Pattern for Terror

Signal gasoline. Let every traffic signal remind you. You do go farther with signal gasoline. Yes, you do go farther with signal. The Signal Oil Company and your neighborhood signal dealer bring you another curious story.

By the Whistler. Tonight, a pattern for terror. I am the Whistler. And I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales hidden in the heart of men and women who have stepped into the shadows.

Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. A kaleidoscope is a simple instrument, a toy made of a tube with a few mirrors and bits of colored glass, nothing more. Yet when you revolve, it's slowly an unending series of complicated patterns appear, always changing never the same.

On this midnight of December 10th, 1944, the mind of Ted Stratton as it struggles for consciousness is like a kaleidoscope. One of the patterns is this. Norma's party in her house. I on the hill in Marin County, looking down on San Rafael in San Francisco Bay.

And Larry Craig, handsome, talented Larry, playing Chopin Wulfs' on the piano. A pleasant pattern to have bright red and yellow sparkling cheerful, and with Norma at your side, complete. But the design is starting to change.

The reds and yellows are fading, and deep blues and purples are creeping in. Ted Stratton, you're being entirely ridiculous. Ridiculous, my foot. It is the first time, Norm. I'll get you a little tired of it.

What are you trying to say? Simply suggesting your relationship with your virtual also friend in there, slightly more intimate than pupil and teacher. And? We're going on for weeks, hasn't it? You know what you're saying?