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The Horror! (Old Time Radio)
The Ash Tree by The Black Mass
This week on The Horror, The Black Mass brings us their adaptation of The Ash Tree by M.R. James. This story aired December 18, 1963. Listen to more from The Black Mass https://traffic.libsyn.com/forcedn/e55e1c7a-e213-4a20-8701-21862bdf1f8a/TheHorror1200.mp3 Download TheHorror1200 | Subscribe | Spotify | Support The Horror If you enjoy The Horror and would like to help support it, visit donate.relicradio.com for more information. Thank You!
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O stories real stories that murdered do turn out your lights. Turn them out. Good evening. Come in, won't you? What's the matter? Surely you're not nervous? Perhaps if you can't restore we are meant to call from out of the past stories strange and weird tales of mystery and terror by radio's masters of the ma story supernatural the supernormal dramatized by fact faith the mystery of the unknown. We tell you this Frank Franklin. So if you wish to avoid the excitement tensioning of these magnets theory return all your radio.
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This is the horror old fashioned fear. Every Saturday@ RelicRadio.com we're going to hear from the Black Mass this week. A series produced between 1963 and 1967 aired intermittently over two stations in California, one in Berkeley, one in Los Angeles. 31 episodes were produced. Story today we're going to hear is based on the Mr. James story the Ash Tree. This one aired December 18, 1963.
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Everyone who has travelled over eastern England knows the smaller country houses with which it is studded. The rather dank buildings, usually in the Italian style, surrounded with parks of some eighty to a hundred acres. I have to tell you of a curious series of events which happened in such a house. It is Castringham hall in Suffolk. I think a good deal has been done to the building since the period of my story. One feature that marked out the house from a score of others is gone. As you looked at it from the park, you saw on the right a great old ash tree growing within half a dozen yards of the wall and almost or quite touching the building with its branches. I suppose it had stood there ever since Castringham ceased to be a fortified place. At any rate, it had well nigh attained its full dimensions in the year 1690. In that year, the district in which the house is situated was the scene of a number of witch trials. Castringham contributed a victim to the extortions. Mrs. Mothersole was her name, and she differed from the ordinary run of village witches only in being rather better off and in a more influential position. Efforts were made to save her by several reputable farmers of the parish. But what seems to have been fatal to the woman was the evidence of the then proprietor of Castringham Hall, Sir Matthew Fell. Sir Matthew, will you tell the court please what you saw regarding Mrs. Mothersole on the evenings that you mentioned? Well, on three different occasions, from my window I watched her, Mrs. Mothersole, at the full of the moon, gathering sprigs from the ash tree near my house. She had climbed into the branches and was cutting off small twigs with a peculiarly curved knife. And as she did so, she seemed to be talking to herself. On each occasion, I did my best to capture the woman, but she had always taken alarm at some accidental noise I had made. All I could see when I got down to the garden Was a hare running across the path in the direction of the village. On the third night, I followed her at what speed I could. I went straight to Mrs. Mothersole's house. I had to wait a quarter of an hour battering at her door. And when she came out, she was very cross and apparently very sleepy, as if just out of bed. And as I had no good explanation to offer, I had to apologize rather embarrassingly. Mainly on this evidence, though there was much more of a less striking and unusual kind from other parishioners. Mrs. Mothersole was found guilty and condemned to die. She was hanged a week after the trial with five or six more unhappy creatures. The other victims were apathetic or broken down with misery. But Mrs. Mothersole was, as in life, so in death, of a very different temper. Oh, her poisonous rage did so work upon the bystanders, yea, even upon the young man, that it was constantly affirmed of all that saw her that she presented the very living aspect of a mad devil. Yet she offered no resistance to the officers of the law. Only she looked upon those that laid hands upon her with so direful and venomous an aspect. Ay, ay, the mere thought of it. Pride inwardly upon my mind. For six months after, however, all that Mrs. Mothersole is reported to have said were seemingly meaningless words. There will be guests at the hall. There will be guests at Castringham hall, Sir Matthew. There will be guests at the hall, Sir Matthew. Fell, then deputy sheriff, was present at the execution and was not unimpressed at the bearing of the woman. He shared certain misgivings over the whole business with the vicar of his parish as they rode from the scene of the gallows. I'll say it again, Mr. Crome. My evidence at the trial was not given willingly. I'm not at all specially infected with the witch finding mania, But I declare that I could not give any other account of the matter than what I had given, and I could not possibly have been mistaken in what I saw. Ah, but the whole transaction has been repugnant to me. I am a man who likes to be on pleasant terms with those about me. Yes, those are my sentiments, Mr. Crone. And the good vicar applauded them, as any reasonable man would have done. And Was easily persuaded to take a late supper at the hall when Mr. Crome thought of starting for home. About half past nine o'clock, Sir Matthew and he took a turn on the gravelled walk at the back of the house. They were in sight of the ash tree, which I described as growing near the windows of the building, when Sir Matthew stopped. Mr. Crowe, look there a moment. Where, Sir Matthew? At the ash tree. There, look. What is that? That runs up and down the trunk of it? It is never a squirrel. They will all be