All language subtitles for Night Gallery S02E01 The Boy Who Predicted Earthquakes.DVDRip.NonHI.en.UNVSL

SERLING: Tonight's stars:

George Maharis,

Ray Milland,

Leslie Nielsen,

Sue Lyon,

Joe Campanella,

and Michael Constantine.

You're most welcome
in this particular museum.

There's no admission, no
requirement of membership.

Only a strong and abiding belief

in the dark at the
top of the stairs

or things that go
bump in the night.

Example, tonight's
first painting.

Small boy encased
in a crystal ball.

Born with a very special
gift, he can prophesy.

But you'll wonder, as we
look behind that picture,

if a prophesy is always a gift,

or can it, on occasion,
take the form of a nightmare.

The painting's title is

The Boy Who
Predicted Earthquakes.

And this is the Night Gallery.

Herbie, come on, this way.

Hey, Rance, is this okay?

Okay.

You're gonna need pillows.
The kid's only 10 years old.

Mr. Wellman. When do you tape?

In just a minute, Mr. Wellman.
I'd like you to meet Mr. Godwin.

What's the kid's name?

Herbie, Herbert Bittman.

Mr. Godwin here is
Herbie's grandfather.

Mr...

What can he possibly do?

Well, it's in the nature
of a commentary.

A commentary?

How old is the child, seven?

He's 10, Mr. Wellman.

He's 10?

A 10-year-old commentator?

Oh, that's really
creative, isn't it?

That's innovative. What
are we shooting for?

Wednesday night, 8:00,

the darkest hour
in the rating wars,

and whom are we
auditioning for our big gun?

A 10-year-old
commentator named Herbie?

Mr. Wellman, this is Herbie's
grandfather, Mr. Godwin.

This is Mr. Wellman,
the head of the station.

You handle the kid?

I'm Herbie's grandfather.
The boy has a special talent.

Fact?

I give this to you
up front, Reed.

A special talent
he'd better have.

Middle of the week, prime
time against network competition.

You've got to be out of it.

Stand by to roll tape.

Roll tape.

Slate in. Three, two, one.

Audition tape number 323,
The Herbie Bittman Show.

Action!

Hello. My name
is Herbert Bittman.

I've been reading a
very interesting book.

It's called The Count
of Monte Cristo.

I feel that anybody
might enjoy it.

I've also begun a
book on astronomy

written by a man named Duncan.

Reading this book has
made me want a telescope.

My grandfather says
that if I work hard

and get good grades in school,

I can have a small telescope
at the end of the semester.

That's what we're gonna need
to find you, you know, Reed,

after I kick you out
of here. A telescope!

About 15 minutes from
now, Gwendolyn Box,

that little girl who's been lost in the
Sierras since Thursday, will be found.

Her leg is broken,
but she'll still be alive.

After I get my telescope,

I wanna become a member of the
Society of Variable Star Observers.

It's a club where everybody...

You aren't really serious
about this, are you, Reed?

You are putting me on.

You weren't intending
to program this?

Mr. Wellman, the boy is
unerring in his predictions.

Ask Mr. Godwin here.

Oh, I should ask Mr. Godwin?

If you could just control yourself
for a moment, Mr. Wellman.

I guess that's all
for now, except...

Tomorrow morning, at
about one minute till 6:00,

there'll be an earthquake
in the Los Angeles area.

It will be fairly sizable.

That's about all I
can tell you now.

Except, there'll be some damage
and some fatalities, as well.

I'm sorry to have to give
you this kind of bad news.

And I'm very sorry to
give you this sad news.

You have just witnessed
Master Bittman's maiden voyage,

his audition and his swan song,

all concurrent with your final act
as an employee of this corporation.

Now, Mr. Wellman,
I checked him out.

He's altogether legitimate.

And several of the universities
have wanted to examine him.

You're the one that should
be examined, you realize that?

Against high-powered
network competition,

you want to put a
10-year-old myopic

who sits on pillows
and tells fright stories!

"Gwendolyn Box is going to be
found in the Sierras with her leg broken!

