Original subtitles

Things aren't always what they seem to be.

Some things are beyond belief.

"Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction,"

hosted by Jonathan Frakes.

We live in a world where the real and the unreal

live side by side, where substance

is disguised as illusion, and the only explanations

are unexplainable.

Can you separate truth from fantasy?

To do so, you must break through the web of your experience

and open your mind to things "Beyond Belief."

This drawing has been baffling people for nearly a century.

Some of us see it as a fashionable young lady

and some of us see it as the portrait of an old woman.

So which is it? Young or old?

Or is it both?

Tonight, we will be entertained by stories

that will be based on reality.

Others will be totally fabricated by a writer.

At the end of the show, we'll tell you which is which.

But be forewarned.

The difference between fact and fiction

may be as invisible as the difference

between young and old.

The airplane pilot has been a fixture

in the panorama of American heroes

ever since the Wright brothers.

And no matter how sophisticated the latest computer flight

technology becomes, it's the image of one individual using

brains, skills, and guts to conquer the skies that appeals

to the adventurer in all of us.

Michael Rater's father was such a man.

He was once his son's hero, his mentor, his protector.

And his son grew up to share his father's passion for adventure.

But nothing he ever did would prepare

Michael for the strangest adventure of all.

I hadn't landed at this little airport in a long time.

It was a regular destination for my dad and me in the old days.

All I planned was a quick stop.

This was one trip that wasn't destined to go as planned.

As I walked up to Roger's coffee shop,

a lot memories came rushing by.

I had known Roger since I was a little boy.

So when he asked me if I would deliver a package for him,

of course, I said I would.

Hey.

Michael, good to see you, pal.

How about some coffee? - Sounds great.

Good.

There you go.

Hey, listen.

I really appreciate you doing me this favor.

You're a life saver.

Hey, anytime, Roger.

You know I think of you as family.

Watching you run up like that, it sure reminded

me a lot of your father.

Yeah, I think about him all the time.

Yeah.

Your dad was a great guy, one of the best pilots I ever saw.

You know, I still miss him.

Me too.

Let me get the package.

Yeah.

I'd almost forgotten

about that photo of Dad and me.

It was a few minutes after it was taken,

and he gave me his wings.

It really upset me when I lost them a few years ago.

Oh, my god!

Daddy!

Hey, Michael.

What's wrong?

Is somebody taking your plane?

What the hell?

8-7 Bravo, come in.

8-7 Bravo, do you read me?

8-7 Bravo, come in.

Who took your plane?

Whoever it is, he's in trouble.

He's leaking oil.

Oh, no.

Oh, my god.

Oh, no!

What the-- it's empty!

There's no one in there!

Yes there was.

What?

Michael, come on.

Get away from there, Mike.

How could a plane fly itself?

Did Michael leave his engine running with controls

on automatic pilot?

If so, how did those pilot wings suddenly

appear in the cockpit, wings that Michael

had misplaced years ago?

Were they suddenly jarred loose from some crevice of the plane

by the crash, or is the explanation more mystical?

Maybe Michael's father spirit did take the controls

to save his son from harm.

Your challenge is to decide did this story really happen or is

it just a flight of fancy.

Coming up-- a woman, home alone, fears for her life

on "Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction."

A lockbox-- a good idea if you're one of the 70

million people in the United States

who keeps a gun in your home.

Whichever side of the gun issue you happen to fall on,

nobody wants to see innocent people harmed.

Tom North kept his gun in a box like this

for years along with bullets, registration

papers, and a manual.

He raised two children through college without incident.

The box was locked tight and stored out of harm's way.

But the time had come now to bring

out the weapon again to help guard

his house from unseen enemies.

This, then, is a story of a gun, a premonition

of terrifying proportions, and the deadliest enemy of all--

fear.

I knew that sooner or later, Tom would want

me to learn how to use his gun, especially

with everything that was going on in our neighborhood.

It always felt so safe and secure inside our house.

But first the people down the block

were robbed, then across the street, and then our neighbors

right next door.

Suddenly, it didn't feel quite as secure as it used to feel.

Tom had been planning to give me the gun for weeks.

He even took it out to a shooting range

so that he could make sure it was working properly.

But as for me, I wasn't as strong as Tom.

In fact, I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to pull the trigger.

If that were me--

I mean, if I'd seen that guy in this house--

You know, I am so sorry I wasn't here.

You know the Drakes woke up and found him there,

this guy in a ski mask just rifling through their drawers,

inches away from them?

This guy has really gotten brazen.

