The Ray Bradbury Theater (1985–1992): Season 3, Episode 8 - The Haunting of the New - full transcript
Wealthy socialite Nora is notorious for her decadent parties and wild escapades; when her stately mansion burns to the ground, she has it rebuilt--but it will not let her back in.
[theme music]
RAY BRADBURY
(VOICEOVER): People ask,
where do you get your ideas?
Well, right here.
All this is mine.
I'll never starve here.
I'm Ray Bradbury, and this is--
This is a postcard
from a friend overseas,
which caused me to write
"The Haunting of the New."
A postcard?
Not a stuffed lion, or a
robot dinosaur, or a toy
xylophone, but an
airmail postcard?
Yes, because it told about
an old house in a far place
on a strange night--
a house that night
and came alive again.
And here is how it happened.
[phone ringing]
Hello?
NORA (ON PHONE): Charles, hello?
Charlie, that you?
- Mhm.
NORA (ON PHONE): Are
you rich at last,
and do rich writers still
dream of fabulous estates?
Nora?
I'm at Grinwood.
I want you down here now.
[laughs] Nora, it's 5
o'clock in the morning.
You know I hate practical jokes.
It's no jokes.
It's real stuff.
Get in your car, and come on up.
[sighs] It's the
middle of the night.
It's more than 200 miles.
Charlie, please.
Get up, and get going.
Even on these roads, you
can be here by evening.
[sighs]
And one little thing.
You can have the house.
Have the house?
If the house likes you.
[phone hanging up]
NORA (ECHOING VOICEOVER):
You can have the house,
if the house likes you.
Ha, ha!
Dear old Nora-- her
parties, her jokes.
My buddy take a
Grinwood party again?
You'll love Nora's.
It's a zoo.
Darling, you'll be
petted and hugged.
Her house would chew,
gnaw, bite, and gum
you to death by Monday noon.
Well, I'm wearing three
suits of steel plated armor.
[laugh]
No house, no home, no room can
turn me to mush and digest me.
No?
Oh, we shall see most of your
skeleton by Sunday, sunrise.
[laughs]
You were so right, Duchess.
[chattering] Hello,
Well, let's not waste time.
Where's the party?
Looks like it's out here.
Nora, Charles.
Charles, Nora.
Gangway.
Gangway.
Beaten at my own game.
And I'd so hoped to shock you.
Never fear.
You have.
Perhaps I'd better--
just to be different--
put my clothes back on.
Help me?
The Ballet Russe is in
the east wing, of course.
I flew them in from Paris.
In the north wing, students
from the [french] oh-la-la.
In the west wing, there's
the Stuttgart orchestra.
Dear [french].
And on the top floor
of the west wing,
there's a Martha Grabhorn
and her modern tap dancers.
And then tomorrow, there's
the Philadelphia Orchestra--
the string section.
And Sunday, there's Dame Edith
Sullivan and (ITALIAN DIALECT)
those Italian architects.
Oh, wah!
It's utterly mad.
Do take off your
jacket at least,
and that scrumptious waistcoat.
Come!
No lights, no music,
no shrieks of laughter.
That's Grinwood,
but you've changed.
Nora?
Nora.
Hello, Charles.
What are you doing out here?
The house won't
let me come in.
What's happened?
Nothing.
Everything.
Oh my dear Charlie,
you won't believe it.
But your party.
Where's everyone gone?
That was last night.
Impossible.
You've never had a one
night party in your life.
It's always been
two, three days.
It never stopped.
Oh, no?
Oh, my dear Charlie.
Last night, it did.
The last great party at
Grinwood, last night.
Mag flew over from Paris--
the [inaudible],, and a
fabulous girl from Nice.
Roger, Percy, Evelyn,
Vivian, and John were here.
The bullfighter who almost
killed the playwright
over the ballerina was here.
The Irish playwright who
falls offstage drunk was here.
97 guests teamed in that
door between 8:00 and 10:00
last night.
