This episode contains descriptions of gore, rats, animal death and capital punishment, some included imagery may trigger claustrophobia. We advise extreme caution for children under 13. The following is from the judge's house by Bram Stoker with a feeling of something like horror, Malcomson gazed around him in an awestruck manner, as though he expected to find some strange presence behind him. Then he looked over to the corner of the fireplace and with a loud cry, he let the lamp fall from his hand.

There in the judge's armchair, with the rope hanging behind sat the rat with the judge's baleful eyes now intensified and with a fiendish leer save for the howling of the storm without there was silence. Hi, everyone, I'm Alastair Murden, and this is Haunted Places Ghost Stories, a Spotify original from podcast. Ghost stories have risen from every century and every corner of the world, from the streets of Victorian White Chapel to the temples of Japan, where they're seated around the campfire or curled up with a pair of headphones.

We return to them time and again to feel our skin crawl and our hearts race. Episodes of ghost stories are inspired by classic short stories from some of history's greatest authors. The following version is our own unique take. It may feel familiar in some ways and different in others. We hope you enjoy it. You can find episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. Today, we're concluding Bram Stoker's chilling haunted House tale from 1891, the judge's house.

This is the final entry in a two part series. So if you haven't listened to part one yet, make sure you go back and start from the beginning. Last week we met our narrator, Malcolm Malcomson, an aspiring astronomer about to sit for his mathematical tripa exam at the University of Cambridge, one of the most gruelling tests in 19th century academia. As the son of a coal miner, Malcolm score on the exam is his one chance for a life outside the mines.

So he decided to find a remote residence to study in somewhere in the quiet, unassuming town of Bend Church. Soon, Malcolm discovered the perfect place to stay an old mansion just outside of town. However, the locals warned him that the house belonged to the town's former judge, a cruel man who took delight in capital punishment. The house, they say, is haunted. But though Malcolm found the story disturbing, he didn't see what it had to do with him.

But then he heard the rats in the walls. It sounded like there were hundreds fleeing a force he could not see. Their tormentor was revealed to be a gigantic rat over two feet long. So Malcolm resolved to kill the rats and take ownership of his study. He is a man of science and he will not be frightened by vermin living or dead. Coming up, we'll the hunt for a giant rat. This episode is brought to you by Fan Sportsbook, don't just watch college basketball, get in the action and shoot your shot with the fan to a sports book app.

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My eyes roved over the judges study, searching for cracks in the wall or holes in the baseboards, if I could find where that unsettlingly large rat lived, I could capture it or better yet, kill it, which would in turn prove it was not a ghost rat. Once I found it, I'd also find the peace and quiet I so desired as I would have saved the other vermin in the wars from their tyrannical king. Perhaps they settle down or even get some sleep.

And then finally I could focus on my studies. But as my eyes search the room, I found nothing, no cracks or broken baseboards, the place was in fine shape for a vacant house. I could not understand for the life of me where that rat had come from. I look to the ceiling to search for some fissure I'd missed, I backed into a corner, squinting when I felt a soft, furry something brush up against my ear.

I yelped, but when I turned, I realized it was no rat, just the green velvet cord that rang the home's alarm bell. Of course, given that the judge used to hangmen with that same rope, it was an unsettling sight in its own right. I was determined to disprove the superstition that Mrs. Whitham and Dr. Thornhill had conjured. After all, the only thing haunting that house was a sizable rodent infestation.

Yet the details of the judge's sins still stuck in my mind. I found myself recalling what I overheard Dr. Thornhill telling Mrs. Whitham at the inn earlier that day.

A man had died in the house once before, he'd said, supposedly because he could not reach the alarm bell before something else got to him first and the doctor feared I'd meet the same fate. I looked at the green velvet rope and shuddered whether I would end up fulfilling Thornhill. Silly prophecy or not, this green cord had a part in the deaths of hundreds of men. I couldn't imagine going near it again. I could practically hear the snap of each victim's neck and the faint, pitiful cries of their orphaned children.