Did the police say it's just one guy

that robbed all three houses?

I hope so.

I hate to think our neighborhood would become

a mecca for hordes of hoodlums.

Just what kind of warped mind thinks

that terrorizing a neighborhood is an OK way of life?

I just hope it gets figured out soon.

I don't think this is a good time for me to be traveling.

Maybe I should cancel.

Oh, honey.

Look.

You've worked for this.

You've waited.

We prayed for this promotion.

And now with the kids grown and out of the house,

this is the perfect time for you to follow your dream.

Still.

I'll be all right.

Yeah?

Well, I'll just make sure of that.

Oh, Tom, no.

I'll just end up shooting myself.

I know it. - No.

This gun only shoots bad people.

Is that what your father told you?

Uh-huh.

And you bought it?

Well, sure.

He was a cop.

He wore a uniform.

He carried this piece.

I'd be nuts to challenge him.

I don't know.

I don't understand these things.

I mean, I don't even feel comfortable

being this close to a gun.

Look, don't worry about it.

We're going to go out to a shooting range.

I promise you, once you get used to using this gun,

you'll see there's nothing to be afraid of.

Well, let's just forget about this.

I'm hopeless.

Hey, you did fine.

Oh, yeah, I hit the target--

barely.

It was your first time.

Look, you will get better.

Sure.

When?

I hope to God you never have to use this gun.

But if you do, you'll know how to handle it.

Yes.

That night, my anxiety

and fear about the gun was very heavy on my mind.

No!

No!

Oh!

It's all right.

It's just a dream.

OK?

It was so real.

I kept pulling the trigger and it wouldn't fire.

Well, this gun is in perfect working order.

Well, it's old, Tom.

I can't count on it.

No, no, My father always maintained this gun.

He got very little use.

He always kept it perfectly clean and greased.

He did, did he?

This gun won't let you down.

It was just a bad dream.

I know.

You going to be all right tonight?

No promises.

Maybe I should cancel my trip.

No, no, don't.

No, I have to deal with this.

And you definitely have to work.

So I'll be all right.

A few days later, Tom had to leave town,

and I was destined to relive my premonitions of terror

all over again.

But this time, it wasn't a dream.

No!

Mom!

Stop, Mom!

Mom, it's me!

Stop, Mom, it's me!

Stop, Mom!

It's me, Mom! It's me!

It's me, Mom! Stop!

Oh!

Oh, god, I almost killed you!

I couldn't believe it.

The gun was going off by itself, finding its own target.

In a stunning turn of events, it had

shot and killed the intruder who had been hiding in our house

all along.

A son who comes home from college

in the middle of the night, finds he's forgotten his key,

and decides to let himself in through a patio door.

Ironically, a genuine intruder had already

broken into the house, too.

How do you explain the fact that this gun would not

shoot the son, yet moments later,

it fires and hits the intruder?

Could it be that this gun had a special safety

feature, one that only permitted it to fire at a true enemy?

Or is this a gun that has only been fired

by a writer's imagination?

Next-- a painter possesses

a mysterious secret power on "Beyond

Fact or Fiction."

What mysteries lie within the frame of a portrait?

Why do the eyes of a painting often seem to follow

as we walk across a room?

The fact is once someone paints our portrait,

a curious phenomenon takes place.

There's a silent understanding that the painting itself

will outlive both its subject and its artist.

Painter William Corzine understood

the power of the portrait far more than most men.

For him, it was a power that would

eventually pose the question--

does art imitates life or death?

Art is an elusive and complex subject.

For centuries, people have argued

over it, attempted to define it, redefine it, all

in an effort to describe it.

For renowned landscape artist William Corzine,

his foray into portrait painting produced a strange power

he never knew he had.

This is the story of an artist that,

by all outward appearances, seems to be blessed

or cursed with a very unique power, one

that would change his life and the life of his subjects

forever.

All finished.

Oh, William.

It's very lovely.

You can take delivery on Wednesday?

Wednesday?

Would you like me to postpone it?

No.

I just didn't think it would be so soon.

What was this strange power William Corzine

held in his hands?

What made his clientele so unique?

And why is it that Edith Waterson,

just like all the others, never picked

up her finished portrait?

Annie, what if it's wrong?

It's not wrong.

You've been chosen.

You have a special gift.

And as William's doubt grew, so did his reputation.

His special gift passed secretly by word of mouth

to a very select group of people who

all had one thing in common.

Don't stop.

Keep painting.

Good news, Daniel.

Your portrait is finished.

I think you'll be pleased.

Thank you.

