THE FLIM-FLAMMED SIBLING STRIKES BACK

 

James J. Yellen

 

                  When I was a kid, like any other kid whose attention span peaked at somewhere around eight and one-half milliseconds, I went through phases in which I would devote every waking hour to one sole pursuit. For example, there was one summer somewhere between infancy and puberty during which I did nothing but play Monopoly. For three months Duke, Boz, Chuck and I did absolutely nothing else.  Early in the morning we would meet on Chuck’s front porch, and until late evening when we had to strain our eyes to see by the meager light from the street lamp, we would roll the dice and move our markers around the streets of Atlantic City.

 

        There was also my chemist phase during which I spent all my time mixing up the chemicals in my A.C. Gilbert Chemistry set. Then there was my bowling phase, my pocket pool phase and the summer that I took up stamp collecting.  But no time in my life is more memorable than the several months in which I ate, drank, and slept for a radio show called Inner Sanctum.

 

        Inner Sanctum was a 1940s radio program that dealt with the unbelievably horrible and unspeakable things that haunt the cobwebbed corners of our minds. There were eerie tales of ghosts, ghouls, walking corpses and murder. They were all horrible, and I loved them all.

 

        On Mondays, by eight o'clock, I had worked myself into such a frenzy that my hand actually trembled as I reached to turn the switch on our table model Emerson radio with genuine Bakelite case that squatted on the night table between our twin bed. With glassy eyes I would sit staring into the faint yellowish glow of the radio dial, waiting for the sound of the squeaking door that introduced the show each week.

 

        "SSSSSSSSSSSSSQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAK."

 

        When the door creaked, my pulse would quicken and tiny beads of perspiration would form on my brow. Even today, years later, I still retain the reflexes for which I was conditioned as a boy. The mere sound of a door hinge chirping starts my adrenaline flowing and my temples pounding.

 

        "What's it going to be today?" I would ask myself. "A walking dead man? Or maybe an axe-murderer. Or will it be some indescribably hideous monster?" Whatever it was, I sat spellbound and totally engrossed as the spooky story unfolded in the theater of my mind.

 

        And then there was Raymond, the host of the program. Raymond was a guy with a macabre sense of humor. His knack for punnery would make Ogden Nash proud. Who else could make such digging remarks about graves? And his delivery! Raymond delivered puns like Henny Youngman delivered one-liners. He put them up for grabs. If you liked one it was yours, but if you didn't, all you had to do was wait, because he would have a dozen more.

 

        I'll never know why such a show appealed to me. But it did. Raymond's unholy retreat had absolutely nothing in common with Athenia, New Jersey, my hometown. We had no haunted house in Athenia. No zombies or cackling witches either. The world in which I lived was nothing like Raymond's, but I was hooked on Inner Sanctum. My brother was a fan of Lights Out, another popular radio show of the time that dealt with tales of horror. But that was pabulum for mewling babes! Saccharine! Only Inner Sanctum was the real stuff and I was mainlining it.

 

           But then came one Monday night that changed my listening habits. The week before, in his preview of coming attractions, Raymond had promised an especially scary story. I couldn't wait. All that day at School Number Thirteen while Mrs. Moran chattered on and on about long division and the Battle of Trenton, my mind conjured up images of Voodoo rites and gypsy fortunetellers.   While she babbled on about dangling participles and the principal exports of Peru, my thoughts were on zombies and walking mummies. The day dragged on and on. Several times I seriously wondered if eight o'clock would ever come. It seemed so far off. That evening, at supper, I pushed the franks and beans around my plate disinterestedly. I was unable to eat because my stomach was tied in knots in anticipation of Raymond and his creaking door.

 

        In our home, getting to listen to Inner Sanctum required incredible scheming and long range planning. I was a kid brother. Being a kid brother isn't easy, and around our house it meant that I had second choice in what we listened to on the radio. Therefore, Monday nights, for me, required ingenuity.

