You are listening to the new Mutual Audio Network. Welcome home. The following audio drama is rated PG-13. suggesting that all children under the age of 13 should listen accompanied with an adult. Welcome everyone to the world's largest and longest running showcase of modern audio drama, The Sonic Society, episode 863. I'm Jack Ward with David Ault.
David, have we pulled free from last week's actual play? Yes, it appears that a little creative slingshotting through a time wormhole has us flinging out into the ethers of the Podioverse. I just hope we don't overshoot the inner Audioverse in the effort. Are there any other shows that are still connected to your unique frequency?
Well, if you're asking if we can find any other audio dramas I've acted in, well, it looks like there's a large glow-in-the-realm nebula of shows. Of course, that's where The Leviathan Chronicles and Shadows at the Door are held. So let's just... A set course for something... Oh, there's one. Beatrix Green by Rachel Hawkins, Ash Parsons, and Vicky Alvier-Schechter. Fingers crossed, because it all begins right here. On the Sonic Society.
It is not the first night screams have rung through the halls of Ashbury Manor. It will not be the last. The shrieks of his mother and brother pierce the boy's ears as he darts down the hallways of his ancestral home. The home of his father and his father before him. A line of fathers, all of them glaring at the boy from their portraits as he runs. His bare feet muffled by the thick carpets. His brother.
Is not screaming anymore. His mother is. He knows that she has gone mad. Papa said so and everyone in the village knows it. She calls his name. The boy wants to go to her, but he remembers the terror in his brother's face as she yanked him from his bed in the nursery. And so he scrambles under a heavy table in the hallway to hide. The creature...
that had once been his mother lurches into view, words wrenching from her throat in such anguish they are unintelligible to boy's ears. She carries a knife in one hand, its blade sharp and wicked. The boy crouches in the dark as the woman in white searches for him, and he has the strangest feeling that the shadows around him are deepening, as though the house itself is trying to hide him, to protect him.
He hears her mutter something and catches his own name, then a glimpse of the knife flashing. For one horrified moment, he thinks she's found him, that she's lunging to him. But it is not the boy she has turned the knife on. And when her blood slowly spreads across the carpet to lap hot and thick against his bare feet, it is the boy who begins to scream. Realm Presents, Beatrix Green. Episode 1.
I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times. And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director. You might know me from The League, Veep... or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters. We come together to host Unspooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them. We're talking Parasite the Home Alone. From Grease to the Dark Knight. It was so irksome.
When ghosts were late, this particular ghost was meant to be one Mr. Roger Latham, late son of the woman currently sitting in Beatrix's parlour. Her fingers convulsed around a black handkerchief. Perhaps he is not coming, Mrs Latham suggested, her voice almost a whisper as though she were afraid of scaring off the ghost of her son, who had been lost at sea for more than a decade now. Beatrix glanced again at the parlour door. Waiting. Listening. No footsteps. No low moans. No Roger.
Beatrix lowered her head. I sense his presence, Mrs Latham. We must simply be patient. I'd never work with bloody actors again. Roger Latham, I summon you forth, Beatrix called, raising her voice and next to her Mrs Latham flinched before lifting a black handkerchief to her lips. Even in the dim light of the candles, She could make out the stitched initials on the dark cloth. R.S.C.L. Roger Simon Chumley Latham. A little sting went through her.
Beatrix rarely felt guilt for what she did. Her clients may leave her parlour with lighter wallets, but their hearts and souls were lighter as well. She was providing a service. It was a service provided by others as well, of course. The showier types with their rattling tables and flickering lamps. She didn't fault them for it. There were so few ways for women of their class to make money after all.
But Beatrix Green had made a name for herself by acting like a proper young lady with the extraordinary talent of speaking to ghosts. She gained the trust of her clients, almost all of whom were women this way. It's why she took such care with her parlour. It was a genteel space of light colours. There was no black lace, no crystal balls, no stuffed ravens perched on the mantelpiece.
