Unknown Broadcast | A Night in Murder’s Den & Spiders: Wax Museum Killers and Amazon Terror

Transcript prepared from a new automatic transcription of this episode’s released Spreaker recording. Separate host introductions, closing remarks, and identified advertisements are omitted. Reviewed for the previously flagged gaps and repetition; not checked word for word by a human against the audio. Some transcription errors may remain. Both stories are included. Names in the vintage recording may be imperfectly transcribed.

The last stragglers were leaving Mariner's waxworks. The uniformed attendants, glad that another day's work was over, were locking up. On the second floor of the old grey building, the manager, a stout, blonde man of smart appearance, was talking to one Raymond Hewson, who looked anything but smart. His clothes, although good once, were showing distinct signs of their owners losing battle with the world.

There's nothing new in your request. In fact, we diffuse it to many people. Young bloods have often made bets, but we don't play ball. We've got in the game and something to lose by letting people spend a night in our murderer's den. Night in the murderer's den. That's what Raymond Hewson, the man in the shabby clothes, was after. Why? You'll find out.

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And what is more, they keep their shape so well, too. Once again, thanks for a wonderful product. I'm just hoping you won't wait too long before putting a large economy-sized packet on the market. Well, thank you, Mrs. Head of Parkmore and Mrs. Longman, for your endorsements. I, too, can endorse biotechs by making certain claims to you, ladies. The most important of which is that with biotechs, the stubbornest, the very stubbornest stains just vanish merely by soaking.

Well, we certainly have nothing to gain. If I allowed it and let some young idiot lose his senses, what would be my position? But of course, your being a journalist somehow, that alters the case. I suppose you mean that journalists have no senses to lose. No, no, no, no. But one imagines them to be sensible, responsible people. Besides, here we have something to gain.

Publicity and advertisement. Exactly. And there I thought we might come to terms. Oh, I know what's coming. You want to be paid twice, do you? It used to be said years ago that Madame Tussauds would give a man £100 for sleeping alone in the Chamber of Horrors. And I hope you don't think we've made any such offer. Well, what's your paper? Well, I'm freelancing at the moment, working on space for two or three papers.

But, um, well, I don't think I'll have any trouble in getting this story published. Do you? Morning echo would use it like a shot. A night with mariner's murderers. No live paper could turn it down. How do you propose to treat it? Oh, make it gruesome, of course. But with just a saving touch of humor. I see. All right, Mr. Houston. Get your story published in the Echo.

And there'll be a five-pound wedding for you here when you care to come and call for it. I'd like to be sure about you, though. And I'd like you to be sure about yourself. I must confess that I wouldn't spend a night in murderers then. I've seen those figures dressed and undressed. I know all about their process and manufacture. I can walk about in company downstairs as if I were walking amongst so many skittles.

But I'd hate to sleep alone down there amongst them. Why? I don't know. There isn't any reason. I mean, I don't believe in ghosts. Even if I did, I'd expect them to haunt the scenes of their crimes or the place where their bodies were laid, not a cellar which just happens to contain their waxwork effigies. It's just that I couldn't sit alone among them all night.

They, um, they seem to stare so. Well, after all, they do represent the lowest and most appalling forms of humanity. Now, I wouldn't admit this publicly, of course, but the people who come to see our murderers aren't generally charged with the highest motives themselves. No, the whole atmosphere of the place is unpleasant, and if you're susceptible to atmosphere, I warn you, you're in for a very uncomfortable night.

Oh, sir, I'm imaginative, I think. I am probably susceptible to atmosphere, as you put it. But it's a good idea. And I will buy from family to support. Been a bit unlucky lately in the job stage, you know. And, well, we're living on my savings, which aren't great. But after all, they are only waxworks, aren't they? You're not similatical, sir? No, I don't think so.

But you just said that you have an imagination. As a journalist, you'd need a reasonably strong one, after all. The editors I've worked for have often complained I haven't any. All right. I think the last of the people have gone. Now, wait a minute. I'll give orders that the figures happen to be draped. I'll let the night people know you're going to be there, too.

