-It was a face.
Yes, but a face like no other he had ever seen or ever wished to see again.
The hair, what there was of it, was lank, greasy and gray as a corpse's, and hanging long over the skeletal shoulders.
The mouth was only a huge, wet, black, gory hole.
And the eyes.
The eyes were the worst of all, staring out redly from the hollow.
Redly?
Is that a word?
Can I say that?
Redly?
Tanya?
-Tara.
-Tara.
Tara.
Tara.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
-Just checking.
-I'll get letters.
E-mails.
It's e-mails now.
Tweets.
Susannah persuaded me to do that.
Go on there.
Social-media profile.
Worst decision of my life.
There's no privacy anymore.
Not a scrap.
There's no mystique.
They all know every little thing.
-Redly's fine.
-Is it?
Okay.
-Where do you want to go back to?
-Um, "huge, red, black, gory hole"?
-Okay.
-Okay.
Green light coming.
-The mouth was only a huge wet, black, gory hole.
And the eyes.
The eyes were the worst of all, staring out redly from hollow sockets filled with pure malevolence and all directed at him.
At him.
He took a deep breath to steady himself and moved swiftly across the patio.
[ Footsteps ] The door loomed up at him like a coffin lid.
He scrabbled in his pockets.
The key.
Where was the key?
[ Jingling ] There.
He had it.
Desperately, he tried to fit the rusted key into the lock.
[ Rattling ] But it wouldn't fit.
It wouldn't.
The wrong key.
He must have dropped it back there in the undergrowth.
[ Grass rustling ] But how could he go back there?
How could he face that terrible, monstrous thing?
[ Burps ] Sorry.
Sorry.
Big lunch.
Sorry.
-No problem.
Uh, we can go back to... Actually, should we have a tea break?
-Oh, yes.
Tea.
Lovely.
That's tea, Joan.
Tea?
40 years.
-Hmm?
-40 years and I don't think she's ever said more than hello to me.
-Oh, she's a one-off, is Joan.
-I can only hope so.
-Has it really been that long?
-Afraid so.
"The Dead Room," tales of terror and unease with your host, Aubrey Judd, bringing mild disquiet to radio listeners since 1976.
-That is going back.
-Feels like 10 minutes to me.
-[ Chuckles ] -I haven't been here for donkeys.
We moved studios after...
When were you born?
-1990.
[ Scoffs ] Christ.
[ Chuckles ] They used to have a proper green room in here.
Where's that gone?
-They wound it down.
-Of course they did.
Everything's bare bones now.
So I did a casualty the other day in Wales.
I had to buy my own lunch.
-Mm.
So the show started here then before you moved studios?
-Yes, yes, before my time.
Way back when Seymour presented.
-Seymour?
-Oh, no, you wouldn't remember him.
Seymour Rand, a voice like dark chocolate with just a hint of poison.
As the papers said.
He always used to play baddies.
He started the original "Dead Room" before the war.
-Ahh.
You know, this place is supposed to be haunted.
-Oh, come on.
-No, seriously.
Apparently it's built on the ruins of an old priory.
-Everything has to be built on top of something.
-No.
It's true.
-No, my dear girl, if there's one thing all these years of doing ghost stories has taught me, it's that there's no such thing as the supernatural.
-Some people have seen, like, a skeletal nun in the canteen.
-I'm not surprised.
The cottage pie was inedible.
Is there much more of this whippet?
-Not much.
-"Ready Player Death" by Tom Wallace.
-And he's very promising.
He's only 22.
-A fetus.
What happened to the classic writers?
The old stories they had?
Style, proper sense of menace, of dread.
God grant that she lie still.
Now, there's a title for you.
-Hm.
Have you done that one?
-Before your time, yes.
It's the yellow wallpaper.
Upper birth.
"Mrs. Amworth," "Green Tea."
-No, I've got a coffee.
Thanks.
-No, no.
Sheridan -- -Le Fanu.
Yeah, I've read it.
It's got a monkey in it, right?
-Right.
Well, I say one thing for your predecessor, Ken.
He really knew how to pick them.
-This isn't that bad.
-Whippet... See, forgive me, but for a proper ghost story, you have to have certain elements, certain rules that make it work.
