We continue with our third horror collection from Libriviox. This week it's "Glamis Castle" by Elliott O'Donnell.
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Horror Story Collection 003- Glamis Castle(071624)
[MUSIC PLAYING] This episode is brought to you by Experian. Are you paying for subscriptions you don't use, but can't find the time or energy to cancel them? Experian could cancel unwanted subscriptions for you, saving you an average of $270 per year, and plenty of time. Download the Experian app. Results will vary. Not all subscriptions are eligible. Savings are not guaranteed. Paid membership with connected payment account required. It's time for Tuesday Terror here on the Mutual Audio Network. Be sure to leave the lights on while you listen. The following audio drama is rated PG-13, suggesting that children under the age of 13 should listen accompanied with an adult. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how to volunteer, please contact LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Yersley. Glamis Castle by Elliot O'Donnell. Of all the hauntings in Scotland, none has gained such widespread notoriety as the hauntings of Glamis Castle, the seat of the Earl of Strathmore and King Horn in Forfershire. Part of the castle, that part which is the more frequently haunted, is of ancient, though uncertain, date. And if there is any truth in the tradition that Duncan was murdered there by Macbeth, must, at any rate, have been in existence at the commencement of the 11th century. Of course, extra buildings have from time to time been added and renovations made, but the original structure remains pretty nearly the same as it always has been, and is included in a square tower that occupies a central position and commands a complete view of the entire castle. Within this tower, the walls of which are 15 feet thick, there is a room hidden in some unsuspected quarter that contains a secret, the keynote to one at least of the hauntings, which is known only to the Earl, his heir, on the attainment of his 21st birthday, and the factor of the estate. In all probability, the mystery attached to this room would challenge but little attention, where it's not for the fact that unearthly noises, which at the time were supposed to proceed from this chamber, have been heard by various visitors sleeping in the square tower. The following experiences said to have happened to a lady named Bond. I appended more or less in her own words. It is a good many years since I stayed at Glamis. I was, in fact, but little more than a child and had only just gone through my first season in town. But though young, I was neither nervous nor imaginative. I was inclined to be what is termed stolid, that is to say, extremely matter of fact and practical. Indeed, when my friends exclaimed, you don't mean to say you're going to stay at Glamis, don't you know it's haunted? I burst out laughing. Haunted, I said, how ridiculous. There are no such things as ghosts, one might as well believe in theories. Of course, I did not go to Glamis alone. My mother and sister were with me, but whereas they slept in the more modern part of the castle, I was at my own request to the portion of the room in the square tower. I cannot say that my choice had anything to do with the secret at chamber. That and the alleged mystery had been dinged into my ears so often that I had grown thoroughly sick of the whole thing. No, I wanted to sleep in the square tower for quite a different reason, a reason of my own. I kept an aviary, the tower was old, and I naturally hoped its walls would be covered with ivy and teeming with bird's nests, some of which I might be able to reach, and I'm ashamed to say plunder from my window. Alas, for my expectations, although the square tower was so ancient that in some places it was actually crumbling away, not the sign of a leaf, not to the vestige of a bird's nest could I see anywhere, the walls were abominably brutally bare. However, it was not long before my disappointment gave way to delight, for the air that blew in through the open window was so sweet, so richly scented with heather and honeysuckle, and the view of the broad sweeping, thickly wooded grounds, so indescribably charming, that despite my inartistic and unpoetical nature, I was entranced, entranced as I had never been before, and never have been since. "Ghosts!" I said to myself, "Ghosts, how absurd, how preposterously absurd! Such an adorable spot as this can only hob a sunshine and flowers!" I will remember too, for, as I have already said, I was not poetical, how much I enjoyed my first dinner at Glamis. The long journey and keen mountaineer had made me hungry, and I thought I had never tasted such delicious food, such ideal salmon from the esque, and such heavenly fruit, but I must tell you that, although I ate heartily as a healthy girl should, by the time I went to bed I had thoroughly digested my meal, and was, in fact, quite ready to partake of a few oat meal biscuits I found in my dressing-case, and remembered having bought at Perth. It was about eleven o'clock when my maid left me, and I sat for some minutes wrapped in my dressing-gun before the open window. The night was very still, and save for an occasional rustle of the wind in the distant tree-tops, the hooting of an owl, the