Stuff You Should Know - SYSK’s Scare Your Pants Off (and Back On) Halloween Spooktacular

Episode Date: October 29, 2020

It’s that time of year again! So turn down the lights, pull the sheets over your eyes and prepare to be thrilled and frightened with two great Halloween stories from Philip K. Dick and M.R. James. 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's How Stuff Works. Hello and welcome to the podcast. I'm Josh Scare the Pants Off You Clark. And there's Charles Gasly Chuck Bryant. And Jerry's floating out there somewhere in the ether, which makes this stuff you should know. I thought you were going to say Chuck, scare the pants back on you Bryant. Oh, that's even better. Maybe we should edit that in. Say it again, but with feeling.

That was as much feeling as I could muster these days. Man, I'm with you buddy. I'm with you. But we're not here to talk about anything in the world except scaring the pants off and then back on people with our annual Halloween episode. Correct, sir. So Chuck, we come up with a couple of pretty good ones, I would say this year. I'm in love with yours. I think these are both really good. And I was surprised to see Philip K. Dick had stuff in the public domain. Well, we read one of his last year.

Did we? Yeah, the hanging man, I think is what it was called. Sure. It was very scary, very creepy. But I think it was just last year that his stuff first came in, which goes to show you how old we are. I think it's not an age thing, right? I think just certain ones were put in the public domain. I feel like if they don't copyright it after X number of decades, it automatically goes into the public domain.

So yeah, I think it's because we're old. So hats off to Phil Dick for his great work. That's right. Hats off and pants off. That's right. Mike's on. So you want to get started with the Beyond the Door? Yeah, let's do it. Okay, I'll take the first part. How about that?

That sounds wonderful. Ladies and gentlemen, please dim your lights. Please arouse your sympathetic nervous systems and prepare to hear Beyond the Door by Philip K. Dick. Larry Thomas bought a cuckoo clock for his wife without knowing the price he would have to pay. That night at the dinner table, he brought it out and set it down beside her plate. Doris stared at it, her hand to her mouth. My God, what is it? She looked up at him bright-eyed. Well, open it.

Doris tore the ribbon in paper from the square package with her sharp nails, her bosom rising and falling. Larry stood watching her as she lifted the lid. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. A cuckoo clock, Doris cried, a real old cuckoo clock like my mother had. She turned the clock over and over just like my mother had when Pete was still alive. Her eyes sparkled with tears. It's made in Germany, Larry said. After a moment, he added, Carl got it for me wholesale.

He knows some guy in the clock business. Otherwise, I wouldn't have... He stopped. Doris made a funny little sound. I mean, otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to afford it. He scowled. What's the matter with you? You got your clock, haven't you? Isn't that what you want?

Doris sat holding on to the clock. Her fingers pressed against the brown wood. Well, Larry said. What's the matter? He watched in amazement as she leaped up and ran from the room, still clutching the clock. He shook his head. Never satisfied. They're all that way.

Never get enough. He sat down at the table and finished his meal. I think we have a putz on our hands, Chuck. Yeah. I got to say, I've seen you with Yumi and you're a wonderful husband, but you played the part of jerk husband very well. Thank you very much. I think from time to time, Yumi might say I'm a natural.

No, that was well done. I wonder what this guy's problem is already. I'm guessing he's like a mid 50s average dude. Not a very good gift giver. No. I mean, here's a great gift and let me just urinate all over. Hold it still so I don't miss. All right.

You ready? I'm ready. All right, here we go. The cuckoo clock was not very large. It was handmade, however, and there were countless frets on it. All indentations and ornaments scored in the soft wood. Dora sat on the bed drying her eyes and winding the clock. She set the hands by her wristwatch.

Presently, she carefully moved the hands to two minutes of ten. She carried the clock over to the dresser and propped it up. Then she sat waiting. Her hands twisted together in her lap, waiting for the cuckoo to come out, for the hour to strike. As she sat, she thought about Larry and what he had said. And what she had said, too, for that matter. Not that she could be blamed for any of it.

After all, she couldn't keep listening to him forever without defending herself. You had to blow your own trumpet in the world. She touched her handkerchief to her eyes suddenly. Why did he have to say that about getting it wholesale? Why did he have to spoil it all? If he felt that way, he'd needn't have got it in the first place. She clenched her fists. It was so mean, so dang mean.

