 The weird circle. In this cave, by the restless sea, we are next to call from out the past stories, strange and weird. Bellkeeper, pull the bell, so all may know we are gathered again in the weird circle. Good evening, weird circle fans. Welcome once again to the Ogden's Playhouse. Tonight we bring you one of the strangest stories ever told, the Rope of Hair, based on apparition by Guy de Mopassant. Here is a truly novel ghost story we hope you'll enjoy. We know you'll enjoy Ogden's fine cut if you roll your own cigarettes. That's why we suggest you try Ogden's, the aristocrat of cigarette tobaccos. When you taste the rich, cool goodness of Ogden's, you're sure to agree that here is the kind of smoking enjoyment you want when you roll your own cigarettes. You'll find Ogden's easy to roll, delightful to smoke. Yes, easy to roll, delightful to smoke. And now our story, the Rope of Hair. Out of the past, phantoms of a world gone by speak again the immortal tale. The Rope of Hair. I am often puzzled by the three processes, love, hate, and death, which perhaps more than the others influences our minds. I have learned but little more of them in my life. Perhaps the words and secrets of the three were in the diary in the old chateau. I have never known that. But I have learned fear. I have become afraid of the night. It was long ago when I was in garrison at Nuan. I was walking one evening along the quay when I observed a man who looked up at me from thoughtful contemplation of the slowly moving water. I hesitated, surprised at something, some recognition in his eyes. Victor, yes? Victor, don't you know me? Why, Jacques? Can it be you, Jacques Lafantaine? Yes, Victor, of course. Well, Jacques, I can't believe it, really, you. Then even my oldest friend doesn't know me. But it's been so long, Jacques, so long since our last meeting. It's five years since Jean de Roque's ball. It's changed me then. Well, at first I didn't recognize you, but in five years... In five years most people don't grow gray and stoop, do they, Victor? It depends. Say it, man. Go ahead and say it. You think I'd let myself go. You even think I was ready to jump off the key. Well, were you? You've always been like that, Victor. Calm and easy. But no. In fact, unbelievable as it may seem, I was wondering where you were. You must have known I was stationed here. Yes, everyone knows where the distinguished captain, the Marquis, the Latour Samuel can be found. But, you see, Victor, I hated the thought of coming to you like this. But as officers we must soon have had business together anyway. Then you haven't even heard that... Heard what? That I had resigned my commission, left the glory of our country in the hands of the dashing... Jacques, you had a fine career ahead of you. Your position, your influence, they pointed to everything I had. Yes, everything is behind. Is that it, Victor? Life is never as bitter as that. For men as young as we, a great deal lies ahead. For a man who has written his own destiny in one moment? No. What's happened, Jacques? Can't you tell me? Perhaps supper. A little entertainment. The city will be lively tonight. It'll do you good to forget your troubles. Thank you, Victor, but we've been walking toward my rooming house. I hope you might dine with me. We can talk quietly there. Because we're old friends? Yes. Or anyone else, though? Well, the evening is young and there are other things to do in the city. Just this one evening. Can't you, Victor? If that's what you want, Jacques, my time is yours. Good. Here. This is the place here. This? I know it's not a good section of the city. The place is run down, but it's comfortable. And with your soldiers quartered here, it was hard to find any place to stay at all. Come on in. Let me follow you, Jacques. It's so dark in here. I can't see where to go. I'll get this candle. There. Now, come on up this way. My room is right here at the top of the stairs. This door. Go on, open it. What's the matter? What is it, Jacques? I don't know. We have the candle that'll shake out of your hand. Now, what's happening? There's something. Somebody in there. Open the door and find out. Perhaps we better not. If there's somebody in your room, we'll find out who it is. No, no, Victor, please, Victor. What's frightening you so? Good evening, Monsieur. Mrs. Dupré. Yes, Monsieur. Did I startle you? You see, it was time for supper, so I brought it up to you, Monsieur. I lit the candles in your room. I know that you... Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Dupré, and bring another, please. The captain's dining with me. But certainly, Monsieur. Immediately, Monsieur. Come in. Come in, Victor. We'll wait just a few minutes until she comes back. I think your Mrs. Dupré was as frightened as you were. Do you always frighten each other? No, it was just that I didn't expect... Jacques, seriously, what's on your mind? Certainly you aren't living in this place from choice. You're your own chateau. Why aren't you there? That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Victor. Well, if it's money, Jacques, why say so? You know you needn't go through all this. It's more than money. Well, then... love? Love, Victor? In the circle of things, where does hate end and love begin? Can you answer that? Do you want me to come up here to talk riddles, Jacques? Well, it was love, Victor. The most beautiful woman in the world. Well, come on, help with it. Don't just sit there, picking at the front of your tunic as though you were covered with dog hairs. What's this all about? What? Ever since we sat down, you've been pulling imaginary hairs out of your jacket there. Can't you sit still for a minute and relax? Oh, was I? I'm sorry, Victor, but... but you see, I'm going to ask a favor of you that I'd hate to ask anyone else. Anything you say, Jacques. You see, several years ago, right after you last saw me, I was married to the most beautiful woman in the world. Oh, life was a sweet thing. We were the happiest couple in France. And what happened? She died, Victor. She died, and now she's dead and rotting in a grave. That's what death does to people, isn't it, Victor? She died just one year after I'd married her. Just one year of terrible happiness. Terrible because I guess no man has a right to so much... On the day she died, I locked the door to our room, left the chateau, and as you see, Victor, I can never make myself go back. And you want something? Would you do it? Would you go back to our room there, Victor? What do you want me to do? In the right-hand drawer of the desk in our room, there is a book, a diary which right now can mean more to me than anything else in the world. You'll know it because on it, it's marked with my crest across the front. Will you go? I'll go tomorrow. I'll be free there. I'll wait here until you come back with it. Victor! Your supper, Monsieur. I've brought it up as quickly as I could. Will that be all right, Monsieur? Just put it on the table, Mrs. Dupré. Thank you. Yes, Monsieur. I hope you enjoy it, Monsieur. Mm-hmm. Sit down there. I'll write a note to the caretaker at the chateau and get you the keys to the room and to the desk. Isn't he the keys? No one has a key to that room but me. Why, Jacques? Is it on or no? Oh, come, come, Jacques. Your nerves are all on edge. Let's go out. There's a little place. No, thank you, Victor. I'll stay here until tomorrow. Tomorrow when you come back with the diary. I left him then, sunk into that attitude of deep concentration and he stared into the dark waters of the Seine. For a while I forgot, Jacques, but the strange depression and fear that marked his attitude had shocked me. The way he sat, almost afraid to speak, plucking those imaginary hairs from the front of his tunic like a weak frightened child, not like the stalwart ambitious young man I had known as a companion in boyhood, a young man, if ever there was one, destined to become the pride of his regiment. In the morning, my ride across the fields and through the cool summer woods filled me with an intoxicating happiness. I took with me for a companion, a Lieutenant LaRocque, a friend of mine from the regiment, and I was thankful later for his sensible company. But in the exhilaration of the moment, I almost forgot the gloomy implications of my trip. There's that old chateau, Captain. Have you noticed it before? That's where we're going. To that place? Yes, I have an errand there. You know the place then? I passed by it several times, never stopped. I thought it was deserted until the other day when I saw an old man standing by the gate. Caretaker, isn't he? I guess so. He threw stones at one of my soldiers who tried to stop for water, chased him away before he could get inside the gates. I almost had to have the man thrown in jail to calm the soldier's feelings. Well, he's not on guard today. He's not at work either. Look at the condition in this place. Are the gates practically rusted