Two From Poe by The Black Mass

Summary

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The Horror! (Old Time Radio)

Episode: Two From Poe by The Black Mass
Date: May 23, 2026
Podcast Host: RelicRadio.com
Featured Series: The Black Mass
Original Airdate of Stories: September 20, 1964

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Episode Overview

This episode features two adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe tales as performed by The Black Mass, a celebrated radio series from the 1960s known for its haunting audio artistry and evocative performances. The host introduces two stories—Poe's darkly comedic "A Predicament" and the chilling classic "The Tell-Tale Heart"—each presented in a distinct, immersive audio dramatization.

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Key Discussion Points & Story Summaries

1. Introduction to The Black Mass and Poe’s Legacy [01:01 - 02:49]

• Relic Radio Host introduces the legacy of The Black Mass (1963-1968, KPFA California) and its contributions to horror radio drama.

• Eric Bowersfeld (Black Mass Host) provides context:

  • Notes the show’s history of adapting macabre and supernatural tales.
  • Acknowledges neglecting Poe until now and commits to correcting this with two adaptations tonight.

  “Strangely, we have neglected thus far one of the supreme masters of this art, Edgar Allan Poe. Tonight we make amends by bringing you two of his works.” — Eric Bowersfeld [01:28]

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2. "A Predicament" [02:49 - 14:32]

Summary

• Narrator: Pat Franklin as Signora Psyche Zenobia, with companions Diana the poodle and Pompey, her aging, eccentric servant.
• Setting: The gothic city of Edina, centered around a vast cathedral with an alluring steeple.
• Plot:
  • Zenobia, overtaken by whimsy, climbs the cathedral with Pompey and Diana.
  • Reaches the belfry seeking a view; supported by Pompey, she sticks her head through a small window in the clock face and becomes trapped by the minute hand, which slowly descends upon her neck.
  • Zenobia’s narrative mixes panic with comedic detachment as she describes her predicament, including grotesquely losing both eyes and ultimately having her head severed.
  • Her disembodied head tumbles down to the street; Zenobia reflects darkly on her misfortune, her companions’ fates, and the absurdity of it all.

Notable Quotes & Moments

• The Macabre Climb and Fateful Trap:

  “One little step upon one such little step in the great staircase of human life, how vast a sum of human happiness or misery depends.” — Pat Franklin as Zenobia [03:44]

• On being trapped by the clock’s hand:

  “But too soon discovered the huge, glittering scimitar, like minute hand of the clock had, in the course of its hourly revolution, descended upon my neck. I pulled back at once, but it was too late.” — [08:32]

• Grotesque Comedy:

  “One [eye] actually tumbled out of my head and rolling down the steep side of the steeple, lodged in the rain gutter which ran along the eaves of the building… On account of the sympathy which always exists between two eyes of the same head, however far apart, my other eye was forced to act in concert with the scoundrel one below.” — [10:25]

• Zenobia's Darkly Comic Acceptance:

  “I was not sorry to see the head which had occasioned me so much embarrassment, at length make a final separation from my body.” — [11:40]

Atmosphere and Tone

• The story is a blend of gallows humor, Poe’s gothic style, and absurdity.
• The performance accentuates the grotesque with a wry, matter-of-fact narration, creating a unique balance of horror and dark comedy.

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3. Introduction to "The Tell-Tale Heart" [14:59 - 15:48]

• Transition by Eric Bowersfeld:

  “And now our second selection from the author of the evening will be as familiar to everyone as Hamlet's Soliloquy or the Apostles Creed. And it has been performed by nearly everyone and in every possible medium. We doubt, however, that you've ever heard it quite like the following." — [14:59]

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4. "The Tell-Tale Heart" [15:48 - 29:37]

Summary

• Narrator: Driven by nervous compulsion, the unnamed protagonist insists on his sanity while recounting his obsession with an old man’s “vulture-eye.”
• Plot:
  • The narrator describes how the old man’s unsettling eye drove him to plot murder.
  • Over several nights, he stealthily enters the old man’s room, but cannot strike until the eye is open.
  • On the eighth night, the old man awakens, and, after a tense silence, the narrator bursts in and kills him.
  • With calculated precision, he hides the body under the floorboards.
  • When the police arrive to investigate a reported shriek, the narrator confidently entertains them—until he hears the old man’s heart still beating, growing louder and louder, driving him to confess his crime in a burst of madness.