But she was glad of the little clock sitting there, ticking to itself. With its funny grilled edges in the door. Inside the door was the cuckoo, waiting to come out. Was he listening? His head cocked on one side, listening to hear the clock strike, so that he would know to come out? Did he sleep between hours? Well, she would soon see him.

She could ask him. Then she would show the clock to Bob. He would love it. Bob loved old things, even old stamps and buttons. He liked to go with her to the stores. Of course, it was a little awkward, but Larry had been staying at the office so much, and that helped. Only Larry didn't call up sometimes, too.

There was a whirr. The clock shuttered, and all at once the door opened. The cuckoo came out, sliding swiftly. He paused and looked around solemnly, scrutinizing her. The room, the furniture. It was the first time he had seen her, she realized. Smiling to herself in pleasure. She stood up, coming toward him shyly.

Go on, she said. I'm waiting. The cuckoo opened his bill. He word and chirped quickly, rhythmically. Then, after a moment of contemplation, he retired. And the door snapped shut. She was delighted. She clapped her hands and spun in a little circle.

Is she five years old? I guess. She's a tad daffy, I think. I love it. He was marvelous, perfect. And the way he had looked around, studying her, sizing her up. He liked her, she was certain of it. And she, of course, loved him at once completely.

He was just what she had hoped would come out of the little door. Doors went to the clock. She bent over the little door, her lips close to the woods. Do you hear me? She whispered. I think you're the most wonderful cuckoo in the world. She paused, embarrassed. I hope you like it here.

Then she went downstairs again slowly, her head high. Very nice, Chuck, that was a great Doris. I think I know where Doris is coming from. She's very likable at this point. Sure, she's delighted by simple things. Right, she does little twirls and spins and stuff. Which, I mean, how can you dislike that, you know? I know, I love it.

Okay, picking up again with moi. Larry and the cuckoo clock really never got along well from the start. Doris said it was because he didn't wind it right. And it didn't like being only half-wound all the time. Larry turned the job of winding over to her. The cuckoo came out every quarter hour and ran the spring down without remorse. And someone had to be ever after it, winding it up again. Doris did her best, but she forgot a good deal of the time.

Then Larry would throw his newspaper down with an elaborate, weird emotion and stand up. He would go into the dining room where the clock was mounted on the wall over the fireplace. He would take the clock down and making sure that he had his thumb over the little door. He would wind it up. Why do you put your thumb over the door, Doris asked once? You're supposed to. She raised an eyebrow. Are you sure?

I wonder if it isn't that you don't want him to come out while you're standing so close. Why not? Maybe you're afraid of him. Larry laughed. He put the clock back on the wall and gingerly removed his thumb. When Doris wasn't looking, he examined his thumb. There was still a trace of the nick cut out of the soft part of it. Who or what had pecked him?

Oh boy, Chuck. I think it's your turn. All right. Let's get an eerie. A little eerie. What's in that clock? Death. What's in the clock?

Death. All right. Here we go. Okay. One Saturday morning when Larry was down at the office working over some important special accounts, Bob Chambers came to the front porch and rang the bell. Doris was taking a quick shower. She dried herself and slipped into her robe.

When she opened the door, Bob stepped inside grinning. Hi, he said, looking around. It's all right, Larry's at the office. Fine. Bob gazed at her slim legs below the hem of the robe. How nice you look today. She laughed. Be careful.

Maybe I shouldn't let you in after all. It's getting naughty. Very naughty. They looked at one another, half amused, half frightened. Presently, Bob said, if you want, I'll know for God's sake. She caught hold of his sleeve. Just get out of the doorway so I can close it. Mrs. Peters across the street, you know.

She closed the door and I want to show you something. She said, you haven't seen it. He was interested. An antique or what? Of course. What else would it be? She took his arm, leading him toward the dining room. You'll love it, Bobby.

She stopped wide-eyed. I hope you will. You must. You must love it. It means so much to me. He means so much. He? Bob frowned.

Who is he? Doris laughed. Oh, you're jealous. Come on. A moment later, they stood before the clock, looking up at it. He'll come out in a few minutes. Wait until you see him. I know you two will get along just fine.

What does Larry think of him? They don't like each other. Sometimes when Larry's here, he won't come out. Larry gets mad if he doesn't come out on time. He says, says what? Doris looked down. He always says he's been robbed, even if he did get it wholesale. She brightened.

