Hey listeners, it's EJ. I'm very excited to announce that Igor Frodrick is
back from holiday, so he'll be taking back over as MC for the remainder
of the Fast Food Horror Classics installments and then on to season two Season two
starting at the end of January. So without further ado, I goor Fridrick
take it away. Thank you, EJ. I'm happy to be back from
spending time with my goorer friend's family. It was terribly festive. In this
episode of Fast Food Horror Classics, we will be bringing you HP Lovecraft's tale
entitled The Terrible Old Man, narrated by E. J. Miller. It
was a design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Zanik and Manuel Silva to call on
the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient
house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both exceedingly
rich and exceedingly feeble, which forms a situation very attractive to men of the
profession of Messrs Ricci, Xanic and Silva, for that profession was nothing less
dignified than robbery. The inhabitants of Kingsports say and think many things about the
terrible old man, which generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen like
mister Ricchi and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he hides a
fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and venerable abode. He is,
in truth a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of an
East India clipper ships in his day, so old that no one can remember
when he was young, and so tac turn that few know his real name.
Among the narle trees of the front yard of his aged and neglected place,
he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and painted so
that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple. The collection frightens away
most of the small boys, who love to taunt the terrible old man about
his long white hair and beard, or to break the small paned windows of
his dwelling with wicked missiles. But there are other things which frighten the older
and more curious folk, who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in
through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare
room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece
of lead suspended pendulum wise from a string. And that they say that the
terrible old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack's
Scarface, Long Tom, Spanish, Joe Peters, and Mate Ellis, And
that whenever he speaks to a bottle, the little lead pendulum within makes certain
deafinite vibrations, as if to answer, those who have watched the tall,
lean, terrible old Man in these peculiar conversations, do not watch him again.
But Angelo Ricci and Joe Zannik and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood.
They were of that new and heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed
circle of New England life and traditions. And they saw in the terrible old
Man merely a tottering, almost helpless gray beard, who could not walk without
the aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully.
They were really quite sorry, in their way for the lonely, unpopular
old fellow, whom everyone shunned, and at whom all the daw sparked singularly.
But business is business, And to a robber whose soul is in the
profession. There is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very
feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his
few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.
Messrs Ricci, Zank and Silva selected the night of April eleventh for their
call. Mister Ricci and mister Silva were to interview the poor old gentleman whilst
mister Zanik waited for them and their presumable metallic burden with a covered motor car
in Ship Street by the gate in the tall rear wall of their host's grounds.
Desire to avoid needless explanations in case of unexpected police intrusions prompted these plans
for a quiet, unostatious departure. As pre arranged, the three adventurers started
out separately in order to prevent any evil minded suspicions. Afterwards, Messrs Ricchee
and Silva met in Water Street by the old man's front gate, and although
they did not like the way the moons shone down upon the painted stones through
the budding branches of the narrow trees, they had more important things to think
about than the mere idle superstition. They feared it might be unpleasant work making
the terrible old man liquacious concerning his hoarded gold and silver for age Sea captains
are notably stubborn and perverse. Still, he was very old and very feeble,
And there were two visitors, Messrs Richee and Silva, where experiences in
the art of making unwilling persons voluble and the screams of a week exceptionally venerable
man can be easily muffled. So they moved up to the one lighted window
and heard the terrible old man talking childishly to the bottles with the pendulums.
Then they donned mess and not politely at the weathered, stained oaken door.
Waiting seemed very long to mister Xanik, as he fidgeted relentlessly in the covered
motor car by the terrible old man's back gate in Ship Street. He was
more than ordinarily tender hearted, and he did not like the hideous screams he
had heard in the ancient house just after the hour appointed for their deed.
Had he not told his colleagues to be as gentle as possible with the pathetic
old sea captain very nervously. He watched that narrow oaken gate in the high
and ivy clad stone wall frequently. He consulted his watch and wondered at the
delay. Had the old man died before revealing where the treasure was hidden,
and had a thorough search become necessary. Mister Xanik did not like to wait
so long in the dark in such a place. Then he sensed a soft
tread or tapping on the wall inside the gate, heard a gentle fumbling at
the rusty latch, and saw the narrow, heavy door swing inward and in
the pallid glow of the single dim street lamp, he strained his eyes to
see what his colleagues had brought out of the sinister house, which loomed so
close behind. But when he looked, he did not see what he expected,
for his colleague leagues were not there at all, but only the terrible
old man, leaning quietly on his knotted cane and smiling hideously. Mister Xanik
had never before noticed the color of the man's eyes. Now he saw they
were yellow. Little things make considerable excitement in little towns, which is the
reason that Kingsport people talked all that spring and summer about the three unidentifiable bodies,
horribly slashed as with many cutlasses, and horribly mangled, as by the
tread of many cruel boot heels which the tide washed in. And some people
even spoke of things as trivial as the deserted motor car found in ship Street,
or the certain especially inhuman cries, probably of a stray animal or a
migratory bird, heard in the night by wakeful citizens. But in this idle
village gossip of the terrible old man took no interest at all. He was,
by nature reserved, and when one is aged and feeble, one's reserve
is doubly strong. Besides, so ancient a sea captain must have witnessed scores
of things much more stirring in the far off days of his unremembered youth,