 Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome, Weirdos. I'm Darren Marlar and this is Retro Radio Sunday on Weird Darkness. Each week I bring you a show from the golden age of radio, but still in the genre of Weird Darkness. I'll have stories of the macabre in horror, mysteries and crime, and even some dark science fiction. If you're new here, welcome to the show, and if you're already a member of this Weirdo family, please take a moment and invite someone else to listen in with you. Please leave a rating and review on the podcast app you're listening from. Doing those things helps the show to keep growing. And while you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, my newsletter to connect with me on social media and more. Coming up, it's an episode from the Mercury Summer Theater called The Hitchhiker. The Mercury Summer Theater is a CBS radio drama series produced, directed and starring Orson Welles. It was a short-lived summer radio series sponsored by Papst Blue Ribbon, airing on Friday evenings in the summer of 1946, and it only lasted a total of 15 episodes. The show tried to recreate the success of Orson Welles' earlier Mercury Theater on the air, which famously brought us the radio drama The War of the Worlds, but sadly, the Mercury Summer Theater couldn't find the same success as its predecessor. Tonight we'll hear an episode from June 21st, 1946, entitled The Hitchhiker. The Hitchhiker was written by Lucille Fletcher and the story was first presented to radio audiences several years earlier on November 17, 1941, again by Orson Welles on The Orson Welles Show on CBS Radio. In fact, Welles performed The Hitchhiker four times on radio, and many of you are going to recognize the story from television as well, as the radio play was adapted for a very notable 1960 episode of the TV series The Twilight Zone. And now, the Mercury Summer Radio Theater brings you from June 21st, 1946 on the CBS Radio Network, The Hitchhiker, directed and starring Orson Welles. So, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Good evening, this is Orson Welles, your producer of a special series of broadcasts presented by the makers of PABS Blue Ribbon, The Mercury Summer Theater of the Air. Ladies and gentlemen, the element of suspense is so vital to our story tonight that our sponsors, the makers of PABS Blue Ribbon beer, are omitting their usual commercial message during the intermission between the acts, so that our play will go uninterrupted from spooky start to spooky finish. Therefore, let's give Ken Roberts his 45 second opportunity right now to extol the merits of that blended, splendid Ken. Of that blended, splendid, PABS Blue Ribbon, those two words tell the whole flavor story. You see, every single drop of PABS Blue Ribbon is the happy result of blending, the full flavor blending of never less than 33 fine brews. That's right, never less than 33 fine brews blend their individual taste tones to give you that splendid flavor. Not too light, not too heavy, but fresh, clean, sparkling, with the real beer taste coming through just the way you like it. Friends, these days, when your dealer is occasionally unable to supply you with all the PABS Blue Ribbon you'd like, please keep on asking. For every single bottle you do get will live up to the same high standards of quality and taste. Yes, every bottle will be, as always, blended, splendid, PABS Blue Ribbon. And now, Mr. Wells. We of the Mercury Rackin that a story doesn't have to appeal to the heart, it can also appeal to the spine. Sometimes you want your heart to be warm, sometimes you want your spine to tingle. While the tingling needs to be hope, it'll be quite audible as you listen tonight to a classic among radio thrillers. Its author is one of the most gifted of all the writers who've ever worked for this medium, Lucille Fletcher, who wrote the greatest single radio script ever written. Sorry wrong number. The title of this her terrifying little tale of grue for this evening is another spine tingler by name The Hitchhiker. I am in an auto camp on route 66 just west of Gallup, New Mexico. If I tell it, maybe it'll help me. It'll keep me from going crazy. But I must tell this quickly. I'm not crazy now. I feel perfectly well. Perfectly well. Except that I'm running a slight temperature. My name is Ronald Adams. I'm 36 years of age, unmarried, tall, dark, with a black moustache. I drive a 1944 V8 license number 6B7989. I was born in Brooklyn. All this I know. I know that I'm at this moment perfectly sane, that it is not me who's gone mad, but something else. Something utterly beyond my control. But I must be quickly. At any moment the link would light and they break. This may be the last thing I ever tell on earth. The last night I ever see the stars. Six days ago I left Brooklyn to drive to California. Goodbye son. Good luck to you my boy. Goodbye mother. Here, give me a kiss and then I'll go. I'll come out with you to the car. It's raining. Stay here at the door. Hey, watch this. Tears? Oh, it's just the trip Ronald. I wish you weren't driving. Mother, there you go again. People do it every day. I know, but you'll be careful, won't you? Promise me you'll be extra careful. Don't fall asleep or drive fast or pick up any strangers on the road. No, strangers. Don't you worry. There's nothing gonna happen. It's just eight