"Los Angeles is gonna have an
earthquake tomorrow morning!"

You should give the boy
a chance, Mr. Wellman.

I should also contract pleurisy
and fall down an elevator shaft.

Oh, Mr. Wellman,
please be reasonable.

Did you catch that
show, Mr. Wellman?

I caught it, I'm
throwing it back.

I want that tape wiped.

Kid, I don't know
who put you up to this,

but we are not amused,
do you understand that?

Just a moment, Mr. Wellman.

Nobody put Herbie
up to anything.

He has a special
talent, a gift, if you will.

It was his own idea to share it.

You share it, Grandpa.

Buy yourself a wagon
and take it on the road.

But right here, in this station,

I'm not interested in his gifts,

his talent or anything else.

If you can't wipe
that tape, burn it.

All I want left of The
Herbie Bittman Show is

a fading echo and
a receding memory.

Oh, Mr. Wellman! Mr. Wellman!

We'll try the back later.

Have you forgotten
the house of pain?

You made us in
the house of pain.

You made us sing!

Not men,

but beast!

Sing!

Sing, sing!

Mr. Reed wants you to turn on
your television set, Mr. Wellman.

You tell Mr. Reed for me
that he can go jump in a lake.

Mr. Reed says that
it's a news bulletin.

Charlie? Charlie, hold the film

and get me the monitor, please.

The helicopter is
approaching the little girl now.

Her condition at the
moment is unknown,

but the pilot has radioed
back that she is definitely alive.

Repeating that information,

Gwendolyn Box, lost in the
Sierras since last Thursday,

has been found alive.

First reports indicate
she has a broken left leg

and is suffering from exposure.

It could be a coincidence.
A gigantic coincidence.

Oh, I'm so glad they found
her alive, Mr. Wellman.

The tapes!

Call McManus and tell
him not to wipe that tape.

And tell Reed to get a
hold of that Bittman kid.

Made the news for
February 8th, 1971.

In an attempt to
undermine Vietcong support,

the South Vietnamese
today invaded Laos.

Thirty-eight candidates have been
chosen for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Thirty-eight.

Jack, that's fine, thank you.

Mr. McManus says the
tapes have been wiped clean.

And Mr. Reed says the Bittman boy
and his grandfather have left the studio.

Well why don't they...

All right, all right. We'll
just wait until morning.

Anything else, Mr. Wellman?

You can ask me that again
at 6:00 a.m., Los Angeles time.

All right, Harry, let's see
the film again, please.

We'll see then how
the cookie crumbles,

or those Los Angeles buildings.

But I tell you this up front.

If they get the
shakes out there,

I'm signing Herbie Bittman
to a 25-year contract.

Well, I don't blame you.
How skeptical I was, too.

But then Herbie predicted about that
little girl being found in the mountains.

And after that, LA
had their quake.

Well, I immediately
called Dr. Howard Hepburn,

you know, the big
seismologist, and I asked him.

He said there was no way that

that quake could possibly
have been foretold. No way.

Well, it became apparent that
Herbie had some kind of special gift.

Then, a year ago,
that Stratoliner wreck,

the gubernatorial election,
and, let me see. Oh, yes.

Do you remember this
submarine disaster in the Tortugas?

Marvelous, Herbie
predicted the whole thing.

What's the boy like?

Well, he's just as
normal as you or me.

Comes in here twice a week with
his grandfather, does the show.

Never any problems,
never any temperament.

Oh, yes, Doctor, perhaps you'd
like to look at a few little trophies

that Herbie's picked
up along the way.

You know, I'm very glad that the
university has decided to study him.

In the year and a half
that he's been with us,

he has made 106 predictions,

and every blessed one
of them has come true.

Can I see him now?

Well, let's see. You've got
20 minutes till air time. Sure.

Right this way.

Herbie?

Herbie, I've got someone
I'd like you to meet.

This is Dr. Peterson.

Dr. Peterson's
at the university.

Oh, and this is Herbie's
grandfather, Mr. Godwin.

Don't get up. Nice to meet you.

Herbie, you'll give us another
great show this afternoon.

