 Suspects and the producer of radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William M. Robeson. It has been more than 60 years since the New England lady named Charlotte Perkins Gilman wrote a story called The Yellow Wallpaper. Since then, this tale of almost unbearable horror has firmly established itself as one of American literature's greatest tales of terror, ranked by the aficionados of the macabre, along with the telltale heart, and the pit and the pendulum of a guerrilla in Poe. When you combine such a great story with the great talent of the first lady of suspense, Miss Agnes Moorhead, who may be sure of an uneasy and unsettling half hour, turn down the lights then and listen. Turn down the lights so you can't see the pattern of your wallpaper, as Agnes Moorhead stars in the Yellow Wallpaper, which begins in exactly one minute. Smoke can't, smoke can't, smoke can't, with the micronite filter. It is mild, mild, cigarette, but it's not the freshest, cleanest taste yet. It is the mild can't, cigarette, smoke can't, with the micronite filter. It is the mild, mild, cigarette, but it's not the freshest, cleanest taste yet. It is the mild can't, cigarette, smoke can't, smoke can't, smoke can't, with the micronite filter. And now, Miss Agnes Moorhead in the Yellow Wallpaper, a tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. I've never seen a worse wallpaper in my life. All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and fungus growth seemed to shriek with derision. When we came to this house, the minute I saw it, I made up my mind secretly to start writing again in spite of them. But I don't dare let John know I'm keeping this journal. It's difficult being married to a doctor. John's an excellent doctor, I'm sure, but he's so inconsistent about me. He says I'm not really sick, that I'm only a little run down from caring for the baby, that I have a temporary nervous depression and so he forbids me to write a word. But writing is such a relief to my mind. I can write down things, tell things here that... No, John says I'm not too rude about those things. I confess they make me feel badly, so I'll only write about the house. I saw it for the first time today, the most beautiful place. John rented it for the summer and we drove up today, a perfect June morning. The bay and the white sails and people already in swimming. And then the shaded lane and the old-fashioned flower garden and the gnarly trees and the house. The house standing alone in the summer stillness. I could never tell John, but you know the house spoke to me. It was only because he rattled on so that I couldn't hear what it said. Reminded me of those English places you read about and at only 200 a month. Gardens, cottage and everything. Hedges and walls and gates that lock and there's a ghost in it. Remember I rented it just for you and you're going to let Jenny do all the work while you live the life of Riley. Do you like it, darling? Do you? Yes. Yes, it's lovely but strange as though it might be haunted. Darling, you've got that look on your face again. That dopey look. Well, Jenny's home. There's a station wagon. I know my dear sister. She's already turned the place inside out and cleaned the top to bottom. John, is it haunted, do you think? What? The house? Yes. At 200 a month? That's asking too much of fate. Come on, hop out. Then why is it rented so cheaply and why hasn't anyone lived in it for such a long time? I'd call it luck if I believed in luck. There is something strange about the house. I feel it. Now stop imagining things. I'm not imagining. Tell us that you don't believe me. You don't even believe I'm sick. You tell my friends and relatives I've heard you that there's nothing wrong with me. There isn't anything wrong with you. Oh, John. I'm sorry. Don't cry. Come along. Let's go inside. So I came into this house in tears. It was wrong. It was all wrong. Maybe the house saw me crying. Or this room. I got so unreasonably angry with John, I shouldn't. I know he's so careful. And loving and I repay him so badly. I should control myself. At least in front of him. But it makes me so tired not to show what I feel. My sister-in-law Jenny met us at the door. Naturally, she saw I'd been crying but shook pains to ignore it. Well, hello, you two are early. You must have started the crack of dawn. How was the trip? Made it in less than two hours. They're like a cheese in a pod. Jenny and John, both efficient and kind. How did you bear upset? Very well. Thank you, Jenny. I must say you look very well. Both kind and both somehow cruel. But I don't really think that. You're in time for lunch. I bought a flounder down the wharf and cooked it with capers and cream. Sound good? Wonderful, Jenny. Is she the house first? The whole brand