S15E15 - "Dark Designs" - Horror Hill

**Erik Peabody** (0:02)
Chilling Tales for Dark Nights.
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Greetings listeners and welcome back to Horror Hill. As always, I'm the voice coming out of the drainpipe, Erik Peabody. Tonight, we've got a golden oldie for you from Henry Kuttner. This story was first published in Weird Tales back in 1937 and falls firmly in the good old Lovecraft mythos. In fact, Kuttner was a contemporary and correspondent of Lovecraft. The name of the tale is The Salem Horror. Our protagonist, Carson, is an author that is renting an old witch house in Salem, Massachusetts. And when I say witch house, I mean that a witch actually lived there. Abby Prynne was an honest god, if you'll pardon the pun, witch back in the late 1600s. One day, Carson finds a strange hidden room in the basement, and it just so happens to be exactly what he needs to get his creative juices flowing again. But others seem to know more about the house than Carson does, and their warnings fall on deaf ears. As a side note, this story was written in the 1930s and has some unexpected drive-bys on the good Polish folk of Salem. It's nowhere near as egregious as Lovecraft's portrayals of different ethnicities, but just be prepared for some light 1930s era racism.
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And now from author Henry Kuttner, I give you The Salem Horror.
One Carson first noticed the sounds in his cellar. He ascribed them to the rats. Later, he began to hear the tales which were whispered by the superstitious Polish mill workers in Derby Street, regarding the first occupant of the ancient house, Abigail Prin. There were none living today who could remember the diabolical old hag, but the morbid legends which thrive in the witch district of Salem, like rank weeds on a neglected grave, gave disturbing particulars of her activities, and were unpleasantly explicit regarding the detestable sacrifices she was known to have made to a worm-eaten, crescent-horned image of dubious origin. The oldster still muttered of Abby Prin, and her monstrous boasts that she was high priestess of a fearfully potent god which dwelt deep in the hills. Indeed, it was the old witch's reckless boasting which had led to her abrupt and mysterious death in 1692, about the time of the famous hangings on Gallows Hill. No one liked to talk about it, but occasionally a toothless crone would mumble fearfully that the flames could not burn her, for her whole body had taken on the peculiar anesthesia of her witch mark.
Abby Prynne and her anomalous statue had long since vanished, but it was still difficult to find tenants for her decrepit gabled house, with its overhanging second story and curious diamond-paned casement windows. The house's evil notoriety had spread throughout Salem. Nothing had actually happened there of recent years, which might give rise to the inexplicable tales. But those who rented the house had a habit of moving out hastily, generally with vague and unsatisfactory explanations connected with the rats. And it was a rat which led Carson to the witch room. The squealing and muffled pattering within the rotting walls had disturbed Carson more than once during the nights of his first week in the house, which he had rented to obtain the solitude that would enable him to complete a novel for which his publishers had been asking. Another light romance to add to Carson's long string of popular successes. But it was not until sometime later that he began to entertain certain wildly fantastic surmises regarding the intelligence of the rat that scurried from under his feet in the dark hallway one evening. The house had been wired for electricity, but the bulb in the hall was small and gave a dim light. The rat was a misshapen black shadow as it darted a few feet away and paused, apparently watching him. At another time, Carson might have dismissed the animal with a threatening gesture and returned to his work. But the traffic on Derby Street had been unusually noisy, and he had found it difficult to concentrate upon his novel. His nerves, for no apparent reason, were taut, and somehow it seemed that the rat, watching just beyond his reach, was eyeing him with a sardonic amusement. Smiling at the conceit, he took a few steps toward the rat, and it rushed away to the cellar door, which he saw, with surprise, was a jar. He must have neglected to close it the last time he had been in the cellar, although he generally took care to keep the door shut for the ancient house was drafty. The rat waited in the doorway.