Stuff You Should Know - SYSK's Halloween Scare Fest

Episode Date: October 31, 2014

Get ready to be creeped out and join Chuck and Josh as they read you with two spooky classic horror stories, The Striding Place and The Pale Man in this special bonus Halloween episode. Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.comSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

I'm Munga Shatikler and it turns out astrology is way more widespread than any of us want to believe. You can find it in Major League Baseball, International Banks, K-Pop groups, even the White House. But just when I thought I had a handle on this subject, something completely unbelievable happened to me and my whole view on astrology changed. Whether you're a skeptic or a believer, give me a few minutes because I think your ideas are about to change too.

Just a Skyline drive on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey guys, it's Chikis from Chikis and Chill Podcast and I want to tell you about a really exciting episode. We're going to be talking to Nancy Rodriguez from Netflix's Love is Blind Season 3. Looking back at your experience, were there any red flags that you think you missed? What I saw as a weakness of his, I wanted to embrace. The way I thought of it was whatever love I have from you is extra for me. I already love myself enough.

Do I need you to validate me as a partner? Yes. Is it required for me to feel good about myself? No. Listen to Chikis and Chill on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Welcome to Stuff You Should Know from HowStuffWorks.com. Hello everyone, happy Halloween.

That was Chuck there, not the wind. No, but it is windy outside as you can tell and rainy and it's kind of spooky. Yes, but fortunately Chuck, we have a nice fire going here in our study. It is very nice in here. We're both wearing our best smoking jackets. Yep, I like the oak woodwork. We've done it with the place. It's very nice.

I feel very comfortable and it feels like a room to read scary things in. Well, that's precisely what we're about to do, Chuck. We waited for a stormy night too, which I think we've been waiting for like two weeks. It's been really lovely weather. The timing could not be better. And I don't have to tell everyone this, but you all know it's midnight. Oh yes. So if you hear the clock strike, oh, there it goes.

We're a little late. I thought I wanted to start reading right at midnight. It's okay. We're still within the witching hour. Okay. Which I don't think is necessarily midnight, but it's still scary. Well, now we have to wait for this thing to ding 12 times. So are we going to do the one by Gertrude Atherton first?

I think we should. This is originally published by Old Gertrude as the twin. Old Gertrude? Yeah. You kind of have to. She was 19 when she wrote this. Right. But her name is Gertrude.

So everybody called her Old Gertrude. She published this thing called The Twins. That was the original name of the story. And I guess it didn't take off because about 10 years later, she renamed it The Striding Place. I like the twins. Do you? Sure.

I did too until I found out that there is such a thing as an actual striding place. Yeah. It's a real part in a real river in real life. Yeah. The warfripper, right? In Yorkshire? Yeah. This is the waterfall kind of takes center stage here at the end of the story.

Yeah. So it's a, we won't, but I just want to explain because I did a little extra research even on the Halloween story episode. Yeah. This river comes to a point where it's about as wide as a large stride. So apparently it beckons people. Let's go ahead and jump. No reason to go walk to the bridge above or the bridge below.

Just jump over. Yeah. But it's also a very treacherous spot in the river. So Chuck, you want to start reading this one or do you want me to? It's up to you. I say we trade off because we have two stories this year. We didn't, we didn't tell everybody yet. Oh yeah.

We're doing two stories this year and you selected them and these are great. They were a little shorter, so we thought we'd double it up. I've had a little cognac. I think I feel primed and ready to go. We've had a lot of cognac. That's right. All right. So shall we, shall we get going here, my friend?

You ready? Does everyone dim the lights at home? Yes. If you're like on the subway or something, then you should close your eyes. That's for another time. Close your eyes very tightly. Okay, The Striding Place by Gertrude Atherton. Weagle, continental and detached, tired of early grouse shooting.

To stand propped against a sod fence while his host workmen routed up the birds and long poles and drove them towards the waiting guns made him feel himself a parody on the ancestors who had roamed the moors and forests of this west riding of Yorkshire and hot pursuit of game worth the killing. But when in England in August he always accepted whatever proffered for the season and invited his host to shoot pheasants on his estates in the south. The amusements of life, he argued, should be accepted with the same philosophy as its ills.