off its hinges? I can remember when this lawn was a smoothest velvet and every path was well kept. But it's not my worry. Oh, where is this confounded caretaker anyway? I'll see, Captain. Hey there! No sign of life? I'll join you. Is anybody here? Can I another door, Lorac? Yes, sir. I'll try this one around the side. Well, you the caretaker? Yes, I am Pierre. What is it you want? I have a letter here. A letter for you. Well, then give it here. Take off your hat when you're addressing an officer. Never mind, Lorac. Let him read the letter. I'm anxious to get this over. Military dignity doesn't have much place here. What's that? That once did. This was the proudest house in Normandy. Never mind, Pierre. Read the letter. Well, I have read it. Well? Well, what do you want? You ought to know. Your master's orders are there. I want to enter the chateau. I'll go and see if it is prepared. If it is all right. That won't be necessary. But it has not been entered since the death. I'd better see you. But you see, Pierre, I have the key and you have not. Now, step back. Let us go through. Yes, captain. Right through my kitchen there, that door enters the main hall. Come on, Lorac. This door, Pierre? Yes, captain. Through there and up the stairs. Oh, look, captain. Look at the size of this hall. Yes, Lorac. And look at the dust. Must be half an inch thick on that table. You know it must have been magnificent here once. I knew it well when it was. Here, the stairs are over here. Ah, let's go up. Somehow I don't like the place so much now. Oh. The old man has shut the door down there. I don't think he likes this very much. We're just invading his privacy, that's all. Anybody would be strange stuck in this place. Well, I certainly wouldn't like it. This is the door, I think. The air hasn't been changed in here for years. What's that? Smells like a tomb. It's dark enough to be one. I'll open that shutter over there. It's stuck, captain. Never mind. My eyes are getting used to the dim light now anyway. Yes, so am I now. Look at this room. There's quite in here. The furniture's all out of place. Stop imagining things, La Rock. I don't like this at all. Let's not add anything to this by digging into a man's private past. Captain, didn't you say you had the only key to this room? Yes, I have. Why? Look at the bed. The pillow's still pressed down. Somebody's been lying on it. And lying very still. Look there. You can almost see the form of the body like a corpse. A noted craftsman in the matter of plotting and weaving incredible and absorbing tales, Gidam Opusat is at his best in this weird circle narrative. Friends, you'll find roll your own smoking at its best when you make your choice, Ogdens, the hallmark of true smoking enjoyment. When you visit your tobacconist, ask for the handy green package labeled Ogdens, O-G-D-E-N, apostrophe S, Ogdens, and follow the lead of satisfied smokers everywhere. Who, making Ogdens their watchword, have gained regular smoking satisfaction from a cigarette tobacco whose quality, smoothness, and all-round goodness have long been established. The name Ogdens is famous with smokers from coast to coast. Make Ogdens your watchword for good roll your own smoking and treat yourself to the best. You'll find Ogdens easy to roll, delightful to smoke. Yes, easy to roll, delightful to smoke. And now, back to our story. To help his friend Jacques and to discover the cause of his depression and fear, Victor, the dashing young Marquis de la Tour Samuel has undertaken to retrieve three packets of papers from Jacques's deserted chateau. He had already entered the room unopened since the death of Jacques's wife when he discovered to his horror the imprint of a body still pressed into the covers and pillow of the bed. Yes, it was, almost, as though a corpse had lain there. But all at once, the ridiculous aspect of the situation brought me back to my senses. Larocque? Yes, Captain. You'd better go stand guard outside the door so that our real menace, the caretaker doesn't come up and interrupt us. I'll get the diary I'm after and we'll get out of here. Very well, Captain. I'll shut the door so you won't be disturbed. I opened the door. A draft from the still-shuttered window was beginning to freshen the atmosphere. I opened the drawer at the desk and began fumbling among the litter of papers there. I found the diary, just as Jacques said I would, in a plain packet with his crest on the face of it, a crest that had