I'll see you all later.

Is this a convenient
time for you, Herbie?

They told us last week we
were gonna be investigated.

Not exactly investigated.

The university has been
given an appropriation

to do a project on you.

We think we can learn a great
deal about extrasensory perception.

Parapsychology.

For example, do you have
any idea how this works?

You mean, my being
able to predict things?

Yes.

It just, sort of, happens.

Do you get a vision?

You mean like pictures?

Mmm-hmm.

No. It isn't pictures
and it isn't words.

It just, sort of,
comes into my mind.

One thing I've noticed
is I can't predict anything

unless I more or
less know what it is.

I could predict an earthquake

because everybody
knows what a quake is.

And when somebody is missing,

and I predict they're
going to be found,

if I hadn't known
they were missing,

I wouldn't have
been able to do it.

I see.

Well, then you're not
able to predict anything

that isn't already in
your consciousness.

That's the reason why
I read so many books.

The more things I know about,

the more things I can predict.

Herbie, could we see
you in the chair now?

We're ready to paint.

Excuse me, Dr. Peterson.

What's it like living with
such a celebrity, Mr. Godwin?

Well he's become
public property.

He gets 1,500 letters a week.

He gets double that in offers

from government
officials, bookies,

people with terminal
diseases, schemers.

They write us,
they telephone us,

they even camp on our doorstep.

You see that man over there?

He's with the government.

He sits in the studio during
the taping of every show,

so that, in case Herbie
should say something

that might be contrary
to national policy,

they can stop the
show immediately.

But he seems
unaffected by all this.

Still, I can't help
but wonder...

Go on. Well...

What it must be like to be
able to look into tomorrow.

The deadly strain of it.

To suddenly have
pierced your brain

with some knowledge
of disaster or catastrophe,

and to be unable to
do anything about it.

And to have that deadly
weight on a little 11-year-old boy.

Mr. Godwin, can we see
you over here for a minute?

A problem?

I'm not sure.

Excuse me.

He seems very disturbed.

What's the matter, Herbie?

Grandfather, take me home.

What is the trouble
here? What is going on?

Now, Herbie, Herbie,
what is the problem?

They tell me you don't
want to do the show.

I want... I want to go home.

What has been happening here?

Now, now, Herbie.

Now you know that whatever
the problem is, I'll fix it.

Don't you feel well?
Are you too tired?

I feel okay.

It's just...

I just can't do it today.

Herbie, we have to
do the show today.

Why hasn't someone
called a doctor?

I don't need a
doctor. It's just that...

I got to go home, Grandfather.

Then, that's just what
we'll do. Come on.

Oh, really?

Just like that, take
a walk, is that it?

What about the crew here?

What about the
production schedule?

What about the time
and effort and money

that I've invested in this show?

Now, let's just
be rational here.

If this child is not ill, then
there's no excuse for...

The excuse, Mr. Wellman, is just
that Herbie doesn't want to do it today.

Come on, Herbie.
What are we going to do?

Mr. Godwin!

Herbie.

Herbie, boy.

Herbie, now listen.

Herbie, have you thought about
the people that depend on you?

What about your
devoted fans, Herbie?

Fact.

Herbie, there are people
who sit by their television set

every week and wait
for you to come on.

They depend on you.
You're very important to them.

Now what's gonna
happen when you don't?

It's going to frighten
them, isn't it, Herbie?

You can see that, can't you?

Maybe...

Maybe you're right.

Herbie, just as soon
as you're finished,

we're gonna discuss a
nice long vacation for you.

Two weeks, maybe four
weeks, any place you like.

Europe, Asia.

And the station
footing the bill, Herbie.

Herbie, right now,

the most important thing you've
got to do is get back in there

and do that show for us,
Herbie, just like always.

Just get in there
and go to work.

All right,
Mr. Wellman, I'll try.

Good boy. Good boy, Herbie.

All right, back to
work, everyone.

It's okay, Grandfather.
It's really okay.

Okay, places, please.
Come on, everybody, let's go.

One minute to air.
One minute to air.

