 Had a hard day at the office. Backache from bending over a hot stove all day. Want to get away from it all. We offer you escape. It is midnight and you're alone. Suddenly the room is plunged into darkness. You sit frozen with terror. Because something is there behind you. Something you feared would come. Something from which you must escape. Escape produced and directed by William N. Robeson and carefully plotted to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight we escape to London and a world made strange and terrifying by the workings of an ancient barbaric curse. As Montaguard James tells it in his weird story. Casting the runes. My name is Edward Dunning. I'm a scientist. I'm used to dealing with facts, not fairy tales. I'm regarded as Britain's leading authority on medieval life. And as such I've studied much of the ancient fears and barbaric superstitions of those times. I should have been the first to scoff at any suggestion with the ancient powers of evil. The black magic of teutonic days could be believed and practiced in the 20th century. A few weeks ago I should have laughed had you told me that a curse or hex could kill a man. Today I cannot laugh. It has happened to a man I know of. And now it's happening to me. My first presentment of danger came on that day a few weeks ago when I dropped in to see Alfred Smyth, secretary of the National Science Association and found him in a state of irritation. Lasted all, Dunning. I almost wish you hadn't been so brutally honest in your report on that Carswell paper. Why? What's the trouble? He's such a frightful fellow. He's raising a terrible row. You mean Carswell himself? Yes. It's bad enough a vicious charlatan like that calling himself a scientist. But now he's taking all his vindictiveness out on me. Sorry, old chap. It's really me he'd like to get at. As a matter of fact, that's just what his last letter was about. He wants to know what supposed authority wrote the report rejecting his paper. You didn't give him my name. Heavens no. As a matter of fact, Dunning, I haven't and I won't and for a very special reason. Call it silly, call it crazy, call it what you will. I have an uncanny feeling about that man Carswell. Why? Do you know anything about him? Nothing. I've never seen him. I only know that he wrote a paper called The Truth of Alchemy. It was hopeless. Precisely. And why was it hopeless? Well, besides being abominably written, it was supposed to prove that alchemy, black magic, and such rot actually exists. I think the man really believes it. Undoubtedly he does and that's what I mean. He lives in an isolated old house in Warwickshire. He's rarely seen elsewhere and in his whole career he's written only two things. This paper and a history of witchcraft published ten years ago. Yes, of course. I remember now. So that's the man. Yes, and that book was even worse than this paper. The man has a warped mind. I'm sure he's tried every unhealthy experiment in alchemy, witchcraft, and black magic. There's no telling to what lengths of vindictiveness a man like that might go. Well, it does sound a bit queer. Not queer, Dunning. Evil. Come. Man has the right to believe what he likes. He has the right to be angry with me. Here, I've glibly scoffed at the man's life's work. Well, perhaps I'm being overly suspicious and imaginative, but I think there's more than anger involved here, Edward. This may sound fantastic to you, but well, John Harrington wrote the report condemning that witchcraft book of Carswells ten years ago. Three months later, Harrington was dead. But Alfred, what's the connection? Harrington died under very peculiar circumstances. He was walking home alone late one night, and suddenly he screamed, broke into a run, lost his hat and stick, and climbed up a tree. A dead branch gave way. He fell and broke his neck. No one's ever been able to explain why it happened. Come now, Alfred. Jolly, you're not suggesting this... I don't know what I'm suggesting. I only know that after he reviewed Carswells' book, John Harrington didn't have a moment's peace. Now you've written an unfavorable review of this paper. If I were you, I should keep that fact well hidden. Oh, Alfred, well, that's ridiculous. But why... Yes, I laughed at Alfred's smart spheres. How could I have known then that I was to feel the same terror, the same agonized fear which gripped the heart of John Harrington as he crouched panting on the branch of a tree with another moment or two of life? While beneath him, the thing came closer and closer. I'd almost forgotten the incident when, a few nights later, I was riding home on a lake train. I was half-drowsing in my seat, barely keeping awake by looking idly at the car-card of Christmas. The man directly opposite me must have been doing the same, because suddenly I heard him say, You know, what can that one be advertising? I followed his eyes to the window beside my head. What I saw brought me both upright in my seat. In memory of John Harrington died September 18, 1937, by falling from a tree. Three months were allowed. Mommy, what would you say that means, sir? Well, I... I don't know. But I did know. Smythe had been right. The affair with Carzwell was not over, but only begun. I asked the conductor about the card, but he was as puzzled as I was. He had never seen it before. The card must have been put there expressly for me. That meant that Carzwell knew it was I who had reviewed his paper. How had he found out? I got the answer the next day. I was in the select manuscript department of the British Museum during some research in the quiet, almost deserted room. I'd been working steadily for an hour, oblivious to my surroundings, when suddenly, just at my shoulder, I heard a voice. Edward Dunning, you