 Thisaving Shadows by Paul Song Lin Thisaving Shadows by Paul Song Lin Night was falling when the horseshoes of the mules of my caravan resounded on the slippery flagstones of the village. Tired by a long day of walking, I directed my steps towards the large hall in the inn, with the intention of resting a moment while my riposte was being prepared. In the darkened room, the glimmer of a small opium lamp lit up the pale and hollow face of an old man, occupied in holding over the flame his small ball of black truck which would soon be transformed to smoke, source of forgetfulness and dreams. The old man returned my greeting and invited me to lie down on the couch opposite to him. He handed me a pipe already prepared and we began talking together. As ordered by the laws of politeness, I remarked to my neighbor that he seemed robust for each age. My age? Do you then think I am so old? But as you are so wise, you must have been sixty-hovests, sixty. I am not a thirty-year-old, but you must have come from a long way off not to know who I am, and while rolling the bowls with dexterity in the palm of his hand and making them puff out to the heat of the lamp, he told me his story. His name was Liu Fever of Heaven, bomb and brought up in the capital. He had been promoted six years before to the post of sub-prefect in the town on which our refusal was dependent. When coming to take his post, he stopped at the inn, the same one where we were. The house was full, but he had remarked on entering a long pavilion which seemed uninhibited. The landlord being asked looked perplexed. He ended by saying that the pavilion had been shut for the last two years. All the travellers had complained of noises and strange visions, probably mitzvah spirits lived there. Fever of Heaven, having lived in the capital, but little believed in phantoms. He found out it was an excellent to establish his reputation in braving imaginary dangers. His wife and his children implored him in vain. He persisted in his intention of remaining the night alone in the haunted house. He had lights brought, installed himself in a big armchair and placed across his knees a long and heavy sword. More sparse by, the sonorous noise of the gong, struck by the watchman, announced successively the hours. Forced to the pig, then up the rat. He grew drowsy. Suddenly he was air-quenched by the gnashing of teeth. All the lights were out. The darkness, however, was not deep enough to prevent his being able to distinguish everything confusedly. Anguish seized him. His heartbeat with violence. His stirring eyes were fixed on the door. By the half-open door, he perceived a round white mass, the deformed head of a monster, who, aprim little by little, stretched long hands with twisted fingers and claws. Fever of Heaven mechanically raised his weapon, his blood frozen in his veins. He tried to strike the head, whose indistinct features were certainly dreadful. Without doubt, the blow had struck. For a frightful cry was heard. All the demons of the inferior regions seemed to let loose with this yell. Calls were heard from all sides. The trail-list of frames of the windows were shaken with violence. The monster gained the door. Fever of Heaven perceived him and threw him down. His terror was such that he felt he must strike and kill. Really had he finished then, they ran to earth, rolling from side to side a little wing, quite round, brandishing unknown weapons at the end of innumerable small hands. The prefect, with one blow, cut him in two like a watermelon. However, the windows were shaken at growing rage. Unknown things entered by the door without interruption. The prefect chewed them down one after another, a black shadow first, then a head balancing itself at the end of a huge neck, then the jaw of a crocodile, then a big bird with the chest and feet of a donkey. Trembling all over, the man struck right and left, exhausted and panting. A cold perspiration overwhelmed him. He felt his strength gradually giving way, when the cock crowed at last the coming of the day. Little by little, grey dawn designed the trailess of the windows, then the sun suddenly appeared above the horizon and dotted its rays across the rinse in the paper. Fever of Heaven felt his heart stand still. On the floor, inundated with blood, the bodies lying there had human forms, forms that he knew. This one looked like his second wife, and this one, this little head that had rolled against the foot of the table, he would have seen that it was his last son. With a mad cry, he drew away his weapon and ran to open the door, through which the son poured in, and arm crowd was moving in the yard. My family, my family, where is my family? They were all with you in the pavilion, but as they were speaking, they saw its stupor, the hair of the young man becoming white, and the wrinkles of age cover his face, while he remained motionless, as well as insensible, the drewn air. He rolled fainting on the ground, and thus, and at the sub-prefect, in the silence of the dark hall, where only the little light of the opium lamp was shining. I remained several days with the knowledge of anything. When I came to myself, I had to be at a sorrow of having killed my whole family in these atrocious circumstances. I resigned my post. I had magnificent arms built for all those who were killed this fatal night, and since then I smoked without seizing the agreeable drug, in order to fly away from the remembrance, which will haunt me until my last day. End of Deceiving Shadows, by Paul Song Lin. Life is a burden in the fall, the sad season of decay and death, the grey days, the weeping sunless sky, the dark nights, the growling, whining wind, the heavy black autumn shadows, all that drives clouds of gloomy thoughts over the human soul, and fills it with a mysterious fear of life where nothing is permanent, all is an eternal flux. Things are born, decay, die. Why? For what purpose? Sometimes, the strength fails us to battle against the tenorber's thoughts that enfold the soul late in the autumn. Therefore those who want to assuage their bitterness ought to meet them halfway. This is the only way by which they will escape from the chaos of despair and doubt, and will enter on the terra firma of self-confidence. But it is a laborious path. It leads through thorny brambles that lacerate the living heart, and on that path the devil always lies in ambush. It is that best of all the devils, with whom the great Gerd has made us acquainted. My story is about that devil. The devil suffered from ennui. He is too wise to ridicule everything. He knows that there are phenomena of life which the devil himself is not able to rail at. For example, he has never applied the sharp scalpel of his irony to the majestic fact of his existence. To tell the truth, our favorite devil is more bold than clever, and if we were to look more closely at him, we might discover that, like ourselves. He wastes most of his time on trifles. But we had better leave that alone. We are not children that break their best toys in order to discover what is in them. The devil once wandered over the cemetery in the darkness of an autumn night. He felt lonely and whistled softly as he looked around himself in search of a distraction. He whistled an old song. My father's favorite song. When, in autumnal days, a leaf from its branches torn, and on high by the wind is born. And the wind sang with him, sowing over the graves and among the black crosses, and heavy, autumnal clouds slowly crawled over the heaven, and with their cold tears watered the narrow dwellings of the dead. The mournful trees in the cemetery timidly creaked under the strokes of the wind and stretched their bare branches to the speechless clouds. The