The Frightened

by Boris Karloff

[Pseudonym of Michael Avallone]

Boris Karloff, the Master of Mystery, can now be heard on your local radio station with his terrifying new show, “The Frightened.” We are happy to bring you a printed replica of one of these transcribed TALES OF TERROR—the strange story of the weird man in the raincoat who also carries a curiously shaped umbrella....

Are you one of The Frightened? Have you ever imagined somebody was following you? Catch a glimpse of a strange face in the crowd behind you? Then that face seems mysteriously with you wherever you go? First, a flashing glance in a sidewalk mirror, a shop window. You stop for a street light, turn, and somebody darts into a doorway. There! Wasn’t that him ... pretending to adjust his shoelace; suddenly interested in lighting his pipe? That peculiar looking fellow in the raincoat with the curiously-shaped umbrella ... Sylvester Dodge had just such an experience. Walk with me a bit and I’ll tell you about Sylvester and his man in the raincoat.

Sylvester Dodge was a man like you or me. The same hopes, the same fears, the same dreams. He worked as a bookkeeper in an office and for many years he was saving for the day when he could afford his trip to Europe—Paris, Rome, London. Oh, the years and the countless hours and days that Sylvester Dodge took the subway to his Wall Street office and made his plans and built his dreams for his big holiday away from ledgers and balances and adding machines. Finally the last week of daily toil approached and Sylvester was alive with hope and desire. Anticipation thrilled his fat little body as he boarded the Lexington Avenue local. The big vacation loomed on his horizon as the salvation of a dreary lifetime. It was then that Sylvester Dodge noticed the man in the raincoat with the curiously-shaped umbrella. Something about the man made Sylvester shudder. It was a beautiful Spring day. A raincoat and an umbrella seemed like sacrilege. But it was more than that. The face of the man was a deathly white and the hands surrounding the handle of the umbrella were like great claws. The flesh of the fingers was horribly gnarled and ghastly green. Sylvester could not look at him. But even in turning away, he felt the eyes of the man boring into his back like twin beams of awful light. You know the feeling, don’t you? Someone looking at you, staring at you, eyeing you with such a terrible concentration that you want to scream or cry out—Stop! Stop! When the train reached the station, Sylvester Dodge alighted from his car like a man released from prison. He fairly bounded up the stairway to the sun-splashed street. He drew a deep gust of air and felt enormously better. The man in the subway had shocked him. But then again, you do meet all kinds of people in New York, don’t you? And so Sylvester Dodge began the five-block walk to his office. The sun was out, April breezes caressed the stone buildings and people bustled along with spring steps. But Sylvester Dodge had that curious feeling I mentioned to you—someone was following him. He felt eyes peering at his back, could feel somebody’s interest and attention focussed on his rounded body hurrying through the crowds. Sylvester Dodge found himself walking faster. He stopped for a street light, puffing for air—he turned—a deathly white face in the crowd bobbed like a Halloween skeleton—vanished. Sylvester Dodge whirled and raced across the street, his coat tails flying. People made room for him, wondering at the curious spectacle of a fat man running. Sylvester Dodge stopped again, a block away from his office, and flung a backward look. There was the man in the raincoat with the ghastly face, waving his clawlike hand in greeting, the umbrella dangling off his wrist. Something pounded in Sylvester Dodge’s skull and the cold wind of something dreadful squeezed his heart in icy fingers. Desperately, he raced the remaining block and fell against the building wall gasping for breath. He turned slowly, fighting for his reason. But no—there was the man with the raincoat, a scant ten yards away, coming toward him. The ghastly face was smiling and the umbrella was outstretched almost as if it were seeking something. Sylvester Dodge pushed out from the wall and left the protection of the building. At that precise moment, the grand piano that was being hoisted to the office on the fourth floor swung awkwardly on its pulley—the rope snapped and its great weight crashed to the sidewalk pinning Sylvester Dodge to his death. His scream of agony was lost in the roar of the city’s traffic ... So you see, poor Sylvester tried to run away from his fate and dodged in the wrong direction. All because he had the silly notion that someone was following him.... Well, I’ll leave you here, my friend. You don’t think my face is so awfully white do you? Oh, I’m sorry, I seem to have dropped my umbrella. Would you mind very much ... handing it to me...?