46xxxx (023) The Line is Dead

Don't be too sure about that Wentworth. What do you mean? Don't forget that skeleton there. He was once a man too. Until he was trapped in here, or murdered. What of it? Oh, nothing. Nothing except this.

Midnight, the witching hour when the night is darkest, our fears the strongest, and our strength at its lowest ev. Midnight, when the gravescape opened and death strikes. How you learn the answer in just a minute in, The Line is Dead.

Murdered at midnight, tales of mystery and terror by radio's masters of the macabre. Our story by Faith Glau is, The Line is Dead. The gash in the green lawn of Brookside Memorial Park awaits the body of Albert Lockridge, scientist and explorer.

There are few who have followed him to his last resting place, for Albert Lockridge was not one who was prodigal with his affection. And so, beside the yawning grave, stands his wife, the nor. Albert.

Finishing the short service, the minister says. And so, unto dust, you are now comethin' You may lower the casket. Strong hands grasp the straps attached to the coffin. The pulleys sing their discordant durn, a strange melody heard over the soft weeping of the noeluckers.

Suddenly... Oh! Oh! You're smacking! You're smacking in the coffin! Albert! Raise the casket! Please the casket! Commissioner! He is alright, isn't he, Dr. George? He seems to be, but...

But what? But you can't blame me if I'm a little hesitant in giving my opinion. You mean you're not sure that he'll... that he will? Yes. Oh. After all, Mrs. Lockridge, my position is a little awkward.

I signed the Deaf certificate feeling Satan that your husband was dead. And now I'm naturally reluctant to predict just what causes convalescence will take. I think I understand. The only thing that really matters is that my husband's lying in his bed at home and not in that cold, black earth and brook side. Isn't that true?