But I know he won't come out because he doesn't like Larry. When I'm here alone, he comes right out for me every 15 minutes, even though he really only has to come out on the hour. She gazed up at the clock. He comes out for me because he wants to. We talk. I tell him things. Of course, I'd like to have him upstairs in my room,

but it wouldn't be right. There was a sound of footsteps on the porch. They looked at each other horrified. Larry pushed the front door open grunting. He set his briefcase down and took off his hat. Then he saw Bob for the first time. Chambers. I'll be darned.

His eyes narrowed. What are you doing here? He came into the dining room. Doris drew her robe around her, helplessly backing away. Bob began. That is we. He broke off, glancing at Doris. Suddenly the clock began to work.

The cuckoo came rushing out, bursting into sound. Larry moved toward him. Shut that din off, he said. He raised his fist toward the clock. The cuckoo snapped into silence and retreated. The door closed. That's better. Larry studied Doris and Bob, standing mutely together.

I came over to look at the clock, Bob said. Doris told me that it's a rare antique and that... Nuts. I bought it myself. Larry walked up to him. Get out of here. He turned to Doris. You two, take that dang clock with you.

He paused, rubbing his chin. No, leave the clock here. It's mine. I bought it and paid for it. It's such a classic Larry move. I know. And if I had a dime for every time, you know, one of Emily's boyfriends came over to look at our antique clocks.

Right. They're new and wholesale. Suddenly it's making sense to you, huh? I think, yeah, I know this story well. In the weeks that followed after Doris left, Larry and the cuckoo clock got along even worse than before. For one thing, the cuckoo stayed inside most of the time, sometimes even at 12 o'clock when he should have

been busiest. And if he did come out at all, he usually spoke only once or twice, never the correct number of times. And there was a sullen, uncooperative tone in his voice, a jarring sound that made Larry uneasy and a little angry. But he kept the clock wound because the house was very still and quiet. And it got on his nerves not to hear someone running around

talking and dropping things. And even the whirring of a clock sounded good to him. But he didn't like the cuckoo at all. And sometimes he spoke to him. Listen, he said late one night to the closed little door. I know you can hear me. I ought to give you back to the Germans, back to the black forest.

He paced back and forth. I wonder what they're doing now, the two of them, young punk with his books and his antiques. A man shouldn't be interested in antiques. That's for women. He said his jaw. Isn't that right? The clock said nothing.

Larry walked up in front of it. Isn't that right? He demanded. Don't you have anything to say? He looked at the face of the clock. It was almost 11, just a few seconds before the hour. All right. I'll wait until 11.

Then I want to hear what you have to say. You've been pretty quiet the last few weeks since she left. He grinned wryly. Maybe you don't like it here since she's gone. He scowled. Well, I paid for you and you're coming out whether you like it or not. You hear me?

11 o'clock came. Far off at the end of town, the great tower clock boomed sleepily to itself. But the little door remained shut. Nothing moved. The minute hand passed on and the cuckoo did not stir. It was someplace inside the clock, beyond the door, silent and remote.

All right. If that's the way you feel, Larry murmured, his lips twisting, but it isn't fair. It's your job to come out. We all have to do things we don't like. He went unhappily into the kitchen and opened the great gleaming refrigerator. As he poured himself a drink, he thought about the clock.

There was no doubt about it. The cuckoo should come out, doors or no doors. He had always liked her from the very start. They had got along well, the two of them. Probably he liked Bob too. Probably he had seen enough of Bob to get to know him. They would be quite happy together, Bob and Doris and the cuckoo.

Larry finished his drink. He opened the drawer at the sink and took out the hammer. He carried it carefully into the dining room. The clock was ticking gently to itself on the wall. Look, he said, waving the hammer. You know what I have here? You know what I'm going to do with it? I'm going to start on you first.

He smiled. Birds of a feather. That's what you are, the three of you. Larry's losing it, I think, Chuck. Yeah. Did she split? Yeah. He kicked her out with chambers when he caught them.

And now he's just alone with his thoughts drunken a hammer and the cuckoo clock that's really taking him off. Like so many Germans. The room was silent. Are you coming out or do I have to come in and get you? The clock word a little. I hear you in there. You've got a lot of talking to do, enough for the last three weeks.

As I figure it, you owe me the door open. The cuckoo came out fast, straight at him. Larry was looking down as Browr wrinkled in thought. He glanced up and the cuckoo caught him squarely in the eye. Down he went, hammer and chair and everything, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment the cuckoo paused, his small body poised rigidly. Then it went back inside its house. The door snapped tight shut after it.

