It could be said that the 1950s were the "Golden Age" of the American housewife. Married women who were not compelled by necessity to work outside the home were not expected to, and a woman could devote all of her time and energy to being the perfect cook—the perfect housekeeper—the perfect mother—the perfect neighbor—the perfect hostess—the perfect companion. Many women of the time happily devoted themselves to being all of those things, and more.
Nancy Drummond was not one of them. It wasn't that she was a slob or anything like that—far from it. It was just that she didn't see the point of cooking when there were those wonderful new TV dinners one could pop into the oven and have it ready in minutes, and she didn't see the point of cleaning the house and laundering the clothes when she could hire someone to do it for her. And she didn't see the point of making her husband happy—after all, wasn't it his job to make her happy? And if she was happy, wouldn't he be happy as well?
And Nancy liked to make herself happy, and keep herself beautiful—but it was more for her own vanity than her husband's pleasure. She was quite gorgeous, actually—a platinum blonde with an hourglass figure. Older men compared her favorably to Betty Grable; younger men, to Marilyn Monroe. Well-read men swore she was a dead ringer for Janet Pilgrim, who appeared tastefully unclothed in the pages of that new men's magazine, Playboy. Every man who saw her never forgot the way she looked, or smiled, or walked. Every man who saw her wished she belonged to him.
None of these men were actually married to her.
Frank Drummond was—and he was getting tired of all her nonsense. But that was soon about to change.
"Frank," Nancy said on another weekday morning as she bustled about the house doing absolutely nothing, while he sat alone at the kitchen table and poked at his usual bowl of corn flakes, "I got a call from Bergenstrom's—it seems I've overcharged my account again. Please take care of it, won't you?"
"Yes, darling," replied Frank with practiced disinterest.
"And the cleaning woman wants another twenty-five cents an hour. I said that'll be all right—please remember that when you pay her this week, won't you?"
"Yes, darling,"
"I told the bridge club they could have their party here this evening, so you'll have to make yourself scarce. That shouldn't be a problem, as Wednesday's your bowling night."
"Actually, I bowl on Thursday."
"Did you say something, dear?" came Nancy's voice from the other room.
"Nothing," replied Frank as he shoveled the last of the corn flakes into hs mouth and took the bowl over to the sink. He put on his suit jacket, then with his hat in one hand and his briefcase in the other, he headed for the front door. Nancy met him there, and for the first time that morning they were in the same room together.
"Is everything all right?" said Nancy. "Usually you find some worrisome little thing to complain about, but today—"
"Everything's fine," said Frank, regarding her for a moment. She was quite the beautiful sight in a form-fitting, knee-length dress made of soft, dove-gray fabric, and it was times like this that reminded him of why he married her.
Then he leaned in to kiss her on the lips, but she turned her head at the last moment, so he had to settle for her cheek. He shrugged as reality re-asserted itself, then put on his hat.
"There is something you could do for me, though," he said as he was halfway through the door. "I'm expecting an important package to be delivered here today—in fact, it should arrive this morning. I'd appreciate it if you were here to receive it when it arrives. And whatever you do—don't open it."
And with that Frank was out the door and on his way to work, leaving Nancy to stand there in wide-eyed shock, which almost immediately turned to righteous outrage. Of all the nerve! That a wife should do something for her husband just because he asks her to! Who did he think he was? Who did he think SHE was? "Whatever you do—don't open it."—well, we'll just see about that, won't we, Mr. Frank Drummond!
The package arrived shortly after Frank left. Nancy signed for it, then had the deliveryman heft it over to the coffee table in the living room. She saw the deliveryman to the door, then went back to the living room to look over the package. She studied the return address carefully. Trance-O-Matic? Canada? CANADA?? The only thing Frank ever ordered from Canada was fishing equipment—and that was only the one time. And what kind of mail-order company calls themselves Trance-O-Matic?
She looked at the package again—not the usual cardboard box, but a wooden crate. She hesitated for a moment about opening it—not only was she likely to break a nail or two, but she stood a good chance of tearing her dress. But her curiosity was thoroughly aroused, and besides, she had a point to prove to her husband. Far be it for her to let him boss her around! She was going to open this box and see what was inside!
Nancy went out to the garage and found a hammer, then went back inside and found a dishcloth to wrap around the handle. Then she went to work on the box. It came apart much easier than expected, even with her taking the greatest pains not to damage her nails, or even break a sweat. With the crate disassembled, she studied carefully the object inside.
It appeared to be an electric motor supported by a pedestal made of sturdy black plastic with three small legs. It might have been a fan—but where were the blades? There was an instruction booklet—she opened it and read aloud from the first page.