tour. The pet flounder will be cooked to death. Well, at least my room. Our room? All right, if you insist. The vicious world don't blame me. Why would I blame her? Whose room is this, Jenny, yours? Yes. It's small but it's near the door and the telephone. Oh, John. John, look, let's take this one for you and me. I love those roses over the window. I've already put your things upstairs, pet. A little porch in such pretty old-fashioned shins hanging. You like the room upstairs? You can see there's not room for two beds. And I won't hear of being in separate rooms. John, John and I talked it over. The room at the top of the house has so many windows. And you must absorb lots of fresh air, darling, to get back your appetite. They smother me with concern. They crash me with kindness. Come along. There's a good girl. All right. You know what's best. Do you like the nursery? It's got loads of sunshine. Up the steep, narrow stairs. Two stories up to the very top of the house. I told myself over and over I mustn't be angry. They mean so well for me. But I'm not to have thoughts or feelings, likes or dislikes. I'm to do what they say because they know what's best. I'm not to cry. I'm not to have dreams of that, sis. Up the steep, winding stairs to the top. There's a gate at the top that locks. I wonder why. And beyond the gate is the nursery room. This room. It is big and early. Nearly a whole floor with windows that look every way. They say it was a nursery. But what was it? Open the mulch, Annie. Why? Well, darling. Why are the windows barred? Well, that's for little children. Otherwise it wouldn't be safe. Yes. Children climb around so don't they? What are those rings and things in the walls? Oh, I expect they may didn't do gymnasium when the children were older. The sort of playroom. Oh, they must have hated the wallpaper. They were rough on it, that's for sure. They turned it off in patches. I don't blame them. It's henny. The old who wants to look at wallpaper with this view. You can see the whole bed. The revolting color. It's unclean. It's such a... such a sickish yellow there with the sun. Now, now, darling, you must be hungry. I know you're tired. I'm not tired. Act this way. I say the wallpaper's ugly and you look at each other. Your eyes shuttle back and forth and suddenly both act as though I'd lost my mind. Darling, that was something we weren't going to say. Be a good girl, pet. We don't act anyway. We only want you to not to worry. We want you to be well. It's true. That's all they want. John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage and he says I have foolish fancies and he sometimes can talk them away, but... not this time. No matter what he says, it's a smoldering, sulfurous, unclean, hideous wallpaper. No wonder the children scratched at it and spitted it down. No wonder they gouged the plaster with their little fingernails. No wonder they hated it. I hated myself. In just a moment, we continue with... suspense. The best things in life may not always be free, but some of the worst things sure are expensive. The trail that litter bugs leave behind them costs our government $50 million a year on primary highways alone. And that's only part of the penalty for none of us enjoys the countryside when it's littered with sandwich wrappers and old newspapers. Every year, thousands of Americans sustain injuries from broken bottles, rusty beer cans and other objects thoughtlessly cast out on the highway. As a result, work hours are lost and wages remain unearned. A carefree holiday is hardly carefree if you're careless about trash. Your neglect can only add to your tax bill and damage property you might otherwise enjoy. It creates a health hazard for yourself and others. Wherever you are this minute, out in the country or right in the heart of town, CBS Radio hopes you'll join the nationwide campaign to keep America beautiful. There's no membership card, no dues. All it takes to join is the resolve to keep America beautiful by keeping litter off streets and highways. And now, we continue with the second act of the yellow wallpaper starring Miss Agnes Moorhead. A tale well calculated to keep you in suspense. We've been here two weeks and I haven't felt like writing again since that first day. I'm sitting up by the window now in this frightful nursery room. There's nothing to stop my writing as much as I please. John is away all day and sometimes even at night if he has a serious case. I'm glad my case is not serious. These nervous troubles can be depressing all the same. John doesn't know how much I suffer. He knows there's no reason to suffer and that satisfies him. I suppose John's never nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wallpaper. No, I won't let you have your way, you silly goose. If we'd