Original subtitles

A most hearty welcome to those of you...

whose tastes in art lean toward the bizarre.

Our first painting, submitted for your approval, is an item of real estate,

but you won't find it advertised in the classifieds.

Oh, it's light and comfortable and altogether well-heated,

but there's a chill to the place.

So bundle up when you look at this one.

Our painting is called The House,

and this is the Night Gallery.

The dream is always the same.

Every detail, the chronology, it falls into place as if preordained.

I'm driving down a country road,

and I turn off the main road onto a private one.

I drive through the shadows and the flashes of sunlight.

It's a \summer afternoon.

And I must tell you that there's no apprehension in the dream.

No sense of fear or tension.

There is some vague awareness that it has happened before.

I feel nothing but anticipation.

No disquiet at all.

I drive past the pond.

And then I reach the house, and it's beautiful,

There's a sense of peace, of serenity.

A feeling of permanence and roots in the earth...

and a changeless beauty.

I find myself almost beckoned to.

So I walk on the drive toward the front door.

I'm aware... I'm altogether aware of acting on this instinct...

of knocking on the door...

but not really knowing what I'll say if anyone answers.

Shall I say, for example, "Good afternoon. I've dreamed about this place,

and I'm so very much taken with it that I simply found myself driving here"?

But I guess that's part of the dream...

The subconscious knowledge that the obligations of reality,

the social amenities of flesh and blood, they don't apply here.

You simply let the dream run it\s accustomed course.

And that's it. That's the dream, Doctor.

It begins... -With myself driving.

I don't remember getting into the car, though.

I just find myself seated at the wheel.

And it ends? Always the same way.

I get back into the car, and then I start to drive away just as the front door opens.

But I never know who it is who's living there or who answered the door.

Because you'd rather not know?

I'm not sure.

Well, it's not a sense of fear I experience if that's what you mean.

It's...well, it's more like a preference...

or a decision,

as if were I to linger, I might lose the dream forever.

It's interesting.

Do you know where the house is?

No. There's nothing familiar about the countryside.

It could be anywhere, I suppose.

But you don't recall ever having seen the house before?

As a child, perhaps? No, I don't think so.

Does the dream disturb you?

No, it doesn't disturb me. It's...

It's just that it... It's so persistent.

You've had it many times then? Oh, many times.

I can remember as far back as perhaps 10 years ago, I had the same dream then.

I suppose that's why the details are so clear.

The white, fenced road, the tall, white lampposts,

the road that loops around a large pond in front of the house,

the neatly-trimmed lawn and shade trees separating the house from the pond.

The roof is high, and the windows are set back into the roof.

And the door is white with a slender window panel flanking it.

There's a brass door knocker.

I even remember the flowers...

Hanging fuchsias between the stone columns.

Are dreams always that precise?

Very frequently.

Uh, you're leaving us tomorrow.

Yes. It appears so.

Well, you don't seem happy about it.

Oh, it's just that... It's just that what?

I just hope that I really am cured.

I'm not depressed anymore, and I seem to function quite well.

Oh, I like it here. I don't want to leave.

Because you're looked after.

Because you have no decisions to make of any consequence.

There are no anxieties for you here,

no problems to face.

And tomorrow morning I'll leave, and there'll be decisions and problems...

and, yes, I guess some anxieties.

Mm-hmm. As it should be.

Or at least as it must be.

A sanitarium can be a pleasant place, but there's no reality here for you.

The reality comes outside. Those very problems.

Those are what you must face, hmm?

As for the dream,

I wouldn't worry about it.

It would be my guess that this house is a place you've seen sometime in your life.

It obviously made an impression.

It, uh... It represents a kind of permanence...

that appeals to you, and that's why you keep dreaming about it.

But I wouldn't worry about it at all. As a matter of fact,

I wish my dreams were as serene and as pleasant.

Well... Oh, thank you, Doctor. My pleasure.