branches were now and then caught by the crosses and then a dull, shuffling, awful sound passed over the churchyard. The devil was whistling in teetot. I wonder how the dead feel in such weather. No doubt the dampness goes down to them, and although they are secure against rheumatism ever since the day of their death, yet I suppose they do not feel comfortable. How if I called one of them up and had a talk with him? It would be a little distraction for me and very likely for him also. I will call him. Somewhere around here they have buried an old friend of mine, an author. I used to visit him when he was alive. Why not renew our acquaintance? People of his kind are dreadfully exacting. I shall find out whether the grave satisfies him completely. But where is his grave? And the devil, who, as is well known, knows everything, wandered for a long time about the cemetery before he found the author's grave. Oh, there, he called out as he knocked for this claws of the heavy stone under which his acquaintance was put away. Get up! What for, came the dull answer from below? I need you. I won't get up. Why? Who are you anyway? You know me, the censor? No. Maybe a secret policeman? No, no. Not a critic, either. I am the devil. Well, I'll be out in a minute. The stone lifted itself from the grave, the earth burst open, and a skeleton came out of it. It was a very common skeleton, just the kind that students study anatomy by. Only it was dirty, had no wire connections, and in the empty sockets there shone a blue, phosphoric light instead of eyes. It crawled out of the ground, shook its bones in order to throw off the earth that stuck to them, and made a dry, rattling noise with them. And raising up at school, looked with its cold blue eyes at the murky, cloud-covered sky. I hope you are well, said the devil. How can I be, curtly answered the author? He spoke in a strange, low voice as if two bones were grating against each other. Oh, excuse my greeting, the devil said pleasantly. Never mind. But why have you raised me? I just wanted to take a walk with you, though the weather is very bad. I suppose you are not afraid of catching a cold? Asked the devil. Not at all. I got used to catching colds during my lifetime. Yes, I remember. You died pretty cold. I should say I did. They had poured enough cold water over me all my life. They walked beside each other over the narrow path, between graves and crosses. Two blue beams fell from the author's eyes upon the ground and lit the way for the devil. A drizzling rain sprinkled over them, and the wind freely passed between the author's bare ribs and through his breast where there was no longer a heart. We are going to town, he asked the devil. What interests you there? Life, my dear sir, the author said impassionately. What? It still has a meaning for you? Indeed it has. But why? How am I to say it? A man measures all by the quantity of his effort, and if he carries a common stone down from the summit of Ararat, that stone becomes a gem to him. Poor fellow, smiled the devil, but also a happy man, the author retorted coldly. The devil shrugged his shoulders. They left the churchyard and before them lay a street, two rows of houses and between them was darkness in which the miserable lamps clearly proved the want of light upon earth. Tell me, the devil spoke after a pause. How do you like your grave? Now I am used to it, and this is all right. It is very quiet there. Is it not damp down there in the fall, asks the devil? A little, but you get used to that. The greatest annoyance comes from those various idiots who ramble over the cemetery and accidentally stumble on my grave. I don't know how long I have been lying in my grave, for I and everything around me is unchangeable, and the concept of time does not exist for me. You have been in the ground for years. It will soon be five, said the devil. Indeed, well then, there have been three people at my grave during that time. Those accursed people make me nervous. One, you see, straightaway denied the fact of my existence. He read my name on the tombstone and said confidently, there was never such a man. I have never read him, though I remember such a name. When I was a boy, they lived a man of that name who had a broker's shop in our street. How do you like that? And my articles appeared for 16 years in the most popular periodicals, and three times during my lifetime my books came out in separate editions. There were two more editions since your death, the devil informed him. Well, you see, then came two, and one of them said, oh, that's that fellow. Yes, that is he, answered the other. Yes, they used to read him in the old Lang sign. They read a lot of them. What was it he preached? Oh, generally ideas of beauty, goodness, and so forth. Oh, yes, I remember. He had a heavy tongue. There was a lot of them in the ground. Yes, Russia is rich in talents, and those asses went away. It is true, warm words do not raise the temperature of the grave, and I do not care for that, yet it hurts me. No, how I wanted to give them a piece of my mind. You want to have given them a fine tongue lashing, smiled the devil. No, that would not have done. On the verge of the 20th century, it would be absurd for dead people to scold, and besides, it would be hard on the materialists. The devil again felt the ennui coming over him. This author had always wished in his lifetime to be a bridegroom at all weddings and a corpse at all burials, and now that all is dead in him, his egotism is still alive. Is man of any importance alive? Of importance is only a human spirit, and only the spirit deserves applause and recognition. How annoying people are. The devil was on the point of proposing to the author to return to his grave when an idea flashed through his evil head. They had just reached a square and heavy masses of buildings surrounded them on all sides. The dark, wet sky hung low over the square. It seemed as though it rested on the roofs and merkly looked at the dirty earth. Say, said the devil as he inclined pleasantly towards the author. Don't you want to know how your wife is getting on? I don't know whether I want to. The author spoke slowly. I see you are a thorough corpse, called out the devil to annoy him. Oh, I don't know, said the author and jauntly shook his bones. I don't mind seeing her. Besides, she will not see me, or if she will, she cannot recognize me. Of course, the devil assured him. You know, I only said so because she did not like for me to go away long from home, explained the author. And suddenly the wall of a house disappeared or became as transparent as glass. The author saw the inside of large apartments and it was so light and cozy in them. Elegant appointments, he graded his bones approvingly. Very fine appointments. If I had lived in such rooms, I would be alive now. I like it too, said the devil and smiled. And it is not expensive. It only costs some three thousands. That not expensive. I remember my largest work brought me 815 rubles and I worked over it a whole year. But who lives here? Your wife, said the devil. I declare that is good for her. Yes, and here comes her husband. She is so pretty now. And how well she is dressed? Her husband, you say? But a fine-looking fellow. Rather a bourgeois fizz, kind, but somewhat stupid. He looks as if he might be cunning. Well, just the face to please a woman. Do you want me to heave a sigh for you? The devil proposed and looked maliciously at the author. But he was taken up with the scene before him. What happy, jolly faces both have. They are evidently satisfied with life. Tell me, does she love him? Oh, yes, very much. And who is he? A clerk in a millinery shop. A clerk in a millinery shop? The author repeated slowly and did