taken the room downstairs, you'd be seeing faces in the chin straights. Not faces, John. Look at that spot. And that one over there. I see. It's a recurring pattern. It's a broken neck with two bulging eyes staring at me upside down. And to me it's climbing ivy or some kind of vine. Take your choice. It could be anything. It's the everlastingness. Up and down. Climbing up and down. Sideways. Crawling. Crawling in everywhere those unblinking eyes. Now you must try to rid your mind of such nonsense. You simply must. All right, John. I'll try. After all, it's only in certain lights when I look at the wallpaper from the bed that I see. See what? Nothing. Nothing, nothing, John. No, you're... You're right. There's nothing except a pattern. A front pattern. And an under pattern in a different shade of yellow. It dwells in my mind, sir. My lie on that great immovable bed. It's nailed down. And follow the pattern about by the hour. And then where it isn't faded and when the sun is just so, I see a strange, faint, formless sort of figure lurking, waiting behind that front design. There are things in that wallpaper that nobody knows but need. No? There's a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. Last night it was moonlight and the moon shines in all around just as the sun does. And John was asleep and I hated to wake in him so I kept still and watched the moonlight on the wall until the figure behind began to shape the pattern as if she wanted to get out. I got up softly and went and felt the paper to see if it did move. It moved. I'm sure of it. And the woman cried out as though her voice came a long way over water. When I went back to the bed, John was awake. What is it? Why are you up? Don't go walking around like that. You'll catch cold. Well, the moonlight woke me. You are cold. You're shivering. John, I'm not really getting better. Won't you take me away? I don't see how we can leave before our lease is up. Of course, if you weren't any danger, I would, but you really are better, dear, whether you see it or not. I'm a doctor and I know. My appetite may be better in the evening when you're here, but it's worse in the morning when you're gone. Your gaining weight and your color is better. I don't weigh a bit more, not even as much. Nonsense. You're getting better, I tell you. Better in body, perhaps, but in mind. Darling! For my sake and your sake and for the sake of our child, I beg you not to let that idea enter your head not for one instance. Can't you trust me as a doctor when I tell you it's a false and foolish idea? Answer me, darling. Don't you trust me? Yes. Of course, I trust you only. Only what? Oh, nothing. I'm sleepy. Let's go to sleep. But I didn't sleep. I lay there for hours trying to decide if the front pattern and the back pattern move together or separately. No, there's no question about it. In the moonlight, the front pattern becomes bars. The outside pattern, I mean. And the woman behind it shakes the bars as she creeps around. I like this room now. And life is much more exciting than it used to be. I have something more to expect. To look forward to. To watch. And I really do eat better and I'm quieter than I was. John is pleased to see me improve. You see, you're flourishing like a weed in spite of your wallpaper. Yes, yes, in spite of the wallpaper. In spite of it? Because of it. But I had no intention of telling him that. He might want to take me away. I don't want to leave now until I find out. Very funny mark on the wall, low down near the mapple. The streak that runs around the room. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed. A long, straight, even smudge as if it had been rubbed over and over. How was it done? Who did it? What did they do it for? Ron, I really discovered something at last. There are a great many women behind the pattern and sometimes only one. And she creeps around fast and her creeping shakes the pattern. She's trying to climb through and can't because the pattern strangles everything. But she does get out in the daytime. I know because I've seen her. When a car comes she hides in the blackberry vine. I'd hide too. I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. There are only two days left to tear the paper off and let the woman out into the room. The charm's beginning to take those. I don't like the look in his eyes or the way he talks with Jenny about me. I overheard them. She isn't sleeping nights, so she's quiet, but I know she's awake. No wonder she sleeps the whole blessed day. Maybe I ought to call in another doctor. It's just stubbornness, John. She's determined to prove you wrong. I suppose you're right. Maybe a sanitary would be... Oh, really? Hello, Pet. How you creep about? That's a funny thing to say, Jenny. It isn't I who creeps. Jenny