She herself wore plain dresses, white gloves, her hair neatly pulled back from her face. This look had served her well. It was inconvenient, then. when she had these little moments of, if not shame exactly, but something akin to regret. Abandoning all hope that Roger might appear, Beatrix lifted her head, fixing her gaze on the far wall where her floral wallpaper had begun to peel up slightly. He is here, Mrs Latham.
Beatrix said, her voice low. But he cannot speak. Why? Mrs Latham cried. Roger, please, let me see you. Roger is... content where he is in the afterlife, so it's harder to pull him through to us. But I can hear him, Beatrix replied, already filing that explanation away for future seances. Roger says that he loves you very much. Her words were halting and slow, as though she were trying to repeat something heard from a great distance. And...
That he is sorry. That you were right. He never should have left England on that ship. Mrs Latham let out a sob. He belonged at home with me. So much of Beatrix's success lay in reading people correctly, and she'd accurately sensed that Mrs Latham was the type who'd object to her son taking to sea. She nodded. remembering the photograph of father and son that Mrs Latham had shown her at the beginning of the visit. His voice is very faint, but he wants you to know that he did not suffer.
His death was quick and painless, and he has been embraced by his father. Oh, Roger. Beatrix lifted her head to see Mrs Latham still staring at the wall. her eyes wide with the fervent belief Beatrix had seen so many times. He is gone now, Beatrix said. She let her hand tremble as she reached out for Mrs Latham's. I hope that was some comfort to you. Mrs Latham's eyes were shining as she nodded, her fingers curling around Beatrix's. Quite, my dear. Quite.
A quarter of an hour later, with Mrs Latham gone, Beatrix was putting a neat pile of pound notes into the lockbox she kept hidden in a basket of knitting. She had not charged Mrs Latham as much as she had originally suggested. She was not sure the woman could truly spare it, and in the end, Beatrix had not been able to provide the experience she had promised. Sighing, she looked around her parlour.
She couldn't keep giving in to these little moments of charity. Her flat was beginning to look a bit shabby, and she felt painfully aware of how tenuous it all was. This life she had rested for herself out of nothing. Beatrix turned the key in the lockbox, just as a banshee shriek came from the hallway. Mother! Mother, I have... Shut your bone box, Harry, Beatrix said as she turned up the gas lamps.
The room brightened and Harry Smythe, out-of-work actor, stepped into the room. His dark hair slicked back from his handsome face. His clothing soaked. What? Has she not arrived yet? Been and gone, Beatrix answered, then studied him for a moment. Did you jump in a rain barrel? Harry grinned. Nice touch, eh?
Moving further into the parlour, he made to sit on her sofa, but Beatrix quelled that impulse with one look. He said the fellow was lost at sea, so I thought it would add a certain realism, Harry answered. What it's adding, Beatrix replied, is several water stains on my rug. And besides, she wasn't meant to see you, Haz, only hear you.
Harry glanced at his feet before offering another one of those cheerful smiles that had both helped him get away with far too much in life and made him the most wretched Hamlet she'd ever had the misfortune to see. She'd met him years ago when he was performing at a cheap theatre, and he had become the closest thing she had to a friend these days, or even family. Beatrix's parents had died in a theatre fire when she was ten.
And Harry had lost his army captain father to malaria in Kashmir. His beautiful Punjabi mother had died of illness on the ship to England. He'd arrived in London an orphan. Like her, Harry knew what it was to make your own way in the world. and she valued that. She just didn't plan on hiring him again. She had thought he might be helpful to her profession, but tonight reminded her that she was better off depending on herself, and only herself.
It was, after all, what she had always done. Being a medium afforded Beatrix a certain degree of independence and financial security, but it also drew less savoury attention, and the more she could minimise that... the better. She just couldn't tell him tonight. She was tired and a faint headache was building behind her eyes. What she needed was a cup of tea and bed.
Beatrix pressed a few coins into Harry's hand. For your trouble, she told him, and he had the decency to look chastised. I'm sorry I was late. I was getting into character. He gestured toward himself and glanced around her flat. You run a real nice show, Bea. Elegant. It's good. Keeps your head down. Some of these other ones have gotten dodgy, have you heard? Like those Italian fellows.
