Lot 132 by The Price Of Fear

Summary

Podcast Summary: The Horror! (Old Time Radio) Episode: Lot 132 by The Price Of Fear
Release Date: July 19, 2025
Host/Author: RelicRadio.com

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Introduction

In the chilling episode titled "Lot 132," hosted by RelicRadio.com and featuring the iconic Vincent Price, listeners are plunged into a tale of art, obsession, and supernatural terror. This story, expertly dramatized by Elizabeth Morgan and produced by John Dyess, explores the dark consequences of acquiring a mysterious portrait with a malevolent presence.

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Story Overview

Vincent Price narrates his personal experience with an enigmatic painting that leads to a series of tragic events involving murder and inexplicable behavior. The narrative unfolds with Price detailing how his passion for art leads him to purchase a disturbing portrait at an auction in Winchester. Unbeknownst to him, this acquisition sets off a chain of horrific incidents affecting his acquaintances, culminating in a confrontation with the painting's evil influence.

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Detailed Summary

A Fateful Purchase

The story begins with Vincent Price reminiscing about an incident 20 years prior in Winchester, where he impulsively buys "Lot 13 2," a portrait of a man clad in a crimson riding jacket. Price describes the subject as a 45-year-old with a bony face and unsettling eyes, noting an inherent unease he felt upon viewing the painting.

Vincent Price [00:41]: “Stories strange, weird tales of mystery and terror by radio's masters of the macabre.”

Despite his initial discomfort, Price secures the painting, dismissing his instincts as mere hypersensitivity. He places the artwork in his gallery's anteroom, inadvertently setting the stage for the ensuing horror.

Unraveling Mystery

A few days later, Price meets with an old friend, Michael Emsley, who becomes inexplicably fixated on the very portrait Price purchased. During their tour of the gallery, both Price and Emsley find themselves drawn to the painting, despite reservations.

Vincent Price [03:16]: “I moved forward to take a closer look. The portrait was of a man in a crimson riding jacket. He looked about 45, with black hair, a large bony face and small, closely set eyes.”

Price discovers that the subject of the painting, Nathaniel Jeremiah Blackwell, was a real person who met a gruesome end in the early 19th century, including the murder of his family. This revelation heightens Price's sense of dread.

Vincent Price [11:18]: “It was you who raised the alarm, wasn't it?”

Tragedy Strikes

Shortly after uncovering the painting's dark history, Price is horrified to learn that Michael Emsley has murdered his wife and children, using poison to kill them before gruesomely disposing of their bodies. The timing and details suggest a sinister connection to the portrait.

Chief Inspector Lowther [09:35]: “It happened about 10:30 last evening, sir. It seems that Mr. Emsley, for no apparent reason, suddenly went berserk and attacked his wife with a hatchet, then threw her body into the swimming pool.”

Price's investigation leads him to believe that Blackwell's malevolent spirit or influence persists, manifesting through the portrait and affecting those who possess it.

Confrontation and Revelation

Determined to prevent further tragedy, Price attempts to retrieve the painting from Peter Smythe, who has recently acquired it. Upon meeting Smythe, Price senses the painting's evil presence, especially when Smythe exhibits uncharacteristic violent behavior.

Vincent Price [21:54]: “Peter, do you feel all right?”

A climactic confrontation ensues as Smythe, under the painting's influence, becomes aggressive, wielding a hatchet. Price battles to subdue Smythe, ultimately destroying the portrait in the process. The act of destroying the painting appears to release Smythe from its grip, dissolving the evil influence.

Vincent Price [22:17]: “If I didn't destroy the portrait, this would have happened to you too.”

Aftermath and Reflection

In the aftermath, Price reflects on the supernatural events, noticing inexplicable blood on his hands that cannot be explained by the mere destruction of paint. This gruesome detail underscores the painting's true nature as a vessel of evil.

Vincent Price [25:30]: “Old paint should flake or powder, but this was wet, very wet. When I washed my hands a few moments later, I knew why. It was. It wasn't paint. It was blood.”