When can I expect--

You can take delivery on Monday.

To all his subjects, William

was their last salvation, their last hope

to halt the endless days of suffering, agony, and pain.

Hi. - Can I help you?

Well, I would like you to paint my portrait.

Oh, I'm sorry.

This is a private studio.

I know.

Look, I don't have a lot of money.

I can't afford to pay you much.

But I really need you to paint my portrait.

It's not about money.

I'm just very selective about who I paint.

Mrs. Waterson said you would help me.

And he went about painting her

as fast as he could, doing his best to capture

her spirit on the canvas.

William was determined to end the painful torment

of this afflicted young lady who had come

to him in her moment of need.

Your portrait is done.

Something the matter?

No.

No, it's good.

It's just overwhelming.

I didn't expect it to be so powerful.

When can I take it home?

You can take delivery on Wednesday.

Michelle's portrait would

be one of his most satisfying.

But it set off a chain of events that

would tear his world apart.

William Corzine? - Yes.

How can I help you?

It's about Michelle Taylor.

What about her?

She's dead.

I want to ask you a couple of questions.

He learned he was the last to see her alive.

Michelle had died under very mysterious conditions.

They told him all about her and the circumstances

surrounding her death.

His mind raced with 1,000 thoughts.

How could he have trusted her so completely?

I made a terrible mistake.

What are you talking about?

The police were just here.

Michelle Taylor is dead.

But isn't that why you drew her portrait?

Amy, she wasn't sick.

She was depressed because her boyfriend left her.

Oh, god.

She was 23.

She had her whole life ahead of her.

But I painted her portrait, and it killed her.

William had one last portrait to paint.

He worked endlessly, painting day and night,

until it was finally done.

The portrait was, without a doubt, William's finest effort

to date.

His body was discovered by his assistant

the following morning.

An autopsy revealed that he died of a heart attack.

Was this a desperate attempt to escape justice or a final test

for William Corzine, an experiment

to resolve his own uncertainty, his own disbelief

that a mortal man could possess a power over life itself?

Did William Corzine really have the power

to end the lives of his subjects,

or were their deaths a logical extension of their extremely

fragile states of health?

If so, then how do you explain the death

of Michelle Taylor, a young woman in the prime of her life?

Of course, she was despondent over a lost love,

and deep depression has been known

to contribute to the demise of an otherwise

healthy individual.

And what of William's final gesture?

Did he really take his own life by painting a self-portrait,

or had the gruesome circumstances of his life

become too much for his heart to bear?

Could this story of an artist be inspired by actual events,

or is this a tale of artful deception?

Next, two boys explore the life

and death corridors of a hospital on "Beyond

Fact or Fiction."

An all-access pass is a precious

commodity because it takes you wherever you want to go.

Everybody wants one.

Yet they're only issued to a precious few.

People will pay thousands of dollars for such passes

at sports events, rock concerts, press conferences.

At a hospital, it takes on a different meaning.

Only the most qualified professional personnel

can be allowed to have one.

The rest of us can only guess what life and death

mysteries are hidden within the corridors of a medical center.

But with the help of this pass, two young men

were about to find out.

The first time I

met Eddie was when we shared a room together

at the county hospital.

I didn't know too much about him,

only that his father was a doctor at the hospital

and that he was afraid of dying.

They had him taking test after test,

but nobody would tell him what was wrong.

I found out later he had a heart murmur.

But when this story happened, all

I knew about Eddie's condition was that he was just like me--

very, very, bored.

Eddie, will you knock it off?

You're driving me nuts.

99 channels and nothing on.

Hi, son. - Hey, Dad.

How you doing tonight, Kevin?

Never better, Doc.

Nothing nicer than strained green beans for dinner.

I can sympathize.

At least it's dry in here.

So were the green beans.

So Dad, being that you work here

and all, how about checking me out and taking me home?

Sorry.

One more day, kiddo.

I thought you said it was nothing.

I'm sure it is.

We just have to run a couple more tests.

Sorry.

One more day, right?

I promise.

Hey, I got to go pick up your mom and Chad.

Traitor.

Sleep tight, son.

All right?

Later, Doc.

Later, Mr. O'Donnell.

I have a feeling there's something

my dad is not telling me.

What if I have some kind of deadly disease?

That would be cool.

That means I get the room to myself.

What are you doing?

You dad shouldn't leave things just lying

around in his coat pocket.

You stole that?

I prefer the word "liberated."

We've got to give it back.

Your dad is not going to need it tonight.

Let's go out and have a little fun.