not utter a word for some time. The devil looked at him and smiled a merry smile. Do you like that? He asked. The author spoke with an effort. I had some children. I know they are alive. I had some children. A son and a daughter. I used to think then that my son would turn out in time a good man. There are plenty of good men, but what the world needs is perfect men. Said the devil coolly and whistled a jolly march. I think the clerk is probably a poor pedagogue. And my son. The author's empty skull shook sadly. Just look at how he's embracing her. They are living an easy life, exclaimed the devil. Yes, is that clerk or rich man? No, he was poorer than I, but your wife is rich. My wife? Where did she get the money from? From the sale of your books. Oh, said the author and shook his bear in empty skull. Oh, then it simply means that I have worked for a certain clerk. I confess it looks that way. The devil chimed in merrily. The author looked at the ground and said to the devil, take me back to my grave. It was late. A rain fell, heavy clouds hung in the sky. And the author rattled his bones as he marched rapidly to his grave. The devil walked behind him and whistled merrily. My reader is, of course, dissatisfied. My reader is surfeited with literature and even the people that write only to please him are rarely to his taste. In the present case, my reader is also dissatisfied because I have said nothing about hell. As my reader is justly convinced that after death he will find his way there, he would like to know something about hell during his lifetime. Really, I can't tell anything pleasant to my reader on that score because there is no hell, which is so easy to imagine. Yet, there is something else and infinitely more terrible. The moment the doctor will have said about you to your friends, he is dead. You will enter an immeasurable, illuminated space and that is the space of the consciousness of your mistakes. You lie in the grave in a narrow coffin and your miserable life rotates about you like a wheel. It moves painfully slow and passes before you from your first conscious step to the last moment of your life. You will see all that you have hidden from yourself during your lifetime, all the lies and meanness of your existence. You will think over and new all your past thoughts and you will see every wrong step of yours while your life will be gone over to its minutest details. And to increase your torments, you will know that on a narrow and stupid road which you have traversed, others are marching and pushing each other and hurrying and lying. And you understand that they are doing it all only to find out in time how shameful it is to live such a wretched, soulless life. And though you will see them hastening on towards their destruction, you are in no way able to warn them. You will not move nor cry and your helpless desire to aid them will tear your soul to pieces. Your life passes before you and you see it from the start. And there is no end to the work of your conscience and there will be no end and to the horror of your torments, there will never be an end. Never. End of the devil. Recording by Ms. Averis. Fear by Ahmed Abdallah. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Feaster. Fear. The fact that the man whom he feared had died ten years earlier did not in the least lessen Stuart McGregor's obsession of horror, of a certain grim expectancy every time he recalled that final scene just before Farragut Hutchinson disappeared and the African jungle that stood spectrally motionless as if forged out of some blackish green metal in the haggard moonlight. As he reconstructed it, the whole scene seemed unreal, almost oppressively ludicrously theatrical, the pall of sodden, stygian darkness all around, the night sounds of soft winged, obscene things flapping lazily overhead or brushing against the furry trees that held the woolly heat of the tropical day like boiler pipes in a factory, the slimy, swishy things that glided and crawled and wriggled underfoot, the vibrant growl of a hunting lioness that began in a deep basso and peaked to a shrill high-pitched ridiculously inadequate treble, a spotted hyena's vicious, bluffing bark, the chirp and whistle of innumerable monkeys, a warthog breaking through the undergrowth with a clumsy, clownish crash and somewhere very far away the staccato thumping of a signal drum and more faintly yet the answer from the next in line. He had seen many such drums made from fire-hollowed palm trees and covered with tightly stretched skin, often the skin of a human enemy. Yes, he remembered it all. He remembered the night jungle creeping in on their camp like a sentient malign being, and then that ghostly, ironic moon squinting down just as Farragut Hutchinson walked away between the six giant, plumed, ochre-smeared Bacodo Negroes and bringing into crass relief the tattoo mark on the man's back where the shirt had been torn to tatters by camel thorns and weight-abit spikes and saber-shaped palm leaves. He recalled the occasion when Farragut Hutchinson had had himself tattooed. After a crimson drunken spree at Madame Celeste's place in Port Said, the other side of the Red Sea Traders Bazaar, to please a half-caste Swahili dancing girl who looked like a golden Madonna of evil familiar with all the seven sins. Doubtless the girl had gone shares with 11 teen craftsmen who had done the work, an eagle in bold red and blues surmounted by a lopsided crown and surrounded by a wavy design. But the eagle was in profile, and its single eye had a disconcerting trick of winking sardonically whenever Farragut Hutchinson moved his back muscles or twitched his shoulder blades. Always in his memory, Stuart McGregor saw that tattoo mark. Always did he see the wicked leering squint in the eagle's eye, and then he would scream wherever he happened to be, in a theater, a Broadway restaurant, or across some good friend's mahogany and beef. Looking back, he remembered that for all their bravado, for all their showing off to each other, both he and Farragut Hutchinson had been afraid since that day. Up in the hinterland, when drunk with fermented palm wine, they had insulted the fetish of the Bacotos. While the men were away hunting and left none to guard the village, except the women and children and a few feeble old men whose curses and high-pitched maledictions were picturesque, but hardly effectual enough to stop him and his partner from doing a vulgar intoxicated dance in front of the idol. From grinding burning cigar ends into its squat repulsive features, and from generally polluting the Juju hut, not to mention the thorough and profitable looting of the place. They had gotten away with the plunder, gold dust and a handful of splendid canary diamonds, before the Bacota warriors had returned, but fear had followed them, stalked them, trailed them, a fear different from any they had ever experienced before, and be it mentioned that their path of life had been crimson and twisted and fantastic, that they had followed the little squinting, swarthy-headed, hunchbacked genie of adventure wherever man's primitive lawlessness rules above the law, from Gnome to Timbuktu, from Peru to the black-felt tents of Outer Mongolia, from the Australian bush to the absinthe-sodden Apache haunts of Paris. Be it mentioned furthermore that thus often they had stared death in the face and not being fools, had found the staring distasteful and shivery. But what they had felt on that journey backed the security of the coast and the ragged Union Jack flapping disconsolently above the British governor's official corrugated iron mansion had been something worse than mere physical fear. It had been a nameless, brooding, sinister apprehension which had crept