Price warns listeners about the dangers of seemingly innocuous artworks, hinting at the lingering presence of Blackwell's malevolence.

Vincent Price [26:00]: “Do any of you listening at home have portraits hanging on your walls? Are they of unknown cities? Be careful how you look at them. You never know. Goodbye.”

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Notable Quotes

• Vincent Price [00:06]: “By telling a story, we are meant to call from out of the past.”

• Chief Inspector Lowther [09:35]: “It happened about 10:30 last evening, sir. It seems that Mr. Emsley, for no apparent reason, suddenly went berserk and attacked his wife with a hatchet, then threw her body into the swimming pool.”

• Mrs. Smythe [12:05]: “Oh, yes, Mr. Price. I heard this strange sobbing noise, you see. More like. More like an animal in pain.”

• Vincent Price [22:17]: “If I didn't destroy the portrait, this would have happened to you too.”

• Vincent Price [26:00]: “Do any of you listening at home have portraits hanging on your walls? Are they of unknown cities? Be careful how you look at them. You never know. Goodbye.”

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Insights and Themes

"Lot 132" delves into the concept of cursed or haunted objects, particularly artworks that carry a sinister legacy. The narrative examines how obsession with art can lead to unforeseen and dire consequences. Vincent Price's portrayal adds a layer of authenticity and gravitas, making the horror elements more impactful. The story also touches on themes of fate versus free will, suggesting that certain objects may carry inherent evil that influences those around them despite their intentions.

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Conclusion

"Lot 132" serves as a cautionary tale about the hidden dangers that can lurk within seemingly ordinary possessions. Through Vincent Price's compelling storytelling, listeners are immersed in a world where art becomes an instrument of horror, leading to tragic outcomes. This episode reinforces the show's overarching theme of exploring the unexplained and the macabre, leaving audiences both captivated and unsettled.

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Produced by: John Dyess
Dramatized by: Elizabeth Morgan
Featuring: Vincent Price, Elizabeth Morgan, Douglas Blackwell

Transcript

[Vincent Price]

Oh, stories, real stories. And murders do turn out your legs. Turn them out. Good evening. Come in, won't you? What's the matter? Surely you're not nervous? Perhaps you can't. By telling a story, we are meant to call from out of the past.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Stories strange, weird tales of mystery and terror by radio's masters of the macabre.

[Vincent Price]

Story of the supernatural, the supernormal dramatized fantasy, the mystery, the unknown. We tell you this Frank, frankly. So if you wish to avoid the excitement tension of these magnet play, refer to our latest theory to turn off your radio. The PRICE of Fear Brought to you by Vincent Price. Like some of you may know of my interest in and love of painting. My wife calls it a passion. Indeed. I have very fond memories of my early years in London. When as a student of art history I shared a flat in Baker street with. That's another story. I'll tell you about it sometime. Actually, I paint a little myself. But primarily my interest has always been in buying paintings. Some for my personal pleasure, but even more for galleries. Sometimes I have travelled across a continent from one end to the other in pursuit of a painting. In the early days especially, half the excitement lay in the chase and half in the gamble. The backing of one's own judgment. As you may imagine, this passion of mine has led me to some very strange places and into situations one would never have thought possible. There was one such situation so bizarre, so frightening, so disastrous as to be almost unbelievable. Oddly enough, I was reminded of it only last week when I was driving through Winchester. For it was here, 20 years ago, that I unwittingly triggered off an awful chain of events. I shall call my story. Lot 13 2. It was a cold day, I remember, and probably as much to keep warm as anything else. I'd strolled into a small auction room just off of the high street. The auction was about Halfway through.

[Douglas Blackwell]

Lot 13 2. A portrait of a man. Early 19th century English school artist unknown.

