The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories

For my brother Bob,

the first writer of the Serling clan

Contents

Introduction by T.E.D. Klein
.
6

The Mighty Casey
.
10

Escape Clause
.
27

Walking Distance
.
42

The Fever
.
55

Where Is Everybody?
.
68

The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street
.
83

The Lonely
.
95

Mr. Dingle, The Strong
.
113

A Thing About Machines
.
126

The Big, Tall Wish
.
139

A Stop At Willoughby
.
152

The Odyssey of Flight 33
.
164

Dust
.
177

The Whole Truth
.
188

The Shelter
.
204

Showdown With Rance McGrew
..
220

The Night of the Meek
.
233

The Midnight Sun
.
246

The Rip Van Winkle Caper
.
256

About the Author
.
268

Introduction
by T.E.D. Klein

If you were born in the twentieth century and, some time during the past thirty years, happened to pass within viewing distance of a television set, you’re probably acquainted with the man who wrote this book. Rod Serling—who died, age fifty, in 1975—is surely one of the most familiar figures in the annals of broadcasting, and was the possessor of one of the screen’s most distinctive voices: a sometimes wry, sometimes somber voice that, even today, is instantly recognizable. You can hear it in every line he wrote.

In fact, if you’ve seen a single episode of TV’s original
Twilight Zone
, chances are you’ll never get that voice out of your head, with its echoes of daddy, wise uncle, camp counselor, professor, and network anchorman all rolled into one. Thanks to that voice, and to the series’ continued popularity in syndicated form, the tales in this book are coming to you with certain uncommon advantages—ready-made faces to go with the characters’ names, the presence of an expert storyteller speaking into memory’s ear—and a certain disadvantage: you may be less likely to approach them as stories that can stand on their own.

And that would be a shame. Because even if the series had never graced the airwaves and Rod Serling had never stepped onto America’s television screens, hands folded gravely before him, the phrase “The Twilight Zone,” as this book demonstrates, would still signify something special: a world of “what if?” where wishes come true (sometimes horribly), where illusion reigns and magic really works (but only so long as you believe), where little guys are blessed with the strength of titans, where miraculous machines spell our salvation—or our doom—and where the most frightening monsters of all turn out to be ourselves.

It’s also a world whose coordinates are ever-so-slightly askew: where, on the railroad line between Stamford and Westport, you’ll find a town called Willoughby that isn’t on the map; where a transatlantic jumbo jet is liable to arrive at the right destination but in the wrong year; and where, according to “The Mighty Casey,” the Brooklyn Dodgers played not at Ebbets Field but at Tebbet’s. Baseball aficionados may quibble; but then, the Twilight Zone has always enjoyed its own unique geography. TV aficionados may do likewise, noting that, in the televised version of “Casey,” the team was not the Dodgers but a ragtag bunch known as the Hoboken Zephyrs. There are many such changes in each of the stories that follow, from initial script to TV show to printed page, right down to the way you distinctly remember seeing the show when you were twelve. But these and a thousand other tiny alterations and elaborations are merely the stuff of late-night arguments among trivia buffs. While you’re sure to discover lines of familiar dialogue in the pages ahead, and even patches of the original narration, they are simply the skeletons on which Serling hung the tales.

What matters is that, lovingly expanded and embellished, the stories have been given a new life here. For every character who wears a perfunctory description pulled straight from the teleplay, like the “attractive widow in her thirties” in “The Big, Tall Wish,” we have others who reveal a recognizable humanity, such as the construction foreman in “Escape Clause,” warily approaching the scene of a gruesome accident: “He covered his eyes because of a normal reluctance to view mangled bodies. He also peeked between two fingers, because of the equally normal trait of being fascinated by the horrible.”

The short-story format has also allowed Serling the room to indulge a gift for language and imagery:

It was night when Martin Sloan returned to Oak Street and stood in front of his house looking at the incredibly warm lights that shone from within. The crickets were a million tambourines that came out of the darkness. There was a scent of hyacinth in the air. There was a quiet rustle of leaf-laden trees that screened out the moon and made odd shadows on cooling sidewalks. There was a feeling of summer, so well remembered.

That’s from my favorite story of the lot, “Walking Distance.” I get a lump in my throat each time I read it, even when proofreading the script version for the first issue of
Twilight Zone
magazine. (Maybe that was why I missed so many typos.) It also held a special meaning for Serling himself, who was careful to set the short story in upstate New York near Binghamton, his boyhood home—just the sort of personal note that TV leaves out.

And television can’t convey the scent of those hyacinths or the cool of those sidewalks.

Or the fact that the doctor’s feet hurt in “Escape Clause.”

Or, in another tale, the hint of John Dillinger in a small boy’s freckled face. (That Serling identifies the outlaw, whose middle name was Herbert, as “John J. Dillinger” may simply be further proof that things are awry in the Twilight Zone.)

Or another tale’s conclusion, as dry as if penned by John Collier, in which a minor character, having had his fill of mystery, enjoys “a Brown Betty for dessert” and goes happily to bed.

We’d miss that Brown Betty on TV.

We’d also miss the occasional aside—“His volume of business was roughly that of a valet at a hobos’ convention”—and the rhythm of this simile: “Beasley was a little man whose face looked like an X-ray of an ulcer.”

And we’d miss the description of the bloated, sadistic Oliver Misrell in “A Stop at Willoughby,” sitting at the conference table and “blinking like a shaven owl.”

Misrell, whose name suggests a wedding of “dismal” and “miserable,” exemplifies Serling’s relish for colorful Dickensian names—Luther Dingle, Mouth McGarry, the snobbish Bartlett Finchley, the gunslinger Rance McGrew—and, indeed, this book features a gallery of memorably grotesque characters that might almost have stepped from the pages of Dickens: the complete hypochondriac, Walter Bedeker; the thin-lipped, narrow-shouldered, prune-faced Franklin Gibbs, “a sour-faced little man in a 1937 suit”; Harvey Hennicutt, the silver-tongued con man who can even sell a Sherman tank, and Henry Corwin, the drunken department-store Santa. One larger-than-life character, the swinishly avaricious Peter Sykes, even sports a Dickens villain’s name.

It’s clear, in fact, that Serling was a Dickens fan. His TV play
Carol for Another Christmas
updates Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol
, and he consciously echoes the latter’s opening lines in his story “The Night of the Meek” There’s also a reference to Scrooge in “Where Is Everybody?” and, though not by name, in “The Odyssey of Flight 33,” when a distraught airline pilot, face-to-face with the impossible, decides, “It was a bad dream that followed a late lobster snack and an extra quart of beer.”