The man lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely. His head bent over to one side. Nothing moved or stirred. The room was completely silent. Except of course, for the ticking of the clock. Did this clock kill him? Did you read the story? I mean, no, I like to be surprised.

Well then wait for the rest Chuck and you take it from here. Do you read them ahead of time? Oh man, I don't. Oh boy, we like to go in fresh like Costanz's dad. I see, Dora said, her face tight. Bob put his arm around her, steadying her. Doctor, Bob said, can I ask you something? Of course, the doctor said.

Is it very easy to break your neck falling from so low a chair? It wasn't very far to fall. I wonder if it might not have been an accident. Is there any chance it might have been suicide? The doctor rubbed his jaw. I never heard of anyone committing suicide that way. It was an accident, I'm positive. I don't mean suicide.

Bob murmured under his breath, looking up at the clock on the wall. I meant something else, but no one heard him. Beautiful Chuck, bravo. Dan Cuckoo killed that man. It did. It didn't like that guff. I think the threat with the hammer is what really pushed the cuckoo over the edge. So straight into the brain through the orbital socket there?

I guess or else it caught him so surprised that he threw himself back off the chair and broke his neck on the floor. Who knows? The doctor's never going to find out. He's clearly lazy. Yeah, this doctor doesn't care. The big question is, did Doris do a little twirl when she found out that Larry had died and that the cuckoo had killed him?

Oh, I think so. And I think Bob should be afraid to, quite honestly. I think Bob's going to be okay because the cuckoo is clearly a demon servant of Doris. And if Doris is happy with Bob, then I think Bob's in the clear. Right. Bob needs to stay on Doris's good side, or then yeah, he's in trouble. Yeah. All right, good pick.

Nice one. Good pick too. Oh yeah, that was my pick. Thanks. I appreciate it. And we're going to do your pick, which I've got to say of the two. This is just straight up great horror fiction. Yeah, this is good stuff.

This is from an author named MR. James, not Mr. James. No, MR. James. MR. James. And it's called Rats.

And I hope everyone is joining this ad-free episode per tradition. Yeah. Per Halloween, scare the pants off, and then back on you tradition. That's right. We're not even going to plug our book that's available for pre-order. No, I can't see us plugging stuff you should know, Colin, and complete compendium. Mostly interesting things in an ad-free episode, right? No, or the audiobook, since people are listening to us reading.

Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. But we would never say something along the lines of like, it's available for pre-order now everywhere you buy books and it will be out in November, right? Uh-huh. Okay. I think we've killed the spooky mood enough. Oh, it was dead from the beginning when we were laughing at Larry being such a jerk, you know?

All right, gather the kids around, everyone, and here we go with Rats by MR. James. Shall I start this one? I think so, man. All right. If you was to walk through the bedrooms now, you'd see the ragged, moldy bedcloths, a heaving and a heaving like seas, and a heaving and a heaving with what? He says, why with the rats under him?

That's a good start, huh? It is. It's a great start. But was it with the rats? I asked because in another case, it was not. I cannot put a date to the story, but I was young when I heard it and the teller was old. It is an ill-proportioned tale, but that is my fault, not his. It happened in Suffolk, near the coast, or however you pronounce Suffolk, in a place

where the road makes a sudden dip and then a sudden rise as you go northward. At the top of the rise stands a house on the left of the road. It is a tall red brick house, narrow for a tight. Perhaps it was built about 1770. The top of the front has a low triangular pediment with a round window in the center. Behind it are stables and offices, and such garden as it has is behind them. Scraggy scotch furs are near it, an expanse of gorse-covered land stretches away from it. It commands a view of the distant sea from the upper windows of the front.

A sign on a post stands before the door, or did so stand, for though it was an inn of repute once, I believe it is so no longer. To this inn came my acquaintance, Mr. Thompson, when he was a young man, on a fine spring day coming from the University of Cambridge, and desirous of solitude and tolerable quarters, and time for reading. These he found, for the landlord and his wife had been in service, and could make a visitor comfortable, and there was no one else staying in the inn. He had a large room in the first floor commanding the road and the view,

and if it faced east, why, that could not be helped, the house was well-built and warm. Very nice. Thank you. MR. James knows how to set things, doesn't he? Yeah. Okay. He spent very tranquil and uneventful days working all the morning and afternoon per ambulation of the country round, a little conversation with country company

or the people of the inn in the evening over the then fashionable drink of brandy and water, a little more reading and writing and bed. And he would have been content that this should continue for the full month he had at his disposal. So well was his work progressing, and so fine was the April of that year, which I have reason to believe was that which Orlando Whistlecraft chronicles in his weather record as the charming year. Which, by the way, looked that up, and that would be 1846. Yeah, very nice.