through their souls, a harshly discordant note that had peeled through the hidden recesses of their beings. Everything had seemed to mock them. The crawling, sour, miasmic jungle, the slippery roots and timberfalls, the sun of the tropics, brown, decayed like the sun of the day of judgment, the very flowers, spiky, odorous, waxen, unhealthy, less civius. At night when they had rested in some clearing, they had even feared their own campfire, flaring up, twinkling, flickering, then coiling into a ruby ball. It had seemed completely isolated in the purple night. Isolated. And they had longed for human companionship, white companionship, white faces, white slang, white curses, white odor, white obscenities. Why, they would have welcomed a decent, square-honest, white murder, a knife flashing in some yellow-haired North Sailor's brawny fist, a belaying pen in the hand of some bullying Liverpool tramp-ship skipper, some gnome gambler's six-guns, splattering lead and death, some Apache of the Rue de Venise garretting a passerby. And here in the African jungle, and how Stuart McGregor remembered it, the fear of death had seemed pregnant with unmentionable horror. There had been no sounds except the buzzing of the tzitzi flies and a faint rubbing of drums, whispering through the desert and jungle like the voices of disembodied souls, astray on the outer rim of creation, and overhead the stars, always at night, three stars, glittering, leering, and Stuart McGregor, who had gone through college and had once written his college measure of limping anemic verse, had pointed at them. Three stars of Africa, he had said, the star of violence, the star of lust, and the little stinking star of greed. And he had broken into staccato laughter which had struck Farragut Hutchinson as singularly out of place and had caused him to blurt forth with a wicked curse. Shut your trap, you! For already they had begun to quarrel. Those two pals of a dozen tight riotous adventures already imperceptibly, gradually, like the shadow of a leaf through summer dusk, a mutual hatred had grown up between them. But they had controlled themselves. The diamonds were good, could be sold at a big figure, and even split in two would mean a comfortable steak. Then, quite suddenly, had come the end. The end for one of them. And the twisting, gliding skill of Stuart McGregor's fingers had made sure that Farragut Hutchinson should be that one. Years after, when Africa as a whole had faded to a memory of coiling, unclean shadows, Stuart McGregor used to say, with that rather plaintive monotonous straw of his, that the end of his phantasmal African adventures had been different from what he had expected it to be. In a way, he had found it disappointing. Not that it had lacked in pure dramatic thrills and blood-curdling trimmings. That wasn't it. On the contrary, it had ahead a plethora of thrills. But rather he must have been keyed up to too high a pitch, must have expected too much, feared too much, during that journey from the Bacodo village back through the hinterland. Thus when, one night, the Bacodo warriors had come from nowhere out of the jungle, hundreds of them, silent as if the wilderness had spewed them forth, it had seemed quite prosy. The prosy, too, had been the expectation of death. It had even seemed a welcome relief from the straining fatigues of the jungle pole, the reoccurrent fits of fever, the flying and crawling pests, the gnawing moroseness which is so typically African. An explosion of life and hatred, Stuart McGregor used to say, that's what I had expected. Don't you see? Quick and merciless. And it wasn't, for the end came slow and inevitable, solid, Greek in a way, and so courtly, so polite. That was the worst of it. For the leader of the Bacotos, a tall, broad, frizzy, odorous warrior with a face like a black Nero with a dash of Manchu emperor, had bowed before them with a great clanking of barbarous ornaments. There had been no marring taint of hatred in his voice, as he had told them they must pay for their insults to the fetish. He had not even mentioned the theft of the gold dust and diamonds. My heart is heavy at the thoughts, White Chiefs, he said. But you must pay. Stuart McGregor had stammered ineffectually, foolish apologies. We were drunk. We didn't know what—oh, what we—what you were doing? The Bacotos had finished the sentence for him with a little melancholy sigh. And there is forgiveness in my heart. You mean to say Farragut Hutchinson had jumped in with extended hand, blurting out hectic thanks? Forgiveness in my heart, but not the Jujus. Gently continued the Negro, for the Juju never forgives. On the other hand, the Juju is fair. He wants his just measure of blood. Not an ounce more, therefore, the Bacotos had gone on, and his face had been as stony and passionless as that of the Buddha who meditates on the shade of the cobra's hood. The choice will be yours. Choice? Farragut Hutchinson had looked up a gleam of hope in his eyes. Yes, choice. Which one of you will die? The Bacotos had smiled, with the same suave courtliness which had somehow increased the utter horror of the scene. Die, oh, a slow death befitting the insult of the Juju, befitting the Juju's great holiness. Suddenly Stuart McGregor had understood that there would be no arguing, no bargaining whatsoever, and quickly had come his hysterical question. Who? I? Or— He had slurred and stopped somehow, ashamed, and the Bacotos had finished the interrupted question with gentle guiding inhuman laughter. Your friend? White Chief, that is for you two to decide. I only know that the Juju has spoken to the priest, and that he is satisfied with the life of one of you two. The life and the death. A slow death. He had paused, then had continued gently, so very, very gently. Yes, a slow death, depending entirely on the vitality of the one of you two who will be sacrificed to the Juju. There will be little knives, there will be the flying insects which follow the smell of blood in festering flesh, too. There will be many crimson-headed ants, many ants, and a thin river of honey to show them the trail. He had yawned, then he had gone on. Consider the Juju is just. He only wants the sacrifice of one of you, and you yourselves must decide which one shall go, and which one shall stay, and remember the little, little knives. Be pleased to remember that many ants will follow the honey trail. I shall return, shortly, and hear your choice. He had bowed, and with his silent warriors had stepped back into the jungle that had closed behind them like a curtain. Even in that moment a stark enormous horror, horror too great to be grasped, horror that swept over and beyond the barriers of fear, even in that moment Stuart McGregor had realized that, by leaving the choice open to them, the Bacoto had committed a refined cruelty worthy of a more civilized race, and had added a psychic torture fully as dreadful as the physical torture of the little knives. Too, in that moment of ghastly, lecherous expectancy, he had known that it was Farragut Hutchinson who would be sacrificed to the Juju. Farragut Hutchinson, who sat there, staring into the campfire, making queer little funny noises in his throat. Suddenly Stuart McGregor had laughed. He remembered that laugh to his dying day, and had thrown a greasy pack of playing cards into the circle of meager indifferent light. "'Let the cards decide, old boy,' he had shouted. "'One hand to poker, and no drawn to your hand. Showdown! That's square, isn't it?' "'Sure,' the other head replied, still staring straight ahead of him. "'Go ahead and deal!' His voice had drifted into a mumble, while Stuart McGregor had picked up the deck, had shuffled slowly, mechanically. Once he shuffled, it