And now, Roma Wines, R-O-M-A, Roma Wines presents...
Suspense.
Tonight, Roma Wines bring you Robert Taylor, in the house in Cypress Canyon.
A suspense play produced, edited, and directed for Roma Wines by William Spear.
Suspense. Radio's outstanding theater of thrills is presented for your enjoyment by Roma Wines.
That's R-O-M-A, Roma Wines.
Those better tasting California wines enjoyed by more Americans than any other wine.
For friendly entertaining, for delightful dining.
Yes, right now, a glass full would be very pleasant,
as Roma Wines bring you Robert Taylor, star of nightly shows.
A very pleasant, as Roma Wines bring you Robert Taylor, star of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer's undercurrent,
in a remarkable tale of...
Suspense.
Merry Christmas, Jerry. How's the real estate business?
Kind of early with your greeting, aren't you, Sam?
Well, I gotta get them in sometime. I may not see you again until next Christmas.
If the real estate racket gets any crazier, I'll be dead by next Christmas.
I'm glad you could get up here, though, Sam.
What's on your mind, Jerry?
You'll probably shoot me when you hear it, Sam, because I'm probably nuts.
But, dog on it, you're a detective and you're my pal, and I just had to tell somebody.
You sound like it's serious.
That's just it. I don't know what it is, Sam, but...
Now, listen, you know we're agents for a group of houses up in Cypress Canyon,
those places that were started before the war and never got finished?
Oh, yeah. All they got in were the foundations, just concrete and a couple of beams.
Well, they've been finished now.
In fact, I'm putting up the for rent on the last of them today.
What do you want, police protection from the mob?
Yeah. Listen, Sam, this house that I'm talking about, it's got a number now, 2256.
But before, when the men went back to work on it about three months ago,
well, they just started when the foreman on the job brought me a shoe box
that he'd found up on a beam.
And this box had a, what do you call it, a manuscript in it, a story kind of, all written out.
Well, he gave me the thing. I read it. I didn't think much about it. I put it in my desk.
But the other day, and I happened to drive by there, I saw the number on the house
and what the house looked like. I thought of this manuscript.
Well, I don't like it. That's all. There's something funny about it.
What's funny about it?
Well, mind you, this thing was found in an unfinished house in Cypress Canyon,
a house that was only just started building.
Well, listen, Sam, I want to read it to you if you've got the time, and you'll see what I mean.
All right, shoot.
Well, here's how it begins.
To whom it may concern, my reasons for setting down on paper what follows here
will be abundantly clear to anyone into whose possession it may fall.
First, let me say that I'm a very ordinary person.
My name is James A. Woods. I'm 35 years old, by profession a chemical engineer.
My wife, Ellen, was a schoolteacher when I met and married her in Indiana seven years ago.
There's nothing in the past life of either one of us to suggest remotely any cause or reason
for the dreadful thing that has invaded our lives.
Our married life has been in no way different from that of millions of other
averaged, reasonably happy, and congenial families.
Three months ago, I was ordered by my firm to take charge of a rather minor project
in Los Angeles, Hollywood to be exact.
The order was a sudden one.
There had been no time to secure accommodations, and conditions being what they are,
the inevitable result was that until the day before yesterday,
we'd been living in the cramped quarters of one of those characteristic California motels.
Needless to say, most of our spare time had been devoted to a search for something more
permanent and comfortable, but the fruits of these efforts had been financially,
and in every other way, a geometrical progression of discouragement.
Until last Saturday afternoon, only four days before Christmas,
we were driving into town on our way to a movie when Ellen saw it.
Jim, look!
What?
That sign in front of that real estate office.
Oh, yeah.
Don't you see what it says? For rent, furnished, two-bedroom house, close in, immediate occupancy.
Yeah.
Aren't you going to stop?
Oh, Ellen, you know what a sign like that would mean right out in plain sight in front of a real estate office.
Oh, yeah, but Jim...
Either they want $600 a month or...