What do you suppose the
problem is, Mr. Godwin?

I don't know, Doctor.

And frankly, I'm not
quite sure I want to know.

Camera two, let me
see your close shot.

Gene, you want
to straighten his tie.

Yeah, yeah, that's it. Okay.

And that's what I learned this week
in school about mechanical drawing.

And it's really
very interesting.

Nothing. No predictions,
no nothing. Dullsville, USA.

It seems like he's holding back.

And now I wanna...

I want to tell you
about tomorrow.

That's better. Here he comes.

Tomorrow is gonna be different
from anything in the past.

Tomorrow is going to be

a start of a new and
better world for all of us.

In the past, we've
had a pretty bad time.

We've had wars and
famines, and pestilence.

And we've had depressions,

and nobody seems to
know what causes them.

People have starved
when there was food,

they've died of diseases
when there were cures for them.

We've seen the water and the air

and everything
else get polluted.

And we've seen so much hatred.

Well, beginning tomorrow,

all that's going to be changed.

There won't be any more wars.

We're going to live
side by side like brothers.

We're going to forget about
killing and breaking and bombs.

And all over the world,

there's going to be a
kind of garden growing.

And nobody will
be afraid anymore.

For the first time since human
beings have lived on this earth,

we're going to live the
way human beings should.

Tomorrow is going to be
the beginning of all that.

That's all for now.

Goodbye.

Good night.

Save it

Herbie? Dr. Peterson is here.

We had to have our phone cut off

because there was such a
commotion after Herbie's telecast.

Well, I suppose you've
seen it for yourself.

Herbie?

Herbie, you told me that
you couldn't see into the future

for more than 48 hours.

That's right.

Then how could you foresee all the
things you predicted this afternoon?

You really want me to tell you?

I certainly do.

I wouldn't have known
if I hadn't read this book.

I'd just have known

that something big
was going to happen.

But now I know.

I read about it in
my astronomy book.

Look over there.

Tomorrow won't be like that.

What are you trying to say?

Tomorrow, the
sun will be different.

I think it's better
this way, Doctor.

I wanted them to be happy.

So that's why I lied to them.

Herbie, what is it?

What's going to happen tomorrow?

Tomorrow,

the sun...

Yes?

What?

I forget the word.

It's what they call it
when a star flares up,

becomes a billion times
hotter than it was before.

A nova?

That's right. A nova.

What does that mean?

That's when the sun explodes.

Don't be frightened,
Grandfather.

It'll happen so quickly,

we won't even feel it.

And nobody else
will feel it, either.

They'll just expect
it to be a better day.

Maybe afterwards,
that's what it will be.

Miss Lovecraft sent me.

I'm from the agency. I'm
your baby sitter, Betsy.

Hi.

Ought to have that oiled.

Oh? I rather like it.

Your wife getting dressed?

No, she went on ahead.

When there's a full moon,
there's no restraining her.

I told her to start without me.

A modern marriage.

The best kind.

More staying power
to them, you know.

Yes. Ours has
lasted a long time.

A very long time.

When can I meet the kid?

Actually, I was just
getting him ready for bed.

You like a fire?

Sure, but I can get
him ready for bed.

You're probably
anxious to get started.

I am, I am.

But no, it's better
if I prepare him.

He can be rather
difficult with strangers.

Once he's warmed
up to you, though...

I know what. I'll read
him a bedtime story.

That's a great way
to break the ice.

Good idea.

You'll find his favorites

over there on the first
shelf of the bookcase.

Make yourself comfortable.

If you should become hungry,

you'll find that we have an
unusually well-stocked larder

including some rather
hard-to-get items

you might find interesting.

What time to you
expect to be back?

Dawn.

We're always back
before sunup. Always.

Yes, Sonny, Daddy's here.

Miss Lovecraft didn't
mention anything about a dog.

Guess what, Sonny?

Daddy has a marvelous
surprise in store for you.

You're just going
to eat her alive!

"Vampyricon."

"Satan's Invisible
World Discovered."

"The Book of the
Dead." "Men Into Wolf"?

