The Vengeance of Mark Denton

The Vengeance of Mark Denton
A Mysterious Traveler Radio Play

CAST
ANNOUNCER
THE MYSTERIOUS TRAVELER, host and narrator
MARK DENTON, wealthy stockbroker, speedboat enthusiast
ELLEN DENTON, Mark’s wife
BRAD SAYERS, Mark’s erstwhile friend, and Ellen’s lover
THE SPIRIT GUIDE, leads the dead to the river between this world and the next
THE BOATMAN, ferries the dead across the river (possibly voiced by the Mysterious Traveler)
MR. MASON, The Dentons’ attorney
THE JUSTICE OF THE PEACE, HIS WIFE, MAN IN AUTOMOBILE, POLICE OFFICER

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Steam train whistle, followed by railroad sounds up then under.

ANNOUNCER: (dramatically) The Mysterious Traveler!

Railroad sounds up for a moment then under. Soft organ music in background.

MYSTERIOUS TRAVELER: (suave and sinister) This is the Mysterious Traveler, inviting you to join him on another journey into the realm of the strange and terrifying. I hope you will enjoy the trip, that it will thrill you a little and chill you a little. So settle back, get a good grip on your nerves and be comfortable–if you can! Today, I shall tell you a story of punishment from beyond the grave, a tale I call (organ sting) “The Vengeance of Mark Denton”…

The Eternal Stooge

The Eternal Stooge
by Irwin Shapiro

A Modern Doctor Faustus Sells his Soul to Old Mephistopheles!

Larry Simms could feel his heart pounding as he mounted the steps to the stage, where a single unshaded bulb threw a harsh light on the dusty boards, on the bare brick wall and the few flats leaning against it. This was the moment he had been waiting for. . . .

Fifteen years ago he had come to New York, fresh from a brilliant career at drama school. He was young, ambitious, talented; he could play anything from Aaron Slick of Punkin Crick to Hamlet; he would take Broadway by storm. It turned out that Broadway was not so easy to storm.

The Vampire

The Vampire
(El vampiro)
by Ramón García Sánchez

– I –

The old chronicles recount that back in the tenth century there lived in a certain village a feudal knight of immense fortune, the owner of an ancient castle, once the patrimony of an illustrious family that glorified their fatherland with their heroic deeds. Somehow, that castle, the living memorial of so many traditions, ended up in the hands of a stranger.

The people of the neighboring towns rarely saw the new Croesus who inhabited the castle; and even in the very village where the venerable towers of his majestic dwelling rose up above the humble huts, no one knew the man’s origin, or his family, or even his name. He appeared only rarely, and even then he never exchanged a single word with anyone. So old that he was bent nearly double by the weight of his years, always austere and somber, his countenance seemed unpleasant at first sight; and this, together with his somewhat strange and mysterious habits, made everyone view him with a respect that degenerated into exaggerated fear.

But the strangest thing of all was that, outside of its singular owner and a few servants, no one else was known to live in the castle; and yet, from time to time, but always at the midnight hour, the interior of the vast dwelling would suddenly come alight, and from it would emerge confused shouts and voices of merriment: the noise of glasses and bottles crashing against each other, at times a sweet and gentle melody like that of an improvised concert, lilting sighs, the laughter and voices of women in joyous orgy. A cacophony, in short, that shattered the tranquility and disturbed the sleep of the peaceful inhabitants of the village, who could not figure out how to explain such a ruckus.

The Devil’s Rosebush

The Devil’s Rosebush
(El rosal del diablo)
by Pedro Escamilla

– I –

If we are to credit old legends and local traditions, Germany is one of the countries the devil visits most.

This is not to attack the goodness of its inhabitants; the Spirit of Darkness no doubt has his preferences, which we need to respect.

Indeed, there’s hardly a German legend without the devil playing the protagonist. And it’s said that this is a country that holds to its traditions.

In some legends, he’s seen acting out a comedy with humble mountain people; at other times, an epic romance with the inhabitants of ancient castles.

The devil is everywhere.

A Ripper of Yesteryear (Parts III and IV)

A Ripper of Yesteryear
(Un destripador de antaño)
Parts III and IV
by Emilia Pardo Bazán

(Read Part II here)

– III –

In that back room of the apothecary shop, where, according to the authoritative account of Jacoba de Alberte, no human being entered, Don Custodio was in the habit most nights of having a chat with a canon of the Holy Metropolitan Church, a fellow student of pharmaceutical arts, an older man, dry as a piece of kindling, with a ready smile and a great fondness for tobacco. He was the constant friend and intimate confidant of Don Custodio, and if the horrendous crimes that the common people attributed to the apothecary were true, no one would be more appropriate to keep the secret of such abominations than the Canon Don Lucas Llorente, who was the quintessence of mystery and of concealment from the masses.