It had been a bad day. A heavy rain had made them more so spongy that it fairly sprang beneath the feet. Whether or not the grouse had haunts of their own wherein they were immune from rheumatism, the bag had been small. The women, too, were an unusually dull lot, the exception of a new-minded debutante who bothered Weagle at dinner by demanding the verbal restoration of the vague paintings on the vaulted roof above them. But it was no one of these things that sat on Weagle's mind as, when the other men went

up to bed, he let himself out of the castle and sauntered down to the river. His intimate friend, the companion of his boyhood, the chum of his college days, his fellow traveler in many lands, the man for whom he possessed stronger affection than for all men, had mysteriously disappeared two days ago, and his track might have sprung to the upper air for all trace he had left behind him. He had been a guest on the adjoining estate during the past week, shooting with fervor of the true sportsman, making love in the intervals to Adeline Kavan, and apparently in the best of spirits.

As far as was known, there was nothing to lower his mental mercury for his rent role was a large one. This Kavan blushed whenever he looked at her, and, being one of the best shots in England, he was never happier than in August. The suicide theory was preposterous, all agreed, and there was as little reason to believe him murdered. Nevertheless, he had walked out of the March Abbey two nights ago, without hat or overcoat, and had not been seen since.

The country was being patrolled night and day. A hundred keepers and workmen were beating the woods and poking the bogs on the moors. But as yet, not so much as a handkerchief had been found. So this guy, his best buddy, is missing. Yeah, and it's really kind of weighing on his mind right now. His bestie, and he's hunting grouse, and he's bored out of his mind. Yeah. It sounds like.

Yeah. Well, his mind is elsewhere. Well, that lady. Jeez. Going on and on about the painting. The debutante? Yeah. Do you blame him?

Yeah. Okay, you ready for more? Yeah. Weigel did not believe for a moment that Wyatt Gifford was dead, and although it was impossible not to be affected by the general uneasiness, he was disposed to be more angry than frightened. At Cambridge, Gifford had been an incorrigible practical joker, and by no means had outgrown the habit. It would be like him to cut across the country in his evening clothes, board a cattle train,

and amuse himself touching up the picture of the sensation in West riding. However, Weigel's affection for his friend was too deep to companion with tranquility in the present state of doubt, and instead of going to bed early with the other men, he determined to walk until ready for sleep. He went down to the river and followed the path through the woods. There was no moon, but the stars sprinkled their cold light upon the pretty belt of water flowing placently past wood and ruin between green masses of overhanging rocks where sloping banks tangled with tree and shrub, leaping occasionally over stones with the harsh notes

of an angry scold to recover its equanimity the moment the way was clear again. It was very dark in the depths where Weigel trod. He smiled as he recalled a remark of Gifford's. In English wood is like the good many other things in life, very promising in a distance, but a hollow mockery when you get within. You see daylight on both sides, and the sun freckles the very bracken. Our woods need the light to make them seem what they ought to be, what they once were, before our ancestors' descendants demanded so much more money and needs so much more

various days. Weigel strode along smoking and thinking of his friend, his pranks, many of which had done more credit to his imagination than this, and recalling conversations that had lasted the night through. Just before the end of the London season, they had walked the streets one hot night after a party, discussing the various theories of the soul's destiny. That afternoon they had met at the coffin of a college friend whose mind had been blank for the past three years.

Some months previously they had called at the asylum to see him. His expression had been senile, his face imprinted with the record of debauchery. In death the face was placid, intelligent, without ignoble lineation, the face of the man they had known at college. Weigel and Gifford had had no time to comment there, and the afternoon and evening were full, but coming forth from the house of festivity together, they had reverted almost at once to the topic. I cherish the theory, Gifford had said, that the soul sometimes lingers in the body after

death. During madness, of course, it is an impotent prisoner, albeit a conscious one. Fancy its agony and its horror. What more natural than that when the life spark goes out? The tortured soul should take possession of the vacant skull and triumph once more for a few hours while old friends look their last. It has had time to repent while compelled to crouch and behold the result of its work, and it has strived itself into a state of comparative purity.

