Stuff You Should Know - 2021 Halloween Spooktacular!

Episode Date: October 28, 2021

Dim the lights and join Josh and Chuck for their annual spooky Halloween story reading.  Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.comSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Stuff You Should Know, a production of iHeartRadio. Hey, and welcome to the spooktacular, the spookiest spooktacular of the spooktaculars of all time. This is Stuff You Should Know, the spooktacular. The, as tradition dictates, ad-free spooktacular. It's in our contract. It is. We fight for it, everyone. Do not put ads and ruin our bad readings of Halloween stories. That's right, which we try very hard to select from the increasingly small pantheon of public domain horror short fiction. I found a few this year, so I got a couple in my hip pocket.

Oh, good. I'm glad. And I got to say, nice work. I think both of these that we dug up are really, really good stories. Agreed. M.R. James and H.L. Mankin, right? I thought it was Mr. James. That's what he likes. Call me Mr. James. But you're a doctor. So what? Yeah, the one I picked this year is Lost Hearts by M.R. James. And I'm pretty psyched about this one because it is good agreed.

It's a corker. You can figure it out, but it's still, it's entertaining. How about that? It's entertaining. It's fun. There are a couple of spooky dates in this. Did you notice that? We'll talk about that. I didn't know. I can't wait to hear it. And, you know, I don't think we need a content warning. It's spooky. But, you know, with kids, there's always a chance, if you have kids, they may not want to listen. It's not over the top because it was written in the 19th century.

Right, yeah. And being written in the 19th century, which we should probably point out, there's a couple of touchy, semi-racist just terms that we'll explain. Yeah. I mean, should we go ahead and say now? Oh, sure. Go ahead. Yeah. I mean, we did a podcast on the Roma people and took great pains to tell people that using the word gypsy is no longer something you should do. Or saying gypped off, which is something that I learned while doing that podcast. And they use the word gypsy in here a couple of times. They also use Chinaman in here, but they're actually talking about something specific, so we'll explain later, okay? Right. And there's a general with this one lady, sort of xenophobic bent.

A little bit. People from other countries. Yeah, exactly. She's an archetypal, rural, dyed-in-the-wool, salt-of-the-earth woman. So all that is to say, the opinions expressed therein do not represent those of the hostess. Very nice. Herewith, forthwith, guaranteed void in Tennessee. All right. Should everyone turn the lights down? I've got my lights dimmed. Oh, that's nice. Yeah, let's do that.

This is the first time we're not in the same room holding hands. I know. I'm a little scared. A little scared, too. I can't see the paper as well with that light off, so I'm going to turn it back on. Okay. Turn the lights down. Pour yourself a spoopy drink and gather the kids. And here we go for the 2021 Spooktacular. And this is Lost Hearts by MR. James. I'll start, okay?

Sure. It was, as far as I can ascertain, in September of the year 1811. Is that a spooky date, Chuck? Well, it's coming. Okay. That a post-chase, I think that's the kind of coach, drew up before the door of Aswarby Hall in the heart of Lincolnshire. The little boy who jumped out as soon as it had stopped looked about him with the keenest curiosity during the short interval that elapsed between the ringing of the bell and the opening of the hall door. He saw a tall, square, red brick house built in the reign of Anne. A stone-pillared porch had been added in the purest classical style of 1790. The windows of the house were many, tall and narrow, with small panes and thick white woodwork.

A pediment pierced with round window crowned the front. There were wings to the left and the right connected by curious glazed galleries supported by colonnades with the central block. These wings plainly contained the stables and offices of the house. Each was surmounted by an ornamental cupola with a gilded vein. Cupola, huh? You know, I always said cupola and then every single person on the Inspiration IV crew called that thing on the dragon capsule, the cupola. So I'm just going with that now. All right.

An evening light shone on the building, making the window panes glow like so many fires. So many. Away from the hall in front stretched a flat park studded with oaks and fringed with furs, which stood out against the sky. The clock in the church tower, buried in trees on the edge of the park, only its golden weather cock catching the light, was striking six, and the sound came gently beating down the wind. It was an altogether pleasant impression, though tinged with the sort of melancholy appropriate to an evening and early autumn, that was conveyed to the mind of the boy who was standing in the porch, waiting for the door to open to him. The post-shays had brought him from Warwickshire, where six months before he had been left in orphan.

Now, owing to the generous offer of his elderly cousin, Mr. Abney, he had come to live at Azwerby. The offer was unexpected because all who knew anything of Mr. Abney looked upon him as a somewhat austere recluse, into whose steady going household the advent of a small boy would import a new, and it seemed incongruous, element. The truth is that very little was known of Mr. Abney's pursuits or temper. The professor of Greek at Cambridge had been heard to say that no one knew more of the religious beliefs of the later pagans than did the owner of Azwerby. Certainly, his library contained all the then-available books bearing on the mysteries, the Orphic poems, the worship of Mithras, and the Neoplatonists. In the marble-paved halls stood a fine figure of Mithras slaying a bull, which had been imported from the Levant at great expense by the owner. He had contributed a description of it to the Gentleman's Magazine, I think not that kind, Gentleman's Magazine.

