Radio Mystery Theater presents... Come in. Welcome.
I'm E .G. Marshall. Many of you may not be familiar
with the writings of William Austin since his
main claim to fame is that he was the forerunner
of the famous Nathaniel Hawthorne. But it is
as sad in a way as this haunting tale I bring
you that he should have been so overshadowed
by his famous antecedent for no more poignant
and heartbreaking while at the same time terrifying
story could be told than this. The American version
of the wandering Jew, condemned and outcast,
and the small shivering fever -wracked child
with the sad brown eyes innocently doomed to
share his exile with him forever. in the center
of the cloud. What? An open carrot, drawn by
a fierce black horse, and the child clinging
in terror to the man. There he goes, the Storm
Breeder. Our mystery drama, The Storm Breeder.
was especially adapted from the classic William
Austin story for the Mystery Theater by Ian Martin
and stars Michael Tolan and Fred Gwin. I'll be
back shortly with Act One. For the strange, weird,
unforgettable fragment of American history brought
to you here, We are indebted, according to William
Austin, to one Jonathan Dunwell of New York.
Mr. Dunwell was a judge and as such a general
officer of the court by profession, but by inclination
an antiquarian and a collector of American history.
It is his manuscript we bring to life. In the
summer of 1820, business called me to Boston.
I sailed in the packet to Providence. And when
I arrived there, I learned that every seat in
the stage was engaged. I was fortunate enough
to find a seat with a driver. It being a pleasant
night and he quite intelligent, we were chatting
pleasantly when all of a sudden the horses drew
their ears on their necks flat as a hairs. And
the whole business of Peter Rugg began. What's
the matter with the horses? Have you a third
too with you? Oh, I need no overcoat. My jacket
isn't out there. You'll need one soon. You see
the horse's ears? Well, as a matter of fact,
yes. I was just about to ask why. They see the
storm breeder. The who? You'll find out, sir.
Keep your eyes ahead. I am. The road seems empty
and the weather is lovely, not a cloud in the
sky. But you will see him soon. And the weather
that follows will blot out the sun. Are you pulling
my leg, driver? I wish I were, Mr. Dunwell, sir.
Here, sir. Wind this blanket about you. But the
sun is shining and I'm very... Listen to what
I say. Protect yourself as much as you can. Approaching
us was a weather -beaten chair, once built for
Ashey's body, drawn by a great black fiery horse,
traveling at least at the speed of 12 miles an
hour. Seated in it were a child and a man, who
glanced at us as he passed in such dejection
of spirit and hopelessness. that my heart seemed
to suspend beating momentarily. In the moment
that he passed us, our horses' ears sprang forward
and bent so that they nearly met. Who, uh, who
was that man? Nobody knows. And the child? Nor
her. Though both are familiar to me. I must have
passed them more than a hundred times on near
as many routes. Without ever exchanging a word?
Not a word. In the beginning he used to stop
and inquire the way to Boston, even when he was
traveling directly away from the town. But since
he never seemed to follow my directions, I have
ceased communication with him. So that was the
reason for the strange, fixed look he turned
on you. It could be. And now he's gone. Disappeared
as if neither he nor that frail, shivering child
had ever been. Does he never stop anywhere? Never
longer than to inquire the way to Boston. I see
no signs of this promised storm. Look in the
direction from which the man came. The storm
follows him. I guess you're right. There is a
little black cloud speck in the east, but not
much more than the size of my hat. Aye, that
there's the seed storm. With luck we may reach
Polly's tavern before it strikes. But to mark
my word, the wanderer and his child will go on
through rain and thunder and lightning to Providence.
To the town we are coming from, you mean? Yes,
sir. I would guess the real Providence is as
far out of his reach as the Boston. He never
seems able to find either. Arrump that saddle
blanket about you, for here it comes. Hey! Get
up! Get up! My eyes are dazzled. What do you
mean? Watch as he comes again. There, in the
center of the cloud. What? Don't you see? An
open carriage drawn by a black horse and a child
clinging in tarot to the man. Now look. Do you
see? I see nothing but the lightning and the
boiling blackness of the cloud. No matter. Perhaps
as well for you. Now hold fast. We go full out.
