
The Black Mass xx-xx-xx (x) Haunted House
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And now our second story about a house is about a haunted house. Written by Virginia Woolf SA.
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There was a door shutting from room to room they went hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure a ghostly couple. Here we left it. Oh, but here too. It's upstairs in the garden. Quietly.
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Yes, quietly.
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We shall wake them. But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. They're looking for it. They're drawing the curtain, one might say. And so read on a page or two.
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Yeah.
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Now they found it, one would be certain. Stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself. The house all empty, the doors standing open. Only the wood pigeons bubbling with content. And the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. What did I come in here for? What did I want to find? My hands were empty. Perhaps it's upstairs. Then the apples were in the loft. And so down again the garden still as ever. Only the book had slipped into the grass. Here we left it. And here, here. But they had found. Found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses. All the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet the moment after, if the door was opened, spread upon the floor, hung upon the walls. Pendant from the ceiling.
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What?
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My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet. From the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound.
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Save, save, save.
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The pulse of the house beat softly the buried treasure.
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The room.
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The bow stopped short. Oh, was that that the buried treasure. A moment later the night had faded out in the garden then. But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun, so fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface. The beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass. Death was between us. Coming to the woman first hundreds of years ago. Leaving, leaving the house, sealing all the windows. The rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, Went north, went east. Saw the stars turned in the southern sky. Sought the house again, found it dropped beneath the down.
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Same, same, same.
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The pulse of a house beat gladly the treasure yours. The wind roars up the avenue. Trees, trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy. Here we slept, kisses without number. Waking in the morning Silver between the trees up dead in the garden when summer came in winter snowdyne the doors go shutting far in the distance Gently knocking like the pulse of a heart Nearer they come, Cease at the doorway the wind falls the rain slides silver down the glass Our eyes darken we hear no steps beside us we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak his hands shield the lantern.
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Sound asleep Love upon their lips.
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Drooping, holding their silver lamp above us Long they look how deeply long they pause the wind drives straightly the flame stoops slightly Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall and meeting stain the faces bent, the faces pondering the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.
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Same, same, same.
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The heart of the house beats proudly.
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Years then again you found me. Yeah.
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In the God waiting, laughing, rolling apples in the loft.
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Here we left our treasure.
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Here we left it. Here we left it. Stooping their light lifts the lids upon.
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My eyes Save, save, save.
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The pulse of the house beats wildly waking, I cry. Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart Here we left it. Here we left it.
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Safe. Safe. SA that was a Haunted House by Virginia Woolf. The story was performed by Pat Franklin with music specially composed by Peter Winkler and technical production by John Whiting. In the Boarded Window, the first story you heard this evening by Ambrose Bias. You heard Ben Jacopetti as the narrator, Amanda Folger as Janice. Eric Bowersfeld played Murloc. The music was performed by Carl Schrager and the technical production was by John Whiting. And now, good night. It.
This episode of Harold's Old Time Radio delves into the atmospheric world of Golden Age radio drama, featuring adaptations of classic literature. The main focus is on “Haunted House,” a radio play based on Virginia Woolf’s short story. The story captures the ethereal tale of a ghostly couple moving through their former home, searching for a hidden treasure—the “light in the heart.” The production embraces a poetic, dreamlike quality, evoking both the comfort and melancholy of memory, loss, and love.
“The house all empty, the doors standing open. Only the wood pigeons bubbling with content. And the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm... What did I want to find? My hands were empty.”
“Death was the glass. Death was between us. Coming to the woman first hundreds of years ago. Leaving, leaving the house, sealing all the windows.”
“Long they look, how deeply long they pause… the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.”
“Haunted House” on The Black Mass presents a haunting, lyrical meditation on memory and love, a perfect example of the evocative storytelling that defined the Golden Age of Radio.