 Ads heard during the podcast that are not in my voice are placed by third-party agencies outside of my control and should not imply an endorsement by Weird Darkness or myself. 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 Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, the strange and bizarre, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. Coming up in this episode it's Thriller Thursday. The landlady is a short horror story by rolled doll. It initially appeared in The New Yorker on November 28, 1959. Doll once said that he'd always wanted to write a ghost story but never quite been able to. The closest he came and his opinion was the story that I'm about to share with you, the landlady. But after reading through his own story afterward he doesn't think he really succeeded with his effort. Nonetheless, the tale won Best Short Story Mystery at the 1960 Edgar Awards, so for this Thriller Thursday episode I bring you the landlady by rolled doll. If you're new here, welcome to the show. While you're listening, be sure to check out WeirdDarkness.com for merchandise, my newsletter, to enter contests, to connect with me on social media. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression or dark thoughts. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Billy Weaver had traveled down from London on a slow afternoon train with a change at reading on the way, and by the time he got to Bath it was about nine o'clock in the evening and the moon was coming up out of a clear, starry sky over the houses opposite the station entrance. But the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks. Excuse me, he said, but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here? Try the Bell and Dragon, the porter answered, pointing down the road, they might take you in, it's about a quarter of a mile along on the other side. Billy thanked him and picked up the suitcase and set out to walk the quarter mile to the Bell and Dragon. He had never been to Bath before, he didn't know anyone who lived there, but Mr. Greenslaid at the head office in London had told him it was a splendid town. Find your own lodgings, he had said, and then go along and report to the branch manager as soon as you've got yourself settled. Billy was 17 years old. He was wearing a new navy blue overcoat, a new brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly down the street. He was trying to do everything briskly these days. Briskness, he had decided, was the one common characteristic of all successful businessmen. The big shots at the head office were absolutely fantastically brisk all the time. They were amazing. There were no shops on this wide street that he was walking along, only a line of tall houses on each side, all of them identical. They had porches and pillars and four or five steps going up to their front doors, and it was obvious that once upon a time they had been very swanky residences. But now, even in the darkness, he should see that the paint was peeling from the woodwork on their doors and windows and that the handsome white facades were cracked and blotchy from neglect. Suddenly, in a downstairs window that was brightly illuminated by a street lamp not six yards away, Billy caught the sight of a printed notice propped up against the glass in one of the upper panes. It said, bed and breakfast. There was a vase of yellow chrysanthemums, tall and beautiful, standing just underneath the notice. He stopped walking. He moved a bit closer. Green curtains, some sort of velvet material, were hanging down on either side of the window. The chrysanthemums looked wonderful beside them. He went right up and peered through the glass into the room, and the first thing he saw was a bright fire burning in the hearth. On the carpet in front of the fire, a pretty little dash unto was curled up asleep with its nose tucked into its belly. The room itself, so far as he could see in the half-darkness, was filled with pleasant furniture. There was a baby grand piano and a big sofa and several plump armchairs, and in one corner he spotted a large parrot in a cage. Animals were usually a good sign in a place like this, Billy told himself, and all in all it looked to him as though it would be a pretty decent house to stay in. Certainly, it would be more comfortable than the Bell and Dragon. On the other hand, a pub would be more congenial than a boarding house. There would be beer and darts in the evenings and lots of people to talk to, and it would probably be a good bit cheaper too. He'd stayed a couple of nights in a pub once before, and he'd liked it. He'd never stayed in any boarding houses, and to be perfectly honest, he was a tiny bit frightened of them. The name itself conjured up images of watery cabbage, rapacious landlady, and a powerful smell of kippers in a living room. After dithering about like this in the cold for two or three minutes, Billy decided that he'd walk on and take a look at the Bell and Dragon before making up his mind. He turned to go. And now a queer thing happened to him. He was in the act of stepping back and turning away from the window when, all at once, his eye was caught and held in the most peculiar manner by the small notice that was there. Bed and breakfast, it said. Bed