Heart Starts Pounding: Horrors, Hauntings, and Mysteries - The Face In The Darkness // A Ghost Story

Episode Date: December 19, 2024

Enjoy this rendition of Charles Dickens' ghost story "To Be Read At Dusk", and happy holidays! Subscribe on Patreon for bonus content and to become a member of our Rogue Detecting Society. Patrons have access to bonus content as well as other perks. And members of our High Council on Patreon have access to our after-show called Footnotes, where I share my case file with our producer, Matt. Apple subscriptions are now live! Get access to bonus episodes and more when you subscribe on Apple Podcasts. Follow on Tik Tok and Instagram for a daily dose of horror. To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Well, it's that time of year again. Time for the Heart Starts Pounding annual tradition of telling ghost stories near the holidays. If you're new here and you're not familiar, back in the day before electricity and any of that, it was tradition to gather around the hearth in your home and share a ghost story at Christmas time. Halloween wasn't the only holiday where people got spooked. And though we've lost that tradition over the years, we're gonna bring it back. And I have a good one for you today. It's based on the story,

To Be Read At Dusk by Charles Dickens. It's a story of a woman who saw something so horrifying, she almost didn't believe it. And just a reminder, we have lots and lots of bonus episodes to catch up on on Patreon and Apple podcasts. This month's bonus episode is going to be on Missing 411, but we also have ones like

Cursed Paintings, Creepy Games, The Dark and Morbid History of Nursery Rhymes, and so much more. If you have a long drive coming up this holiday season, it might be a good time to catch up. And next week is going to be our last episode of the year, and it's going to be a little different. Think of it kind of like an end of year report where I'll reflect on the show this past year. I'll also share some data on the show and our listeners,

and I'll give you some of my favorite darkly curious recommendations of the best documentaries and movies I watched that I think you should check out. That episode will be available wherever you get your podcasts, including the Odyssey app. But for now, let's dive in. It's when your heart starts pounding. One, two, three, four, five. There were five of them. Five resort workers standing around the gondola at the top of the mountain in Aspen, Colorado.

They were waiting for the final stragglers to finish their drinks at the chalet and ride back down for their apres ski and dinner reservations. I was one of those stragglers, warming my hands on a hot coffee while I watched the sunset. But I didn't have any dinner reservations, so I sat on a bench alone and did what rogue detecting society members do best. Observe. The sky was clear and gray, except for a fiery orange halo where the sun was singing behind the highest peak. The group grew quiet. And then the oldest, a stout wrinkled man with a thick salt and pepper beard, pulled a flask from his jacket and poured a little out on the hard-packed snow. He didn't say what for, and no one seemed to need any explanation. They simply waited for him to complete this ritual,

which was timed to the sun's disappearance behind the mountains and resumed their conversation. "'Hell no,' said a man in his mid-30s with a boyish look. "'If you're talking about ghosts, but I'm not talking about ghosts,' said the older man taking a swig from his flask. "'Okay, then what?' the younger man said. If I knew, I'd tell you.

Maybe another drink will clear your mind, joked a girl who looked like she may still have been in high school. It usually does, laughed the man, raising the flask to his lips. It's like this. When someone is coming to see you, who you're not expecting, but they somehow send some invisible messenger ahead and put the idea of them into your head all day, what do you call that? When you walk along a crowded street in Denver or New York or LA and think that some stranger you pass reminds you of your friend Jack, and then another stranger reminds you of him,

and another until it feels like you have a premonition you'll run into your actual friend Jack at any moment. Which you do, even though you thought he was on the other side of the country. That's the thing, but what do you call it? It happened to me down the mountain just the other day, said the young girl. It happens all the time, that's the point,

said the old timer. It's as common as a cold, and not just that. I was a ski instructor when I was a young man, if you can believe it. That you were a younger man? Asked the younger ski bum, laughing. Well anyways, I was doing private instruction for a family in Sun Valley one winter. He was a banker and she was a designer or something in New York and every morning I'd go up with her and her daughter. Well, one morning we'd just gotten off the

lift and we were waiting for her daughter to get on her board. This was when everyone decided to be a snowboarder because it was cooler. It is cooler, interjected the young girl. Maybe so, but we were waiting and all of a sudden this woman drops her poles and says, "'My sister is dead.' And I'm looking, thinking maybe she got a message on her phone, but it was still in her pocket. "'I just felt her warm hand on my cheek,' she said."