Of course, if you're too scared, you can stay in here all night

and watch infomercials.

Look, my dad has worked here ever since I was born.

I've been over every square inch of this hospital.

I bet there's one place you haven't been.

Woo, hello!

Relax.

The morgue.

Showtime.

Oh, now this is cool.

And this is your brain on formaldehyde.

I don't think this is such a good idea.

Help me!

We can get in really big trouble for this.

No, this is excellent.

Oh, rock on!

Just chill.

Let's see who's behind door number one.

What are you doing?

Are you nuts?

I'm sorry.

I forgot you're afraid of dying.

That's it.

I'm going back.

Somebody is coming.

Hide, quick!

The ghost is clear.

Come on.

Looks like somebody just checked in.

That's it.

I'm out of here.

No, no, no.

Not until you open it.

No way. Forget it.

Come on. Don't be such a baby.

Just open it.

Ever heard of respect for the dead?

I don't think our new friend is going to mind.

I open it, then we'll leave, right?

You have my solemn word.

Here's-- Eddie, it's you.

When I came to, I didn't see Eddie,

but I could hear the nurses.

Imagine Dr. Anderson losing two sons, both Eddie and Chad,

in one night.

What happened?

Oh, a real tragedy.

Dr. Anderson and his family were in a car accident last night.

He's fine, and so is his wife.

The other son, Chad, died instantly.

So what happened to Eddie?

Well, after the accident, they brought

Chad's body to the morgue.

Eddie saw it last night, and his heart gave out.

Well, who can blame them?

They were identical twins, you know.

I'll never forget

Eddie or that terrible night.

Had Eddie remained in his hospital room

instead of snooping around the morgue,

he might still be alive today.

His father would have had a chance

to gently and lovingly tell him of his brother's death.

Instead, the way he came upon his twin brother's body

so unexpectedly proved to be too much for his fragile heart

to handle, and all because he went to the morgue, a place

he didn't belong.

Did the fates conspire to bring a curious boy and the body

of his identical twin together at the same time,

or are we conspiring to mislead you?

Next, a radio talk show

host encounters a mysterious caller on "Beyond

Fact or Fiction."

This is Jonathan Frakes, and you are the next caller.

If it's true that the pen is mightier than the sword, what,

then, do we say about the microphone?

Talk show radio hosts use this instrument to reach millions

with thoughts and opinions designed to provoke, amuse,

influence, and shock all in the name

of what they call good radio.

Despite the appearance of a democratic exchange

between a talk show host and his listeners,

it is the host who holds the balance of power.

With a flip of a switch, he can cut off any annoyance.

But what happens when that balance of power

becomes unbalanced, when the microphone

becomes the instrument of a living nightmare?

Is it still good radio?

OK, line one, you're on with "Kincaid All Night."

Go ahead. MAN (ON PHONE): Hi.

My name is--

Clive Kincaid was the hottest thing in talk radio.

His late night show was so popular,

there were plans of syndicating it across the country.

Of course, Clive made his living at the expense of others.

Clive had no use for the people in his life,

especially his listeners.

He thought of them only as numbers.

And with enough numbers, his ratings would rise,

and he would get more famous, more

wealthy, and more powerful.

Something like a flying saucer.

So you believe you saw a UFO?

Let me tell you something, pal.

You haven't got a clue.

You're brainless.

You could sell space between your ears.

Why can't you believe it?

Because you're an idiot.

You're about as bright as a two-watt bulb.

What's it like going through life

with the porch light on dim?

All I'm saying,

I was sitting in my yard--

Wave bye bye, pal.

Next caller.

You're on "Kincaid All Night." What do you want?

Is this Clive Kincaid?

No. It's Ricky Ricardo.

Whatever drug you're on, why don't you up the dosage?

I just wanted to make sure I'm talking to Clive Kincaid.

They're out there.

They are out there.

Let's go to line 3.

OK, what's your question?

My question is about your son, Ronnie Griffin.

What did you say?

Robbie Griffin.

Remember him? - Yeah.

Time to wave bye bye.

See you, sonny boy.

The psychos are out there tonight in droves.

We'll be back.

So stay tuned and don't touch that dial.

Clive, we've got a slight technical problem.

What are you talking about?

We can't hear the caller.

It sounds like you're talking to yourself.

Well, I can.

And I don't want you to put those wackos through to me

anymore.

Conscience is not the voice of God.

It is the gift of God.

Cheap cookies.

They're all the same.

No they're not.

This is Clive Kincaid, and you're listening

to "Kincaid All Night."

It's me again.