Hey! Get up! Move and move! Within a few minutes,
we had broached a rise and sliding and slithering
came down into the hollow to Polly's Tavern.
In spite of the summer weather, a steam of damp
arose from our clothes and those of other travelers.
And the whole common room seemed to be awash
with discussion of the Storm Breeder. whom almost
all of them seem to have met on the road. Ah,
the name is Darwin, sir, of Boston, in the import
-export trade. Jonathan Dunwell, recently seated
as judge in our circuit courts, bound from New
York to your fair city. Well, sir, my pleasure
and privilege to meet so distinguished a gentleman.
I'm afraid your city is fast surpassing ours
in credit and notoriety. Not entirely, sir. I'm
afraid a citizen of your city is the focus of
all conversation tonight. The Storm Breeder.
Did you chance on him? No, as it happens, not
today. But too many times. Too many times? I
could wish to see neither that man nor his horse
again. For they seem not to belong to this world.
Well, how's that? I saw them plain, father and
daughter, passing us on the road. Ah, did you
speak? No. I have seen him wet and weary many
times before tonight. And no one who has ever
once seen him can ever be deceived again as to
his identity. You know him by name? Yes, sir.
Peter Rug. Peter Rug. But who is this mysterious
man? Ah, that is more than anyone can tell exactly.
Save that he is a famous traveler. Though held
in low esteem by all in -holders, for he never
stops to eat, drink, nor sleep. But why does
the man never stop anywhere? Long enough to speak
to anyone at least. By those who know the most
about him, say the least. It is asserted that
sometimes heaven sets a mark on a man, for judgment
or for trial. I'm thinking of the one time Rug
spoke to me. I was in Connecticut at the time,
on a winding road, my horse as weary as myself.
It was tall dusk, though all of a sudden from
behind me... Travelling in that reckless clip
for those roads, a fiery black horse pulling
an open chase caught up to me from behind. Could
you tell me how far it is to Boston? 100 miles.
100? How can you say so? I was told last night
it was but 50, and I have traveled all night.
Problem is, sir, you are traveling from Boston.
You must turn back. How can you tell me so? It
is all turned back. Boston shifts with the wind.
One man tells me it is to the east, the other
west. You and the guideposts all point the wrong
way. I think perhaps you're tired, and your little
girl too. Why not stop and rest? You're wet and
weary. Yes, foul weather since I left Holmes.
Stop then, up head at the inn and refresh. No,
no, I cannot stop. You see what follows me? I
must ever stay ahead of it, so I must reach home
tonight. I pray you are mistaken in the distance
to Boston. I wish I were. May I make some boldest
to inquire if you are Peter Rug? I think we've
met before. My name is Rug. I meet so many...
I have lost my way. I am wet and weary. I would
take it kindly if you would direct me to Boston.
Where do you live in Boston? On what street?
Why, Middle Street. Everyone knows the house,
with the great shade maple, across from the cemetery.
When did you leave Boston? I... I cannot tell
precisely. It seems a considerable time. What,
sir? How did you and your child become so wet?
It has not rained in these parts today. The shower
caught me back on the road a piece. It always
catches me, unless I keep moving. Moving. Would
you advise me to take the old road or the turnpike?
Why, the old road is over 120 miles, the turnpike
but 97. You impose on me. It is wrong to trifle
with a traveler. You know it is only some 40
miles from Newbury Port to Boston. But this is
not Newbury Port. This is Hartford. Do not deceive
me, sir. Is not this river I've been following,
the Merrimack? Oh, no, sir. You are just outside
Hartwood. And this river is the Connecticut.
Have the rivers changed their courses? Has the
cities their places? Am I forever? But again
the clouds are gathering and the storm is at
my heels. God curses me for that fatal oath!
He would talk no longer. His impatient horse
leaped off, his flanks rising like wings. And
that's the last time I saw the ill -fated Mr.
Rug. Amazing. But you say he gave his address
as Middle Street. That is correct, Mr. I should
say Judge Dunwell. The house with the great maple
shade tree across from the cemetery. So he said.
Do you know Boston well enough to locate it?
Oh, no, sir. And my business seldom carries me
that way. But mine does. I think for curiosity's
sake I must go to Peter Rugg's home and try to
find out why it is so difficult to return to.