Now, let's put on
your slippers, shall we?

Don't want to catch cold.

Give me your foot.
There's a good boy.

Now the other
foot. That's right.

And now the other one.

What was that crash?
Did I hear something?

Oh, shut up!

The concept of medical
transplants is exciting, indeed.

But the story behind this painting
takes the concept a step further,

or, if you will, a step over,

into a different kind of world,

one in which a
gentleman named Lacland

finds a hand that
is not his own.

And he finds it at
the end of his wrist.

Our painting, The
Hand of Borgus Weems.

Excuse me, would you
mind repeating that?

I said, Dr. Ravadon, I
want you to cut off my hand.

Peter Lacland?

Yes.

The card doesn't
say who referred you.

Nobody referred me.
I live down the block.

I see your brass plate
every time I go for the bus.

I see.

May I see the hand?

The other, please?

They seem perfectly
normal to me, both hands.

Nevertheless, Doctor, the
right hand must be removed.

If not by you,

then by somebody else.

Would you mind telling me why?

I have no desire
to be laughed at.

Neither do I, young man.

What do you think is
wrong with the hand?

There, look. See
for yourself, Doctor.

What did I write?

I'm sorry, except for
prescription purposes,

I don't read Latin.

I don't write it.

And that's not my handwriting.
This is no longer my hand.

It belongs to somebody else.
That's why it must be cut off.

Whose hand do
you consider it to be?

I don't know. It has
taken over my hand.

It makes it do things I
don't want my hand to do.

What sort of things?

It makes it murder.

You've committed a murder?

I've attempted it three times.

This hand has.

Each time I've been
able to prevent it,

each time it's
become harder to do.

The last time has been the
hardest, almost beyond me.

The next time
I know I will fail.

That's why it must be cut off.

Otherwise, someone
will be murdered.

Mr. Lacland, I am writing the
name of an associate of mine.

You're referring
me to a psychiatrist.

As a matter of fact, yes, I am.

Doctor, I didn't come
here to be told I'm mad.

I want you to cut off my hand.

Now why won't you do it?

Because, young man, there's
nothing wrong with your hand.

It is not diseased,
it is not morbid,

it is not tumescent.

And it's against
professional ethics for me...

Cut it off!

Impossible.

Is it?

Is it impossible?

You see, Doctor, it
wasn't impossible.

You made it mandatory.

I really didn't have a choice.

The company had sent me up
here to manage the new office.

I'd been here a couple of
weeks, found an apartment,

got to know my way around,

and was just organizing
the new operation.

I had an appointment one
evening with a prospective client

at his apartment.

Something distracted
me for a second.

And then I pushed
the wrong button.

I didn't know why
until later, a lot later.

Almost too much later.

Yes, what is it?

At first, I thought
it was an accident,

the way I met Susan.

I have a appointment
with a Franklin M. Heller.

Oh, well, you have
the wrong apartment.

No.

I would've had the wrong
apartment had I rung the right bell.

Well...

It was three days later when I
finally got to see Mr. Franklin Heller.

By that time, Susan
and I were engaged.

Have you told your
fiancée about your surgery?

I made her go away,
to keep from killing her.

You were contemplating...

I wasn't.

It was. And it
would've done it, too.

This surgery, it saved her life.

When did it first occur to
you that you were no longer

the proprietor of
your right hand?

I wanted to telephone
one of our suppliers.

I was home.

I'd left the office early

and I didn't have my
telephone book with me,

so I decided to try to look up
his name in the phone directory.

I was leafing through it,

running my finger
down the column,

when suddenly, it stopped.

I mean, it stopped.

I didn't stop it.

Then it called the number.

It really called it.

I had absolutely
nothing to do with it.

It was almost as
though I weren't there,

only my hand.

Hello? Hello?

Ramsey speaking. Who's this?

Hello? Is anyone there?

Look, I hear someone
breathing. Now who is this?

Hello! Who is this?

I don't know why I said it.

This is Borgus Weems speaking.

What? What? What did you...

Not a single one
of those actions

was performed by
me of my own free will.

Not a single one of them.