And he had written a remarkable series of articles in the Critical Museum on the superstitions of the Romans of the Lower Empire. It was published in Hustler. Dear greenhouse, let me tell you about my Mithras slaying a bull, Statue. He was looked upon in fine as a man wrapped up in his books, and it was a matter of great surprise among his neighbors that he should even have heard of his cousin, Stephen Elliott, much more that he should have volunteered to make him an inmate of Azwerby Hall. All right, so this orphan boy who showed up at this house to live with his relative, who seems like a decent guy, if a little dark. Yeah, but it was a surprise because he was like, you know, wrapped up in his books, a bachelor, not really interested in having a kid around. All right, shall I?

Whatever may have been expected by his neighbors, it is certain that Mr. Abney, the tall, the thin, the austere, seemed inclined to give his young cousin a kindly reception. The moment the front door was opened, he darted out of his study, rubbing his hands with delight. How are you, my boy? How are you? How old are you, said he? That is, you are not too much tired, I hope, by your journey to eat your supper. No, thank you, sir, said Mr. Elliott. I'm pretty well. Oh, that's a good lad, said Mr. Abney. And how old are you, my boy? It seemed a little odd that he should have asked the question twice in the first two minutes of their acquaintance. I'm 12 years old, ex-birthday, sir, said Stephen. And when is your birthday, my dear boy? 11th of September, eh?

Spooky date. I think he predicted the whole thing. I got you, okay. Mr. James did. 11th of September, eh? That's, well, that's very well. Nearly a year hence, isn't it? I like, haha, I like to get these things down in my book. Sure it's 12, certain? Yes, quite sure, sir. Well, well, take him to Mrs. Bunch's room, Parks, and let him have his tea, supper, whatever it is. Yes, sir, answered the staid Mr. Parks and conducted Stephen to the lower regions.

Mrs. Bunch was the most comfortable and human person whom Stephen had as yet met in Azwarby. She made him completely at home. They were great friends in a quarter of an hour, and great friends they remained. Mrs. Bunch had been born in the neighborhood some 55 years before the date of Stephen's arrival, and her residence at the hall was of 20 years standing. Consequently, if anyone knew the ins and outs of the house and the district, Mrs. Bunch knew them. And she was by no means disinclined to communicate her information. So we got a nice lady that lives there, who knows everything that's going on. Very nice person.

Seemingly nice. Aside from the xenophobia, very nice. That's right, that's what we will see. Certainly there were plenty of things about the hall and the hall gardens, which Stephen, who was of an adventurous and inquiring turn, was anxious to have explained to him. Who built the temple at the end of the Laura Walk? Who was the old man whose picture hung on the staircase, sitting at a table with a skull under his hand? These and many similar points were cleared up by the resources of Mrs. Bunch's powerful intellect. There were others, however, of which the explanations furnished were less satisfactory.

One November evening, Stephen was sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room, reflecting on his surroundings. Is Mr. Abney a good man, and will he go to heaven? He suddenly asked, with a peculiar confidence with which children possess in the ability of their elders to settle these questions. The decision of which is believed to be reserved for other tribunals. Can't wait to hear this one. I really haven't even worked out how I'm going to do it. Let's try this. Good.

Bless the child. Said Mrs. Bunch. Masters as kind a soul as I ever see. Didn't I? She's like my age. She's 55? Yeah, but old timey, 19th century, 55. Way different.

Didn't I never tell you of the little boy as he took in out of the street, as you may say, this seven years back, and the little girl two years after I first come here? No, do tell me all about that, Mrs. Bunch, now this minute. Easy. Sorry, I added that. So this guy took in a couple of other kids, huh? Yep. All right.

Well, said Mrs. Bunch. The little girl I don't seem to recollect so much about. I know Master brought her back with him from his walk one day and give orders to Mrs. Ellis, as was housekeeper then, as she should be took every care with. And the poor child had no one belonging to her. She saw her own self and here she lived with us a matter of three weeks. It might be. And then whether she were some think of a gypsy at a blood or whatnot,

but one morning she out of her bed before any of us had opened an eye and neither track nor yet trace of her. Have I said eyes on since master was wonderful put about and had all the ponds dragged. As my belief, she was had away by them gypsies. For there was singing around the house for as much as an hour the night she went and parks. Oh, he declares he heard the Macaulin in the woods all that afternoon. Dear, dear, a hard child. Is that odd? I think she's saying odd in the old timey way with an H.

Okay. A odd child she was. So silent at a ways and all. But I was wonderful taken up with her so domesticated she was surprising. And what about the little boy? Said Steven. Oh, that poor boy. Side, Mrs. Bunch.

He was a foreigner. Jevony, he called himself. And he come a tweaking his hurdy-gurdy round about. He was tweaking. Tweaking his hurdy-gurdy. He wasn't twerking at least. Tweaking his hurdy-gurdy round about the drive one went today and master Adam in that minute and asked all about where he came from, how old he was, how he made his way,

and where was his relatives, and all his kind heart could wish. But it went the same way with him. They're an unruly lot, them foreign nations, I do suppose. And he was off one fine morning just the same as the girl. Why he went and what he done was our question for as much as a year after. But he never took his hurdy-gurdy and there it lays on the shelf. What is hurdy-gurdy? A hurdy-gurdy, it's like a kind of like a musical instrument.