 

        Immediately after supper that fateful Monday, I rushed into our bedroom. Plopping myself onto my twin bed under my full-color photo of the Brooklyn Dodgers team that I had torn from the Sunday New York Daily News, I switched on the radio. Instantaneously sensing that I was getting one up on him, my big brother Bob dashed into the room.

 

        "What are you listening to?" He demanded to know with the naturally superior attitude that goes with being the senior sibling.

 

        "We can listen to whatever you want to." I babbled meekly. I played my part perfectly. Joseph Cotton could take a few pointers from me.

 

        "Good. " He said spinning the dial across the frequencies to tune in the Tom Mix Ralston Straight Shooters program.

 

            Now I had him hooked and all I had to do was play him right and I would land him.

 

        After Tom Mix, I humbly acquiesced as Bob switched to the sports report, then to Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons, then to the Lone Ranger. I said nothing. I was deliberately, skillfully overplaying my hand.

 

        But then, about midway through the Wheaties commercial, at about a quarter to eight, I cleared my throat and said in a quivering voice, "How about we listen to Inner Sanctum next?”  I was reeling him in.

 

        "Naw, you listened to that last week. Today I'm listening to Straight Arrow." He was playing into my hands nicely. I almost had him in the boat.

 

        "Yea, but you been listening to what you want all night.” I protested weakly.

 

        “Tough titties!” Bob shot back. “We’re listening to Straight Arrow.”

 

        Now I had him, and I unleashed my secret weapon.

 

“MA, BOB'S HOGGING THE RADIO! HE WON'T LET ME LISTEN TO ANYTHING I WANT!" I shouted.

 

        That did it. My mother entered the fracas. She was annoyed that this commotion had interrupted her crocheting, but after hearing my pleas and Bob’s weak defense, she took my side. She had to. I was right because I had set him up. It worked every time. Bob never wised up.

 

        With smug satisfaction, I tuned the dial of our table model Emerson radio with genuine Bakelite case, to Inner Sanctum and leaned back in my bed to enjoy the show.

 

         SSSQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAK!

 

             “Good evening friends, this is your host, Raymond, to welcome you through the creaking door to the Inner Sanctum. I'd like you to meet some guests that we've just...dug up."

 

        Wow! He was in rare form tonight.

 

        "And don't forget, many are cold, but few are...frozen."

 

        Raymond was incorrigible.

 

        On this particular night my tactic had particularly incensed Bob. After Mom's declaration that we would listen to Inner Sanctum instead of Straight Arrow, Bob pulled his Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap down over his eyes and sat stone faced and cross legged on his bed. I could tell that he really meant business because this was a position that he usually reserved for visiting relatives and the Phillips milk of magnesia bottle. There was no doubt about it. He was mad. Perhaps he was beginning to realize that he was being taken. But I paid no attention, for my eyes and ears were nailed to the radio speaker and Raymond's voice.

 

        "Tonight's story is about a thing that murders. A thing that lurks in the evil darkness at the bottom of the cellar stairs. So if you've got a little time to kill, let's do it now, huh? I know you’re dying to hear it.”

 

        “Oh boy! This is going to be good!” I thought to myself. And it was! The story was about a newly married couple that had inherited a big old house at the end of a dark and lonely road on top of a remote mountain. As soon as they move in, creepy things begin to happen. Strange noises and mournful wails come up through the floor from the cellar. Doors open and slam shut by themselves, and there are scrapping sounds beneath their feet like some creature below trying to claw its way out. Soon the man goes down the cellar stairs to investigate. But he never comes back! The wife is left alone in hysterics. Blood begins to ooze up through the floorboards and the noises get louder and weirder until they drown out the screams of the unfortunate woman.

 

         “ Whew! That was a really scary one.” I thought to myself as I wiped my sweaty palms on my dungarees. Fear always made my palms sweat. Raymond had really outdone himself this time. But the story had hit me way too close to home. It made me think about the cellar in our house, a place that I avoided, especially at night.