We skied straight down and her husband was there waiting. He'd just gotten word. Her sister had died. And it must have been more or less at the very moment she said she felt her hand. Now, what do you call that? Antonio, tell them the story about that young European woman, the new bride you worked for in LA. A dark-haired man in his early 40s who had been leaning casually against the rail shifted

his stance. He took a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket and fitted one of the last ones between his lips as he dug around for a lighter. The older man extended his own and Antonio dipped his cigarette into the flame and took a deep drag. The Romanian woman, he said, I don't like to think of it more than I have to. Well, now you have to because it's just the sort of thing

I'm talking about, said the older man tucking away his lighter. I'm not sure what sort of thing it is, replied Antonio. I only know it's true. So I'll tell you, he said, looking around to each member of the group, and you can make up your own mind about what it is. This is the story he told the group. This episode is brought to you by Ro. Curious about Azembek or Wigovie,

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I was made. Dexter Original Sin, new series now streaming, exclusively on Paramount Plus, a mountain of entertainment. 15 years ago, I got a call from the agency I was driving for in Los Angeles. I was driving mostly limo, shuttling celebrities back and forth from the airport. I'd drive in the spring and summer and then go back to the mountains in the fall.

Anyways, they said they'd gotten a request for someone to drive a couple all summer, so they wanted me to go meet the husband and see if it would be a good fit. I showed up to the hotel, a nice one in Hollywood, and the husband, I'll call him Mr. London since that's where he was from, he was a young guy, British, with a lot of money, family money from what I gathered. Anyways, he was handsome, smart, polite. He'd just gotten married. And he and his new wife were going to spend the summer in LA before going back to the UK where he was supposed to start working at the family office.

I don't know what kind of office. I didn't really care. It didn't seem like he did either. They weren't familiar with the city, and they wanted someone who knew their way around. That I spoke Spanish was another plus since his wife wanted to learn, but anyways, we got along alright and so he offered me the job. I was supposed to start in a week, once his wife and her assistant joined him. They'd

rented a place in the hills, Benedict Canyon, some old mansion that had been owned by some famous actor or studio head or both. That's what he told me. It wouldn't be ready until the end of the month, so for now they were living in a hotel. Anyways, I left feeling glad to have a steady paycheck and I waited for his call the next week. I was supposed to pick up his wife and her assistant at the airport late on Tuesday and then drive them to the hotel.

I had no trouble spotting them. Miss London was young, beautiful, tall with dark, close-cropped black hair and a pale, not unhealthy complexion. Her assistant, Carolina, was a very pretty girl with bright blonde hair and a charming laugh. And that was the first thing I heard. That laugh. They were laughing as I helped them get their bags into the car, and they laughed more or less the whole way to the hotel, stopping only to ask questions about what they saw out the window. Carolina had gone to school with Miss London and wanted to be an actress, so they hired her on as a favor. And anyway, Mr. London was glad for the company for his wife since neither of them knew anyone in LA.

They were fun people and I looked forward to seeing Carolina again the next morning after I dropped them off. There was still a week and a half until the mansion would be ready, so I spent the days shuttling them, often the three of them, around the city. Shopping malls and museums. The Getty was a favorite, not the one by the water but the one high up on the hill, and the missus made me take her there twice more that first week. It was there, as she was staring out

toward the city from the overlook while Carolina and I had coffee at a table nearby, that I noticed for the first time a sort of cloud, a dark cloud, come over the young bride. It was a sunny day, but she had a grim look, as if she was watching an invisible storm roll in. I asked Carolina about it. Is she well? Is she homesick? No, no, she loves it here, she replied. She's very happy.