and breakfast. Bed and breakfast. Bed and breakfast. Each word was like a large black eye, staring at him through the glass, holding him, compelling him, forcing him to stay where he was and not to walk away from that house. And the next thing he knew, he was actually moving across from the window to the front door of the house, climbing the steps that led up to it and reaching for the bell. He pressed the bell. Far away in a back room, he heard it ringing. And then, at once, it must have been at once because he hadn't even had time to take his finger from the bell button, the door swung open and a woman was standing there. Normally, you ring the bell and you have at least a half minutes wait before the door opens. But this day was like a jack in the box. He pressed the bell and out she popped and made him jump. She was about 45 or 50 years old and the moment she saw him, she gave him a warm, welcoming smile. Please come in, she said pleasantly. She stepped aside, holding the door wide open and Billy found himself automatically starting forward. The compulsion, or more accurately, the desire to follow after her into that house was extraordinarily strong. I saw the notice in the window, he said, holding himself back. Yes, I know. I was wondering about a room. It's all ready for you, my dear, she said. She had a round pink face and very gentle blue eyes. I was on my way to the bell and dragon, Billy told her, but the notice in your window just happened to catch my eye. My dear boy, she said, why don't you come in out of the cold? How much do you charge? Five and six pence a night, including breakfast. It was fantastically cheap. It was less than half of what he was willing to pay. If that is too much, she added, then perhaps I can reduce it just a tiny bit. Do you desire an egg for breakfast? Eggs are expensive at the moment. It would be six pence less without the egg. Five and six pence is fine. He answered, I should like very much to stay here. I knew you would. Do come in. She seemed terribly nice. She looked exactly like the mother of one's best school friend, welcoming one into the house to stay for the Christmas holidays. Billy took off his hat and stepped over the threshold. Just hang it there, she said, and let me help you with your coat. There were no other hats or coats in the hall. There were no umbrellas, no walking sticks, nothing. We have it all to ourselves, she said, smiling at him over her shoulder as she led the way upstairs. You see, it isn't very often I have the pleasure of taking a visitor into my little nest. The old girl is slightly dotty, Billy told himself. But at five and six pence a night, who cares about that? I should have thought you'd be simply swamped with applicants, he said politely. Oh, I am, my dear. I am, of course I am. But the trouble is that I'm inclined to be just a teeny weeny bit choosy and particular, if you see what I mean. Oh, yes. But I'm always ready. Everything is always ready day and night in this house, just on the off chance that an acceptable young gentleman will come along. And it is such a pleasure, my dear, such a very great pleasure when now and again I open the door and I see someone standing there who was just exactly right. He was halfway up the stairs and she paused with one hand on the stair rail, turning her head and smiling down at him with pale lips. Like you, she added, and her blue eyes traveled slowly, all the way down the length of Billy's body to his feet, and then up again. On the second floor landing, she said to him, this floor is mine. They climbed up another flight. And this one is all yours, she said. Here's your room. I do hope you'll like it. She took him into a small but charming front bedroom, switching on the light as she went in. The morning sun comes right in the window, Mr. Perkins. It is Mr. Perkins, isn't it? No, he said. It's Weaver. Mr. Weaver. How nice. I've put a water bottle between the sheets to air them out, Mr. Weaver. It's such a comfort to have a hot water bottle in a strange bed with clean sheets. Don't you agree? And you may light the gas fire at any time if you feel chilly. Thank you, Billy said. Thank you ever so much. He noticed that the bedspread had been taken off the bed and that the bedclothes had been neatly turned back on one side, all ready for someone to get in. I'm so glad you appeared, she said. Looking earnestly into his face, I was beginning to get worried. That's all right, Billy answered brightly. You mustn't worry about me. He put a suitcase on the chair and started to open it. And what about supper, my dear? Did you manage to get anything to eat before you came here? I'm not a bit hungry, thank you, he said. I think I'll just go to bed as soon as possible, because tomorrow I've got to get up rather early and report to the office. Very well, then. I'll leave you now so that you can unpack. But before you go to bed, would you be kind enough to pop into the sitting room on the ground floor and sign the book? Everyone has to do that because it's the law of the land and we don't want to go breaking any laws at this stage in the proceedings, do we? She gave him a little wave of the hand and went quickly out of the room and closed the door. Now the fact that this landlady appeared to be slightly