A Ripper of Yesteryear (Part II)

A Ripper of Yesteryear
(Un destripador de antaño)
Part II
by Emilia Pardo Bazán

(Read Part I here)

– II –

One day more dismay than ever fell upon the millers’ shack. The fatal deadline had come: the end of the lease, and either they paid the landlord, or they would see themselves evicted from the property, with neither a roof to shelter them nor land to cultivate the cabbage for their soup. And both the good-for-nothing Juan Ramon and the diligent Pepona alike professed for that parcel of land the mindless affection that they would hardly profess for their son, the fruit of their loins. To leave that place seemed to them worse than going to the grave; for the latter, in the end, must happen to all mortals, while the former doesn’t occur save for the unforeseen hardships of bad luck. Where would they find the money? There probably wasn’t in all the region the two onzas that amounted to the rent for the place. In that year of misery, Pepona calculated, one wouldn’t find two onzas except in the poor box or St. Minia’s collection plate. But the priest surely would have two onzas, and plenty more, sewn into his mattress or buried in the vegetable garden.

A Ripper of Yesteryear (Part I)

A Ripper of Yesteryear
(Un destripador de antaño)
Part I
by Emilia Pardo Bazán

The legend of “The Ripper,” the half-sage, half-sorcerer assassin, is a very old one in my homeland. I heard it at a tender age, whispered or chanted in frightful refrains, perhaps by my old nursemaid at the edge of my cradle, perhaps in the rustic kitchen, in the gathering of the farmhands, who told it with shudders of fear or dark laughter. It appeared to me again, like one of Hoffman’s phantasmagoric creations, in the dark and twisted alleys of a town that until recently remained tinged with medieval colors, as if there were still pilgrims in the world, and the hymn of Ultreja still resounded below the vaults of the cathedral. Later, the clamor of the newspapers, the vile panic of the ignorant multitude, made the story spring forth again in my imagination, tragic and ridiculous as Quasimodo, hunchbacked with all the humps that disfigure blind Terror and infamous Superstition. I will tell it to you. Enter valiantly with me into the shadowy regions of the soul.

The Convalescents’ Tea

The Convalescents’ Tea
(El té de las convalecientes)
by Emilia Pardo Bazán

They were still a bit frail, with a touch of haze in their dull eyes; but already they were eager to jump back in the ring and enjoy their youth. They had seen the terror of death up close, and it seemed miraculous to have escaped its clutches.

They were young ladies of the best society, with laughing and lively futures of unlimited promise, surprised in the middle of their lives of pleasant frivolities and hopes of love and happiness by the terrible epidemic, which chose its victims from those in the prime of life, as if it scorned the elderly, death’s sure and soon prey. Some had suffered bronchopneumonia, with its delirium and cruel suffocation; others had vomited blood by the mouthful; yet others began to show symptoms of meningitis….

And just as it seemed they were about to cross the black door and the mysterious river that sleeps between banks lined with asphodel and henbane, whose waters fall from the oar without any echo, the evil began to recede, normality was reappearing. The interesting little patients bloomed again, so to speak — not with all the vitality that one would want, but like those languid and drooping roses that slowly revive in a tall glass of water.

Godmother Death

Godmother Death
(La madrina)
by Emilia Pardo Bazán

When his second son was born, puny and barely breathing, the father looked down at the child in fury, for he had dreamed of a lineage of sturdy sons. And when the boy’s mother exclaimed — optimistic, as all mothers are — “We must find him a godmother,” the father growled:

“Godmother! Godmother! Death will be his godmother… if he lives!”

Convinced the baby would not survive, the father allowed the baptism day to arrive without stopping his wife from bringing their son to the font. In such cases, it’s good luck to invite the first person who comes along to be the godparent. So that’s what they did, when at dusk of a December day they went to the parish church.

Thrasyllus and Charite

Thrasyllus and Charite
Lucius Apuleius
From The Golden Ass, Book VIII
Translated by A. S. Kline

Mad Desire

At cockcrow, a young man, apparently a servant of Lady Charite, she who had shared my suffering among the robbers, arrived from the nearby town. Sitting beside the fire amongst a crowd of his fellow-servants, he had a strange and terrible tale to tell, of her death and the ruin of her whole house:

‘Grooms, shepherds and herdsmen too, our Charite is no more: my poor mistress, and not alone, has joined the shades, in a dreadful disaster. I want you to know all, so I’ll relate what happened, in order: events that deserve to be recorded by some historian, more gifted than I, whom Fortune has blessed with a more stylish pen.

In the town nearby lived a young man of noble birth, whose wealth was equal to his status. But he was a devotee of the taverns, spending his time each day whoring and drinking, consorting with gangs of thieves and even staining his hands with human blood. Thrasyllus was his name. Such were the facts as Rumour relates.