 Good evening, friend. This is your host to welcome you through the creaking door into the inner sanctum. Come on in. Say, getting worry wrinkles over inflation, anybody. A pale face here at my elbow just asked me to point out that where he comes from, nothing inflates, everything deflates. As a matter of fact, living down under is one way of trimming your clothing budget down to bare essentials. All you need for the longest while is one wooden shoe. Tonight's inner sanctum mystery, Mark My Grave, was written by John Robert and stars Lawson's Irby in the role of Colby with Santa's Ortega as Gabby. Tonight we intend to prove that when a live wire meets a dead head, not a spark of sanity remains. We're in Christenberry, an ancient American village founded during the reign of Queen Anne. We're witnessing a climax in the dark and bloody story of the Brenda Clan. A story that has long terrified the timid and baffled men of logical mind. The story of the Brenda Ghosts. In a close, airless room of the Brenda home, a man is strapped down on an iron bed. His face is youthful, but his hair is white as if bleached by shock. He stares blindly at an older man hovering anxiously over him. Gabby. Yeah? It's me. I've got everything under control. Untie me, Gabby. I can't breathe. I can't untie you, kid. Not the way you are. You just touch yourself. I've sent for a doctor. Able to talk about it a little? Talk about it? Sure. Only if you're able to. Ghosts. Ghosts were a big joke to us. The assignment was going to be a gag. Pictures done to give the newspaper comic relief. That day, you called me. Hey, Colby. Yeah? There's a wire coming in. Eight state search for missing hitchhiker couple. And what about it? Just two more missing Americans as a medium. John Alfred Parker have been missing for 14 days. Well, I've seen entering the village of Christenberry. They were seen entering, but nobody saw them leave. Christenberry is the village famous for the Brenda Ghost. You want to buy a bed sheet, boss? No. I do want to buy a circulation booster. You're not assigning me to interview the Brenda Ghost. And all the other branders with pictures. Brought yourself over to Christenberry with a flash gun and photograph everything that moves. What if the Ghost is camera shy? Christenberry was a village a man starts talking to himself in. A handful of bearded old timers are stared at newcomers, then scurried away like frightened Jagrabbit. The population on the ground was less than 100. The population underground was an easy 20,000. Now, before tackling the Brenda's, I did some reconnoitering. If you're a man of caution, Mr. Colby, you're not go poking your nose. How did Luther Brenda die? He was found killed over in his study one black night, murdered. Somebody took an axe to him. Just somebody. The hatchet man was never caught? No. Did the police ever figure out a motive for the murder? Robbery, they said. But it was hate that killed old Luther if you ask me. Well, driving into town, I saw posters tacked onto telephone poles, advertising a public auction of the Brenda house and grounds tomorrow at 10 a.m. Uh, what's it mean? County supervisors orders. Ain't a penny in tax has been paid since old Luther Brenda died. Good riddance to Luther's brood, I say. If you're set to go into the devil's roost, you'll be wanting a powerful charm on your person. Wear this around your neck and you'll come to no harm. The old lady was peddling a bag containing a few strands of human hair, a strip of dried snake skin, and a cubel-glyve lodestone. A luxury I'm the ward-off demon. Now you really sold yourself on the Brenda ghost story, huh? I've seen old Luther Brenda. Seen him with my own eyes. Where? Right where you're standing. Look! He called the devil and he's come. Come, what do you mean come? Look to the window. I followed her pointing finger. There, staring at us through her window was a face. It's old Luther Brenda. It glowed like a mass coated with phosphorus. In a moment, the face was gone. Vanished. I left and drove onto the Brenda place, trying to throw off the spell. It was a perfect setting for a ghost. Inky black, you couldn't see your hand in front of you. A dimly lit gabled house high up on a hill. Barking dogs somewhere. I was picking my way slowly with my camera slung over my shoulder, working my flashlight. When I got the first proofs that I really needed a charm bag around my... Oh! The rifle shot. Somebody had shot the flashlight out of my hand. Are you shot? Nah, you just ruined a new flashlight. Who are you? David Brenda. You? Colby, a reporter. You always welcome guests with a blast of rifle fire. I mistook you for all Luther. All Luther's on the prowl tonight. Shooting at your father's ghost, huh? What makes you think the old fellow's on the prowl tonight? He's been in his casket. You checked to see? I did. You dug him up and pried open his coffin and checked? Nope. There was no need to do that. We ain't ever buried old Luther. We put him in the family crypt like he wanted to be put. And you say he's not there now? Yep. Well, any objections to showing me? Nope. I followed David Brenda into a small field stone house sitting on the edge of a weed-choke meadow less than 50 feet from the big gable house, sort of primitively built mausoleum. In the center of it was a heavy old coffin tool with steel fittings. Raising the lid with a job for Hercules, I watched David Brenda's face purple in the effort. I'm showing you. Now, look for yourself. I looked. The casket was empty. I