By midnight, they were gone.
Why?
It wouldn't let
us have a party.
It let--
Nora, come on.
Oh.
The music was splendid.
The wine, divine.
Champagne-- to die for.
At midnight, all the shut
doors in the upper rooms,
where all the happy,
loving people played--
all these doors, all by
themselves came open.
[moaning]
The house invited us--
politely, to get out.
But why?
Go in and look, Charles.
Look?
For what?
Look-- at everything--
the rooms, the
halls, the stairs--
the mystery.
You're coming with me.
I can't.
The house is yours,
Charles, if you want it.
But you have to go in alone.
Well?
What do you see?
Nothing.
The house.
See the Gainsborough?
It's here.
No.
It's not.
A marble Florentine chess set?
- It's here.
- It's not.
The big maroon leather
arm chair, where you drank
sherry with father years ago.
Do you see that?
That's not there either.
NORA (ECHOING VOICEOVER):
You can have the house.
But it is.
They all are.
NORA (ECHOING VOICEOVER):
--if the house likes you.
Nora!
Nora!
What the hell is
going on in here?
Grinwood is gone, Charlie.
Four years ago, it
burned to the ground--
burned utterly.
Did you see it,
hear it, smell it?
But it's there.
Look.
No, it's not.
No, I'm not ill.
I don't lie.
It's all fake, Charlie.
All remade, all new.
Now look, Nora.
That's quite enough.
It's me, Charlie.
I'm the one who makes
up stories, not you.
Stop playing
these games, Nora.
It's not games, Charlie.
Oh, no, no, no.
It's not games.
When I was 18, and
came into my money,
I didn't believe in
conscience and guilt. Did you?
No, never.
A conscience is real,
and guilt collects.
Oh, yes.
It collects, Charlie.
And a house is like a large
person collecting too.
Bosh!
It's not bosh.
It's facts.
1,000 lovely men of army
trooped through my arms
and through that house.
500 parties have rattled
those windows, haunted
those attics, warmed
ten score of beds,
brimmed that pool with
licentious swimmings,
and gin, and flesh,
from 1,000 to midnight,
to a thousand ohms.
And I don't believe there's
ever been a happy person
in that house, Charlie.
We were happy.
We had a wonderful time.
And it was a lie!
It was assassins
stabbing each other,
pretending that was love.
When the assassins
left, they left
their sins and the memories
of their sins behind.
Combustion, sin, and lust.
A house chocked on our past.
Four years ago, it burned
itself down to spare.
CHARLIE: And you rebuilt?
There were plans,
drawings, and my memory.
I flew in stonemasons,
stonecutters from Perugia.
I hammered, and sawed, and cut
for years for a thousand days,
Charlie, as I flew to France
and watched great spiders
reweave my tapestries.
I wrote to Hans in Waterford.
As crystal men blew new glass
for wine, Grinwood will rise,
I cried!
Phoenix from ashes!
A mad world, rich with dreams,
and money, and leather.
Charles?
But no, said the new.
I am freshly born.
You are stale and dying.
It was good.
We were wicked, so
it turned us out.
We tried to laugh.
It smothered us.
We tried to dance.
It crippled our steps.
We tried to drink.
It soured our wine.
And so the last great party.
The party that never happened,
that never could begin,
was over.
It's all over, Charlie.
Here are the keys to Grinwood.
I'm giving you them-- a gift.
The house is yours.
Now, look Nora.
In the morning,
if the house allows.
Nora, a house cannot
throw people out.
You go in there tonight.
If it likes you, stay.
We can't both be so full of sin.
Go in there alone, Charlie.
All right, Nora.
If that's what you want.
[door creaking]
Ah.
[sigh]
[moaning]
[echo of screaming]
Charlie?
Mm.
It didn't want you either.
I'm too old and full of sin.
I wish I could burn
myself down and start again.
Charlie-- the door.
[sigh]
Not for us.
Not for us.