If I had my way, I should stay inside my bones until the coffin had gone into its niche, that I might obviate from my poor comrade the tragic impersonality of death, and I should like to see justice done to it, as it were, to see lowered among its ancestors with the ceremony and solemnity that are its due. I'm afraid that if I'd severed myself too quickly, I should yield to curiosity and hasten to investigate the mysteries of space. Do you believe in the soul as an independent entity, then, that it and the vital principle are not one and the same?

Is that a lady? No, that's a weagle, that's a weagle. Absolutely the body and soul are twins, life comrades, sometimes friends, sometimes enemies, but always loyal in the last instance. One day, when I am tired of the world, I shall go to India and become a Mahatma, solely for the pleasure of receiving proof during life of this independent relationship. Suppose you are not sealed up properly, and returned after one of your astral flights to find your earthly part unfit for habitation.

It is an experiment I don't think I should care to try, unless even juggling with soul in flesh and pulp. That would not be an uninteresting predicament. I should rather enjoy experimenting with broken machinery. The high wild roar of water smoked suddenly upon Weagle's ear and checked his memories. He left the wood and walked out on the huge, slippery stones which nearly closed the river wharf at this point and watched the waters boil down into the narrow paths with their furious, untiring energy.

The black quiet of the woods rose high on either side, the stars seemed colder and wider just above. On either hand, the perspective of the river might have run into a rayless cavern. There was no lonelier spot in England, nor one which had the right to claim so many ghosts if ghosts there were. Alright, so he basically was like, I can't sleep, I'm going to go look for my friend. Yeah, he's thinking a lot. He's thinking about his good friend Wyatt Gifford.

Yeah, he's thinking of walking along the river, he's thinking about why God tortured him with that voice. Yeah, he doesn't like his voice, but he's not in the best of way right now. No. Alright, you ready to continue, sir? I'm prepared, you ready? Yeah. Weagle was not a coward, but he recalled uncomfortably the tales of those that had been done to death

in the Strid. Wordsworth's boy of Egremond had been disposed of by the practical Whittaker, but countless others, more venturesome than wise, had gone down into that narrow boiling course never to appear in the still pool a few yards beyond. Though the great rocks which formed the walls of the Strid was believed to be a natural vault onto whose shelves the dead were drawn, the spot had an ugly fascination. Weagle stood, visioning skeletons, uncoffin'd in green, the home of the eyeless things that had devoured all that had covered and filled that rattling symbol of man's mortality, then

fell the wondering if anyone had attempted to leap the Strid of late. It was covered with slime. He had never seen it look so treacherous. He shuddered and turned away, impelled, despite his manhood, to flee the spot. As he did so, something tossing in the foam below the fall, something as white yet independent of it, caught his eye and arrested his step. Then he saw that it was describing a contrary motion to the rushing water, an upward, backward motion.

Weagle stood rigid, breathless. He fancied he heard the crackling of his hair. Was that a hand? The thrust itself higher above the boiling foam, turned sideways, and four frantic fingers were distinctly visible against the black rock beyond. Weagle's superstitious terror left him. A man was there, struggling to free himself from the suction beneath the Strid, swept down, doubtless, but a moment before his arrival, perhaps as he stood with him back to the current.

He stepped as close to the edge as he dared, the hand doubled as if in an aprication, shaking savagely in the face of that force which leads its creatures to immutable law. Then spread wide again, clutching, spanning, crying for help as audibly as the human voice. Weagle dashed to the nearest street, dragged and twisted off a branch with his strong arms, and returned as swiftly to the Strid. The hand was in the same place, still gesticulating as wildly. The body was undoubtedly caught in the rocks below, perhaps already halfway along one of those hideous shelves.

Weagle let himself down upon a lower rock, braced his shoulder against the mass beside him, and then, leaning out over the water, thrust the branch into the hand. The fingers clutched it convulsively. Weagle tugged powerfully, his own feet dragged perilously near the edge. For a moment he produced no impression, then an arm shot above the waters. The blood sprang to Weagle's head. He was choked with the impression that the Strid had him in a roaring hold, and he saw nothing.

Then the mist cleared. The hand and arm were nearer, although the rest of the body was still concealed by the foam. Weagle peered out with distended eyes. The meagre light revealed in the cuffslinks of a peculiar device. The fingers clutching the branch were as familiar. Weagle forgot the slippery stones, the terrible death if he stepped too far. He pulled with passionate will and muscle.

