And now, a tale well calculated to keep you in... ...suspense. In a moment, act one of Pages from a Diary, starring Jim and Henny Backus, and written especially for suspense, by Virginia Volant. This first portion of suspense is brought to you by the makers of Marlboro cigarettes. Ready? Take a nice easy beat. Mix in the bass. Now add the vibes. There you go. Each one's good, but together, they're great. Marlboro cigarettes are a lot like that. They've got a special combination that gives you full flavor in a filter cigarette. Marlboro's got the combination, the famous Richmond recipe of ripe golden tobaccos, combined with the exclusive Select Trade filter. Marlboro, plenty rich, yet plenty mild. You get a lot alike with a Marlboro, the filter cigarette with the un-filtered taste. Try them. I shudder when I think of what my parents would say. They could see their daughter at this moment, alone in John's bedroom. I have the right. I must learn what I can about what happened. What threw him away from me? I think he loved me, but there were times when he hated me. So I've cast my inhibitions to the winds. I waited as long as I could for an answer to whatever happened. I'd let myself in and found what I was looking for, John's diary. I've always known he kept one. Maybe, maybe he told it, but he never would have told me. He used to tell me everything. Did I find proof another woman meant more to him than I? When did he start acting so strangely? April. Yes, April, I think. Here is the first entry for that month. Something is wrong with me lately. I am not feeling very well. Actually, that is a ridiculous statement. For physically, I am as fit as can be. Living as I do here on the farm, half out of door, sleeping like a log. Eating the good country food my housekeeper prepares so carefully for me. How could anything go wrong with the solid and well-constructed machine that is my body? No, it is something deeper and less tangible than that. It is very hard to put into words. What I am most conscious of is a division within myself, a conflict of desires and emotions. I find myself wanting to do something and yet not wanting to do it at the same time. Last night, that business of Janet, I was freshening up with the usual anticipation that I always feel when I am going to see her when suddenly I experience the most positive reaction against going to her house. My whole system stiffened with revolt against the idea. And for a moment, I found myself actually disliking her, no? Let me be completely honest, I am actually hating her. This doesn't make sense. She is my darling and without her, my life would be empty and worthless to me. Of course, I overrode that ridiculous feeling and walked across the Null to her place anyway. But somehow the evening was spoiled. I didn't feel the same unalloyed pleasure in the company that I always do. Part of me was at peace and at home as I always am, and the other part wanted to rush away, to be free of her. Since I did not indulge that strange whim, just sat there being hateful and critical of her. It makes no sense. There are other times too when I feel this inner conflict. I am torn two ways about so many things lately. I must get a grip on myself, pull myself together. May 3rd. How can I feel sorry for people who feel a hammer beating in their brains? In my brain there are two hammers beating constantly. When they beat together in rhythm, I find I can endure it. But when they start their counterpoint, hitting out in opposition to each other, sometimes I feel as if I am two different people constantly warring with each other. My body is a battleground and two personalities inside me are contending for supremacy. May 5th. This horrible war in me is still raging. Neither character will reconcile with the other. For every impulse I feel to do something or say something, there is a counter impulse against it. Nothing is clear, simple, and uncomplicated anymore. Torn in two directions, any action becomes difficult, a struggle to complete. I just cannot decide things. May 21st. I am two people. I can feel it so plainly now. Why did I never recognize that fact before? I suppose that in some measure it is true of all of us that we are divided personalities, but I never thought it could be this strong. The two inhabitants of my physical shell refuse to be still. They are constantly fighting. In my brain the two hammers are always at it. They beat out the minutes of my life in fearful opposition as if each one were struggling to force its rhythm upon my pulse and heartbeat. I suppose one is probably good and one bad. That is usually so. With me, which is which? I am so confused I can't tell the difference. Whichever one is in the ascendancy seems to me the most desirable self, the leader my body must follow. June 4th. Oh, I am exhausted by the struggle of trying to unite the two oppositions within me. Why do I bother to struggle this way? What difference does it make? There must be some instinctive idea of morality that cautions me that this double feeling is wrong, a primitive conception that only in singleness of purpose unity of idea and desire is so strong. Do I harm anyone besides myself? Is there any possible menace to Janet in this situation within me? I am afraid and ashamed sometimes of the