 

             Like the basement in Raymond’s macabre story, our basement was a scary place too. It was dark and mysterious with dank corners into which I never ventured. Whenever I had to go down there after dark, there were only two places that I considered safe, my father’s workbench that hugged the front wall and the place along the opposite wall where my mother’s Kenmore wringer-style washing machine resided. The rest of that underworld below our house was ominous and forbidding. And the most frightening thing down there was the looming, fearful furnace. It squatted in the center of the darkness in that underground hellhole, dominating the whole place with its evil portent. When that monstrous thing was in operation, it glowed menacingly with angry ferocity. It hissed and popped and seemed to moan and breath like it was alive, with a red and orange flame dancing devilishly inside it and showing through the openings in the stoking door like an evil bloody grin.  I hated that place, and I was afraid of it.

 

        Bob remained in his comatose state until bedtime was announced, and still remained silent as he prepared for sleep. I paid little attention to him because thoughts of Raymond's ramblings were still in my mind.

 

I put on my pajamas and tried to settle down under the covers. The whole house was couched in darkness, but outside, the weather had turned nasty. A violent wind was slamming pulsating waves of rain sideways onto our windowpanes. I was just starting to drift off when suddenly I heard Bob whisper. "Sssshhhh...did you hear that?”

 

        Immediately I was awake and alert. “Hear what?

 

        "That noise."

 

        "What noise?" We had always had strange sounds coming from under our feet, like pipes creaking and banging or the wood framing of our house settling. I was used to those familiar sounds.

 

        “That noise.” Bob repeated.

 

        “That’s just the rain outside.” I said, but I didn’t believe it.

 

        "No, that scraping noise. Don't you hear it? I think it’s coming from the cellar."

 

        “There’s no noise.” I protested nervously. I was in denial. I wrapped my pillow around my head to cover my ears. If there was a real noise, I didn’t want to hear it.

 

        “I can hear it.” Bob persisted. “I think it’s coming from under your bed.”

 

        “Noooo, there’s no noise.” I insisted in a quavering voice. But now I could hear it. The storm had let up, and even with my head under my pillow I could hear something. It could have been just Bob scrapping his fingernails on our wooden floor, but maybe not. Maybe it was some creepy thing in our basement scraping against the floorboards under my bed!!

 

         That’s when I became aware of a little tingling feeling inside. Oh no! I should have gone before getting into bed! Now I'd have to make my way across the dark house to the bathroom. And, I admit it, I was scared stiff.

 

        I tried to ignore that tingling for as long as I could, but the more I tried to not think about it, the more urgent the urge became. So I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed and started on my way through the blackness. My knees trembled and my palms were sweaty again.

 

        "Where are you going?" Bob asked innocently.

 

        "I-I gotta go to the bathroom." I informed him in a shaky voice.

 

        "Watch out for the thing in the basement!" He warned, laughing fiendishly.

 

        Oh! Why did he have to say that? I made my way as fast as I dared, anxious to do what I had to do and get back to my bed. I would be safe there. As quickly as I could I made the first leg of my journey without incident. I took care of business and now all I had to do now was make the return trip.

 

        Cautiously I felt my way down the dark hallway back toward my room. It seemed even blacker there now with my eyes unaccustomed to the dark after the brightness of the bathroom. I wondered what lurked under my feet. I finally made it safely to the

        Then suddenly, as I groped my way into the room, something, some strange thing reached out and grabbed me. What was it? I let out a scream!

 

        "YEOOOOOOOOOOOW! IT'S GOT ME! THE THING IN THE BASEMENT’S GOT ME!"

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

        The following Monday night I found that I just didn't feel like listening to Raymond anymore.

 

        "You can put on Inner Sanctum if you want to." My generous brother Bob offered with a mocking grin.

 

        "No thanks." I answered feebly "I've got this Tom Swift book to read."

 

        Somehow that old feeling was gone, and I discreetly switched my loyalties to the Ozzie and Harriet Show. Life in the Nelson house wasn't as exciting as life in Raymond's Inner Sanctum, but it was a whole lot safer.