One condition, I'm afraid, I must impose on you. I must ask you not to smoke. We had a fire scare down in the murderous den this evening. I don't know who gave the alarm, but whoever it was, it was a false one. Fortunately, there weren't very many people down there at the time, or there might have been a panic. All right. A night with Mariner's murderers you want.

A night with Mariner's murderers you shall have. In the passage of the bottom of the stairs were a few preliminary horrors. A rack taken from a medieval castle. Relics of the Inquisition. Branding irons, thumbscrews. Beyond was the passage into the murderer's den. The Waxworks. Fertel, the murderer of Weir, stood as if frozen in his diabolical act. Within five yards of him, said Mrs.

Thompson, there was Lafroy who killed for gain so that he might ape the gentleman, and Charles Peace, sneering across the gangway at Norman Thorn. Brown and Kennedy, the two most recent additions, and stop between Mrs. Dyer and Patrick Mahon. Oh, now, that's Cooley. I expect you recognize him. Oh, insignificant little beast. Looks as if he couldn't play on a worm. Oh, there's Armstrong.

Looks like a decent, harmless country gentleman, doesn't he? And of course, there... Who's this? Oh, yes, I was coming to him. He's our star turn. He's the only one of the bunch who hasn't been hanged. The figure Hewson had indicated was that of a small, slight man, not more than five feet in height. It wore little waxed nostalgias, large spectacles and a caped coat.

There was something so exaggeratedly French in his appearance that it reminded Hewson of a stage caricature. Oh, who is he? That is Dr. Bourdet. Oh. Don't think I've... Well, somehow the name's familiar, but I forget. Well, you'll remember better if you were a Frenchman. For some long while, that man was the terror of Paris. He carried on his work of healing by day and of throat cutting by night when the fit was on him.

He killed for the sheer devilish pleasure it gave him to kill. And it was the same way, with a razor. After his last crime, he left a clue behind him which set the police on his track. Now, one clue led to another, and before long, they knew they were on the track of the Pyrrhusian equivalent of Jack the Ripper. They had enough evidence to send him to the madhouse or the guillotine on a dozen capital charges.

And they caught him then? No, no, no. Our friend was too clever for them. Even then, when he realized the net was closing, he'd just vanished. disappeared off the face of the earth. Ever since the police of every civilized country have been searching for him. Where can you possibly go on to? I mean, with such a hunt on for him. Oh, there's no doubt about that.

Did himself in? Obvious. But in such a way, what prevented his body coming to light? Now, one or two crimes of a smaller, though similar nature, have taken place since he disappeared, but he's believed to be dead. The experts think the crimes, in a sense, are the actions of imitators. Look at his eyes. Yes, that little figure's a masterpiece. You find the eyes bite into you, don't you?

Sort of, yes. Well, that's excellent realism, then. What do you mean? Mesmerism. Pardon? Bourbet practiced mesmerism. He was supposed to mesmerize his victims before... dispatching them. Oh. Indeed. Had he not done so, it's difficult to believe. so small a man could have done his ghastly work. He's very small, isn't he? Doesn't look very strong or anything. Well, there were never any signs of a struggle.

There's an armchair here for you, Mr. Houston. It's the best we can do, my other friend. I hope you'll be able to get some sleep. Mr. Houston. Mr. Houston. You know... What? Yes? Well, I thought, um... Just then, well, I thought I saw the doctor, Baudet. Well, silly, but I thought I saw him move. Keep your home sweet, with country-fresh atmosphere in every room.

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You won't be locked in. You can come upstairs when you've had enough of it. There are watchmen on the premises, so you'll find company. Don't be alarmed if you hear them moving about. I'm sorry I can't give you any more light, but all the lights are on. For obvious reasons, we keep the place as gloomy as possible. Yes. You'd better return with me to the office for a tot of whiskey before your night's vigil.