One of his walks took him along the northern road, which stands high and traverses a wide common called the heath. On the bright afternoon when he first chose this direction, his eye caught a white object some hundreds of yards to the left of the road, and he felt it necessary to make sure what this might be. It was not long before he was standing by it, and he found himself looking at a square block of white stone, fashioned somewhat like the base of a pillar, with a square hole in the upper surface.

Just such another you might see this day on Thetford Heath. After taking stock of it, he contemplated for a few minutes the view, which offered a church tower or two, some red roofs of cottages and windows winking in the sun, and the expansive sea, also with an occasional wink and gleam upon it, and so pursued his way. You want me to keep going? Keep going.

In the desultory evening talk in the bar, he asked why the white stone was there on the common. An old-fashioned thing that is, said the landlord, Mr. Betts. We was none of us alive when that was put there. That's right, said another. It stands pretty high, said Mr. Thompson. I daresay a sea mark was on it some time back. Ah, yes, Mr. Betts agreed.

I have heard they could see it from the boats, but whatever there was, it fell to Betts this long time. Good job, too, said a third, to want a lucky mark by what the old men used to say. Not lucky for the fishing, I mean to say. Why ever not, said Thompson. Well, I'd never say it myself was the answer, but they had some funny ideas,

what I mean peculiar, them old chaps, and I shouldn't wonder about what they made away with it their selves. Mr. Thompson said, can everyone stop eating beef stew while they're talking? I do have beef stew in my mouth right now. Oh boy. Busted. Man, they're kind of a funny bunch. Let me finish this one part.

Yeah. It was impossible to get anything clearer than this, I guess because the beef stew, the company, never very valuable, fell silent, and when next someone spoke, it was a village affairs and crops. Mr. Betts was the speaker. All right. I love this story, man. MR. James just draws you into it.

I know. Plus also, that sounds like a very nice way to spend a month in fine weather. Reading, writing, walking around the countryside, bed, that just sounds nice. Eating beef stew. Yep. Great accents. I've been waiting years for that.

I wonder if that was a Suffolk one. Sure. Like a dead on Suffolk accent. I think so. The Suffolks do. Not every day did Thompson consult his health by taking a country walk. One very fine afternoon found him busily writing at three o'clock. Then he stretched himself and rose and walked out of his room into the passage.

Facing him was another room, then the stair head, then two more rooms, and one looking out to the back, the other to the south. At the south end of the passage was a window to which he went, considering with himself that it was rather a shame to waste such a fine afternoon. However, work was paramount just at the moment. He thought he would just take five minutes off and go back to it, and those five minutes he would employ, the Betzes could not possibly object, to looking at the other rooms in the passage, which he had never seen.

Nobody at all, it seemed, was indoors. Probably as it was market day, they were all gone to the town, except perhaps a maid in the bar. Very still the house was, and the sun shone really hot. Early flies buzzed in the window panes, so he explored. The room facing his own was undistinguished, except for an old print of Bury St. Edmunds. The two next to him on his side of the passage were gay and clean,

with one window apiece, whereas his had two. Remained the southwest room, opposite to the last which he had entered. This was locked. The Thompson was in a mood of quite indefensible curiosity, and feeling confident that there could be no damaging secrets in a place so easily got at, he proceeded to fetch the key of his own room, and when that did not answer, to collect the keys of the other three. It sounds like he's doing a lot of work to get in there to me.

He really wants to see what's in that room. One of them fitted, and he opened the door. The room had two windows looking south and west, so it was as bright and the sun as hot upon it as could be. Here there was no carpet, but bare boards, no pictures, no washing stand, only a bed in the farther corner, an iron bed with mattress and bolster, covered with a bluish check counterpane.