Twenty years, you said, you've been seeing him
on the road. Oh, all of that. And the last was
the only time we spoke. I should like to meet
the man face to face. If for no other reason
than to find a better fate for that little girl,
long since turned woman. When I get to Boston,
I shall make it my first order of business. Which
is exactly what I did. It was not easy, for the
maps were inaccurate. And there was more than
one middle street. But finally I found it. The
great tree smothering the house so that it lay
in a shadowy gloom. The paint was peeling. The
windows cracked and cobweb ridden. But the path
to the door was cleared and I was sure that someone
or something still lived there. It was with a
strange trepidation I walked through the weeds
and lifted the heavy knocker. At last with a
deep breath I let it fall. Then in utter silence,
bathed in the shadowed gloom, I waited to meet
whatever waited behind that door. The house abandoned
by its master for countless years. Is it possible
that any evidence of him has remained? Or his
family? Does some heartbroken woman We still
wait for that lost child, or even for the storm
breeder himself. Who and what is Peter Rugg?
Phantom, or reality, or legend? We shall have
to await those answers with Judge Dunwell until
I return shortly with Act Two. Judge Dunwell
was never fated to have an answer to his knock
on the door. For in the very moment that something
old stirs and rustles within the house, outside
it, the small noises are smothered by the arrival
of the familiar black sheds and the snorting
prancing steed that draws it. Whoa, Lightfoot!
Whoa! Don't you recognize home at last? At the
sound of the arrival, instinctively I had withdrawn
deeper in the shadows, finding perfect concealment
behind a clump of overgrown rhododendron. Twilight
was just upon us, as a confident and somehow
younger man than I remembered Peter Rugg to be,
strode up the path, just in time for the door
to open. The little girl sat timid and immobile
on the seat of the carriage, as if knowing the
hopelessness of it all. Somewhere, low thunder
grumbled. Mistress Rugg. Your husband is sorry
to have been delayed, but circumstances be...
I beg your pardon, madam, but I am looking for
Mistress Catherine Rugg. Who? Who did you say?
My wife, madam. The Mistress Rugg. Oh, Lord,
bless you, sir. She ain't here. Ain't been here
or in this world for 50 years. What do you mean?
I mean, she's dead and gone like all of us. Dead
and gone and buried and lost. But that can't
be. I'm... I'm tired and worn, but this, I know
my own house. I live here. Oh, no, you don't.
Not now, you don't, whoever you are. I can show
you deed in title, which says that it's mine.
It is true. It seems as though it might be on
the wrong side of the street. I don't know. It's
hard to... Forgive me, madam. I'm confused. Everything
seems misplaced. The streets change. The people
changed. The town changed. And what is strangest
of all? Catherine Rug has deserted her husband
and child. Pray tell me, has John Foy come home
from sea? Who? John Foy, my kinsman. He could
give me some account of Mrs. Rug. I never heard
of John Foy. Where does he live? Just above here
on Orange Tree Lane. Oh, bless you for a stranger.
No such place in this neighborhood. But that
can't be possible. The street's gone. Orange
Lane is not the head of Hanover Street near Bamerton's
Hill. There is no such lane now. You cannot be
serious. Woman, you mock me. The next thing you
will tell me is that there is no King George.
However, be that as it may, you must see, madam,
that both my daughter and myself are wet and
weary. I must find a resting place. Can you direct
me to Boston? But this is Boston. The only city
of Boston I know. But not the one I know. Guess,
Lightfoot, coming, coming. I am wrong, of course.
I don't know how I could have mistaken it, but
this is a much finer city than Boston. Boston
must lie at a distance, my good woman, since
you are ignorant of it. Yes. It's the same old
story. No home tonight. I must away. No! Mr.
Rugg, wait! Wait! Who are you, sir? A thousand
pardons, Mrs. Croft. May I present myself? Judge
Jonathan Dunwell of the Circuit Courts, but recently
come to Boston. A judge? Had you some business
with that man? Not legal business, but I had
hoped to meet him here and question him. I am
obsessed with the desire to know exactly who
and what he is. I'm ashamed for allowing you
to stand so long in the rain. Come in and warm
yourself by my fire. May I offer you some more
sherry, Your Worship? No, no. You are more than
kind to have given me what I have against the
chill. Heaven help that poor man in an open carriage.