Maybe it's hoping one day--
tomorrow, the
next-- a young girl,
fresh, innocent, a milk maid--
come up that road, and go in.
And will it let her stay?
RAY BRADBURY
(VOICEOVER): People ask,
where do you get your ideas?
Well, right here.
All this is mine.
I'll never starve here.
I'm Ray Bradbury, and this is--
This is a postcard
from a friend overseas,
which caused me to write
"The Haunting of the New."
A postcard?
Not a stuffed lion, or a
robot dinosaur, or a toy
xylophone, but an
airmail postcard?
Yes, because it told about
an old house in a far place
on a strange night--
a house that night
and came alive again.
And here is how it happened.
[phone ringing]
Hello?
NORA (ON PHONE): Charles, hello?
Charlie, that you?
- Mhm.
NORA (ON PHONE): Are
you rich at last,
and do rich writers still
dream of fabulous estates?
Nora?
I'm at Grinwood.
I want you down here now.
[laughs] Nora, it's 5
o'clock in the morning.
You know I hate practical jokes.
It's no jokes.
It's real stuff.
Get in your car, and come on up.
[sighs] It's the
middle of the night.
It's more than 200 miles.
Charlie, please.
Get up, and get going.
Even on these roads, you
can be here by evening.
[sighs]
And one little thing.
You can have the house.
Have the house?
If the house likes you.
[phone hanging up]
NORA (ECHOING VOICEOVER):
You can have the house,
if the house likes you.
Ha, ha!
Dear old Nora-- her
parties, her jokes.
My buddy take a
Grinwood party again?
You'll love Nora's.
It's a zoo.
Darling, you'll be
petted and hugged.
Her house would chew,
gnaw, bite, and gum
you to death by Monday noon.
Well, I'm wearing three
suits of steel plated armor.
[laugh]
No house, no home, no room can
turn me to mush and digest me.
No?
Oh, we shall see most of your
skeleton by Sunday, sunrise.
[laughs]
You were so right, Duchess.
[chattering] Hello,
Well, let's not waste time.
Where's the party?
Looks like it's out here.
Nora, Charles.
Charles, Nora.
Gangway.
Gangway.
Beaten at my own game.
And I'd so hoped to shock you.
Never fear.
You have.
Perhaps I'd better--
just to be different--
put my clothes back on.
Help me?
The Ballet Russe is in
the east wing, of course.
I flew them in from Paris.
In the north wing, students
from the [french] oh-la-la.
In the west wing, there's
the Stuttgart orchestra.
Dear [french].
And on the top floor
of the west wing,
there's a Martha Grabhorn
and her modern tap dancers.
And then tomorrow, there's
the Philadelphia Orchestra--
the string section.
And Sunday, there's Dame Edith
Sullivan and (ITALIAN DIALECT)
those Italian architects.
Oh, wah!
It's utterly mad.
Do take off your
jacket at least,
and that scrumptious waistcoat.
Come!
No lights, no music,
no shrieks of laughter.
That's Grinwood,
but you've changed.
Nora?
Nora.
Hello, Charles.
What are you doing out here?
The house won't
let me come in.
What's happened?
Nothing.
Everything.
Oh my dear Charlie,
you won't believe it.
But your party.
Where's everyone gone?
That was last night.
Impossible.
You've never had a one
night party in your life.
It's always been
two, three days.
It never stopped.
Oh, no?
Oh, my dear Charlie.
Last night, it did.
The last great party at
Grinwood, last night.
Mag flew over from Paris--
the [inaudible],, and a
fabulous girl from Nice.
Roger, Percy, Evelyn,
Vivian, and John were here.
The bullfighter who almost
killed the playwright
over the ballerina was here.
The Irish playwright who
falls offstage drunk was here.
97 guests teamed in that
door between 8:00 and 10:00
last night.
By midnight, they were gone.
Why?
It wouldn't let
us have a party.
It let--
Nora, come on.
Oh.
The music was splendid.