melancholy cry of a peewit, and the horse barking of a dog, the silence was undisturbed. The interior of my room was in nearly every particular modern. The furniture was not old; there were no grim carvings, no grotesquely fashioned tapestries on the walls, no dark cupboards, no gloomy corners, all was cozy and cheerful, and when I got into bed no thought of bo-gul or mystery entered my mind. In a few minutes I was asleep, and for some time there was nothing but a blank, a blank, in which all identity was annihilated. Then suddenly I found myself in an oddly shaped room with a lofty ceiling, and a window situated at so greater distance from the black, open floor, as to be altogether inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of phosphorescent light made their way through the narrow panes, and served to render distinct the more prominent objects around; but my eyes struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the wall, one of which inspired me with terror such as I had never felt before; the walls were covered with heavy draperies that were sufficient in themselves to preclude the possibility of any say the loudest of sounds penetrating without. The furniture, if such, one could call it, puzzled me; it seemed more fitted for the cell of a prison or lunatic asylum, or even for a kennel, than for an ordinary dwelling-room, I could see no chair, only a course, deal-table, a straw mattress, and a kind of trough, an air of irredeemable gloom and horror hung over and pervaded everything. As I stood there I felt I was waiting for something, something that was concealed in the corner of the room I dreaded. I tried to reason with myself, to reassure myself that there was nothing there that could hurt me, nothing that could even terrify me; but my efforts were in vain, my fears grew. Had I, some definite knowledge as to the cause of my alarm, I should not have suffered so much; but it was my ignorance of what was there, of what I feared, that made my terror so poignant. Each second saw the agony of my suspense increase, I dared not move, I hardly dare breathe; and I dreaded, lest the violent pulsation of my heart should attract the attention of the unknown presence, and precipitate its coming out. Yet, despite the perturbation of my mind, I caught myself analyzing my feelings. It was not danger I poured so much, as its absolute effect, fright, I shuddered at the bare thought of what result the most trivial incident, the creaking of a board, ticking of a beetle, or hooting of an owl, might have on the intolerable agitation of my soul. In this unenerved and pitiable condition I felt that the period was bound to come, sooner or later, when I should have to abandon life and reason together, in the most desperate of struggles with fear. At length something moved, and I see chill ran through my frame, and the horror of my anticipations immediately reached its culminating point, the presence was about to reveal itself, the gentle rubbing of a soft body on the floor, the crack of a bony joint, breathing, another crack, and then, was it my own excited imagination, or the disturbing influence of the atmosphere, or the uncertain twilight of the chamber that had produced before me, in the stiggy and darkness of the recess, the vacillating and indistinct outline of something luminous and horrid, I would gladly have risked futurity to have looked elsewhere; I could not, my eyes were fixed; I was compelled to gaze steadily in front of me. Slowly, very slowly, the thing, whatever it was, took shape, legs, crooked, misshapen, human legs, a body, tawny and hunched, arms, long and spidery, with crooked, knotted fingers, a head, large and bestiele, and covered with a tangled mass of grey hair that hung around its protruding forehead and pointed ears, in ghast demockery of curls. A face, and herein was the realisation of all my direst expectations, a face, white and staring, pig-like information, malevolent in expression, a hellish combination of all things foul and animal, and yet, with all, not without a touch of pathos. As I stared at it, a ghast, it reared itself on its haunches after the manner of an ape, and leered pitiously at me; then, shuffling forward, it rolled over and lay, sprawled out like some ungainly turtle, and wallowed as for warmth in the cold grey beams of early dawn. At this juncture, the handle of the chamber door turned. Someone entered; it was a loud cry; and I awoke, awoke, to find the whole tower, walls and rafters, ringing with the most appalling screams I have ever heard; screams of something, or of some one; for there was in them a strong element of what was human, as well as animal, in the greatest distress. Wondering what it meant, and more than ever terrified, I sat up in bed and listened; listened whilst the conviction, the result of intuition, suggestion, or what you will, but a conviction all the same, forced me to associate the sounds with the thing in my dream; and I associate them still. It was, I think, in the same year, in the year that the foregoing account was narrated to me, that I heard another story of the hauntings at claim-ness; a story in connection with a lady, whom I will call Miss McGinney; I append her experience as nearly as possible as she has stated to have told it. "I seldom talk about my adventure," Miss