He finds himself at the bottom of a well.
How he got there he doesn’t know. It is
circular, made of red brick and is very
damp with water oozing out of each brick,
droplets dropping and splashing in the foot
of water in which he stands. Suddenly, blue-
grey Spanish rocks are being dropped down
into the well narrowly missing his head.
The water splashes onto his pants up to his
tee-shirt. The stones come faster and more
furious. He ducks and dodges. Where is the
iron ladder in and out of the well? He hears
a laugh from above echoing in the well, re-
verberating in the well, bouncing off of
walls. He knows the voice. It’s familiar.
It’s a relative. It’s always a relative. He hears
Gounod’s Funeral March of a Marionette,
and then the inimitable voice, “Good
evening.” It’s not a relative, not this
time. It’s Alfred Hitchcock. Thank God.
He loves Alfred Hitchcock and that voice,
“Goood Eeevenningggg….” “Good morning,”
his wife calls and he awakes in a sweat.