there is a fifth dimension

beyond that
which is known to man.

it is a dimension as vast as space

and as timeless as infinity.

it is the middle ground
between light and shadow,

between science and superstition,

and it lies between
the pit of man's fears

and the summit
of his knowledge.

this is the dimension
of imagination.

it is an area which we call
the twilight zone.

her name is nan adams.

she's 27 years old.

her occupation, buyer
at a new york department store.

at present on vacation,
driving cross-country

to los angeles, california,
from manhattan.

how fast were you going, miss?

oh, 60, 65. something like that.

blow out, skid marks,
shou lders like pu dding

and going 65 miles an hour.

lady, you're on the side
of the angels,

by rights, you shouldn't
have called for a mechanic.

somebody should have
called for a hearse.

just follow me into town, miss.

i'll see if i can fix
you up with a new tire.

thank you.

minor incident on highway 1 1
in pennsylvania.

perhaps to be filed away

under "accidents
you'd walk away from."

but from this moment on,

nan adams' companion on a trip
to california will be terror.

her route, fear.

her destination,
quite unknown.

that's five bucks
for the call,

$22.10 for the tire.
the tax, $2.60.

whole thing comes to $29.70.

it's cheaper than
a funeral, isn't it?

you can say that again.

Here you are, miss.

change from your two 20s.

checked the other
tires for you. they look okay.

anything wrong?

no.

no, nothing's wrong.

i was just looking
at that, uh,

that hitch hiker.

what hitchhiker?

he's gone now.

guess he got picked up.

probably.

it's funny, though.
i saw him a little while ago

while you were changing
the tire.

yeah, he probably got a lift
right after we passed him.

probably.

thank you very much
for all your h elp.

it's okay, miss.

have a nice, safe tri p.

thank you.

(adams, off) i saw him again
50 miles further on,

and then again on the long,
straight stretch through virginia.

just standing there.
not menacing, really.

if anything, drab,
a little mousy.

just a shabby,
silly-looking, scarecrow man.

i shouldn't even think
about him at all, but,

it's the coincidence
of the thing.

the fact that wherever i go,
there he is.

wherever i stop, i see him.

no matter how far i travel
or how fast i go,

he's ahead of me.

i'm on a turnpike now.

i don't know why it is,
but i'm frightened.

a fear just about as vague
as its object.

maybe it isn't really a fear.

it's more just
a sense of disquiet,

a feeling that things
are a little wrong.

it's vague because that's
what that hitchhiker is.

he's vague.

i wonder why it is
he's always there.

i wonder why
i can't shake him.

do you get many
hitch hikers around here?

hitch hikers, here? ooh!

rare, huh?

it couldn't be no rare.

the guy would be a fool
h itching a ride on a turnpike.

look at it. miles and miles
straight away,

and practically no speed limit.

now, what car is gonna stop and
pick up a guy under those conditions?

would you?

no. i wou dln't.

now a guy might get a ride
before the turn pike starts.

you know, maybe
by the toll house or something.

but even then it would be
a mighty long ride.

most cars wouldn't wanna
pick up a guy for that long a ride.

and then, you know,it's kind of
lonely country around here.

flat land, hills, 
that sort of thing.

you didn't see anyone
hitching, did you?

no! no, i didn't see
anyone like that

i was just wondering, that's all.

is something wrong, miss?

i don't know, i--

i was--
i was just thinking--

i was just thinking...

how good it's gonna be 
to be able to stop driving.

it's getting so--

i hate that car.

you'll have to wait
a minute, miss.

construction ahead.

all right.

h eading west?

no!

no, i'm not h eading west,
i'm sorry.

i'm not h eading west, i'm just
going up the road a little way!

miss, where are you going?