McGinney announced, "because so many people ridicule the super-physical, and laugh at the mere mention of ghosts. I own I did the same myself till I stayed at claim-ness, but a week there quite cured me of scepticism, and I came away a confirmed believer." The incident occurred nearly twenty years ago; shortly after my return from India, where my father was then stationed. It was years since I had been to Scotland, indeed, I had only once crossed the border, and that when I was a babe; consequently I was delighted to receive an invitation to spend a few weeks in the land of my birth. I went to Edinburgh first; I was born in Drums Hugh Gardens, and then to claim-ness. It was late in the autumn. The weather was intensely cold, and I arrived at the castle in a blizzard. Indeed, I do not recollect ever having been out in such a frightful storm. It was as much as the horses could do to make headway, and when we reached the castle we found a crowd of anxious faces eagerly awaiting us in the hall. Chilled! I was chilled to the bone, and thought I should never thought; but the huge fires and bright and cozy atmosphere of the rooms, for the interior of claim-ness was modernized throughout, soon set me right; and by tea-time I felt nicely warm and comfortable. My bedroom was in the oldest part of the castle, the square tower, but although I had been warned by some of the guests that it might be haunted, I can assure you that when I went to bed no subject was farther from my thoughts than the subject of ghosts. I returned to my room at about half-past eleven. The storm was then at its height, all was babel and confusion, impenetrable darkness mingled with the wildest roaring and shrieking; and when I peeped through my casement window I could see nothing. The pains were shrouded in snow. Snow which was incessantly dashed against them with cyclonic fury. I fixed a comb in the window-frame so as not to be kept awake by the constant jarring; and with the caution characteristic of my sex looked into the wardrobe and under the bed for burglars, though heaven knows what I should have done had I found one there. Place the candlestick and match-box on the table by my bedside, lest the roof or window should be blown in during the night or any other catastrophe happened; and after all these precautions got into bed. At this period of my life I was a sound sleeper, and being somewhat unusually tired after my journey I was soon in a dreamless slumber. What awoke me, I cannot say; but I came to myself with a violent start, such as might have been occasioned by a loud noise; indeed that was at first my impression, and I strained my ears to try and ascertain the cause of it; all was, however, silent. The storm had abated, and the castle and grounds were wrapped in an almost preternatural hash. The sky had cleared, and the room was partially illuminated by a broad stream of silvery light that filtered softly in through the white and tightly drawn blinds, a feeling that there was something unnatural in the air, that the stillness was but the prelude to some strange and startling event gradually came over me. I strove to reason with myself to argue that the feeling was wholly due to the novelty of my surroundings; but my efforts were fruitless; and soon, they stole upon me a sensation to which I had been hitherto an utter stranger; I became afraid; an irrepressible tremor pervaded my frame; my teeth chatted, my blood froze; a bang an impulse; an impulse I could not resist; I lifted myself up from the pillows; and peering fearfully into the shadowy glow that lay directly in front of me, listened; why I listened, I do not know, saving that an instinctive spirit prompted me. At first I could hear nothing; and then, from a direction I could not define, the came a noise, low, distinct, uninterpretative, it was repeated in rapid succession, and speedily construed itself into the sound of mailed footsteps, racing up the long flight of stairs at the end of the corridor leading to my room. Drediting to think what it might be, and seized with a wild sentiment of self-preservation, I made frantic endeavours to get out of bed and barricade my door. My limbs, however, refused to move; I was paralysed, nearer and nearer drew the sounds; and I could at length distinguish, with a clearness that petrified my very soul, the banging and clanging of sword-scabbards, and the panting and gasping of men, saw pressed in a wild and desperate race; and then, the meaning of it all came to me with hideous abruptness; it was the case of pursued and pursuing; the race was for life. Outside my door the fugitive halted, and from the noise he made in trying to draw his breath, I knew he was dead beat. His antagonist, however, gave him but scant time for recovery. Bounding at him with prodigious leaps he struck him a blow that sent him reeling with such tremendous force against the door, that of the panels, although composed of the stoutest oak, quivered and strained like flimsy match-board. The blow was repeated, the cry that rose in the victim's throat was converted into an abortive, gurgling groan; and I heard the ponderous battle-axe, carve its way through helmet, bone, and brain, a moment later came the sound of slithery armour, and the corpse, slipping sideways, toppled to the ground with a sonorous clang; a