"Congratulations on your purchase of the Trance-O-Matic Hypnodisk—" She read the sentence again in disbelief. "HYPNODISK!! Frank Drummond, you really have gone too far this time! Do you really think you could turn me into your own little hypnotized puppet? That you could just turn me into a mindless zombie? You—you—OOOHH!!!"
Nancy stood up, shaking with anger. This was much worse than the time Frank wouldn't buy her a new car just because her old one smelled like a perfume she no longer wore. She ought to call him at the office and give him a huge piece of her mind!
Then she looked at the device again. Her anger subsided a bit, and her disbelief rose up again. Did Frank really think this—this THING could hypnotize her? Had he lost his mind, spending money he could have used to buy her clothes and cosmetics on—THIS? Did he really think it would work?
The device had an electric cord, and she plugged it into an outlet behind the couch. There were several discs in the package, each bearing a different supposedly hypnotic pattern. She selected one with a black op-art spiral against a gold background—or was it a gold spiral against a black background?—and set it upon the motor's bare spindle. Once she was sure it was fixed in place, she pushed the switch to the ON position.
Nancy sat quietly and watched as the Hypnodisk turned. She could barely hear the hum of the motor as the disk spun around and around. It was kind of like watching a record label spin on the turntable of a stereo. Only more interesting.
Much more interesting.
Not that it was working, of course. This stupid contraption can't hypnotize me, thought Nancy.
But it was fascinating to watch, she reflected—the way the spiral seemed to become larger—as though it were drawing you in—surrounding you—becoming the only thing you could see—the only thing you could think about—the only thing you wanted to think about—
But—she said firmly to herself—it's not like this thing could actually hypnotize me.
It's not like this thing could actually hypnotize me—
It's not like—
This thing could actually hypnotize me—
This thing could actually hypnotize me—
This thing—could actually hypnotize me—
This thing could—hypnotize me—
Could—hypnotize me—
Hypnotize me—
Hypnotize me—
Hypno—tize—me—
Hyp—no—tiz—
Nancy sat staring at the spinning Hypnodisk, her face and body as still as standing water. To an outside observer, she appeared lost in thought. She had, in fact, lost all thought, as the Hypnodisk took her deeper into trance. Oblivious to everything outside of her own mind, the spiral of black and gold was the only thing that mattered.
Which is why she didn't hear the key turn in the kitchen door, or hear it open or close, or notice as Frank entered the living room. He chuckled softly as he walked towards her. He knew all he had to do was tell her not to open the package, and her curiosity and her self-centeredness would lead her exactly to where she was now. He picked up the instruction booklet and turned to the back cover—
* * *
WARNING: The Trance-O-Matic Hypnodisk is scientifically designed and engineered to induce a deep hypnotic trance within 60 seconds or less. DO NOT stare directly into the Hypnodisk while the device is in operation unless you wish to be hypnotized. Do not use this device inside a moving vehicle, or while driving or operating heavy machinery. Do not use this device while ingesting food or drink. Do not use this device while it is on public display. Do not use this device while under the influence of alcohol or other depressants, including prescription medication.
The Trance-O-Matic Hypnodisk is for entertainment and self-improvement purposes only. No liability is assumed by the Trance-O-Matic Company, its employees, or any of its affiliates for improper use of this device, or its use in the commission of any criminal act. The Trance-O-Matic Hypnodisk contains no user-serviceable parts. . .
* * *
"You should have read the warning label, Nancy," chuckled Frank again as he sat down beside her, taking care not to look into the still-spinning disk. He was surprised at how beautiful she was this way—silent and unmoving, like a living photograph. He wanted to touch her, to fondle her—but settled instead for lifting up one limp hand, then letting it fall back into her lap. Yes, she was under, and deeply too.
All right, said Frank to himself. Now let's see what we can really do.
"Nancy—can you hear me?"
Nothing. She remained completely still.
"Nancy—can you hear me?"
Nothing—at first—then—
"Yes—I can hear you."
It was the sexiest thing Frank had heard her say. Her voice was soft and still, like the coo of a dove. Apart from her reply, she took no other notice of Frank, as the Hypnodisk held the rest of her attention.
"Nancy—do you know what's happened to you?"
"I'm—I'm hypnotized—I think—"
"You don't need to think," said Frank. "Just listen to my voice, and follow my suggestions. Yes, you are hypnotized—deeply hypnotized, in fact—and you love being hypnotized, don't you?"
"Yes—I love being hypnotized."
"You love being hypnotized, and listening to my voice while being hypnotized. And as long as you continue to listen to my voice, and follow my suggestions, you will remain in this deep hypnotic trance you love so very much. Do you understand?"