I think like a squeeze box maybe. So a little boy named Giovanni showed up squeezing his squeeze box on their driveway and Mr. Abney, it is Abney, right? I think so. Mr. Abney brought him in the house and was asking him a bunch of questions and then took him under his wing. Yeah, like every kid he finds, he's like, how old are you? When's your birthday? Yeah, come inside.

You're mine now. I think creepy at all. So I think you guys can all see what we were talking about with Mrs. Bunch, right? I think so. I think so. The remainder of the evening was spent by Stephen and miscellaneous cross-examination of Mrs. Bunch and in efforts to extract a tune from the hurdy-gurdy. That night he had a curious dream.

At the end of the passage at the top of the house, in which his bedroom was situated, there was an old, disused bathroom. It was kept locked, but the upper half of the door was glazed and since the muslin curtains which used to hang there had long been gone, you could look in and see the lead-lined bath affixed to the wall on the right hand with its head towards the window. On the night of which I am speaking, Stephen Elliott found himself, as he thought, looking through the glazed door.

That means there was a window in it. The moon was shining through the window, see, and he was gazing at a figure which lay in the bath. His description of what he saw reminds me of what I once beheld myself in the famous vaults of St. McCann's Church in Dublin, which possesses the horrid property of preserving corpses from decay for centuries. A figure inexpressibly thin and pathetic of a dusty leaden color enveloped in a shroud-like garment, the thin lips crooked into a faint and dreadful smile. The hands pressed tightly over the region of the heart.

As he looked upon it, a distant, almost inaudible moan seemed to issue from its lips and the arms began to stir. The terror of the sight forced Stephen backwards and he awoke to the fact that he was indeed standing on the cold, bordered floor of the passage in the full light of the moon. With a courage which I do not think can be common among boys of his age, he went to the door of the bathroom to ascertain if the figure of his dream were really there. It was not, and he went back to bed.

Do you go in? Yeah, this is getting creepy. I know, so I'm saying it's a good one. He saw a straight-up, scary, decaying ghost in the bathtub. Mrs. Bunch was much impressed next morning by his story and went so far as to replace the muslin curtain over the glazed door of the bathroom, aka the window. Mr. Abney, moreover, to whom he confided his experiences at breakfast,

was greatly interested and made notes of the matter in what he called his book. The spring equinox was approaching as Mr. Abney frequently reminded his cousin, adding that this had been always considered by the agents to be a critical time for the young, that Stephen would do well to take care of himself and shut his bedroom window at night and that the senseor in us had some valuable remarks on the subject. Two incidents that occurred about this time made an impression upon Stephen's mind. Chuck will share those two incidents with us now. The first was after an unusually uneasy and oppressed night that he had passed,

though he could not recall any particular dream that he had had. The following evening, Mrs. Bunch was occupying herself and mending his nightgown. Gracious me, Master Stephen! She broke forth rather irritably. How do you manage to tear your nightdress all to flinders this way? Look here, sir! What trouble you do give to poor servants that have to darn and mend after you! There was indeed a most destructive and apparently wanton series of slits or scorings in the garment, which would undoubtedly require a skillful needle to make good.

They were confined to the left side of his chest, long, parallel slits about six inches in length, some of them not quite piercing the texture of the linen. Stephen could only express his entire ignorance of their origin. He was sure that they were not there the night before. But, he said, Mrs. Bunch stays just the same as the scratches on the outside of my bedroom door, and I'm sure I'd never had anything to do with making them. I think it gets it across. I think I've nailed young Stephen.

I think you're nailing it. He's moving closer and closer to Cockney as we go. That's the one I can do. That's the one anybody who can only do one can do. Mrs. Bunch gazed at him open mouth, then snatched up a candle, departed hastily from the room, and was heard making her way upstairs. In a few minutes, she came down. Well, she said, Master Stephen, it's a funny thing to me how them marks and scratches can come there too high up

for any cat or dog to have made them, much less a rat. The world like a Chinaman's fingernails, as my uncle in the tea trade used to tell us of when we was girls together. I wouldn't say nothing to Master, not if I was you. Master Stephen, my dear, and just turn the key of your door when you go to your bed. So, I should probably say, I was like, what is this daft old middle-aged woman talking about? And it turns out she's referring to, apparently there was a trend

among the nobility and the courtesans of China at this time in the early 19th century, and I think before, of wearing their fingernails very long and pointy. She's saying these scratches look kind of like claw marks, and she kind of likened it to something that had long and pointy fingernails like that. Okay. Not that that excuses everything, but you know. I gotcha. There's a little background to it.

Maybe I'll learn something here. Mrs. Bunch is not totally out of her mind. All right, so she yells at Stephen to go to bed, and he says, I always do, Mrs. Bunch, as soon as I've said my prayers. Oh, that's a good child. Always say your prayers, and then no one can hurt you. Herewith, Mrs. Bunch addressed herself to mending the injured nightgown with intervals of meditation until bedtime.

Interesting. This was on a Friday night in March, 1812. On the following evening, the usual duet of Stephen and Mrs. Bunch was augmented by the sudden arrival of Mr. Parks, the butler, who, as a rule, kept himself rather to himself in the pantry. He did not see that Stephen was there. He was, moreover, flustered and less slow of speech than was his want. Master may get up his own wine if he likes of an evening.

