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House Of Mystery 45-06-13 (108) Haunters And The Haunted
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House Of Mystery 45-06-13 (108) Haunters And The Haunted
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- [00:01]
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- [00:40]
Roger Elliott
This is the House of Mystery. Good evening. This is Roger Elliot, otherwise known as the Mystery man, welcoming you to another storytelling session here at the House of Mystery. Today we continue with the reading of Edward Bulwer Lytton's famous ghost story, the Haunters and the Haunted. As Ruth told us yesterday, Mr. Bulwer Lytton was not only a writer of ghost stories, but the author of the Last Days of Pompeii and a distinguished member of the British Parliament.
- [01:41]
Johnny
Why did he write the Haunters and the Haunted?
- [01:44]
Roger Elliott
Why, Johnny? Well, I should say for the same reason that I spend a good deal of time investigating rumors of supernatural manifestations. To prove, if possible, that ghosts and phantoms exist only in the imagination.
- [01:56]
Johnny
Does he prove it in the story?
- [01:59]
Roger Elliott
Let's find out, shall we? Down with the lights, Johnny. That's fine. As you know, this story is about a haunted house in the very heart of the city of London. A house no human being would occupy because of the weird and frightening creatures who were said to inhabit it. However, the man who tells the story decided to investigate the house he and his secretary, Frank Carter, moved in. The first thing they noticed were mysterious footprints on the damp stones of the yard at the rear of the house. Footprints that formed before their very eyes. Then, inside the house, they saw a mysterious light fashioned in human shape. A light that ran up the stairway to the attic and disappeared. They decided to retire for the night and search the house in the morning. But no sooner was the man who tells the story in bed when a cold wind passed over his face and an invisible hand reached out and took his watch from the table beside the bed. That's where I stopped yesterday. Now I'll Continue. From page 271, chapter three of the Haunters and the Haunted. I sprang out of bed, seizing my revolver in one hand and my dagger in the other. I was going to make sure that fiendishly invisible hand didn't get then, too. Then I started to search the floor for the watch. It was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, I heard three loud, distinct knocks at the head of my bed. Frank heard them, too, and called out from his room, I warned him to be on guard. All my courage was disappearing fast. Now my bull terrier, sleeping in front of the fireplace, roused himself and sat up on his haunches, his ears twitching. What had he heard? My attention was entirely directed toward him. I saw him get up slowly, his short hair bristling, and stand perfectly rigid. A few seconds later, Frank came into the room. And if I ever saw stark horror in a human face, I saw it then. I wouldn't have recognized him had I met him on the street. He rushed over to me, and when he spoke, his voice was a ghastly whisper. Run, run, he said. It's after me. In a moment, he was at the door of the landing. He pulled it open and went bounding down the stairs, unheeding my cries to stop. I heard where I stood, the street door open. Then I heard it slam. I was alone in the haunted house. I struggled with myself for a moment. Should I follow Frank? I decided against him. Yes, I was somewhat frightened, but at the same time, my mind refused to believe the incredible things my eyes had witnessed. If I could only keep my wits about me, I was certain nothing could go wrong. I went immediately to Frank's room. In spite of careful searching, I could find no door. Or even crack in the wall by which the invisible thing could have entered my own room was the only possibility. I decided to return to my own chamber and wait for the thing to appear again. Once inside, I shut and locked the door to the home. Then I stood by the fireplace, expectant and prepared. It was then I missed my dog. Horror seized me, for he was my only companion now. Looking around, I saw him slunk into an angle in the wall, as if literally trying to force his way through it. I went over and spoke to him. The poor beast was beside himself with terror. His teeth were bared, foam dripped from his lips, and my favorite pet would certainly have bitten me had I dared touch him. And so, though I wanted badly to comfort him, and in fact needed comfort myself, I left him alone. Taking a deep breath, I put my weapons, gun and dagger, back on the table, lit my pipe, and, seating myself near the fire, began to read. It was only a few minutes before I became aware of something standing between the page and the light. I had heard nothing. I'd seen nothing, only a deep shadow on the printed gauge. I looked up and saw. How can I describe the horrible sight? It was a darkness shaping itself out of the air in an undefined outline. I cannot say it was a human form, and yet it looked More like a human form than anything else, except that it was gigantic, stretching from the floor to the ceiling. While I gazed, the feeling of intense cold seized me. I couldn't have been chilled more by an iceberg. And this I will swear, the cold I felt was not only the freezing chill of fear. At one moment, I thought I saw two eyes staring at me from that great height. I tried to speak, but my voice failed me. I could only think to myself, it is from fear like this that men die. I tried to get up, but I was held down by some invisible force. An immense and overpowering will was pitted against mine. A will that was as superior to mine as the strength of storm. Fire and flood are superior to man's. And now, as this impression grew on me, came horror. Horror to a degree impossible to convey in words. I knew if I surrendered to it now, I was lost. With a violent effort, I succeeded at last in stretching