[Vincent Price]

I moved forward to take a closer look. The portrait was of a man in a crimson riding jacket. He looked about 45, with black hair, a large bony face and small, closely set eyes. Now, at that time, I had an interest in a modest gallery in London. And although this was clearly a painting of some quality, I. I felt no desire to buy it. Besides, there was something oddly unnerving about that face. Particularly the eyes.

[Douglas Blackwell]

What am I bid?

[Vincent Price]

My gaze continued to be drawn to the portrait. It was an. An uncomfortable sensation.

[Douglas Blackwell]

£15. £15. 18. 18.

[Vincent Price]

And there I was, against my will, bidding for lot 1. 3. 2. For an unknown man in a riding jacket.

[Douglas Blackwell]

25 pounds. 25.

[Vincent Price]

The portrait was mine, but I didn't have my usual elation about the purchase. I decided it must be my own illogical hypersensitivity to the face that was. Well, that was at fault. When I got back to London, I put the painting in a small anteroom of the gallery and forgot all about it. Until a few days later when an old acquaintance, Michael Emsley, called on me. Oh, Michael, it's so good to see you.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

And what a surprise to find you here. Why aren't you in New York?

[Vincent Price]

Oh, that's next month.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

I can never keep up with you.

[Vincent Price]

How are the children?

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Marvelous.

[Vincent Price]

Simon away at school yet?

[Peter Smythe]

No.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

At the last minute we decided against it.

[Vincent Price]

Oh? Why was that?

[Elizabeth Morgan]

It's very simple, really. Neither Marion nor I wanted some frosty matron to have the rest of his childhood.

[Vincent Price]

Right. You know, as a foreigner, I've never understood why the English take the trouble to have children, only to banish them for eight months of the year to some Bastille of learning.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Well, Marion's always been opposed to the idea.

[Vincent Price]

How is that beautiful wife of yours?

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Beautiful? Actually, Marion's the reason I'm here. She has a birthday soon.

[Vincent Price]

And you'd like to buy her a painting?

[Elizabeth Morgan]

That was the idea. But something modest, of course.

[Vincent Price]

Oh, yes, of course, of course. Why don't we have a conducted tour? We walked through and talked about the paintings that interested Michael. Suddenly he stopped and said, that portrait over there. Yeah?

[Elizabeth Morgan]

I don't know. It seems to draw me to it. I must say, I don't particularly like the chap's face, but I feel compelled to look at him.

[Vincent Price]

I'd noticed that throughout the conversation of the past hour, no matter where Michael had been standing in the gallery, he'd turned round time and again to stare at the face.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Do you know what I mean?

[Vincent Price]

Yes, I. I do know what you mean. I. I bought it in Winchester last week.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Winchester? That's Marion's hometown.

[Vincent Price]

Well, then perhaps he's an ancestor.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Vincent, What a good idea.

[Vincent Price]

Sorry I'm not with you.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Well, she's often said she'd like a few family portraits to sport on the wall.

[Vincent Price]

I see what you mean. But. But supposing she doesn't like him?

[Elizabeth Morgan]

That's a point.

[Vincent Price]

Look here, why don't you take him on?

[Elizabeth Morgan]

April, would you mind?

[Vincent Price]

Not at all. I've known you long enough. And so, after we'd exchanged a transaction slip, Michael Emsley took the portrait, promising to give me Marian's answer in a couple of weeks. I must admit, I. I. Well, I wasn't sorry to see it go. One evening about two weeks later, I was sitting in my study at home browsing through a room recently acquired folio of early 19th century drawings and engravings. I was delighted when halfway through, I turned up an engraving based on that very portrait. What was more, I found out it had been painted by one Jacob Robertson in 1825. He was a painter just now being rediscovered. And the sitter was identified as Nathaniel Jeremiah Blackwell, 1782-1830. Cloth merchant. The name rang a bell, but that was all. I was about to telephone Michael, the news of my discovery when I noticed the time. It was almost 10:30. Well, I don't know about you, but I dislike being disturbed by the telephone after 10, so I decided to leave the call until morning. So the next day I called the Emsley household. Yes, Michael?