They are very happy. She prefers the sunshine to the gloom of London. She'd love it if they didn't go back at all, I think. So would I, of course," she said, smiling. I was glad she said so, but I couldn't match her words to the expression I saw on young Miss London's face. And stranger still, Carolina, whose gaze always met mine, never looked up from her coffee, even as she smiled.

She just stirred it around in an endless dark pool. I thought of pressing her on it but when I looked up Miss London was coming our way as happy as could be. So Antonio should we head back for dinner? And so we did and I thought no more of it until the day before we went to move into the mansion. Mr. London was meeting with one of his father's business partners, and I had taken the girls to the pier in Santa Monica, and again, Ms. London wandered off and stared across the ocean like she was looking into the heart of a storm. And again, I asked Carolina what was troubling her. If you have to know, said Carolina, and this is just between us, but…

She feels she's haunted. Haunted by what, I asked. Well, by a dream. What kind of dream, I wondered. By the dream of a face. See, for three nights before her wedding, she saw a face in a dream. Always the same face. It must be a terrible face, I said.

But it isn't. It's the face of a remarkable looking man, dressed in all black, with black hair and a neat gray beard. Handsome but reserved and secretive, not kind or unkind, but unreadable. At least that's how she described it to me. And this man, does she know him? I asked. No, not at all. She says it isn't like any face she's ever seen, but I told her that can't be true.

We can't make up faces. They're always someone we've seen, in a crowd or on television. It's impossible to make up a face. That's what they say anyway. So this man must be someone she's met. I was curious about this dream, so I asked what happened in it. What did the man do? Carolina explained that the first night he just stood at the door, staring at Miss London

from the darkness, as if he were about to enter, but he never moved an inch. The second night she had this dream, he was at the foot of her bed, unmoving, still staring. But it was the third night that really chilled Miss London down to her bones. The third night, he was so close, she said that she felt his breath. Cold, icy breath on her cheek. Does she keep having these dreams? I asked. Not the dream, but she's having these dreams? I asked. Not the dream, but she's haunted by the memory of it.

It's the memory that really troubles her. But why? I wondered. She doesn't know, but I heard her tell Mr. London last night that she's worried she'll see his face somewhere. I could see that the worry was real, but to be worried about a face in a dream seemed silly to me. But even still, I couldn't shake the thought of it the next evening as I drove the trio

through the great iron gates and up the winding little drive to the old mansion. I sat on the hillside surrounded by Italian cypress trees and tall pines. The whole place was built in a vague Mediterranean style dreamed up by an LA architect a hundred years before. The white walls were peeled and cracked. The bricks in the drive were broken and uneven. The grand fountain at the entrance was bone dry. The house looked like it was waiting

for some Russian billionaire to buy it and bulldoze it. But that wouldn't happen until after the summer. For now, it was ours. And as I got out and went to the trunk to grab the luggage, I could tell none of the others shared my apprehension. They were excited to step into an imagined piece of Hollywood history. It was the beginning of June gloom in the city, and real storm clouds were rolling in as I went

up the steps and pushed open the doors to the main entrance. They swung open, and I was hit with an earthy smell, like entering a tomb that had been unopened for months, or maybe years. I set the bags at the foot of the crumbling marble staircase and looked for a light. It was dark, every curtain was drawn, and only a dim lamp on the table against the wall cast long shadows across the floor. In the distance, two sets of footsteps came slowly towards us down the hall. Two old women finally appeared with stern expressions and spoke to me in Spanish. They came with the house.

And I think they were upset at having guests. They lived in a smaller residence in the back and preferred the place quiet and empty, which it seemed to have been for some time. They were meant to keep the house clean or at least order around the people who would. But judging from the layers of dust, I don't think the money had been getting through. I wanted to open every window to air out the musty smell, but the rain had just started and so that was going to have to wait.