Yes, well, for a start, I don't think we'll ever have my armchair facing friend Baudet. I think I like him a lot less than the others. The dim, unwavering light fell on the rows of figures which were so uncannily like human beings that the stillness and the silence seemed unnatural ghastly even Hewson missed the sound of breathing, the rustling of clothes the 101 minute noises one hears when even the deepest silence has fallen upon a crowd the air was as stagnant as water at the bottom of a standing pool not a breath in the chamber to stir a curtain or rustle a hanging drapery or start a shadow must be like this at the bottom of the sea have to work back into the story somehow like the bottom of the sea.

Sinister, Lord, I must say. Even Armstrong doesn't look quite such a harmless country, gentlemen, no? Still, your only wax works. All would be well, thought Houston. Yet somehow, what prevented him most of all from feeling absolutely comfortable was the knowledge that Dr. Gaudette was directly behind him. He knew, in fact, that the little Frenchman's waxen stare was directed at the back of his neck.

He itched with a desire to turn around. Come on. My nerves have started already. If I turn and look at that dressed-up dummy, it'll be an admission of funk. It's because you're afraid that you won't turn and look at him. Rubbish. I'm not afraid at all. Yes, you are. Rot. Complete nut of rot. Afraid? A lot of waxworks. Not of a lot of waxworks.

Just one. Dr. Bourdette. Ha! French fool. Not so healthy now, is he? Ha! Look at his eyes. Don't want to see his eyes. All the same, he had to eventually have a quick look round at Dr. Bourdette. Only a waxwork like a wrist on. They're all only waxworks. All the same, he took another quick look behind him. Now, it did not worry Hewson too much, because it was, after all, only his imagination.

seemed to be a subtle change in the grouping of the figures around Dr. Bordette. Or was it Dr. Bordette himself? Looking to the front of him, he looked at Crippin. Again, he had the slight feeling that something, somewhere, was a bit different. Crippin seemed, for instance, to have turned one degree to the left. I must have moved my chair a bit. Oh, Crippin, it was me you moved.

And just then, the waxwork of Gray moved a hand. At least Hewson thought the hand moved. just for his own peace of mind Raymond Hewson gave the waxen figure a little poke wax no more no less lifeless lifelike wax They tell me the editor's of no imagination. Well, I'd better make some notes. No. Deathly silence. Yeah. and her face stillness. Her face.

But then he turned suddenly and looked over his right shoulder. He had neither seen nor heard a movement, but it was as if some sixth sense had made him aware of one. He looked straight into the vappy at the countenance of Lefroy, which smiled vacantly back as if to say, It wasn't I. Of course it wasn't you. Wasn't any of you? And then he looked back, and Crippin seemed to have shifted his position slightly.

Hmm. Can't trust that little beggar. Can't trust any of them. Once you take your eyes off them, they move. Not good enough, this isn't. I reckon I'm going. when you aren't looking at them? Oh, Houston, please. They can't move. What are you thinking of? He encountered a mild, veilful stare of Baudette. Ah. Almost got you that time, Crippen. All the rest of you, too.

I do see one of them move. I'll smash you to pieces. Smash you! Experienced enough already to write my story. Ten stories for that matter. Yeah. Morning echo. Wouldn't know how long I'd stayed if I cleared out now. As long as the story's good. Yes. But that watchman up there. He'd pull my leg all right. And perhaps the manager wouldn't give me the father too.

Find out all right how long I was here from the watchman. Rose will laugh about this, Archella. You asleep, Rose girl, or awake thinking of me? Can't have Rose laughing at me. Kids will pull my leg too. Yeah. I think worse than... Hmm? Worse than having... Yeah. Someone's breathing. Someone was breathing. Well, it wasn't me. They knew I was listening, then they stopped.

There is the dead. This is too much. Bad enough when they move, when I'm not looking. But I'm not having the beggars breathing, too. I know this won't do. I am Raymond Hewson, unsuccessful journalist, but a living and breathing man. And these figures grouped around me are only dummies. Dummies! What does it matter if they're lifelike? Wax and sawdust for the entertainment of morbid sightseers and orange-sucking tourists.