had seemed to him as if his brain was frantically telegraphing to his fingers, as if all those delicate little nerves that ran from the back of his skull down to his fingertips were throbbing a clicking little chorus. "'Do it, Mac! Do it, Mac! Do it, Mac!' with a maddening, syncopated rhythm. And he had kept on shuffling, had kept on watching the motions of his fingers, and had seen that his thumb and second finger had shuffled the ace of hearts to the bottom of the deck. Had he done it on purpose? He did not know then. He never found out, though in his memory he lived through the scene a thousand times. But there were the little knives. There were the ants. There was the honey-trail. There was his own hard decision to live, and years earlier he had been a professional pharaoh-dealer at Silver City. Another ace had joined the first at the bottom of the deck, the third, the fourth. And then Farragut Hutchinson's violent, "'Deal, man! Deal! You're driving me crazy! Get it over with!' The sweat had been pouring from Stuart McGregor's face. His blood had throbbed in his veins. Something like a sledgehammer had drummed at the base of his skull. "'Cut, won't you?' he had said, his voice coming as if from very far away. The other had waved a trembling hand. "'No, no! Deal them as they lie. You won't cheat me!' Stuart McGregor had cleared a little space on the ground with the point of his shoe. He remembered the motion. He remembered how the dry leaves had stirred with a dry, rasping, tragic sound, how something slimy and phosphorus-green had squirmed through the tufted jungle grass, how a little furry scorpion had scuttled away with a clicking. He had dealt mechanically. Even as he was watching them, his fingers had given himself five cards from the bottom of the deck, four aces and the queen of diamonds. In the next second, to answer to Farragut's choked, "'Showdown! I have two pairs, kings and jacks,' his own well-simulated shriek of joy and triumph. "'I win! I have four aces, every ace in the pack!' and then Farragut Hutchinson's weak, ridiculous exclamation, ridiculous considering the dreadful fate that awaited him. Chee Willikers, you're some lucky guy, aren't you, Mac?' At the same moment the Bacoto chief had stepped out of the jungle, followed by half a dozen warriors. Then the final scene, the ghastly, ironic moon squinting down just as Farragut Hutchinson had walked away between the giant-plumed ochre-smeared Bacoto Negroes, and bringing into stark relief the tattoo mark on his back, where the shirt had been torn to tatters, and the leering, evil wink of the eagle's eye as Farragut Hutchinson twitched his shoulder blades with absurd nervous resignation. Stuart McGregor remembered it every day of his life. He spoke of it to many, but only to Father Aloysus O'Donnell, the priest who obfuscated in the little gothic church around the corner on Ninth Avenue. Did he tell the whole truth? Did he confess that he had cheated? "'Of course I cheated,' he said, "'Of course!' and with the sort of mocking bravado, "'What would you have done, Padre?' The priest, who was old and wise and gentle, thus not at all sure of himself, shook his head. "'I don't know,' he replied. "'I don't know.' "'Well, I do know. You would have done what I did. You wouldn't have been able to help yourself.' Then in a low voice, and you would have paid, as I pay, every day, every minute, every second of my life!' Regret, repentance, murmured the priest, but the other cut him short. "'Repentance! Nothing! I regret! Nothing! I do the same thing to Mara! It isn't that—oh, that—would you call it—sting of consciousness that's driving me crazy! It's fear!' "'Fear of what?' asked Father O'Donnell. "'Fear of Farragut Hutchinson, who is dead!' Ten years ago, and he knew that Farragut Hutchinson had died, for not long afterwards a British trader had come upon certain gruesome but unmistakable remains, and had brought the tail to the coast. Yet there was fear, and Stuart McGregor's soul, fear worse than the fear of the little knives, fear of Farragut Hutchinson, who was dead. No, he did not believe that the man was dead. He did not believe it, could not believe it, and even suppose he's dead, he used to say to the priest, he'll get me! He'll get me as sure as you're born! I saw it in the eye of that eagle. The squinting eye of that infernal tattooed eagle! Then he would turn a grayish yellow. His whole body would tremble with a terrible pulse, and in a sort of wine which was both ridiculous and pathetic, given his size and bulk, given the crimson twisted adventures which he had passed, he would exclaim, "'He'll get me! He'll get me! He'll get evened with me for beyond the grave!' And then Father O'Donnell would cross himself, rapidly, just a little guiltily. It is said that there is a morbid curiosity which forces the murderer to view the place of his crime. Some psychic reason of the same kind may have caused Stuart McGregor to decorate the halls of his sitting-room with the memories of that Africa which he feared and hated, and which daily he was trying to forget, with a shimmering cruel mass of jungle curios, siam-books and asagis, signal-drums and daggers, knob-curries and rhino-shields and whatnot. Finally he added to his collection, buying in auction-rooms in little shops on the waterfront from sailors and ship-persers and collectors who had duplicates for sale. He became a well-known figure in the row of antique stores, in back of Madison Square Garden, and was so liberal when it came to payment that Morris Newman, who specialized in African curios, would send his pick of all the new stuff he bought to his house. It was on a day in August, one of those tropical New York days, when the very birds gasped for air, when orange flaming sun rays dropped from the brazen sky like crackling spears, and the melting asphalt picks them up again, and tosses them high, that Stuart McGregor, returning from a short walk, found a large round package in his sitting-room. "'Mr. Newman sent it,' his servant explained. "'He said it's a rare curio, and he's sure you like it.' "'All right.' The servant bowed, left, and closed the door, while Stuart McGregor cut the twine, unwrapped the paper, looked, and then suddenly he screamed with fear, and just as suddenly the scream of fear turned into a scream of maniacal joy, for the thing which Newman had sent him was an African signal drum, covered with tightly stretched skin, human skin, white skin, and square in the center there was a tattoo mark, an eagle in red and blue, surmounted by a lopsided crown, and surrounded by a wavy design. Here was the final proof that Farragut Hutchinson was dead, that forever he was rid of his fear, in a paroxysm of joy he picked up the drum and clutched it to his heart, and then he gave a cry of pain, his lips quivered, frothed, his hands dropped the drum and fanned the air, and he looked at the thing that had fastened onto his right wrist. It seemed like a short length of rope, grayish in color, spotted with dull red, even as Stuart McGregor dropped it to the floor, dying. He knew what had happened. A little venomous snake, an African fear-to-lance, had been curled up inside of the drum, been numbed by the cold, and had been revived by the splintering heat of New York. Yes, even as he died he knew what had happened. Even as he died he saw that malign obscene squint in the eagle's eye. Even as he died he knew that Farragut Hutchinson had killed him from beyond the grave. This has been Fear by Ahmed Abdallah, read by John Feaster. The House of the Nightmare by Edward Lucas White I first caught sight of the house from the brow of the mountain as I cleared the woods and looked across the broad valley several hundred feet below me, to the