were allowed three months. I swung around at my seat. There was no one within twenty feet of me. I sat for a moment shaken, and then I stooped to pick up the papers I brushed to the floor. I straightened up to find a stout elderly gentleman standing in front of me. Excuse me, sir. Yes? May I give you this paper? I think it should be yours. Oh, yes, so it is. I thought I had them all. This one seemed to have slide across the floor. Thank you very much. Not at all, sir. Good afternoon. You walked slowly away and out of the door, a kindly stout old gentleman. But there was something about him that made me feel strange. I went over to the attendant. Yes, Mr. Dunning. Did you notice that gentleman I was just speaking to? Oh, yes, of course. Can you tell me his name? Why, that's Mr. Carswell. As a matter of fact, he was asking about you only the other day. Asking about me? Well, he asked who were the great authorities on medieval science. Of course, I told him you were the only one in the country. Oh, I see. Would you like to meet him, Mr. Dunning? I'll see if I can... Oh, no. No, thank you. It was as simple as that. Now Carswell knew. What would be his next move? What was I to expect? I reached home at dusk and trouble stood on my doorstep in the long face and stooped form of my family doctor. I've had to upset your household arrangements. I'm sorry to say, Dunning. I've had to send both your servants to hospital. But what happened? Something like termine poisoning, I should think. It's nothing serious. Well, what could have caused it? Well, that's the rather odd thing. They tell me they bought some shellfish from a hawker and had it for lunch. I've made inquiries, but I can't find that a hawker called it any other house on this street. Was this the next move? If so, it had succeeded. I was alone in the house and my nervousness increased as darkness closed in and the hours advanced toward midnight. I went to bed. But almost immediately, I thought I heard something. My study door opening downstairs. I went out and leaned over the banister. There was nothing moving, nothing visible. There was only a sudden, surprising gust of warm air playing about my legs. I went back into my room and locked the door. Suddenly the lights went out. No doubt it was only a blown fuse. But the chills were playing up and down my spine. I went over to the bed and reached for my watch under the pillow. I suppose I wanted to find out the time. I don't know why. But fumbling on the pillow, my hand touched something far different from a watch. It was like a mouth with sharp teeth and hair around it, not human at all. I fled through my bedroom and spent a long, miserable night locked in a spare room, my ear to the door. But nothing came. I was not disturbed again. In the morning I searched the house and found nothing unusual. But the mark of fear must have been stamped on my face for Smythe noticed it next day. Darling, you look as if you hadn't slept for weeks. Is anything wrong? I... I don't know, Alfred. I... Yes, there is. Carswell knows. How? They told him at the museum. Of course, we should have thought of that. Has anything happened yet? I don't know. It's too fantastic. It's probably my mind, hypnotic suggestion or something. But like that man Harrington, I have three months left. Edward. Must have been hearing things. I'm all on age. I don't know what to think. John Harrington had a brother, Henry. Perhaps I'd better get you in touch with him. He might know more about this man, Carswell. Yes, yes. Do it. And quickly. Three months is not a lot of time. It was arranged. That night, I found myself walking down the dark street that led from the railway station to the Harrington home. It must have been along this same street that John Harrington had walked that last night. When he had broke and run, it must have been one of these trees bordering the lonely road in which he had spent his last, horrible moments. The way was dark and there was no living soul in sight. And suddenly, complete terror gripped me. Somehow I knew that I was being followed. At first I only felt it and then I heard it. I walked steadily on for a moment, my stomach like ice. It was getting louder coming closer. Unconsciously my step thickened. I could barely control myself. I wanted to scream and run. The thing came closer. I confess, I broke and ran. Ran madly for my life. I was at a little side street. I turned down the doubling back to the railway station. I thought I would never make it. But finally bright lights loomed before my eyes and I think that I never have been so grateful for human companionship. There's no need to run, sir. The Ike 40 won't be along for another five minutes. I felt very foolish. I couldn't bring myself to walk back down that street to Harrington's. I could only take the train home furtively and call Harrington next morning to beg his forgiveness. He seemed very understanding and asked no questions. Undoubtedly, Smythe had told him something about me. At any rate, he agreed to visit me at a place two nights later. And when he arrived and was made welcome, he began to talk about his brother. Yes, Mr. Dunning, John was in a very bad state for weeks before the accident. If that's what it was, the principal things seemed to be the notions he was being followed and became an obsession. Yes, I know. I don't think his death was an accident. Then perhaps you can explain it? No. But I have one clue. Your brother reviewed a book very severely not long before he died. Just lately, I happened to cross the path of the man who wrote that book. And his name, of course, is Carswell. That's right. But as far as I'm concerned, that does it. Before he died, John was beginning to feel, much against his will, that Carswell was at