off her rocker didn't worry Billy in the least. After all, she not only was harmless, there was no question about that, but she was also quite obviously a kind and generous soul. He guessed that she'd probably lost a son in the war or something like that and had never gotten over it. So a few minutes later, after unpacking his suitcase and washing his hands, he trotted downstairs to the ground floor and entered the living room. His landlady wasn't there, but the fire was glowing in the hearth and the little dash hunt was still sleeping soundly in front of it. The room was wonderfully warm and cozy. I'm a lucky fellow, he thought, rubbing his hands. This is a bit of all right. He found the guestbook lying open on the piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down his name and address. There were only two other entries above his on the page, as one always does with guestbooks. He started to read them. One was Christopher Mulholland from Cardiff. The other was Gregory W. Temple from Bristol. That's funny, he started suddenly. Christopher Mulholland. It rings a bell. Now where on earth have I heard that rather unusual name before? Was it Du Boit's school? No. Was it one of his sister's numerous young men, perhaps, or a friend of my father? No. None of those. He glanced down again at the book. Christopher Mulholland. 231 Cathedral Road, Cardiff. Gregory W. Temple. 27 Sycamore Drive, Bristol. As a matter of fact, now that he came to think of it, he wasn't at all sure the second name didn't have almost as much of a familiar ring about it as the first. Gregory Temple, he said aloud, searching his memory. Christopher Mulholland. Such charming boys, a voice behind him answered, and he turned and saw his landlady sailing into the room with a large silver tea tray in her hands. She was holding it well out in front of her, and rather high up, as though the tray were a pair of reins on a frisky horse. They sound somehow familiar, he said. They do. How interesting. I'm the most positive I've heard those names before somewhere. Isn't that odd? Maybe it was the newspapers. They weren't famous in any way, were they? I mean, famous cricketers, seven, or football players or something like that? Temus, she said, setting the tea tray down on the low table in front of the sofa. I don't think they were famous, but they were incredibly handsome. Both of them. I can promise you that. They were tall and young and handsome, my dear, just exactly like you. Once more Billy glanced down at the book. Look here, he said, noticing the dates. This last entry is over two years old. It is? Yes, indeed, and Christopher Mulholland's is nearly a year before that, more than three years ago. Dear me, she said, shaking her head and heaving a dainty little sigh. I would never have thought it. How time does fly from all of us, doesn't it, Mr. Wilkins? It's Weaver, Billy said, W-E-A-V-E-R. Of course it is, she cried, sitting down on the sofa. How silly of me. I do apologize. In one ear and out the other. That's me, Mr. Weaver. You know something, Billy said, something that's really quite extraordinary about all of this? No, dear, I don't. Well, you see, both of these names, Mulholland and Temple, are not only seen to remember each one of them separately, so to speak, but, somehow or other, in some peculiar way, they both appear to be sort of connected together, as well, as though they were famous for the same sort of thing, if you know what I mean, like, well, like Dempsey and Tony, for example, or Churchill and Roosevelt. How amusing, she said, but come over here now, dear, and sit down beside me on the sofa, and I'll give you a nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit before you go to bed. You really shouldn't bother, Billy said. I didn't mean you to do anything like that. He stood by the piano, watching her as she fussed about with the cups and saucers. He noticed that she had small, white, quickly moving hands and red fingernails. I'm almost positive it was the newspapers in which I saw them, Billy said. I'll think of it in a second. I'm sure I will. There's nothing more tantalizing than a thing like this that lingers just outside the borders of one's memory. He hated to give up. Wait a minute, he said. Wait just one minute. Mulholland, Christopher Mulholland, wasn't that the name of the eaten schoolboy who was on a walking tour through the West Country, and then all of a sudden, milk, she said, and sugar? Yes, please. And then all of a sudden, eaten schoolboy? She said, Oh no, my dear, that can't possibly be right, because my Mr. Mulholland was certainly not an eaten schoolboy when he came to me. He was a Cambridge undergraduate. Come over here now and sit next to me and warm yourself in front of this lovely fire. Come on, your tea's already for you. She patted the empty place beside her on the sofa, and she sat there smiling at Billy and waiting for him to come over. He crossed the room slowly and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She placed his tea cup on the table in front of him. There we are, she said. How nice and cozy this is, isn't it? Billy started sipping his tea. She did the same. For half a minute or so, neither of them spoke, but Billy knew that she was looking at him. Her body