And that child beside him. And the child. That
a man named Rug once owned this house is all
I know. The factor who arranged for my father
to take it over is supposed to have made sure
all papers are legal. How I wish I could have
stopped him, learned more about him, tried to
solve the mystery of him. The mystery of him?
Well, I cannot help there, but I should think...
I think the Factor who sold us this house should
know more of him than anyone, if he is still
alive. Could you give me his name and address?
I shall not rest till I have followed this strange
affair to its depths and its beginnings. You
understand the hour is late, Judge. Yes, I do
indeed, Mr. Felt. You know the history of Peter
Rugg, sometime of Middle Street in this district?
I will be brief. He rented a property of mine
in his youth. He was married to a fine young
woman who bore him a daughter, as I remember.
Jenny. So I believe was the name. With no matter,
an offspring. And then without so much as a by
your leave, he ran off with the child, leaving
the wife to die, as I believe or remember. Yes,
yes, yes, yes, she died. Why? Well, damn it,
she was deserted. Fortunately, Rog left no creditors.
He owned his horse and chaise, and after she
died, it was all soon forgotten. Yeah, soon forgotten.
I suppose he died. No. To the best of my belief,
he is now alive and living. I have lately seen
him and his horse and chaise. And his child.
Oh, is that so? That's so. Well, now I wouldn't
presume to argue with a man of your standing
that Peter Rugg could still be alive. I... I
will not deny, but Jenny Rugg, if you saw her...
Let's see now. The Boston massacre was 1770.
Was it not? I fortunately avoided it, but history
records that date. So on that date, Jenny was
10 years of age. And if living, that would make
her, let's see, 60, 60 now, give or take a year.
Do you know what you're saying? If Peter Rugg
is still alive, which I take is possible, he
could be only 10 years older than myself. And
I was only 80 last March. It was obvious that
Mr. Felt was in his dotage. So, despairing of
gaining any further intelligence from him, I
returned to my lodgings at the Marlboro Hotel.
If Peter Rugg, I thought to myself, has been
traveling since the Boston Massacre, there is
no reason I can see now that he shouldn't travel
to the end of time. And I might have left it
there had I not descended to the taproom for
a nightcap. And there encountered Mr. Durwin.
I ran up against a man whose grandfather knew
our elusive friend, Mr. Rug, and can now tell
you the whole story, such as it is. Then by all
means begin. It seems that, if my informant is
worthy of credit, Peter Rug, a man in comfortable
circumstances, with one daughter and a wife,
lived in Boston on Middle Street. He was man
generally esteemed, save for one thing. Don't
keep me on tenterhooks, what? An ungovernable
temper. So violent that the wig would rise from
his head. And while his fits were upon him, he
had no respect for heaven or earth. Sorry, spectacle.
Some of it hard to believe. Less hard to believe
than his punishment for it. Well, what does that
mean, sir? Worse, visiting and conquered one
day late in autumn with his daughter in the chase,
drawn by his favorite horse, a great black beast
named Lightfoot. A tremendous storm overtook
them, driving them for shelter as dark fell under
the roof of a friend of his, Mr. Cutter, who
urged him to tarry the night. Which any man in
his right senses under the circumstances would
do. And he did not heed his pleas? Far from it,
Judge. Instead, the vain standing out on his
neck and at his temples, he screamed to high
heaven, And with that, he clapped, whipped to
his horse, and disappeared into the rage at night.
Never to return home? Never. Incredible. Hey,
what's in that? Supernatural. Why? To man is
accursed. Whether by God or by the devil, I know
not which. Still 50 years of wandering in search
of his home. How could it be possible? Well,
now as to that, there are two theories. One I
had from my informant. His grandfather said that
on the day after he left Concord, 50 years ago,
his friends and neighbors started inquiries.
But it appeared that Peter Rugg had stayed no
place in Boston. And his wife had a strange tale.
What tale is that? Sitting by the window, waiting
on that wild night, there was a sudden sound
like an earthquake. And indeed the whole house
rumbled underneath her as if about to cave in.