Was his first remark. Did I do it in the daytime or not at all, Mrs. Bunch? I don't know what it may be. Very like it's the rats or the wind got into the cellars, but I'm not as young as I was, and I can't go through with it as I have done. Well, Mr. Parks, you know it is a surprising place for the rats, is the hall. I'm not denying that, Mrs. Bunch, and to be sure, many a time I've heard the tale from the men in the shipyards

about the rats that could speak. I never laid no confidence in that before, but tonight, I mean to myself to lay my ear to the door of the further bin. I could pretty much have heard what they was saying. Oh, man, you're crushing it. Oh, there, Mr. Parks, I have no patience with your fancies. Rats talking in the wide cellar at D. Well, Mrs. Bunch, I have no wish to argue with you.

All I can say is if you choose to go to the far bin and lay your ear to the door, you may prove my words this minute. What nonsense you do talk. Mr. Parks, not fit for children to listen to. Why, you'll be frightening Master Stephen there out of his wits. What, Master Stephen? Said Parks, awakening to the consciousness of the boy's presence. Master Stephen knows well enough that I'm playing a joke with you, Mrs. Bunch.

In fact, Stephen knew too well to suppose that Mr. Parks had in the first instance intended a joke. He was interested, not altogether pleasantly, in the situation. But all his questions were unsuccessful in inducing the butler to give any more detailed account of his experiences in the wine cellar. And we have now arrived at March 24th, 1812. Spooky? Nope. Okay. It was a day of curious experiences for Stephen.

A windy, noisy day which filled the house in the gardens with a restless impression. As Stephen stood by the fence of the grounds and looked out into the park, he felt as if an endless procession of unseen people were sweeping past him on the wind. Born on, restlessly and aimlessly, vainly striving to stop themselves, to catch at something that might arrest their flight and bring them once again into contact with the living world of which they had formed a part. After lunch in that day, Mr. Abney said, You're Mr. Abney. I'm Abney?

Yeah, you are. Remember you asked him what his age was? Oh, that's right, that's right. We should probably just leave that in there. Stephen, my boy, do you think you could manage to come to me tonight? I don't know if this is the same accident. It sounds like Mrs. Bunch is transforming into Mr. Abney. Do you think you could manage to come to me tonight as late as 11 o'clock in my study?

I shall be busy until that time and I wish to show you something connected with your future life, which it is most important that you should know. You are not to mention this matter to Mrs. Bunch nor to anyone else in the house and you had better go to your room at the usual time. Here was a new excitement added to life. Stephen eagerly grasped at the opportunity of sitting up till 11 o'clock. He looked in at the library door on his way upstairs that evening and he saw a brazier, right? A brazier?

Which he had often noticed in the corner of the room. It's like a little grill. I think so. Right out before the fire, an old silver gilt cup stood on the table filled with red wine and some written sheets of paper lay near it. Mr. Abney was sprinkling some incense on the brazier. I'm pretty sure that's it. From a round silver box as Stephen passed, but did not seem to notice his step.

All right, so what's going on here is he's doing some right, some ritual. Looks like it. And he told Stephen like this is important for him to be a part of, right? Yes. And so now it's the night that he's told Stephen to come down to his study at 11. All right, go ahead. The wind had fallen and there was a still night in a full moon. At about 10 o'clock, Stephen was standing at the open window of his bedroom, looking out over the country.

Still as the night was, the mysterious population of the distant moonlit woods was not yet lulled to rest. From time to time, strange cries as of lost and despairing wanderers sounded from across the mirror. I think that's a weird way to say meadow. Sure. They might be the notes of owls or water birds, yet they did not quite resemble either sound. Were they not coming near? Now they sounded from the nearer side of the water. And in a few moments, they seemed to be floating about among the shrubberies.

Then they ceased. But just as Stephen was thinking of shutting the window and resuming his reading of Robinson Crusoe, great book, he caught sight of two figures standing on the gravel terrace that ran along the garden side of the hall. The figures of a boy and a girl, as it seemed. They stood side by side, looking up at the windows. Something in the form of the girl recalled irresistibly his dream of the figure in the bath. The boy inspired him with more acuity. Whilst the girl stood still, half smiling, with her hands clasped over her heart,

the boy, a thin shape with black hair and ragged clothing, raised his arms in the air with an appearance of menace and of unappeasable hunger and longing. The moon shone upon his almost transparent hands, and Stephen saw that the nails were fearfully long and that the light shone through them. As he stood with his arms thus raised, he disclosed a terrifying spectacle. On the left side of his chest, there opened a black and gaping rent, and there fell upon Stephen's brain, rather than upon his ear, the impression of one of those hungry and desolate cries that he had heard resounding over the woods at Azwarby all that evening.

In another moment, this dreadful pair had moved swiftly and noiselessly over the dry grass, and he saw them no more. Wow. I know this poor Stephen. He's like, what the H is going on around here? So this ghost kid, he has like no heart, right? He's turned into John Travolta. Oh boy. All right, this is getting good. Do you want me to pick it up? Yes, please. All right. Inexpressibly frightened as he was, he determined to take his candle and go down to Mr. Abney's study,

for the hour appointed for their meeting was near in hand. The study or library opened out of the front hall on one side, and Stephen, urged on by his terrors, did not take long in getting there. To effect an entrance was not so easy. The door was not locked, he felt sure, for the key was on the outside of it as usual. His repeated knocks produced no answer. Mr. Abney was engaged. He was speaking. What? Why did he try to cry out?