out my hand to the revolver on the table. As I did so, a heavy blow fell on my wrist and another on my shoulder. My arm fell to my side, powerless now. To my added horror, the flames of the candle suddenly flickered violently and went out. I was in total darkness. This was too much. I must break through this horror with a supreme effort of will. I steeled myself and found voice. Yes, I found voice. Though that voice was but a scream of wingless terror. Yet it was enough to break the spell. I rushed to one of the windows and, tearing the curtains aside, I flung the shutters open. When I saw the moon, high, clear and calm, some part of my fright vanished. I turned to look back into the room. The dark thing, whatever it was, had disappeared. Except that I could still see a faint shadow against the opposite wall. My eye next rested on the table. Then it was that horror returned as I saw from under the table a hand rising. A hand seemingly cut off at the wrist. It was a human hand, an old woman's hand with skin that was parched and wrinkled. Slowly, the hand closed over the two letters that lay on the table. And in a flash, hand and letters vanished. Then, once again, I heard on the headboard of my bed the three loud knocks. As these sounds ceased, I felt the whole room vibrate. And at the far end, sparks suddenly began to rise from the floor. Green, yellow, blue and red sparks. A chair then moved itself away from the wall and placed itself at one end of the table. I blinked my eyes. This must be a delusion. When I opened them again, I'd see nothing. But I was wrong. The next time I looked at that chair I saw, as if growing out of it, a woman shape ghastly as the shape of death. The face was that of a young girl. A girl with a strange, mournful beauty. Her throat and shoulders were bare. The rest of her form was enveloped in a gown of cloudy white. The figure began combing its long yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders. Its eyes weren't turned toward me, but toward the door. It seemed, listening, watching, waiting. The shadow in the background grew darker. I thought I saw eyes gleaming from the top of it, eyes that were now fixed on the shape of what had once been a girl. My ordeal of horror wasn't yet over. Coming through the locked door, I saw another shape take form. A shape equally distinct as the girls and equally ghastly. It was the shape of a young man dressed in a costume of the 1700s. There was something terribly incongruous, grotesque, mere, even frightening in the contrast between the elaborate time finery of his breast, with its ruffles and lace and buckles, and the corpse like look and ghost like stillness of the creature who wore it. Just as the shape of the young man approached the shape of the girl, the shadow suddenly darted from the wall. And for a moment all three were enveloped in darkness. When the pale light returned, the two phantoms were in the grasp of the shadow, which towered above them and kept them separated. And there was a dark stain on the cloudy white garments of the girl, just where her heart might have been. The young man was leaning on his sword. Only a moment was given me to see this horrible sight. Then the shadow descended again, and they were gone. The closet door to the right of the fireplace now opened, and from it came the form of an old woman. In her hand she held letters, the very letters over which I'd seen the hand close. And behind her I heard a footstep. She turned as if to listen. Then she opened the letters and seemed to read. And over her shoulder I saw a livid face. The face of a man long drowned, with seaweed, tangled in his dripping hair. And at her feet there was a child, a weeping child. Even as I stared with unbelieving eyes at this fantastic tableau, the wrinkles and lines in the old woman's face disappeared and it became the face of a young girl. Then once more the gigantic shadow darted from the wall and blotted out the whole mad scene. Nothing now was left but the dark shadow. And on that my eyes remained fixed. Suddenly, bubbles of light began to dance once more, shooting from the floor, bubbles of every color and shape imaginable. Sometimes I felt myself touched, but not by them. Invisible hands touched me. Once I felt the clutch of cold, soft fingers at my throat. I was still conscious that if I gave way to fear, I might never emerge from that house alive. I knew that there was a will working against me, a will of intense evil which could easily crush my own. I determined not to surrender. Marshaling all my strength, I started to concentrate on fighting it out. But it was an unequal struggle. As the dark shadow started moving toward me and a great burst of colored flame shot its terrifying bolt. I fell senseless to the floor. All right, Johnny, turn up the lights.
- [13:05]
Johnny
Hey, My. Hey. This isn't a true story, is it, Mystery Man?
- [13:11]
Roger Elliott
Of course not, Johnny.
- [13:13]
Johnny
But you said that Mr. Bull Willytten had explanations for all the supernatural things that happened.
- [13:20]
Roger Elliott
Well, I didn't quite say that, Ruth. What I did say, or at least what I meant to say, was that Bulwer Liddon tries to explain why the storyteller saw the ghostly manifestations.
- [13:30]
Johnny
Well, how can there be any explanation for people appearing and disappearing and hands reaching out for things in black shadows?
- [13:39]
Roger Elliott
You haven't a very good memory, Johnny. Remember the story of the haunted lighthouse? Sure. Remember how there seemed to be no logical explanation for the voice that said, you'll die, too?
- [13:50]
Johnny
Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. But that was the win. How's he going to explain the things he saw?
- [13:56]
Roger Elliott
Well, suppose we wait and see. Tomorrow we'll continue with chapter four of the Haunters and the Haunted. Same time, and for our radio listeners, the same station. I'll be waiting for you at the House of Mystery. This is Roger Elliott, your mystery man, saying good.