Beatrix nodded. The Facinelli brothers, she said. They were neither brothers nor Italian, but Beatrix had heard of their seances. Extravagant affairs with red velvet and masks and black candles. Well, they were rumbled. Some blokes showed everyone the wires they were using to lift things. The phonograph they'd hidden to make noises. Bobby's ended up taking them in. Didn't hold them, but they had to give back every penny.
Ask me they're lucky it weren't worse. Shaking his head, Harry reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pamphlet. Pretty sure this is the gent that did it all, he said. Someone was handing these out on the street outside the Rosenbell this evening. At the mention of Harry's favourite pub, Beatrix smirked. And here I thought you were late because you were busy committing yourself to the part of Roger Latham.
Harry had the good grace to look a little sheepish as she plucked the pamphlet from his hand. The paper was damp, thanks to Harry's attempts at artistic integrity, and the ink had smudged in some places. but this was not the cheap sort of handbill she was used to seeing. Beatrix studied the words, feeling her eyebrows creep up. It is my belief that this great age in which we find ourselves is one of science and of learning.
of intellect and progress rather than superstitions. These so-called mediums are nothing more than frauds who appeal to that most primal and most vulnerable of human desires, the desire to know there is in fact life after death. and I have made it my mission to expose every one of their ilk for the lies they are. He calls himself a scientist, but seems like he's just a posh git with too much time on his hands if you ask me, Harry offered.
He certainly has a high opinion of himself, this James Walker. Beatrix murmured as she took in the illustrations of the various tricks of her trade. The wires, the mirrors. the secret devices under tables that could produce knocking sounds or wobble the furniture. And there, at the bottom, was an invitation in large, bold lettering. Saturday.
The Shepherdess Theatre. See James Walker reveal the deceit and trickery of spiritualists and mediums. Beatrix considered. The last thing she wanted or needed was for this man to be aware of her. But curiosity had always been one of her stronger vices. And didn't it make sense to know one's enemies? Besides, if he had already come after the Facinelli's, he might sniff her out soon enough.
Better to get ahead of things. You think he's serious with all this? Harry asked, nodding at the pamphlet, exposing every medium in London. I think, Harry, Beatrix said, putting the pamphlet on the table. That you and I have a lecture to attend. This episode is sponsored by Live Right, publishers of the new book Victorian Psycho by Virginia Fatow.
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He's got a motorcycle. Get after him or I'll have you shot. You mean blow up the building. From this moment on, none of you are safe. New episodes every Wednesday wherever you get your podcasts. I don't have much time. I am being transported by the ecclesiast vessel Markava to stand trial for heresy of the highest order. But I will not renounce my work, and to my last breath I will speak the truth of this plague-ridden world, that ours is not a loving God.
And we are not its favored children. The Heresies of Radolf Bundwein, Chapter 2. Now available throughout the known world. She's here. James was halfway through his lecture, demonstrating how a bare foot on a wood floor could sound like a ghostly knock when he spotted her. She sat near the back, next to a dark-haired man in a rather shabby suit.
A slightly mocking smile on her face. He felt a surge of satisfaction that had nothing to do with the audience's applause. Beatrix Green had come to him. Finally. her name was whispered in nearly every occult circle her powers reportedly impressive he had tried more than once to meet her he even went so far as to seek out her flat where he had seen her walking a client to a carriage and was surprised by how ordinary she seemed. She could have been a Sunday school teacher, for heaven's sake.
James had hoped to attend one of her readings, but while the other charlatans and hucksters liked to perform for groups, she was more selective. Beatrix Green had remained tantalizingly out of reach. Until now. Finally, he thought again. It can begin. He turned back toward the audience, resting a hand on a large wooden box. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a spirit cabinet. As you can see, it's little more than a box with a curtain, and often he swept the curtain aside.
There's a bell or some other musical instrument inside. A practice medium will spin a tale about how it's been in his or her family for a hundred years, that it contains portals to other realms. Rest assured... It does nothing of the sort. James reached down into his leather carrying case and pulled out a length of rope. But any medium worth their salt wants to put on a show for you, and I shall do the same.
he looked out into the audience again his eyes meeting miss greens madam may i beg your assistance for a moment james thought she might refuse The gentleman sitting next to her clearly thought she should, shooting her a look and shaking his head. But she rose to her feet, wrapping a calico shawl around her as she made her way into the aisle. There were no murmurs of recognition in the crowd, another sign of her discretion in her work. Then she was before him. He realized she was tall.
He still had several inches on her, enough so that she had to tilt her face up to look at him. Her eyes a particularly pretty shade of hazel, dark blonde hair pulled back from a lovely pale face. And when her gaze met his, direct more than a little amused, James found he had a hard time looking away. If you would be so kind as to bind my wrists, he said, offering her the rope.
Beatrix took it in her gloved hands, her eyebrows raised. I was unaware I would get to see a magic act alongside scientific demonstrations. The crowd chuckled and James did his best to smile as well, holding out his wrists. Most of what we've called magic is science, madam, as I will soon prove. I do so enjoy having a man prove things to me, she said, her voice sickly sweet, her hazel eyes flashing.
As she tied his wrist, she gave an extra jerk to the rope, making the knot tight enough that he winced. Will this do? she asked innocently, and James gave her a grin that was closer to a grimace. Very well, thank you. Now you, sir, James indicated an older gentleman seated in the front row, will you ensure this rope is indeed inescapable?
The fellow did so, nodding with satisfaction before returning to his seat. Beatrix made to do the same, but James lifted his bound hands. Please, Miss Green, he said. Stay. How on earth does he know my name? Beatrix stood at the edge of the stage, cursing her curiosity, cursing her own sense of perverse humour that had decided to play along with this Mr. Walker.
She looked back at Harry and saw her own alarm written on his face. Told you, he mouthed. Fighting to keep calm, she turned to watch Mr. Walker. She'd been expecting an older gentleman, reedy and pale. But Mr. Walker was young, robust even. His shoulders strained at the seams of his black suit. Dark hair just a touch too long framed his face, and dark stubble ran along his jaw.
A slight crookedness at the bridge of the nose added character to his traditionally handsome face and, when he looked at her, his eyes were very blue. Nothing like she'd expected at all, really. Beatrix watched him as he approached the spirit cabinet. She knew what he was planning. He would demonstrate that mediums could easily get out of their bonds to perform the cabinet's tricks within.
then slipped back into the knots, proving they'd been tied up the entire time. Well, Beatrix thought with a smirk, he'd had the devil's own time getting out of her knots. Although once the rope was tied, she frowned. The knot she'd created was not one she'd used before, not one she remembered learning. Complicated looping. A sailor's knot.
How odd. The candle snuffed out, plunging the stage into gloom. Mr. Walker entered the cabinet and the curtain closed behind him. Beatrix could feel the entire theatre holding its breath. All was silent in the cabinet and Beatrix bit back a smile as she imagined him in there, frantically struggling with the rope. There was a sudden gasp from the crowd. A hand appeared to be floating in mid-air.
just to the side of the curtain. So you're a showman too, Mr. Walker. It disappeared, followed by a bell ringing through the silence. On and on it went for several minutes. Then from inside the cabinet, Mr. Walker called out, Madam, if you'd please open the curtain. Beatrix pulled back the fabric without even the slightest hint of a flourish. She'd be damned if he made her his chorus girl. But the sight of Mr. Walker standing there, his hands still firmly bound, was a show all on its own.
The audience burst into rapturous applause, some even coming to their feet. Mr. Walker nodded at her and then walked back to centre stage as the theatre lads began re-lighting the candles. He began demonstrating how he had gotten free of the knots, contorting his hands and fingers to remove the ropes from his wrist, and then easily slipping them back on. Nothing more than a simple sleight of hand.
He gave a gentlemanly shrug. More applause. More Mr. Walker smiling. And Beatrix could not help but say... So you maintain that all mediums are practised in this particular art of contortion? Mr. Walker looked back at her as though he'd forgotten she was there. It's hardly contortionism, he began. And if you think it is more believable for one to speak with the dead in a box than to slip out of rope bindings, I have nothing to teach you. Madame Renata, a woman approaching her eightieth year...
Can bend her wrists out of bindings so as to trick people? His expression darkened as he stepped closer to her. Many people had probably backed up in the face of that glare. Beatrix did not. Madame Renata is much sprier than she appears, I assure you. There were chuckles from the crowd, but Beatrix did not mind them. Instead, she stepped closer, the toe of her boot brushing his.
and looked calmly into his face. I do not believe I asked to be taught, sir. I simply think proving someone could do these things does not prove they are doing these things. And science should, I believe, strive to offer firmer proof than that. She'd expected him to glower, but instead something near a smile tugged the corner of his mouth.
That was somehow far more disconcerting than if he'd been all bluster and anger. And it was the oddest thing, standing there in the middle of a bloody stage with him. A whole crowd of people watching. yet feeling as though it were only the two of them. You hardly strike me as the scientific type, madam, he said, his voice low, blue eyes flashing. Funny, sir.
I was about to say the very same to you. And with that, Beatrix returned to her seat. How does weather work? What's the secret to having a great conversation? How do most wealthy people get that way? These are just a few of the topics we've recently covered on my podcast, Something You Should Know. Each episode covers multiple topics that are likely relevant to you.
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Each week, I write an original scary story and share it with you. If you're into scary stories, you need to check out The Warning Woods. Listen on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Just search. for the warning woods, and click play at your own risk. Well, what next, Bee? Harry asked. Hornet's nest you'd like to knock over? Bear's arse you'd like to poke?
He lent her his arm as they left the theatre and stepped onto the crowded street. Beatrix pulled her shawl tight around her. Late afternoon in October meant the sky was near dark and the chill went straight to your bones. Honestly, Harry, he was baiting me. The man needed to be taken down a pick. Harry shook his head and sighed. I'll get us a hackney then, he said and moved away to hail one. Beatrix knew Harry was right.
But she knew she'd have done it all over again, if given the chance. After all, Mr Walker was after her independence, her livelihood. She had to defend it. But now he would most likely look to expose her next. and she would have no one to blame but herself. Miss Green. Beatrix looked up to see Mr. James Walker standing before her, as though he'd suddenly emerged from the mist. Well...
That was sooner than expected. Mr. Walker, she replied, and then before she could help herself, you know me. You used my name just now, and also in the theatre. He studied her. Of course I know who you are. The famous Beatrix Green. The lady medium, discreet and demure. Although, I must say, after today I am not sure how well those two words apply to you. I shall take that as a compliment rather than an insult. Perhaps I meant it as a compliment.
They stood there for a moment, looking at one another, and Beatrix wondered why she wasn't walking away. Harry clearly wondered it too. Bloody hell, he muttered as he approached. I've got a hack, Bea. Let's get out of here. Ah, Mr. Walker said, looking past her and Harry to where their hackney waited. Might I trouble you, both of you, for a bit more of your time?
Miss Green, my club is only down this way. He gestured to a small, narrow street off the main thoroughfare and smiled at her, his harsh features softening. It's a bit eccentric. I assure you no one will mind your presence. Beatrix had a thousand reasons to say no, but the word would not quite come. She looked at Harry, who shrugged.
Never been inside a gentleman's club, he offered. Beatrix snorted. Well, nor have I. But there's a first time for everything, I suppose. She placed her hand in the crook of Harry's elbow. and the two of them followed Mr. Walker down the narrow laneway. Beatrix glanced skyward. The buildings were so close together she could only see the barest sliver of twilight.
lamps flickered in steel cages affixed to the stone casting odd shadows on the wide stone steps leading up to a heavy door they walked up the stairs The brass plaque on the door was so begrimed with soot and age that she couldn't make anything out except the word, gentleman. Mr. Walker turned the ancient iron handle.
pushed open the door with a creak and gestured for Beatrix and Harry to follow. Their host paused in the entryway to remove his hat, then led them through another set of intricately carved doors with panes of coloured glass. Beatrix gasped. This place is extraordinary, she exclaimed, and Mr. Walker seemed to hide a smile. There were several fireplaces and a collection of swords glittered in a circle above the largest.
A massive painting of a fierce lion roared at her from one wall, so lifelike that for a moment it seemed real. On the far side of the room, a statue of an elephant towered over its surroundings. Suits of armour stood along a wall that appeared to be made almost entirely of some hammered metal. True to Mr Walker's word, Beatrix was not the only lady present. She saw several, some dressed as simply as she was.
others in confections of velvet and silk, and one dressed in a suit very like Mr. Walker's own. No one stared as Mr. Walker led her and Harry to a table near the back, ringed with large wing-back chairs. But a young man did cry out. Jimmy! Mr. Walker grinned, raising a hand to greet the newcomer. Eric, you rascal. I thought you'd gone back to New York. No, I don't leave for a few days.
I saw your old friend Stanhope at the club the other night. The young man seemed very young indeed, perhaps still a teenager, his dark curling hair accentuating a youthfully rounded face. I'm Harry now, remember? the young man said, and Beatrix detected an Eastern European accent. Ah, yes, yes, Harry, Mr. Walker said, clapping the young man on the shoulder. But as this fellow is also Harry, he said, nodding at Beatrix's Harry.
Perhaps for tonight you might remain Eric. Join us. He nodded at the table and Eric shook his head. Other matters to attend to tonight, my friend. Raising his gaze to Beatrix, Eric gave her a wink. Be on your toes with this one, madam. With that, he turned away, and Mr Walker shook his head as he watched him go. Lord only knows what he's off to get up to, or into. He gestured for Beatrix to walk in front of him as he added,
Last time I stayed here at the club, he'd locked himself into the coat cupboard for a good five hours. Beatrix fought down a grin at the thought of a man trapped in a cupboard and took a seat across from Mr. Walker and next to Harry. Mr. Walker signaled to someone in the corner. I'm drinking whiskey tonight, he said. For you, Miss Green? Same, she said. He raised an eyebrow but didn't object.
A man in black brought a tray to their table with a crystal decanter and four tumblers, and once they all had their drinks, Mr. Walker sat back in his seat. So, he said, tell me about yourself, Miss Green. Beatrix laughed and lifted her glass to her lips. If we're going to drink whiskey in a private club together, you might as well call me Beatrix. He tilted his glass at her in acknowledgement.
Then I must be James. James. It suited him, that stolid, sensible name. No doubt one of a long line of Jameses going back hundreds of years. Men like him always had those kinds of roots. Deep, long-lasting, inviolable. What a life it must be to be such a man. In that case, James. After the whiskey was delivered to their table, Miss Green, Beatrix, sat back in her chair. There was something scandalous about the sight of her dark gloved hand holding the glass of whiskey.
the incongruity of her simple frock against the velvet of the seat. Do you know, James? She mused as she studied him. I think you and I are not actually all that different. James swirled his whiskey. And how do you figure that? She was watching him with those hazel eyes, and James fought the urge to shift in his seat, aware that her friend Harry also scrutinized him.
He had the unsettling feeling she could see more than he wanted to reveal. We both provide comfort to people, she said and took another sip of her drink before leaning forward. People come to me. to know that there is life after death, that their loved ones still think of them. And for you, people find comfort in the fact that life simply ends.
that the sounds they hear in their houses are merely the wind or a stray branch against a window, that their minds conjure footsteps on the stairs. In exposing mediums as frauds, You assure people that the world is as it seems and that there is nothing more beyond its scope. She smiled as she finished her speech, and James found himself wishing that this version of himself she'd so succinctly skewered was in fact the real him. It would have made things a great deal simpler.
You misunderstand me, he said now, throwing back his drink. I am not interested in disproving people like the Fartinelli brothers, because I believe that contact with the other side is impossible. On the contrary, I have spent my life looking for someone who actually possesses that skill. In fact, Beatrix, he leaned forward, I suspect...
You may be exactly who I've been looking for all these years. He'd surprised her, though she tried to hide it. Her face remained carefully bemused as she smirked and said, I bet you say that to all the girls. She set her glass down on the table with a decisive thunk. I'm disappointed, Mr. Walker. This was not the approach I saw you taking. Approach? James asked, brow furrowing. Oh, Miss Green.
I have ruined the careers of dozens of your colleagues, but you, you, I believe, are the genuine article. She said in a rather poor imitation of his voice. And now that I've earned your trust, surely you can put on a demonstration for me, and then I can ruin you as well. James could only stare at her as she abruptly turned to her companion and stood. Come, Harry, we should be going. James rose to his feet hastily. Wait, please, I did not bring you here to quarrel, he said.
Beatrix paused, her eyebrows raised. And yet we have done little but, so you might understand my confusion. This is no trick, I assure you, James went on. It is a proposal. If you will. A proposal. The eyebrows rose higher, but she sank back into her seat, clearly interested, and James and Harry followed suit. I wish for you to accompany me. to a reportedly haunted house in Derbyshire. Ashbury Manor. Ashbury Manor. How long had it taken him to speak of it without flinching?
Years, nearly his whole life. It would be behind him soon, but only if he could convince Beatrix Green to join him at the manor. And so you want me to go to this place and what? Commune with the other side and walk straight into your trap. There is no trap, I assure you. Beatrix looked at him, silent, wary. I... James stumbled to find the right words.
I desire proof as to whether the place is haunted, and for that I require assistance. I wish to hire you, as well as two others, a writer and a photographer, both of whom have experience in the spiritual realms. He had her full attention now. She was holding herself very still, but James could see a pink flush rising up her neck, the way her fingers fiddled with the fringe on her shawl. This is no scheme, Miss Green.
He said again, I wish to hire you and you will be fairly compensated for your troubles. How fairly? The young man beside her asked, folding his hands over his stomach as he stretched out in his seat. James took a deep breath. If she rejected his offer, even with the amount of money he was willing to spend, he was not sure there would be any recourse. The hook must be well baited.
I could pay you one hundred pounds, he said. Harry muttered a curse under his breath and his eyes went wide, but Miss Green remained composed as ever. One hundred pounds, Harry repeated. For one night at Ashbury Manor. To prove it's haunted, or to disprove it, James said, sitting back in his chair, trying not to betray his anticipation.
Either way makes no difference to me. I simply want to know. This was the last card he had to play. He was offering her more money than she could hope to earn in years. And for a woman like Miss Green... That money meant independence. There was a pause as Beatrix considered. Very well, Mr. Walker. Beatrix said, offering him her gloved hand to shake. James resisted sinking into his chair in overwhelming relief and took her hand. A night at Ashbury Manor. One hundred pounds. She paused.
One hundred pounds, she continued, and James had the notion she was almost holding her breath. For my services, another one hundred for my various expenses that may be incurred. He did not even flinch. Done. James saw Beatrix's throat move as she swallowed, but then she gave a brisk nod. Two hundred pounds, then, she replied, and proof of either ghostly existence or simply creaky flaws.
She smiled a little. And I must say, I feel I am getting the better part of this bargain. Perhaps you are, Miss Green, he acknowledged. Perhaps you are. An hour or so later, Beatrix unlocked her front door, her mind still reeling. What an odd yet exhilarating night it had been. And what a challenge lay before her.
She would need to learn more about Ashbury Manor before she left, Beatrix thought as she moved into the front room of her flat. And that would be a challenge as James had said he was sending his carriage for her and Harry in the morning. Something shifted out of the corner of her eye and Beatrix froze. There was a shadow flickering amid the gloom in her hallway. A shadow in the shape of a man.
Heart pounding, she took a step in its direction. The shape neither wavered nor became clearer, but she could hear something now, a sound like the trickle of water, and something lower. raspier, whispering. The same words running together garbled and hushed as though the speaker had a mouthful of water. Hand trembling, Beatrix hurried to the wall to turn on her lamps. The room blazed to light. The shadow was gone. But there was something black on the hallway carpet.
Beatrix moved to pick it up and gasped as cold water seeped through the side of her boot. She touched the carpet. It was soaked through and smelled of sea brine. Lifting her fingers to her lips, she gave them the barest taste. Salt water. She grabbed the item on the carpet. It was also sopping wet, and there was something under her thumb. It was a monogram. R.S.C.L. This was Roger Latham's handkerchief. Roger Latham, who had been lost at sea.
Roger Latham, whose spirit she had fraudulently summoned only the day before. Her fingers suddenly numb, Beatrix let the handkerchief fall to the floor. She rose on shaky legs. Stop this. She chided herself, feeling silly for speaking aloud, but the sound of her own voice comforted her. Her mind surged with rationalities. Mrs. Latham had no doubt accidentally left the handkerchief behind.
Perhaps there was some sort of leak in the building. Such things happened. Yes, that must be it. But later that night... As Beatrix lay in her bed, eyes focused on a damp spot on her seething, the guttural words she'd sworn she'd heard echoed in her mind. Do not call me. Like a chant. No, not a chant. A warning. You're listening to Beatrix Green, narrated by Shiromi Arsario and Alistair Austin. Produced by Realm, your portal to another world. Realm. Listen away.
The Old West is an iconic period of American history and full of legendary figures whose names still resonate today, like Jesse James, Billy the Kid, and Butch and Sundance, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, and Geronimo. Hear all their stories on the Legends of the Old West podcast. We'll take you to Tombstone, Deadwood, and Dodge City. To the plains, mountains, and deserts for battles between the U.S. Army and Native American warriors. To dark corners for the disaster of the Donner Party.
and shining summits for achievements like the Transcontinental Railroad. We'll go back to the earliest days of explorers and mountain men and head up through notorious Pinkerton agents and gunmen like Tom Horn. Every episode features narrative writing and cinematic music, and there are hundreds of episodes available to binge. I'm Chris Wimmer. Find Legends of the Old West wherever you're listening now.
American history is full of infamous tales that continue to captivate audiences decades or even hundreds of years after they happened. On the Infamous America podcast, you'll hear the true stories of the Salem witch trials and the escape attempts from Alcatraz. of bank robbers like John Dillinger and Pretty Boy Floyd, of killers like Lizzie Borden and Charles Starkweather.
of mysteries like The Black Dahlia and D.B. Cooper, and of events that inspired movies like Goodfellas, Killers of a Flower Moon, Zodiac, Eight Men Out, and many more. I'm Chris Wimmer. Join me as we crisscross the country from the Miami drug wars and Dixie Mafia in the South to mobsters in Chicago and New York.
to arsonists, kidnappers, and killers in California, to unsolved mysteries in the heartland and in remote corners of Alaska. Every episode features narrative writing and cinematic music, and there are hundreds of episodes available to binge. Find Infamous America wherever you get your podcasts. Beatrix Green is written by Rachel Hawkins, Ash Parsons, and Vicki Alviar-Schechter. It is produced by Haley Wagreich and executive produced by Molly Barton.
Audio production, sound design, editing, and theme music by Amanda Rose Smith. With additional editing by Kaylin West. Well, that was fast. Is the tortoise locked onto another place already? According to the instrument, she's connecting to another Realm series we haven't featured yet. For this week's feature and all the others, please go to the sonicsociety.org site and click the links to subscribe to the series you love.
Let's bring more audio drama into the world one show at a time. Until next week, I'm Jack Ward. And I'm David Ault. Take care, everyone.