Spine-Chilling Thrills Lurked in the 1940s, Theater of the Mind
by Cookie Curci
Before there ever was a Freddie Crouger or a Friday the 13ths' Michael
Myers the infamous JA, JA, Jason of Halloween, there were other creatures and
characters to make our souls cringe with uncontrollable fear. the only difference
is, we never, ever got to actually see them, for they existed only in the
deapths and reaches of our darkest imagination. They were characters described
for us via the radio air waves the rest was up to us. For those of you not as
fortunate as I was to recall radio's wondrous years and just how very much
the console radio meant to the American family, here's a little sample of the
way it was...
"If you frighten easily, turn off our radio dial now," the ominous voice on
the radio announced, following up with its chilling weekly warning: "It is
later than you think." Between each word, a gong boomed in the background,
dramatically accenting the eerie effect.
The year was 1946. Every Friday at 7 p.m., Arch Oboler thrilled audiences
with the program Lights Out. Listeners felt a cold chill crawl over them at the
beginning of each episode as a voice from the radio crowed, "This is the
witching hour, ... the time when dogs howl ... and evil is let loose on a sleeping
world. Want to hear about it? Then turn off your lights and come close to your
radio." And people in millions of homes across America did exactly that.
Lights Out debuted in 1935 and soon became the forerunner of radio's macabre
mystery era. Faithful followers tuned in each week to be joyfully scared by
mysteries such as Lights Out, Inner Sanctum, The Shadow and The Whistler.
The radio was America's main source of entertainment and news in the '40s; 90
percent of households owned a radio, and most of them tuned in an average of
two to four hours a day.
Back then, my brother and I were among the millions of happy kids who
listened breathlessly to the tales of horror and doom. Tantalized and mesmerized by
descriptive dialogue and realistic sound effects, our imaginations soared into
high gear. We listened in rapt silence, totally immersed in each rousing
episode. We hung on valiantly to every exciting word, our flesh goose-bumped with
fear.
Among the most celebrated of radio's crime investigators was an invisible
sleuth known as The Shadow. The Shadow was the alter-ego of Lamont Cranston, who
was dramatically portrayed on CBS radio by popular actor Brett Morrison. Part
of The Shadow's popularity sprang from his remarkable ability to roam freely
among people sight unseen--a little trick he learned while traveling in the
Orient.
With all the lights in the room turned off and only a dull glimmer coming
from the radio dial, living room audiences gave The Shadow their undivided
attention. My brother and I listened to this program each week in numbed silence,
our concentration focused only on The Shadow's every syllable.
It was probably one of the few times we sat in such close proximity without
bickering. At the conclusion of these thrillers our bravado had diminished to a
whimper, and one of us would call out, "S-somebody, t-turn on th-the
l-lights, please."
In 1936, a young Orson Welles stepped in as the voice of The Shadow. After
his infamous Mercury Theater broadcast, "War of the Worlds," in October 1937, he
had to give up the role because his voice had gained nationwide notoriety.
"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of man? The Shadow knows," the
announcer called out before each show, followed by a blood-curdling laugh and
ghoulish groans, screams and moans.
This show was definitely not for the faint of heart. At the close of every
episode, the announcer signed off with his usual pearl of wisdom: "The weed of
crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. The Shadow knows." Fade-out with
screeching laughter and the swell of dramatic organ chords.
Another of radio's most listened-to thrillers was Inner Sanctum, a
long-running show of the '30s and '40s. Each episode began with the eerie sound of a
door screeching slowly open and the announcer's greeting: "Gooooood eeevening
friends of the Inner Sanctum. The host, occasionally voiced by Boris Karloff, was
named Raaaaaymond. After telling us the weekly tale, he would apologize for
the stories' frightening contents and wish us all pleasaaaaaant dreeeeeaams" as
the door squeaked shut.
The squeaky door, so much a part of every show, was actually a door in the
studio's stockroom. The producer, hearing the noisy squeak, knew it would be
perfect for the opening of his show. When the program moved to NBC in 1941, they
had to leave the door behind and hire a technician to create a door with the
same familiar sound. After the squeak was finally perfected, the story goes, an
unknowing janitor oiled its creaky hinges. It took the technician hours of
overtime to get the squeak just right again.
Radio has been described as the "theater of the mind," and those of us who
remember how our imaginations painted vivid and spectacular pictures while we
sat transfixed by radio's weekly episodes will agree with that analogy. Radio
touched our hearts and our lives in a way few things ever could.
For over 14 years, Cookie Curci wrote a popular nostalgia column for The Willow Glen
Resident. (The Silicon Valley Metro Newspapers...San Jose califonia)
www.metroactive.com. She's currently writing a column called "Looking Back" that
appears monthly in FRA NOI - a Chicago based newspaper. In additon she writes for
"Mature Living" in Toledo, Ohio, "Senior News" in West Virginia and THE WILLOW GLEN TIMES in San Jose. More about Cookie is at On Writing a Nostalgia Column.... If you would like to comment on an article, Cookie can be reached at Cookiecurci@aol.com.
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