obsidian river Productions invites you to journey into a world where the line

between man's inherent good and haunting evil is blurred.

We stand on the precipice of a tail that delves deep into the heart of our

darkest desires and the duality that resides within each of us.

The bustling streets of Victorian London hide more than secrets.

They echo with the haunting duality of one man's soul.

In the hands of the masterful Robert Louis Stevenson,

we are about to embark on an exploration of identity,

morality and the duality of human nature.

The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is not just a tale,

it's a reflection,

a mirror that makes us question are we ever truly one person and what might

we be capable of when the societal masks we wear are cast aside.

So with each heartbeat,

let's step closer to the enigmatic door behind which lies the mystery of a man

Torn between two worlds.

Prepare yourself for a tale that has haunted readers for generations,

making them wonder which face they see in their own reflection.

Hold tight for as the story unfolds.

You might just discover that the line between Dr. Jekyll and Mr.

Hyde is finer than you ever imagined.

The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.

Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. Story of the door, Mr.

Terson, the lawyer,

was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile.

Cold scanty and embarrassed in discourse, backward in sentiment,

lean, long, dusty, dreary,

and yet somehow lovable at friendly meetings and when the wine was

to his taste, something eminently human beacon from his eye,

something indeed which never found its way into his torque,

but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after dinner face,

but more often and loudly in the acts of his life.

He was austere with himself,

drank gin when he was alone to mortify a taste for vintages and though he

enjoyed the theater, had not crossed the doors of one for 20 years,

but he had an approved tolerance for others.

Sometimes wondering almost with envy at the high pressure of spirits

involved in their misdeeds and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to

reprove, I inclined to Cain's heresy. He used to say Quain,

I let my brother go to the devil in his own way in this character.

It was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last

good influence in the lives of downgoing men and to such as these

so long as they came about his chambers,

he never marked a shade of change in his demeanor.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr.

Terson for he was undemonstrative at the best and even his friendship seemed to

be founded in a similar catholicity of good nature.

It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the

hands of opportunity and that was the lawyer's way.

His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest.

His affections like ivy were the growth of time.

They implied no aptness in the object,

hence no doubt the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield,

his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town.

It was a nut to crack for many what these two could see in each other or what

subject they could find in common.

It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks that they

said nothing looked singularly dull and would hail with obvious relief.

The appearance of a friend for all that the two men put the greatest store

by these excursions,

counted them the chief jewel of each week and not only set aside occasions of

pleasure but even resisted the calls of business that they might enjoy them

uninterrupted.

It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by street in a

busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet,

but it drove a thriving trade on the weekdays.

The inhabitants were all doing well it seemed and all em hoping to do

better still and laying out the surplus of their grains in coquet tree so

that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation

like rows of smiling saleswomen.

Even on Sunday when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively

empty of passage.

The street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighborhood like a fire in a

forest and with its freshly painted shutters,

well polished brass and general cleanliness and gaity of note

instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger,

two doors from one corner on the left hand going east.

The line was broken by the entry of a court and just at that point a certain

sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street.

It was two stories high showed, no window,

nothing but a door on the lower story and a blind forehead of discolored

wall on the upper and bore in every feature the marks of prolonged

and sorted negligence.

The door which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker was blistered and

disdained.

Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on the panels.

Children kept shop upon the steps.

The schoolboy had tried his knife on the moldings and for close on a generation

no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their

ravages. Mr.

Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by street,

but when they came abreast of the entry,

the former lifted up his cane and pointed. Did you ever remark that door?

He asked and when his companion had replied in the affirmative,

it is connected in my mind,

added he with a very odd story indeed said Mr. Terson,

with a slight change of voice and what was that? Well,

it was this way. Returned Mr. Enfield.

I was coming home from someplace at the end of the world about three o'clock of

a black winter morning and my way lay through a part of town where there was

literally nothing to be seen but lamps street after street and all

the folks asleep street after street,

all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church till

at last.

I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long

for the sight of a policeman all at once. I saw two figures.