Then the gaze of Dr. Baudet urged, challenged, and finally compelled him to turn. Sir? Huston stared into those dreadful, hypnotic eyes. His own eyes were dilated, and his mouth at first set into a grin of terror lifted at the corners into a snarl. You moved, Blastie. Yes, you did. I saw you! I saw you! Dr. Gaudet's movements were quite leisurely. he stepped off his pedestal with the mincing movements of a lady alighting from a bus.

I need hardly tell you that not until I overread the conversation between yourself and the worthy manager of this establishment did I suspect that I should have the pleasure of a companion here for the night. You cannot move or speak without my bidding but you can hear perfectly well. something tells me that you are, shall I say, nervous? My dessert, there are no illusions.

I am not one of these contemptible little effigies suddenly come to life. I am Dr. Boutette himself. Pardon me, but... Steve, let me explain. Circumstances with which I did not fatigue you made it desirable that I should live in England. I was close to the building this evening when I saw a policeman regarding me, thought too curiously. I guessed that he intended to follow me and perhaps ask embarrassing questions.

So I mingled with the crowd and came in here. Inspiration showed me a certain means of escape. I raised a cry of fire, and when all the fools had rushed to the stairs, I stripped my effigy of the caped coat, which we all be wearing, donned it, hid my effigy behind the platform at the back there, and took its place on the pedestal.

I own, I expect, a most fatiguing evening. The world is divided into collectors and non-collectors. The collectors collect anything according to their own individual tastes. I collect throats. And the doctor regarded Hewson's throat with interest mingled with disfavor. My activities of late have been curtailed. I'd rather the pleasant opportunity of gratifying my somewhat unusual whim. I should never have slated you from choice of course.

I like men with thick necks. Thick red necks. This is a little French razor. The blade you will observe is very narrow. It does not cut very deep, but deep enough. In just one little moment, you shall see for yourself. I shall ask you the little civil question of all polite barbers. Does the razor suit you, sir? You will have the goodness to raise your chin a little.

Thank you. And a little more. Just a little more. Ah, thank you. Merci, monsieur. Ah, merci. Oh, thanks. Over one end of the chamber was a thick skylight of frosted glass, which, by day, let in a few sickly and filtered rays from the floor above. after sunrise these began to mingle with the subdued light from the electric bulbs and this mingled illumination added a certain ghastliness to a scene which needed no additional touch of horror the waxwork figures stood apathetically in their places waiting to be admired by the crowds who would presently wander fearfully among them in their midst in the center gangway Hewson sat still, leaning far back in his armchair.

His chin was up-tilted, as if he were expecting to receive attention from a barber, and although there was not a scratch upon his throat, nor indeed anywhere upon his whole body, he was cold and quite dead. His previous employers were wrong in having him credited with no imagination. Dr. Baudet on his pedestal watched the dead man unemotionally. He did not move, nor was he capable of motion.

But then, after all, he was only a waxwork. [Second story: Spiders.] Lights Out, everybody. It is later than you think. Lights Out brings you stories of the supernatural and the supernormal, dramatizing the fantasies and the mysteries of the unknown. We tell you this frankly, so if you wish to avoid the excitement and tension of these imaginative plays, we urge you calmly, but sincerely, to turn off your radio now.

This is Arch Oboler. In these days, the jungles are full of the whine of machine gun bullets and with .25 caliber automatic rifles. There was a time, though, when the sound in the jungle was that of insects and the raucous call of jungle birds. Men went into the tropical forest for high adventures or to make money. It's at these times that our story is tonight.

And now, lights out. Everybody. The Jungles of the Upper Amazon. Oh, Dixie! Oh, Dixie! You don't have to shout. I hear you. Oh, Dixie, look. Hey, look at this. Look at this one. Look at it like that, dear. Another butterfly. Yeah, look at these wings. Look at them. Better for that wing as big as an airplane to take us out of this hair hole.