said old Luther was on the prowl. A man who's been dead ten years just got up to take a walk. Got up to keep his promise. What promise? To take the Brenda's back to his keeping. First Walter, then Polly, then me, he said. Walter's first because he's the oldest. And you last because you're the youngest? Yep. And you believe it? Listen. Hear that? Organ music. Some cheerful Joe's playing an organ over at your house. The piece old Luther always played. Only Luther can play the organ. I still say show me. Come on. When he started for the main house to the accompaniment of a ghostly funeral march, it seemed to hang in the night air like a weight. Halfway across the lawn, the organ stopped. A dead man was ready to take his eldest son back to his keeping. It's Walter. Upstairs in a little room, Walter was on the floor beside the organ, sitting rigidly with his hands clasped on his knees, like a child at his father's feet. Walter, because he was the oldest. And then me. I'm next. You're Polly Brenda? I'm Polly Brenda. Didn't father play beautifully, Daisy? Polly fit her name to a T, a face like a parrot. Standing behind Polly, riding furiously into a palm-sized notebook, was another Quilligan duck. The kind of guy you imagine running through the fields with a butterfly in that. Who's the note-taker, David? Mr. Lortrick. He's a lord. Sir Oliver Lortrick. And your name is what? Are we rival reporters? Indeed not. Well, then what's all that note-taking about? My own spot investigation into supernatural phenomena. The Brenda's were kind enough to extend an invitation to him. For $500 for his kids. And a silk dress for me. What research society do you represent, sir Oliver? My own. My independent research will become a book. A really revolutionary book, I would say. You've seen the Brenda Ghost. I have. My findings here have been truly remarkable. You gotta show me. Bodies disappear, sure. But not under their own steam. Oh, Luther was missing from his casket. Sure, but where is he? Do you know where he is, Polly? I'm back in the coffin. He always goes back to rest. After he plays the organ. We hiked back to the mausoleum, all of us. I watched David Brenda make like Hercules again, raising a heavy old lid. I'm showing you. I looked. Oh, Luther Brenda was back in his casket. And it was the same face I'd seen pressed against the window. Of all Lady Hawkins' house. The mines are a funny thing, Gabby. You're a hard-headed cynic who says, show me, but suddenly you can't trust your eyes. Suddenly your mind's developed a small crack. And your sanity begins to push out like sawdust coming out of a rag doll. A dead man who gets up out of his casket, plays an organ solo, commits a martyr, then gets back into the casket. You don't dare believe it because if you do, you'll never stop screaming. I didn't try to figure it out too much. I photographed everything in sight. Talked a while with the overstuffed researcher, Sir Oliver. Then holed up in the ground floor bedroom, David Brenda assigned me to. It won't be comfortable, but it's a bed. I hadn't even closed one eye when the dogs outside set up a holler that raised goose pimples all over me. It was the kind of holler you hear from the bloodhounds when they reached the end of the chase. I went to the window. Something, something was pulling me. Something, like a combination. There were the dogs on a lawn under the moon. Root masts for them and snapping something in their jaws. Been tossing it into the air. I concentrated on whatever the gadgets were. Fearing for the winter glass until my eyes almost dropped out of their sockets. For a while I made the gadgets out. They were articles of clothing. A shoe, a man's hat. A lady's handbag. I found the place the dogs had come from. It wasn't hard. I just followed the dog tracks to a ravine behind the meadow. I found them side by side. Deader than just dead. Pamela and Alfred Parker. You're a missing hitchhiker couple. All lutes have killed them. Great. Having a ghost around that walks. And David, you can make him the explanation for everything. All lutes have killed them. Listen. The organ's going again. It's all lutes' favorite piece. He's fixing to kill Polly. Waldo was the first and now it's Polly's turn. Busy night for a dead man. The idea is that Luther Brenda's up there at the organ, huh? Yep. Up there playing a prelude to Mardi. Out of his casket and up there in the watch tower. Yep. I'm going back for a double take at that casket. I played Hercules with the lid myself this time. Here's a double take, 20 times over. The casket was empty. I sprinted for the main house with David Brenda. Puffing at my heels and a funeral march pacing me. Spring got me within a foot of the front door when the music stopped. Next, after Walter, all lute is keeping his promise. Shut up, shut up! Same place. On the floor in the watch tower at the foot of the organ. Same kind of death. Like Walter, sitting rigidly with her hands clasped on her knees like a child at her father's feet. Walter and Polly, he said. I'm the youngest. I'm last. On my feet felt steady enough. I went to see if Luther Brenda had settled back in his casket. I went to see just as a matter of routine. I'd find him there, I was sure of it. I'd find him there because there wasn't an organ going. That's how I'd begun to think. I wasn't your boy anymore, Gabby. I was practically your Brenda. I never reached the mausoleum. Out there in the dark, I saw Luther Brenda. I stood knee deep in the weeds and watched Luther Brenda walk past