 Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. While you're listening, you might want to check out the Weird Darkness website. At WeirdDarkness.com you can find transcripts of the episodes, paranormal and horror audiobooks I've narrated, the Weird Darkness store, streaming video of horror hosts and old horror movies, plus you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression, anxiety or thoughts of suicide. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Coming up in this episode of Weird Darkness, it's the story I remember most from the books I read in junior high, the classic short horror story The Monkey's Paw by W.W. Jacobs. If you've never read the story or seen any adaptation of it, I'm glad of that because that means I get the honor and privilege of introducing you to the story for the first time. The Monkey's Paw was first published in England in 1902. Without giving any spoilers in the story, three wishes are granted to the owner of the Monkey's Paw, but the wishes come with an enormous price for interfering with fate. It's been adapted to film and stage numerous times, and of course now as a podcast episode. Now bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the Weird Darkness. Before we get to the story itself, let's learn just a bit about the author. British author W.W. Jacobs lived from 1863 to 1943. He's remembered most for the creepy story I'm sharing in this episode, The Monkey's Paw. William Y. Mark Jacobs was the eldest son of William Gage Jacobs, the first W in W.W. Jacobs, and William Gage's first wife, Sophia Wymark, where the second W in W.W. comes in. Sadly, Sophia would die while her son was still very young. W.W., as he later became known, spent much of his time with his brothers and sisters among the South Devon Wharf where his father was the manager. It was a large family, but it was also a poor one, and W.W., being shy, quiet, and having a fair complexion, didn't have many friends. W.W. was a good student and graduated Burbeck College before the age of 17. In 1879, he became a clerk in the civil service, then later in a bank from 1883 to 1899. It was a nice change from the childhood of poverty he had lived before, now having a steady paycheck. But the work and the income still wasn't enough for W.W. And in 1885, he started submitting anonymous sketches in his spare time to be published in Black Friars, a historic religious and theatrical site located at the eastern end of Victoria Embankment. Some of his stories were published in Jerome K. Jerome and Robert Barr's satirical publications Idler and Today in the early 1890s. The Strand magazine also published some of his writings. Even early on, his stories showed he had a lot of talent, and many known authors and publishers of his day said so. W.W. Jacobs' first collection of stories published in book form was Man Cargos in 1896. Only a year later, his novelette, The Skipper's Wooing, was released, followed the year after that by yet another collection of stories in 1898 called Sea Urchins. In 1899, W.W. Jacobs felt stable enough in his new writing career to make it a full-time occupation and resigned his clerical duties. Around that same time, possibly due to his newly found boost of confidence, he married Agnes Elinor, whom would later bear him three daughters and two sons. Jacobs' best works are considered at Sunwich Port from 1902 and then Dylestone Lane from 1904. Jacobs' stories were often about the common man, those on the lower rung of society, and in a way he was the M. Night Shyamalan of his day, with many of his stories having surprise endings. While his 1902 collection of horror stories, The Lady of the Barge, was not considered one of his best works, it does contain the story he is most well known for, The Monkey's Paw. While W.W. Jacobs continued to write for many more years, it is this story that has most defined his legacy. It has been adapted many times in other media, including plays, films, TV series, operas, stories and comics as early as 1903. The story was first adapted to film in 1915 as a British silent film directed by Sidney Northcote. The film, now lost, starred John Lawson, who also played the main character in Lewis and Parker's 1907 stage play. It was also adapted to film as recently as 2019, in the Shutter Channel's Creepshow anthology series. With a history like that, it is a story every horror fan must hear. When Weird Darkness returns, it is the classic horror tale by W.W. Jacobs from 1902, The Monkey's Paw. We all know someone who struggles with depression, whether we know it or not. It is something that those who suffer tend to deal with in silence, in the shadows. With the organizations we are supporting, with our annual Overcoming the Darkness fundraiser this month, are working to make it easier for those in the darkness to come into the light, to find help, and to learn that they are not alone, that there are ways to overcome the darkness and live normal lives. I am evidence of that myself. I too suffer from depression. Our goal is to raise at least 5,000 this month, but the more we raise, the more people we can help to climb out of their own personal darkness. If you have not donated yet or if you want to give again, or maybe you would like to grab the link and share the fundraiser on your own social media and challenge others to give, visit WeirdDarkness.com slash Overcoming. That is WeirdDarkness.com slash Overcoming. The fundraiser ends on Halloween, so please give right now while you are thinking about it. WeirdDarkness.com slash Overcoming. Without, the night was cold and wet. But in the small parlor of La Burnham Villa, the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire. Park at the wind, said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it. I'm listening, said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. Check. I should hardly think that he'd come tonight, said his father, with his hand poised over the board. Mate, replied his son. That's the worst of living so far out, bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence. Of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathways of bog, and the roads of torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about. I suppose, because only two houses on the road are left, they think it doesn't matter. Never mind, dear, said his wife soothingly. Perhaps you'll win the next one. Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hit a guilty grin in his thin gray beard. There he is, said Herbert White, as the gate banged, till loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door. The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door was heard condoling with the new arrival. A new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, tut, tut, and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye, and Rubicon da visage. Sergeant Major Morris, he said, introducing him. The Sergeant Major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whisky and tumblers, and stood a small copper kettle on the fire. At the third glass, his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk. The little family circle, regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair, and spoke of strange scenes and dofty deeds of wars and plagues and strange peoples. Twenty-one years of it, said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. When he went away, he was a slip of the youth in the warehouse. Now look at him. He don't look to have taken much harm, said Mrs. White politely. I like to go to India myself, said the old man, just to look around a bit, you know. Better where you are, said the Sergeant Major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly shook it again. I should like to see those old temples and the cures and jugglers, said the old man. What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey's paw or something, Morris? Nothing, said the soldier hastily. Least way is nothing worth hearing. Monkey's paw? said Mrs. White curiously. Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps, said the Sergeant Major offhandedly. His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absentmindedly put his empty glass to his lips, and then set it down again. His host filled it for him. To look at, said the Sergeant Major, bumbling in his pocket, it's just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy. He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously. And what is there special about it, inquired Mr. White, as he took it from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table. He had a spell put on it by an old fakir, said the Sergeant Major, a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it. His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat. Well, why don't you have three, sir? said Herbert White cleverly. The soldier regarded him in a way that middle ages want to regard presumptuous youth. I have, he said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened. And did you really have the three wishes granted? asked Mrs. White. I did, said the Sergeant Major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth. Has anybody else wished? inquired the old lady. The first man had his three wishes. Yes, was the reply. I don't know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That's how I got the paw. His toes were so grave that a hush fell upon the group. If you've had your three wishes, it's no good to you now, then, Morris, said the old man at last. What do you keep it for? The soldier shook his head. Fancy, I suppose, he said slowly. If you could have another three wishes, said the old man, eyeing him keenly, would you have them? I don't know, said the other. I don't know. He took the paw and dangling it between his front finger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off. Better let it burn, said the soldier, solemnly. If you don't want it, Morris, said the old man, give it to me. I won't, said his friend doggedly. I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don't blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again, like a sensible man. The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. How do you do it, he inquired. Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud, said the Sergeant Major, but I warn you of the consequences. Sounds like the Arabian knights, said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set the supper. Don't you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me? Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the Sergeant Major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm. If you must wish, he said roughly, wish for something sensible. Mr. White dropped it back into his pocket, and placing chairs motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper, the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening in enthralled fashion to a second installment of the soldier's adventures in India. If the tale about the Monkey Paw is not more truthful than those he's been telling us, said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guests just in time for him to catch the last train, we shan't make much of it. Did you give him anything for it, Father? inquired Mrs. White regarding her husband closely. A trifle, said he, coloring slightly. He didn't want it, but I made him take it, and he pressed me again to throw it away. Likely, said Herbert, with pretended horror, why, we're going to be rich and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor or father to begin with, then you can't be hen pecked. He darted around the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with an entomacassar. Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. I don't know what to wish for, and that's a fact, he said slowly. Seems to me I've got all I want. If you only cleared the house, you'd be quite happy, wouldn't you? said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. Well, wish for 200 pounds, then. That'll just do it. His father, smiling shame-facedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman as his son with a solemn face somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords. I wish for 200 pounds, said the old man distinctly. A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him. It moved, he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. As I wished it, it twisted in my hands like a snake. Well, I don't see the money, said his son as he picked it up and placed it on the table. I bet I never shall. It must have been your fancy father, said his wife, regarding him anxiously. He shook his head. Never mind, though, there's no harm done, but it gave me a shock all at the same. They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night. I expect you'll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed, said Herbert as he bade them goodnight. And something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains. He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire and seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it in amazement. It got so vivid that with a little uneasy laugh he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. His hand grasped the monkey's paw and with a little shiver, he wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed. In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table, Herbert laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night and the dirty, shriveled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which betoked no great belief in its virtues. I suppose all soldiers are the same, said Mrs. White, the idea of our listening to such nonsense. How could wishes be granted in these days and if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father? My drop on his head from the sky, said the frivolous Herbert. Horace said the things happened so naturally, said his father, that you might if you so wish to tribute it to coincidence. Well, don't break into the money before I come back, said Herbert as he rose from the table. I'm afraid it'll turn you into a mean, avaricious man and we shall have to disown you. His mother laughed and followed him to the door, watched him down the road and returned to the breakfast table, was very happy at the expense of her husband's credulity, all of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman's knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a tailor's bill. Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks I expect when he comes home, she said as they sat at dinner. I daresay, said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer. But for all that, the thing moved in my hand, that I'll swear to. You thought it did, said the old lady soothingly. I say it did, replied the other. There was no thought about it. I just… what's the matter? His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the 200 pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well-dressed and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hands upon it and then, with sudden resolution, flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. White, at the same moment, placed her hands behind her and hurriedly unfastened the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair. She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room and her husband's coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent. I was… asked to call, he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. I combed from maw and meagons. The old lady started, is anything the matter? She asked breathlessly, has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it? Her husband interposed, there, there, mother, he said hastily, sit down and don't jump to