-Actually, we'd better be getting back.
-Ideally, we should meet the characters in an ordinary way, just chatting about everyday things, food, drink, et cetera, and into this apparent calm, the bad thing rears its ugly head unobtrusively at first, but then more insistently until it holds the stage.
It's all about creating the right atmosphere.
-And you're saying this one doesn't?
I think it's quite unique.
-There are no gradations of uniqueness.
It's either unique or it's not.
-Right.
-This is unique in its dreadfulness.
Teenagers playing haunted computer games.
-It's pretty real to some people.
-Who?
-Kids.
-No.
It's too immediate.
It's too now.
You need to have -- How could I put this?
A certain haze of distance.
"Not long after the war."
That's a good way to start a story.
Or, um, "30 years ago."
-Or 40 years?
-What?
-When you started doing the show.
-Oh, yes.
-Would a ghost from the '70s work?
-Don't see why not.
-Hmm.
That doesn't seem right somehow.
-It has to be within living memory.
If you set it as far back as, say, 1348, you sort of believe that anything's possible.
Dragons, that sort of thing.
Like that silly program on the box.
The one with the knockers and the dwarves.
-I don't think you can say either of those things anymore.
-You want to think it could happen to anyone.
Someone like me.
-There aren't many people like you, Aubrey.
-I'll take that as a compliment.
-But it has to be scary, doesn't it?
I mean, these are meant to be horror stories.
-Horrifying, yes, but not just horrible.
This stuff's no different from going to the morgue to have a shufty at the corpses.
I mean, where's the fun in that?
No, you need a certain -- Here's an old-fashioned thing.
Reticence.
Hold back.
Hold back.
Always hold back until the climax.
No sex.
Please.
Please, please.
It's ruinous.
Don't take offense.
I mean, I think you're very good at what you do.
-Thanks.
-I'm just trying to pass on a little of the old wisdom, you know.
-Right.
-Old Seymour wouldn't have put up with any of this guff.
He knew what made a ghost story tick.
I saw him once, you know, reading "The Wendigo" by candlelight in Kings College.
Spellbinding.
What a wonderful actor he was.
Irreplaceable.
-Except not.
-Eh?
-You did replace him, didn't you?
-You know, Tanya -- Tara, your predecessor was such a sweetheart.
-Died in a fall, didn't he?
Seymour Rand.
Handy for you.
-Before you say it, I did not trip him up, nor did I remove a stair rod like the one that sent Karen Pulteney to his death.
-Eh?
-The stalls of Barchester Cathedral.
M.R.
James.
Love the master.
Look it up.
Shall we get on?
-Okay.
We can just pick it up from... "But how could he go back there?"
That alright?
-Yep.
-Okay.
Green light coming.
-Alright.
But how could he go back there?
How could he face that terrible, monstrous thing that threatened to tip him over the edge into insanity?
This wasn't like playing a game anymore.
Not like sitting on the couch with a console in his hands.
[ Shrill electronic feedback ] Aaaah!
Oh, Christ!
-Sorry.
-Aah!
What was that?
-Um, sorry.
Gremlins.
-Nearly bloody deafened me.
[ Indistinct voice ] What?
-Sorry.
We'll be right with you.
-No, wait.
[ Indistinct voice ] There.
D-D-Didn't you hear that?
-Sorry?
-I thought -- I thought I heard someone.
-Is your phone off?
-What?
Oh, yes.
Yes.
No, it wasn't like that.
It was...
It was like... -Aubrey?
You okay?
-Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
Should we do this?
-Ready when you are.
Green light coming.
-This was different.
The heat was more than oppressive.
It was tangible.
Grass scorched, white and dead, the horizon wobbling in a haze.
Getting back inside the car, I had to blink to clear my vision.
A stark image of the reservoir seemed to have been burned like a photograph onto my eyes.
An image of a young man facedown on the blue and orange beach towel, all skinny shoulder blades, blond, blond hair and white skin that was rapidly -- I'm sorry.
Um... Tara, this -- this -- this isn't the same story.
unless I skipped a couple of pages.
No, no, no.
It's completely different.
Tara?
[ Indistinct voice ] [ Dramatic music plays ] Hello?
Hello?
-You okay?
-Oh, God!
Yes, yes.
Yeah.
Look, it's the script.
-What?
-I'll show you.
See, it goes into the first person as if it was like from an altogether different... What?
But...
I could have sworn... [ Cellphone vibrates ] -Oh, sorry.
[ Ringtone playing ] -That's... -Not very professional.
-No.
That tune.
-Yeah.
Sorry.
I'm sure you hate it.
-No, no.
Why that tune?
-I love a bit of disco, don't you?
No.
Expect not.
-Don't make assumptions about me.
-Shall we go from the same place?
-Yeah.
-You alright?
-Yes.
-Okay.
-Okay.
-In your own time.
-His hands moved rapidly over the controls.
He'd played this game before and won.
Whatever this thing, this creature was, it was just another target, another two-dimensional phantom for him to eliminate.
He would use the skills he'd learned gaming and destroy this evil forever.
"Die!"
he yelled at the hideous rotting carcass that shuffled and slid towards him.
"Die, you bastard!"
The thing seemed to smile, or a vile facsimile of a smile and opened its filthy maw.
As it spoke, its voice whispering awful.
"Come.
[ Growly voice ] Come inside.
I've been expecting you [Normal voice] to arrive."
Your shoes shake 'em off while I go and turn the music down soft.
[ Staticky music playing ] [ Indistinct singing ] [ Indistinct distorted voice ] -There'd never been a summer like that one.
Week after week of unbroken sunshine.
Scorched pavements, tar melting on the roads, reservoirs parched.
And then there was him.
As special as the summer.
And just as unexpected.
A shy smile over the checkout queue.
Too much gin in that pub with the sticky floors, the blacked-out windows.
But the summer had to end, didn't it?
Everything has to end.
[ Loud discordant piano note plays ] [ Coughing, choking ] [ Man speaking indistinctly ] -Aubrey!
Aubrey!
[ Laughter ] [ Laughter continues ] [ Laughter continues ] -God, what does he want now?
Aubrey, are you alright?
-I suppose you think you're very clever.
-What?
-Spliced it together.
Did you?
From old recordings?
No, you don't do that anymore, do you?
Now it's all just bloody technology.
Digital bollocks!
You can do anything now, can't you?
You thought you'd play a trick on the old man, eh?
-Aubrey, I haven't got a clue what you're talking about.
-The script.
The story.
-What about it?
-It's about me.
About me and him.
How did you know?
Was it Joan?
She was here.
She was here when all this took place.
Wasn't she?
Yes.
Of course she was.
-You're not making any sense.
-I want you to explain to me what's going on!
What's been going on since all this started?
-Since what started?
-The sounds, that tune.
The tune on your phone.
-What about it?
-It was his favorite song all that summer.
-Whose?
-Paul's!
Paul's.
I'd just taken over from Seymour.
I was too young, really.
But they liked the voice.
Paul worked here, on Foley, Joan's job.
She was just a trainee then.
We got on well, Paul and I, very well.
But everything took so much longer then.
You had to be sure.
I bumped into him one night in the supermarket.
I was 27, 28.
He was about 20.
Not quite legal.
One had to be so careful.
But that summer, there'd never been a summer like it.
Not in living memory.
Week after week of unbroken... [ Electronic feedback, static ] -What is it?
-[ Chuckles ] There was a drought.
An actual drought.
Every day we used to sneak off to the park or the heath with our beach towels.
Little tranny.
It's a transistor radio.
That tune.
Suncream.
A few pints of Carling.
Heat.
We fell in love.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
-What happened?
-One day he went swimming.
Without me.
I-I was rehearsing a play or something, I think.
There was this reservoir we knew.
The water levels had dropped so low, but we still weren't supposed to swim in it.
I don't know why Paul went up there on his own.
I waited for his call.
I wasn't that concerned at first.
Everybody was so much less available in those days.
But after a day or two, I was worried sick.
Then a week went by and I came in here to record some stories.
And then one day... in the canteen...
I overheard someone say, "Did you hear about that poor lad?
Drowned."
Of course, no one knew about us.
I-I-I-I just said... "What a shame."
-[ Faintly ] Aubrey!
-"What a terrible shame."
