In the dark of night, one light still yet burns.

Frightened fingers tremble as brittle pages turn.

Fireside Mystery Theatre presents The Midnight Reading,

a summer series of dramatic recitations of dark masterpieces in miniature by the masters of the macabre.

Good evening. I'm Ali Silva.

It's the 1920s. The cafes and literary salons of New York City are bubbling with energy,

cresting on a high with new waves of creative promise and possibility. At the center of it all

is the famous and at times infamous gathering of literary giants at the Algonquin Hotel on 59 West 44th Street in Manhattan.

On a typical afternoon, you might find the various colorful members of the Algonquin roundtable

trading witty and cutting remarks off set with bits of gossip. Dorothy Parker is there sharing

a laugh with Robert Benchley. And there's the New Yorker

magazine founder Harold Ross, looking a bit distracted and pensive. Beside him, the usually mute

comedian Harpo Marx is chatting it up with his pal Alexander Wolcott.

Alexander Wolcott. Now there's a name that doesn't ring as many bells as it once did.

Wilcott is probably better remembered for the company he kept, as opposed to his large

output of essays and criticism for the much-esteem New Yorker magazine.

By most accounts, Wolcott was renowned for his acidic barbs and put-downs, but who knew that

the man had it in him to etch such a splendid tale of terror on one of his off days?

Moonlight Sonata is that tale, and it will come as a real surprise to anyone who is familiar

with Wolcott's work and persona.

Here to read Alexander Wolcott's atypical tale of terror, Moonlight Sonata, is Mr. James Reeser.

If this report were to be published in its own England, I would have to cross my fingers in a

...