Hey, only one call per wacko per night.

Wave bye bye, pal.

Is anybody listening? What's going on here?

I can't hear you. - Do I get any help at all?

Come on.

Next called.

"Kincaid All Night."

What do you want?

You never answered my question.

Do you remember Robbie Griffin?

Yes, I remember Robbie Griffin.

But if you think you're going to take some name

from the past and screw with me, you've

got another thing coming.

Wave bye bye.

"Kincaid All Night," talk to me.

Try all you want, but you can't get rid

of me.

Why didn't you ever call or visit?

I don't get this.

I can't hear anybody but Kincaid.

Something is seriously wrong here.

OK.

OK, let's deal with this, all right?

Why not?

I've always been honest with my audience,

so I'll be honest with you.

Listen, I was passing through Fort Wayne, Indiana,

and I met someone.

We had a one night stand, all right?

She calls me a few months later, and she tells me

she's going to have the baby.

So you never called or visited your own son?

No.

I went to see him once.

I was going through Fort Wayne again, so I looked him up.

I found him.

I drove over to where he lived.

And there he was, tossing a tennis

ball up against the wall.

He looked just like me.

I wanted to get out and meet him, but I lost my nerve.

You left out a part.

I had a baseball glove.

Who is this?

It's me, Dad.

It's Robbie.

Robbie is dead.

He died last summer!

This is freaky, man.

Who the hell is Robbie?

I don't know, but we got to get him out of there.

Clive?

Unlock the door. .

What's he looking at?

Clive?

I better call Artie.

What the hell do you want?

Why don't you leave me alone?

I never wanted a kid.

I wanted a career!

Damn it, anyway.

What would I do with a kid?

I can't believe this.

What's he doing?

He's losing it.

Of course I thought of you!

Can't you cut him off?

I'm trying everything.

The controls aren't working.

It's OK, Dad. You messed up.

You know it.

I know it.

Don't you call me Dad!

My son is dead!

I want to talk to you, Dad.

Shut up.

Shut up!

Shut your face!

Stop screwing with me!

You are not my son!

Get out of my life!

Who was the voice on the phone?

Was it really the spirit of the dead son

that Kincaid had abandoned years before?

Something unusual was going on.

Because at exactly 10:25, lightning

knocked out the utility lines outside the studio.

Phone company records show that no calls at all

were made from that point on.

Yet that was the exact moment that the mysterious calls

from Robbie Griffin started to come in.

By the way, that was the last time that Kincaid

ever appeared on the radio--

a curious twist, because his show

that night achieved its highest ratings of all time.

Is this story of a radio talk show host haunted by his past

based upon fact?

Coming up, we'll find out which of our stories

tonight were fact and which was fiction

when "Beyond Belief" returns.

Now let's find out which of our stories

tonight have been inspired by actual events

and which ones are totally false.

Our story of the pilot whose plane took off by itself

and then crashed to the ground, ultimately saving his life--

was that a work of fiction?

He ain't going to pull out of that.

Was this story inspired by an actual event?

Yes, a similar event did take place.

Our tale of the gun that refused to fire at the son

returning from college--

how do you judge this one?

Well, this story of a gun that wouldn't fire

at innocent people was actually based on an incident

similar to this one.

And now the artist who seemed to hold the power

of life and death in his hands.

Was it reality-based or false?

I would like you to paint my portrait.

No, I'm sorry.

This is a private studio.

Look, I don't have a lot of money.

I can't afford to pay you much.

But I really need you to paint my portrait.

It's not about money.

I'm just very selective about who I paint.

Mrs. Waterson said you would help me.

If you guessed that there was an actual recorded happening

of an artist that seemed to have this power, you were right.

There was.

And what about the tale of the boys

who lifted the hospital pass and used it to explore the morgue?

True or false?

Woo hello!

It's you.

This tale of a young man who confronted

the dead corpse of his identical twin and then died himself?

Pure fiction.

What did you make of the radio talk

show host who was haunted by a phone call from his dead son?

Robbie is dead.

He died last summer!

This is freaky, man.

Who the hell is Robbie?

I don't know, bur we've got to get him out of there.

Clive.

Clive.

Clive, unlock the door.

Was there an actual story that we

based this otherworldly confrontation on?

Not this time.

It never happened.

Once again, we tried to demonstrate the blurry

line between fact and fiction.

Were you able to separate the two?

And can you accept the fact that certain truths defy logic

and fall into the category of being simply beyond belief?

I'm Jonathan Frakes.

Join us for more stories

next time on "Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction."