All language subtitles for Night Gallery S02E05 The Phantom Farmhouse.DVDRip.NonHI.en.UNVSL

Starring tonight:
David McCallum,

David Carradine,

Linda Marsh,

and the voice of Orson Welles.

Good evening.

We offer you an evening sojourn

amongst the wild, the wooly,

the unbelievable,
sometimes made believable,

as our first painting suggests.

From this picture, one wouldn't
necessarily conjure up the story of love.

But that's precisely
what it tells about.

The emotion as old as man.

But the object of the emotion,
this is not quite as familiar.

It's title, Phantom Farmhouse.

Offering number one
in the Night Gallery.

Do we have to have that guitar?

Every session!

Every session, plunk,
plunk, plink, plink!

What's the hassle?
If it keeps him cool...

It may be soul music to you,

but it's Chinese
water torture to me.

But Gideon needs it.

That's his way of talking.

So let him shut up.

Dr.J., can't we
eliminate the guitar?

Gideon.

Can we eliminate the guitar?

Listen, you junkie,
the doctor asks kindly.

Can we eliminate the guitar?

Sure. Okay, no problem.

I'd like to ask
Gideon a question.

Gideon is taking the Fifth.

We were being silly
yesterday, and reverting.

And I said to Gideon, "Let's
play Bean Porridge Hot."

And he wouldn't
hold out his hands.

Now you know you're supposed to

hold out your hands, palms out.

He wouldn't. He got all uptight.

Why, Gideon?

Gideon is taking the Fifth.

Why are you taking the
Fifth on that, Gideon?

What are you hiding?

Why don't you know?

My parents are paying
you $39,000 a year

to keep me locked
up for my own good,

and you can't come
up with an answer?

Why don't you go
take care of the Sheriff.

He's here again.

Wants to know why you
murdered your own patient.

Found this note this morning.

Didn't find it before
because the ground was...

Well, it was all ferns. It
was so torn up, we missed it.

Any idea who
could've written it?

One of my patients.

Can I talk with him?

Well, you can try.

Did you write that?

Why?

Because Mr. May was getting out?

Because you wanted
him to meet Mildred?

So you wrote him a little
note of introduction, hmm?

Drew him a map how to get there.

He was in love with her. He
was a sick sap, sickly in love.

How could he be
in love with her?

He'd never seen her. He'd
never even been off the grounds.

I've never seen her.
I'm in love with her.

Betty's never seen her,
she's in love with her.

You've never seen her, and you're
in love with her, aren't you, Doc?

I don't hallucinate, if
that's what you mean.

Mildred is super-groove.

Her father and mother are heavy.

Big-hearted. Honest. Sturdy.

Good old American stock.

Not like people today,

all cringing and
cruel for money.

And where do they live?

Over there, in the forest.

From my window, I can just
see the top of the chimney.

It's a 200-year-old house
with a white picket fence,

and an old-fashioned well.

And the water in
the well, fantastic!

So cold, so clear.

Well, what's their name?

Squire.

Croquet, anyone?

This fellow you
wrote the note for,

was he a good friend of yours?

He was just a freak
like the rest of us.

I didn't like him.

He was a big-shot
in a think tank.

I hate think-tankers.

Think-tankers and psychiatrists
are killing this country.

Why did you want
him to meet Mildred?

She's shy and
deliriously beautiful.

She's got a face like a dream.

She wears a real funky
Gibson Girl frock, white one,

Alice blue trimming.

And a natural straw hat
with Alice blue ribbons.

Why shouldn't I
want him to meet her?

I want everybody
to meet Mildred.

Okay, Gideon. Thank you.

Croquet, anyone?

He hallucinates.

He's always talking about this
house and these people in the forest.

I let him go on

because it's the only subject that
seems to bring him out of himself.

There is a ruins there.

Just a chimney, all alone.

But there are no people?

No, no. Not a soul.

Here's a patient
you've dismissed.

First thing he does
when he's free,

he parks his car, walks
along this logging road

to see a girl
that doesn't exist.

Next thing, we find his body,

ripped and shredded,
drained of blood.

It's a wild coincidence.

Can Gideon get out at night?

No, no, no. He's
got a drug problem.

We don't let him
alone for a second.