days of perfectly simple driving on smooth, decent, civilized roads with a hot dog or a hamburger stand every 10 miles. I was an excellent spirit. Drive ahead. Even the loneliness seemed like a lark. But I reckoned without him crossing Brooklyn Bridge that morning in the rain. I saw a man leaning against the cables. He seemed to be waiting for a lift. There were spots of fresh rain on his shoulders. He was carrying a cheap overnight bag in one hand. He was thin nondescript with a cap pulled down over his eyes. He stepped off the walk and if I hadn't swerved, I'd have hit him. I almost did. I almost did hit him. Now I would have forgotten him completely except that just an hour later, while crossing the Pulaski Skyway over the Jersey Flats, I saw him again. At least he looked like the same person. He was standing now with one thumb pointing west. I couldn't figure out how he'd got there but I thought maybe one of those fast trucks had picked him up, beat me to the skyway and let him off. I didn't stop for him. Then, late that night, I saw him again. It was on the New Pennsylvania Turnpike between Harrisburg and Pittsburgh. It's 265 miles long with a very high speed limit. I was just slowing down for one of the tunnels. When I saw him standing under an arc light by the side of the road, I could see him quite distinctly. The bag, the cap, even the spots of fresh rain spattered over his shoulders. He hailed me this time. I stepped on the gas like a shot. That's the only country through the Alleghenies and I had no intention of stopping. Besides the coincidences or whatever it was, it gave me the willies. I stopped at the next gas station. Yeah, sir, fill her up, will you? Check your oil? No, thanks. Nice night in it. Yes. It has been raining here lately, has it? Not a drop of rain all week. I don't know. I suppose that hasn't done your business any harm. People drive through here all kinds of weather. Mostly goodness, though. Any many pleasure cars out in the Turnpike this season? I guess not. What about hitchhikers? Hitchhikers here? Why, what's the matter? Don't you ever see any? A guy with a fool who started out the hitchhike on this road, look at it. Then you never see anybody? No. Maybe they get a lift before the Turnpike starts. I mean, you know, just before the tow house, but then it's a mighty long ride. Most cars wouldn't pick up a guy for that long a ride. There's a pretty lonesome country here, mountains and woods. Yeah. But you ain't seen nobody like that, have you? No, no. It's just a technical question. Oh, I see. Well, that'll be $1.49 with the tax. The thing gradually passed from my mind is coincidence. I had a good night's sleep in Pittsburgh. I didn't think about the man all next day until just outside of Zanesville, Ohio. No. I saw him again. It was a bright, sunshiney afternoon. The peaceful Ohio fields, brown with the autumn stubble, lay dreaming in the golden light. I was driving slowly, drinking it in, when the road suddenly ended in a detour. In front of the barrier, he was standing. Let me explain about his appearance before I go on. I repeat, there was nothing sinister about him. He was as drab as a mud fence, and it was his attitude menacing. He merely stood there, waiting, almost drooping a little. The cheap overnight bag in his hand. He looked as though he'd been waiting there for hours, and he hailed me. He started to walk forward. I'd stop the car, of course, for the detour. For a few minutes, I couldn't seem to find the new road. I realized he must be thinking that I'd stop for him. No, not just now. I'm sorry. No, not today. The other way. I'm going to New York. Sorry. After I got the car back onto the road again, I felt like a fool. Yet the thought of picking him up, of having him sit beside me, was somehow unbearable. Yet at the same time, I felt, more than ever, unspeakably alone. The fields, the towns ticked off, one by one. The lights changed. I knew now that I was going to see him again. And though I dreaded the sight, I caught myself searching the side of the road. Waiting for him to appear. You sell sandwiches and pop here, don't you? Yep, we do. In the daytime, but it close up for the night. I know, but I was wondering if you could possibly have a cup of coffee. Black coffee. Not at this time of night, mister. My wife's a cook and cheese man bed. Listen, just a minute ago, there was a man standing here right beside here, and he was a suspicious looking man. It's no but a mother. She's a pair of things. She wants a cup of coffee. I don't mean to disturb you, but you see, I was driving along when I just happened to look and there he was. What was he doing? Nothing. You've been hitting the bottle. That's what's the matter with you. You've got nothing better than to do than wake decent folk out of their hard-earned sleep. Now get going, go on. He looked as though he was going to rob you. I ain't got nothing in this stand to lose. Now on your way before I call our chair folks. I got into the car again and drove on slowly. I was beginning to hate the car. If I could have found a place to stop to rest a little, but I was in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri now. Few resort places there were closed. I had seen him at that roadside stand. I knew I'd see him again. Maybe at the next turn of the road. I thought I'd see him again. I knew I'd see