We'll never know until we ask.
If it's any good at all, there are probably 50 people fighting for it right back there now.
Well, honey, there's no harm in trying now, is there?
You really want to go back?
Oh, it's probably foolish, but what can we lose?
Well, okay.
Oh, darling, come on, cheer up. How do you know? Maybe our luck's changed.
Maybe fate's going to give us a nice new house for a Christmas present.
Come in.
Oh, uh, we're sorry to bother you, but we just happened to see that for rent sign outside.
Oh, yeah, I hung it outside just this minute.
Is... is the house available?
Why, sure, sure it is.
Uh, let me introduce myself. My name is James A. Woods, and this is my wife, Ellen.
Howdy-do.
Wow. Looks like it's fixing to rain.
Yes, so it does, doesn't it?
Well, it was one of those things.
The real estate agent had just been authorized to rent the place by mail that morning,
and he'd hardly had time to look at it himself and put up his sign when we drove up.
It was just an ordinary little California house about halfway up Cypress Canyon,
number 2256, just an ordinary, undistinguished little house.
The agent didn't know much about it.
Construction on it had been stopped by the war, and it had just been completed and furnished lately.
It had been vacant while somebody's estate was being settled, and now it was owned by a bank in Sacramento.
Of course, we didn't...
We got this key in the mail along with the authorization to rent.
Only one there is. Of course, you can have duplicates, May.
It seems to stick a little. Oh, no, there it is.
It doesn't sound as though that door had ever been opened.
Well, a little oil on the hinges will fix that all right.
Oh, sure.
Now, now here's your living room.
Furniture's a little dusty, of course. You've got to expect that.
It's good furniture, though, you see? Benson Brothers.
Yes, uh-huh.
Now, over here's a little den. Panel, you see? Radio, fireplace.
Really a very attractive little room, particularly for a man.
Uh-huh, yeah.
Now, the bedroom's off the living room here. Everything's all on one floor, you understand?
It's quite nice, I think. Yes.
You can see you get the morning sun here. There's a view of the canyon through these fun windows.
We got the cross-pens.
That's about all there was to it.
It wasn't the best place in the world. It was small and badly built, but what would you have done?
We took it with as little inspection as that.
It was the Saturday before Christmas.
And the very same evening, we were struggling up the steps from the road with suitcases and boxes and armloads of clothes
and all the endless bric-a-brac that people collect and never know they have until they move.
Ellen began unpacking, and I began moving things around and taking the worst of the pictures off the wall,
doing all the little things that everybody does when they move into a new place and try to give it something of their own.
Don't be such a sourpuss. You know, it's a roof over our heads for Christmas.
That's more than we ever thought we'd get, isn't it?
Now, what in the world are we gonna do with those two pictures?
Why don't we just leave them where they are?
Jim, we can't. They're too awful.
Well, all right. Put them in the closet, then.
I can't. Both the closets are jammed full.
No, I mean the other one in the little alcove off the den.
At least there's a door there. I suppose it's a closet. I don't know.
That isn't a commentary on the housing problem, huh?
A woman moving into a house without even knowing where all the closets are.
Take the pictures down, will you, honey? Bring them in here.
Okay, okay.
Guess you'll have to help me with this door. I can't get it open.
Let me see it.
Of course you can't, silly. It's locked.
Where are those keys we found in the desk?
Here they are.
Hmm.
Nope. Not this one.
Sure, this one won't work.
Well, feels like an awful solid door for a closet.
Oh, and that's one solid door in the house.
Well, this one won't do it either.
Well, we'll just have to get a locksmith up here on Monday.
I'll put the pictures behind the desk, okay?
Yeah, yeah, all right.
Jim, if you could just help me move this armchair, huh?
Oh, Ellen, will you let it go until tomorrow? You know what time it is?
Oh, but, honey, I'd like to get the place looking just a little bit.
Yeah, but it's almost midnight. In fact, it's exactly...
What was that?