Muscles flung themselves into the hot light of his brain, trooping rapidly upon each other's heels as if in the thaw to the drowning. To the pleasures of his life, good and bad, were identified in some way with this friend. Scenes of college days of travel where they had deliberately sought adventure and stood between one another in death upon more occasions than one, of hours of delightful companionship among the treasures of art and others in the pursuit of pleasure flashed like the changing particles of a kaleidoscope. Weagle had loved several women, but he would have flouted in these moments the thought that

he ever had loved any woman as he loved Wyatt Gifford. There were so many charming women in the world, and in the 32 years of his life, he had never known another man to whom he had cared to give his intimate friendship. So Chuck, it sounds like he's pretty certain this is Wyatt, his long lost buddy. He's in the foamy waterfall. And he's trying to save him. Yeah, so this is getting intense. It's getting super intense, and it sounds like he really likes this guy, you know?

He does. Like he really wants to save his friend. Sure. He threw himself on his face. His wrist were cracking, the skin was torn from his hands, the fingers still gripped the stick. There was life in them yet. Suddenly, something gave way.

The hand swung about, tearing the branch from Weagle's grasp. The body had been liberated and flung outward, though still submerged by the foam and spray. Weagle scrambled to his feet and sprang along the rocks, knowing that the danger from suction was over, and that Gifford must be carried straight to the quiet pool. Gifford was a fish in the water and could live under it longer than most men. If he survived this, it would not be the first time that his pluck and science had saved him from drowning. Weagle reached the pool.

A man in his evening clothes floated on it, his face turned towards a projecting rock over which his arm had fallen, upholding the body. The hand that had held the branch hung limply over the rock, its white reflection visible in the black water. Weagle plunged into the shallow pool, lifted Gifford in his arms and returned to the bank. He laid the body down and threw off his coat that he might be the freer to practice the methods of resuscitation. He was glad of the moment's respite.

The valiant life and the man might have been exhausted in that last struggle. He had not dared to look at his face, to put his ear to the heart. The hesitation lasted but a moment. There was no time to lose. He turned to his prostrate friend. As he did so, something strange and disagreeable smote his senses. For a half moment he did not appreciate its nature. Then his teeth clack together, his feet, his outstretched arms pointed towards the woods.

But he sprang to the side of the man and bent down and peered into his face. There was no face. Ha ha ha! Man! That was scary stuff. That's creepy. No face. Yeah.

And the guy was struggling, helping himself up. Yeah. Clearly dead. Yeah. Like they had spoken about previously in the short story. Yeah. And also, you know, he, I think he was talking about the soul and the twins. Like maybe this was his soul or something.

I don't know. Yeah. I mean, these guys were clearly related. Yeah. Gertrude said at least. So that was the striving place by Gertrude Atherton and that was one of two. Yeah. She said that that was her favorite one she ever wrote.

And so I can't disagree. Nice going, Gertrude. The old Gertrude. So Chuck, what's our, what's the next selection in our cozy, scary, creepy study? The next, by the way, I appreciate the Halloween candy you put out. That's a nice touch. I know. I sprung for the full-sized ones.

Forget that fun-sized crud. It's a little weird to eat Reese's Pieces while I'm all creeped out. But they're still delicious. They're still delicious. So this one's called The Pale Man by Julius Long, and it is from Weird Tales, Volume 24, issue number three. Weird Tales was a pulp rag of Chicago, started in 1923, and has had several iterations over the years, including a modern one.

You can still, I think, buy something called Weird Tales, even though it's been shut down here and there over the years. Well, I know. I don't know if that's where we got to start, but he definitely supplied a lot of stories. H.P. Lovecraft, Weird Tales. Totally. Weird Tales.

H.P. Yeah, I kind of miss the old days like this. I mean, I know you have stuff like this on the Internet now, but it's kind of neat to be able to buy a little pulp thing for $0.10, you know, back in the 1920s, like I did. H.P. Alrighty, so this is The Pale Man by Julius Long with the subtitle, A Queer Little Tale About the Eccentric Behavior of a Strange Guest in a Country Hotel. H.P.

