured himself a drink. He felt fine now. He checked the window just to be certain the guy hadn’t followed him. The street below was empty.
Harry unpacked, took his suits to the closet, opened the sliding door —and fell back, gasping.
The man was there, inside the closet! He stood in the darkness, smiling like a fiend. Then he dived at Harry’s throat, hands closing on his wind-pipe. Harry kicked free, tumbled over a chair, twisting away from his attacker.
That’s when the man pulled the knife from his belt.
Harry scrambled around the bed, putting space between himself and his attacker. No good trying for the door; the man would have him if he tried that.
“Who—are you?” gasped Harry. “What—what do you want from me?”
“I want to kill you,” said the man, smiling. “That’s all you need to know.”
Keeping himself between Harry and the door, he began slashing with the knife—ripping the blade int
o mattress, chairs, curtains, clothing—as Harry watched in numb terror.
But when the man pulled Margaret’s photo from Harry’s briefcase, and drove the knife through it a red rage replaced the fear in Harry Dobson; the bastard was human, after all. Harry was ten years younger, stronger.
The man was half turned toward the bed when Harry struck him with a heavy table lamp. The man fell backward, stunned, dropping the knife.
“You crazy sonuvabitch!” Harry shouted, snapping up the knife and driving it into the man’s back. Once. Twice. Three times. The man grunted, then did not move. Harry stood over him for a long, long moment—but he did not move again.
Who is he? Who the hell is he? Harry could find no identification on the body. He thought of calling the police but decided that was too risky. There were no witnesses. The apartment had not been burglarized nor were there signs of a forced entry. Bastard must have had a key. To the police it would appear that Harry Dobson had coldly murdered this man.
Insane! I dent even know him. Which is exactly why you must get rid of the body. Once he’s gone there’ll be no way to link you to his death.
That night Harry cleaned up the apartment, placed the blanket-wrapped corpse in the trunk of his car and drove out along the ocean, past Malibu, to a deserted stretch of beach—where he dumped the weighted body into the water.
He was a madman. Simply because you complained about him at the hotel he followed you to the West Coast and tried to kill you. You have no reason to feel guilt. Forget all this. Live your life and forget him.
Harry Dobson tried to do that. When his wife called him he didn’t mention what had happened. And when his business trip ended he returned to New York, and resumed his life.
A decade passed. Each time the face of the dead man from 202 loomed in his mind Harry Dobson shut down the vision. Finally he could look back upon the entire incident as a kind of bizarre dream. He felt neither guilt or fear.
Then, almost ten years to the month, Harry found himself at the same hotel in New York. He was in town on his annual business trip and, this particular visit, had decided to stay at this hotel to prove that the ghost of the man he’d killed was truly exorcised.
In fact, to close the circle, he asked the clerk for the old room, 203.
“Sorry, sir, but that room is occupied. However, I can give you the one right next door to it, room 202. Will that be satisfactory?”
Irony. The dead man’s room. All right, Harry said, that would be satisfactory.
Room 202 contained a double bed, white glass-topped dresser, circular table and chair, a standing brass lamp in the corner... He remembered the furniture! But that was because it was the same, exactly the same, as 203. The rooms on this floor were no doubt identically furnished. The odd thing was that the decor hadn’t been changed in ten years.
Harry took a fresh bottle of Scotch from his suitcase and poured a solid drink for himself The Scotch eased him, reduced his tension. It was late, near midnight, and after several more belts of Scotch he was ready for sleep, amused at the drama of the situation, no longer tense at the prospect of sleeping in a room once occupied by a man he had stabbed to death.
Near morning, Harry began to mumble in his sleep. He was having a bad dream, a nightmare about being convicted of murder. The attorney was hammering at him on the witness stand and Harry had broken under the verbal assault. “I’ve killed,” he admitted. “I’ve killed. I’ve killed.” Over and over. “Killed... killed... killed...”
He finally awoke, sweating, wide-eyed. Wow, what a hellish dream! It’s this room. That 5 what triggered it, allowed it to take control of my subconscious. But I’m all right now. I’m fine. The dream’s over.
He became aware of voices in 203 filtering through the thin wall of the room. A woman’s voice, whispery but sharp, and upset. “I think you’d better do something.”
“Do what?” asked a man’s voice, muffled but distinct. “Maybe he’s just having a bad dream.”
“But he keeps saying it over and over. It really spooks me. We could be next door to a murderer.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Call the manager. Have someone investigate.”
Harry heard the springs squeak as the man climbed out of bed. He heard him pick up the phone and say “This is Harry Dobson in room 203. There’s a character next door who’s moaning about having killed somebody...”