[Douglas Blackwell]

No, sir.

[Vincent Price]

Oh, could I speak to Marion, Mrs. Emsley?

[Douglas Blackwell]

I'm afraid not. Would you mind telling me who you are, sir?

[Vincent Price]

I didn't recognize the voice, but, well, very briefly, I explained who I was and about the whole portrait business.

[Douglas Blackwell]

You say you're a friend, Mr. Price?

[Vincent Price]

Yes. Yes.

[Douglas Blackwell]

How long have you known them, sir?

[Vincent Price]

Oh, about seven or eight years. Why? Who are you?

[Douglas Blackwell]

Chief Inspector Lowther, sir. Murder Squad.

[Vincent Price]

Within minutes, I was in the car heading for the Berkshire village where the Emsleys lived. All I could hear, all I could think about were the words Murder Squad. What in God's name had happened? My heart was pounding as I drew up at the house. Chief Inspector Lowther met me at the door.

[Douglas Blackwell]

Come into the sitting room, please, Mr. Price.

[Vincent Price]

All right. Oh, my God. Inspector, this. This room looks as if it had been ravaged by a madman.

[Douglas Blackwell]

Madman's the right word, sir.

[Vincent Price]

Well, the. The Emsleys, Michael. Marion, where are they?

[Douglas Blackwell]

Mr. Emsley's at headquarters, taken into custody.

[Vincent Price]

Custody?

[Douglas Blackwell]

Why, he gave himself up, Mr. Price. And Mrs. Emsley's dead, sir. Murdered.

[Vincent Price]

Murdered? But what about the children? Oh, for pity's sake, Inspector. Where are they? Let me take them. Let me look after them.

[Douglas Blackwell]

They're dead too, sir.

[Vincent Price]

At this point, I felt physically sick. My knees seemed about to give way, so I sat down in the only chair left undamaged. As I did so, I noticed lumps and streaks of blood spattering the walls, the curtains and the carpet. The inspector must have thought I was going to pass out because he poured me a brandy and we went outside into the fresh air. Gradually, he told me the details.

[Douglas Blackwell]

It happened about 10:30 last evening, sir. It seems that Mr. Emsley, for no apparent reason, suddenly went berserk and attacked his wife with a hatchet, then threw her body into the swimming pool.

[Vincent Price]

But Inspector simply can't be true. Marion. He adored her. The children. What. What happened to them?

[Douglas Blackwell]

Poison, Mr. Price.

[Vincent Price]

My God.

[Douglas Blackwell]

Weed killer. In their milk. Forensics say they were both dead by 9 o'.

[Vincent Price]

Clock. Did Michael Emsby do this too?

[Douglas Blackwell]

I'm afraid so. So it's just about the most hideous murder I've ever known.

[Vincent Price]

After that, the Inspector questioned me about Michael not being a really close friend. I. I couldn't tell him very much, except that he was. Well, he was the gentlest of men and appeared to be completely devoted to his wife and family. There seemed to be no clue to this sudden, unaccountable violence. When I spoke a little later to their old housekeeper, Mrs. Thomas, the poor woman looked deathly white and was clearly distraught.

[Mrs. Smythe]

I keep telling them how kind he was, but I don't think they believe me. There was nothing. Crue. Mr. Emsley.

[Vincent Price]

It was you who raised the alarm, wasn't it?

[Mrs. Smythe]

Oh, yes, Mr. Price. I heard this strange sobbing noise, you see. More like. More like an animal in pain.

[Vincent Price]

What time is that, Miss Toss?

[Mrs. Smythe]

Oh, must have been about midnight, sir. So? Well, I jumped out of bed and. And that's when I found him.

[Vincent Price]

Where?

[Mrs. Smythe]

By the swimming pool, sir. And it was too late to stop anything, Mr. Price. He'd already thrown poor Mrs. Emsley's body in.