(adams, off) now the fear
is no longer vague.

the terror isn't formless.

it has a form.

he was beckoning me.

that thin, gray man
in the cheap, shabby suit.

he was beckoning me.

he wanted me
to start to cross.

he wanted me to die.

i know that now.

i don't know what to do now.

i don't know if i should turn
around and go back to new york

or go on ahead.

stabbing little thoughts
gouge my brain.

ugly, frightened thoughts.

projections of tomorrow
and the next day

driving through plains,
driving through the desert,

unspeakably,
nightmarishly alone.

and i know i'll see him.

i'll see him at detours,
at railroad crossings.

he'll be looking at me
at stoplights.

i don't know what to do now.

i don't know what to do.

i just don't know what to do.

(adams, off) three days 
and three nights now of driving

past tennessee into arkansas.

three days and three nights.

stop for food and then drive.

stop for food and then drive,
stop for food--

and the routine goes on.

towns go by without names,
landscapes without form.

now it isn't even a trip,
it's flight.

route 80 isn't a highway
anymore, it's an escape route.

so i keep going,
conscious of only one thing,

i've got to get
where i'm going

and i can't let that hitchhiker
close in on me.

(adams, off) on the fourth day,
halfway across new mexico

i took a side road,
hoping to lose the hitchhiker.

at 11:00 at night,
the engine stopped,

and i sit there
in the front seat

refrigerated by fear,
out of gas!

please, somebody!

please, somebody help me!

yeah?

what is it?

what do you want?

i'm out of gas.

my car's down the road

just a quarter of a mile or so.

well, come back in the morning,
and we'll fix you up.

please! i can't
stay here all night.

i have to have some gas.

lady, it must be past midnight.

it's only a little bit 
after 1 1 :00.

well, we close up
here at 9:00.

please!

i've got to have a can of gas.

i just can't stay there
by myself.

there's a very
suspicious-looking man there.

what about this man?

what was he doing?

well,

oh, nothing, i--

i--

he-- he just stands there

and i've,

i've been seeing
this man all the time.

but he just stands there,

and he doesn't do anything.

that's nothing to wake a man up

in the middle of his sleep about.

well, i think he's
trying to rob me, i--

well, if he does, then you come
back here

and i'll call the sheriff.

no, please h elp me, please.

lady?

yes.

that's what i am.

i'm a lady.

what are you doing
out so late?

you work here?
this your place?

no.

i ran out of gas.

i'm just a little bit ways
down the road,

but he won't give me any gas.

i saw your car.

you know, you left
your keys in it.

do you live around here?

no, no, i'm on my
way back from leave.

where you headed?

back to my ship.

san diego, that's where she is.

that's where i'm
heading. san diego.

do you want a ride?

are you kidding me?

no, i'm not kidding,
i mean it.

i'll take you all
the way to san diego.

will you drive with me?

lady, you don't
have to ask twice.

you got yourself a rider, honest.

i don't have any gas, though.

we'll fix that up.

you try the people here?

the man's in bed.

let's get him out of bed.

hey, pop, you got
some custom ers out here!

say, do you mind
if i take off my shoes?

my feet feel like
two hot bricks.

no, go right ahead.

thanks.

you know, i keep thinking

i'll wake up
or something.

middle of the night,
no cars, no nothing.

who do i meet?

lady who looks
like a movie star.

when i tell the guys
on the sh i p,

do you know what the odds are 
for even one guy beli eving me?

i said, "do you know what the odds are
for one guy to believe me?"

i'll write an affidavit.

we can get
a notary to sign it.

you hitch hike much?

well, back and forth
on leave mostly.

it's kind of tough
in this open country.

trucks are all right,
they'll pick you up.

but you have
trouble with cars.

you know,
most people in cars

won't pick up
hitch hikers at night.

oh, i suppose not.

i bet if you got a,

good pickup and a fast car

you could go places
faster than,

than, say, anoth er
person in another car.

i suppose.

well, take me, for instance.

suppose i'm driving
across the country

at a nice steady clip

of about, oh,
45 miles an hour.

couldn't a fellow like you

standing beside the road
waiting for a lift

beat me to town
after town,

provided he got
picked up every time

in a car going about
65 to 70 miles an hour?

couldn't he?