And why was the cry choked in his throat? Had he too seen the mysterious children? But now everything was quiet, and the door yielded to Stephen's terrified and frantic pushing. On the table in Mr. Abney's study, certain papers were found which explained the situation to Stephen Elliott when he was of an age to understand them. The most important sentences were as follows. It was a belief very strongly and generally held by the ancients of whose wisdom, in these matters, I've had such experiences as induces me to place confidence in their assertions.

Oof, a little wordy. That by enacting certain processes, which to us moderns have something of a barbaric complexion, a very remarkable enlightenment of the spiritual faculties in man may be attained. That, for example, by absorbing the personalities of a certain number of his fellow creatures, an individual may gain a complete ascendancy over those orders of spiritual beings which control the elemental forces of our universe. Wow, what a guy. Seems like possessing these people.

Something like that, keep reading, keep reading. It is recorded of Simon Magus that he was able to fly on the air to become invisible or to assume any form he pleased by the agency of the soul of a boy whom, to use the libelous phrase employed by the author of the Clementine recognitions, he had murdered. Find it set down, moreover, with considerable detail in the writings of Hermes Trisimagistus that similar happy results may be produced by the absorption of the hearts of not less than three human beings below the age of 21 years. Ah, that's why he's got another ages, huh?

To the testing of the truth of this receipt, I have devoted the greater part of the last 20 years selecting as the copora villia of my experiment such persons as could conveniently be removed without occasioning a sensible gap in society. The first step I affected by the removal of one Phoebe Stanley, a girl of gypsy extraction on March 24th, 1792. Not creepy. The second by the removal of a wandering Italian lad named Giovanni Paoli on the night of March 23rd, 1805.

Not spooky. The final victim to employ a word repugnant in the highest degree to my feelings must be my cousin, Stephen Elliott. His day must be this, March 24, 1812. Is that a creepy date? Any of those dates in there creepy? I don't think creepy. The best means of affecting the required absorption is to remove the heart from the living subject, to reduce it to ashes,

and to mingle them with about a pint of red wine preferably port. That's a lot of port. The remains of the first two subjects at least will be well to conceal. A disused bathroom or wine cellar will be found convenient for such a purpose. Some annoyance may be experienced from the psychic portion of the subjects which popular language dignifies with the name of ghosts. But the man of philosophic temperament, to whom alone the experiment is appropriate, will be little prone to attach importance to the feeble efforts of these beings

to wreak their vengeance on him. I contemplate with the liveliest satisfaction the enlarged and emancipated existence which the experiment, if successful, will confer on me, not only placing me beyond the reach of human justice, so-called, but eliminating, to a great extent, the prospect of death itself. So he's basically saying like, I can't even be haunted and this may make me live forever. Yeah. I'm going to rip the hearts out of two now three little children and it'll be worth it because I'm going to be immortal and an amazing dude.

All right, bring it home. I'm going to be like Bradley Cooper and Limitless. That's his goal. What, failing at the box office? So this last paragraph is pretty important. Everybody hang in there with us. And remember, Stephen heard a cry in the office and then later found these papers that Chuck just read, right? Right. Mr. Abney was found in his chair, his head thrown back,

his face stamped with an expression of rage, fright, and mortal pain. In his left side was a terrible, lacerated wound exposing the heart. There was no blood on his hands and a long knife that lay on the table was perfectly cleaned. A savage wildcat might have inflicted the injuries. The window of the study was open and it was the opinion of the coroner that Mr. Abney had met his death by the agency of some wild creature. But Stephen Elliott's study of the papers Chuck just quoted led him to a very different conclusion.

Wow. So little Stephen Abney, cockney boy at large, owes his tuchus to the little boy and girl who saved his life. Yeah, they killed him. Murderous ghosts killed a very bad man. I love it. Good stuff. Good voice work. That was great, Chuck. I guess now we should put some ads in here, right? Oh, wait, there's no need for ads because this is our ad-free Halloween version.

This spooky story brought to you by Stams.com. Wow, that was great. So it's time for yours, right? That's right. Oh boy, who wrote this? Arthur Mockin, I believe. That's right. M-A-C-H-E-N, who is a Welsh writer. And I think the deal with The Great God Pan, which is what we're going to read, is that it was a... I think this is the first chapter that originally stood on its own

as a short story published in a literary journal or something or a magazine. The Gentleman's Magazine. That's right. And then he later, I guess, was like, hey, this is not too bad, and expanded it into a novella-length thing. But yeah, we're going to stick to the first chapter. It's one of those ones that, like, if you ask any horror writer what the greatest horror story of all time is,

probably the majority of them will say The Great God Pan. Oh, really? Oh, interesting. All right. So, nice find, I guess, is what I'm trying to say. Here we go then. I'm glad you came, Clark. Very glad indeed. I was not sure you could spare the time. Wait a minute, that's Abney and the old lady. Yeah, that was a lot.