He arrived in manacles. He's
never been off the grounds.

Some patients you
let off the grounds?

Oh, yes.

Don't stop now, Doc.
You're almost there.

I must be dreaming.

Is anyone home?

Hello? Is anybody there?

Pierre, who lives in
the house in the forest?

What house?

You go in on the
old logging road,

there's a house with
a white picket fence.

No house. No one live there.

There's no house there? No.

Oh, come on, Pierre,
what is this, a gag?

Years ago was burned down.

Stands now only a
chimney and three graves.

Are you sure we're talking
about the same place?

You go in at the crossroads.

The house is right
there in the forest.

In the forest, yes.
But no house. Ruins!

I see.

Okay, thanks.

Did you meet Mildred?

What?

You saw the house.
Did you meet Mildred?

I don't know what
you're talking about.

I just went for a walk.

Oh, come on,
Doc. Don't fight it.

You'll just lose in the end.
Give in to it. Get with it.

Shakespeare asked
me to give this to you.

Okay, Gideon. Play
your little games.

"Men of science
say miracles are past,

"and give reasons
for things supernatural.

"Therefore, we
dismiss our terror

"by finding safety
in false knowledge,

"when, instead, we should submit
ourselves to an unknown fear."

May I...

May I trouble you for a
drink of water from your well?

I'm a doctor at the sanitarium.

I've been out walking.

Surely you may
drink from our well.

And you may rest
yourself, if you like.

This one is mine, I tell you!
You go do your own hunting!

We're great hunters
here, you know.

The season is just in,

and my father and I have the worst
quarrels as to whose game is whose.

It's incredible. It really
is as cold as a glacier.

And so light, I hardly
feel I'm drinking!

Now, will you rest?

There's an extra chair
for you on the porch.

No, it's getting late. I
must be getting back.

Young man, would you like to
come up and rest on the porch?

This is my father, Mr. Squire.

And my mother.

I'm Joel Winter.

Oh, I shouldn't have shaken
hands. They're so stained.

We're putting up fox grapes.

The stain just won't wash off.
It has to wear off, you know.

Yes. Well, thank you
very much for the drink.

Maybe I could call
in some other time?

Please do.

Better wait until after dark.

Of course, we'd be
glad to see you anytime.

But we're so busy
these fall days,

we haven't got much
time for company.

You never told me your name.

You seem worried
about something.

Do I make you nervous?

No, no. No, it's just...

Ever since I've been a child,

I always get a sort
of shivery feeling.

I mean, at dusk, and
so deep in the forest.

And yet, I like the feeling.

The shivery feeling.

And you. I like
everything about you.

These days, with girls
so outspoken and rugged,

it's so wonderful
to find someone

so gentle

and shy.

My name is Mildred.

Goodbye, Mildred.

Hi, Tom. Joel.

Betty.

Gideon left these books for you.

Books about what?

Books about lycanthropy.

The study of werewolves.

I've marked several
places for you.

Here.

The index finger is longer
than the middle finger,

and bright red nails.

Joel, are you interested
in lycanthropy?

Hmm?

Oh, no. No, no,
no, of course not.

I'm just humoring Gideon.

It's an endocrine imbalance
case, hyper-pineal type.

Normally an autumn affliction.

What?

Don't tell me you
believe this stuff.

No, not really.

Look!

Pointed ears,
elongated upper cuspids,

eyes turn red at moonrise.

Come on, Gideon.
It's all a put-on.

Put-on!

What do you think May saw
before he was torn to pieces?

Gideon.

Do you have Sieber's book there?

He's the world's foremost authority
on hormone-created insanity.

It's a little-known aberration

of a little-known
ductless gland.

It appears to enable the
victim to control his shape.

Oh, here we are.

"Hyper-pineals
are allergic to silver.

"Also to monkshood or wolfsbane.

"Any aconite, anti-spasmodic,

"reduces the violence
of the seizure."

Dr.J., I found out why Gideon
keeps his palms closed.

He was asleep on the croquet
court and I looked at his palms.

And in each palm
was a pentagram.

You mean you thought
there was a pentagram?

No, it was clear.

There was clearly a circle,

and clearly a five-pointed
star in the circle.

Oh, Betty, you have
to be hallucinating.

No. No, I'm not.