Notable Quotes & Moments

• Opening Line:

  "Nervous? Very, very, dreadfully nervous I had been, and am. But why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them." — [15:48]

• On the Eye:

  "I think it was his eye. Yes, it was this. One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture. A pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold." — [16:44]

• Chilling Realization:

  “It was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him...” — [18:46]

• The Climax — Guilty Conscience:

  “It was a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton... It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.” — [23:02]

• Final Confession:

  "Villains! Villains!... I admit the deed... Here, here! Tear up the planks! Here, here!... It is the beating of his hideous heart!” — [29:33]

Atmosphere and Tone

• The production harnesses psychological intensity with minimalist sound design.
• The relentless rise in the narrator’s agitation is mirrored in the pacing, culminating in the iconic breakdown.
• The adaptation leans into Poe’s language, drawing the listener deep into the narrator’s fragmented psyche.

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Notable Performances & Production

• Pat Franklin as Signora Psyche Zenobia (“A Predicament”)
• Eric Bowersfeld as The Narrator (“The Tell-Tale Heart”)
• Technical production credits to John Whitey ("A Predicament”) and Fred Seiden (“The Tell-Tale Heart”).
• The episode highlights The Black Mass's penchant for stark, atmospheric storytelling, using voice, pacing, and subtle effects to evoke a sense of dread and dark humor.

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Episode Highlights by Timestamp

• 01:01 — Podcast context and intro to The Black Mass and tonight’s focus on Poe [RelicRadio Host]
• 02:49 — Start of “A Predicament” adaptation [Pat Franklin as Zenobia]
• 08:32 — Zenobia caught by the clock’s hand, onset of horror-comedy sequence
• 10:25 — Both of Zenobia’s eyes fall out in grotesque dark humor
• 11:40 — Decapitation and morbid acceptance
• 14:59 — Transition & introduction to "The Tell-Tale Heart”
• 15:48 — Opening of “The Tell-Tale Heart” [Eric Bowersfeld as Narrator]
• 16:44 — Introduction of the old man’s “vulture-eye”
• 23:02 — The sound of the heart begins, descent into madness
• 29:33 — Climactic confession, “Villains! I admit the deed!”
• 30:03 — Show credits and outro

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Memorable Moments & Quotes

• On the psychological horror of Poe:

  “Hearken and observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell you the whole story.” — Narrator, “The Tell-Tale Heart” [16:20]

• On fate and the grotesque:

  “How vast a sum of human happiness or misery depends.” — Zenobia, “A Predicament” [03:44]

• On madness and guilt:

  “It is the beating of his hideous heart!” — Narrator, “The Tell-Tale Heart” [29:37]

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Conclusion

This episode of The Horror! showcases The Black Mass’s masterful radio adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe, offering listeners a rare blend of the macabre, the morbidly comic, and the psychologically chilling. Both stories exemplify Poe’s fascination with perception, obsession, and the dark corridors of the human mind—brought vividly to life through atmospheric audio drama.

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Transcript

[Narrator/Actor]

Oh, stories. Real stories. And murders too.

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

Story of the supernatural, the supernova, dramatized by fantasy, the mysteries, the unknown. We tell you this, Franklin, so if you wish to avoid the excitement tension of these magnet play, we urge you our latest theory to turn off your radio.

[Podcast Host (Relic Radio Host)]

Welcome back to the Horror. I've got an episode from the Black Mass for you this week. A series that debuted in June of 1963 and aired irregularly until November of 1968 over KPFA in California. This episode features two stories from Edgar Allan Poe. The first, a predicament that's followed by their adaptation of the Telltale Heart. This one aired September 20, 1964.