Oh, all right, this is going to... I'm going to have to workshop this as we go, folks. Okay, I know, you're locked in the punch, that's it. All right, so he's glad Clark came. Yeah, Clark with an E. Yes. I was able to make arrangements for a few days. Things are not very lively just now,

but you have no misgivings, Raymond. Is it absolutely safe? The two men were slowly pacing the terrace in front of Dr. Raymond's house. The sun still hung above the western mountain line, but it shone with a dull red glow that cast no shadows, and all the air was quiet. A sweet breath came from the great wood on the hillside above, and with it, at intervals,

the soft murmuring call of the wild doves. Below, in the long lovely valley, the river wound in and out between the lonely hills, and as the sun hovered and vanished into the west, a faint mist, pure white, began to rise from the hills. Dr. Raymond turned sharply to his friend. Safe? Of course it is.

In itself, the operation is a perfectly simple one. Any surgeon could do it. And there is no danger at any other stage? None. Absolutely no physical damage whatsoever. I give you my word. You are always Tim and Clark always with an E, but you know my history.

I have devoted myself to transcendental medicine for the last 20 years. I have heard myself called quack and charlatan and imposter, but all the while, I knew I was on the right path. Five years ago, I reached the goal, and since then, every day has been a preparation for what we shall do tonight. I should like to believe it at all true.

Clark knit his brows and looked doubtfully at Dr. Raymond. Are you perfectly sure, Raymond, that your theory is not a phantasmagoria, a splendid vision, certainly, but a mere vision after all? Speak up. This is as much as I could speak. It's the E. You are weak of chest and breath.

And very timid. All right, we made all that up. Here we go. Maybe we should just riff on this whole thing. Dr. Raymond stopped in his walk and turned sharply. He was a middle-aged man, gaunt and thin, of a pale yellow complexion, but as he answered Clark and faced him,

there was a flush on his cheek. Look about you, Clark. Look about you, Clark. You see the mountain and hill following after hill. As wave on wave, you see the woods and orchard, the fields of ripe corn, and the meadows reaching to the reed beds by the river. You see me standing here beside you

and hear my voice as pleasant as it is, but I tell you that all these things, yes, from that star that has just shown out of the sky, to the solid ground beneath our feet, I say that all these are but dreams and shadows, the shadows that hide the real world from our eyes. This is a real world, but it is beyond the glamour, and this vision, beyond these chases and auras,

dreams in a career, beyond them all, is beyond a veil. Do you even know what I'm talking about? I just realized who you're doing, and it's Truman Capote. Is it? Like that on Truman Capote. Nice work. I do not know whether any human being has ever lifted that veil, but I do know, Clark, that you and I shall see it lifted this very night from before in others' eyes.

You may think this all strange nonsense. It may be strange, but it is true, and the ancients knew what lifting the veil means. They called it Seeing the God Pan. Nice. Nice. Clark shivered, the white mist gathering over the river was chilly. It is wonderful indeed, he said.

We are standing on the brink of a strange world, Raymond. If what you say is true, I suppose the knife is absolutely necessary. Yes! A slight lesion in the grey matter, that is all. A trifling rearrangement of certain cells, a microscopic alteration that would escape the attention of 99 brain specialists out of 100. I don't want to bother you with shop, Clark.

I guess you mean shop talk? Yeah, I think so. I might give you a mass of technical detail, which would sound very imposing and would leave you as enlightened as you are now, but I suppose you have read casually, in out of the way corners of your paper, that immense strides have been made recently in the physiology of the brain. I saw a paragraph the other day about Digby's theory and Brown Faber's discoveries.

Theories and discoveries! Where they are standing now, I stood 15 years ago, and I need not tell you that I have not been standing still for the last 15 years. It would be enough if I say that five years ago, I made the discovery that I alluded to when I said that 10 years ago, I reached the goal. That's very confusing. I feel like I'm driving people literally away from this.

No, no, I think you. It's very luring in a weird way. Okay. After years of labor, after years of toiling and groping in the dark, after days and nights of disappointments and sometimes of despair, in which I used now and then to tremble and grow cold, with a thought that perhaps there were others seeking for what I saw at last after so long, a pang of sudden joy thrilled my soul,

and I knew the long journey was at an end. I would seem then and still seems a chance. The suggestions of a moment's idle thought followed up upon familiar lines and paths that I had tracked a hundred times already, the great truth burst upon me, and I saw, mapped out in lines of sight a whole world, a sphere unknown, continents and islands,

and great oceans in which no ship has sailed, to my belief, since a man first lifted up his eyes and beheld the sun, and the stars of heaven and the quiet earth beneath. Yep, keep going. Oh, good lord. You will think this all high-flown language, Clark, but it is hard to be literal, and yet I do not know whether what I am hinting at

cannot be set forth in plain and lonely terms, for instance. This world of ours is pretty well-girded now with telegraph wires and cables, thought with something less than the speed of thought, flashes from sunrise to sunset from north to south across the floods and the desert places. Suppose that an electrician of today were suddenly to perceive that he and his friends have merely been playing with pebbles

and mistaking them for the foundations of the world. Suppose that such a man saw uttermost space lie open before the current, and words of men flash forth to the sun and beyond the sun into the systems beyond, and the voice of articulate-speaking men echo and the waste void that bounds our thought. What do you think about that analogy, sir? As analogies go, that is a pretty good analogy of what I have done.