Thank you. Much good luck, Elaine.

Let us hear from you, hmm? Yeah, I will.

I hope everything goes well for you, Miss Lattimer.

Thank you. So she's finally leaving us?

Miss Lattimer? Yes. We've seen the last of her, I expect.

And good riddance too.

Now, madam, why be unkind?

Not unkind... candid. Never cared for the woman.

Dreamy. Dreamy?

Never walked, Just sort of wafted along, like a wood sprite.

Never put her two feet on the ground.

I like a woman with both feet on the ground.

May I help you?

May I help you, madam?

Oh, I-I-I was driving. I just pulled in here.

Yes, so I observed. You saw the advertisement then?

Advertisement?

Yes. The house is for sale.

I thought perhaps you came to look at it. Forgive me.

My name is Peugot. The house is listed with my firm.

We've only had this listing for a few days.

You'd be the first to see it. That is, if you're interested.

I am.

How lovely and how convenient.

I was just looking at the grounds.

It's a... It's a charming place, really.

The former owners were consul people. They were English, as a matter of fact.

They've gone back to London.

They, uh, only owned it a few weeks.

Oh, they must've hated to give it up.

In some ways.

Now, this is the front foyer, of course,

and the living room is off here to the left.

Now, straight ahead through those doors...

There's a study. It's walnut-paneled.

There's a large fireplace with a hunting picture up above.

You've been here?

No.

That is, not really.

Follow me, please.

Someone told you about the place?

I don't know how to explain it.

I don't mean to pry.

I've dreamed about this house.

Dreamed of it? Many times.

But I never went inside.

In my dreams, that is. I only went as far as the front door.

And yet, I can't explain it.

I have no prior recollection of it, but when you opened that door,

I suddenly seemed to know just where all the rooms were,

what they were.

There are three bedrooms upstairs.

The master bedroom is to the left, the bath,

then a blue bedroom.

And then farther down the hall, there's a smaller room...

A guest room, perhaps, or... a sewing room.

That's quite right.

Uh, your-your name, madam?

Miss Lattimer. Elaine Lattimer.

And you're from... San Francisco.

Oh. This is not San Francisco.

Things are quiet here. Very little goes on. Oh, I like that.

You'd probably be very content here then.

They're asking 60,000 for the house, furnished.

For this house? But that's ridiculous.

It's worth five times that. They're, uh... They're anxious to sell.

Why?

They're English. Now, who can understand the English?

Is the house in need of repair?

Oh, please, look for yourself. Does it appear to need repair?

Well, then what's wrong with it?

Do you see anything wrong with it?

- Mr. Peugot, please, be honest with me. - By all means.

Why did the English family leave?

For the same reason the previous owners left and the tenants before them.

- They all left for the exact same reason. - What reason?

Miss Lattimer, uh, are you given to excessive imagination?

- You're not superstitious, are you? - Why?

The house is haunted.

That's correct, Miss Lattimer. The house is haunted.

By what? By whom?

By whom indeed. Let me tell you something.

I've been buying and selling houses for the better part of my life,

and I'm not unfamiliar with haunted houses.

There's a pattern to them. There's a bedroom that seems ice-cold.

A shadow is seen moving across the wall.

A spot of dripping blood from an age-old murder.

This house has none of those things.

There was no violence here, never a murder.

There was never a crime of any kind.

Why, its history is as bland as the countryside.

But they say haunted.

Oh, yes. They say. They say.

But who's to know? Now, I asked the Englishman. I asked him directly.

I asked him to describe the apparition.

And do you know he was unable to do so? And do you know why?

Because it's purely psychological. I'll tell you what I think happens.

Some overly-imaginative person has a bad dream and recites it to someone else.

From that moment on, the seed is planted. And from then on,

hysteria takes place.

Why, uh, a creaking floor becomes a ghost,

and a tap on the wall, some manifestation from the other world.