As featureless a room as you can well imagine, and yet there was something that made Thompson close the door very quickly, and yet quietly behind him, and lean against the window sill in the passage, actually quivering all over. It was this, that under the counterpane someone lay, and not only lay, but stirred, that it was someone and not something was certain, because the shape of a head was unmistakable on the bolster,

and yet it was all covered, and no one lies with covered head but a dead person, and this was not dead, not truly dead, for it heaved and shivered. Woo! I know. Counterpane, by the way, is a bedspread, so he saw something laying covered under a bedspread on the bed.

Do you guys not have a counterpane? No, you know what a counterpane was? Sure, we got counterpains in all of our beds. Well, we do too, but we don't call them counterpains, because we're not 19th century Brits. Weird. What do you call them? Bedspreads, blankets, duvets.

Bedspread? Yeah, bedspread. Interesting. You've never heard bedspread, or you don't call them bedspreads? No, we call them counterpains. Yeah, but bedspread's a lot funner to say, because it rhymes. Bedspread, I guess it does rhyme. Yeah, bedspread.

What's that, counterpane? Do you want me to start? Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Where'd you leave off? I left off at a shivered. Heaved and shivered, this dead thing, under the counterpane. Okay. If he had seen these things in dusk, or by the light of a flickering candle,

Thompson could have comforted himself and talked of fancy. In this bright day, that was impossible. What was to be done? First, lock the door at all costs. Yep. Very gingerly, he approached it, and bending down listened, holding his breath. Perhaps there might be a sound of heavy breathing, and a prosaic explanation. There was absolute silence.

But as, with a rather tremulous hand, he put the key into the hole and turned it, it rattled. Down the instant, a stumbling, padding tread was heard coming toward the door. Thompson fled like a rabbit to his room and locked himself in. Feudal enough, he knew it was, would doors and locks be any obstacle to what he suspected? But it was all he could think of at the moment, and in fact, nothing happened. Only there was a time of acute suspense, followed by a misery of doubt as to what to do. The impulse, of course, was to slip away, as soon as possible, from a house which contained such an inmate. But only the day before, he had said he should be staying for at least a week more,

and how, if he changed his plans, could he avoid the suspicion of having pride into places where he certainly had no business? Moreover, either the Betzes knew all about the inmate, and yet did not leave the house, or knew nothing, which equally meant that there was nothing to be afraid of, or knew just enough to make them shut up the room, but not enough to weigh on their spirits. In any of these cases, it seemed that not much was to be feared, and certainly so far as he had no sort of ugly experience. On the whole, the line of least resistance was to stay. You know, all this guy had to do was go downstairs and say, Yeah, you know what? Change of plans. I'm going to be moving on.

Great house. Yeah, so long. Three stars. Thanks for the memories. Yeah, three stars. Or maybe two now. Yeah. Or he could have just run right out of the place and down to the sea and swam away.

Yeah, that's a good point too. You want to keep going or shall I pick up? I think it's your turn. All right. Well, he stayed out as weak, because he was so dumb he couldn't think of a good excuse to leave. Nothing took him past that door, and often he would pause in a quiet hour of the day or night in the passage and listen and listen. No sound whatsoever issued from that direction. You might have thought that Thompson would have made some attempt at ferreting out stories connected with Ian.

Hardly perhaps from bets, but from the parson of the parish or old people in the village or the stew eaters at the bar. But no, the reticence which commonly falls on people who have strange experiences and believe in them was upon him. Nevertheless, as the end of his day drew near, his yearning after some kind of explanation grew more and more acute. On his solitary walks, he persisted in planning out some way, the least obtrusive of getting another daylight glimpse into that room and eventually arrived at this scheme. He would leave by an afternoon train about four o'clock. When his fly was waiting in his luggage on it, he would make one last expedition upstairs to look around his own room and see if anything was left unpacked. And then, with that key, which he had contrived to oil, as if that made any difference, the door should once more be opened for a moment and shut. So it worked out, the bill was paid, the consequent small talk gone through while the fly was loaded.

And a fly is like an uber, is that right? Basically, or a lift. Sure. Or a black taxi. Sure. A black cab. All driven by legal employees, regardless of how you feel about that. Yes, well compensated, legal employees.

Pleasant part of the country, been very comfortable thanks to you and Miss Betts. Hope to come back soon sometime, on one side, on the other, very glad you found satisfaction, sir, done our best, always glad to have your good word. Very much favored we've been with the weather, to be sure. This accent's all over the place. That was maybe a little Irish in there, I think. And I'm not sure what happened. I think he just slipped into Oscar Wilde. Then, I'll just take a look upstairs in case I've left a book or something out.