For now, I convinced the old woman to go around and open the curtains and turn on the lights so we could at least see enough to walk around. So we followed them through each room, and whenever the lights came on, I could see Miss London's face darken, waiting to see the face from her dreams peering out from a painting.

And there were paintings, dozens of them. A thousand years of paintings, from Madonna and Child to portraits of forgotten Hollywood stars, faces beautiful and terrible. But the dark handsome face of a man dressed in all black, with black hair and a neat gray beard, reserved and secretive, not kind or unkind but unreadable? No, that was not any of the portraits. Finally, we went out to the veranda overlooking the courtyard. It was night, but the grounds were lit almost like day from the glow of the city reflecting off the storm clouds. And I could see Miss London scanning the marble faces of the statues in the city reflecting off the storm clouds, and I could see Miss London scanning

the marble faces of the statues in the sculpture garden nervously, as if she was looking for the face that had haunted her dreams. But all was well. Now, said Mr. London to his wife in a low voice, you see? It's nothing. You're happy. I saw the relief wash over her face as she smiled, and her husband smiled, and they were both truly happy. In the days and weeks ahead, the old mansion transformed, if not to its glory days, at least to a place of sunlight and laughter. The only shadow was the two old housekeepers who had preferred the mansion as a mausoleum. I'd gone to them a few days after we arrived and asked about the history of the place.

Miss London wanted to know everything about it. What stars had lived there, what celebrities had visited, who owned it now. Darkness and death had lived there. They were the only things that had ever lived there, the women assured me, rubbing their rosaries. And then they refused to answer anything more than that. Of course, I didn't tell Miss London their answer, and I couldn't find anything to prove their story. And neither could Carolina,

even after going through every old newspaper and LA history book looking for a mention of the place. Yes, the listing had said it was owned by stars and studio heads, but there were no records of it being sold. Ever. This old house had no history. In the mornings, I would drop Mr. London off at the golf club and then take Miss London and Carolina on long drives down the coast through Venice all the way to Laguna Beach or up to Malibu, always stopping somewhere along the way so they could practice their Spanish lessons. In the evening, they would see shows or plays or go to screenings of old movies

in the cemetery. Has she forgotten the dream? I asked Carolina sometimes. Almost, she said. Almost. One day, I picked Mr. London up from the golf club and he said, Antonio, great news. I met someone at the club today. He's gonna come for dinner. His name's Delambre, Philip Delambre. We've never had anyone over, so I thought it would be fun to make a big deal of it. Champagne, a big dinner, all that stuff. The name seemed vaguely familiar,

but I couldn't remember where I had heard it before. And he was right, they hadn't had anyone over and it was a waste to have a house like that and not entertain. When we got back, I went to give the two old housekeepers the orders. Miss London's Spanish was not good enough for that yet, or at least the two old women would pretend to not understand anything she said. But not finding them anywhere in the house, I walked back through the garden to their little cottage.

I knocked, but there was no answer. So I peered in through the windows and saw a prayer altar with overflowing burning candles. I knocked on every window, but finally gave up and made preparations for the dinner myself. When Delambre arrived that night, I showed him in and brought him to the main dining room where Mr. London and the others were waiting. Mr. London got up to greet him like an old friend and started to introduce him to his wife. But as she rose, her face twisted into a horrified expression and she started to cry out.

But before the sound had passed her lips, she fainted cold and fell to the floor. I had seen the man in shadow, but now in the light, I saw he was dressed in all black and he had a reserved and secret air. He was remarkable looking, black hair, a trimmed, neat gray beard, his face not kind or unkind, but unreadable. Mr. London ran to his wife, picked her up and carried her to her room. Carolina stayed with her all night, and in the morning she told me Miss London hadn't

slept at all, that she'd sat by the window and stared out across the sculpture garden until sunrise. Mr. London was anxious for his wife and also somewhat embarrassed to have his new friend and only friend in town arrive to such a scene. DeLombra for his part was extremely gracious and he said the Santa Ana winds had been blowing and anyone not used to them could be deeply affected. He said he would come back another time. But Mr. London insisted he stay for dinner since they'd gone through so much trouble