in their nests by now. Ah, yes, I see some sort of moving creature. What can you make of it, Mr. Crow? Nothing of its colour in this moonlight, Sir Matthew. But now it's gone. Was it a squirrel? Well, for an instant there was a sharp outline, and I could swear, though it sounds foolish, that squirrel or not, it had more than four legs. Ay, more than four legs, Sir Matthew. Next day, Sir Matthew fell was not downstairs at six in the morning, as was his custom, nor at seven, nor yet at eight. Hereupon the servants went and knocked at his chamber door. When the door was at last opened from the outside, they found their master dead and black. Mr. Crome came as quickly as he could to the hall, and was shown to the room where the dead man lay. Many years later, Mr. Crome's notes regarding this incident were found among his papers. They showed how genuine a respect and sorrow he felt for Sir Matthew, and they also threw some light upon the common beliefs of the time. There was not any the least trace of an entrance having been forced to the chamber, but the casement stood open, as my poor friend would always have it in this season. He had his evening drink of small ale in a silver vessel of about a pint measure, and to night had not drunk it out. This drink was examined by the physician from Bury, a Mr. Hodgkin's, who could not, however, as he afterward declared upon his oath before the coroner's quest, discover that any matter of a venomous kind was present in it. For as was natural in the great swelling and blackness of the corpse, There was talk made among the neighbours of poison. The body was very much disordered as it lay in the bed, being twisted after so extreme a sort as gave too probable a conjecture, that my worthy friend and patron had expired in great pain and agony, and what is as yet unexplained, and to myself the argument of some hard and artful design in the perpetrators of this barbarous murther was this, that the women which were entrusted with the laying out of the corpse and washing it, being both sad persons and very well respected in their mournful profession, came to me in great pain and distress, both of mind and body, saying what was indeed confirmed. Upon the first view.
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We had no sooner touched the breast of the corpse with our naked hands. Than we felt a violent smot and aching in our palms.
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Ay, and the swelling. Oh, the swelling from the palms to the elbows. So immoderately the pain still continuing, that for many weeks afterward we were forced to lay by the extent the size of our corpse.
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And yet no mark to be seen on the skin. No mark seen on the skin.
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Upon hearing this, I sent for the physician. And we made as careful a proof as we were able by the help of a small magnifying lens of the condition of the skin on this part of the body. But we could not detect any matter of importance beyond a couple of small punctures or pricks, which we then concluded were the spots by which the poison might be introduced. Remembering that ring of Pope Borgia with other known specimens of the horrid art of the Italian poisoners of the last age. So much is to be said of the symptoms seen on the courts. As to what I am to add, it is merely my own experiment and to be left to posterity to judge whether there be anything of value therein. There was on the table by the bedside a Bible of the small size in which my friend used Knightley. And upon his first rising to read a set portion, and I taking it up not without a tear duly paid to him, it came into my thoughts to make trial of that old and by many accounted, superstitious practice of drawing the swords. I must needs admit that by my trial not much assistance was afforded me. Yet as the cause and origin of these dreadful events may hereafter be searched out, I set down the results in the case. It may be found that they pointed the true quarter of the mischief To a quicker intelligence than my own. I made then three trials, opening the book and placing my finger upon certain words which gave. In the first, these words from St. Luke, chapter 13, verse 7. Cut it down. Cut it down under. In the Second Isaiah, chapter 13, verse 20. It shall never be inhabited. It shall never be inhabited. And upon the third Experiment, Job, chapter 39, verse 30. A young ones also suck up blood. A young ones also suck up blood. This is all that need be quoted from Mr. Crome's paper. Sir Matthew Fell was duly coffined and laid into the earth. His son, Sir Matthew ii, succeeded to the title and estates. It is to be mentioned, though the fact is not surprising, that the new baronet did not occupy the room in which his father had died, nor indeed was it slept in by anyone but an occasional visitor during the whole of his occupation. He died in 1735, and I do not find that anything particular marked his reign, save a curiously constant mortality among his cattle and livestock in general, which showed a tendency to increase as time went on. The second, Sir Matthew, was duly succeeded by his son, Sir Richard. It was in his time that the great family pew was built out on the north side of the parish church. So large were the squire's ideas that several of the graves on that unhallowed side of the building had to be disturbed to satisfy his requirements. Among them was that of Mrs. Mothersole. A certain amount of interest was excited in the village when it was known that the famous witch, still remembered by a few, was to be exhumed. And the feeling of surprise and indeed disquiet was very strong when it was found that though her coffin was fairly sound and unbroken, there was no trace whatever inside of it of body, bones or dust. One morning it was in 1754, Sir Richard woke after a night of discomfort. Mrs. Chiddock, I can certainly not sleep in that room again. Oh, sir, the chimney smoked persistently, yet it was so cold that the fire had to be kept up. Furthermore, something had so rattled about the window in the wind that no man could get a moment's peace. I'll certainly not sleep in that room again, Mrs. Chiddock. I shall select a new room this morning.