low sun sinking toward the far blue hills. From that momentary viewpoint I had an exaggerated sense of looking almost vertically down. I seemed to be hanging over the checkerboard of roads and fields dotted with farm buildings, and felt the familiar deception that I could almost throw a stone upon the house. I barely glimpsed its slate roof. What caught my eyes was the bit of road in front of it, between the mass of dark green shade trees about the house and the orchard opposite. Perfectly straight it was, bordered by an even row of trees, through which I made out a cinder side path and a low stone wall. Conspicuous on the orchard side between two of the flanking trees was a white object, which I took to be a tall stone, a vertical splinter of one of the tilted limestone reefs with which the fields of the region are scarred. The road itself I saw plain as a boxwood ruler on a green bays table. It gave me a pleasurable anticipation of a chance for a burst of speed. I had been painfully traversing closely forested, semi-mountainous hills, not a farmhouse had I passed, only wretched cabins by the road, more than twenty miles of which I had found very bad and hindering. Now, when I was not many miles from my expected stopping place, I looked forward to better going into that straight level bit in particular. As I sped cautiously down the sharp beginning of the long descent, the trees engulfed me again, and I lost sight of the valley. I dipped into a hollow, rose on the crest of the next hill, and again saw the house, nearer and not so far below. The tall stone caught my eye with a shock of surprise. Had I not thought it was opposite the house next to the orchard? Clearly, it was on the left-hand side of the road toward the house. My self-questioning lasted only the moment as I passed the crest. Then the outlook was cut off again, but I found myself gazing ahead, watching for the next chance at the same view. At the end of the second hill, I only saw the bit of road obliquely and could not be sure, but, as at first, the tall stone seemed on the right of the road. At the top of the third and last hill, I looked down the stretch of road under the overarching trees, almost as one would look through a tube. There was a line of whiteness which I took for the tall stone. It was on the right. I dipped into the last hollow. As I mounted the farther slope, I kept my eyes on the top of the road ahead of me. When my line of sights her mounted the rise, I marked the tall stone on my right hand among the serried maples. I leaned over, first on one side, then on the other, to inspect my tires, then I threw the lever. As I flew forward, I looked ahead. There was the tall stone on the left of the road. I was really scared and almost dazed. I meant to stop dead, take a good look at the stone, and make up my mind beyond per adventure, whether it was on the right or the left, if not, indeed, in the middle of the road. In my bewilderment, I put on the highest speed. The machine leaped forward. Everything I touched went wrong. I steered wildly, slewed to the left, and crashed into a big maple. When I came to my senses, I was flat on my back in the dry ditch. The last rays of the sun sent shafts of golden green light through the maple boughs overhead. My first thought was an odd mixture of appreciation of the beauties of nature and disapproval of my own conduct in touring without a companion, a fad I had regretted more than once. Then my mind cleared, and I sat up. I felt myself from the head down. I was not bleeding, no bones were broken, and, while much shaken, I had suffered no serious bruises. Then I saw the boy. He was standing at the edge of the cinder path near the ditch. He was stocky and solidly built, barefoot, with his trousers rolled up to his knees, wore a sort of butternut shirt open at the throat, and was coatless and hatless. He was tau-headed, with a shock of tousled hair, was much freckled, and had a hideous hair-lip. He shifted from one foot to the other, twiddled his toes, and said nothing whatever, though he stared at me intently. I scrambled to my feet, and proceeded to survey the wreck. It seemed distressingly complete. It had not blown up, nor even caught fire, but otherwise the ruin appeared hopelessly thorough. Everything I examined seemed worse smashed than the rest. My two hampers alone, by one of those cynical jokes of chance, had escaped. Both had pitched clear of the wreckage and were unhurt, not even a bottle broken. During my investigations the boy's faded eyes followed me continuously, but he uttered no word. When I had convinced myself of my helplessness, I straightened up and addressed him. How far is it to the blacksmith's shop? Eight mile, he answered. He had a distressing case of cleft palate and was scarcely intelligible. Can you drive me there? I inquired. Nary team on the place, he replied. Nary horse, nary cow. How far to the next house, I continued. Six mile, he responded. I glanced at the sky. The sun had set already. I looked at my watch. It was going 7.36. May I sleep in your house tonight? I asked. You can come in if you want to, he said. And sleep if you can. House all messy, miles been dead three years and dads away. Nothing to eat but buckwheat flour and rusty bacon. I've plenty to eat, I answered, picking up a hamper. Just take that hamper, will you? You can come in if you're in mind to, he said, but you got to carry your own stuff. He did not speak gruffly or rudely, but appeared mildly stating an inoffensive fact. All right, I said, picking up the other hamper. Lead the way. The yard in front of the house was dark under a dozen or more immense elanthus trees. Below them many smaller trees had grown up, and beneath these a dank underwood of tall rank suckers out of the deep shaggy matted grass. What had once been, apparently, a carriage-drive left a narrow curved track, disused in grass-grown, leading to the house. Even here were some shoots of the elanthus, and the air was unpleasant with the vile smell of the roots and suckers and the insistent odor of their flowers. The house was of gray stone, with green shutters faded almost as gray as the stone. Along its front was a veranda, not much raised from the ground, with no balustrade or railing. On it were several hickory splint rockers. There were eight shuttered windows toward the porch, and midway of them a wide door, with small violet panes on either side of it and a fan-light above. Open the door, I said to the boy. Open it yourself, he replied, not unpleasantly nor disagreeably, but in such a tone that one could not but take the suggestion as a matter of course. I put down the two hampers and tried the door. It was latched but not locked, and opened with a rusty grind of its hinges, on which it sagged crazily, scraping the floor as it turned. The passage smelled moldy and damp. There were several doors on either side. The boy pointed to the first on the right. You can have that room, he said. I opened the door, what with the dusk, the interlacing trees outside, the piazza roof, and the closed shutters I could make out little. Better get a lamp, I said to the boy. Nary lamp, he declared cheerfully, nary candle. Mostly I get a bed before dark. I returned to the remains of my conveyance. All four of my lamps were merely scrap metal and splintered glass. My lantern was mashed flat. I always, however, carried candles in my vallus. This I found split and crushed, but still holding together. I carried it to the porch, opened it, and took out three candles. Entering the room, where I found the boy standing just where I had left him, I lit the candle. The walls were whitewashed, the floor bare. There was a mildewed, chilly smell, but the bed looked freshly made up and