[Eerie music]
(Narrator) You're tra vel/ng through another dimension.
A dimension not onl y of sightand sound, but of mind.
A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are tha t of ima Gina t/on.
Tha t's the signpost up ahead. Your next stop, the twilight zone.
[Clanking]
How are you today, Mr. Finchley?
I'll answer that burning question
after you tell me what's wrong with that miracle of modern science,
and also exactly how much this current larceny is going to cost me.
Well, there's two hours labor,
broken set of tubes, new oscillator and a new filter.
How very technical, and how very convincing.
I presume I'm to be dunned once again
for three times the worth of the blasted thing.
Last time I was over here,
you'd kicked your foot through the screen. Remember?
I have a vivid recollection, thank you. The set was not working properly.
I tried to get it to do so in a perfectly normal fashion.
By kicking your foot through the screen?
Why didn't you just horsewhip it, Mr. Finchley?
That'd show it who's boss.
Supposing we stop this moronic small talk, shall we?
And get down to some serious larceny.
You may read me off the damages.
Although I sometimes wonder
what exactly is the purpose of the better business bureau
when it allows itinerant extortionists like you to come back week after week,
move wires around, busily probe with ham-like hands,
and achieve nothing but the financial ruin of every customer.
We're not a gyp outfit, Mr. Finchley. We're legitimate repairmen.
But I'll tell you something about yourself.
That TV set doesn't work because, obviously, you got in the back of it
and yanked out a lot of wires, and I don't know what else.
Now, a month ago, you called me over here to fix your portable radio
because you threw it downstairs.
That did not work properly, either.
Well, that's the point, Mr. Finchley. Why don't they work properly?
Offhand, I'd say it's 'cause you don't treat them properly.
I assume there'll be an extra charge for that analysis?
What does go wrong with these things, Mr. Finchley? Have you got any idea?
Aside from being a rather incompetent clod,
you're a very unreceptive man.
I have already explained to you, the television set simply did not work properly.
And as for that marconi original operating under the guise of a modern radio,
that gave nothing but static.
Are you sure that's all that was wrong with them?
All right, Mr. Finchley, I'll send you a bill.
Of that I have no doubt.
Finchley, what is it with you and machines?
I shall file that idiotic question in my memorabilia
to be referred to at some future date when I write my memoirs.
You, my good friend, will fill one entire chapter
entitled the most forgettable person / ever met.
It just so happens that every machine in this house is...
[Clock chiming]
[Clock strikes hour]
All right.
That will be enough of that.
Do you hear me?
I said that will be enough of that!
Stop!
[Shouts] Stop!
[Chiming continues]
(Narrator) This is Mr. Bartlett finchley, age 48.
A pract/c/ng soph/st/ca te who writes very spec/al and very precious things
for gourmet magazines and the like.
He's a bachelor and a recl use with few friends,
onl y devo tees and adherents to the cause of tart soph/stry.
He has no interests save whatever current anno yances he can put h/s m/nd to.
He has no purpose to his life except the formulation of day-to-day opportunities
to vent his wrath on mechanical contrivances of an age he abhors.
In short, Mr. Bartlett finchley is a malcontent,
born either too late or too early in the century,
and who, in just a moment, will enter a realm
where muscles and the will to fight back are not limited to human beings.
Next stop for Mr. Bartlett finchley,
the twilight zone.
Miss Rogers.
Is this all you've done?
That's all I've done. That's 30 pages in three hours and a half.
That's the best I can do, Mr. Finchley.
It's that idiotic machine. That typewriter of yours.
Thomas Jefferson wrote the entire declaration of independence
with a feather quill, and it took him only half a day.
Why don't you hire Mr. Jefferson?
Miss Rogers, did I ever tell you
with what degree of distaste I view insubordination?
Often and endlessly.
I'll tell you what, Mr. Finchley.
You get yourself another girl. One with three arms,
and with roughly the same sensitivity as an alligator.
Then you can work together till death do you part.
As for me,
I've had it.
And you are going where?
Anyplace where I can be away from the highly articulate,
oh, so sophisticated, bon vivant of america's winers and diners.
A Mr. Bartlett finchley.
You even got me talking like you.
Miss Rogers, please.
Don't leave.
I beg your pardon?
I do wish you'd... I wish you'd stay for a bit.
Oh, I don't mean for work or anything. All that can wait.
I was just thinking that we could have dinner or something.
The thea ter perhaps?
How very sweet, Mr. Finchley. Thank you.
But no thank you. Good-bye, Mr. Finchley.
Before you go, miss Rogers, before you go.
Yes?
I'd like very much...
I'd like very much not to be alone for a while.
Are you ill? Bad news or something?
What's your trouble?
Does there have to be trouble just because I...
I'm desperately tired. I haven't slept for four nights.
Quite frankly, the thought of being alone just now is intolerable, miss Roger.
Things have been happening. Very odd things.
Go on.
That television machine in there,
it goes on la te atn/ghtand wakes me up.
Just goes on all by itself.
That radio I kept in the bedroom,
that went on and off, too, just when I was going to sleep.
There's a conspiracy in this house, miss Rogers.
Conspiracy?
That's exactly what it is. A conspiracy!
The television set, the radio, the clock.
Even that miserable car I drive.
Last night, I drove it into the driveway.
Just drove it into the driveway, mind you.
Very carefully, very slowly.
The steering wheel turned in my hand.
It twisted itself in my hand. The car deliberately hit the side of the garage.
It smashed a headlight.
It cost $140.
That clock over the mantelpiece.
Oh, uh, I threw it away.
What I'm getting at, miss Rogers, is that, for as long as I have lived,
I have never been able to operate machines.
Mr. Finchley, I think you ought to see a doctor.