[Eric Bowersfeld (Host of the Black Mass)]

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Black Mass. Our little establishment is currently being renovated and I would like this evening to dispense with the usual voice of your host and his creaking door and chain of empathy and get right down to business. As you know, this series has been bringing you adaptations of stories about the macabre, the bizarre, the supernatural and the generally discomforting. Strangely, we have neglected thus far one of the supreme masters of this art, Edgar Allan Poe. Tonight we make amends by bringing you two of his works. Our first selection may be unfamiliar to most of you. Surely it is one of the strangest stories you will ever have heard. Here is Pat Franklin as Signora Psyche Zenobia in Edgar Allan Poe's tale a Predicament.

[Pat Franklin (Actor as Signora Psyche Zenobia)]

It was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the goodly city of Edina. I had two humble but faithful companions. Diana, my poodle, sweetest of creatures, and Pompey, my Negro. Sweet Pompey, how shall I ever forget thee? I had taken Pompey's arm. He was 3ft in height and about 70 or perhaps 80 years of age. He had bow legs and was corpulent. Nature had endowed him with no neck. I am Signora Psyche. Zenobia. I formed the third of the party. On a sudden, there presented itself to view a church. A gothic cathedral, vast, venerable, with a tall steeple which towered into the sky. What madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the giddy pinnacle. The door of the cathedral stood invitingly open. My destiny prevailed. I entered the ominous archway. I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round, yes, they went, round and up and round and up and round and up, until I could not help surmising that the upper end of the spiral ladder had been removed. We climbed until only one step remained. One step, One little step upon one such little step in the great staircase of human life, how vast a sum of human happiness or misery depends. I abandoned the arm of Pompey and surmounted the one remaining step, followed immediately by Diana. Pompey alone remained behind, stretching forth his hand to me. Then, in helping him up, he stumbled and fell forward, his accursed head striking me fully in the breast, precipitating me headlong together with himself upon the hard, filthy, digestible floor of the belfry. My revenge was sure, sudden and complete. Seizing him furiously by the wool, with both hands I tore out vast quantities of black, crisp, curly material. Oh, Thompson. That sigh. It sunk into my heart, and our quarrel was quickly made up. We looked about the room for an aperture through which we could survey the city windows. There were none. The sole light admitted into the gloomy chamber proceeded from a square opening about a foot in diameter and about 7ft from the floor. I called Pompey to my side. Pompey. Pompey. I wish to look through that aperture. Here. Stand here just beneath it. Good. Now hold out one of your hands. Good. I step up. Now the other hand. Do I take it on your shoulder. Good. Good. Now I can easily pass my head through the. Ah, what you. Edinburgh. The classic Edina. Oh, just look. The aperture through which I thrust my hand was an opening in the dial plate of a gigantic clock. The hands of the clock were immense. The longest could not have been less than 10ft in length. They were of solid steel, apparently, and their edges appeared to be sharp. But what a view. Lovely, lovely. It might have been half an hour that I was absorbed in the heavenly scenery beneath me, when suddenly I was startled by something very cool which pressed with a gentle pressure upon the back of my neck. I felt alarmed. What could it be?

[Narrator/Actor]

Not Pontiff.

[Pat Franklin (Actor as Signora Psyche Zenobia)]

He was beneath my feet. Not Diana. She was sitting, according to my explicit directions, in the farthest corner of the room. What could it be? Alas, I. But too soon discovered the huge, glittering scimitar, like minute hand of the clock had, in the course of its hourly revolution, descended upon my neck. I pulled back at once, but it was too late. I couldn't get my head back through the mouth of that terrible trap which grew Narrower and narrower. I threw up my hands and endeavoured with all my strength to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I might as well have tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down. It came closer and closer. Pompey. Pompey. Pompey, help me. The ponderous scythe of time, for I now discovered the literally important of that classical phrase, continued down, down. It had already buried its sharp edge a full inch in my flesh. My sensations were growing indistinct and confused. The ticking of the machinery began to amuse me, amused me. My sensations soon bordered unperfect happiness. When the bath buried itself two inches in my neck, I was aroused to a sense of exquisite pain. But a new horror presented itself. My eyes, from the cruel pressure of the machine, were absolutely starting from their sockets. One actually tumbled out of my head and rolling down the steep side of the steeple, lodged in the rain gutter which ran along the eaves of the building. There it lay, just under my nose and the air as it gave itself. Disgusting. Disgusting and inconvenient. On account of the sympathy which always exists between two eyes of the same head, however far apart, my other eye was forced to act in concert with the scoundrel one below. Oh, what relief when the other eye dropped out. Both rolled out of the gutter together.