him again. Maybe at the next turn of the road. I knew that when I saw him next, I'd run him down. But I didn't see him again until late the next afternoon. I'd stopped the car at a sleepy little junction just across the border into Oklahoma. Let a train pass by when he appeared across the tracks. He was leaning against a telephone pole. It was a perfectly airless dry day. The red clay of Oklahoma was baking under the southwestern sun. Yet there were spots of fresh rain on his shoulders. I couldn't stand that. Without thinking blindly, I started the car across the tracks. He didn't even look up at me. He was staring at the ground. I stepped on the gas hard, bearing the wheel sharply toward him. I could hear the train in the distance now, but I didn't care. Then something went wrong with the car. It could stall right on the tracks. The train was coming closer. I could hear its bell, its whistle crying. Still, he stood there. Now I knew that he was beckoning me to my death. Well, I had frustrated him that time. The starter had worked it last. I managed to back up, but after the train had passed, he was gone. I was all alone in the hot, dry afternoon. After that, I knew I had to do something. I didn't know who this man was or what he wanted of me. I only knew that from now on, I mustn't let myself be alone on the road for one minute. Hello there! Like a ride? What do you think? How far you go? Amarillo, I'll take you to Amarillo. Amarillo, Texas? Yeah, I'll drive you there. Gee! Mind if I take off my shoes? I don't think so. Go right ahead. What a break this is. A swell car and decent guy driving all the way to Amarillo. All I've been getting so far is trucks. You hitchhike much? Sure. Only it's tough sometimes in these great open spaces to get the break. I think it would be the... I'll bet, though, if you got a good pickup in a fast car, you could get to places faster than, well, say, another person in another car. I don't get you. You take me, for instance. I suppose I'm driving across the country at a nice steady clip of about 45 miles an hour. Couldn't a girl like you just standing beside the road waiting for lifts beat me to town after town, provided she got picked up every time in a car that was doing 65 or 70 miles an hour? I don't know. Maybe she couldn't. Maybe she couldn't. What difference does it make? No difference. It just... Crazy idea I had sitting here in the car. Oh, imagine spending your time in a swell car thinking of things like that. What would you do instead? What would I do? If I was a good-looking fellow like yourself? Well, I'd just enjoy myself. Every minute of the time, I'd sit back and relax. If I saw a good-looking girl along the side of the road... Hey! Did you see who? That man standing beside the barbed wire fence. I didn't see anyone. There was nothing. Just a barbed wire fence. What did you think he was doing trying to run into that barbed wire fence? There was a millionaire, I tell you. A thin, gray man with an override bag in his hand. I was trying to run him down. Run him down? You mean kill him? I'm trying to get rid of him. I heard that he's proved that he's real. But you say you didn't see him back there, you sure? I didn't see a soul. Watch for him. Keep your eyes peeled on the road. He'll turn up again. Maybe any minute now. There! Look there! How does this door work? I'm getting out of here. Did you see him that time? No, I didn't see him that time. I don't expect never to see him. All I want to do is go on living, and I don't see how I will very long. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. Please, don't go. How would you like to go to California? I'll drive you all the way to California. There are pink elephants all the way, no thanks. Listen, please, just one minute. You know what I think you need, big boy? Not a girlfriend, just a good dose of sleep. There, I got it now. No, no, you can't go! Leave your hands off of me to here! Leave your hands off! Come back here, please! I'm a monster. A few minutes later I saw a passing truck picker up. I knew then that I was utterly alone. I was in the heart of the great Texas prairies. There wasn't a car on the road after the truck went by. I tried to figure out what to do, how to get hold of myself. How I could find a place to rest or even if I could sleep right here in the car. Just a few hours and then sleep just along the side of the road. I was getting my winter overcoat out of the back seat to use as a blanket. Just as a blanket. When I saw him coming toward me. Coming toward me. Emerging from the herd of moving steer. I didn't wait for him to come any closer. Maybe, maybe I should have spoken to him then. Fought it out then and there for... Now he began to be everywhere. Whenever I stopped even for a minute for gas, for oil, for a drink, a pop, a cup of coffee, a sandwich. He was there. I saw him standing outside the auto-cam in Amarillo that night when I dared to slow down. He was standing here the drinking fountain in a little camping spot just inside the border of New Mexico. He was waiting for me outside the Navajo reservation where I stopped to check my tires. I saw him in Albuquerque where I bought 10 gallons of gas. I was afraid now. Afraid to stop. He began to drive faster and faster. I was in... in lunar landscape now. The great arid Mesa country of New Mexico. I drove through