[Vincent Price]

Yes, yes. Look. Did he try to attack you?

[Mrs. Smythe]

Oh, no, no, no, sir. Crying like a baby, he was. And when he saw me, see, he told me about the children. Yes, my poor little loves. Oh, it's all my fault, Mr. Price. If only I hadn't let them take up their bedtime drink.

[Vincent Price]

Well, didn't he. Didn't he usually?

[Mrs. Smythe]

Oh, no, sir. No, I did that, you see, always. But last night he insisted.

[Vincent Price]

Insisted? How do you mean?

[Mrs. Smythe]

Well, he. Well, he fairly snatched the mugs off the tray and told me to get out the way.

[Vincent Price]

Well, that. That doesn't sound like him.

[Mrs. Smythe]

No, sir, it wasn't. But. Well, he had been a bit funny for about a fortnight.

[Vincent Price]

You mean bad tempered, then?

[Mrs. Smythe]

Yes, with the children and with Mrs. Emsley, sir.

[Vincent Price]

Well, perhaps he was worried about his work.

[Mrs. Smythe]

I couldn't say that. But I know Mrs. Ansley was worried about him. The way he'd sit in his study for hours, just brooding, not hisself at all.

[Vincent Price]

And he'd been like this for about two weeks?

[Mrs. Smythe]

Just about, sir. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I can't believe it. Mr. Price. I can't believe it.

[Vincent Price]

Before leaving, the inspector reminded me about the portrait. When he saw the transaction slip, suggested that I take the painting back with me to London. It was hanging in Michael's study. For a moment we looked at it together.

[Douglas Blackwell]

A thoroughly evil looking so and so. Isn't he.

[Vincent Price]

Evil? That was it. I didn't know that you could actually smell evil. But you can. That study stank of it. Nathaniel Jeremiah Blackwell seemed to dominate us, and I. I felt an aura of what I can only call satanic triumph emanating from that canvas. But I tried to put this down to imagination in my own wretched state of mind. As I left the house, the police had started to empty the swimming pool of its red water. It was a sickening sight. Within hours, the portrait was once again in the back room of the gallery. And although privately I decided either to lose it or even destroy it, I said nothing to my partners. I could hardly tell them that I destroyed a painting of quality simply because I had a feeling about it. The next morning I flew to New York on my prearranged business trip, and a month later I found myself in a library in Washington, D.C. idling away an hour or two, I came across a newly published encyclopedia of criminals and criminology. Flicking through the pages, I found this entry. Nathaniel Jeremiah Blackwall, 1782-1830. Hanged in London for the murder of his wife and children. Brutally assaulted wife with hatchet throwing body into river. Poison put in children's gruel. Nicknamed Killer Satan. So that was it. Blackwell's evil. It must still be alive. How else could one account for Michael Emsley's behavior? But despite instinct, I couldn't logically dismiss the possibility of coincidence. However, I. I didn't intend to take any chances. That portrait had to be destroyed immediately. I canceled all further engagements and the next day flew back to London. Can you imagine my horror when, on arrival at the gallery, I found the portrait had been sold three weeks previously? I had to work quickly. The record showed it being bought by a Peter Smythe living in Hayward's Heath. I telephoned and spoke to his wife, telling her that there had been some confusion over the portrait, that my partner was unaware that I'd promised it to another client.

[Peter Smythe]

Do you want to buy it back, Mr. Price?

[Vincent Price]

Mrs. Smythe. It would save me a great deal of embarrassment if that were possible.

[Peter Smythe]

Well, so far as I'm concerned, by all means. I can't stand it. It gives me the creeps.

[Vincent Price]

What about your husband?

[Peter Smythe]

Well, he seems quite fond of it. It's hanging in his study.

[Vincent Price]

I see. Do you think I have any chance of persuading him to part with the painting?

[Peter Smythe]

You could come over and try if you like.

[Vincent Price]

Thank you. This evening?

