Host: This is a postcard from a friend overseas which caused me to write "The Haunting of the New." A postcard: not a stumped 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 died and came alive again, and here's how it happened.
Nora: When I was 18 and came into my money, I didn't believe in conscience or guilt. Do you? No. Never. But conscience is real. And guilt collects. Oh yes, it collects, Charlie. The house is like a large person, collecting too.
Nora: It's not bosh, it's facts. A thousand lovely men have army trooped through my arms and through that house. Five hundred parties have rattled those windows, haunted those attics, warmed ten score of beds. Brimmed that pool with licentious swimmings in gin and flesh. And a thousand midnights, and a thousand doors. And I don't believe there's ever been a happy person in that house, Charlie.