violent reactions that I have against her. July 9th. Today I just drifted, too weary to hold myself in check. That gave them a good chance to fight over me. Fatigue gives them the opportunity they are looking for, I think. And lately I have been unable to sleep. We had another division of interest. I had been doing the pharma counts all day and my eyes were very tired. Yet one of me stubbornly insisted upon poring over some old manuscripts my dealer had sent from out of town. I had the eerie feeling that part of me sat at a desk reading while the other one lay back on the couch with his eyes closed, politely playing with a dog. July 25th. What would Janet say if she knew how we felt about her? I know that my erratic behavior is causing her unhappiness, but how can I explain this thing? One of us loves her so deeply, so surely. I have a joy in life for me without her, and sometimes I hate her so viciously, so fiercely that I would like to kill her. August 7th. We did it again today. I have decided that I am definitely two people. My body was tired from the outdoor work, but my eyes went into town to see a movie. It was very strange since I had not thought to send my ears along. I watched the actors mouthing on the screen, no sound emerging from their lips, like an old silent picture but without the title. Next time I must remember to send my ears. Though I tried hard at the time, I find I cannot just wish them there and have it happen. If two parts of me are to go away, they must travel together at the same time. Do you realize what I have just written? I am accepting this phenomenon as if it were natural and going to continue. I just thought I had got to spend the rest of my life with a part of me in one place and parts in another, devising ways to make it more practical and convenient. What strange and hard kind of madness is possessing me? August 21st, if I am to be capable of this trick, that of sending parts of me off on some errand or another while other parts sit quietly at home, I am resolved it shall be profitable. Now last evening there was a symphony in New York, and instead of subjecting myself to the fatiguing journey into town, I sent my ears off by themselves to enjoy it. The music never seemed better to me. Apparently there can be such concentration of that one sense or organ that is by itself is to produce the maximum sensitivity and awareness. The little experiment almost had an embarrassing repercussion, however. Mrs. Wilkes, my housekeeper, came in to tell me something. And it suddenly occurred to me that I would not be able to hear what she was saying, so I quickly pretended that I was asleep. Perhaps not quickly enough, though, because the look she gave me that I saw through my partly closed eyes was peculiar. September 1st, I had been continuing my experiments. Really this has its elements of advantageousness. Last night was rather fun. While the rest of me stayed at home to watch, my hands and arms went out and rang doorbells. It worked wonderfully. Unlike small boys at Halloween, I didn't have to run away for fear of detection. My arms simply concealed themselves in the bushes. And then when the house occupants came to the door, there was no one in sight, of course. And just before I went home, my hands and arms went home. I mean, they rang her bell. Confused, look at her face when she realized that there was no one there. It was very funny. And I shook with this inward, inward laughter. September 11th. I haven't seen her recently. I've been too busy making my investigations of myself, of my two selves. Besides, one of us gets violent every time we are around her. She does something internally shattering to me, to part of me, just to be in the same room with her. It is as if she were unconsciously trying to exercise something inside of me. Damn well, what right has she to interfere? I intend to live as I please, and I will not be criticized. If she persists, I shall have to find some means of separating her life from mine. September 13th. My housekeeper has left. Does she find me strange? Is it beginning to show? Well, it doesn't matter. I can cook well enough for myself. I'm not very hungry either. I am certainly not eating for two. September 21st. I feel better this week. I have been continuing with my experiments. It is a strange but positive kind of pleasure. I have a feeling of such incredible power, a strength double that of others. I am two people. I can feel it so plainly now. But why did I never recognize that fact before? I suppose that in some measure it is true of all of us that we are divided personalities, but I never thought it could be this strong. The two inhabitants of my physical shell refuse to be still. They are constantly fighting. In my brain the two hammers are always at it. They beat out the minutes of my life in fearful opposition as if each one were struggling to force its rhythm upon my pulse and heartbeat. I suppose one is probably good and one bad. That is usually so. With me, which is which? I am so confused. I can't tell the difference. Whichever one is in the ascendancy seems to me the most desirable self, the leader my body must follow. September 29th. I must keep away from Janet. I am likely to do her harm. Last night we both went out to see her. Part of me