But do you know what it is really? It's the house settling.

It's the wood seasoning. Maybe it's the wind. This house is not haunted.

Look for yourself.

Why, it's as bright and warm and delightful as a house could be.

I'll take the house.

I'd like to move in today. Excellent. And so you shall.

Now, my office is in the village. It's just five miles from here.

You can either follow me there, or I'll be happy to drive you.

I'll follow you. Excellent.

You're different than most women. Am I?

Yes, most lady house buyers, they're lookers, searchers, analyzers.

If they see a house that appeals to them,

they'll come back a dozen times just to look it over.

Even then, they're hard-pressed to make a decision. But not you, miss.

You're a woman who knows her own mind.

If something appeals to you, you follow your instincts.

That's good. It shows resolve and will.

Resolve and will.

Not so?

Those aren't normally my attributes.

Resolve and will.

Would you care to see the upstairs? I suppose I should, shouldn't I?

No, there's no need.

I know all about the upstairs. Oh, it's a beautiful house.

It's just what I want. In spite of the ghost?

In spite of the ghost.

Or, perhaps, because of it.

How are you today, Miss Lattimer?

Were you here before, Mr. Peugot? When before?

Well, there was a car.

I was taking a nap, and I heard it drive away.

Was that you? No. As you can see, I only just this very moment arrived.

Well, then you must have passed it on the road.

The traffic in this district is rather sparse.

Now, between here and the village, I encountered...

one tractor, two cows and a sheepdog.

Possibly you're mistaken. The nap.

A fragment of a dream, perhaps.

Yes. That's probably it.

One of your neighbors up the road is thinking of selling a parcel of farmland.

Actually, I was on my way there.

Then I thought, well, I have to pass right by here,

so I thought I'd look in and find out how you were enjoying yourself...

and how you're finding the house.

I'm finding it charming and warm.

I could've predicted it.

You see, some houses take to ghosts. Not this one.

This house is eminently unhauntable.

Well, you seem to be all right, so... I'll-I'll be on my way.

Mr. Peugot. It is haunted.

You've met the ghost?

Have you actually seen it? No, don't ask me to explain it. I can't.

But it's more than a feeling. I know, Mr. Peugot.

I know, and so I wait. For what, I don't know.

Still, that's really all I can do, isn't it? Wait?

I shouldn't have mentioned it.

I've planted something in your mind... A suspicion,

altogether unwarranted. Yes, I see.

Like the former owners, I am susceptible. Is that it?

Miss Lattimer... If you'll excuse me, Mr. Peugot,

I have some phone calls I'd like to make.

But thank you for dropping by.

Operator, I'd like to make a long-distance call to Hidden Valley, please.

The telephone number is 458-2999,

and I'd like to speak to Dr. Peter Mitchell.

Yes, thank you.

Dr. Mitchell? Elaine Lattimer.

Yes, it's good to hear your voice too.

Oh, I wanted to bring you up to date.

I found my house.

That's right.

The house, Doctor. The one in my dream.

I-I was driving, and I... I just found it.

But it's the house. It's the same house.

There's no question about it.

And do you know something very odd, Doctor?

- It's haunted. - Yes, this house is haunted.

No, I haven't seen the ghost. No, I'd never see it at night.

No, it's odd that I should know this, but this ghost comes with the sunshine.

This is a daytime ghost.

Dr. Mitchell, would you please hold on for just a minute? I'll be right back.

There's someone at my door. Please, wait.

Miss Lattimer, are you there? Are you all right?

Miss Lattimer?

Doctor? Doctor, the person at the door,

the person I just saw, it was the ghost.

That's right. I have finally met my ghost.

I am the ghost, Doctor.

Yes, that's right. I am the ghost.

The least permanent, the most fleeting...

of man's proof of existence... His shadow.

It comes and goes with light. Hours of the day,

point of the sun, angle of the moon.