It was my hand that
made me do them.

And you think me insane.

I've no doubt that
what you're telling me

you believe to be
the absolute truth.

But you think me insane.

I'm a surgeon, Mr. Lacland,

and I have no qualifications
in the field of medicine

which deals with what
you've been telling me.

However, if I can persuade you

to recapitulate
what you've told me,

and then to continue on with
your story in the presence of a...

Psychiatrist.

Precisely.

Well, since the
peril no longer exists,

I'm really indifferent
to how large a group

considers me mad.

Bring your friend in.

And these were not familiar
names to you, Mr. Lacland?

This Brock Ramsey
and Borgus Weems?

I'd never heard of either
of them until that moment.

However, later
that same evening,

one of them paid me a visit.

Lacland? Is that you?

That was the name on
the mailbox downstairs.

Yes, I'm Peter Lacland.

Ramsey, Brock Ramsey.

Oh?

Come in.

You lived here long?

Are you from the police?

No.

No, I used to know someone
who lived here a while back.

Five, six years ago.

This was his desk.

I rented this place furnished.

Is there something I can
do for you, Mr. Ramsey?

I don't know.

I got a funny phone
call this afternoon

and I wondered if...

I was going to kill the man.

I knew I was going to kill him.

You know, I got reason to believe
that you made that phone call.

If you did, is
something the matter...

No! Please don't! Stop!
You don't understand!

Get out of here!

Hello? Oh, Susan.

Yes.

Yes, my darling. What?

I sound funny?

I was... I was
just taking a nap.

Yes. Yes, everything is fine.

Shall we... Shall
we have dinner?

Fine.

Some days later I had to
visit a client in Beardsley.

I rented a car for the occasion.

About two blocks before the
access drive up onto the speedway,

the hand took control again.

I felt the now quite horrible
familiar pulsing, the heat,

the unmistakable impression

that another force was
causing the hand to function,

unrelated to any
desire on my part.

I meant to turn the
wheel to the left, but...

I couldn't.

And then I realized
something else was happening.

My foot was beginning to
cooperate with that right hand.

I felt helpless, hopeless,

utterly out of my depth.

And then it happened.

I was going to run over him.

I was deliberately
going to run over him.

I was like a spectator
outside of myself

watching myself about
to commit murder.

The next morning
I read in the paper

that a rented car driven
by a Mr. Peter Lacland

had gone out of control
and almost struck and killed

a Mr. Everett Winterreich,
attorney at law.

But that wasn't
altogether true, was it?

Mr. Peter Lacland was

sitting behind the
wheel of that rented car,

but he most certainly
was not driving it.

Mr. Lacland, did it not occur
to you at about this point

that you might possibly
be suffering from a condition

that ought to be
examined professionally?

It did, Dr. Innokenti,
it most certainly did.

But I also realized
the fact that I would

either be totally
disbelieved or that

I would be hustled
off to some institution

and put behind locked doors.

So instead of consulting
a physician, you did what?

I embarked on the preparations

to murder my fiancée.

I first accompanied
my right hand to a shop

where I bought a gun.

You cannot buy a
firearm in this state

without first acquiring
a police permit.

My right hand evidently knew
of a place where such formalities

could be dispensed
with for a small sum

added onto the
price of the weapon.

Did you know you were
calling on her in order to kill her?

No, such a horrible thought
never entered my head.

I love her deeply and dearly.

But you'd just bought a gun.

Didn't you suspect your purpose?

My brain must've been starting
to cooperate with my hand.

It was concealing my
own thoughts from me.

No!

Peter, what are you doing?

I'm gonna kill you.

I'm gonna kill you,
and I don't know why.

I'm trying not to, but
I can't try any longer.

It's getting too
strong, too much.

Help me, help me!

What did I do?

All I can think
about is killing.

First the man on the telephone,

then the man with
the beard, now you.

Maybe I can stop it

by doing this.

No, don't. No, don't,
please. Peter, stop it!

Get it away. Take it away.

Don't let my hand get near it.

Oh, Peter, wait.

Susan, if you love
me, go somewhere.