Harry didn’t want to hear any more. He walked into the bathroom and vomited into the bowl, remaining on his knees until he heard the door finally slam in 203.
Then, shaking, he walked back into his room and called the desk. “Who—who’s registered in 203?”
“Uh... that’s Mr. Dobson, sir. But he’s checking out.”
“All right,” said Harry evenly. And he put dawn the phone. He walked over to the street window, threw it open. Gray rain, whipped by a chill wind, blew in upon him, stinging his face.
A man came out of the hotel, hailed a cab. Just before he got into the taxi he turned to look up at Harry, shading his eyes against the wet. Younger. A face like his, but ten years younger. The murdering bastard! Harry glared down at him.
And when the man was gone, and he had called the airport to confirm his flight back to Los Angeles, Harry Dobson took the knife out of his suitcase and held it in his hand for a long, long moment.
Knowing, beyond any doubt, that he would eventually die by it.
00:20
THE PARTY
I have chosen a teleplay for the final selection in this book. For three reasons. One: I think it’s better than the story it is based on (although I was pleased to have my story version of “The Party” selected for Classic Tales of Horror and the Supernatural). Two: I have never had a teleplay printed in one of my collections (though I’ve written and sold more than two dozen TV scripts). Three: I wrote this for a television series that got axed by the network, and was frustrated to realize that it would never be produced. I wanted it to reach the public because I was proud of it. I still am.
So sit back, snap on that TV set inside your head, and enjoy “The Party.” The drinks are on me.
And so, I would hope, are the chills.
THE PARTY
(A Teleplay)
FADE IN:
INT. LIMP (moving) – NIGHT
A uniformed chauffeur, SIDNEY, is at the wheel—behind a rolled-up glass partition separating driver from passengers. In the back seat: DAVID ASHLAND and his attractive wife, LYDIA.
They ride in tight-faced, sullen silence. Then...
LYDIA
Congratulations. As usual, you managed to make a total fool of yourself.
ASHLAND
I was being funny. I’m always funny at parties.
LYDIA
Do you actually think it’s funny to pour a whisky sour all over the hostess... fight with her husband... get us thrown out of the party?
ASHLAND
(amused tone)
Spilling the drink was an accident. I was trying to climb up on the piano. To sing. Very funny song.
And he begins humming the melody.
LYDIA
(acidly)
Your songs are vulgar and disgusting.
ASHLAND
(suddenly angry)
I’ll tell you what’s vulgar and disgusting—the way you went after that guitar player.
LYDIA
I have to find affection somewhere. God knows you don’t supply it.
ASHLAND
You get what you give out in this world, sweetie. And you’re a mighty cold fish.
Another silence. Then she turns to him, looks him directly in the eye.
LYDIA
How can you expect anything but coldness?... This kind of life... it killed your first wife.
ASHLAND
Trish drank herself to death. You know that as well as I do.
(beat)
I can handle my booze. She couldn’t.
LYDIA
You pushed her over th
e edge, David! She kept drinking more all the time, just to keep from going crazy – the same way I do. For all the same reasons.
ASHLAND
(in a cutting tone)
Don’t give me that! You drink because you like it. Nobody puts a gun to your head.
More silence between them. She is beyond anger; she’s made a decision.
LYDIA
(calmly)
David, I’m going to divorce you.
ASHLAND
Fine. Okay, okay. I don’t need you. I never did.
LYDIA
No, all you need is another party, another vodka martini, another crowd to play the fool for.
ASHLAND
Look... if you want a divorce you’ve got it. With my blessing. But just shut up about what I need.
EXT LIMP – THE STREET – NIGHT
as it swings off the street onto a freeway ramp. Moves up the ramp and begins to enter the freeway through a swirl of ground fog.
There is the sudden, stabbing SOUND of a truck’s air-horn. The limo has veered into the path of a giant truck/trailer rig...
INT LIMO
as ASHLAND pounds at the glass partition with the heel of one hand.
ASHLAND
(shouting)
Sidney! Look out!
We see SIDNEY wrench the wheel violently left, and the limo begins sliding on the damp asphalt.
EFFECT we are into a wall of fog, totally opaque. It forms a milk-white envelope around the limo.
ASHLAND
(to Lydia)
Can’t see a damn thing out there!
They suddenly emerge from the fog-wall into clear night air. SIDNEY rolls down the glass a few inches.
SIDNEY
Sorry about that, Mr. Ashland. My fault entirely.
ASHLAND nods, does not reply. He settles back into the seat as SIDNEY rolls the glass back up between them.
LYDIA
That was close.
EXT ASHLAND HOME – FULL SHOT – NIGHT
Things Beyond Midnight Page 21