the bottom of his trouble. Why? Well, it doesn't make sense. None of this does, but tell me. My brother liked music. He went to all the concerts in town and he made a hobby of collecting the programs. One night, about three months before his death, he brought one home and showed it to me. I nearly missed this one. He said, it seems he'd lost his and was hunting for it under its seat. I remember a rather stout elderly gentleman off to give John his. The kind gentleman was Mr. Carswell. Undoubtedly. I started to lead through the program and noticed on the second page some rather curious letters carefully written there in black and red ink. Neither of us could make much of it, except that the letters seemed to be runic. Runes. Runes of course. Well, John thought it might be important and debated whether he shouldn't try but just then the door blew open and a gust of air, a strangely warm air blew into the room. In a flash, it took the program and blew it straight into the fire. Yes, your brother was right. He should have returned it. There was nothing to be done then. Perhaps not. But do you know what runic letters mean? Well, they're old pre-druid script, I believe. The kind of writing the barbaric tribes used long before the Romans invaded Britain. Yes, that's right. Casting the runes. They used to call it in the old days. Casting the runes. What do you mean? It was a curse, a hex. In primitive England, people thought by casting the runes that is handing a person a piece of paper with certain runic letters on it that you could put that person out of the way, destroy him. It's an old superstition. The only way to lift the curse was to return the paper to the one who gave it to you. To give it back without his knowing it. I don't believe that kind of nonsense. Now that's why. Then what was it that killed John? I don't know. Perhaps his fear of the runes, perhaps brooding about it, becoming neurotic, thinking he saw things and heard things and touched things that weren't there. Perhaps his own mind drove him to death. And what's the difference? Aren't you dead? No difference at all. Casting the runes. Oh, it's rubbish. Yes, of course. Good hens. What is it? I just remembered that day at the British Museum. He cast the runes on me. I went swiftly to the writing table, Harrington close behind me. My portfolio was there full of the scribbled notes I'd been working on that day in the museum. And as I took it from my shaking hands and began leaping desperately through them, one strip of thin, light paper slipped and thudded toward the open window with uncanny quickness. But Harrington was even quicker and slammed the window shut just in time. Got it? Well, thank heavens. If it were lost and destroyed, like your brother's... Then you wouldn't be able to return it to Mr. Carswell. Yes. Look at it. It's identical with the one John got. I looked at the flimsy paper. It was carefully traced in red and black. Were runes all right? That ancient language used by the Aborigines of prehistoric Britain. I couldn't decipher them. But as Harrington and I stood looking into each other's eyes, each of us could read the other's thoughts. Science or not, 20th century or not, this sheet of fool's cap spells death for its possessor. It spells death for you. Must be returned. Yes, I know. There's no way that he doesn't... But he doesn't know he's received it. That means we can't simply mail it. No, we can't. We must do it personally. That'll take doing. Well, he knows you by sight, doesn't he? Yes. You must shave your beard to alter your appearance. He might strike any time. I have three months, as with the warning said. We've got to make good on this, Dunning. I've searched ten years for my brother's murderer, and now he must not escape. I dare not go near Carswell. So Harrington volunteered to keep a watch on him to let me know when our chance came to return the rooms, if it was ever to come. It was only a night or two after Harrington was there, but I arrived home and found a calendar had come in the mail. When I examined it, I found everything after November 19th had been torn out. The next night, I had another envelope of the mail. This time it was a woodcut and illustration torn out of a book, showing a dark, moonlit road and a man walking on it. And right behind him came a huge, dark shape, some awful demon creature. Under it were written some lines from the ancient Mariner, and as I sat alone and read them aloud, I felt that now familiar gust of warm air playing about my legs. The man walks on and turns no more his head because he knows a frightful fiend got close behind him thread. I knew the face of my terror, and it was with me always. Walking down the dark street at night, I heard its footsteps behind me. In my lonely house at midnight it roamed the halls. Like the ancient Mariner and John Harrington, I never turned to look. I couldn't. My nerves were going and I could do nothing but wait. The days, the weeks slipped by and still Harrington had no plan. I checked off the days on the calendar cars while it sent. Now there were eight days remaining, then six, then three, two. One, it was the evening of the 18th. My last day on Earth was to begin at midnight. I was sitting alone in my living room, bathed in perspiration, fighting to keep my nerves in check. Suddenly I felt that warm gust of air. I listened. There were soft footsteps. A shadow seemed to cross the hall door and then the footsteps blended into a loud banging. No, no, not yet! I've still got one day more! It's me! Harrington! What's the matter, man? What is it? It was you who was knocking on the door. Your footsteps. Yes, of course. Thank him. I thought I... I look, man, you've got to put yourself together. It's tonight we have our