Go somewhere far away,
far away from here. Why?

So I can't kill you.

Why would you kill me?

I wouldn't, but this would.

It won't rest until
it's killed you.

I know it. I sense it.
And it's gonna keep trying

again, and again,
until it does it.

Unless...

Unless...

I cut it off.

That's a very fascinating
story, Mr. Lacland.

Of which you don't
believe a word.

I'm a psychiatrist. I
believe in only one thing,

listening.

And I would be very
happy to listen to anything

you might care to say to me.

Dr. Ravadon will tell you
where you can reach me.

Good day.

Doctor.

And now you will
step into the corridor,

consult with your friend

and agree, very quietly,

that I'm crazy.

Mr. Lacland, I have
more than one friend.

And as soon as
your arm is healed,

I'd like to persuade you to
see another of my friends.

Another psychiatrist?

No, this one's a policeman.

Yes. Yes, this was
his place, all right.

Whose?

Borgus Weems.

I knew that rang a bell
when you mentioned it.

But I wasn't sure.

But who is Borgus Weems?

He was a strange
man, Mr. Lacland.

A scholar, a traveler, a man of
many parts, countless languages.

Thought to be rich.

Dabbled in the
occult, too, it was said.

It was from that window he was
pushed to his death four years ago.

You said pushed?

Yeah. And not
without a struggle.

Who knows with what tenacity
he clung on to this ledge?

All I can tell you is those
fingernails of his were found dug

almost an inch into
the wood of the sill.

Wait a minute.

If he was pushed to his death,

then how could
his fingernails...

His right hand remained
here in the room when he fell.

Someone had lopped
it off at the wrist.

His... His right
hand? In this room?

Who did it?

There was never a conviction.

He had a niece,
she had a boyfriend.

We thought they'd done
it, so we arrested them.

They got a lawyer,
he got them acquitted.

What were their names?

Hers was Douglas.
Susan, I believe.

Boyfriend's name I
don't remember offhand.

And the lawyer's?

That name I'll never forget.

Mr. Everett Winterreich.

It's my beautiful Susan.
She did it with this...

Brock Ramsey!

That can't be
proven, not in court.

Don't you see? He knew.

Borgus Weems! He knew.

He lived here in these rooms.

He knew and he used me
as his instrument of revenge.

My beautiful Susan, I
was to love her and kill her.

If it's true,

if they did murder
him and they got free,

then how is he ever to rest?

Mr. Lacland, you're
becoming agitated.

Much too agitated
for your recent trauma.

I'm going to prescribe for
you a slight tranquilizer which...

Good Lord.

What is it? What's the matter?

What's the matter, Doctor?
You almost sound as though...

That's Virgil.

"Arise, my avenger,
out of my bones."

That's what you're
prescribing for Mr. Lacland,

a dose of Virgil?

Good Lord.

Struggle all you
want, my pretty.

Scream your lovely lungs
out. It will avail you naught.

You think that I, who have
confounded the French Surete,

am to be thwarted by
a mere slip of a girl?

You are mine, do you hear? Mine.

Now and forever.

Who are you?

Who am I?

Can you not guess?

I am the scourge of Paris.

I am The Phantom of the Opera.

And you, my beauty,
are my helpless captive.

Do not torment
yourself needlessly

with fraudulent thoughts
of rescue and escape.

This is an
impenetrable fortress.

So, my sweet angel, relax.

Resign yourself
to the inevitable.

With time, you'll see

that frozen heart
of yours will thaw,

responsive to my devoted ardor.

I shall serenade you,

woo and win you,

kindling in your breast
with impassioned music

that love you now deny me.

For now,

I lay but one unyielding
injunction upon you.

Never, never,

upon pain of
punishment most awful,

ever seek to discover

the face that finds sanctuary
behind this mask of mine.

I can forgive all else.

Not that.

When you have restored
yourself, exquisite lady,

perhaps you will contribute

that enchanting soprano
voice of yours to the recital.

Together, we are a duet...

Foolish, impetuous girl.

Did I not warn you?

You have sealed your doom!