No, don't trouble, I'll be back in a minute. And as noiselessly as possible, he stole to the door and opened it. The shattering of the illusion. He almost laughed out loud. He LOL'd. Nearly. Propped, or you might say, sitting on the edge of the bed was... Nothing in the round world but a scarecrow.

A scarecrow out of the garden, of course. Dumped into the deserted room. Yes, but here amusements ceased. Have scarecrow's bare bony feet? Have their heads LOL'd onto their shoulders? Have they iron collars and links of chain about their necks? Can they get up and move? If never so stiffly across the floor with wagging head and arms

close at their sides and shiver? Alright, bring us home. The answer to that is no, by the way, scarecrow's can't do that. Maybe a haunted scarecrow, but still, you don't want to mess with one of those, either. The slam of the door, the dash to the stairhead, the leap downstairs were followed by a faint. Awaking, Thompson saw a bet standing over him with the brandy bottle and a very reproachful face.

You shouldn't have done so, sir. Really, you shouldn't. It ain't a kind of way to act by persons that's done the best they could for you. Thompson heard words of this kind, but we decided in reply he did not know. Mr. Betts, and perhaps even more Mrs. Betts, found it hard to accept his apologies and his assurances that he would say no word that could damage the good name of the house. However, they were accepted. Since the train could not now be caught, it was arranged that Thompson should be driven to the town to sleep there.

Which, personally, I find a highly sensible plan. Sure, should have done it a week ago. That's right. Before he went, the Betts has told them what little they knew. They say he was a landlord here a long time back and was in with the highwaymen that had their beat around the east. That's how he came by his end. Hung in chains, they say,

up where you see that stone where the gallows stood in. Yes, the fishermen made away with that, I believe, because they see it out at sea and it keeps the fish off, according to their idea. Yes, we add the account from the people that add the house before we come. You keep that room shut up, they says, but don't move the bed out and you'll find there won't be no trouble. And no more there has been, not once he haven't come out into the house,

though what he may do now, there ain't no saying. Anyway, you're the first I know on that scene him since we've been here. I never sit eyes on him myself, nor don't want. And ever since we made the servants' rooms in the stapling, we ain't had no difficulty that way. Only I do hope, sir, as you'll keep a close tongue, considering our house do get talked about with more to this effect. And mind that Yelp review, right?

That's right, that's what he's saying, basically. Pretty much. I think you should take us home since it's your story. The promise of silence was kept for many years. The occasion of my hearing the story, at last, was this. That when Mr. Thompson came to stay with my father, it fell to me to show him to his room, and instead of letting me open the door for him,

he stepped forward and threw it open himself, and then for some moments stood in the doorway, holding up his candle and looking narrowly into the interior. Then he seemed to recollect himself and said, I beg your pardon, very absurd, but I can't help doing that for a particular reason. But that reason was, I heard some days afterwards, and you have heard now.

Beautiful. So this guy's scarred for life. He just can't walk into a room anymore like a normal person. Yeah, of course not. He's seen like a long, undead, former owner of a house he was staying in, who's now chained by the neck to a bed and still, I guess, moving around, hiding under bedspreads. And they bought it knowing this, right?

Because they were like, don't worry about it, it's not a problem. Basically, yeah, that's what they were saying, is that the former owner said, you know, as long as you keep the room shut and don't move the bed, you won't have any trouble from the undead former owner who was hung for being a highway robber. Yeah, and for God's sakes, don't put a couple of deadbolt locks on this thing or a padlock.

Yeah, just a little tiny key that anybody can come by. I love this story. Oh, good stuff. Yeah, and if you liked either of these stories, but you hated our accents or whatever, go read them yourself. They're both online. Both are public domain. There's Beyond the Door by Philip K. Dick and Rats by MR James.

And both of them have a bunch of great little stories, don't they, Chuck? Yeah, and in fact, there are far superior readings on YouTube of these as well. Oh, yeah. If you want to check those out. Yeah, they don't have our accents, though. I'll tell you that. Nope, they're stew free. Well, everybody, hopefully the pants have been scared back on to you.

So you're decent when trigger treaters come to your house if we're even doing that this year, who knows. But regardless of how Halloween goes, have a safe and happy and super great frightful Halloween, right, Chuck? That's right. Happy Halloween, everybody. Thank you.