clean, though it felt clammy. With a few drops of its own grease, I stuck the candle on the corner of a mean, rickety little bureau. There was nothing else in the room save two rushed bottom chairs and a small table. I went out on the porch, brought in my vallus, and put it on the bed. I raised the sash of each window and pushed open the shutters. Then I asked the boy, who had not moved or spoken, to show me the way to the kitchen. He led me straight through the hall to the back of the house. The kitchen was large, and had no furniture save some pine chairs, a pine bench, and a pine table. I stuck two candles on opposite corners of the table. There was no stove or range in the kitchen, only a big hearth, the ashes in which smelt and looked a month old. The wood in the woodshed was dry enough, but even it had a celery stale smell. The axe and hatchet were both rusty and dull, but usable, and I quickly made a big fire. To my amazement, for the mid-June evening was hot and still, the boy, or I, a smile on his ugly face, almost leaned over the flame, hands and arms spread out and fairly roasted himself. Are you cold, I inquired. I'm always cold, he replied, hugging the fire closer than ever, till I thought he must scorch. I left him toasting himself while I went in search of water. I discovered the pump, which was in working order and not dry on the valves, but I had a furious struggle to fill the two leaky pails I had found. When I had put water to boil, I fetched my hampers from the porch. I brushed the table and set out my meal, cold fowl, cold ham, white and brown bread, olives, jam, and cake. When the can of soup was hot and the coffee made, I drew up two chairs to the table and invited the boy to join me. I ain't hungry, he said. I've had supper. He was a new sort of boy to me. All the boys I knew were hearty eaters and always ready. I had felt hungry myself, but somehow when I came to eat I had little appetite and hardly relished the food. I soon made an end of my meal, covered the fire, blew out the candles, and returned to the porch, where I dropped into one of the hickory rockers to smoke. The boy followed me silently and seated himself on the porch floor, leaning against a pillar, his feet on the grass outside. What do you do, I asked, when your father is away. Just loaf around, he said, just fool around. How far off are your nearest neighbors, I asked. Don't know neighbors never come here, he stated. Say they're a fear to the ghosts. I was not at all startled. The place had all those aspects which lead to a house being called haunted. I was struck by his odd matter-of-fact way of speaking. It was as if he had said they were afraid of a cross-dog. Do you ever see any ghosts around here, I continued. Never seen them, he answered, as if I had mentioned tramps or partridges. Never hear them, sort of feel them around sometimes. Are you afraid of them, I asked. Nope, he declared. I ain't scared of ghosts. I'm scared of nightmares. Ever have nightmares? Very seldom, I replied. I do, he returned. All is have the same nightmare. Big sow, big as a steer, trying to eat me up. Wake up so scared I could run to never, nowhere's to run to. Go to sleep and have it again. Wake up worse scared than ever. Dad says it's buckwheat cakes in summer. You must have teased a sow sometime, I said. Yep, he answered. Teased a big sow once, holding up one of her pigs by the hind leg. Teased her too long, fell in the pan and got bit up some. First I hadn't a teased her. I have that nightmare three times a week sometimes, worse than being burnt out, worse than ghosts. See, I sort of feel ghosts around now. He was not trying to frighten me. He was as simply stating an opinion as if he had spoken of bats or mosquitoes. I made no reply and found myself listening involuntarily. My pipe went out. I did not really want another, but felt disinclined for bed as yet, and was comfortable where I was, while the smell of the alenthous blossoms was very disagreeable. I filled my pipe again, lit it, and then, as I puffed, somehow dozed off for a moment. I awoke with a sensation of some light fabric trailed across my face. The boy's position was unchanged. Did you do that? I asked sharply. Ain't done anything, he rejoined. What was it? It was like a piece of mosquito netting brushed over my face. That ain't netting, he asserted. That's a veil. That's one of the ghosts. Some blow on you. Some touch you with their long, cold fingers. That one with the veil she drags across your face. Well, mostly I think it's maw. He spoke with the unassailable conviction of the child in We Are Seven. I found no words to reply and rose to go to bed. Good night, I said. Good night, he echoed. I'll set out here a spell yet. I lit a match, found the candle I had stuck on the corner of the shabby little bureau and undressed. The bed had a comfortable husk mattress, and I was soon asleep. I had the sensation of having slept some time when I had a nightmare, the very nightmare the boy had described. A huge sow, big as a dreahorse, was reared up on her forelegs over the footboard of the bed, trying to scramble over to me. She grunted and puffed, and I felt I was the food she craved. I knew in the dream that it was only a dream and strove to wake up. Then the gigantic dream beast floundered over the footboard, fell across my shins, and I awoke. I was in darkness as absolute as if I were sealed in a jet vault. Yet the shutter of the nightmare instantly subsided. My nerves quieted. I realized where I was and felt not the least panic. I turned over and was asleep again almost at once. Then I had a real nightmare. Not recognizable as a dream, but appallingly real. An unutterable agony of reasonless horror. There was a thing in the room. Not a sow, nor any other nameable creature, but a thing. It was as big as an elephant, filled the room to the ceiling, was shaped like a wild boar, seeded on its haunches, with its forelegs braced stiffly in front of it. It had a hot, slobbering red mouth, full of big tusks, and its jaws worked hungrily. It shuffled and hunched itself forward inch by inch, till its vast forelegs straddled the bed. The bed crushed up like wet blotting paper, and I felt the weight of the thing on my feet, on my legs, on my body, on my chest. It was hungry, and I was what it was hungry for, and it meant to begin on my face. Its stripping mouth was nearer and nearer. Then the dream helplessness that made me unable to call or move suddenly gave way, and I yelled and awoke. This time my terror was positive, and not to be shaken off. It was near dawn. I could describe dimly the cracked, dirty window panes. I got up, lit the stump of my candle, and two fresh ones, dressed hastily, strapped my ruined vallus, and put it on the porch against the wall near the door. Then I called the boy. I realized quite suddenly that I had not told him my name, or asked his. I shouted hello a few times, but one no answer. I had had enough of that house. I was still permeated with the panic of the nightmare. I desisted from shouting, made no search, but with two candles went out to the kitchen. I took a swallow of cold coffee, and munched a biscuit as I hustled my belongings into my hampers. Then, leaving a silver dollar on the table, I carried the hampers out on the porch and dumped them by my vallus. It was now light enough to see to walk, and I went out to the road. Already the night dew had rusted much of the wreck, making it look more hopeless than before. It was, however, entirely undisturbed. There was not so much as a wheel track or a hoof print on the road. The tall white stone, uncertainty about which had caused my disaster, stood like a sentinel opposite where I had upset. I set out to find that blacksmith shop. Before I had