Skeleton Bay

The Amherst and Drug Company makers of Bromos-Eltzer invite you through the creaking door for tonight's inner sanctum mystery titled Skeleton Bay written by Emil Teperman. Bromos-Eltzer reminds you to Oh, fuck! Gee, friends of the Creaking Door.

This is your host to welcome you into the Inner Sanctum. Come on in. Come on in and join the fun. We're having a game of cops and robbers, and we can't find a soul for the cops.

Of course, we could say the magic words, abracadabur. But we don't want any of that low crowd from the morgue. You gotta come in and play dead for a while. You die laughing. And now for our excursion into the earring.

Our little trip to Skeleton Bay. Our story opens at a swanky hotel with private cabins. Situated on a storm swept rock bound coast. The story itself is all about, you guessed it, murder. And here is Carole Winters to give us a blow-by-blow description.

I'll tell you first about the night I met Michael Barrett. It was in August at Skeleton Bay. I had come to the hotel supposedly for a rest. That was what I kept telling myself, but in reality, I didn't know why I had come here.

I'd seen the name in an ad months ago, and since then it kept hammering, hammering, hammering inside of my brain. It was like the voice of implacable cake, commanding, commanding. Because I didn't like crowds, the hotel manager had given me a cabin near the beach, all to myself.

It was the middle of the night, but I couldn't sleep. The wind came in from the ocean, howling like a hungry beast across the shores. The mopounding of the surf mingled with the angry baffled growl of the sea.