well, i suppose.

maybe he could,
and maybe he couldn't.

what difference does it make?

no difference, really, i,

just a silly kind
of idea i had here

sitting in the car.

yeah.

i guess it's a good way
to spend your time, though, huh?

what's going on?
what's the matter?

did you see that man?

who?

you must have seen him.

the one standing
beside the road.

honey, i didn't see anybody. 
there was nothing there.

you trying to run us
off the road or something?

the thin, kind of
g ray-looking man?

i didn't see anybody.

lady, you must be
overtired or something.

i didn't see nobody-- nothing.

i saw him.

look, lady, maybe you'd
better let me drive, huh?

you must have
seen him that time.

uh-uh, i didn't see anybody.

what were you trying to do?

i was trying to h it him.

what?

that's right, i was
trying to hit him.

i thought maybe if i could kill him,
i could make him stop.

where you going?

no place in particular.
just out of sight.

i'm going to go anyplace
that puts distance

between me
and this automobile.

please don't go, i just--

i don't know
what came over me--

don't go.

look, baby, i'd like to get
back to my ship in one piece.

and driving with you--
that is a lousy guarantee
i'll ever make it.

please don't go. i promise i'll drive
more carefully now. i promise.

i'm sorry, lady, i'm sorry.
but you'll have to excuse me.

you can't go, you understand that?
you just can't go.

i'll take you all the way
into san diego.

i'll drive you right
to the docks, i promise.

thanks,

but no thanks.

look, i like you.

i really like you very much,
as a matter of fact

that's why i picked you up--
because i liked you.

i thought
that we could be friends,

and i'd kind of like for you
to take me out.

really.

please?

i'm sorry, ma'am.

no, please. please! look, 
i know you think i'm out of my mind,

but i've been seeing this man.

he's been following me all
the way across the country.

h elp me and just stay with me
till i reach the coast.

please don't go!

please?

just give me my shoes.

now, you listen, honey.

what you need is
a good night's sleep.

you don't need a boyfriend,
just a good night's sleep.

i'll see you around.

no!

don't go!

don't go...

(adams, off) now i'm outside
of a diner near tucson.

there's a pay phone outside,
and i'm going to call home,

back to new york.

put in a call to my mother,

so i can speak to someone
familiar, someone i love,

someone to bring back
reality to me.

just a voice

a warm, familiar voice
so i won't lose my mind.

operator, i'd like to make a call
to my home in new york city.

my name is nan adams.

the telephone number
is trafalgar 4 1098.

hello, mother?

(woman)
this is mrs. adams' residence,

whom do you wish
to speak to, please?

who's this?

this is mrs. whitney.

mrs. whitney?
i don't know any mrs. whitney.

is this trafalgar 41098?

yes, it is.

where's my mother?
where's mrs. adams?

she's still in the hospital.
a nervous breakdown.

a nervous breakdown? but there's
nothing the matter with my mother.

what do you mean,
a n ervous breakdown?

well, it's all taken place
since the death of her daughter.

the death of her daughter?

what do you-- what do you mean,
the death of her daughter?

who's this?

what number is this?

it's all been very sudden.

nan was killed just six days ago

in an automobile accident
in pennsylvania.

a tire blew out
and her car turned over.

(adams, off) very odd.

the fear has left me now.

i'm numb, i have no feeling.

it's as if someone had pulled
out some kind of a plug in me

and everything, emotion,
feeling, fear, has drained out.

and now i'm a cold shell.

i'm conscious of things
around me now--

the vast night of arizona,

the stars that look down
from the darkness.

ahead of me stretch a thousand
miles of empty mesa--

mountains, prairies, desert.

somewhere among them,
he's waiting for me.

somewhere i'll find out
who he is.

i'll find out.

i'll find out what he wants.

but just now,
for the first time

looking out at the night

i think i know.

i think i know.

i believe you're going

my way?

(male narrator)
nan adams, age 27.

she was driving to california,
to los angeles.

there was a detour

through the twilight zone.