says you stay in your room too much. You don't take your exercise. You tell me to rest and take exercise. I can't do both. As though I can't see through them. Well, tomorrow's our last day here. We'll talk about exercise when I get you back to town. I'll have to rouse you out of bed pretty early, Pet. Some of that furniture up there belongs downstairs. The movers will be here at night. Maybe you'll sleep upstairs tonight, Jenny, so you won't be alone, darling. You won't be here tonight, John. Not for tomorrow evening. I have a difficult case at the hospital. And if you're going to feel lonesome... Oh, no, Jenny. I'll rest better alone. I'm sure of it. Thank you all the same. They think they're so clever. I won't be alone a bit. As soon as the moon shone in, the poor thing began to crawl and shake the pedal. I ran to help her. I pulled and she shook. I shook and she pulled. And by morning, we peeled off yards and yards of that paper. A strip about as high as my head and half around the room. When Jenny came up in the morning, she looked at the wall in amazement. What in the world? You know what I did? You know why I did it, Jenny? Just to spite the vicious thing. Why are you so surprised? I'm not. I wouldn't mind doing it myself. She wouldn't mind doing it. Why don't you come downstairs and lie down? It'll be dreary up here once I take the furniture out. They can't take the bed out. It's nailed down, you know. I like it here. It'll be quiet and empty and clean. But you sleep downstairs tonight when John gets home. Oh, yes. Yes, when John gets home. How she betrayed herself. She wouldn't mind doing it. But I'm here and no person touches this paper but me. I lock the door and throw the key down into the front path. I don't want anybody to come in. Until John gets home. I want to surprise him. And I've got a rope up here. Even Jenny doesn't know that. If the woman gets out from behind the pattern and tries to run away, I can tie her securely to one of the rings in the wall. The pattern moves. Like wallowing seaweed. How monstrous and pointless that pattern is, it'll strangle her unless I help. Wait, wait, I'll help you. Paper I can, standing on the floor. Wait, just wait, be patient. Yes, you push and I'll pull. I'm ready to the plaster. Maybe I can get it off with my teeth. It hurts, but I'm getting it. Wait, just a, just a little more. I'm getting it. I think they did. But I have you securely tied by my rope. You'll never get away. But I don't want to get away. It is pleasant. But at night you have to get back behind the pattern. That will be hard. It's better than going outside. I won't go outside even if Jenny asked me to. Or outside I have to creep on the ground where everything is green instead of yellow. Then here I creep smoothly on the floor. There she is now. Darling, open the door. Why? It's John at the door. Open the door, darling. He'll break down that beautiful door. I won't lose my way. He's coming back. He's rotting on the stairs. How stunned she will be. My dear. Oh, my dear, what is it? What's happened? I've got out at last, John. Out? Out from... Yes. In spite of you and Jenny. The paper. I shook the pattern and pushed and pulled it down. It stuck horribly. But you'll never, never, never put me back. It's so pale, John. And you close your eyes. Lovely yellow room. But it is for the wall. Which Miss Agnes Morehead started in the yellow wallpaper. Adapted by Sylvia Richards. From the story by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Listen. Listen again next week. When we return with Alibi. Another tale well calculated to keep you in. Suspects. Supporting Miss Morehead and the yellow wallpaper were Anne Hunter as Jenny and Joe DeSantis as John. It's true that all news reporters broadcast some of the same news items. But there's a great difference in news reporters. There's no substitute, for instance, for the years of wide diversified experience Lowell Thomas brings to his nightly newscasts on CBS Radio. Goldminer, Kyle Punter, college professor, newspaper reporter, editor, historian, biographer, movie commentator, lecturer, author and film producer have been some of the professions followed by Lowell Thomas in his active life. And he draws on all these experiences to illustrate and spice his broadcasts. To explore and world traveler, Lowell Thomas has led expeditions to the far corners of the globe and written some 43 books based on his travels. He has met many leading personalities of all countries. And when their names are on the news headlines, Lowell Thomas usually has an interesting anecdote to tell as an aide to understanding the news behind the news. Join him every Monday through Friday night on most of these same stations when Lowell Thomas reports the news. This is the CBS Radio Network.