Then I realized that these pitiful squeaks weren't in my head.

They were coming from the side of the room furthest from the windows. That particular wall held a massive hearth with three large paintings hung above it. They were so coated in dust and grime that I could barely discern the difference between a portrait and a landscape.

I drew close to the hearth and held my lamp up to the obscured paintings. Two seemed quite undamaged, but the largest had an imperfection in the right corner. I pressed my hand to the surface to wipe away some of the mess and I nearly dropped the lamp in surprise. Waiting beneath the dust was the most lifelike rendering of a person I have ever seen. The man sat in a chair wearing a blood red ermine coat draped around his shoulders, his face was pinched and angular and his eyes were squinted, as if accusing of some unseen crime.

There was no doubt that this was the storied former owner of the house, the hanging judge. There was a cruelty to his smile as one side of his mouth curved like a devil's horn. And though I knew he was long dead, I felt the weight of his gaze. I could not imagine what it must have been like to stand in this man's courtroom and wait for him to declare his sentence. My eyes dropped lower on the painting, where I noticed the judge's fingers curl around the arms of the chair.

He sat in white knuckled as if he was trying to strangle something. Then my heart lurched. I recognize that chair by its distinctive black spires. It stood in this room only a few feet away, his throne of judgment. Suddenly, a rat peered out at me from a chewed up corner of the picture frame. A little one, not the one I was hunting. Its beady eyes seemed to relay a message. We're watching you. I became too unnerved for this hunt to unnerve, to do anything other than return to my seat at the desk, Mrs.

Wissam's tails were in my ears again, so I distracted myself by staring at the stars outside. Their glittering beauty lulled me into a state of calm. And I began my studies and knew I was happy that my mathematical proofs seemed to push the ghost stories right out of my head. I worked four hours, my eyes glancing back over to the judges, Darkthrone Every now and then behind it, the green cause swayed in the cold draught coming from the window.

The wind had picked up outside. I could feel my chair wobbling as the whole house shook around me and my eyes struggled to focus on my calculations. I heard something scamper in the distance then, and without thinking, I held my book across the room.

But my aim was off because that blasted giant rat was hanging off the velvet rope, its massive teeth were chewing through the green cord, gently pulling on the alarm bell.

I went to stand, but found myself frozen as the bell began to softly chime. The sound was oddly soothing, like the swinging of a pendulum. The rope had a hypnotizing effect on me. I could picture the sway of the bodies it had held. How many men had felt its soft velvet around their necks? Were they relieved that death came with a smooth touch rather than a rough sailor's rope? Was this the judge's twisted idea of mercy? I looked back at the painting.

The man within it had no mercy for anyone. Then I noticed that the artist had painted the green rope into the portrait. Hanging behind the judge of his stony face could not impress fear upon your soul. The threat of that cord around your neck would. Know, it made me sick to think of how less than 30 years ago a man's death was popular entertainment, families smiling and eating oranges as they waited for the day's horrifying spectacle. I could understand why Mrs.

Whitham felt the way she did. She was old enough to remember the judge's reign of terror, surrounded by these relics of a more upsetting past. It was easy to be taken in by the horror of it all. If I looked far enough inside myself, I worried I was being taken, too. I was scared of many things failure, pain, the usual vulnerabilities of the young and anxious. But most of all, I feared the cold, dark, the dark that swallowed up my father and brothers each time they descended into the mind's.

I would escape that fate by any means necessary. So I pulled my eyes away from the painting, determined to resume working.

As I turned back to my books, the wind whistled through the chimney and the bell stopped. And like a snake tumbling from a tree, the green cord fell to the ground. The rope was broken, Dr. Thornhill was certain that I would need the alarm bell tonight, but now I had nothing. I shivered, though I knew there was no earthly reason I would need saving from a rat. Then again, I had lost track of the dreadful creature.

I picked up my lamp to survey the room again. I walked the perimeter before stopping at the judge's portrait and my blood run cold. Something had changed since I last looked at it. The judge was missing from the painting. Coming up, Malcolm faces a monster. Hi, it's Vanessa from Parks Network, and I'm thrilled to tell you that this month marks a huge milestone for us.