[Narrator/Actor]

Down,

[Pat Franklin (Actor as Signora Psyche Zenobia)]

down,

[Narrator/Actor]

down.

[Pat Franklin (Actor as Signora Psyche Zenobia)]

The bar, now 4 inches and a half deep. Only a little skin left to cut through sensation of entire relief in a matter of minutes. At 25 minutes past 5 in the afternoon, precisely the huge minute hand had proceeded sufficiently far on its terrible revolution to sever the small remainder of my neck. I was not sorry to see the head which had occasioned me so much embarrassment, at length make a final separation from my body. It first rolled down the side of the steeple, then lodged for a few seconds in the gutter, and then made its way with a plunge into the middle of the street. There was nothing now to prevent my getting down from my elevation, and I did so well. Hello there. Pompey. Pompey. Pompey. Watch the stair. Oh, Pompey, dear Pompey. What it was that Pompey saw, so very peculiar in my appearance, I have never yet been able to find out. Then I turned to Diana, the darling of my heart. Alas, what a horrible vision affronted me. Was that a rat sulking in his hole? Are these the picked bones of the little angel cruelly devoured by the monster? Sweet creature. She too has sacrificed herself in my behalf. Ah, Douglas. Niggerless, headless. What now remains for the unhappy Senora Psyche, Zenobia. Alas, nothing. Nothing. I have done.

[Narrator/Actor]

It.

[Eric Bowersfeld (Host of the Black Mass)]

That was Pat Franklin in a Predicament by Edgar Allan Poe. We hope it will send you searching among the lesser known works of Poe for many comparable little gems. And now our second selection from the author of the evening will be as familiar to everyone as Hamlet's Soliloquy or the Apostles Creed. And it has been performed by nearly everyone and in every possible medium. We doubt, however, that you've ever heard it quite like the following.

[Narrator/Actor]

Two. Nervous? Very, very, dreadfully nervous. I had been, and am.

But why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them.

Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell.

How then am I mad?

Hearken and observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first

the idea entered my brain, but once conceived, it haunted me day and night.

Object, there was none.

Passion, there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me, had never given me insult.

For his gold, I had no desire.

I think it was his eye. Yes, it was this. One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture. A pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold. And so, by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man and thus rid myself of the isle forever.

Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded, with what caution, with what foresight, with what dissimulation.

I went to work.

I was never kinder to the old

man than during the whole week before I came. About midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it, oh, so gently. And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern. All closed, closed, so that no light shone out. And then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrusted in. I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening, so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed.

When would a madman have been so wise as this?

And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously. Oh, so cautiously, cautiously, for the hinges creaked. I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture. And this I Did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight. But I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work.

For it was not the old man

who vexed me, but his evil eye. And every morning, when the day broke,

I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone and inquiring

how he had passed the night. So, you see, he would have had

to be a very profound old man indeed to suspect that every night just

at 12, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. I watch his minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. And never before that night had I

felt the extent of my own powers. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, not even a dream of

my secret deeds or thoughts.

I fairly chuckled at the idea.

And perhaps he heard me.

But he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled.

You may think that I go back. But no. His room was as black as pitch for the thick darkness, for the shutters were close fastened for fear of robbers. And so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door. And I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in and was about to open the lantern when my

thumb slipped upon the tin, fastening. And the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, who's there?

I kept quite still and said nothing for a whole hour. I did not move a muscle. In the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening, just as I have done night after night, harkening to the death watchers in the war. Presently I heard a slight groan, and

I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief. Oh, no. It was the slow stifled sound that rises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe.

I knew the sound well. Just at midnight when all the world slept.

It has welled up in my own bosom, deepening with its dreadful echo the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt.

I chuckled at heart.

I knew he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when

he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them

causeless, but he could not.

It is nothing but the wind in the chimney.

It is only a mouse crossing the floor.