One,

a little man who was stumping along Eastwood at a good walk and the other a

girl of maybe eight or 10 who was running as hard as she was able down a cross

street. Well sir,

the two ran into one another naturally enough at the corner and then came the

horrible part of the thing for the man trampled calmly over the child's body

and left her screaming on the ground.

It sounds nothing to hear but it was hellish to see it wasn't like a man,

it was like some damned juggernaut. I gave a few hello,

took to my heels,

collared my gentleman and brought him back to where there was already quite a

group about the screaming child.

He was perfectly cool and made no resistance but gave me one look so

ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running.

The people who had turned out were the girl's own family and pretty soon

the doctor for whom she had been sent put in his appearance.

Well the child was not much the worse,

more frightened according to the sore bones and there you might have supposed

would be an end to it, but there was one curious circumstance.

I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight,

so had the child's family, which was only natural,

but the doctor's case was what struck me.

He was the usual cut and dry apothecary of no particular age and color

with a strong Edinburgh accent and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well sir,

he was like the rest of us.

Every time he looked at my prisoner I saw that Sawbones turned sick and white

with the desire to kill him.

I knew what was in his mind just as he knew what was in mind and killing being

out of the question we did the next best.

We told the man we could and would make such a scandal out of this as should

make his name stink from one end of London to the other.

If he had any friends or any credit we undertook that he should lose them and

all the time as we were pitching it in red hot,

we were keeping the women off him as best we could for they were as wild as

harpies.

I never saw a circle of such hateful faces and was the man in the middle with a

kind of black sneering coolness. Frightened too.

I could see that but carrying it off, sir,

really like Satan if you choose to make capital out of this accident said

he, I'm naturally helpless, no gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene.

Says he name your figure.

Well we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for the child's family.

He would've clearly liked to stick out but there was something about the lot of

us that meant mischief and at last he struck the next thing was

to get the money and where do you think he carried us?

But to that place with the door whipped out,

a key went in and presently came back with a matter of 10 pounds in

gold and a check for the balance on couches drawn payable to bearer

and signed with a name that I can't mention though it's one of the points of my

story,

but it was a name at least very well known and often printed the figure was

stiff but the signature was good for more than that if it was only genuine.

I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business

looked apocryphal and that a man does not in real life walk into a cellar

door at four in the morning and come out with another man's check for close upon

a hundred pounds.

But he was quite easy and sneering set your mind at rest says he,

I will stay with you till the bank's open and cash the check myself.

So we all set off the doctor and the child's father and our friend and

myself and passed the rest of the night in my chambers and next day when we had

breakfasted went in a body to the bank,

I gave in the check myself and said I had every reason to believe it was a

forgery, not a bit of it. The check was genuine.

Tutut said, Mr. Terson, I see you feel as I do, said Mr.

Enfield. Yes,

it's a bad story for my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with a

really damnable man and the person that drew the check is the very pink of the

proprieties celebrated too. And what makes it worse?

One of your fellows who do what they call good blackmail,

I suppose an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his

youth black mail house is what I call the place with the door.

In consequence though even that you know is far from explaining all he

added and with the words fell into a vein of musing from this.

He was recalled by Mr.

Terson asking rather suddenly and you don't know if the drawer of the check

lives there a likely place isn't. It returned Mr. Enfield,

but I happen to have noticed his address.

He lives in some square or other and you never asked about the

place with the door said Mr. Terson. No sir,

I had a delicacy was the reply.

I feel very strongly about putting questions.

It partakes too much of style of the day of judgment.

You start a question and it's like starting a stone.

You sit quietly on the top of a hill and away the stone goes starting others and

presently some bland old bird,

the last you would've thought of is knocked on the head in his own back garden

and the family have to change their name. No sir. I make it a rule of mine.

The more it looks like queer street,

the less I ask a very good rule too said the lawyer but

I have studied the place for myself continued Mr. Enfield,

it seems scarcely a house.

There is no other door and nobody goes in or out of that one.

But once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure,

there are three windows looking on the court on the first floor,

none below the windows are always shut but they're clean and then there is a

chimney which is generally smoking so somebody must live there and yet it's

not so sure for the buildings are so packed together about the court that it's

hard to say where one ends and another begins the pair walked on