A killer in a rubber bat mask claws throats open in the dark while a mystery writer holes up in a rented mansion stuffed with hidden cash. Agnes Moorehead prowls the creaking halls, flashlight shaking, and Vincent Price oils his way through every scene like a snake in a smoking jacket. Old-dark-house pulp at its most gleefully creaky: secret panels, severed clues, a body count stacking up between thunderclaps. The plot wheezes, sure. But that mask still crawls under your skin, and Price could make a phone book sound like a death sentence.