I bet I'll get 10 francs for this one. Yeah, if we get out of the jungle alive. Oh, I'll get out. Aye. You mean, will you? You wouldn't leave me here? Oh, don't worry, Dissy. You get in this with me, and you'll get out of it with me. It's good to sit down. Until the ants begin to eat you. Oh, cut it out, will you?

Can't you do anything but sing the blues? should be happy. Should sing a song because the sun is burning me up because the insects bite me. Because I'm here in this devil's hole and have to whirl away from my home. Cut it out. They like it any better than you do. It's our only chance, see? Catching these bugs is our only chance to get the dog and get out of here.

But the sun... You think the sun's any cold are working on the mines? You think the sun's any cold are sitting out there on the beach tearing her out of there every time you see a boat heading back? Tell you, Dixie, the jungle's the only chance we have to get out of here and by the devil, I'm taking it. Yeah. Yeah, you're right.

I know it's as you say. Our only chance. Sure there is. Now snap out of it. Another couple of days like this one, we'll have caught enough of these bugs to head back to the coast. But when we get through? Listen, Dixie, when I say I'm getting out of here, I'm getting out. But the natives say it. Cut it out, I tell you.

Nothing's gonna stop me. But if we do get out, how do we know that Mr. Renac will buy the butterfly? Listen, he said he would, didn't he? Oh, what a man says. Yeah? shouldn't he buy them? Gives us a franc a piece and then sells them all over the world for plenty of dough. But who would waste money on such things? Don't you know nothing.

Schools, museums, they pay plenty of dough for these jungle butterflies. But why should anybody... I'm a getter, I tell you. Yeah, hot enough without you shooting your mouth up all over the time? At least still, I tell you, forget it. All right. Now, forgive. You. I seen you laugh at yourself. Why do you laugh? I was just thinking. What? I think of what you said before about a butterfly with wings like an airplane.

Yeah. Funny, ain't it? Two big guys like you and me. Guys that shot the worst from arson and murder. Both of us depended on what? To get us out of the jungle and back to where we came from. A handful of blue and red and purple butterflies. Yeah, that's the way it is. Funny, isn't it? Anybody told me a couple years ago that I'd be chasing bugs at us, slugged them.

Bugs are all the chance I got now. It's red. You know, it's a funny thing. When I was a kid, I used to chase butterflies, too. Dinky little white ones all around the empty lot in Bakken. What's the matter with you, Dixie? What are you stealing it? You didn't see it? You didn't see what? What is there to see with a... Ladies?

No. No one. Then why? From behind that tree. He looked out at me. He? What are you talking about? Who looked out at you? A spider. and I think it was as large as a dog. You? I'm not sleeping. No. I can't sleep either. Oh, it's so hot. It used to get nice and cold about this time of night where I used to live.

Joe. What's the matter? Did I... Did I see it? You're starting that again. But I must have seen it. I must have seen it. It was all so clear. But I thought it was nothing but a monkey hanging there. Spider. But her soul... Go on there. He's firing your brains. Go on and sleep. Yeah. Sleep. I'll try. Okay. Black mosquito got it under the netting.

You got it? Did you get it? No, no. I got it. Another one. Oh, you're holding a netting. What's the matter? I might as well get up and fix it. Blast that stuff that's falling apart with milk. Joe. Joe. What do you want? Don't go too close to the edge of that clearing. What are you talking about? I'm just going to fix that netting so that...

Joe, what? Joe, what is it? Joe. I'm okay. Yeah, but you screamed. Yeah. Well? I saw two. They were sitting at the edge of the cloud in the moonlight. Yeah. A spider and as big as a dog. Tighter. Pull the line tighter. There. Yeah, I thought it. Okay, come on out of the tree now. All right. Now watch yourself. Don't shake that tree too much.