The wine, divine.
Champagne-- to die for.
At midnight, all the shut
doors in the upper rooms,
where all the happy,
loving people played--
all these doors, all by
themselves came open.
[moaning]
The house invited us--
politely, to get out.
But why?
Go in and look, Charles.
Look?
For what?
Look-- at everything--
the rooms, the
halls, the stairs--
the mystery.
You're coming with me.
I can't.
The house is yours,
Charles, if you want it.
But you have to go in alone.
Well?
What do you see?
Nothing.
The house.
See the Gainsborough?
It's here.
No.
It's not.
A marble Florentine chess set?
- It's here.
- It's not.
The big maroon leather
arm chair, where you drank
sherry with father years ago.
Do you see that?
That's not there either.
NORA (ECHOING VOICEOVER):
You can have the house.
But it is.
They all are.
NORA (ECHOING VOICEOVER):
--if the house likes you.
Nora!
Nora!
What the hell is
going on in here?
Grinwood is gone, Charlie.
Four years ago, it
burned to the ground--
burned utterly.
Did you see it,
hear it, smell it?
But it's there.
Look.
No, it's not.
No, I'm not ill.
I don't lie.
It's all fake, Charlie.
All remade, all new.
Now look, Nora.
That's quite enough.
It's me, Charlie.
I'm the one who makes
up stories, not you.
Stop playing
these games, Nora.
It's not games, Charlie.
Oh, no, no, no.
It's not games.
When I was 18, and
came into my money,
I didn't believe in
conscience and guilt. Did you?
No, never.
A conscience is real,
and guilt collects.
Oh, yes.
It collects, Charlie.
And a house is like a large
person collecting too.
Bosh!
It's not bosh.
It's facts.
1,000 lovely men of army
trooped through my arms
and through that house.
500 parties have rattled
those windows, haunted
those attics, warmed
ten score of beds,
brimmed that pool with
licentious swimmings,
and gin, and flesh,
from 1,000 to midnight,
to a thousand ohms.
And I don't believe there's
ever been a happy person
in that house, Charlie.
We were happy.
We had a wonderful time.
And it was a lie!
It was assassins
stabbing each other,
pretending that was love.
When the assassins
left, they left
their sins and the memories
of their sins behind.
Combustion, sin, and lust.
A house chocked on our past.
Four years ago, it burned
itself down to spare.
CHARLIE: And you rebuilt?
There were plans,
drawings, and my memory.
I flew in stonemasons,
stonecutters from Perugia.
I hammered, and sawed, and cut
for years for a thousand days,
Charlie, as I flew to France
and watched great spiders
reweave my tapestries.
I wrote to Hans in Waterford.
As crystal men blew new glass
for wine, Grinwood will rise,
I cried!
Phoenix from ashes!
A mad world, rich with dreams,
and money, and leather.
Charles?
But no, said the new.
I am freshly born.
You are stale and dying.
It was good.
We were wicked, so
it turned us out.
We tried to laugh.
It smothered us.
We tried to dance.
It crippled our steps.
We tried to drink.
It soured our wine.
And so the last great party.
The party that never happened,
that never could begin,
was over.
It's all over, Charlie.
Here are the keys to Grinwood.
I'm giving you them-- a gift.
The house is yours.
Now, look Nora.
In the morning,
if the house allows.
Nora, a house cannot
throw people out.
You go in there tonight.
If it likes you, stay.
We can't both be so full of sin.
Go in there alone, Charlie.
All right, Nora.
If that's what you want.
[door creaking]
Ah.
[sigh]
[moaning]
[echo of screaming]
Charlie?
Mm.
It didn't want you either.
I'm too old and full of sin.
I wish I could burn
myself down and start again.
Charlie-- the door.
[sigh]
Not for us.
Not for us.
Maybe it's hoping one day--
tomorrow, the
next-- a young girl,
fresh, innocent, a milk maid--
come up that road, and go in.
And will it let her stay?