It is a quickly daubed and imperfect outline...

of a certain object at a certain given moment.

This painting is called Certain Shadows on the Wall.

"'Now it is even awful, stealing through it,

"to think of the life of people who have slept in the solitary bedrooms...

"to say nothing of the dead.

"Now is the time for shadow, when every corner is a cavern...

'and every downward step a pit;

"When the stained glass is reflected in pale and faded hues upon the floors;

"When anything and everything can be made of the heavy staircase beams...

"excepting their own proper shapes;

"When the armor has dull lights upon it..

"Not easily to be distinguished from stealthy movement;

'And when barred helmets are frightfully suggestive of heads inside.

"But of all the shadows in Chesney Wold,

"the shadow in the long drawing room upon my lady's picture...

"is the first to come, the last to be disturbed.

"At this hour and in this light it changes...

"Into threatening hands raised up,

and menacing the handsome face with every breath that stirs."

Much pain tonight, Emma?

No more, no less.

Oh, it's a bit irregular, but no weaker.

Shall I have one of the girls bring up some tea? - No, thank you.

Speak up, Emma. You say you'd like tea?

No tea, Stephen.

Warm milk, then?

No, I'm not up to anything.

I'll give you some powder.

This should ease the pain, Emma.

St... Stephen?

- How much time? - How much time for what, Emma?

You know what I mean. How much time do I have?

I'm a doctor, Emma, not a seer.

You have some i-idea, don't you?

Man proposes, God disposes.

Why?

Because there are plans. Arrangements.

I should like a small funeral, Stephen.

Only close and.. very dear friends.

And... very brief.

Not a long eulogy.

Just a... Just a simple affair.

Whatever you want, you will have.

Not quite.

What I really want, I can't have.

I... I want life, Stephen.

Lord, but I want life.

Then stop talking about it.

It's becoming an obsessive preoccupation with you.

You want life, but you talk about funerals all the time.

I can't help it. Of course you can.

When you find yourself thinking morbid thoughts, choke them off.

Think of other things. Think about us as children.

You and I, Rebecca and Ann...

in this very house playing and singing...

and enjoying one another.

I'll look in on you later.

Stephen? Hmm?

Tomorrow night,

will you read to me from Great Expectations?

Again, Emma? You know I never tire of Dickens.

Yes, Emma. I know.

How is she feeling, Stephen? My dear Rebecca,

you are an inexhaustible source for rhetorical questions.

"How is she feeling?" You know perfectly well how she's feeling.

I'm sorry. She hasn't eaten anything today.

That's her decision.

Shouldn't she? Of course she should.

She's desperately in need of nourishment.

She's so thin.

If one does not eat, one grows thin, Rebecca.

That's elementary.

It doesn't require a medical degree to arrive at that conclusion.

I'm sorry, Stephen. Stop saying that, Rebecca.

Stop saying, "I'm sorry." There is nothing to be sorry about.

And please bear in mind, Stephen, that you are a guest in this house.

A guest? I was brought up in this house.

If I'm a guest here, then so are you and Rebecca.

It was, after all, to Emma that Father left this property,

and we all live here by her charitable sufferance.

None of which gives you the right to treat us as incompetent help.

Oh, there's a distinction whether you choose to recognize it or not.

See, you two have no place to go, whereas I left a lucrative practice to return here...

just to look after Emma.

That's a residual service, Stephen.

You gave up a lucrative practice

because you were flat broke and had no practice left.

I'm hard-pressed to determine which you're more inept at...

Gambling or the medical profession.

You're certainly not much at either.

But I'm here, aren't I?

And I'm up in that room eight hours a day reading Dickens to her.

And that's life's full cycle. I've been doing that for 25 years.

Just as begrudgingly as you do now.

Oh, Ann, dear, pl-please.

No harsh words. Let's be... a family.

For as long as she's alive anyway.

You thought otherwise, Rebecca?

We might as well face the fact.

