Impulse

And I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales. Hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows.

Yeah, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Oh, the Whistler's strange story. Crowd in the waiting room of the New York airport hardly noticed the small slender man on the trench coat, standing near the magazine counter.

The few who gave him a passing glance certainly had no way of guessing what was going through his mind at the moment. For his face betrayed no sign of the struggle it raged within. Christopher Daniel, professor of English, was striving to reach a decision, a very important decision.

At this moment he had reached the crossroad. He had a choice to make. He could go on living his own dull life or a new life. a life of another man. Mr. Neil Baldwin. A man whose name was now being called over the public address system.

Mr. Neil Baldwin, please report to the reservation desk immediately. Mr. Baldwin, please. Suddenly Christopher Daniel shivered. This unbelievable unexpected chance had come so suddenly, it almost seemed like a dream. Yes, a dream which had reached its climax that afternoon in his room at the hotel.

Perhaps it had really started this morning at his home in New Haven. That unpleasant scene with his white blanch. He'd forgotten what it brought it all on. Money, his job, didn't matter really. The scenes with Blanch always ended the same way.

Blanch, please. We've been over all this time and time again now. Yes, yes, we have, Chris. What good is it, Don? You never think of me, really. What I gave up to marry you. I know it.