was half turned toward him, and he could feel her eyes resting on his face, watching him over the rim of her tea cup. Now and again he caught a whiff of a peculiar smell that seemed to emanate directly from her person. It was not in the least unpleasant, and it reminded him, well, he wasn't quite sure what it reminded him of. Pickled walnuts, new leather, or was it the corridors of a hospital? At length, she said, Mr. Mulholland was a great one for his tea. Never in my life have I seen anyone drink as much tea as dear, sweet Mr. Mulholland. I suppose he left very recently, Billy said. He was still puzzling his head about the two names. He was positive now that he had seen them in the newspapers, in the headlines. Left, she said, arching her brows. But, my dear boy, he never left. He's still here. Mr. Temple is also here. They're on the fourth floor, both of them together. Billy said his cup down slowly on the table and stared at his landlady. She smiled back at him, and then she put out one of her white hands and padded him comfortably on the knee. How old are you, my dear? She asked. Seventeen. Seventeen, she cried. Oh, it's the perfect age. Mr. Holland was also Seventeen, but I think he was a trifle shorter than you are. In fact, I'm sure he was, and his teeth weren't quite so white. You have the most beautiful teeth, Mr. Weaver. Did you know that? They're not as good as they look, Billy said. They've got simply masses of fillings in them at the back. Mr. Temple, of course, was a little older. She said, ignoring his remark, he was actually twenty-eight, and yet I never would have guessed it if he hadn't told me never in my whole life. There wasn't a blemish on his body. A what? Billy said. His skin was just like a baby's. There was a pause. Billy picked up his teacup and took another sip of his tea, then he set it down again gently in its saucer. He waited for her to say something else, but she seemed to have lapsed into another of her silences. He sat there staring straight ahead of him into the far corner of the room, biting his lower lip. That parrot, he said at last, you know something. It had me completely fooled when I first saw it through the window. I could have sworn it was alive. Alas, no longer. It's most terribly clever the way it's been done, he said. It doesn't look into least bit dead. Who did it? I did. You did. Of course, she said. And have you met my little basil as well? She nodded toward the dash-und curled up so comfortably in front of the fire. Billy looked at it and suddenly he realized that this animal had all the time been just as silent and motionless as the parrot. He put out a hand and touched it gently on the top of its back. The back was hard and cold, and when he pushed the hair to one side with his fingers, he could see the skin underneath, grayish-black and dry and perfectly preserved. Good gracious me, he said, how absolutely fascinating. He turned away from the dog and stared with deep admiration at the little woman beside him on the sofa. It must be most awfully difficult to do a thing like that. Not in the least, she said. I stuff all my little pets myself when they pass away. Will you have another cup of tea? No, thank you, Billy said. The tea tasted faintly of bitter almonds, and he didn't much care for it. You did sign the book, didn't you? Oh, yes. That's good, because later on, if I happen to forget what you were called, then I can always come down here and look it up. I still do that almost every day with Mr. Mulholland and Mr. Temple, Billy said, Gregory Temple. Excuse my asking, but haven't there been any other guests here except them in the last two or three years? Holding her teacup high in one hand, inclining her head slightly to the left, she looked up at him at the corners of her eyes and gave him another gentle little smile. No, my dear, she said, only you. Thanks for listening. If you liked the show, please share it with someone you know who loves the paranormal or strange stories, true crime, monsters or unsolved mysteries like you do. And please, leave a rating and review of the show in the podcast app you listen from. You can email me anytime with your questions or comments at Darren at WeirdDarkness.com. Darren is D-A-R-R-E-N. WeirdDarkness.com is also where you can find all of my social media, listen to audiobooks that I've narrated, shop the Weird Darkness store, sign up for monthly contests, find other podcasts that I host, and find the Hope in the Darkness page if you or someone you know is struggling with depression or dark thoughts. Also on WeirdDarkness.com, if you have a true paranormal or creepy tale to tell, you can click on Tell Your Story. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Stories on Thriller Thursday episodes are works of fiction. The landlady was written by Rold Dahl. Weird Darkness is a production and trademark of Marlar House Productions, and now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Proverbs 16, verse 3. Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and your plans will succeed. And a final thought. As you get older, you really just want to be surrounded by good people. People that are good for you, good to you, and good for your soul. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.