it with the indifference of a fly crawling over the face of the moon. And now he didn't even wait for me to stop unless I drove at 85 miles an hour over those endless roads. He waited for me. Every other mile. I'd see his figure. Shadowless. Flitting before me. Still in its same attitude. Over the cold and lifeless ground. Flitting over dried up rivers. Over broken stones. Cast up by old glacial upheavals. Flitting in the pure and cloudlose side myself when I finally reached Gallup, New Mexico this morning. There's an auto camp here. It's cold. Almost deserted this time of year. I went inside and asked if there was a telephone. I... I had the feeling that if I could speak to somebody familiar somebody that I loved, I could pull myself together. Number players. Long distance. Thank you. This is long distance. I'd like to put in a call to my home to Brooklyn, New York. I'm Ronald Adams. The number is Beachwood 99970. Thank you. Thank you. What is your number? My number is... Albuquerque. New York for Gallup. New York. Gallup, New Mexico calling Beachwood 99970. I'd read somewhere that love could banish demons. It was in the middle of the morning. I knew mother'd be home. I pictured a tall white head in her crisp house dress in her desks. It'd be enough, I thought, just to hear the even calmness of her voice. Will you please deposit $3.85 for the first three minutes? When you have deposited $1.5, will you wait until I have collected the money? All right. Deposit another $1.5. Will you please deposit the remaining $0.85? Ready with Brooklyn? Go ahead, please. Hello? Hello, mother? Speak to me. Who is this? This is Mrs. Whitney. Mrs. Whitney? I don't know any Mrs. Whitney. Is this Beachwood 99970? Yes. Where's my mother? Where's Mrs. Adams? Mrs. Adams is not at home. She's still in the hospital. The hospital? Yes. Member of the family. She's been prostrated for five days and nervous breakdown. Nervous? Who is this calling? Nervous breakdown. My mother's never... It's all taken place since the death of her oldest son, Ronald. Since the death of her oldest son, Ronald? Hey! What is this? What number is this? This is 7-0. It's all been very sudden. He was killed just six days ago in an automobile accident on the Brooklyn Bridge. Your three minutes are up, sir. Your three minutes are up, sir. Your three minutes are up, sir. Sir, your three minutes are up. Your three minutes are up, sir. And so, I'm sitting here in this deserted auto-camp in Gallup, New Mexico. Trying to think. I'm trying to get a hold of myself. Otherwise, otherwise I'll go crazy. Outside, it is night. The vast, soulless night of New Mexico. A million stars are in the sky. Ahead of me, stretch a thousand miles of empty mesa and mountains, prairies, desert. Somewhere among them. He is waiting for me somewhere. Somewhere I shall know who he is and who I am. Austin Wells will be back in just a few seconds to tell you about next week's production of the Mercury Summer Theater. But first, the makers of Papst Blue Ribbon wish to remind you that though you may not be able to get Papst Blue Ribbon every time you want it in these days of grain restrictions, it is well worth your while to keep asking for every bottle you do get will continue to live up to its name. And speaking of grain restrictions, not a single grain of wheat is being used in the brewing of beer and ale. And the grains that are being used by breweries are not the grains wanted for famine relief. Now, let me repeat, when you do get Papst Blue Ribbon, you can be sure this truly great beer will be as always the happy blending of nevertheless than 33 fine brews. As always, blended, splendid Papst Blue Ribbon. Now here is Austin Wells. Well, next week, ladies and gentlemen, we bring to your radio another Mercury Favorite. We hope a favorite of yours. You've asked it many times. We've performed it many times. Jane Eyre. And Jane will be played by a Mercury actress who was heard tonight and has been heard so often on our shows, one of the most gifted people we know in our business, Miss Alice Frost. Jane Eyre then, with Alice Frost and your obedient servant, that's the same time next week, same station. Please join us until then speaking for my sponsors, the makers of Papst Blue Ribbon beer, for all of us on the Mercury Theater, including Bernard Herrmann, who wrote and conducted the music on this program. I remain as always obediently yours. More than one half of all our nation's workers make their living in the food industry or a related field. One of the largest groups in the food industry are the grocers. Next week in Chicago, the National Association of Retail Grocers, which represents more than 500,000 retailers, is holding its first post-war convention, at which problems of food distribution will be discussed and new ideas and methods will be worked out to better serve its customers. The makers of Papst Blue Ribbon beer salute the grocer, who is doing his very best under trying conditions to keep America well fed. This program came to you through the courtesy of the Papst Brewing Company of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, makers of blended, splendid Papst Blue Ribbon. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System. Thanks for listening to this week's Retro Radio episode of Weird Darkness. 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