[Peter Smythe]

Yes, but could you make it about 8:30? I'll have got the children to bed by then. We'll have more of a chance to talk.

[Vincent Price]

Yes, I understand completely. 8:30, then. Thank you, Mrs. Smythe. Goodbye. Coincidence. Imagination. I couldn't take the risk this time. I had to back my instinct. I had to get to the Smythe house before the children were put to bed. I arrived at about 8 and left the car parked outside the front gates. As I walked up the long drive, sheer natural curiosity urged me to peer through the window of a small garden shed. Standing on a workbench was a large tin, clearly marked weed killer Poison. I quickened my steps to the house. Approaching the front door, I could now see the gardens which lay at the back. When I saw a large ornamental fish pond, my stomach turned over. Weed killer Water. Coincidence again. I rang the bell.

[Peter Smythe]

Good evening. You must be Mr. Price.

[Vincent Price]

Yes, that's right. I'm sorry I'm a little early.

[Peter Smythe]

Oh, that doesn't matter. I haven't quite got the children settled yet. But do come in.

[Vincent Price]

Thank you.

[Peter Smythe]

Actually, I'm rather glad you are early. I haven't had a chance to tell him about this portrait business yet. But I'd like to explain about my husband.

[Vincent Price]

Is he ill?

[Peter Smythe]

Oh, no, no, not physically, but he's. Well, he's become depressed about life in general, so he may give you the wrong impression.

[Vincent Price]

How do you mean?

[Peter Smythe]

Well, he's always been such a happy, easy going person. No temperament at all. Not like me.

[Vincent Price]

And he's changed.

[Peter Smythe]

Yes? Yes, totally. He's moody, he's irrational. And he's never been bad tempered with me and the children for no reason.

[Vincent Price]

But now, Ms. Knight, how long has this been going on?

[Peter Smythe]

Oh, about three weeks.

[Vincent Price]

Three?

[Peter Smythe]

I can't understand it. It happened almost overnight.

[Vincent Price]

Three weeks. I see. But does he want to talk about it? I mean, communicate?

[Peter Smythe]

Oh, no, no, that. That's just it.

[Mrs. Smythe]

He.

[Peter Smythe]

He takes himself after his study and sits there for hours alone.

[Vincent Price]

Perhaps he's overworked. Maybe he needs a holiday.

[Peter Smythe]

We tried that a week ago.

[Vincent Price]

Was he any better? Much.

[Peter Smythe]

But within a few hours of being home, he. He was just the same. I'm so worried about him. Do forgive me, Mr. Price. Letting my hair down to a complete stranger.

[Vincent Price]

Not at all. You. You've actually been a great help. If there's anything I can do.

[Peter Smythe]

Well, as a matter of fact, I hope things may be improving. Yes. Just before you arrived, Peter insisted he took the children's bedtime drink to them. He almost threw me out of the kitchen.

[Vincent Price]

Mrs. Smythe, where is he now?

[Peter Smythe]

He's in the kitchen making it.

[Vincent Price]

The kitchen door opened and Peter Smythe walked out carrying a tray. There were two mugs of milk on it. I knew that I had to stop him, so I edged to the foot of the stairs. Quickly. I thought if I held out my hand as if to shake his, I could easily send the tray flying onto the floor.

[Peter Smythe]

Darling, this is Mr. Price. He wants.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Get out of my way.

[Vincent Price]

How do you do, Mr. Smike? Oh, shoot me bloody. I'm so sorry. What must you think of me?

[Peter Smythe]

Please, it was an accident.

[Vincent Price]

May I help clear up the mess?

[Peter Smythe]

No, no, no, really, I. I'll do it.

[Vincent Price]

So sorry. Mrs. Smythe, look, I. I know this is hardly the time, but I. I really must talk to your husband about that portrait.

[Peter Smythe]

Yes, of course.

[Vincent Price]

Where did he go?

[Peter Smythe]

Into the study there. The portraits There, too.

[Vincent Price]

Thank you. We crossed the hall to the study. The door was closed.