You can understand now a little of what I felt as I stood here one evening. It was a summer evening, and the valley looked much as it does now. I stood here and saw before me the inutterable, the unthinkable gulf that yawns profound between two worlds, the world of batter and the world of spirit. I saw the great, empty, deep, stretched dim before me, and in that instant a bridge of light leapt from the earth to the unknown shore and the abyss was spanned.

You may look in Brown Faber's book if you like, and you will find that to the present day the function of science are unable to account for the presence or to specify the functions of certain group of nerve cells in the brain. Last one. I'm sorry, everybody. That group is, as it were, land to yet a mere waste place for fanciful theories. I am not in the position of Brown Faber and the specialist.

I am perfectly instructed as to the possible functions of those nerve centers in the scheme of things. With a touch I can bring them into play. With a touch I say I can set free the current. With a touch I can complete the communication between this world of sense and we shall be able to finish the sentence later on. Yes, the knife is necessary, but think what that knife will affect. It will level utterly the solid wall of sense,

and probably for the first time since man was made, a spirit will gaze on a spirit world. Mark, Mary will see the God Pan. Very nice, Chuck. Wow, Louis. I feel like we need to recap that. He's doing these brain experiments basically where he says he can connect. I mean, he really just needed that last paragraph.

Where he can connect people to the spirit world, right? Yeah, basically with the scrambling of a few neurons and he knows the true purpose of, he can basically take you to a new, different dimension. Where you can see God. Yeah, God Pan, at least, sure. So now we're picking up with Clark with an E speaking again. You ready?

I'm ready. But you remember what you wrote to me? I thought it would be requisite that she, he whispered the rest of the doctor's ear, you know, be a virgin. Not at all, not at all. That is nonsense, I assure you. Indeed, it is better as it is.

I'm quite certain of that. Consider the matter well, Raymond. It is a great responsibility. Something might go wrong. You would be a miserable man for the rest of your days. No, I think not. Even if the worst happened. As you know, I rescued Mary from the gutter

and from almost certain starvation when she was a child. I think her life is mine to use as I see fit. Come, it's getting late. Better go in. Not a good guy. No. Being canceled as we speak. So he's saying, like, you know,

he found this poor homeless girl and now that he raised her and gave her a life, he can do whatever he wants with her life. So now poor Mary is going to be the first test subject for seeing the great God Pan. And I'll take up, take up some slack from you. Please do. Dr. Raymond led the way into the house,

through the hall and down a long dark passage. He took a key from his pocket and opened a heavy door and motioned Clark with an E into his laboratory. It had once been a billiard room and was lighted by a glass dome in the center of the ceiling once there's still shown a sad gray light on the figure of the doctor as he lit a lamp with a heavy shade

and placed it on a table in the middle of the room. Clark looked about him. Scarcely a foot of wall remained bare. There were shelves all around laden with bottles and files of all shapes and colors. And at one end stood a little Chippendale bookcase with its shirt off and oiled in baby oil. Raymond pointed to this.

You see that parchment Oswald Corleus? He was one of the first to show me the way, though I don't think he ever found it himself. That is a strange saying of his. In every grain of wheat, there lies hidden the soul of a star. I guess it makes sense in a weird way. Sure.

There was not much furniture in the laboratory, the table in the center, a stone slab with a drain in one corner, the two armchairs on which Raymond and Clark were sitting. That was all, except an odd looking chair at the furthest end of the room. Clark looked at it and raised his eyebrows. Yes, that is the chair, said Raymond.

We may as well place it in position. He got up and wheeled the chair to the light and began raising and lowering it, lighting down the seat, setting the back at various angles, and adjusting the footrest. It looked comfortable enough, and Clark passed his hand over the soft green velvet as the doctor manipulated the levers.

Now Clark could make yourself quite comfortable. I have a couple of hours' work before me. I was obliged to leave certain matters to the last. Raymond went to the stone slab and Clark watched him drearily as he bent over a row of files and lit the flame under the crucible. The doctor had a small hand lamp,

shaded as the larger one, on a ledge above his apparatus, and Clark, who sat in the shadows, looked down at the great shadowy room, wondering at the bizarre effects of brilliant light and undefined darkness contrasting with one another. Soon he became conscious of an odd odor. At first the merest suggestion of an odor

in the room, and as it grew more, it provided he felt surprised that he was not reminded of the chemist's shop or the surgery. Who ever smelt it, dealt it. Clark found himself idly endeavoring to analyze the sensation, and half-conscious he began to think of a day,

15 years ago, that he had spent roaming through the woods and meadows near his own home. It was a burning day at the beginning of August. The heat had dimmed the outlines of all things in all distances with a faint mist, and people who observed the thermometer spoke of an abnormal register, of a temperature that was almost tropical.

Strangely, that wonderful hot day of the 50s rose up again in Clark's imagination, the sense of dazzling, all-pervading sunlight seeming to blot out the shadows in the lights of the laboratory, and he felt again the heated air beating in gusts about his face, saw the shimmer rising from the turf,

and heard the myriad murmur of the summer. I hope this smell doesn't annoy you, Clark. It may make you a bit sleepy. That's all. Clark heard the words quite distinctly, and knew that Raymond was speaking to him. But for the life of him, he could not rouse himself from his lethargy.