Nice. H.P. Kind of describes it perfectly, I think. H.P. Sure. H.P. All right, ready? Is everyone got the lights dim?

This is on the subway. And get your brandy and your Reese's Pieces up. And chop your Reese's Pieces in your brandy and swirl them around. That might be nice. All right, here we go. I'm Mangesh Atikala, and to be honest, I don't believe in astrology, but from the moment I was born, it's been a part of my life. In India, it's like smoking.

You might not smoke, but you're going to get secondhand astrology. And lately, I've been wondering if the universe has been trying to tell me to stop running and pay attention. Because maybe there is magic in the stars, if you're willing to look for it. So I rounded up some friends and we dove in, and let me tell you, it got weird fast. Tantric curses, Major League Baseball teams, canceled marriages, K-pop. But just when I thought I had to handle on this sweet and curious show about astrology, my whole world came crashing down.

This situation doesn't look good, there is risk to father. And my whole view on astrology, it changed. Whether you're a skeptic or a believer, I think your ideas are going to change too. Listen to Skyline Drive and the I Heart Radio App, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Lance Bass, host of the new I Heart Podcast, Frosted Tips with Lance Bass. The hardest thing can be knowing who to turn to when questions arise or times get tough or you're at the end of the road.

Ah, okay, I see what you're doing. Do you ever think to yourself, what advice would Lance Bass and my favorite boy bands give me in this situation? If you do, you've come to the right place because I'm here to help. This I promise you. Oh, God. Seriously, I swear. And you won't have to send an SOS because I'll be there for you.

Oh, man. And so will my husband, Michael. Um, hey, that's me. Yep, we know that, Michael. And a different hot, sexy teen crush boy bander each week to guide you through life, step by step. Oh, not another one. Uh-huh.

Kids, relationships, life in general can get messy. You may be thinking, this is the story of my life. Just stop now. If so, tell everybody, yeah, everybody about my new podcast and make sure to listen so we'll never, ever have to say bye, bye, bye. Listen to Frosted Tips with Lance Bass on the I Heart Radio App, Apple Podcast or wherever you listen to podcasts. I have not yet met the man in number two, 12.

I do not even know his name. He never patronizes the hotel restaurant and he does not use the lobby. On the three occasions when we passed each other by, we did not speak, although we nodded in a semi-cordial, noncommittal way. I should like very much to make his acquaintance. It is lonesome in this dreary place with the exception of the age lady down the corridor. The only permanent guests are the man in number two, 12 and myself. However, I should not complain for this utter quiet is precisely what the doctor prescribed.

I wonder if the man in number two, 12, two has come here for a rest. He is so very pale, yet I cannot believe that he is ill for his paleness is not of a sickly cast but rather wholesome in its ivory clarity. His carriage is that of a man enjoying the best of health. He is tall and straight and he walks directly with a brisk athletic stride. His pallor is no doubt congenital, else he would quickly tan under this burning summer sun. He must have traveled here by auto for he certainly was not a passenger on the train

that brought me, and he checked in only a short time after my arrival. I had briefly rested in my room and was walking down the stairs when I encountered him ascending with his bag. It is odd that our venerable bellboy did not show him to his room. It is odd too that with so many vacant rooms in the hotel, he should have chosen number 2, 12 at the extreme rear. The building is a long, narrow affair, three stories high. The rooms are all on the east side as the west wall is flushed with a decrepit business

building. The corridor is long and drab, and its stiff, bloated paper exudes a musty and pleasant odor. The feeble electric bulbs that light it shine dimly as from a tomb. Revolted by this corridor, I insisted upon being given number 201, which is at the front and blessed with southern exposure. The room clerk, a disagreeable fellow with a Hitler mustache, was very reluctant to let me have it, as it was ordinarily reserved for his more profitable transient trade.

Wink, wink. I fear my stubborn insistence has made him an enemy. If only I had been a self-assertive thirty years ago. I should now be a full-fledged professor instead of a broken-down assistant. I still smart from the cavalier manner in which the president of the university summarily recommended my vacation. No doubt he acted for my best interests. The people who have dominated my poor life invariably have.