It is merely a cricket which has made a single Chirp. Unless he has been trying to comfort

himself with these suppositions. But he had found all in vain, all in vain. Because death, in approaching him, had stalked

with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, though he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time,

very patiently, without hearing him lie down,

I resolved to open a little, a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it. You cannot imagine how still still, until at length a single dim ray, like

the thread of the spider, shot out

from the crevice and full upon the

vulture it was open wide, wide open. And I grew furious as I gazed upon it.

I saw it with perfect distinctness, all

a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow of my bones.

I could see nothing else, nothing else

in the old man's face or person, for I had directed the ray, as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And now.

Have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses? Now I say. There came to my ears a low,

dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart.

It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still.

[Pat Franklin (Actor as Signora Psyche Zenobia)]

I scarcely breathed.

[Narrator/Actor]

I held the lantern motionless.

I tried to see how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meanwhile the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment. Do you mark me well? I have told you that I am a nervous man. So I am. Now, at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house. So strange a noise as this excited me into uncontrollable terror.

For some moments longer I recrained and stood still.

But the beating grew louder, louder. I thought the heart must burst.

Now a new anxiety seized me.

The sound would be heard by a neighbour.

Ah. Ah.

The old man's hour had come. With a loud yell I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once. In an instant I dragged him to the floor and pulled a heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily to find that

he'd so far done but the minutes. The heart beat on With a muffled sound.

This, however, did not vex me.

It would not be hurt. To the walls. At length it ce. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eyes would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. First of all, I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the

arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scanty.

I then replaced the boards, oh, cleverly,

so cunningly that no human eye, not even his, could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out, no stain of any kind, no blood, spot whatever.

I had been too wary for that.

A tub had caught all.

When I had made an end of these labours. It was 4 o', clock, still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door.

I went down to open it with a light heart, for what had I now to feel? There entered three men who introduced themselves

with perfect suavity as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night.

Suspicion of foul play had been aroused. Information had been lodged at a police

office and they, the officers, had been

[Eric Bowersfeld (Host of the Black Mass)]

deputed to search the premises.

[Narrator/Actor]

I smiled, for what had I to fear?

I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own. In a dream. The old man I mentioned was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search, search well, search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasure, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which

repose the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily,

they chatted familiar things.

But ere long I felt myself getting

[Eric Bowersfeld (Host of the Black Mass)]

pale and wished them gone.

[Narrator/Actor]

My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears. But still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct. It continued and became more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and

gained definitiveness until at length I found that the noise was not within my ear. No doubt I now grew very pale.

But I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased, and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound, much such a sound as a watch

makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath, and yet the

officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently, but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles in a high key with violent gesticulations, but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? Paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observation of the men. But the noise steadily increased. Oh, God, what could I do? I foamed, I raved, I swore. I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting and grated it upon the boards. But the noise rose over all and gradually increased. It grew louder, louder, louder.

[Pat Franklin (Actor as Signora Psyche Zenobia)]

And still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled.

[Narrator/Actor]

Was it possible they heard not Almighty God? No, no. They heard. They suspected. They knew. They were making a mockery of my horror. And this, I think, that anything was better than this agony. If anything was more tolerable than this delusion. I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer. I felt that I must scream or die. Now again. Hark. Louder. Louder. Louder. Louder.

Villains.

Villains. December no more.

[Pat Franklin (Actor as Signora Psyche Zenobia)]

I admit the deed.

[Narrator/Actor]

Here, here. Tear up the plants. Here, here, here. It is the feeling of his h.

[Eric Bowersfeld (Host of the Black Mass)]

That was, of course, the Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe. This evening we brought you two tales by Poe. The first was A Predicament with Pat Franklin as Signora Zenobia. Technical production was by John Whitey. The technical production for the Tell Tale Heart was by Fred Seiden and performed for you by your host of the Black Mass, Eric Bowersfeld. Two weeks from tonight, we shall be back again all dressed up in a new format presently being tailored by Peter Winkler. Join us at that time. Good night.

[Podcast Host (Relic Radio Host)]

There's more from the Black Mass, the Horror and all of the Relic Radio podcasts at the website relicradio.com. you can donate through that website if you'd like to help support this and all of the shows. Thanks to those who have. Thanks for joining me this week. I'll be back tomorrow with Strange Tales and next Saturday with our next episode of the Horror.