conclusions. You've not brought bad news, I'm sure, sir. And the other wistfully. I'm sorry, began the visitor. Is he hurt? Demanded the mother. The visitor bowed in a scent. Badly hurt, he said quietly, but he's not in any pain. Oh, thank God, said the old woman, clasping her hands. Thank God for that. Thank… She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other's averted face. She caught her breath and, turning to her slower witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence. He was caught in the machinery, said the visitor at length in a low voice. Caught in the machinery, repeated Mr. White in a dazed fashion. Yes, he sat, staring blankly out at the window and taking his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he'd been wont to do in their old courting days nearly forty years before. He was the only one left to us, he said, turning gently to the visitor. It's hard. The other coughed and rising walked slowly to the window. The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss, he said, without looking round. I beg that you will understand I'm only their servant in merely obeying orders. There was no reply. The old woman's face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible. On the husband's face was a look such as his friend the Sergeant might have carried into his first action. I was to say that Maugh and Megan's disclaim or responsibility continued the other. They admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son's services they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation. Mr. White dropped his wife's hand, and rising to his feet gazed with a look of horror at his visitor, his dry lips shaped the words. How much? Two hundred pounds was the answer. Unconscious of his wife's shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped a senseless heap to the floor. In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen, something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear. But the days passed and expectation gave place to resignation, the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were long to weariness. It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened. Come back, he said tenderly, you'll be cold. It's colder for my son, said the old woman, and wept fresh. The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm and his eyes heavy asleep. He dozed fitfully and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start. The paw, she cried wildly, the monkey's paw. He started up in alarm. Where? Where is it? What's the matter? She came stumbling across the room toward him. I want it, she said quietly. You've not destroyed it? It's in the parlor on the bracket, he replied, marveling. Why? She cried and laughed together and bending over kissed his cheek. I only just thought of it, she said hysterically. Why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it? Think of what? He questioned. The other two wishes, she replied rapidly. We've only had one. Was not that enough? He demanded fiercely. No, she cried triumphantly. We'll have one more. Go down and get it quickly and wish our boy alive again. The man sat up in bed and flung the bed clothes from his quaking limbs. Good God, you're mad, he cried, aghast. Get it, she panted. Get it quickly and wish. Oh, my boy, my boy! Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. Get back to bed, he said, unsteadily. You don't know what you're saying. We had the first wish granted, said the old woman feverishly. Why not the second? A coincidence, stammered the old man. Go and get it and wish, cried the old woman, quivering with excitement. The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. He's been dead ten days, and besides, he... I would not tell you else, but I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now? Bring him back, cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door. Do you think I fear the child I have nursed? He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlor, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow, cold with sweat, he felt his way around the table, and groped along the wall, until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand. Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her. Wish, she cried in a strong voice. It is foolish and wicked, he faltered. Wish, repeated his wife. He raised his hand. I wish my son alive again. The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. And he sank, trembling into a chair, as the old woman with burning eyes walked to the window and raised the blind. He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle land, which had burnt below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman crept back to his bed, and a minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him. Neither spoke, but both lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and the squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time, screwing up his courage, the husband took the box of matches and, striking one, went downstairs for a candle. At the foot of the stairs, the match went out, and he paused to strike another, and at the same moment a knock so quiet and stealthily as to be scarcely audible sounded on the front door. The matches fell from his hand. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house. What's that? cried the old woman, starting up. A rat, said the old man in shaking tones. A rat passed me on the stairs. His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house. It's Herbert! she screamed. It's Herbert! She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm held her tightly. What are you going to do? he whispered hoarsely. It's my boy! It's Herbert! she cried, struggling mechanically. I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go! I must open the door. For God's sake, don't let it in! cried the old man, trembling. You're afraid of your own son? she cried, struggling. Let me go! I'm coming, Herbert! I'm coming! There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free, and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her, appealingly, as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back, and the bottom bolt draw slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then, the old woman's voice, straining and panting, the bolt! she cried loudly, come down! I can't reach it! But her husband was on his hands and knees, groping wildly on the floor, in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside, got in. A perfect fuselot of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey's paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish. The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair draw back, and the door opened. The cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long, loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The streetlamp flickering opposite, shown on a quiet and deserted road. If you made it this far, welcome to the Weirdo Family. If you like the podcast, please tell your friends and family about it however you can, and get them to become Weirdos too. And I greatly appreciate you leaving a review in the podcast app you listen from that helps the podcast get noticed. Do you have a dark tale to tell of your own? Fact or fiction, click on Tell Your Story at WeirdDarkness.com, and I might use it in a future episode. The Monkey's Fall is by WWJacobs, and it's in the public domain. Weird Darkness theme by Alibi Music. And now that we're coming out of the dark, I'll leave you with a little light. Matthew 6, 14. If you forgive men when they sin against you, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you. And a final thought from Celestine Chua, if you can see the positive sides of everything, you'll be able to live a much richer life than others. I'm Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.