silence too awful for words, now ensued. Having finished his hideous handiwork, the murderer was quietly deliberating what to do next, whilst my dread of attracting his attention was so great that I scarcely dare breathe. This intolerable state of things had already lasted for what seemed to me a lifetime; when, glancing involuntarily at the floor, I saw a stream of dark-looking fluid, lazily lapping its way to me, from the direction of the door. Another moment, and it would reach my shoes. In my dismay I'd shrieked aloud; there was a sudden stir without, a significant clatter of steel; and the next moment, despite the fact that it was locked, the door slowly opened. The limits of my endurance had now happily been reached; the overtaxed valves of my heart could stand no more, I fainted. On my awakening to consciousness it was morning, and the welcome sun-rays revealed no evidences of the distressing drama; my own I had a heart tussle before I could make up my mind to spend another night in that room; and my feelings as I shut the door of my retreating maid, and prepared to get into bed were not the most enviable. But nothing happened. More did I again experience anything of the sort till the evening before I left. I had laid down all the afternoon, though I was tired after a long morning's tramp on the moors; a thing I dearly love; and I was thinking it was about time to get up, when a dark shadow suddenly fell across my face. I looked up hastily, and there standing by my bedside and bending over me was a gigantic figure in bright armour; its visor was up. And what I saw within the cask is stamped forever on my memory; it was the face of the dead, the long, since dead, with the expression, the subtly hellish expression, of the living, as I gazed helplessly at it it bent lower. I threw up my hands to ward it off; there was a loud wrap at the door; and as my maid softly entered to tell me tea was ready, it vanished. The third account of the Glamis hauntings was told me as long ago as the summer of eighteen ninety-three. I was travelling by rail from Perth to Glasgow; and the only other occupant of my compartment was an elderly gentleman, who from his general heir and appearance might have been a dominee or member of some other learned profession. I can see him in my mind's eye now, a tall, thin man with a premature stoop; he had white hair, which was brushed forward on either side of his head, in such a manner as suggested a wig, bushy eyebrows, dark, piercing eyes, and a stern though somewhat sad mouth. His features were fine and scholarly; he was clean-shaven; there was something about him, something that marked him from the general horde, something that attracted me, and I began chatting with him soon after we left Perth. In the course of a conversation that was, at all events, interesting to me, I adroitly managed to introduce the subject of ghosts, then, as ever, uppermost in my thoughts. "Well," he said, "I can tell you of something rather extraordinary, that my mother used to say happened to a friend of hers at Glamis. I have no doubt you are well acquainted with the Hackneyed stories in connection with the hauntings at the castle, for example Earl Beardy playing cards with the devil, and the leaping woman without hands or tongue. You can read about them in scores of books and magazines. But what befell my mother's friend, whom I will call Mrs. Gibbons? For I have forgotten her proper name, was apparently of a novel nature. The affair happened shortly before Mrs. Gibbons died, and I always thought that what took place might have been in some way connected with her death. She had driven over to the castle one day, during the absence of the owner, to see her cousin who was the new employee of the Ireland Countess. Never having been at Glamis before but, having heard so much about it, Mrs. Gibbons was not a little curious, to see that part of the building called the Square Tower, that bore the reputation of being haunted. Tactfully biding an opportunity she sounded her relative on the subject, and was laughingly informed that she might go anywhere about the place she pleased, saving to one spot, namely Bluebeard's chamber, and there she could certainly never succeed in poking her nose, as its locality was known to only three people, all of whom were pledged never to reveal it. As the commencement of her tour of inspection, Mrs. Gibbons was disappointed; she was disappointed in the tower. She had expected to see a gaunt grim place, crumbling to pieces with age, full of blood-curdling spiral staircases and deep dark dungeons. Whereas everything was the reverse, the walls were, in an excellent state of preservation, absolutely intact; the rooms bright and cheerful, and equipped in the most modern style. There were no dungeons, at least none on view, and the passages and staircases were suggestive of nothing more alarming than bats. She was accompanied for some time by her relative, but, on the latter being called away, Mrs. Gibbons continued her rambles alone. She had explored the lower premises, and was leisurely examining a handsome, furnished apartment on the top floor; when, in crossing from one side of the room to the other, she ran into something. She looked down; nothing was to be seen. Amazed beyond description, she thrust out her hands, and they