and so the two men dined alone. I overheard much of their conversation and it was clear why Mr. London enjoyed the man's company. He was well traveled, well read, and was as generous at listening to stories as he was sharing his own. The next day, DeLambre sent flowers and some kind of health tonic, along with his best wishes for Miss London's return to health. Mr. London now had it in his mind he had to cure his wife of her strange illness, the one that had made her believe she was haunted by someone she'd never met, and then convinced herself this pleasant stranger was in fact the face haunting her

dreams. He reasoned with her that if she didn't overcome it, it would invite worse fears, worse sadness, that she might have other dreams of other faces and start imagining every new person she met was somehow haunting her. But if she could end it now, have dinner with them, and just talk to Delambre and see for herself it was all her imagination, then all would be well. And so, a few nights later, Delambre came again, and the previous events weren't mentioned at all. They had dinner and talked on the veranda

late into the night, and Miss London spent the whole time upright. After this visit, I heard Mr. London say, "'Now, see my love, it's over. "'He's come and gone and you're fine.'" "'Will he ever come again?' She asked. "'Again, of course, why wouldn't he?

"'Are you cold?' He said, noticing her shiver. No, but are you sure he has to come again? Couldn't we make other friends? Of course, and we will make other friends, but not at the expense of such a good one. He thought he was doing the best thing for his wife. He loved her and hated to see her so afraid. And hated even more to think that she would be afraid for much of their lives because of a strange belief in evil dreams. We saw Delambre several more times that summer.

I never knew exactly what he did, only that he was very wealthy and he was skilled in almost everything Mr. London enjoyed. But I also noticed, many times, that Miss London wasn't quite recovered. She would wander off alone on one of our excursions, her face clouded, staring out at the ocean or observing Delambre from another room with a terrified and fascinated glance as if his presence had some evil influence or power upon her. And for his part too, I would sometimes see him looking out from the shaded veranda or the half-lit study, looking at her from the darkness. I had not. I could not forget

Carolina's words describing the face in the dream. But these were only occasional shadows on an otherwise happy time, and we all thought Miss London was more or less well. One night, Mr. London was away in San Francisco on some business for his father. I'd gone to bed late after finishing a bottle of wine with Carolina, and I was sleeping soundly when I heard a blood-curdling scream. I leapt out of bed and met Carolina at the bottom of the staircase, and we rushed up to Miss London's room on the second floor. She was standing there, white as a sheet, in the doorway of her bedroom. What is it? Is someone here? I asked. He was here, she said. Who was here? He was standing here, watching me. Who? Delambre. She collapsed against the wall and sank to the ground

and Carolina wrapped her up in her arms. I checked every door in the house, the security cameras, everything. No one had been in or out. The alarm was still armed, so no doors or windows had been opened. According even to Miss London, she'd locked the bedroom door before she

went to sleep and all the windows were closed. Carolina sat up with her and assured her that she must have scared herself into having the same recurring dream. And I went outside to have a smoke in the sculpture garden, my usual place to escape for a cigarette. I needed to calm my nerves. usual place to escape for a cigarette. I needed to calm my nerves. But there, I saw something that made me do a double take. It was then I realized why Delambre's name had seemed, at first, vaguely familiar. There was a statue there, a full-sized sculpture

of a beautiful young woman. And where the artist engraved their name? Read, Delombra. I looked up toward Miss London's bedroom window and saw her standing night, but I did bring up the sculpture and he showed it to DeLambre on one of his visits. He laughed and said many of his family members back in Europe were artisans. They would be thrilled to learn that one of their pieces had somehow made it all the way to Hollywood.

