46xxxx (015) The House Where Death Lived

It's not just an ordinary cane, my dear. Alec. It's a sword cane, see? Calhoun used it when he killed his wife, right where you're standing. Alec, you... you kill Fandas. Exactly.

And now you're going to kill me. Yes. No, no, no. Keep away from me. Keep away from me. Ahh! The witching hour when the night is darkest, our fears the strongest, and our strength. strength than its lowest end. Midnight, when the graves keep open and death strikes.

How? You learned the answer in just a minute in. The house where death lived. A dull, murder at midnight. Tales of mystery and terror by radio's masters of the macabre. Our story is a ghostly nightmare by one of radio's best-known mystery writers, Robert Newman.

It's titled The House Where Death Lived. Large rambling house on top of a hill. A house whose windows are either shattered or broken. A rusty iron fence surrounds it, and its grounds are waste and uncared for.

A car grind slowly up the hill stops before the main gate, and two men get out. One of them is gray-haired but vigorous. The other wears a chauffeur's uniform. They push open the heavy gate.

Start up the gravel path by the joint. You could hardly expect it to be a showplace after being empty for more than ten years. It's open. Yes. I'm glad we didn't have to force it.

All right, Sanders. You can go back to the car and wait for me. I should be out in about a half an hour or so. You mean you're going in alone? Well, yes. Somehow I don't think you're exactly suited by temperament for psychic research.