Tomcat, I guess, out in the brush somewhere.
Sounded near.
Oh, hope that doesn't go on all night.
There's much we can do about it.
Come on, Ellen, I'm dead tired.
All right, Jim, all right.
Where'd you put the toothpaste, honey?
It's right in the medicine cabinet.
Oh, yeah.
Jim, we ought to get some firewood tomorrow.
You know I fire in that living room and make all the difference in the world.
Make can, Sunday.
Well, Monday, then.
Jim, I think red curtains are what we need, don't you?
Mm-hmm, mm-hmm.
You know, just at least for the living room.
Anyway, the ones in there now have just got to come down.
Yeah, I suppose they do.
What do you think of red?
Well, I guess it's all...
Jim.
That's some Tomcat.
Jim, it...
it sounded in the house.
Oh, now, how could it be in the house, Ellen?
We've been over every inch of the house.
Except the closet.
Now, how could a cat or anything else be in a closet
that's been locked up for over a year?
Oh, I don't know.
It's probably under the house of a wildcat or mountain lion or something.
I hear they have them in California.
Jim, I don't like it.
Well, neither do I like it,
but there's nothing we can do about it tonight.
Well, maybe we ought to call somebody, the police or some neighbors.
Oh, don't be silly, Ellen. You act like a kid.
Come on, let's go to bed, huh?
Well, all right. I suppose it is silly.
Jimmy, did you lock the door?
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Can I turn out the lights now?
Yeah, all right.
Good night, Ellen. Sleep tight.
Good night, Jim.
I don't know what time it was.
Perhaps an hour, perhaps only a half hour later.
My mind was in that hazy borderland
between sleep and a dream.
It's still part of consciousness.
Then I was awake.
Ellen, are you all right?
Yes.
Did you have a nightmare or something?
No.
I heard it, too.
Well, that didn't sound like any cat.
Put on the light.
Yeah.
It seemed to be out there, Jim,
in the house somewhere.
I'm going to look into this.
Jim, you be careful.
Come on. Where's my shotgun?
In the den, I think.
Jim.
What?
There's something wet.
What? Wet?
Running from under the closet door.
Sticky.
Ellen, don't. Don't touch it.
I had to.
Jim,
it's blood.
For Suspense,
Roma Wines are bringing you Robert Taylor
in the house in Cypress Canyon.
Roma Wines presentation tonight in radio's
outstanding theater of thrills,
Suspense.
Between the acts of Suspense,
this is Ken Niles for Roma Wines.
These days before Christmas
are busy ones indeed.
Yet smart hostesses everywhere
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and distinguished home entertaining later.
The secret?
Magnificent grand estate wines.
Presented by Roma,
America's greatest vintner,
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Make your holiday welcome,
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of grand estate wines
please discriminating people everywhere.
For grand estate wines,
limited bottleings by Roma
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then patiently guided to
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Delight your guests
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For dining, burgundy or sotern.
So insist on grand estate wines
and enjoy the crowning achievement
of Vintner Skill.
And now Roma Wines
bring back to our Hollywood sound stage
Robert Taylor as James A. Woods
with Kathy Lewis as his wife Ellen
in the house in Cypress Canyon.
A tale well calculated
to keep you in suspense.
It cannot be too difficult to understand
from the foregoing
why I've taken the pains to set down
in writing the events related here.
To find in one's newly rented house
a closet which cannot be opened
is in itself certainly no great cause
for alarm. But to be awakened
in the stillness of the night by unearthly
cries within that house,
to find oozing from under that
closet door something that is
unquestionably blood,
that's another matter.
Perhaps others might have been braver
than we. Suffice it only to say
that we got out of the house in something very close
to a panic and only returned when we
had the moral support of two stalwart
Los Angeles policemen. You just moved in here
you say? That's right officer. You can see we're
still unpacking. And the place has been
empty right along before that? Yeah, I don't know much
about that part of it. You could check all that with a real estate
agent though. Well, where is
this closet? Oh, it's right
in here officer.
And the blood, the blood is...
Where? Where's the blood?
Jim?
Sir, I swear to you there was blood on the floor less than an hour ago.
I saw it.
It was running out from under that door.
We heard that noise and we got up and then we saw it.
The door was locked. Locked huh?
Well, it seems to be alright now.
Hey,
you folks aren't trying to be funny are you?
Isn't there
anything in it? No ma'am,
there is not. Look officer, we're
reputable people. You can call my firm, they'll tell you all about me.
There's nothing wrong with this closet.
The walls are solid.
No trap doors. You think I'm lying?
I didn't say that mister.
Oh, you probably
did hear some sort of a noise and you got a little
panicky and... What about the blood?
It got on my hand.
It isn't there now, is it?
Yes.
Why?
I feel it.
Now you folks just take it easy.
You know you're liable to hear all kinds of
noises up in these canyons at night?
You're from the East you say?
Yeah,
I'm sorry officer.
That's alright, that's alright.
If you have any real trouble, call on us anytime.
Alright. Well, good night.
Good night. Good night.
Hey,
you ought to have this door
fixed. That's enough to scare
you. Yeah, we're going to have it
fixed.
We didn't say much
about it after that. There wasn't much that could
be said. The next
day I went down to a lot and bought a little
Christmas tree and some trimmings and we tried
to pretend we were cheerful, but
there was an uneasiness between us that had never
been there before. Ellen
seemed tired and listless.
Several times during the day I noticed
her washing her hands with a
brush, scrubbing the one that had
touched the blood.
That night we each took a sleeping pill and
went to bed.
It was sometime after midnight when
I was suddenly wide awake and staring
into the darkness. In
some way I knew at once and instinctively
what had awakened me. Ellen
was not in her bed nor in the room.
The nameless thing I feared
gripped at my heart until I could scarcely breathe.
I
opened the bedroom door and started through the house putting
on every light that I could find.
There was not much to search but I searched thoroughly.
The living room, the kitchen, bathroom,
day and even the garage.
And all the time the dread of looking
where I knew at last I must look.
For I think I knew from the
very first time where I'd find her.
It must have been a full minute that I
stood before that closet door.
Then
I opened it.
She stood there
rigid, her arms at her sides,
the fingers extended like claws.
Her hair was over her face, her eyes stared out
of it. Her lips were drawn back in
a grin like an animal at bay.
For a moment I was frozen with the horror
of it. I
stretched out my hand.
Very deliberately she turned her
head and sunk her teeth until they met into the flesh
of my forearm.
I'd raised my hand to strike at her
but already she'd relaxed her
hold and gone utterly limp.
She would have fallen unless I'd caught her.
I carried her
into the bedroom and laid her on the bed.
Strangely at that moment my only
thought was how I might revive her.
Until I saw that it was
not a faint but a sleep that she'd
fallen into. Sleep as
deep and heavy as though she'd been drugged.
And so I left her.
But for me
that night there
was no sleep.
Jim?
Yes, Ellen?
Oh,
what are you doing up so early?
Oh, I got a little restless. I'd make some coffee.
Oh.
I had the most wonderful
sleep.
And I feel so rested.
Do you?
Jim.
What? What's the matter with your arm?
Oh, I just hurt it.
Well, honey, it's terribly swollen.
Let me see it.
No, it's all right, Ellen. Oh, it isn't all right.
You've got to see Dr. Wesley right away.
Sure, I will. No, now you promised me, Jim,
that you'll go the first thing this morning.
How'd it happen?
Why, uh, there was a dog.
A dog? Yeah, I
heard him trying to chew through the screen door.
I went out to chase him away and he
bit me.
You mean there
was all that racket and I didn't even
wake up?
No, Ellen, you didn't even wake up.
It was clear to me that
Ellen knew nothing of what had transpired
the night before.
I went to my office that morning and
made a pretense of going over routine
business, if only to restore my mind to
some semblance of calm by the sight
and sound of common familiar things.
Pain in my arm had become a persistent,
dull throbbing.
I made a late appointment with Dr. Wesley.
He treated my arm with something as
simple as a needle.
I was told that the pain was
nothing. He treated my arm with something
of an arched eyebrow and he said
Well, I've never seen
anything quite like it before.
That is such a rapid onset of
infection.
It was dark when I left his office. I hadn't
realized it was so late.
Driving home my car seemed sluggish
until I saw the needle on the dashboard
and realized that I was pushing it to the utmost of its
speed. I was racing home to prevent
something before it was
too late, before the darkness had conspired
against me. For somehow
I already knew with certainty that it was the
darkness and the night that I had to fear.
The curves of the canyon
seemed endless.
And then the cold fear leaked up inside
me. My house
too was dark.
I went slowly up the stone steps
from the road, looking, praying
for some sign of light or light.
There was none.
The house was empty.
Ellen was gone.
I looked with the same
self-torturing thoroughness, and in that
closet first of all, knowing as I did
so that was hopeless.
And so, alone
in that empty house, I waited.
Powerless and helpless
now. Deadened
in thought and will, empty as the
house itself.
Save only for the overwhelming sense of a terrible
foreboding.
For some time in the early hours of the
morning, I snapped on the radio,
shortwave.
Why, surely a minor question
now. I only know that I did.
And then I heard it.
Car 58, Car 58, go to
Laurel Canyon, the 4000 block.
A report that a man has been injured or
attacked. The condition thought to be critical.
Ambulance will follow.
That is all.
I was there almost before the police,
edging my way through the little crowd, staring down
at the man lying there in his white uniform under
the streetlight. Yeah, the milkman
poor guy. I heard him scream, but when I got
here, just like this, it's nothing
but assault. Stand back, stand back, please,
please stand back.
Well, you again. I heard it on the
radio. I lived just down the road. Yeah,
yeah, I remember. What
happened? Well, take a look.
Maybe you can tell us.
He was dead. And he was lying on
his back. And his throat had been
torn out as though by the fangs
of some wild animal.
It is now Christmas Eve.
Or rather, Christmas morning,
for it's a little after midnight.
I've been waiting here.
Here in
the stillness of this empty house for nearly
24 hours, waiting for the end.
Already once tonight, I've heard that dreadful
wailing cry somewhere in the hills.
I've nailed up the closet door, but that I
know is childish, useless.
My arm is horribly swollen and turning
black, but
that's nothing. It's another
end that I foresee, as surely
as other men foresee the rising of the sun.
I hear the cry again.
It's nearer now.
I shall leave these notes in a sealed
envelope and put it in a shoebox,
in the hope that someone will give
credence to these dark and terrible
events, if indeed such nameless
horrors can ever yield to mortal
understanding.
As for myself,
I feel no longer any fear
or even sorrow.
Only a desire that the end
and the thing that I must do
may come soon.
And it will be soon,
I know.
Yes.
But there is someone at the door.
Sam!
Someone at the door.
What do you make of it, Sam?
It's quite a yarn.
But what of it?
That's what I'm for. Now listen, that's not
quite all of it.
Clip to it's a newspaper clip.
Listen, Hollywood December
the 26th. Police reported
what was apparently a case of murder
and suicide in Cypress
Canyon, sometime in the early
hours of the morning.
The victims were James A. Woods,
a chemical engineer, and his
wife Ellen. Preliminary
investigation indicates that Mrs.
Woods was killed by the blast
of a shotgun in the hands
of her husband, who then turned the weapon
upon himself. That she fought
desperately for her life, however,
was evidenced by the disorder of the room
and the severe lacerations
inflicted upon her husband about
the neck and arms.
This is the second tragedy to be reported
in Cypress Canyon within 24
hours, the other being the
unexplained death of Frank Polanski,
a milkman.
Well, no such murders or whatever
they were ever occurred, if that's what's worrying
you. The clipping, well,
you have those things printed up, you know.
Oh, no, it's not that, Sam. That story was
found in an unfinished house in Cypress
Canyon. No number, no nothing, just
a framework. Now
that house is finished. When I drove by
it today, but that's what stopped me,
Sam, because it all fits.
Now that it's finished, it is the house
in the story, the same construction, the same
vines and creepers on the lawn, even the
numbers. So what, a guy who knows roughly
what this house is going to be like, writes a yarn
and loses it or something. Did he know the place
was going to be listed for rental today, the
Saturday before Christmas? Oh, Jerry,
coincidence.
Two bits you find the guy next door is a
ghost story writer or something, and he's been wondering
for a year what happened to that thing he wrote.
OK.
OK, coincidence.
I'm sorry I bothered you, Sam.
Don't be silly, I liked it. It's a good yarn.
Is that the
for rent sign you were talking about?
Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm going to put it up outside now.
Uh-huh.
Well, so long, Jerry, and Merry Christmas again.
Well, thanks, Sam.
I guess I was kind of
silly, all right. Listen, when a
guy named whatever it is Woods
with a wife named Ellen comes in to rent
that place from you, then you can start
worrying. Yeah.
So long, Sam. So long, Jerry.
Come in.
Oh, we're sorry to bother
you, but we just happened to see that for rent
sign outside. Yeah, I hung
it out just this minute. Is
the house available?
Oh, sure, sure it is.
Let me introduce myself. My
name is James A. Woods, and
this is my wife, Ellen.
How do.
Wow.
Looks like it's fixed into
rent. Yes,
it does, doesn't it?
Suspense.
Presented by
Roma Wines, R-O-M-A,
Roma Wines, selected for your
pleasure from the world's greatest reserves
of fine wines.
Tonight's show marks the third
birthday of Suspense on the Air,
and this is Ken Niles asking our star
of the evening, Robert Taylor, to help us celebrate.
Why didn't you tell me before, Ken, if I'd
only known I'd have baked a cake. Well, Bob,
all suspense parties are surprise
parties. As an old hand on
suspense, you know that in our
plays the tables are usually turned
on the star. So tonight,
although it's our birthday, we're going to give you
a present. Here it is, a
gift basket of Grand Estate California
wines from Roma,
America's greatest vintner,
to our distinguished anniversary guest,
Robert Taylor. Thanks, Ken, you turn a nice
table. And you can set a nice
table with Grand Estate Burgundy
in your basket, Bob, for
Grand Estate Burgundy means rare
dining pleasure, adds
memorable distinction to holiday dinner.
Even everyday
meals are outstanding in taste
when Grand Estate Burgundy is served.
Yes, all Grand Estate
wines presented by Roma
are limited bottlings of outstanding
taste excellence. That I know about
Grand Estate wines, Ken. But did you know
that for Grand Estate wines, Roma
selects only the choicest grapes.
Then the ancient skill of Roma
master vintners, necessary
time, and America's finest
winemaking resources, guide
the cuvee of this grape treasure to
rich taste luxury.
That's why discriminating wine users
everywhere look to Grand Estate
wines as the crowning achievement
of vintner skill. Reason enough.
And now, Ken, who's all set to star
on Suspense next Thursday? It's that
very wonderful actress and wonderful girl,
Miss Susan Peters. Susan
will appear as a young lady in straitened
circumstances, who finds herself mistaken
for a very rich young lady,
and who is forced into continuing the
deception with murder
as a result. I'll certainly make it a point to listen.
And before I go, I'd like to thank
this really great company of actors who have
played with me tonight, and particularly Kathy
Lewis, who played Ellen. Thank you, Bob.
Tonight's original Suspense play
was written by Robert L. Richards.
Next Thursday, same time,
you will hear Miss Susan Peters as
star of Suspense.
Produced by William Spear for
the Roma Wine Company of Fresno,
California.
This is CBS, the Columbia
Broadcasting System.