me and head straight as an arrow for the mausoleum. That dead man was returning to his casket. I took his picture, her rear profile view. My hands worked the camera automatically from habit. I didn't start screaming until the mausoleum door closed behind him. And then I couldn't... Feeling better for the sleep, kid? Yeah. I feel okay. 10 a.m. Doc gave you something to quiet you down. Anybody get up? Sure. Should I make any sense to you early this morning? Sure. But we're not talking about it, Corby. Sergeant Conley's around the premises now figuring things out. I had public auction starting in a minute. They're going ahead with the sale of this place. When a family are done, we can watch it. Gentlemen, your attention please. The sale is about to commence. By authority vested in me by the Board of Supervisors of the Incorporated Township of Cristenberry, I now offer you tax warrants, file number 126015 at public sale. Great public sale. Not a soul game. Nobody wants a place. Luther Brinder goes with it. That boy over there. See Sir Oliver? That's David Brinder. What keeps him out of a padded cell? The tax warrants amount to $3,000 gentlemen. The minimum bid I am empowered to accept is $3,000. Bid lively gentlemen. Looks like no takers, Corby. Mr. Auctioneer. Yes? In the absence of bids, I bid exactly $3,000. Sold. Sold to your name please. Lautrec. Sir Oliver Lautrec. Come on, Corby. That's all I wanted to hear. Sir Oliver, what's here that's worth $3,000? Must I answer that question? You'd better in pronto. And don't tell me you've gotten attached to a walking dead man. My work prompted me to make that bid. The $3,000 enables me to pursue my research. I'd been advised that the county planned to raise the house to the ground if no bid was forthcoming. That would be a pity. Irreparable loss to the study of supernatural phenomena. But more of a loss to you, eh? A loss of say, $100,000? You're making no sense at all to me. And that, eh? There's a cop here, utility and basic English. You tell him, Sergeant. $100,000 in jewels stolen by an escaped convict who came through here and murdered old Luther Brenda 10 years ago. The killer left the jewels behind him for safekeeping. Because he was wanted in 12 states, he was hotter than a firecracker. I knew he'd never crash through roadblocks, set up to trap him. My theory is that the jewels are bricked in somewhere as a part of the Brenda dwelling. Isn't that why you bought the house, Sir Oliver? To be free to take a wall down at your leisure and pocket a bank full of jewels? It's a preposterous theory. In my opinion, gentlemen, your surroundings here have affected your minds. You're all stark mad. Ah, that gimmick. Give them the rest of it, Sergeant. The corpse that gets up and plays the organ. That's you, La Trek. Now don't waste your breath denying it. Among other items of proof, we've got photographic evidence. That wraps up the ghost story, Colby. Sir Oliver was caught on that roadblock 10 years ago. He served his time and came right back to Cristenberry in his jewel cash. Photographic evidence, Conley said. What did he mean? That picture you took of Luther Brenda walking back into the mausoleum. We developed it and blew it up. It was Sir Oliver wearing a plastic mask. It was a close copy of Luther Brenda's features. He found the mask in his luggage. But the casket was actually empty. Twice. Another La Trek operation. That on it. Pickin' your brains. It's all ABC open and shut. Everything fits logically. Everything ends up. But they were sitting on the floor with their hands clasped around their knees. Walter and Polly like children listening to music. Colby, I'm beggin' you. Get that malaki out of your head. Dead men don't sit down and play the organ. Don't they, Gabby? Listen. Oh, at a time like this, some jerk decides to play the organ. It's all Luther Brenda. Up there in the watchtower playing his favorite piece. He's out of his casket. And at the organ, David's on the floor like a child. Listening to his father play. Colby, quit it. It's David's turn now. After Walter came Polly. David's last because he's the youngest. It's his turn now to go back to his father's keeping. Soon the music will stop and David will scream. Listen, Gabby. See, Gabby? David sits like the others on the floor. Dead. Is he dead, Sergeant? Yeah. Can't pin this one on Lord Trek. Then what killed David Brenda? Oh, Luther Brenda killed him, Gabby. David was last to go because he was the youngest. Ah, shut up, Colby. You were saying, Sergeant? No visible injury. Our fan, I'd say, was frightened to death. Brought a seizure on himself. Oh, sure, that makes sense. They frightened himself to death. Does it make sense, Gabby? David Brenda played an organ solo for David Brenda. He shattered the organ, pumping the pedals, and shot on the floor at the same time. Sure, it makes sense. It got to make sense. He played a funeral march and died listening to it. One man in two places at the same time. So the Brenda's are back together again. Now there's one gang that believes in the family ties that bind. Some cynic whispers, straight jaggers. Ah, that's all of a nice guy to venture addict to. I'm told he's using himself as a basis for research now. He's bringing his notebook and pencil into the hot seat where they expect to record impressions that will electrify nobody but himself. I'd say, if you ever run into a walking corpse, Mr. Blow the whistle on yourself. You're on a dead end street. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.