Oh well, the summer's rest will probably do me considerable good. It is pleasant to be away from the university. There's something positively gratifying about the absence of the graduate student face. If only it were not so lonely, I must devise a way of meeting the pale man in number 212. Perhaps the room clerk can arrange matters. So this guy, he's a bit of a whiner. Yeah, he's like a little whiny, assistant professor who was kind of told to go on vacation, it sounds like.

Pretty much. The room, the nicest room even though it sounds like that was saved for prostitutes. It was being saved by the man with the Hitler mustache for prostitutes. I guess. Well the transient trade, isn't that what he means? Yeah, but I think he's also saying here, immense possible interpretation, but he appears to have settled in for a very long stay. Yeah, that's true.

He might. Yeah, it might. Rather than like a traveling salesman. The brandy is getting to me. My mind's in the gutter. The Reese's pieces are getting to you. Alright, so he wants to meet the man in 212, he's just something about this guy. He's also just pretty content to whine it sounds like.

Yeah, that's true. May I? Please. Okay. I'm Mangesh Atikular and to be honest, I don't believe in astrology, but from the moment I was born, it's been a part of my life. In India, it's like smoking. You might not smoke, but you're going to get secondhand astrology.

And lately, I've been wondering if the universe has been trying to tell me to stop running and pay attention, because maybe there is magic in the stars, if you're willing to look for it. So I rounded up some friends and we dove in and let me tell you, it got weird fast. Tantric curses, Major League Baseball teams, canceled marriages, K-pop. But just when I thought I had to handle on this sweet and curious show about astrology, my whole world came crashing down. Situation doesn't look good.

There is risk to father. And my whole view on astrology, it changed. Whether you're a skeptic or a believer, I think your ideas are going to change too. Listen to Skyline Drive and the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, I'm Lance Bass, host of the new iHeart podcast, Frosted Tips with Lance Bass. The hardest thing can be knowing who to turn to when questions arise or times get tough or you're at the end of the road.

Ah, okay, I see what you're doing. Do you ever think to yourself, what advice would Lance Bass and my favorite boy bands give me in this situation? If you do, you've come to the right place because I'm here to help. This I promise you. Oh, God. Seriously, I swear. And you won't have to send an SOS because I'll be there for you.

Oh, man. And so will my husband, Michael. Um, hey, that's me. Yep, we know that Michael and a different hot sexy teen crush boy band are each week to guide you through life step by step, not another one, kids, relationships, life in general can get messy. You may be thinking, this is the story of my life. Just stop now.

If so, tell everybody, yeah, everybody about my new podcast and make sure to listen so we'll never, ever have to say bye, bye, bye. Listen to Frosted Tips with Lance Bass on the iHeart Radio app, Apple podcast or wherever you listen to podcasts. I've been here exactly a week. And if there is a friendly soul in this miserable little town, he has escaped my notice. Although the tradespeople accept my money with flattering eagerness, they studiously avoid even the most casual conversation.

I'm afraid I can never cultivate their society unless it can arrange to have my ancestors recognized as local residents for the last hundred and fifty years. Despite the coolness of my reception, I have been frequently venturing abroad. In the back of my mind, I have cherished hopes that I might encounter the Pale Man in number 211. Incidentally, I wonder why he has moved from number 212. There is certainly little advantage in coming only one room nearer to the front. I noticed the change yesterday when I saw him coming out of his new room.

We nodded again, and this time I thought I detected a certain malign satisfaction in his somber black eyes. He must know that I am eager to make his acquaintance, yet his manner forbids overtures. If he wants me to go all the way, he can go to the devil. I am not the sort to run after anybody. Indeed, the certainly diffidence of the room clerk has been enough to prevent me from questioning him about his mysterious guest. I wonder where the Pale Man takes his meals.

I have been absenting myself from the hotel restaurant and patronizing the restaurants outside. At each, I have ventured inquiries about the man in number 210. No one had any restaurant remembered his having been there. Perhaps he has entrée into the Brahmin homes of this town, and again he may have found a boarding house. I shall have to learn if there be one. The Pale Man must be difficult to please, for he has again changed his room.