But supposing she
did see a pentagram.

What could that mean?

Historically, it would mean
that Gideon is a warlock,

and is in league
with the werewolf.

In league?

He provides the victims.

And that's why he gave
May a note to Mildred, right?

Of course.

You believe now,
Doctor? Is loup-garou.

You know what is loup-garou?

Sure.

Werewolves.

Exact. Years ago in that
house lived terrible people.

The travelers, they
stop there for the night.

But no one leave the
place once he go in.

So, all the farmers,
and Adrien and me,

we set the place on fire.

What happen? The
loups-garous come running out.

And what happen?

We shoot them
with silver bullets!

I'm sorry, Pierre, I
just don't believe you.

He says last
night he set a trap.

This morning is sprung.

But strange is
the fur in the trap.

And strange, the footprints.

All around are
footprints like little hands.

A little hand with the
first finger so long.

Pierre, I'll... Pierre,
I'll be seeing you.

No, no, Doctor, no. Not to
the forest. I'm worry for you.

If you have to go, please
take with you the crucifix.

It's silver. It's protection.

No, I'm... I'm sorry. I'm
just not superstitious.

Those sheep were killed by dogs.

Or wolves. Real wolves.

Hello?

Mildred?

I've been thinking about you.

I haven't stopped
thinking about you.

I've been thinking
about you, too.

Oh, you feel so nice and warm.

Hello, brown-eyes.

Oh, don't do that!

You've got to go now.

Your father and
mother aren't here.

Why don't we sit on the porch?

I shouldn't.

I shouldn't,

but I want to be with you so.

Why did he have to send you?

What?

You were beautiful
in that white dress.

But you're beautiful
in blue jeans, too.

And I love the way you
wear your hat with blue jeans.

You can't see me again.

Please, Joel.

For my sake.

But why?

Tell me why!

Because I love you.

Dr. J.!

I'm worried for
you in the forest.

No, I wasn't in the forest.

I went into town,
had a few drinks.

Have to get out of this
place once in a while,

you know, or I'll be proposing
myself for membership.

And Miss Betty?

What about her?

You have not seen her?

But she was with
me in the meadow.

Adrien was worried for
his sheep, so we leave her.

She say she wait for you.

You left her in the meadow?

How long have you had the
pentagrams on your hands, Gideon?

Who says I got pentagrams?

Just tell me how
long you've had them.

Three months after I came.

I used to watch the top of
the chimney from my window.

Then I started
to see the people,

and the farmhouse.

I got to love the parents,

and crave the girl.
And... I don't know.

One morning, I had the marks.
It scared the wits out of me.

I mean, man, I lost
my cool for keeps.

Why did you send May to Mildred?

I told you, I hated him.

I hate brains for hire.

Did you hate Betty?

She was a snoop.
She was too good.

I hate people that are too good.

They make the
rest of us sinners.

Do you hate me?

No, I don't, Doc.

But you were... You were
so sure I was hallucinating.

I thought if I could get
you to see the people

and the farmhouse.

But I was wrong.

Now...

Now, I got you into it, I
don't know how to get you out.

Run, Doc.

Go away. As far and
as fast as you can.

Because anybody that's seen the
farmhouse is marked as a victim.

Betty didn't see it.

Yes, she did.

She saw it from my window.

Mildred?

I've begged you not to come.

Something... Something
terrible has happened.

I have to ask you.

No!

Mildred, I love you.

Why can't we talk?

No! Never!

Your hands are like ice!

Let go of my hand.

And run. For pity's sake, run.

Don't you feel anything for me?

Of course, I feel for you.

You're tearing me apart!

You're tearing me apart.

I don't know what
to believe anymore.

I don't know what's true.

I don't even know who I
am, I love you so much.

Look at me.

Why can't you look at me?

Could you love me?

I do love you.

More than my life.

Then let me hold you.

Let me ask you about
something that has happened.

Tomorrow morning,
just before sunrise,

come back here.

And bring a prayer book.

What do you mean? I
don't have a prayer book.

Find one. Stand
right over there,

where those three
graves are in the ferns,

and read the services
for the burial of the dead.

But why?

Oh, God, have pity.

My love, do it.

Please, I'll have peace.

All right, I'll do it.