Peering out through the storm, she saw a strange
sight. What sight was that? Come in, hell fell
nether. Down the street was Peter Rugg in his
carriage, straining back on the reins in a vain
effort to stop his horse and crying, No! that
fiery horse of his had the bit between his teeth
and would not stop. Yes, but there were those
who discount the story, saying merely that Peter
Rugg wanted to leave his wife and never come
home at all. That there was another woman somewhere.
That scarcely fits the facts as we know them.
Well then, there is the other theory. Which is?
Perhaps best told by the woman who had the experience.
Now she's the wife of the toll -gatherer on the
Charlestown Bridge. Would you care to hear her
tale for yourself? Well, sirs, it's many years
ago by now. My old man has gone to his rest.
Lord save him who could bear me out. In those
days we were both young and spry. Many the evening
I used to keep him company here at the toll gate.
Those days were when? Oh, I under 50 years ago.
I'm sorry to have interrupted. Go on with your
story. I remembered how annoyed Ethan was by
this big black horse and the shes and the man
and the little girl. Used to tell me how they
continually were in contempt of the rates crossing
the bridge without stopping or paying. And were
they always followed by bad weather? Why, bless
you, sir, that is the truth. My Ian used to say
they brought bad luck. And you say you saw them?
One evening we heard them thundering up and I
said, this time they ain't gonna take it out
on you, Ethan. You're too easy going. So when
he called them to halt and they kept on, I had
grabbed up a three -legged stool, heavy it was,
but I was young and strong, and I hurled it square
into the horse's belly. And tell the judge what
happened then. It passed right through that horse
as if it were a shatter. He never even broke
stride as a stool went skipping across the bridge.
No, sir, that was a haunt. A ghost rider with
bad luck riding in the dust of his wheels. So,
Judge Tunwell, what is your judgment? I don't
know. Neither explanation fits the pattern of
my mind. And I have a feeling that I am not yet
done with Peter Rugg. Nor will be till his fate
is truly revealed to me. And the judge's instinct
was right. Neither he nor we are yet done with
the haunting tale of Peter Rugg. The man or ghost.
who wander so hopelessly in search of home and
rest. I'll return shortly with Act III. It was
to be five years before Peter Ruggs and Judge
Dunwell's paths crossed again. For some time,
the judge had tried to track down the sometimes
elusive person or legend, whichever he was. Then,
being only human, Peter Rugg had almost passed
from his mind until... until the rest of the
judge's story, which you are about to hear now.
In the autumn of 1825, I attended the races at
Richmond and Virginia. There was great excitement
and the races were well attended, for it was
a match race between two recognized champions,
a roan called Dart and a light gray mare called
Butterfly. At a signal the gun sounded, and they
were off. I was glued to the race. There seemed
no way of choosing which horse might win, when
suddenly there was an extra wave of excitement
from the already madly cheering crowd. To my
open -mouthed astonishment, appearing as if from
nowhere in the rear, was a majestic black horse
of unusual size, drawing an old weather -beaten
chair. Effortlessly, as if his heavy non -racing
vehicle, encumbered as it was by two occupants,
didn't exist, he overtook the racing horses shortly
before the winning line. And in concert, both
Dot and Butterfly, as the horse passed them,
lay back their ears and pulled up short, so that
no contest was called. And the winning black
horse and his carriage passed the finish line
and faded away over the hill. In the clubhouse
later, I was fortunate enough to have an introduction
to one John Spring, the owner and rider of Butterfly.
The hawks or whatever animal it was would frighten
off our horses. Why, that makes no contest, sir.
No contest. And yet it looked like a horse. In
no fashion, sir. Nor was it. In no fashion. And
that I can prove. How is that, Mr. Spring? By
my own observation and countless others, sir.