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As you say, sir. There's the fine large study across the hall, if I may suggest.
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No, no. It has an eastern aspect. I must have a room with a western lookout so that the sun does not wake me early. And the room must be out of the way. I don't want servants forever passing the door.
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Well, Sir Richard, you know there is but one room like that in the house.
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Oh, which may that be?
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Why, sir, that is Sir Matthew's room. The west chamber.
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Well, put me in there. I lie there to night.
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But no one has slept there these 40 years. The air has hardly been changed since Sir Matthew died.
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There. Well, then, it's time the air be changed. Come along, Mrs. Chiddock. I'll see the chamber at least. So it was opened. And indeed the smell was very close and earthy. Sir Richard crossed to the window, threw the shutters back and flung open the casement. The view was almost entirely blocked off by the ash tree.
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Oh, sir, the Tree. It makes the room so oppressive, so dampish, sir.
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Well, we'll shortly take care of that. Air the room, Mrs. Chiddock. All today. And move my bed furniture in in the afternoon. When the Bishop of Kilmore arrives, you can put him in my old room.
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But sir, there's a fearfulness about this room. It's the very room.
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Yes, yes, it is. Here my grandfather died. Make no difficulties about it, Mrs. Chiddock. I do not wish to listen to any more. Be about the airing. Be about the airing. In the afternoon the Bishop of Kilmore arrived. He had risked the approaching storm in order to have an hour with Sir Richard before the arrival of the other guests. The bishop had brought with them a manuscript come upon while exploring the papers and other remains of the once vicar of Castringham. And for the first time Sir Richard was confronted with the enigmatical sortes biblici of Mr. Crome, which you have already heard. They amused him a great deal. Well, my grandfather's Bible gave one prudent piece of advice. Cut it down. That stands for the ash tree. May rest assured I shall not neglect it. Such a nest of Katarzan agues was never seen. I was wondering, sir, your parlour here contains the family books. Ah, yes. I wonder whether the old prophet is there yet. Let's see. The Bibles are kept over here and I know the one. A thick dumpy. Ah, yes, here it is. Look here, look here. Sure enough, the inscriptions. The inscriptions on the fly leave to Matthew fell from his loving Godmother Ann Aldis. 2 September 1659. Well, well, your lordship. It would be no bad plan to test him again, eh? I'll wager we'll get several family names from the Chronicles. Let's see now. Ah, see. What do we have here? Thou shalt seek me in the morning and I shall not be. Thou shalt seek me in the morning and I shall not be. Later came the other guests. Dinner at 5. Wine, cards, supper and dispersal to bed. Next morning, Sir Richard is disinclined to take his gun. With the rest he talks instead with the Bishop of Kilmore. As the two were walking along the terrace and talking over certain alterations and improvements for the house, the bishop suddenly pointed to the window of the west room. You could never get one of my Irish flocks to occupy that room, Sir Richard. Ah, why is that, my lord? It is in fact my own room. Well, our Irish peasantry will always have it that it brings the worst of luck to sleep near an ash tree. And Your fine growth of ash is not two yards from your chamber window. Perhaps it has given you a touch of its quality already. You do not seem, if I may say it, so much the fresher for your night's rest as your friends would like to see you. Yes, that, or something else. It is true. Cost me my sleep from 12 to 4, my lord. But the tree is to come down to morrow, so I shall not hear much more from it. Ah, I applaud your determination. It can hardly be wholesome to have the air you breathe strained, as it were, through all that leafage. Your lordship is right there, I think. But I had not my window open last night. It was rather the noise that went on, no doubt from the twigs sweeping the glass, that kept me open eyed. Oh, I think that can hardly be, Sir Richard. Here you can see it from this point. None of those nearest branches can touch your casement. Unless there were a gale, and there was none of that last night, or they missed the panes by a foot. No, sir. True. What then will it be, I wonder, that scratched and rustled so? Ay, and cover the dust on my sill with lines and marks. Ah, well, sir, might it be the rats? The rats that must have come up through the ivy? Of course, of course, the rats. It was the rat. So the day passed quietly, and night came, and the party dispersed