A doctor?
The universal panacea of the dreamless 20th century idiot.
If you're depressed, see a doctor. If you're happy, see a doctor.
If the salary is too low and the mortgage is too high, see a doctor.
You, miss Rogers, you see a doctor.
I am a logical, rational, intelligent man.
I know what I see. I know what I hear.
[Ashtray smashes]
And for the past three months,
I've been seeing and hearing a collection of mechanical frankensteinian monsters
whose whole purpose is to destroy me.
Now, what do you think of that, miss Rogers?
I think you're terribly ill and you need medical attention.
I also think that you're suffering from a bad case of nerves due to lack of sleep,
and that way down deep you yourself realize
that these are nothing more than delusions.
I will not be int/m/da Ted b y ma chines.
So it follows that no empty-headed little female
with a mechanical face can do anything to me, either.
Mr. Finchley, in this conspiracy you speak of,
this mortal combat between you and the appliances,
I hope you lose.
[Shouting] Ge t out!
[Type writer clattering]
[Moans]
"Get out of here, finchley."
"Get outof here, finchley!"
Who are you to tell me to get out of here?
No, no, this is absurd.
It's a typewriter, a device.
An inanimate, senseless machine.
[Clattering]
(Woman) Get out of here, finchle y.
[Flamenco music playing]
Why don't you get out of here, finchley?
[Flamenco music resumes]
[Type writer clattering to tune of flamenco music]
All right. All right, you machines.
You're not going to intimidate me. Do you hear me?
You are not going to intimidate me.
You, you machines!
[Type writer clattering]
Miss Moore, please.
Oh, Agatha.
Bartlett finchley here. How are you, my dear?
Yes, it has been a long time. Too long.
Which, indeed, prompts this call. How about dinner tonight?
Oh. I see.
Yes, well, of course, it is short notice, but I...
Hm. Of course.
All right, I'll, uh, I'll call you again, my dear.
Mrs. Donnelly, please.
Oh, pauline, is this you?
And how is my favorite, attractive young widow?
Bartlett.
Bartlett finchley.
Yes, I was just wondering if...
Oh, I see.
Well, I'm delighted, I'm simply delighted.
I'll send you a wedding present.
Of course. Good night.
Telephones.
Just like the rest. Exactly like all the rest.
Their whole existence dedicated to embarrassing me
or irritating me or making my life miserable.
Well, who needs you?
Who needs any of you?
[Telephone bell jangles]
[Humming]
[Electric razor buzzing]
[Buzzing loud/ y]
(Woman) Why don't you get out of here, finchley?
Why don't you get out of here, finchley?
Get out of here, finchley!
[Siren wailing]
[Car approaches]
She rolled down the driveway. Almost hit a kid on a bike.
You ought to check that emergency brake, mister.
The emergency brake was on.
Oh, no, it wasn't. Or if it was, it isn't working properly.
She rolled down the driveway and right out into the street.
You're lucky it didn't hit anyone.
Monster.
You got the keys?
Yes. Oh, they're in the house.
Well, you better pull it back up into the garage.
You ought to check that emergency brake the first chance you get, understand?
All right, dear friends.
You may remain on my property goggling at this astonishing sight
for another three and a half minutes.
If, when I return with my car keys you are not off my property,
I shall enlist the aid of this, uh, underpaid gendarme
to forcibly eject you.
Idiots.
[Groans]
[Clock chiming]
[Striking the hour]
[Type writer clattering]
"Get out of here, finchley."
[Type writer resumes]
(Woman) Get out of here, finchle y.
Why don't you get out of here, finchley?
Get out of here, finchley!
(Man) Get out of here, finchle y!
[Jumbled voices shouting]
[Clock chiming, voices shouting]
No, I won't!
I won't!
[Growls]
[Razor buzzing]
[Buzzing loud/ y]
[Voices shouting] Get out of here!
[Clock chiming, razor buzzing]
[Type writer clattering]
[Car engine starts]
[Engine roaring]
[Tires squeal]
[Engine revving]
[Tires squealing]
[Tires squeal]
You pulled the body out?
Yeah. It's funny, they usually float.
What do you mean, usually?
He was on the bottom. He hadn't come up.
He wasn't weighted, either. There was nothing to hold him down.
His eyes were open. He looked scared, like something had been chasing him or something.
The neighbors said that he'd been shouting and running around last night.
I wonder what it was that could have scared him?
Whatever it was, it's a little item he took along with him.
Yeah. Maybe he was drunk. Imagining things?
Maybe.
Could be he had a heart attack or something.
Could be. It could just be.
(Narrator) Yes, it could just be.
It could just be that Mr. Bartlett finchley
succumbed from a heartattackand a set of delusions.
It could just be tha t he was tormented byan ima Gina t/on
as sharp as his wit and as pointed as his d/sl/kes.
But as perce/ved b y those a ttend/ng,
this is one explanation that has left the premises with the deceased.
Look for it filed under "m" for machines
in the twilight zone.
(Announcer) Rod serl/ng, the crea Tor oftwilight zone,
will tell you about next week's storyafter this word from our al terna te sponsor.
And now, Mr. Serl/ng.
Down this hall isa very strange individual locked in a room.
He's known by various names and by various forms,
next week on the twilight zone, you'll be close to the elbow of the people who let him out.
Our story is called the howling man, by Mr. Charles beaumont.
It's designed for the young in heart but the strong of nerve.
I hope we'll see you next week, along with the howling man. Thank you, and good night.
[Eerie music]
Come to the aid of your party.
Fl don't pass the buck but give your bucks to the party of your choice fl
The twilight zone brought to you tonight
- - here is the inside dope. It's loaded with soap.