46xxxx (028) Black Curtain (1st half)

Death strikes. How? You learned the answer in just a moment in.

The Black Curtain, murdered at midnight. Nails of mystery and terror by radio's masters of the macabre. Our story by Max Ehrlich is... The Black Curtain.

On my head, there in my hotel room, and waiting. It would begin in a moment, just as it had night after night for weeks. I wondered if I could live through it again. I stared up at the ceiling, my muscles tense, my mouth dry, and waited, waited for it to come.

The pain, there it was, that tiny trap somewhere deep in my head. It always started with that tiny trap, and then, then, there, now it is mushroomed out, smashing like red-hot hammers against my temple, smashing forward, smashing forward like the feet of surf against the sea walls. There were two invisible hands inside my head, trying

to crush my brain of gold, trying to spit my skull, clunk it like a ripe watermelon. Can I tell you? Let me die. Let me die. Mr. Crawford, yes, Dr. Foster, last night and the night before and the night before that, the same terrible blinding headache. I can't stand to paint much longer, Doctor. What causes

it? In the name of heaven, what causes it? Frankly, Mr. Crawford, I don't know. I examination for real nothing. Same old story all over. I've been to every brain specialist on the West Coast, and none of them can help me.

Not you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. What is it good is that going to do me? Might as well kill myself now. I can't go on enduring those headaches. I'd rather be dead than suffer any more.