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Sportsbook Doug Faneuil dot com four terms and restrictions. Gambling problem call one 800 gambler. Now back to the story. I could not believe my eyes, the horrible painting of that sinister judge had frightened me enough when I discovered it in his study, but now the subject of the portrait had disappeared entirely. Paintings are just paint immobile records of joys and sorrows past. They cannot move or think. They certainly could not stalk me from beyond their subjects grave.

And yet I was sure that's what was happening now. The judge's throne was now empty. Its dark wood and scarlet cushion reminded me of imagery from biblical passages my mother had read to me as a child. But where had the judge gone? I raised my lamp to the other paintings, hoping I had confused myself that perhaps I had seen the judge in a different portrait. But further inspection proved that I had not. That hideous man was indeed missing from the prison of his frame.

I turned away from the painting and felt my heart stopped. The chair in the study was no longer empty. My large rodent friend had not returned, but something much worse was waiting there, or rather someone. He was cloaked in crimson and ermine, just like in the portrait. It was the judge himself. A clock chimed in the hallway, I expected it to clear the horrible vision from my eyes. Maybe I had fallen asleep at my chair and this was some strange phantasm.

It was not. So the judge was really there smiling, that lopsided, devilish grin. His eyes stared at me with disapproval. I was surprised to note that it reminded me of the look on my professor's faces when they learned of my humble origins as the clocks chiming died away. The judge leaned down to pick up the severed green cord that had fallen to the floor. Tara kept me frozen as I struggled to comprehend what was in front of me.

Girls were not real, I told myself.

The only mysteries in this world are above us. There is no hell below us that holds such demons, though. Maybe. Maybe. That was why he was here. The judge pinned me with his gaze as he readied the cord into a noose and tested the strength of its not I at the door, but found myself still too paralyzed to move. The judge turned his head to the portrait, and the house, which had been so achingly quiet, became consumed with a familiar noise.

Thousands of little feet beating against the walls, roving up and down as though they were looking for something.

The rats burst through the painting. They ran down the walls and covered the entire floor in a pulsing, writhing black mass. That gnawing sounds never left as they chewed on floorboards and cushions, whatever they could sink their sharp teeth into. I gasped and got up from my chair. I tried to step backwards, but was surrounded by a sea of vermin. Then the judge got up from his chair and stepped toward me. The rats cleared a path as he approached, not wanting to be near him any more than I did.

I begged the judge I have only acted in ignorance. I'll leave you in peace. You need only let me go.

The judge paid me no mind.

He walked with slow deliberation, caressing the noose in his hand as though it was a cherished pet. As he moved, the rats scurried away. But one poor creature wasn't quick enough. I heard a sickening crunch as he crushed the rat under his shoes. In that moment, I realized just how deeply frightening and absurd my situation was. I cried out the laws of Earth. So you do not exist. You must obey them. Please, he did not respond.

He only advanced the rats fled from him, rushing toward me, climbing, clawing, trying to escape. I fell backward, then covered in bites and scratches. Each animal I was able to fling from me was replaced by two more. The judge tested the ropes not again as he stepped closer and closer, but I could not move as the weight of the animals pinned me to the ground. I tried to speak, but a rat wriggled into my mouth, desperate to get away.

The judges impassive face broke into a laugh at my misfortune, then he slipped the noose around my neck and pulled it tight. My eyes rolled back until I could see stars, whether they were the ones outside the window or a side effect of my asphyxiation.

I did not know. The judge dragged me across the floor boards to that Spight throne he adored, he hoisted me up to stand on its seat, then tied the top of the rope to the remnants of the cord still swaying from the ceiling. Its pull lifted me so my toes struggled to find purchase on the red seat below.

