My dear readers, though I am not aware of any legitimate health concerns that may accompany a steady diet of horror films, I will admit that it seems as though my waking life’s primary preoccupation has some influence on my dreams. While visions of terror and bloodshed make for rousing conscious entertainment, I have found that being subjected to the same sorts of content in dream form can detract from a restorative night’s sleep. Luckily, my sweet Penny Dee whips up a tincture of her grandmother’s design that she puts me in the most restful of states. Though I occasionally wake to find my bedclothes sullied by mud and a potent metallic coating on my palette, these minor side effects are quite easy to tolerate when presented with a proper bit of shut-eye.

Sadly, no such easy remedy is available to Irene Trent (Barbara Stanwyck), whose unconscious life goes through quite the upheaval. There’s plenty to trouble her restless mind as she is attached to a husband (Howard Trent) whose combination of obscene wealth, significant age and blindness have left him with few diversions outside spying on his wife and imagining her engaged in all manner of seedy trysts. The only men in her life besides her less-than-agreeable husband are Barry Morland (Robert Taylor), the family lawyer and a handsome romantic (Lloyd Bochner) who appears only in her dreams.

This dreary domestic dynamic is rattled pretty thoroughly by the death of Irene’s husband, who perishes in a dramatic laboratory explosion. Irene suddenly finds herself a very rich woman and the focus of some suspicion. Understandably enough, she does not opt to linger in the cavernous abode of her departed husband and sets out to remake her life elsewhere. And yet her dream suitor follows, redoubling his efforts with eerie insistence and forcing Irene to question whether this nocturnal inamorato is a dream or a delusion. This uncertainty with reality is reinforced by the reappearance of her husband, scathed considerably by his fiery demise but still lurking about nevertheless.

Even though her cinematic career had peaked some years earlier, it is still quite the sight to see a woman of Barbara Stanwyck’s professional caliber and repute agreeing to a partnership with a man whose creative breakthroughs include a physical jolt to audience member’s posteriors. William Castle, the man responsible for bonafide “camp” classics such as The House on Haunted Hill and The Tingler, shelves his array of toys and gadgetry in his production of The Night Walker, a film that also boasts the distinguished talents of Mr. Taylor and Psycho scribe Robert Bloch. This respectable lot brings out a classier side of William Castle, who shies away from his usual gimmicks and even indulges in some pleasantly experimental visuals. 

And yet even while avoiding “Emergo,” “Perceptio,” “Illusion-O,” and other “O” bearing innovations of his own creation, Mr. Castle is still unable to deny his roots entirely and the film’s conclusion is an absolute paean to carnivalesque horror showmanship. The result is a fine if somewhat improbable story, well acted and stylishly executed, with a nod towards Mr. Castle’s previous efforts that ensures his endearing brand of shenanigans are not forgotten in the process.

The Night Walker runs 86 minutes and recieved a "passed" certification in the United States.