Would you like to see? I would indeed. Well then,
follow me. Now you remember. Just about here,
both of them pulled up and let that interloper
go by and disappear. Yes, the view is unfamiliar
from this point, but I do remember it was shortly
before the finish line. Exactly, sir. Both horses,
after pulling up, walked deliberately to this
spot of soft ground. Butterfly dropped her head
and then lifted it, wickering and fried. And
Dorothy followed, but doing the same. and snorting
in a sort of anger. So all of us looked to what
they had examined. See you then there, for yourself,
Judge. I was looking at the hoof marks of the
black horse which had carried on to the finish
line and beyond. Horse? From the evidence of
my eyes from the stands, yes. From the same evidence
as I looked at the soft ground. Mr. Spring's
strange claim had real validity. These were not
the marks of a horse's hooves, but the evidence
of another breed of animal or being. The hooves
were cloven. Judge Dunwell! Mr. Derwent, your
business takes you far afield. In the nature
of things. Not like what happened today at the
races. You saw? Oh, yes. I was stunned, weren't
you? I thought Peter Rugg had vanished. Oh, no,
not I, sir. In the years since we met, I have
come across him time and again and gotten soaked
to the skin because of him in New Hampshire,
Connecticut, Massachusetts, and the last time,
but shortly, in Delaware. Have you spoken? The
last time only. Tell me, if you will, what took
place. Well, sir... On his approach, he checked
his horse with some difficulty. A more beautiful
horse I've never seen. Sir, your face seems familiar.
Perhaps I may engage your help. If you are, as
may be, traveling to Boston, I should be glad
to accompany you, for I have lost my way. My
little girl here is weary, and I must reach home
tonight. Ah, that would be impossible, sir. For
you are in Concord, in the county of Sussex,
which is in the state of Delaware. But Concord?
That is only 20 miles from Lawson, and my horse
Lightfoot could carry me to the Charlestown Ferry
in less than two hours. You mistake, sir. You
are a stranger here. I am well acquainted with
Concord, and this town is nothing like it. Because
this is Concord in the state of Delaware. Huh?
What do you mean by state? Why? One of the United
States, man. States? Do you mock me because my
heritage is Dutch? I know well I am not in Holland.
As a gentleman, I beg you not to mislead me.
Tell me, quickly, for pity's sake, before my
horse swallows its bit. He is so starved. Set
me on the right road for Boston. If I could,
and I did, it would be 500 miles from here. 500
miles, you say? Nay, I will to no more. This
beats the Connecticut River. Get up, Lightfoot,
get up! I can explain his last mark. I met him,
as you may remember, outside Hartwood when he
persisted in mistaking the Connecticut River
for the Charles. So our wandering home seeker
is still abroad. Man or spirit, I shall not rest
until he can. But how to help him? The courts
were closed until the winter session. It seemed
to me that the judgment on Peter Rugg was too
great, too inhumane, too unreasonable for the
extent of his small crime. I made it my business
wholly for once to try to catch him again. But
I always seem fated to be just too late. At the
toll gate on the turnpike between Alexandria
and Middleburg, he had passed and paid no toll.
But the toll gatherer was grateful for he brought
rain behind him to relieve the drought. Back
in Virginia at the toll bridge, an irate gatekeeper
told me that annoyed by the number of times Rug
had passed that way refusing to pay, he had stood
in the way of the vehicle and it had passed right
through him. or over him without so much as touching
him. On the ferry boat across the Hudson, a Mr.
Hardy who collected fare showed me a fare that
a man had given him, insisting it was 30 shillings.
It might have been once. It was a half -crown,
coined by the British Parliament, dated 1649.
Then I knew I had caught up with Peter Rugg again
at last. I found him in his rig at the bow of
the boat. Greetings, Mr. Rugg. Huh? Oh, yes.
You seem familiar, sir. Judge Dunwell, we have
met on the road before. That could be possible,
sir. May I say that since you are a stranger
here, my house is your home. Dame Rugg will be
happy to see her husband's friend. Step into
my chair, sir, if you will. Move over, Jenny,
for the great man. We shall be in Middle Street
very shortly. For many reasons, I will. take
advantage of your kind invitation. I sneaked
a glance at my companions. Both were dressed
in incredibly old -fashioned garments of fine
cloth, but showing great wear. Rug himself, at
least in the face, was little more than skin
drawn over the skull and cheekbones. Jenny was
so bundled up she suggested only to my sad and
horrified eye what her wizened, dried -out face
proclaimed. A small Egyptian mummy. Only Lightfoot
looked bigger, sleeker, and more magnificent
than ever. This is not Boston, sir. Then may
half it is New York. How can it be New York,
sir, when that place is 200 and more miles from
Boston? But I thought I was home. Mr. Rudd, look
to the west. Only the size of a blackberry now,
but that looks like an angry storm on our trail.