Then the judge pulled the chair from under me. I felt air around my legs and kicked out for something, anything that would hold my weight, my hands grabbed at the rope above me, but I could not catch my grip. I watched as the rats ran back through the paintings and prayed that my swaying would at least cause the alarm bell to ring. Perhaps Dr. Thornhill would hear it and reach me in time. I clung to life, though the devil himself had stolen all the breath from my body, harsh, gasping noises left my throat sounds so desperate and animalistic that I did not recognize my own voice.

Through it all, the judge watched me with his unholy smile, I felt the world start to spin and shift.

Dark gray spots danced in front of me, not unlike the rats that had swarmed the floor moments ago.

Then I shut my eyes. When I next to open them, I heard a cacophony of people, Mrs. Whitham, Dr. Thornhill and several other men were racing into the house. They stopped at the threshold of the study, mouths agape and stifled sounds of horror in their throats. I tried to speak, but the only noise that left me was a squeak. These people were so large now as though they'd grown several feet. Since I last spoke to them, I looked around frantically taking in my surroundings.

The floor below me was a sea of wood, far too large for my comprehension, and in front of me was a hanging body, my own, but not the one I was presently in. My eyes bulged from my tiny head. I looked down to see little rats claws where my hands had once been. Then I looked back up at the room. All of the paintings had righted themselves and the judge was gazing down at me from his frame, smiling.

I squeaked in panic and ran for Mrs Witham, thinking in my desperation that the kind, noble lady would somehow recognize and take pity on me. She only shrieked and tried to stomp me to death. Dr. Thornhill reached for one of my precious astronomy books and launched it at me. I barely dodged in time. More people were crowding into the study and there was no safe place to run except the hole in the painting. I did not want to go.

Every fiber of my human mind begged me not to enter that dark, that cold, that closeness filled with other rats like me trapped forever. But as I looked into the abyss, it called to me. It told me this was where I had belonged, where I had always belonged. The judge had seen me for what I was, and he had placed me back where my station demanded. My last conscious thought was that it wasn't fair. It wasn't just.

Then I scurried into the dark. One of Bram Stoker's literary mentors was an Irish writer named Sheridan, the venue, a man often credited as one of the pioneers of the Victorian ghost story. And his influence on Stokers work is clear. The judge's house is inspired by the Fanoos story. Mr Justice Harbottle originally published under the name The Haunted House in Westminster Stoker and the fans who also pioneered the type of narrative moments we would call jump scares. Today, the disappearance of the judge from his portrait could be considered one of the most memorable reveals in horror from this period.

And Stokers patented blend of moody atmosphere and kinetic action is found in many modern day horror movies. But Stokers legacy isn't just defined by his style. It's also shaped by the anxieties he tapped into the victims of stokers. Stories often have done very little wrong. They aren't burdened by any secret guilt or glaring hubris, like the tormented figures of Edgar Allan Poe or Matthew Lewis.

But despite their innocence, Stokers characters usually meet their end in shocking and disturbing ways in the judge's house, Malcolm's only sin appears to be his curiosity and cluelessness.

Yet he is murdered or the same.

Here, Bram Stoker harnesses one of the most potent of human fears.

The fear that sometimes, no matter how hard you try or how smart you are, you're doomed no matter what. But perhaps there are some things you can control, heed the advice of your elders and stay clear of any dilapidated old mansions you never know or may be living within its walls.

Thanks again for tuning into haunted places, ghost stories, we will be back on Thursday with a new episode. You can find more episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify. See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories is a Spotify original from podcast. It is executive produced by Max Cutler, Sound Design by Kenny Hobbs with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Erin Lawson. This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was adapted by little Dorita and Jennifer Rachet with writing assistance by Alex Garland, fact checking by Adrianna Romero and research by Niki Taylor.

I'm Alistair Madden. Hi, listeners, it's Vanessa again. Before you go, don't forget to check out the Spotify original from podcast Serial Killers each week. Join me and my co-host Gregg for a deep dive into the minds and madness of history's most notorious murderers. You can binge hundreds of episodes, four years worth and catch new episodes every Monday and Thursday. Listen to serial killers free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcast.