And now, tonight's presentation of radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense.
Tonight, the story of several hours spent by two people in a deserted bus shelter, and
the slow realization by one that the other is quite mad.
So now with Joyce McCluskey as the woman and Vic Perrin as the man.
Here is tonight's Suspense play, The Shelter.
This is where I turn off.
Now, if I remember right, the bus stop is just around that next bend.
That's right.
There's a shelter there, isn't there?
Yes.
Here we are then.
Sure you don't mind walking when it's this dark?
It's quite all right.
I'm grateful to you for having brought me this far.
It was a pleasure.
Well, good night and thank you.
Just a minute.
You never know what these things are going to be.
It has just been reported by the authorities at the County Mental Hospital that one of
their patients has escaped.
Motorists are warned to be on the lookout for would-be hitchhikers and to report any to
the highway patrol.
How about that?
This person may be dangerous.
A description of the escapee will be broadcast as soon as it's available.
And now, back to our music brought to you at this hour by the
Suspense.
The
bus won't be long.
I'll just walk along to the shelter and then stay there, out of sight.
Well, now if you're sure.
Thank you once again.
Well, that's quite all right.
Good night then.
Good night.
I watched his car turn off onto a side road and fade into the night.
Then I walked ahead towards the bus stop.
It was farther to the shelter than I thought.
A car passed me, slowed and then stopped a hundred yards or so ahead.
I could hear a door slam as someone got out.
Then the car turned around and came back past me.
I suppose its headlights dazzled me for a moment I could see nothing but pitch blackness.
Then I saw the shelter, like a cave in the dark mountain of trees behind.
The light was out, but still the shelter was inviting.
A way to get out of the night.
So I went in to wait for the bus.
It was unbelievably dark in there, like walking into a fold of black velvet.
I could see nothing at all.
Hello.
Oh, I'm sorry.
I'm waiting for a friend.
It's quite all right.
I didn't mean to frighten you.
It's all right.
There's a seat here, a bench along the wall.
Thank you.
I know.
You know?
I've been here before, waiting for a bus.
Oh, I see.
You can find the bench all right?
Yes, thank you.
Ah, yes, you're sitting down now, at the other end.
You must have extremely good eyes.
Yes.
Yes, I suppose so.
You've become accustomed to the dark after a while.
Yes.
Do you know about the eyes?
They say that the way to see objects at night is to avoid looking directly at them.
That's very interesting.
They say that the human eye is made up of things called rods and cones, although I can
never remember which is which.
The rods or the cones, whichever it is, are in the middle.
You use them for looking at things in an ordinary light.
The rods are on the outside and you sort of look sideways with them at objects at night.
I'm not boring you.
No, no.
I'm interested in facts, are you?
Well, I...
I get them from the digest, you know.
It's a great place for facts.
I expect so.
It's practically all I read.
And what's the use of reading if you can't talk about it, eh?
Well, I agree.
Where I've been staying, they all read the same thing.
You can't tell them any facts they don't know.
I like to talk.
But when you start, they say, we know.
And of course they do.
They think you're mad or something.
That's very discouraging.
Yes.
Especially when you're an old chatterbox like I am.
Are you a good listener?
I think so.
That's good.
Because as I say it, they wouldn't listen to me.
You've gotten up?
Well, yes.
Where are you going?
Nowhere.
Then why did you get up?
The seat is a little hard.
I thought perhaps you were going outside to walk around.
Well as a matter of fact, I thought I might.
Then my conversation does bore you.
No.
I think you'd better stay here in any case.
What do you mean, I'd better?
Because it's not safe out there.
Not safe?
No.
What do you mean?
You don't know.
It was on the radio.
What was?
Then you didn't know.
Well, no.
About the lunatic?
Lunatic?
One of the inmates from the asylum up on the hill.
You mean one of the patients from the hospital?
That is perhaps a kinder way of putting it.
But just the same, they might be dangerous.
So you'd better stay here with me.
Were it safe?
What did the radio say?
I didn't listen too closely.
Just that there'd been this escape.
But we shall be all right here in the shelter.
That's right.
Sit down again.
What was I saying before?
That you were interested in facts.
I expect you smoke.
No, I don't.
Oh.
I was wishing I could offer you a cigarette, but I don't smoke myself.
What was that?
It's the branch of a tree tapping on the roof.
It happens every once in a while when the wind shifts.
Oh?
Yes.
I've read some interesting facts about drinking in the digest.
People become addicts.
Yet the solution is quite simple.
They should invent another habit to counter the bad one.
That sounds like a good idea.
I have all sorts of useful habits which make up for my having no vices.
Counting things is one of them.
You understand what I mean by counting things?
Well, not exactly.
You take wood block flooring, for example.
How many blocks would you say there were in a floor 40 feet by 15?
Never mind working it out.
I can give you the answer at once.
It's 1,470.
Fancy.
In the same room, there are 10 iron bedsteads with rails top and bottom.
If there's a knob at the end of each rail, how many knobs altogether?
No.
Don't try to answer.
In this room, three of the beds have a knob missing.
So the answer is 37.
That's exact knowledge.
Counting things is the only way of coming to exact knowledge, you know.
Mathematics will let you down every time.
Well, I was never very good at math.
Approximation, that's all it is.
This fellow Einstein knows that.
Yes, I've read all about Einstein and the others in the digest.
They're theorists, of course.
Yes?
I'm a practical man myself, and I believe in counting things.
Did you walk to the door and back again?
You couldn't see me?
I could hear your voice come and go, and I thought I saw your shadow at the door.
I wasn't sure.
I knew you couldn't possibly have heard me walking.
How?
I took my shoes off.
They squeak.
Oh?
Also, it isn't natural for human beings to wear shoes.
Perhaps it isn't.
When you wear shoes, you bang down on your heel too much all the time.
This jars the brain.
As a matter of fact, there's a lot to be said for not walking upright at all.
Oh, there's that tree branch again.
It squeezes your entrails all together.
It's better to walk on all fours like animals do, so the internal organs hang freely inside
the natural protective cage formed by the ribs.
I read an article where it said that most of man's hair...
His voice went on in the darkness, and as it went on somehow, even uneasy as I was, I
stopped listening to him.
I could hear another voice out of the past.
Years ago, it was a loud voice, and I could overhear it from outside the window.
It was talking about me.
But didn't you notice?
He just walked out on me.
What's the matter with that child?
Surely she's not afraid of me.
I don't know.
Perhaps she is.
But that's ridiculous, Martha.
I was just talking.
Now what was there to be afraid of?
Well, what were you talking about?
I don't know.
Nothing much.
You know the way you talk to kids.
Yes.
Well, then she got up and walked out.
She looked scared.
Well, perhaps she's abnormally timid.
I've noticed it before.
When the Parkinson's were here, she used to go missing for hours at a time.
I just couldn't find her.
Well, they were strangers to her, but she knows me for heaven's sakes.
I always thought I was her favorite uncle when she was a baby.
You remember?
She certainly wasn't afraid of me then.
I sometimes think her father's death affected her.
Oh?
Well, this strangeness about her, it seems to have started shortly after the accident.
For goodness sakes, Martha.
It's been two years.
But she's only 12.
She'll grow out of this strangeness.
Well, I sure hope so.
Say, what are you whispering for?
Was I?
Well, yes, and you still are.
Well, I'll tell you, Will.
I get the feeling when she goes missing the way she does that she hangs around listening
to conversations.
I have the feeling she's listening to us now.
You do?
Yes.
Well, where then?
Outside the window.
I'll take a look.
No, Will, don't be a fool.
That's the worst thing you could possibly do.
I got away, as always.
Although Mother always seemed to know when I was around or near, just as I always knew
when she'd gone out, even though the house was so big you couldn't hear the closing of
a distant door.
And it's true what Uncle Will said.
I was afraid.
I was scared of his voice talking on and on.
It was the same with all men's voices except my father.
And of course, he was dead.
Then in the shelter.
All these years later, I was listening to another voice talking on and on.
Only this time, it seemed I couldn't get away.
Where would I run to?
Out in the dark highway?
And if I did get up and flee into the night, how did I know he wouldn't follow me, overtake
me?
Now, these are known facts.
And sitting down is bad, too.
One should recline in a tilted forward position.
I try to do it whenever possible.
Though I have to admit, I'm finding it very difficult on this hard wooden seat.
Yes, I should think so.
Perhaps you think me eccentric.
Your ideas seem very sensible.
They're facts.
That's...
Oh, I startled you.
Yes.
I was sitting at the other end of the seat.
It didn't seem sociable.
I forgot for the moment that you can't see anything.
I must have startled you.
You...
You're touching me.
Why, so I am.
Take your hands off me.
Why, I was only trying...
Go away!
Let me alone!
Be quiet!
Be quiet, you little fool!
Let me alone!
I said be quiet!
Be quiet.
You are listening to The Shelter, tonight's presentation in radio's outstanding theater
of thrills, Suspense.
Gunsmoke, CBS radio's thrilling stories of the Western frontier is now heard twice on
Saturdays.
There's a daytime edition of Gunsmoke on most of these same stations, in addition to the
regular evening show.
Both heard Saturdays at the Star's Address.
This Saturday, every Saturday, hear two stories of Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshal on Gunsmoke.
And now we bring back to our Hollywood soundstage, Joyce McCluskey and Vic Perrin, in tonight's
production of The Shelter, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense.
Then I heard the tree branch tapping on the roof.
The stranger was gripping my upper arm so tight it hurt and bruised me.
I'm sorry I had to do that, to slap you.
But you screamed.
Why did you scream?
I was- You're not afraid of me, are you?
Because there's no need to be, you know.
I had to slap you because you screamed.
You were hysterical.
Your scream might have attracted attention.
If we stay here quietly, we shall be safe.
It's so dark, no one would notice this place unless they actually knew it was here.
I suppose not.
The lunatic might be a homicidal maniac.
Had you thought of that?
Probably just a sick man.
Then why did he escape?
It must be terrible to be confined against your will.
Perhaps you can't imagine what it would be like.
On the contrary, perhaps I can.
What?
What do you mean?
Surely everyone has been hospitalized at some time or another.
I'm no exception.
Then-
I've had my share.
Just being hospitalized, that's not the same.
What's the difference?
You're cut off from the world against your will.
Not necessarily.
Not necessarily against your will.
You think some people actually like to be cut off?
That's possible, isn't it?
Oh, yes.
I was just a little surprised that you should understand that feeling.
Fear.
Nameless fear.
Does it have to be fear?
Why not just plain choice?
It's usually fear of one kind or another, renouncing the world.
That is an eerie sound.
I don't mind.
But you do mind me.
Is that it?
I didn't say so.
You showed you were afraid of me just now.
I don't know why I screamed like that.
It was so stupid.
Just the same, I think I'd better go.
Go?
Yes.
I'll put my shoes on.
I believe you would prefer to be alone.
So I'll leave you here.
Good night.
I didn't mean...
Are you there?
I didn't mean to be rude.
Are you still there?
Where are you?
I'm back.
I don't want you to leave me alone.
I went to the doorway of the shelter.
My eyes were more used to the darkness now.
I could see the gray strip of highway stretching away in both directions.
And across the road, the black tracery of trees.
There was no sign of him.
I stood there just inside the doorway, listening.
But there was nothing to hear but the sounds of the night.
And it was funny.
Everything had changed.
Before I'd welcomed the thought of the friendly loneliness of the shelter.
But now, I didn't want to be alone.
My nerves were jumping with every sound.
I couldn't think of anything to do but retreat to the furthest corner in the darkness and
try to shut out all the thoughts of the present.
And after a while, I did sort of forget.
Sitting there in the silence.
The past came crowding back to my mind.
But my terror wouldn't leave me and all I could hear in my thoughts was the sound of
my own scream.
No!
No, no, you can't make me!
All right, Rufus, I've got her.
Don't hurt her, Will.
No.
You can't keep me here!
Oh, yes!
Oh, will you make me?
Stay!
Martha!
You think I should call him now, Will?
It's up to you.
But I have to be right.
I can't do this to her unless she...
What else can you do?
What are you planning, you two?
Now, Martha, now that she's quieter.
I should blame myself for the rest of my life if we were wrong.
Let go of me!
Let go!
There's nothing to blame yourself for, Martha.
It couldn't be helped.
I'll call him now.
Oh!
The sound of the trees rattling against the roof brought me back to the present, back
to the loneliness of the dark shelter.
And now I was thoroughly scared.
My companion of the darkness had gone.
But I had an overwhelming feeling he was still out there in the night, watching, waiting.
But as I sat huddled in my corner, listening for the slightest sound of him, I heard something
else.
The bus was coming.
Oh, now at last I could get away.
I went out to the edge of the highway to signal for it.
It seemed to be going so fast.
I waved my arms.
There was a blinding glare of headlights.
Stop!
Please stop!
Oh, please stop!
Well, why don't you go?
You were there.
I was never far away.
But you...
Why don't you go?
It's waiting for you.
I...
I don't know.
I...
I can't go.
It won't wait.
It's too late now.
You would prefer to wait here with me, wouldn't you?
Come inside.
No.
My friend will be here soon.
Your friend?
I told you I was waiting for him.
Oh.
Yes.
He'll be giving me a lift into town.
We can take you.
I can't go.
Perhaps you believe there is no such person as my friend?
Why did he leave you here?
He'll be back soon and we can go into town.
Or do you want to go back to where you came from?
I think...
I'd better.
Come back into the shelter.
No.
Come on.
Don't touch me.
Why are you suddenly afraid again?
I don't know.
Come inside and wait.
That's the way.
Oh.
Was that...
tripped on something?
Give it to me.
It's a stick.
A walking stick.
Give it to me, please.
A white walking stick.
It's... yours.
Yes.
Then you're... blind.
Yes.
I'm blind.
Blind?
I don't understand.
You said you read all those things in the digest.
It's true.
I read them in Braille.
I'm afraid I frightened you.
I only wanted to help.
Oh, it's strange.
For the first time, I can remember I was afraid of being alone.
Scared of the dark.
It's normal to be scared of the dark.
I just didn't want to depress you by speaking of my own affliction.
But now that you know about it,
you realize that we both know what suffering is,
what it is to be alone,
what it is to be shut up, away from the world,
because we don't really belong there.
You mustn't say that.
Why should you think you don't belong?
I don't think that.
I did once, at first,
during the months in the hospital, but not anymore.
And you?
I have to go back.
I must confess to you, my friend went to the hospital.
He should be here any minute.
We guessed when my friend saw you walking on the highway.
And you kept me here in the shelter
while he went to get a doctor.
That's right.
I must go back.
There.
As soon as they come for me.
But will you have to stay?
Will you want to? Put it that way.
What?
No.
No, I don't think I will.
Then the outside world, meeting people,
this is not something to be afraid of?
Not anymore.
I'm glad.
Listen.
What?
I hear my friend coming.
Suspense.
In which Joyce McCluskey starred as the woman
and Vic Perrin as the man.
Next week, the story of a man who sets out to prove
that he cannot be murdered,
only to find there was a slight error in his calculations.
We call it the last letter of Dr. Bronson.
That's next week on Suspense.
Suspense is produced and directed by Norman MacDonald
with music composed by Lucian Morawick
and conducted by Lud Bluskin.
The shelter was specially written for Suspense by Don Yarrow.
Featured in the cast were Helen Klebe, Herb Alice,
Dick Ryan, and Frank Gerstle.
You enjoy City Hospital every Saturday in the daytime
on the CBS Radio Network.