been the bravest in France. The breeze from the window stirred the hangings behind me, but engrossed as I was in finding the diary, I paid a little attention to the stirring in the room. I said, you will really come for it. But you are not Jacques. I shall try to remember. He should have come. Not you. No. You are not Jacques. But you will do as well. For endless time, I say, we faced each other there. But only for a moment, really. The women seated herself in a chair or a white garment made no sound as she put her hand to her head. She tried to stroke the long black hair that hung almost to the floor. It was black, but with a blackness that has no light, no life. In her other hand, she had a comb. She held it toward me. Monsieur, you can do me a great service. I am suffering. Oh, I am suffering so. They will not comb my hair. You will comb my hair. You will comb my hair. Oh, I am suffering. I took the comb from her hand and lifted that long hair. That hair which gave my skin a feeling of awful cold, a feeling of handling snakes, cold, cold and dead. The feeling still clings about my fingers. I handled that icy hair. I twisted it. I braided it. I bound it and unbounded. And while I let that horrible mane run through my fingers, she sighed and trans-like began to talk, forgetting perhaps that I was not young. That's better. The mirror is gone now. The mirror in which I watched you times combing my hair. And with what adoration in your eyes? Your brave, strong fingers playing there in the hair of a weak woman. So brave, so strong. Jacques loves me. Jacques loves me. That was the song that my heart sang when first we were here like this. I love Jacques. I love Jacques. That was the song I thought was echoed back. But pride and strength and killing, yes, I saw you kill Jacques. Once I saw you kill for power. Power, strength, pride, being a soldier, being strong. They were your idols. What does a weak woman want with those things? When you brought me here, Jacques, my head was high. My pulses beat with joy at the peace and happiness I expected. But you'd always been strong, Jacques. Always strong and brutal with the strength you adored. Then when I saw you kill Jacques, I knew that the fascination of hate was my love. Hatred of you. Of whom I need fear nothing because you loved me. Not love. I was fascinated too, Jacques. When I wrote these things, wrote them in that diary you're taking, wrote of my hatred and my growing fear of you. Then that day, I watched you in the mirror as you braided my hair, braided it into a strong rope. And because I'd written that I hated you, slipped it slowly, so slowly and calmly over my head and around my neck. But you will never do it again, will you, Jacques? Because now, Jacques, you're going to comb it free again. Comb it free when I come to you for that diary. Yes. Jacques is going to comb it free again. I shall come for the diary, Jacques. Larocque. Larocque. What is it, Captain? This closet door. That woman went in there. For the love of heaven, open it quickly. But Captain, it's locked, bolted outside here. It can't be. She went in there. Who? That woman who was here. Well, no one came in here, so perhaps it was a shot. Oh, no, Larocque. I saw her. I heard. Can I be mad? I'll break that shutter, Captain. We'll have some lights. And the closet door was bolted. In the light that flooded the room, I began to feel foolish. There was no sign, except for an overturned chair that I had not been alone the whole time. With more calmness than I felt, we descended the great stair across the huge dusty hall and were at last out in the fresh air. We did not see Pierre again when we left the chateau. We drew rain before my lodgings. The groom took our horses. Well, sir, the ride has been very pleasant. Captain, do you feel all right? Larocque. I'm going up to my room. I need a rest. Will you deliver this diary to my friend? Here's the address. Tell him anything you like. Tell him I'm ill, sunstroke, anything at all. I'll see him later. Of course, Captain. Just a moment, sir. Why are you looking at the front of my coat like that? Why, those hairs? Hairs? Yes, Captain. Twisted in the buttons, they're long and black like a woman's. Yes, there were the same dead long hairs twisted in the buttons of my jacket. I pulled at them every nerve in my body revolting at the cold feeling. Slowly, one by one, I pulled them off, dropping them from my fingers like poison things. Can I help you, Captain? Could he