Late that summer, just a week before they were to return to London, they decided to host a real Hollywood party, inviting everyone they'd met the last couple of months, including DeLambre. They timed it to the Hollywood Carnival Parade so there would be an excuse to dress up. And they spared no expense. They hired dancers and musicians and the best caterers in town and had the whole grounds decorated with lights and giant paper mache sculptures. Sadly, Miss London wasn't feeling well

and went early to her room to rest. At some point past midnight, I was asked to guide the bartenders to the cellar to bring up more wine. The two housekeepers had disappeared once again that afternoon and no one could get them to leave their cottage. The wine cellar was down a narrow set of stairs in the back of the kitchen pantry. I opened the door and turned on the bare bulb and led two of them down the wooden stairs. It was a damp,

cool room, empty but for the wooden rows of wine bottle holders. There was a sort of wooden workbench in the corner, stacked with several cases of wine we'd brought back from a recent trip to Santa Barbara. I directed the bartenders to them and then stayed below to enjoy a little peace and quiet. It was there, leaning against the corner of the workbench, that I noticed a piece of burlap covering something in the corner. I went over and pulled it off and saw it was a set of large old paintings in heavy dust covered frames.

It looked as if they had been in the basement since around the time the house was built. I pulled them out and set them in the light out of curiosity. The first was a still life, a fruit bowl or flowers or something I've never been able to remember. The third I never saw. Because the second? The second was in a fancy gold gilded frame. A portrait. I couldn't tell you if it was a thousand years old or a hundred. The style looked ancient but timeless. The subject was of a man, dressed in all black, and he had a reserved and secret air. He was remarkable looking, black hair, a trimmed gray beard, his face not kind or unkind, but

unreadable. Staring at me from the darkness of the painting, as clear as if he'd been standing in the room, was the face of DeLambre. I backed away and up the stairs and tried to find Mr. London or Carolina in the sea of masked partiers, but I had no luck and they weren't answering their phones.

I pushed my way up the main staircase and ran to Miss London's bedroom and knocked. There was no answer. Carolina came up behind me. She'd seen me running. What's wrong? She asked, seeing the panicked expression on my face. Where's Miss London? In there, she said, grabbing the handle

of the bedroom door. Why? I felt foolish for saying the real reason, so I just said, I want to check on her. Carolina tried to turn the handle. It's locked. She probably didn't want anyone to wander in from the party.

Who has the key? I don't know, maybe Mr. London has one. We need to find him, I said, grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the stairs. We searched for several minutes and finally found him outside. He didn't have a key to her room and just didn't want to disturb his wife. I didn't want to try to explain why I was behaving so strangely, so I led them both quickly down to the wine cellar and showed them the painting.

Nothing else was said. We all three ran up and Mr. London kicked down the door into the bedroom. But Miss London wasn't there. Her phone was on the bedside table. The windows were closed. Maybe she'd felt better and gone out and the door had locked behind her. Maybe she'd felt worse and gone out for some air. We searched the whole house.

Mr. London made an announcement and had everyone take off their masks and join the search. Every room, every stairwell, every alcove, the bottom of every steep path on the grounds outside and eventually even every corner of the maid's little cottage. The next afternoon, the police were going through the security footage from the camera near the front gate where guests arrived. So many cars had come and gone, it took hours to scrub through. But there was one thing that stood out,

a man dressed in all black, a remarkable man with a handsome, unreadable face had been dropped off by a black car, but there was no footage of that man leaving. Every other guest and worker could be accounted for. The resort worker paused in his story and took a final drag of a cigarette, flicking the last embers into the snowbank before continuing.

Miss London, Delambre, I've heard neither of them were ever seen again. The last time anyone saw that dreaded face was when he arrived that night. So, what do you call that? said the old timer. Ghosts! I waited to hear what the others would say, but there was only silence. I turned to look where they'd stood and all five were gone. The gondola kept moving, but it had no riders, and the dusk chill had turned suddenly to a dark cold. So, I left the quiet bench and returned to warm for a few minutes

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Sound design and mix by Peachtree Sound. Special thanks to Travis Dunlap, Grace and Jernigan, the team at WME, and Ben Jaffe. Have a heart pounding story or a case request? Check out heartstartspounding.com.