A bit later we moved studios.
Not because of what happened.
It was -- It was a blessing.
It was...better.
-Do you think that being here has, um, brought it all back again?
-[ Stammering ] It must have done.
But, hmm.
I could have sworn I heard things.
Someone say, "Howl.
Howl, howl," over and over.
King Lear -- The script really did seem to change.
It's not real, though, is it?
Just memories.
-Yeah.
-[ Sniffles ] Not ghosts.
Memories.
[ Loud clanking, truck beeping ] Joan, we were wondering where you got to.
Good for the pipes.
Keeps them gravelly.
"Ready Player Death" was written by Tom Wallace, produced by Taro Lohia, and narrated by Aubrey Judd.
"The Dead Room" is a Black Door production for Zizi Media.
See you next time.
Pleasant dreams.
-Thank you, Aubrey.
That was great.
-Still got it.
-Still got it.
-You say all the right things.
Fancy the Warwick?
I could use a drink.
Been a long day.
-I might have to take a rain check.
-Okay.
No problem.
-How about Friday?
-No can do, I'm afraid.
Um, got a telly.
Dementia Man 2.
-A sequel?
-[ Laughs ] No, no, no.
That's the character's name.
There's a Dementia Man One on the call sheet as well.
I get offered rather a lot of those kind of parts nowadays.
[ Rapid indistinct voice ] -Sorry I can't come.
I'm doing a talking book tomorrow.
I need to do a little bit of prep.
[ Indistinct voice repeating ] Lots of difficult names.
Turkish, I think.
[ Indistinct voice repeating ] [ Staticky music playing ] [ Indistinct voice repeating ] -Mr. Dennis Howe, up till now Minister for Sport, has been appointed Minister for Drought by the Prime Minister, Mr. Callahan.
With the temperature still hitting 30 degrees centigrade, a whopping 89 degrees Fahrenheit, there's no let-up in sight.
Mustn't grumble, eh, John?
-Thanks, David.
Never happy, are we?
Too hot, too cold.
What do we like?
Anyway, here's Fox with "S-S-S-Single Bed."
-The summer had to end, didn't it?
Everything has to end.
[ Indistinct singing ] He just couldn't see how difficult it was for me.
Someone in the public eye.
I'm getting too well-known.
It wouldn't do.
I-I-I couldn't risk it.
I had to end it.
-I'll go to the papers.
How'd you like that, eh?
How'd you like that?
-We went up to the reservoir.
I thought I could sort it all out.
Calm him down.
-I'm not listening to this.
I can't.
-He went for a swim to clear his head.
Then I heard him.
-Help me!
[ Gasping ] Help me!
Help me!
Help me, please!
Aubrey!
-I could have saved him.
I just stood there.
Watched him go under.
Taking all my problems with him.
I sat there on the scorched earth.
Seemed like hours.
Then I drove home.
I couldn't go to the police.
Too many questions.
Too much risk.
No one found the body.
Not for so long.
I have to keep on pretending.
Pretending not to know.
"Did you hear about that, poor lad?"
"What a shame.
What a terrible shame."
Paul!
I...
Please!
Paul!
-I've been expecting you to arrive.
[ Dramatic music plays ] -The key.
Where was the key?
Desperately he tried to fit the rusted key into the lock.
But it wouldn't fit.
It wouldn't.
The wrong key.
He must have dropped it back there in the undergrowth.
But how could he go back there?
How could he face that terrible, monstrous thing?
-Tara.
Tara.
Tara!
Tara!
[ Rapping on glass ] Tara!
Tara!
Tara!
Tara!
Tara!
Tara!
[ Heart beating rapidly ] [ Silence ] [ Ominous music plays ] [ Gasps ] -[ Shrieking ] [ Fox's "S-S-S-Single Bed" plays ] - C-C-Come, come inside Oh, I've been expecting you here tonight Sh-Sh-Shoes, shake 'em off While I go and turn the music down soft Ah, ah, but all I got is a s-s-single bed There ain't no room for your sweet head Now, ain't it a shame you missed the last train 'Cause all I got is a s-s-single bed - S-S-Single bed S-S-Single bed - There ain't no room for your sweet head - S-S-Single
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