I am baffled by his conduct. If he is so desirous of locating himself more conveniently in the hotel, why does he not move to number 202, which is the nearest available room to the front? Perhaps I can make his inability to locate himself permanently as an excuse for starting a conversation. I see we are close neighbors now, I might say casually, but that is too banal. I must await a better opportunity. This guy is whiny.

Yeah. He's like, well, I'm not going to go chase this guy down, and then he's like, I wonder where he eats. He's just like sitting around thinking about him, and he's getting closer, and I don't think that's a good thing. No, I don't. I don't either. It's a peculiar behavior for a short story, things like that kind of stand out, you know?

This guy's like, oh, he's moving closer, how delightful. Yeah. What a dummy. He has done it again. He's now occupying number 209. I'm intrigued by his little game. I waste hours trying to fathom its point. What possible motive could he have?

I should think he would get on the hotel people's nerves. I wonder what our combination bell hop chambermaid thinks of having to prepare four rooms for a single guest. If he were not stone deaf, I would ask him. At present, I feel too exhausted to attempt such an innervating conversation. I am tremendously interested in the Pale Man's next move. He must either skip a room or remain where he is for a permanent guest, a very old lady occupies number 208.

She has not budged from her room since I've been there, and I imagine that she does not intend to. I wonder what the Pale Man will do. I await his decision with the nervous excitement of a devotee of the track on the eve of a big race. After all, I have so little diversion. Well, the mysterious guest was not forced to remain where he was, nor did he have to skip a room.

The lady in number 208 simplified matters by conveniently dying. That ain't good. No. No one knows the cause of her death, but it is generally attributed to old age. She was buried this morning. I was among the curious few who attended her funeral. When I returned home from the mortuary, I was in time to see the Pale Man leaving her room.

Already he has moved in. He favored me with a smile whose meaning I have tried in vain to decipher. I cannot but believe that he meant it to have some significance. He acted as if there were between us some secret that I failed to appreciate. But then perhaps a smile was meaningless, after all, and only ambiguous by chance like that of the Mona Lisa. My man of mystery now resides in number 207, and I am not the least surprised. I would have been astonished if he had not made his scheduled move.

I've almost given up trying to understand his eccentric conduct. I do not know a single thing more about him than I knew the day he arrived. I wonder whence he came. There is something indefinably foreign about his manner. I'm curious to hear his voice. I'd like to imagine that he speaks the exotic tongue of some faraway country. If only I could somehow enveigle him into a conversation. I wish that I were possessed of the glib assurance of a college boy who can address himself to

the most distinguished celebrity without batting an eye. It is no wonder that I am only an assistant professor. Man, this guy is really hung up on that. He showed the kind of moxie at work as he shows in this man. Oh, he shows in his head, really. Yeah, maybe he'd be a professor by now. Jesus, I hope somebody kills him. My money's on the pale man.

I was guessing it was the old lady in the other room, but she died, and she got a chance to. He knows what will happen. Maybe the chambermaid. Somebody wants to kill this guy. I do. I am worried. This morning I awoke to find myself lying prone upon the floor.

I was fully clothed. I must have fallen exhausted there after I returned to my room last night. I wonder if my condition is more serious than I had suspected. Until now I have been inclined to discount the fears of those who have pulled a long face about me. For the first time I recall the prolonged hand clasp of the president when he bade me goodbye from the university. Obviously he never expected to see me alive again.

Of course I am not that unwell. Nevertheless I must be more careful. Thank heaven I have no dependence to worry about. I have not even a wife. For I was never willing to exchange the loneliness of a bachelor for the loneliness of a husband. Burn! I can say in all sincerity that the prospect of death does not frighten me. Speculation about life beyond the grave has always bored me.

However it is, or is not, I will try to get along. I have been so preoccupied about the sudden turn of my own affairs that I have neglected to make note of a most extraordinary incident. The pale man has done an astounding thing. He has skipped three rooms and moved all the way to number 203. We are now very close neighbors. We shall meet oftener and my chances for making his acquaintance are now greater. I have confined myself to my bed during the last few days and have had my food brought

to me. I even called the local doctor, whom I suspect to be a quack. He looked me over with professional indifference and told me not to leave my room. For some reason he does not want me to climb stairs. For this bit of information he received a ten dollar bill which, as I directed him, he fished out of my coat pocket. A pickpocket could not have done better. He had not been gone long when I was visited by the room clerk.