alighted on an object which she had little difficulty in identifying; it was an enormous cask or barrel, lying in a horizontal position. She bent down close to where she felt it, but she could see nothing; nothing but the well-polished boards as the floor. To make sure again that the barrel was there, she gave a little kick, and drew back her foot with a cry of pain. She was not afraid, the sunshine in the room for bad fear. She exasperated; she was certain a barrel was there, that it was objective, and she was angry with herself for not seeing it. She wondered if she were going blind, but the fact that other objects in the room were plainly visible to her, discounted such an idea. For some minutes, she poked and jabbed at the thing. And then seized with a sudden and uncontrollable panic, she turned round and fled. And as she tore out of the room, along the passage and, down the seemingly interminable flight of stairs, she heard the barrel behind her in close pursuit. Bump! Bump! At the foot of the staircase Mrs. Gibbons met her cousin, and as she clutched the latter for support, the barrel shot past her, still continuing its descent. Bump! Bump! Bump! Though the steps, as far as she could see, had ended, till the sounds gradually dwindled away in the far distance. While the manifestations lasted, neither Mrs. Gibbons nor her cousin spoke. But the latter, as soon as the sounds had ceased, dragged Mrs. Gibbons away, and in a voice, shaking with terror, cried, "Quick, quick! Don't, for heaven's sake, look round, worse as yet to come!" And pulling Mrs. Gibbons along in breathless haste, she unceremoniously hustled her out of the tower. "That was no barrel," Mrs. Gibbons's cousin subsequently remarked by way of explanation. "I saw it. I've seen it before. Don't ask me to describe it. I dare not. I dare not even think of it. Never it appears a certain thing happens shortly afterwards. Don't, don't on any accounts say a word about it to anyone here. And Mrs. Gibbons, my mother told me, came away from Glamis, a thousand times more curious than she was when she went. The last story I have to relate is one I heard many years ago, when I was staying near Balmoral. A gentleman named Vance, with strong antiquarian tastes, was staying at an inn near the Strathmore Estate, and roaming abroad one afternoon in a fit of absent-mindedness entered the castle grounds. It so happened, fortunately for him, that the family were away, and he encountered no one more formidable than a man he took to be a gardener, an uncouth-looking fellow, with a huge head covered with a mass of red hair, hawk-like features, and high cheekbones, high even for a Scott. Back was the appearance of the individual Mr. Vance spoke, and finding him wonderfully civil, asked whether, by any chance, he ever came across any fossils when digging in the garden. "I did not ken the meanie of fossils," the man replied, "what are they?" Mr. Vance explained, and a look of cunning gradually provided the fellow's features. "No," he said, "I've never found any of those things, but if you'll give me your word to say nothing about it, I'll show you something I once dug up over yonder by the square tower." "Do you mean the haunted tower, the tower that is supposed to contain the secret room?" Mr. Vance exclaimed. An extraordinary expression, an expression such as Mr. Vance found it impossible to analyze, came into the man's eyes. "Yes, that's it," he nodded, "what people call and rightly call the haunted tower. I got it from there, but don't you say not about it?" Mr. Vance, his curiosity was roused, promised, and a man politely requesting him to follow, led the way to a cottage that stood nearby, in the heart of a gloomy wood. To Mr. Vance's astonishment, the treasure proved to be the skeleton of a hand, a hand with abnormally large knuckles, and the first joint of both fingers and thumb much shorter than the others. It was the most extra ordinarily shaped hand Mr. Vance had ever seen, and he did not know in the least how to classify it. It repelled, yet interested him, and he eventually offered the man a good sound to allow him to keep it. To his astonishment, the money was refused. "You may have the thing and welcome," the fellow said, "only I advise you not to look at it, late at night, or just before getting into bed. If you do, you may have bad dreams." "I'll take my chance of that," Mr. Vance laughed. "You see, being a hard-headed cockney, I'm not superstitious. It's only you, Highlanders, and your first cousins, the Irish, who believed nowadays in boggles and omens and such like." And packing the hand carefully in his knapsack, Mr. Vance bid the strange-looking creature good-morning, and went on his way. For the rest of the day the hand was uppermost in his thoughts. Nothing had ever fascinated him so much. He sat pondering over it the whole evening, and bedtime found him still examining it, examining it upstairs in his room by candlelight. He had a hazy recollection that some clock had struck twelve, and he was beginning to feel that it was about time to retire. When in the mirror opposite him, he caught sight of the door. It was open. "By Joe, that's odd," he said to himself, "I could have sworn I shut and bolted it. To make sure he turned round the door was closed." "An optical delusion," he murmured, "I'll try