was lonely, wanted to be warmed by her personality. I have seen very little of her these past three months. And the other part just sat there hating her. I finally had to leave abruptly when I found my hands wanting to fasten themselves on her long, wide throat. And no matter how I tried, I could not fight down the desire to strangle her. October 11th. Most of my trouble is at night. I find that my thoughts become so absorbed with her cheaply after dark. So that is the time when I must be most careful to find myself these dual occupations. All the work gets done around here at night. The animals are baffled, poor Pete. I exercised the mare in the moonlight last night, but left my head at home. October 17th. I am worried and very frightened. The night Janet nearly came to great harm. I was tired and a bit careless. I wanted to sleep for a change. So while I lay in bed, still half awake, my hands and arms went away over to her house. I was almost asleep before I realized what was happening. I sprang up shaking with apprehension. All I could do to cover my body sufficiently to make the trip without my hands. And I got to her house just in time, I imagine. My hands and arms were already in her room. And what they were going to do, I don't know. But I know they were going to do her some damage. And I had a deep feeling that it was very fortunate that I had been no later than I was. She woke up then and almost screamed. What was I doing in her house, in her room, at such an hour? October 23rd. Today I find I am filled with hate for Janet. How I hate her. She is destroying me this way. It is no longer possible for me to even pretend to enjoy myself. She is limiting my action, my freedom. All I do is work, work, work, so as to be too busy to go near her. But I want to go near her, to see her, to be with her. Why does she have to hold me back this way? November 22nd. Tonight I am desperate. I have left my hands and arms at home. They are the most dangerous to her, I found that out. The instructions are to go on writing in this diary. The rest of me is out walking at this moment down the old road over toward Patressel. As I walk, my hands are to continue to report what the rest of me is doing. It seems to be working. I have the knowledge that these lines are appearing in the book. How black the night is and how cold. The road is full of ruts and these are covered with ice. Every now and then I slip a little as I walk. I must be more careful. Ahead of me I can see the faint outline of the railroad bridges that crosses the gap between the two hills. For tall the supports for the tracks are. The drop must be a couple of hundred feet at least. I think I will climb out on it just to see how it feels. It will give me something to do with myself. Something is happening to me. My hands at home are refusing to write. They fumble there putting down the pen making a spot on the paper. What are they doing? They are no longer following my instructions. Here I am idiot like out in the exact middle of a railroad, while my hands are seeking to destroy her. That girl whom I so love and that they hate. That part of me hates. Quickly turn around. Go back, go back. One foot in front of another. No looking down. Do you remember that from when you were a kid too? Now wait a minute. Easy, easy. You almost slipped then. There is ice on the rails. You can only hurry so much if you were to arrive at all. If only I could get there in time. Now if I try very hard, concentrate beyond all the powers of my brain, perhaps I can project myself into the place where my hands are. Oh, it's no use. I cannot do it. All I can accomplish is this. This icy fear. This foreknowledge of disasters. Something about my hands and her throat. Oh Janet darling darling. I'm coming. I'm making haste. I'm making haste. November 23rd. I won't pretend that I understand completely, but I know a little more after reading John's diary. There's no use talking about it now. It's all over. Finished. Life is finished and away from me too. John is dead and without him... They found his body this morning in the study. And here in his bedroom, these words that raise more questions than they answer. I had a nightmare last night. I thought I was being strangled. Choked to death by two powerful hands that hated me with alive and vengeful hate. I tried to cry out, but those two hands cut off all sound that I could make. I felt myself slipping away, dying. And then suddenly I felt it crash somewhere far off. And just as suddenly the hands withdrew from my throat. My breath came back slowly. I remember hearing the clock downstairs strike. It must have awakened me because I heard its four notes, one after the other. They say that John must have died about four o'clock, maybe a little before. I must remember to keep this scarf around my neck at the funeral. Keep it high and well tucked in. Otherwise the purplish bruises on my throat will show. Suspense. You've been listening to Pages from a Diary, starring Jim and Henny Backus, and written especially for suspense by Virginia Voland. Suspense is produced and directed by Fred Hendrickson. Music supervision by Anthel Huber. This is Stuart Metz speaking. Listen again next week when we return with another tale well calculated to keep you in. Suspense.