Ah! It is in vain to escape. I know that cloud.
It brings no wrath to spend on my head. Go now,
kind stranger, whoever you are. Leave me to my
fate. No, not this time, Peter Rudd. Give me
the reins. This time perhaps we can outrun the
storm. I took them from his slack hands, sliding
over him and pushing him back to huddle with
his daughter. And it needed only one flick to
send that strange horse on his way like the wind.
As we careened around the first corner, I noticed
that his front hoods had been split on some hard
road somewhere, but were healing. So Mr. Spring
had been at least half -right about the cloven
hoods. I remembered little of that nightmare
ride for Boston. How many days passed where we
stayed or ate or slept. I only know that no matter
how fast we traveled, that mushrooming black
cloud stayed on our heels every step of the way.
And then at last, we were in Boston, on Middle
Street. A crowd was gathered. The great elm still
stood, although barren now of leaves, fire blackened,
and all that remained of the house was a heap
of rubble. All else burnt to the ground, as I
knew it to be, for the fire had taken place two
years before. I tell you men of the North End,
this is holy ground. The city needs this land,
and let not the name of Peter Rugg dampen your
ardor. No! I thought I knew every man in Boston,
but I... Do not recollect at this moment that
I ever saw one of these. Who are these strangers?
Listen to me, Peter Rugg. The only stranger here
is you. You have suffered many years under an
illusion. Look, look behind. The cloud, the storm.
Your nemesis is gathering. Then I must flee away
from home again. Oh, if you do, you have no home.
If I stay... There is none left. Don't you see
that for over 50 years the tempest which you
so profanely defied at monotony has driven you
before it like a straw in the wind. And now it
is too late. Your wife, your house and all your
neighbors have disappeared. You have no home
left here. You've been cut off from one age and
you can never be fitted to the present. You can
never have another home again in this world.
You or your daughter unless... Yes. Quickly for
the storm is almost upon us. Unless what? Unless
you stop fleeing it. Let it catch up with you
and perhaps pass you by. Then may happen long
last you can find rest. Oh, rest. Sweet, blessed
rest. Oh, my father, forgive me. And take me
and Jenny home. The great black clouds and teeming
rain engulfed us all. My last view of Peter Rugg
was standing with his arm about his daughter.
His face lifted to the rain. And wonder of wonders.
At last the child's head, too, was lifted. In
the intensity of it, they were lost. And suddenly
the storm passed. For a moment, in its last fringe,
I saw the two of them. Eyes on heaven. And then,
as if they had never been, chaise, horse, harness,
father and daughter were gone. Where? I do not
know. I can only hope home at last. Judge Dunwell
lived out a long and fruitful life, dying quietly
in his bed one night. We do not know what his
last thoughts were, but certainly one of them
must have been that In all the last 40 years
of his life, he never again met or heard of Peter
Rugg. I shall be back shortly. There is no one
more tragic in all history or literature than
the soul condemned to wander, lost. alone, cut
off. And I do have to wonder a little if Peter
Rugg didn't make his own penance. What we fear
in life we should not run from, especially if
we can't out distance it, turn and meet it face
to face. It's surprising that the reality is
never as bad as he imagined. Our cast included
Michael Tolan, Fred Gwin, Anne Petoniak, Arnold
Moss, and Ian Martin. The entire production was
under the direction of Hyman Brown. And now,
a preview of our next tale. You don't hear it?
What is that? I think so. Well, is it your imagination
too? No. What is it? It's a... It's a... That's
a ghost! Now, Abigail... I know there's no such
thing as a ghost, but what do you call that?
Well, he... John, I remember my grandfather and
my aunt. They'd tell us children's stories about...
John, John, I'm frightened! Oh dear, Abigail,
it's impossible! There's no such thing as a ghost.
Then why is your hand shaking? This is E .G.
Marshall inviting you to return to our mystery
theater for another adventure in the macabre.
Until next time, pleasant dreams.