And all the time you're reading,

no matter what you
hear, don't look around.

Keep reading quickly.

All right.

"Lord, thou hast been our refuge

"from one generation to another.

"Before the mountains
were brought forth,

"or ever the earth...

"Thou turnest
man to destruction.

"Again thou sayest, come
again ye children of men.

"Thou hast set our
misdeeds before thee

"and our secret sins in
the light of thy countenance.

"For when thou art angry
all our days are gone.

"We bring our years to an
end, as it were a tale that is...

"Is...

"Glory be to the Father,
and to the Son, and..."

But where is the house?

What house? Is no house.

Mildred!

Mildred!

Mildred!

Mildred.

Mildred!

For our last offering
in the Night Gallery,

a painting that brings
to life a literary classic

from the pen of Conrad Aiken,

fragile, lovely, haunting.

It's title Silent
Snow, Secret Snow.

Just why this thing should
have happened at all,

or why it should
have happened to him,

Paul Hasleman could not,
of course, possibly have said.

Nor, perhaps, could it ever
have occurred to him to ask.

We gradually move
northward into...

It was really
nothing, just an idea.

But why should it become so
wonderful, so permanent to him.

That was the mystery.

It was pleasant,
possibly foolish,

but above all, this
thing was a secret

and something to be
preciously concealed.

Who wants to tell us
exactly what the equator is?

Dierdre?

The equator is a line that runs
around the middle of the globe.

Oh, I see. The Earth
is wearing a belt?

Or a sash? Or somebody
drew a line around it?

No, not that.

Don't you mean that the
equator is an imaginary line?

Yes.

It was as if, in
some delightful way,

his secret gave him a fortress,

a wall behind which he could
retreat in heavenly seclusion.

All he needed to do was
to think of that morning.

The first morning, and
then, of all the others.

It was only a moment or
two after he had waked up,

or perhaps at the moment itself,

that the thing had happened.

For no good reason, suddenly
he had thought of the postman.

Perhaps there was
nothing so odd in that.

After all, he heard the
steps of the postman

almost every
morning of his life.

His heavy boots could be heard

clumping round the
corner of the little street,

drawing progressively
nearer, progressively louder.

There was the double
knock on each door.

The crossings and
re-crossings of the street,

until finally, the clumsy steps
came stumbling to his door.

And the tremendous knock came,
which shook the very house itself.

But on that particular morning,

the first morning this
mystery had begun.

He had, for some reason,
waited for the postman.

But when, at last,
the steps were heard,

they were curiously different.

They were softer, had some
new secrecy about them.

Besides, they had not
come round the corner at all.

They were already at the first
house when he heard them.

And he had understood
the situation at once.

Of course, that was why the
postman's first footsteps were inaudible

and the later ones faint.

Nothing could have been simpler.

There had been
snow in the night.

Such as all season
he had been hoping for.

How beautiful.

How lovely!

Even now, it must be snowing.

The white ragged
lines, drifting and sifting,

whispering and hushing,

seething and getting
deeper and deeper,

silenter and silenter.

Queer, the effect this
extraordinary surprise had upon him.

All the following morning,
he had kept with him a sense

as of snow falling about him.

A secret screen of new snow

between himself and the world.

If he had not
dreamed such a thing,

and how could he have
dreamed it while awake?

How else was one to explain it?

He could not now remember whether
it was on the first or second morning,

or was it even the third?

That his mother
had drawn attention

to some oddness in his manner.

Paul?

You don't seem to be listening.

What's come over you?

Now, does anybody
know the difference

between the North Pole
and the magnetic pole?

Was it on the second
or third morning?

Or even the fourth or fifth?

He could not now remember

just when the delicious
progress had become clear.

All he knew was that
at some point or another

the presence of the snow
was a little more insistent.

The sound of the postman's
footsteps more indistinct.

Gradually, the snow
was becoming heavier,

the footsteps more
and more muffled.

When he found each morning,
on going to the window,

that the roofs and street were as
bare as ever, it made no difference.

This was, after all,
only what he expected.

It was even what pleased
him, what rewarded him.

There, outside,
were the bare streets.

And here, inside, was the snow.

Snow growing heavier each day,

muffling the world.

Hiding the ugly and deadening
increasingly the steps of the postman.