We walk on tiptoe and with such agony trying to keep it out of our conversation.

But, of course, it shouldn't be kept out of our conversation.

Her death is a matter of days.

Perhaps even less.

I've always felt stifled in this house.

Emma the invalid, always sickly,

always in bed, demanding to be read to.

And darling, vapid Rebecca,

perpetually smiling... over nothing.

And sister Ann, the tyrant,

doomed even then to spinsterhood...

and determined that everyone else should share her graceless state.

I can't for the life of me figure out what keeps her alive.

Stephen...

what if we...

What if we what, Rebecca?

What if we called in another doctor?

For what purpose?

Oh, just to get another opinion. Another opinion?

My dear Rebecca, you could get 100 opinions,

200 diverse choices of medication,

300 opposing views as to therapy...

and very likely 500 separate and distinct medical terms to describe her ailment.

And you'll get the same prognosis, and that prognosis is altogether negative.

Emma is dying, my dear sisters.

She makes this admission herself.

Now, if she has the courage to face that reality,

I think the three of us should as well.

She made a will, didn't she?

Yes. The three of us share equally.

♪♪

We oughta get this tuned. It'll fetch a much higher price, you know.

At last.

At long, long last.

Good-bye, Mr. Dickens,

and good riddance.

This is Dr. Brigham. My sister Emma just passed on.

Would you tell Mr. Peterson he can begin the funeral arrangements we discussed.

That's right. The body can be picked up here at anytime.

Ann, what is it? What's the matter?

But it... it was a lovely service, really.

Simple and nice.

Just what she would have wanted.

She never cared much for frills or fancy things.

Poor dear.

The flowers were so lovely. Really.

So many remembrances.

Oh, I wish he'd stop that. What is the point?

Ann, Rebecca, come in here.

Rebecca, you stand there. Ann, stand here.

What is it? In heaven's name, what is it?

- A shadow. - Nonsense. How could it be a shadow?

A shadow is of something. This... This isn't of anything.

It's... It's a... It's a sort of stain.

Some sort of discoloration or something. But it's not a shadow!

Then let it be.

Rearranging the furniture obviously doesn't stop it.

You'd best come and eat. Your dinner's getting cold.

All right, I'll... I'll have my dinner.

It's just that I hate for anything not to have an explanation.

And, of course, there... There is an explanation.

Probably a simple one.

Probably so simple, that's why it eludes me.

Yes? Oh, yes, he's here.

Oh, that's perfectly all right. Stephen?

Stephen, it's Mr. Peterson at the funeral home.

Yes? Yes, of course.

I told you already. Cause of death: Acute dyspepsia with complications.

Absolutely. That's on the certificate. That's what I sighed.

No, there's no need for any verification.

All right, then.

What is this muck?

Ann tried to keep it warm for you, Stephen.

Warm or cold, it's offensive.

Several of the neighbors sent over some baked goods.

There's a cake in the kitchen, and some pies.

What are you doing?

What does it look like I'm doing?

I'm contemplating the shadow. It's not a shadow!

Of course it is.

And we both of us know, Stephen. We both of us know who it is.

It's an illusion. That's what it is.

It has something to do with the refraction of light in here,

or the furniture... The way it's positioned.

That's what it is. It's an allusion.

I'll get some paint tomorrow, or some new wallpaper.

I'll cover it up.

You'll try, but you won't be able to.

I doubt if you'll ever be able to cover it up.

What was the cause of Emma's death? Dyspepsia?

That was my diagnosis.

Your diagnosis, or your alibi?

What is it?

It's Becky, Stephen. Well, come in. It's not locked.

I brought you some hot tea. What?

I thought it might relax you.

Oh, how altogether thoughtful of you.

Stephen, look at your coat.

It's paint. It's almost impossible to get out.

I'll take it for you and soak it tonight.

There's some turpentine with the paint in the sewing room.