help me? No, but there was another. He could help. I remembered how Jacques had sat like a bashful child pulling at the imaginary hairs in the front of his coat, begging me to get that diary to him. No, Larocque. Take this diary to my friend quickly. Quickly, Larocque. Yes, sir. It was better in my room. Somehow I could think there. But Gihac, his fear and his worry haunted me. A few hairs still clung to my jacket. Absently, I pulled them out and dropped them from the window, every nerve in my body revolting at their cold feeling. Then, with a sudden resolve, I went into the street again and headed toward Jacques's lodging. I knew that I had to talk to him about what had happened. I hurried across the city. Larocque came toward me a few steps from Jacques's house. Captain, have you delivered the diary already, Larocque? I left it in his room, Captain. The gentleman wasn't at home. Not there? He promised to wait until I got back. The room was empty. The conchiers had not seen him go out, Captain, but she had been in the basement and he might have slipped out without her seeing him. Very well, Larocque. I'll go and see him. Do you wish me to come? No, no, no. You go on. I'll wait for him to come back. Very well. It's that house right there, sir. That house right there. That house right there. As though I wouldn't know that dirty doorway, those warped steps. Every detail of the last 24 hours seemed to have fixed itself like an etching in my brain. Yes, monsieur. I must see monsieur Jacques. Monsieur Jacques. But he's not in, monsieur. There was another gentleman just a few minutes ago. He must be here. Let me in. But monsieur. He must be. But monsieur, I tell you that he's... This is his door, isn't it? He's not in, monsieur. We'll see about that. Jacques. Be quiet. Stand there. He's dead. Oh, monsieur, he's dead. In my house. His hand is cold. Is there a doctor near here? Yes, monsieur. I'll call in. Jacques was sitting huddled in the chair. A surprised look on his face. But he was white. White and somehow shriveled. I looked around for the diary which Lorac had delivered. But it was not to be seen. Some touch of the fear I had felt in facing the woman at Jacques Chateau chilled me again. After only a moment I heard voices outside in the passageway. It is here, monsieur. A gentleman came and we found him so... All right, then take me in there. It doesn't seem it could be possible. It was only a few minutes ago and I... I saw with my own eyes that monsieur Jacques was not in his room. It could not be... Be quiet, please. It isn't possible. Quiet, please. Pardon, monsieur. What has happened here? I don't know anything more than she has told you. We came in and found him this way in the chair. Let's see. His pulse? Yes, he's dead. No doubt of that. The man's cold already. But there was no way in which... The man must have led an active life. He was not very old and yet... The doctor leaned peering over Jacques's body. His hand reached out slowly toward the front of the coat. He plucked at one of the buttons. Here. What do you suppose this is? Why? It's a hair. Long, black hair. And there are more of them. Most as though he had been combing a woman's hair when he died. Look, monsieur. Still more of them around his neck. I watched the doctor with his thumb and forefinger hold the hair before his curiously staring eyes. I knew then that it had been no shadow I had seen at the chateau. I had heard the threatening words and she had come for the diary. At last. From the time-worn pages of the past we have brought you the story The Rope of Hair. Bellkeeper. Toll the bell. We return now to reality and to the problem of rolling your own cigarettes. The solution is Ogden's fine-cut tobacco. With Ogden's you're sure of getting the best in rolling and the best in smoking. That's why we suggest you remember the name O-G-D-E-N, apostrophe S, Ogden's when in need of cigarette tobacco. Your smoking problem ends and your smoking enjoyment begins the moment you turn to Ogden's. That's a statement you'll want to check for yourself. And that's why we say try Ogden's. You'll find Ogden's easy to roll, delightful to smoke. Yes, easy to roll, delightful to smoke. Next week at this same time the weird circle will present Falkland, a story by Edward George and E. Bulverlitton. Be sure to listen. The Rope of Hair was an adaptation of the Guido Mopasant story Apparition. Attention pipe smokers, for a smooth, fragrant smoke, try Ogden's cut plug.