That worthy suggested with a great show of kindly concern that I used the facilities of the local hospital. It was so modern in all that. With more firmness than I have been able to muster in a long time, I gave him to understand that I intended to remain where I am. Frowning solently he is stiffly retired. The doctor must have paused long enough downstairs to tell him a pretty story. It is obvious that he is afraid I shall die in his best room.

The pale man is up to his old tricks. Last night when I tottered down the hall, the door of number 202 was ajar. Without thinking I looked inside. The pale man sat in a rocking chair, idly smoking a cigarette. He looked up into my eyes and smiled that peculiar, ambiguous smile that has so deeply puzzled me. I moved on down the corridor, not so much mystified as annoyed. The whole mystery of the man's conduct is beginning to irk me.

It is also inane, so utterly lacking in motive. I feel that I shall never meet the pale man, but at least I am going to learn his identity. Tomorrow I shall ask the room clerk and deliberately interrogate him. This sounds like this guy is really relaxing. It's a forced leave from work. He gets wound up about stuff. Alright, I'm ready for this to happen one way or the other. Bring it on home, Chuck.

I'm tired of hearing this guy. Everybody's tired of hearing this guy. I know now. I know the identity of the pale man, and I know the meaning of a smile. Early this afternoon I summon the room clerk to my bedside. Please tell me," I asked abruptly. "'Who is the man in number 202?' The clerk stared wearily and uncomprehendingly.

"'You must be mistaken. That room is unoccupied.' "'Oh, but it is,' I snapped in irritation. I, myself, saw the man there only two nights ago. He is a tall, handsome fellow, with dark eyes and hair. He is unusually pale. He checked in the day I arrived. The hotel man regarded me dubiously, as if I were trying to impose upon him. "'But I assure you there is no such person in the house.

As for his checking in when you did, you were the only guest we registered that day.' "'What?' "'Why, I've seen him twenty times. First he had number 212 at the end of the corridor, then he kept moving toward the front. Now he's next door in number 202.' The room clerk threw up his hands. "'You're crazy,' he exclaimed, and I saw that he meant what he said. I shut up at once and dismissed him.

After he had gone I heard him rattling the knob of the pale man's door. There's no doubt that he believes a room to be empty. Thus it is that I can now understand the events of the past few weeks. I now comprehend the significance of the death in number 207. I even feel partly responsible for the old lady's passing. After all, I brought the man with me. But it was not I who fixed his path. Why he chose to approach me, room after room, through the length of this dreary hotel.

Why his path crossed the threshold of the woman in number 207. Those mysteries I cannot explain.' I suppose I should have guessed his identity when he skipped the three rooms the night I fell unconscious upon the floor. In a single night of triumph he advanced until he was almost to my door. He will be coming by, and by to inhabit this room, his ultimate goal. When he comes I shall at least be able to return his smile of grim recognition. Meanwhile, I have only to wait beyond my bolted door.

The door swings slowly open. Whoa, Doe Boy got his. Yeah, I have a feeling the pale man now resides in room 201. I think he resides inside Mr. Julius Long. Yeah. If that was autobiographical. He kind of sounds like the slender man. A little bit.

You know? Yeah. I didn't know. So that's it. Happy Halloween, everybody. Well, that's more brandy, Chuck. I know. I feel like reading like six more of these.

We don't have to not slur any longer. That's right. Pour it up. All right. Here you go. And some Reese's Pieces. Thank you, sir. Very nice.

All right. Enjoy, Chuck. Halloween tradition. Happy Halloween to you, Chuck. Happy Halloween to you. Happy Halloween to Jerry. Happy Halloween, Jerry. Stay out there, be safe, be careful, and have a spectacular night.

For more on this and thousands of other topics, visit HowStuffWorks.com. I'm Munga Shatigler, and it turns out astrology is way more widespread than any of us want to believe. You can find it in Major League Baseball, international banks, K-pop groups, even the White House. But just when I thought I had a handle on this subject, something completely unbelievable happened to me and my whole view on astrology changed. Whether you're a skeptic or a believer, give me a few minutes because I think your ideas

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