again." As he looked into the mirror, the door reflected in it was open. Utterly at a loss to know how to explain the phenomenon, he leaned forward in his seat to examine the glass more carefully, and as he did so he gave a start. On the threshold of the doorway was a shadow, black, and bulbous. The cold shiver ran down Mr. Vance's spine, and just for a moment he felt afraid, terribly afraid. But he quickly composed himself. It was nothing but an illusion. There was no shadow there in reality; he had only to turn round and and a thing would be gone. It was amusing, entertaining. He would wait and see what happened. The shadow moved. It moved slowly through the air, like some huge spider, or odd shaped bird. He would not acknowledge that there was anything sinister about it, only something droll, excruciatingly droll. Yet it did not make him laugh. When it had drawn a little nearer, he tried to diagnose it, to discover its material counterpart in one of the objects around him. But he was obliged to acknowledge his attempts were failures. There was nothing in the room, in the least degree, like it. A vague feeling of uneasiness crept over him, was the thing, the shadow of something with which he was familiar but could not, just then recalled to mind, something he feared, something that was sinister. He struggled against the idea. He dismissed it as absurd, but it returned. And took deeper root, as the shadow drew nearer. He wished the house was not quite so silent, that he could hear some indication of life, anything, anything for companionship, and to rid him of the oppressive, the very oppressive sense of loneliness and isolation. Again, a thrill of terror ran through him. "Look here!" he exclaimed aloud, glad to hear the sound of his own voice. "Look here! If this goes on much longer, I shall begin to think I'm going mad. I've had enough, and more than enough of magic mirrors for one night, it's high time I got into bed." He strove to rise from his chair, to move. He was unable to do, either. Some strange tyrannical force held him a prisoner. A change now took place in the shadow. The blur dissipated, and the clearly defined outlines of an object. An object that made Mr. Vance perfectly sick with that branch, and slowly disclosed themselves. His suspicions were verified. It was the hand, the hand, no longer skeleton, but covered with green, mouldering flesh, feeling its way, slyly and stealthily towards him, towards the back of his chair. He noted the murderous twitching of its short, flat fingertips. The monstrous muscles of its hideous thumb, and the great clumsy hollows of its clammy palm, it closed in upon him, its cold, slimy detestable skin touched his coat, his shoulder, his neck, his head. It pressed him down, squashed, suffocated him. He saw it all in the glass, and then an extraordinary thing happened. Mr. Vance suddenly became animated. He got up and peeped furtively round. Chair's bed, wardrobe, had all disappeared. So had the bedroom, and he found himself, in a small, bare, comfortless, clearly constructed apartment without a door. And with only a narrow slit of a window, somewhere near the ceiling. He had in one of his hands a knife, with a long, keen blade, and his whole mind was bent on murder. Creeping, stealthily forward, he approached a corner of the room, where he now saw, for the first time, a mattress, a mattress, on which lay a huddled-up form. What the thing was, whether human or animal, Mr. Vance did not know, did not care. All he felt was that it was there for him to kill, that he loathed and hated it, hated it with a hatred such as nothing else could have produced. Tiptoeing gently up to it, he bent down, and lifting his knife, high above his head, plunged it into the thing's body, with all the force he could command. He recrossed the room, and found himself, once more, in his apartment, at the inn. He looked for the skeleton hand. It was not where he had left it, it had vanished. Then he glanced at the mirror, and on his brightly polished surface saw, not his own face, but the face of the gardener, the man who had given him the hand, features, color, hair, all were identical, wonderfully, hideously identical, and as the eyes met his they smiled devilishly. Early the next day, Mr. Vance set out for the spinny and cottage. They were not to be found, nobody had ever heard of them. He continued his travels, and some months later, at a lone collection of pictures in a gallery in Edinburgh, he came to an abrupt, a very abrupt halt, before the portrait of a gentleman in ancient costume. The face seemed strangely familiar, the huge head, with thick red hair, the hawk-like features, the thin and tightly compressed lips. Then in a trice it all came back to him. The face he looked at was that of the uncouth gardener, the man who had given him the hand, and to clinch the matter, the eyes leered. The End of Glamous Castle by Elliot O'Donnell, recording by Peter Yersley. You're listening to Tuesday Terrors on the Mutual Audio Network. Tomorrow is our weekly anthology for science fiction and fantasy, as Lothar Tuppen brings you Wednesday Wonders. Subscribe to the full Mutual Audio Network feed for every day of amazing audio, or find the Wednesday Wonders feed in your favorite podcast player. And thank you for listening everybody! (chiming)