Geography? That's
a favorite of mine.

Hey, you know what we
ought to do some weekend?

Have a field trip.

Look for fossils,
what do you think?

I'd like to go to
the North Pole.

The North Pole?
Why the North Pole?

How was one to explain?

Would it be safe to explain?

Would it merely mean that he would
get in some obscure kind of trouble,

and how could he
explain his new world?

Its beauty was beyond anything.

Beyond speech, beyond
thought. Utterly incommunicable.

It was irresistible,
it was miraculous.

Paul.

Paul.

If this goes on, we
have to see the doctor.

At times, he positively
ached to tell everyone about it.

Only to be checked by the
mysterious power of his secrecy.

We can't have our boy living
in another world, so far away.

No, it must be kept secret.

That more and more became clear,

at whatever cost to himself.

Whatever pain to others.

Perhaps you can come out
of your daydream long enough

to answer the question, Paul.

Paul?

It was now what we
call the Hudson River.

He thought it was the
Northwest Passage.

He was disappointed.

Thank you.

On the walk homeward,
which was timeless,

it pleased him to see
through the accompaniment,

or counterpoint of snow,

the items of mere
externality on his way.

Further on, there was something
further on that was calling him now.

Something that was
assuming a sharper importance.

Something which teased
at the corners of his eyes,

teasing also at the
corners of his mind.

Something un-nameable,
something deliciously terrifying.

He knew what he was
going to look at next,

it was his own house,
his own little street.

His silent, his secret snow.

This morning. Could
he be mistaken?

It was just about
the seventh house

that he had first heard
the postman's footsteps.

The seventh house. His house.

The only knock he
had heard that morning

had been the knock on his door.

Did that mean he might
never hear the postman again?

The realization
gave him abruptly,

and a little frighteningly,
a sense of hurry.

He was being hurried,
he was being rushed.

Was it all going to happen
at the end, so suddenly?

Or indeed, had it already ended?

Ah.

Good.

Now you just pop
this under your tongue.

After supper the
inquisition began.

Could you get me a
book? Any book'll do.

How silly this all was.

As though it had anything to do
with his throat or his heart or eyes.

Here, Paul, just read.

"I was a king and
the son of a king.

"And when my father died,
I succeeded to his throne,

"and governed my subjects
with justice and beneficence."

Good.

We could have his
eyes looked into.

This was all such a nuisance.

It would serve them right if he
were merely to bark or growl.

I can't think of anything
we've done, or forgotten to do.

No more than anybody else.

I'm not a shrink, Frank.
I really don't know.

Some things just happen.

Even here, even among
these hostile presences,

the snow was
waiting, out of sight.

With a voice that said,

"Wait, Paul. Just wait
till we are alone together.

"I will tell you something new.

"Something cold,
something sleepy,

"something of cease and peace

"and the long bright
curve of space.

"Banish them. Refuse to speak.

"Go upstairs to your room.
I will be waiting for you.

"I will tell you a story
better than the Snow Ghost.

"I will surround your bed, pile
a deep drift against the door,

"so that none will ever
again be able to enter."

I say, Paul,

is there any particular thing that
might be worrying you, my boy?

Speak to them.

No.

I don't think so.

Give yourself a minute.
Don't answer so fast.

Paul, you are making this
very difficult for your mother!

Now, what is this all about?

I'm... I'm just thinking.

About what, my boy?

About what? Yes,
Paul. About what?

About...

About the snow.

What snow?

Just snow! I like to think
about it! You know what snow is.

Can I please go to bed?

No! We are going into this now.

Hurry, Paul! Hurry!

These last few precious hours.

No!

Look, I've had enough of this.

Listen to us, Paul. Listen.

We have come to tell you the
story we told you about. Remember?

In this white darkness, we
will take the place of everything.

Paul? Paul, dear.

Paul!

Mother, go away!

Paul, please.

I hate you!

And with that final effort,
everything was solved.

The seamless hiss
advanced once more.

"Listen," it said.

"We'll tell you the last, most
beautiful and secret story.

"A story that gets
smaller and smaller.

"That comes inward instead
of opening like a flower.

"It is a flower that
becomes a seed.

"A little cold
seed, do you hear?

"We are leaning closer to you."