A brief epilogue for concerned parents. Of course, there isn't any such place as the gingerbread house of Aunt T, and we grownups know there's no door at the bottom of a swimming pool that leads to a secret place. But who can say how real the fantasy world of lonely children can become?

A swimming pool not unlike any other pool, a structure built of tile and cement and money, a backyard toy for the affluent, wet entertainment for the well-to-do.

Fear, of course, is extremely relative. It depends on who can look down and who must look up. It depends on other vagaries, like the time, the mood, the darkness. But it's been said before, with great validity, that the worst thing there is to fear is fear itself.

The major ingredient for any recipe for fear is the unknown - and there are two characters about to partake of the meal: Miss Charlotte Scott, a fashion editor, and Mr. Robert Franklin, a state trooper.

In retrospect, it may be said of Mr. Floyd Burney that he achieved that final dream of the performer: eternal top-name billing, not in the fleeting billboards of the entertainment world, but forever recorded among the folk songs of . . . the Twilight Zone.

Mr. Floyd Burney, a gentleman songster in search of song, is about to answer the age-old question of whether a man can be in two places at the same time. As far as his folk song is concerned, we can assure Mr. Burney he'll find everything he's looking for, although the lyrics may not be all to his liking. But that's…

There are many bromides applicable here - too much of a good thing, tiger by the tail, as you sow, shall ye reap. The point is that too often, man becomes clever instead of becoming wise, he becomes inventive but not thoughtful - and sometimes, as in the case of Mr. Whipple, he can create himself right out of…

These are the players, with or without a scorecard: in one corner, a machine; in the other, one Wallace V. Whipple, man.

Sorry, kid, the commute from the ol' Zone is a killer.

Exit Mr. Garrity, a would-be charlatan, a make-believe con man and a sad misjudger of his own talents. Respectfully submitted from an empty cemetery on a dark hillside that is one of the slopes leading to . . . the Twilight Zone.

Introducing Mr. Jared Garrity, a gentleman of commerce, who in the latter half of the nineteenth century plied his trade in the wild and wooly hinterlands of the American West.

Two men in an attic, locked in mortal embrace. Their common bond and their common enemy? Guilt. A disease all-too prevalent amongst men both in and out of . . . the Twilight Zone.

Two men alone in an attic; a young Japanese-American and a seasoned veteran of yesterday's war.

The moral of what you've just seen is clear. If you drink, don't drive. And if your wife has had a couple, she shouldn't drive either. You might both just wake up with a whale of a headache in a deserted village in . . . the Twilight Zone.

Bob and Millie Frazier, average young New Yorkers who attended a party in the country last night and on the way home took a detour.

Major Ivan Kuchenko, on his way west, on his way to freedom, a freedom bought and paid for by a most stunning ingenuity. And exit one Commissar Vassiloff, who forgot that there are two sides to an argument - and two parties on the line. This has been . . . the Twilight Zone.

The cast of characters: a cat and a mouse.

Little girl and a wooden doll, a lethal dummy in the shape of a man. But everybody knows dummies can't talk . . . unless, of course, they learn their vocabulary in the Twilight Zone.

Jonathan West, ventriloquist, a master of voice manipulation. A man late of Ireland, with a talent for putting words into other's people's mouths.

When last heard from, Mr. Roswell G. Flemington was in a sanitarium pleading with the medical staff to make some noise. They, of course, believe the case to be a rather tragic aberration - a man's mind becoming unhinged. And for this, they'll give him pills, therapy, and rest. Little do they realize that all Mr.…