That trap door's settled. I hear it's rigging. There. Now it's done. There. That cage ain't strong enough to hold it. You're going to run a knife through me. But what if it doesn't come here again? Here by the tree the last few nights, wasn't it? Yeah, but what? So it'll do it again. Or this time it's going to stay by the tree.

But what if the trap's here? Don't start that again. Tell you one jerk in this line from where we're sitting, the whole cage will fall right on him. And, my friend, our troubles are all over. I tell you, Joe, I'm afraid. Afraid of what? Getting out of here and getting someplace where we can live like men? You afraid of making money? Money?

Listen, for a spider that big, I could get enough cash to float home with silk shirts on our back. Think of it. A spider that big? We'll clean up with it. No, Joe. No, I say let's get away from here. Oh, yeah, G.D.C., huh? Well, it don't me. I tell you this blast of jungle has spit out a gold mine for it.

But with a trap, are you sure of it, Joe? Sure, sure, I'm sure. We'll catch him. And there won't be butterflies playing our ship there home, Dixie. It'll be the biggest spider in the world. That's all right, huh, Dixie? But are you sure of the trap, Joe? Is it Winstron, right? Yeah. I wonder what time it is. Star's gone. Yeah, getting up in the morning.

Yeah. It was always early, before. A trap frightened him away. What if spiders know about traps? You said yourself they're clever. No, you're a fool. But you said yourself... There's a talk and that's all. There's a fear in me. Cold and sharp as you... Wait. Huh? Yeah, just a clever. It's gone. Stay quiet. Joe, let him go. Quiet or I'll kill you.

Don't pull a trap. Quiet. It's looking at us. Let this step and it'll be right under there. I got it. I got it. Oh, look at it, Dixie. It's right. And it's mine. The biggest spider in creation. I'll get all the money I need. Oh. Well, Dixie, what's the matter with you? Come on, I wanted to say something. trapped. And it doesn't move.

Just looks at us. Joe. And. How. How many days since... Well, say it. Since we caught the big fella? Three. Yeah, three days. You haven't said it. No, you're telling me. Why do you... Because I'm plainly smart. Pretty soon that thing won't be caring much about anything. Then I'm going to slip the bottom of that cage and off we go. They say such creatures can live for a long time without eating.

Not one of that size. I figure that sitting out there in that sun all day... Well, in about a week, it won't care much whatever we do with it. Do? Yeah. How could such a creature be? What do you mean, how could it be? You're looking at it, ain't you? But such a spider. It's there. That's all it means anything to me.

But such a giant creature. That's it? It's a giant, ain't it? Well, you've seen giant human beings in circuses, haven't you? What did it just happen, that's all? That's the way this spider happened. So black. Yeah. A midnight special, isn't he? Those big, hairy legs. Once I saw an octopus. Huh? Devil fish. Oh, yeah, yeah, sure. This one looks like a giant devil fish, is that it?

Yeah. Oh, we'll not make a billboard at a circus side show. Will we clean up? The legs are strength, they must have. Mm-hmm, not when I get through it. Look at it, Joe, be honest. Huh? Isn't there a strange fascination when you look at it closer? What are you talking about? Your tires. Well, how does it shine? So what? As if there was a thought behind it.

You're starting that again. All these three days it sits there so quietly. Tires like burning flames just walking. Cut it out. Cut it out. If it is thinking, I'm afraid of what it is thinking. How do you need it, Spider? Yeah, plenty of. Dixie couldn't take it anymore. He's off looking for a cool spot. But me? I didn't want to leave you alone, Spider.

I didn't want to leave my meal ticket. You're going to be a big-time attraction on the boardwalk in some big-time circus, Spider. Yeah. You're a screwy-looking thing, Spider. They won't believe it until they see it. The fella's gonna cost them plenty before they do see it. Hey, Spider. How'd you move? Spider. I'm not dead. Get a stick, Spider. Bless you, you're not dead.