He could only think of the lonely walk he had taken 15 years ago. It was his last look at the fields and woods he had known since he was a child, and now it all stood out in brilliant light as a picture before him. Above all, there came to his nostrils the scent of summer,

the smell of flowers mingled, and the odor of the woods of cool shaded places, deep in the green depths, drawn forth by the sun's heat, and the scent of the good earth, lying as it were with arms stretched forth, and smiling lips overpowered all.

His fancies made him wander, as he had wandered long ago, from the fields into the wood, tracking a little path between the shining undergrowth of beach trees, and the rock sounded as clear as a melody in the dream. All right, so he's

experiencing a... Dude is tripping. Sleep-induced, drug-induced feel-goods. Yeah, I mean, it sounds like a pretty great picture. Mm-hmm. I'll have what he's having. You want me to keep going?

Yeah, keep going. Now it gets a little weird. Thoughts began to go astray as the beach alley was transformed to a path between Ilex trees, and here and there a vine climbed from bow to bow, and sent up waving tendrils

and drooped with purple grapes, and the sparse gray-green leaves of a wild olive tree stood out against the dark shadows of the Ilex. Clark, in the deep folds of the dream, was conscious that the path from his father's house had led him into an undiscovered country,

and he was wondering at the strangeness of it all, suddenly, in place of the hum and murmur of the summer, an infinite silence seemed to fall on all things, and the wood was hushed. And for a moment in time, he stood face to face there with a presence

that was neither man nor beast, neither the living nor the dead, but all things mingled, the form of all things, but devoid of all form. And in that moment, the sacrament of body and soul was dissolved, and a voice seemed to cry,

let us go hence, and then the darkness of darkness beyond the stars, the darkness of everlasting. Whoa. He went deep. He really did. He went hence is how you'd put it, how the kids would put it.

Uh, should I pick up? Yeah. Okay. Is your throat okay? I'm fine. When Clark woke up with a start, he saw Raymond pouring a few drops of some oily fluid into a green file, which he stopped tightly.

You've been dozing. The journey must have tired you out. It is done now. I'm going to fetch Mary. I'll be back in ten minutes. Clark lay back in his chair and wondered, it seemed as if he had but passed from one dream into another.

The walls of the laboratory melt and disappear into awakened London, shuddering at his own sleeping fancies. But at last the door opened and the doctor returned, and behind him came a girl about seventeen, dressed all in white. She was so beautiful,

that Clark did not wonder at what the doctor had written to him. She was blushing now over face and neck and arms, but Raymond seemed unmoved. Mary, the time has come. You are quite free. Are you willing to trust me entirely?

Yes dear. Do you hear that Clark? You are my witness. Here is the chair, Mary. It is quite easy, just sit in it and lean back. Are you ready? Yes dear, quite ready. Give me a kiss before you begin.

The doctor stooped and kissed her mouth kindly enough. Now shut your eyes, he said. The girl closed her eyelids as if she were tired and longed for sleep. And Raymond placed the green file to her nostrils.

Her face grew white, whiter than her dress. She struggled faintly, and then with the feeling of submission strong within her, crossed her arms upon her breast as a little child about to say her prayers. The bright light of the lamp fell full upon her and Clark watched changes

fleeting over her face to the hills when the summer clouds flowed across the sun. And then she lay all white and still and the doctor turned up one of her eyelids. She was quite unconscious. Raymond pressed hard in one of the levers

and the chair instantly sank back. Clark saw him cutting away a circle like a tonsure from her hair and the lamp was moved nearer. Raymond took a small, glittering instrument from a little case and Clark turned away shudderingly. When he looked again, the doctor was binding

up the wound he had made. Clark is so timid. She would wake in five minutes. Raymond was still perfectly cool. There is nothing more to be done. We can only wait. The minutes passed slowly. They could hear slow, heavy, ticking.

There was an old clock in the passage. Clark felt sick and faint. His knees shook beneath him. He could hardly stand. And suddenly, as they watched, they heard a long, drawn sigh. And suddenly did the color that had vanished return to the girl's cheeks

and suddenly her eyes opened. Clark quailed before them. They shone with an awful light, looking far away and a great wonder fell upon her face and her hands stretched out as if to touch what was invisible. But in an instant, the wonder faded

and gave place to the most awful terror. The muscles of her face were hideously convulsed. She shook from head to foot. The soul seemed struggling and shuddering within the house of flesh. It was a horrible sight and Clark rushed forward

and she fell shrieking to the floor. Three days later, Raymond took Clark to Mary's bedside. She was lying wide awake, rolling her head from side to side and grinning vacantly. Yes, the doctor said, still quite cool. It is a great pity.

She is a hopeless idiot. However, it could not be helped and after all, she has seen the great God, Pan. Very nice. Wow. Wow-wee-wow-woo.

Definitely not a doctor feel good. No, a doctor feel bad, I guess is the best way to put it. I think so. A doctor make bad. That was really great. Chuck, this is truly the most spookiest, spooktacular

spook time. Yes, and we appreciate everyone who listens to these every Halloween. It's one of our favorites to do because we get to just have a little bit of fun and be goofy. What do you mean? You're like, that was a straight read.

But everyone, you know, Halloween looks like it's probably on for the most part this year. So be careful out there still and stay safe and enjoy yourselves. Yes, follow CDC guidelines for trick-or-treating

or Fauci will get you in your sleep. Halloween, everybody.