chance. What? Chance. Cars will leave Victoria Station by boat train tonight at 10. I'll get on with him there. You take the car I brought and drive to Croydon. Get on the train there and be sure to bring the paper. Yes, yes, I have it. You've shaved already. Good. Everything depends on his not recognizing you. It's Harrington. But suppose he changes his mind. Suppose he doesn't take that trip. My time runs out tomorrow. He'll be there and you'll do it. You'll do it well. You've got to. On the platform of Croydon my mind in a daze. I thought the train would never come, but it did. I saw Harrington at the window. He stared coolly at me. Of course there was to be no sign of recognition. I entered the coach and slowly made my way down the aisle to the compartment where Harrington sat. Opposite him, staring full into my face was Carswell. He looked up as I sat down. His eyes were heavy-lidded to his face, bland. It was impossible to tell whether he knew. The train started. The next stop was Dover at the end of the line. My last chance. It was time to cast the rules. It was a strange ride. Carswell and I see to face to face, staring into each other's eyes. Harrington off to the side, pulling at his face and twitching fingers. If I could have only had a few whispered moments with him to plan our strategy. But that was impossible. Moments dragged torturously. No one moved. Then suddenly Carswell leaned forward. I beg your pardon, sir. Haven't we met? Met? Well, I don't think so, sir. Not unless you're in the plumbing business. Plumbing? No, hardly. I hadn't planned it that way. The words, the accent just seemed to come by themselves. And Carswell sat back. An enigmatic expression on his face. I wished desperately to know what he was thinking. Then suddenly he got up and went out into the corridor. With this my chance. I was about to slip over to his bags to see if there were a ways to secrete the rooms with him. When I caught Harrington's eye and read a warning. Carswell from the corridor was watching, waiting to see if we recognized each other. I muttered a prayer of thanks, I hadn't ruled. Carswell came back and took his seat. As he did so, wild, exultant hope surged up in my throat. For something slipped off his seat and dropped noiselessly to the floor. It was his ticket case and he didn't see it. A cardboard ticket case with a pocket on the cover. If I could just get to it and slip that tiny piece of paper into that pocket. For fifteen agonizing minutes I sat there and stared at it. If only Carswell would go out. But he sat stolidly staring straight ahead. We were coming into the outskirts of Dover. The train was slowing down. Suddenly Harrington stood up, reached up to the rack, above Carswell to get his coat and bag. I stared at him blankly for a moment, surprised by his sudden clumsiness. And then I realized what he was up to. The bag, the coat, the briefcase all came tumbling down upon Carswell. I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry. The clumsy fool you might have entered me. What were you trying to do? It was my only chance. Carswell stood facing Haddington. I reached down, got the ticket case, and with trembling fingers slid the paper into the pocket. And sharply to me I extended the case totally. Excuse me sir, is this yours? Yes, it's my ticket case. Where'd you find it? Here on the floor. Must have dropped off when... Yes, I'm much obliged to you sir. Not at all. Not at all. He looked at me fiercely, his rage at Harrington still twisting his face into a devil's mask. Then he glanced briefly into the ticket case and put it into his pocket. They wait here at Dover, Harrington and I followed a few steps behind Carswell. I felt like I might faint. Carswell went straight to the gangway of the boat and there the purse had stopped him. Excuse me sir, does your friend have a ticket? My friend? What the devil do you mean? I'm traveling alone. That's funny, I could have sworn there was another gentleman right there beside you. Walking just at your elbow. Well there isn't. And I suggest you see an oculus. Oh, I didn't see, I just felt... Sorry sir, must have been your rugs. My mistake. Come on Denning, our job's done. I didn't sleep that night. I lay awake and listened. But there were no footsteps, no warm gusts of air, nothing to disturb me. All day I felt remarkably free, although this was to have been my last day on earth. But only just now when Harrington came in could I really relax. Well Denning, have you seen the afternoon paper yet? I know, not yet. Here, look at it. On the second page. There. Abbey Hill, France. An English traveller, examining the front of St. Wolfram's cathedral today, was struck on the head and killed instantly by a stone falling from the scaffolding. A note of mystery was added by the fact that although the cathedral was undergoing repairs, no workman was on the scaffolding at the time of the accident. The traveller was identified by papers found on him as a Mr. Carswell of Warwickshire. Of course, it could have been an accident. Yes, it could have been. Escape is produced and directed by William M. Robeson and tonight brought you Casting the Runes by Montague R. James, adapted for radio by Irving Ravich and John Dunkel with John McIntyre as Edward Dunning, John Wolf as Harrington and Bill Conrad as Carswell. The special musical score was conceived and conducted by Sy Fuhr. Next week... You are trapped in a hidden valley, high in the Andes, walled in by sheer rock precipices and surrounding you, closing in on you, is a band of blind men who want your eyes. Next week we escape with H.G. Wells' gripping story The Country of the Blind. Good night then until the same time next week when we again offer you escape. This is CBS, the Columbia Broadcasting System.