You can't be dead. It's been only a wishing. You can't be dead. You're my chance. You can't be dead. Curled up with your legs over you. Bless your move. Reach in and see. Go. Go on me. Pass the devil. You fool me. Let go. Let go of my arm. Get away. Let go. Dixie. Dixie. Let's fight it. Come on, Dixie. Joe. Joe, where are you?

Joe. Oh, the sound. Suddenly so quiet. Joe. What is the man? He said he'd be here. Buddy. Buddy, what? I love him. Joe. Joe, come quickly up on the body. Joe, come quickly. must see who huh Joe Joe you do have this one the spider but how gone gone from the cage what he did to you Joe might come back while I stay in here might come back gotta get out here get things together but if I take the boxers get up before something move behind a tree no one get me won't get me it won't get me oh oh my foot twisted must have broken my no gotta get away oh gotta get away gotta get away I'm gonna get away.

Oh. Oh, my thing. Crawled. My father crawled. All day. It's so dark. Never get me down there, Debussy. I didn't get away. Crawled miles. I didn't get away. There. Someone to help me. Crawled out. Someone to help me. So dark. Oh. Tired. No strength to crawl out. Crawl and find someone to help. Me. And I'll be free. Free. Got something. What? A body.

Go. Go, you, but how? Back in the camp. I'm back in the camp. Go, don't lighten the circle back in the camper. No. Get out. Get out before. No, no, no. Can't crawl anymore. It's all. What? Behind me. It's behind me waiting to jump on my back. No, don't. Nothing. Isn't there? I could only crawl it again if I could only get away before...

The moon's coming up right now. I'll see. I'll see what... Not here. Only you, Joe. Empty, fresh, over there in the moonlight. You little devil, Joe, you brought me here. You were trying to die, but that spider won't get me, not me. It's gone now. My light will get better. I will get away. Yes, I will. Spider, come back. Oh, no. No, no.

No, no, no. No closer. No closer. No, no. Come back. What? Oh, no. Joe, crawling over him. But Joe is dead. Why does he... What is the spider going to... Spinning a whip over him. Turning him around and around with the fly. Covering him with that thick silk. Spinning a web of silk over a joke. Sleep? Sun? Morning. Morning, it is morning.

I'm alive. I'm alive. Someone come and get a hive. Who? So heavy a walk, it can't be I'd never a spider. Must be one of the savages there. Help me see who... Joe. It is Joe alive. Joe. Joe, I'm here. Joe, I'm here. Wait for me. Joe, why do you stand there? I must have had a dream. All that happened. Here's the dream.

Last night. What's your funny nightmare, to tell you? Joe, why do you just stand there? Why do you just look at me? Your eyes, the sun shines and they hurt me. Don't look at me like that, Joe. Your eyes so dark, so big. I say, closer, closer, my friend, come closer. I have such a happy thing to tell you, closer. I hear you.

I like what your eyes are singing to me, Joe. Yes, I come closer. You keep telling me that happy thing. Yeah. I'm close to you now, Joe. Tell me what your eyes... Your hand. Why do you grab my arm? Your other hand, my other arm. Why do your fingers hold my arm so tight they hurt me? Another arm on my shoulder. Another arm holding my neck.

Joe, so many arms. How can it be? Joe, it is you. I see your face, but your eyes bigger and bigger. Sun so strong in my head, burning my head inside. Is that why I see such crazy things, Joe? Joe, why don't you say something? Your eyes bigger and bigger, burning into my head. Now your face is changing. Joe, it is you.

Then why doesn't your face... Joe, that challenge. Your face, your arms. Spider You are the spider The spider Your eyes fooled me, didn't they? Made me think I was seeing Joe But all the time it was you, Mr. Spider The wonderful eyes you have, Mr. Spider. I'm not afraid anymore. Isn't that a joke? Your black arms pull me close. I see the poison dripping from your fangs.

But I'm not afraid. It's very funny. When the worst thing really happens, you're not afraid. I'm not afraid. Your fangs. Closer. Closer. I'm not afraid. Right deep. Right deep.