to their rooms and wished Sir Richard a better night. And now we are in his bedroom with the light out and the squire in bed. The night outside is still and warm, so the window stands open. There is very little light about the bedstead, but there is a strange movement there. It seems as if Sir Richard were moving his head rapidly to and fro, with only the slightest possible sound. And now you would guess, so deceptive is the half darkness that he had several heads, round and brownish, which move back and forward even as low as his chest. It is a horrible illusion. Is it nothing more? Ah, there. Something drops off the bed with a soft plump, like a kitten, and is out of the window in a flash, another four of them, and after that there is quiet again. Thou shalt seek me in the morning and. And I shall not be. Thou shalt seek me in the morning, and I shall not be. As with Sir Matthew, so with Sir Richard, dead and black in his bed, a pale and silent party of guests and servants gathered under the window. When the news was known, ominous guesses were hazarded. Italian poisoners, popish emissaries, infected the air. But the Bishop of Kilmore looked up at the ash tree he noticed that a white tomcat was crouching in the lower boughs, looking down the hollow which years had gnawed in the trunk. It was watching something inside the tree with great interest. Suddenly it got up and cranned over the hole. Well now, kitty, what do you see There, inside the ash? Careful. Careful of the edge there. Careful now. But the bit of edge on which it stood gave way and the cat went slithering in. Everyone looked up at the noise of the fall. It is known to most of us that a cat can cry, but few of us have heard, I hope, such a yell as came out of the trunk of the great ash. Two or three screams there were, and then the slight and muffled noise of some commotion or struggling was all that came. But Lady Mary Harvey fainted outright, and the housekeeper stopped her ears and fled till she fell on the terrace. The Bishop of Kilmore and Sir William Kentfield stayed. There is something more than we know of in that tree, my lord. I'm for an instant search. I agree with you there, Sir William. We must get to the bottom of this. The secret of these terrible deaths is there in the ash tree. A ladder was brought, and one of the gardeners went up and looking down the hollow could detect nothing but a few dim indications of something moving. They got a lantern and the gardener let it down by a rope. Cautiously. They saw the yellow light upon his face as he bent over. And suddenly the face became struck with an incredulous terror and loathing. He fell back from the ladder, letting the lantern fall inside the tree. Quick, Sir William, catch the man. What has he seen? What has he seen? He's in a dead faint, my lord. It will be some time, I fear, before any word can be got from him. Oh. Oh, but look to the tree. Look to the tree, my lord. It's a flame. The bystanders made a ring at some yards distance, and Sir William and the bishop sent men to get what weapons and tools they could. For clearly, whatever might be using the tree as its lair would be forced out by the fire. And so it was. First at the fork we saw a round body covered with fire the size of a man's head appear very suddenly, then seem to collapse and fall back this five or six times. Then a smaller ball leapt into the air and fell on the grass, where after a moment it lay still. We went as near as we dared to it. And look, your lordship, it's an enormous spider. The remains, veinous and seared of an enormous spider. And as the fire burned more terrible bodies like that began to break out from the trunk, and it was seen that these were covered with grayish hair. There will be guests at the hall. There will be guests at Castridom hall, the bathroom. There will be guests at the hall. All that day the ash burned, and until it fell to pieces, the men stood about it, and from time to time killed the brutes as they darted out. At last there was a long interval when none appeared, and we cautiously moved in and examined the roots of the tree. We found below it a rounded hollow place in the earth, wherein were two or three bodies of these creatures that had been plainly smothered by the smoke. And what is to me more curious, at the side of this den, against the wall, was crouching the anatomy or skeleton of a human being, with the skin dried upon, the bones having some remains of black hair. It was pronounced by those that later examined it to be undoubtedly the body of a woman, and clearly dead for a period of 50 years.
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There's more from the Black Mass, the Horror, the Relic Radio podcasts and our shoutcast stream@ Relicradio.com Lots to listen to there. You can find the podcasts on Spotify now, all in one place. Search for relic radionetwork or relicradio. That'll pop up. Or click on the link in the show notes. And if you'd like to help support this and all of that, visit donate. Relicradio.com it's how all of this is made possible. My thanks to all those who have helped out and thanks for joining me this week. Be back tomorrow with Strange Tales and next Saturday with our next episode of the Horror.