It didn't work, did it? The paint, I mean.

The... The thing is still on the wall.

Well, it's, um... It's obviously optical.

It's something to do with the light. The wall needs painting anyway.

What's this you're doing?

I don't understand.

It's quite simple. I'm cataloging the contents of this house...

and estimating together with the house and the

property on which it sits their current market value.

And believe me, it's quite a considerable sum. Quite considerable.

But, Stephen, why would you wish to do that?

Surely you're not thinking of selling anything?

I am thinking, my dear Rebecca,

of selling everything.

But you can't! Can't?

Allow me to remind you that under the terms of Emma's will,

the three of us share equally.

We shall, of course, divide equally.

I'm not sure Emma would like this.

Emma's dead. She has no voice in the matter.

Dear, departed Emma.

Have you never wondered why Father left virtually

everything to Emma and precious little to the three of us?

Because he favored her?

Because she was the eldest?

Because she was a semi-invalid? No. Because he feared her.

Stephen!

She smothered him, devoured him alive,

clinging on to Father the way she tried to cling on to me.

Her inheritance wasn't a legacy.

It was a bribe,

purchasing Emma's permission to die!

Stephen, that's cruel.

Cruel?

Is it any more cruel than what she did to us?

Turning this house into a... Into a museum?

No, a mausoleum!

With us as caretakers?

But... where would we go?

Huh? Ann and I?

Oh, that's entirely up to you.

Now, please, Rebecca, leave me be. I'd like to finish this up tonight.

Stephen?

- Where did you get that? - You must've dropped it.

I found it on the stairs. They're the... the sedatives, aren't they?

Yes, that's what they are. Yes.

They're just to relax you, aren't they?

And to help you sleep.

Let me know if you want any.

Oh, I'm sleeping very well, thank you, Stephen.

Drink your tea, dear.

You'll feel ever so much better.

It's still there, Ann. Heaven knows he tried, but he couldn't paint it out.

It's Emma.

Was there ever any doubt?

Why, Ann? Why? I don't know.

I suppose...

I suppose I should feel frightened.

It's like having a ghost hanging from the wall.

But I could never feel frightened of Emma.

Dead or alive, I couldn't do anything but love her.

It's cold in here.

We'd best get to bed, Becky.

I'm ready. We'll all get a good night's sleep tonight.

Stephen too.

Why Stephen?

"Physician heal thyself."

Isn't that the phrase?

He doesn't know it, but he's taking his own medicine.

Becky, what do you mean?

I found the pills.

Stephen assured me they'd simply bring on relaxation...

and sleep.

So I ground some of them up and put them in his tea.

He's been so nervous, so irritable.

He'll sleep tonight.

Ann, dear, you didn't wind the clock.

We shall miss Emma.

Indeed we shall.

But we have each other.

But not Stephen.

I'm afraid we shan't have Stephen, Ann.

No, Becky. We'll not have Stephen.

♪

♪ The years are so long ♪

♪ I want you only ♪

♪ You and your song ♪

♪ Dark is life's shore, love ♪

♪ Night is so deep ♪

♪ Leave me no more, love ♪

♪♪

♪♪

Ann, do you suppose...

Stephen knew that... That it was an accident?

I'm sure he did.

I've told you, Becky, he was giving it to Emma a few grains at a time...

for a long period.

What was put in his tea...

was lethal and almost immediate.

I'm truly sorry.

But honestly, Ann, dear, it's as if they'd never left.

I'm so glad.

We're a family again.

♪♪

♪ The years are so long ♪

♪ I want you only ♪

♪ You and your song ♪

♪♪ A Tale of Two Cities. Chapter one.

"It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

"It was the age of wisdom. It was the age of foolishness.

"It was the epoch of belief. It was the epoch of incredulity.

"It was the season of light. It was the season of darkness.

"It was the spring of hope. It was the winter of despair.

We had everything before us. We had nothing before us."