[Peter Smythe]

Darling. Darling. Peter.

[Vincent Price]

Peter Smythe was sitting at the desk, his back towards us, staring up at the portrait of Nathaniel Blackwall. In a second, I recognized the same smell of evil in that room, and I. I suddenly felt afraid.

[Peter Smythe]

Peter, do you feel all right?

[Vincent Price]

He sprang out of his chair and turned to face us. In his hand, he held a small hatchet.

[Mrs. Smythe]

Peter, what in.

[Vincent Price]

He moved swiftly, like an animal around the desk.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

You bitch.

[Vincent Price]

You whore. I hate you. Peter, what's the matter with you? Quickly, I moved between him and the desk and, standing behind him, grasped both his wrists. I hate you.

[Mrs. Smythe]

Rita, please.

[Vincent Price]

You struggled with me, but I clung on. Finally, I managed to wrench the hatchet out of his grasp. As I swung round, my eyes met those of Nathaniel Jeremiah Blackwell. And in a split second, I knew either that portrait must be destroyed, or we should. His evil was still alive, dominating, commanding. Then Peter Smyth, with a lunatic strength, threw himself at me. I shouted to his wife. Hold him. Hold him. Keep him back. It's the portrait. I must destroy that portrait. Hold him. Hold my. You fool. Leave that portrait.

[Peter Smythe]

Peter, stop it.

[Vincent Price]

Ripped his hands around her neck. Quickly, I struck at the portrait. With the first blow, Peter Smythe released his wife, cried out in pain and reeled around the room. I struck at Blackwell's eyes, his nose, his mouth, his chest. I felt possessed, overwhelmed by anger and Hate. But Smythe, his strength ebbing away with each blow, began to whimper like an animal. Finally, the picture cord gave way and Nathaniel Jeremiah Blackwell slid to the floor.

[Mrs. Smythe]

Peter.

[Peter Smythe]

He's dead.

[Vincent Price]

No, no, no, Mrs. Smythe, he's not dead. Just wait a moment. Be patient.

[Mrs. Smythe]

No, we must.

[Peter Smythe]

We must get a doctor quick to do.

[Vincent Price]

No, no, no. There's no need for that. Your husband has simply been released.

[Peter Smythe]

Peter.

[Mrs. Smythe]

Oh, thank God.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

Darling. What. What happened?

[Mrs. Smythe]

You. You.

[Vincent Price]

Nothing happened, Mr. Smyr.

[Mrs. Smythe]

Will he remember, do you think?

[Vincent Price]

Only as one remembers a nightmare. At first, a few details will remain clear. Then gradually, in time, all will be forgotten. And by you, too, Mrs. Smyrna.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

I haven't hurt you, have I, darling?

[Mrs. Smythe]

No, my love, you haven't. Not you.

[Vincent Price]

What strange powers a painting can have. Sometimes good. But in the case of Nathaniel Jeremiah Blackwell, evil. Hours later, after I'd burned what remained of the canvas, I. I told the Smythes the whole story. There was one thing I didn't tell them, however. But I'll. I'll tell you. When the portrait crashed to the ground and Peter Smythe lay exhausted in his wife's arms, I noticed the vermilion paint of Blackwell's hunting jacket had come off the canvas and lined the knife edge of the hatchet. That was understandable. But why had so much appeared on my hands and streaked my wrists? Old paint should flake or powder, but this was wet, very wet. When I washed my hands a few moments later, I knew why. It was. It wasn't paint. It was blood. Do any of you listening at home have portraits hanging on your walls? Are they of unknown cities? Be careful how you look at them. You never know. Goodbye.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

That was Vincent Price, bringing you the Price of Fear, with Elizabeth Morgan, Douglas.

[Vincent Price]

Blackwell and Alexander John.

[Elizabeth Morgan]

This story, Lot 132, was first recounted and dramatized by Elizabeth Morgan and produced by John Dyess.