gone far, the sun rose clear from the horizon, and almost at once scorching. As I footed it along, I grew very much heated, and it seemed more like ten miles than six before I reached the first house. It was a new frame house, neatly painted and close to the road, with a whitewashed fence along its garden front. I was about to open the gate when a big black dog with a curly tail bounded out of the bushes. He did not bark, but stood inside the gate wagging his tail, and regarding me with a friendly eye. Yet I hesitated with my hand on the latch and considered. The dog might not be as friendly as he looked, and the sight of him made me realize that, except for the boy, I had seen no creature about the house where I had spent the night, no dog or cat, not even a toad or bird. While I was ruminating upon this, a man came from behind the house. Will your dog bite? I asked. No, he answered. He don't bite. Come in. I told him I had had an accident to my automobile, and asked if he could drive me to the blacksmith shop and back to my wreckage. Sir, he said, happy to help you. I'll hitch up four shortly. Where'd you smash? In front of the gray house, about six miles back, I answered. That big stone-built house, he queried. The same I had scented. Did you go a past here? He inquired, astonished. I didn't hear you. No, I said, I came from the other direction. Why, he meditated, you must have smashed about sun up. Did you come over the mountains in the dark? No, I replied. I came over them yesterday evening. I smashed up about sunset. Sundown, he exclaimed. Where in thunder have you been all night? I slept in the house where I broke down. In that there big stone-built house in the trees, he demanded. Yes, I agreed. Why, he quavered excitedly. Not there house is haunted. They say if you have to drive past it after dark, you can't tell which side of the road the big white stone is on. I couldn't tell even before sunset, I said. There, he exclaimed. Look at that now. And you slept in that house. Did you sleep, honest? I slept pretty well, I said, except for a nightmare. I slept all night. Well, he commented. I wouldn't go in that house for a farm nor sleep in it for my salvation. When you slept, how in thunder did you get in? The boy took me in, I said. What sort of boy, he queried, his eyes fixed on me with a queer, contrived look of absorbed interest. A fixed-set, freckled-faced boy with a hair-lip, I said. Talked like his mouth was full of mush, he demanded. Yes, I said. Bad case of cleft palate. Well, he exclaimed. I never did believe in ghosts, and I never did believe that house was haunted, but I know it now, and you slept. I didn't see any ghosts, I retorted irritably. You seen a ghost for sure, he rejoined solemnly. At their hair-lip, boys, been dead six months. The End of The House of the Nightmare by Edward Lucas White Reading by Dennis Smith The Last of Mrs. De Bruyck by H. Sevilla This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Read by Dennis Smith The Last of Mrs. De Bruyck by H. Sevilla Letty, Mr. De Bruyck remarked between long puffs on his mirsham, You've been a fine maid. You've served Mrs. De Bruyck and me for most of fifteen years. Now I haven't much more time in this life, and I want you to know that after Mrs. De Bruyck and I are gone, you will be well taken care of. Letty stopped her dusting of the chairs in Mr. De Bruyck's oak-paneled study. She sighed and turned toward the man who sat on a heavy sofa, puffing on his pipe and gazing across the room into nothingness. You mustn't talk that way, Mr. De Bruyck, she said. You know you're a long time from the dark ways yet. She paused and then went on dusting and talking again. And me? Hmph. I've only done what any ordinary human would do to such a kind employer as you, sir. Especially after all you've done for me. He didn't say anything, and she went on with her work. Of course she liked to work for him. She had adored the kindly old man since she had first met him in an agency fifteen years before. A person couldn't ask for a better master. But there was the mistress, Mrs. De Bruyck. It was she who gave Letty cause for worry. What with her nagging tongue and her sharper buks, it was a wonder Letty had not quit long before. She would have quit, too, but there had been the terrible sickness she had undergone and conquered with the aid of the ablest physicians Mr. De Bruyck could engage. She couldn't quit after that, no matter what misery Mrs. De Bruyck heaped on her. And so she went about her work at all hours, never tiring, always striving to please. She left the study, closing the great door silently behind her, for old Mr. De Bruyck had sunk deeper into the sofa, into the realms of peaceful sleep, and she did not want to disturb him. Letty came the shrill cry from Mrs. De Bruyck from down the hall, get these pictures and take them to the attic at once, and tell Mr. De Bruyck to come here. Letty went for the pictures. Mr. De Bruyck is asleep, she said, explaining why she was not obeying the last command. Well, I'll soon fix that, lazy old man, sleeps all day with that smelly pipe between his teeth. If he had an ounce of pep about him, he'd get out and work the flowers. Sleeps too much anyway, not good for him. She stamped out of the room and down the hall, and Letty hurt her open the door of the study and scream at her husband. Mr. De Bruyck, wake up! There was a silence during which Letty wondered what was going on. Then she heard the noisy clop-clop of Mrs. De Bruyck's slippers on the hardwood floor of the study, and she knew the woman was going to shake the daylights out of Mr. De Bruyck and frighten him into wakefulness. She can even imagine she heard Mrs. De Bruyck grasp the lapels of her husband's coat and shake him back and forth against the chair. Then she heard the scream. It came quite abruptly for Mrs. De Bruyck in the study, and it frightened Letty out of her wits momentarily. After that, there was the thud of a falling body and the clatter of an upset piece of furniture. Letty hurried out of the room into the hall and through the open door of the study. She saw Mrs. De Bruyck slumped on the floor in a faint and beside her an upset ash tray. But her eyes did not linger on the woman nor the tray. Instead they focused on the still form of Mr. De Bruyck in the sofa. He was slumped down, his head twisted to one side, and his mouth hanging open from the shaking Mrs. De Bruyck had given him. The mirsham had slipped from between his teeth, and the cold ashes were scattered on his trousers. Even then, before the sea of tears began to flow from her eyes, Letty knew the old man was dead. She knew what he had meant by the speech he had sent to her only a few minutes before. His heart was the comment of the doctor who arrived a short time later and pronounced the old man dead. He had to go, today, tomorrow, soon. After that he put Mrs. De Bruyck to bed and turned to Letty. Mrs. De Bruyck is merely suffering from a slight shock. There's nothing more I can do. When she awakened see that she stays in bed for the rest of the day. He left then and Letty felt a strange coldness about the place, something that had not been there while Mr. De Bruyck was alive. She went downstairs and made several telephone calls which she knew would be necessary. Later when Mrs. De Bruyck was feeling better, other arrangements could be made. She straightened the furniture in the study, pushing the familiar sofa back in place from where Mr. De Bruyck invariably moved it. Then she knocked the ashes from the mirsham, wiped it off, and placed it carefully in the little glass cabinet on the wall where he always kept it. Times would be different now, she knew. She remembered what he had said, You will be well taken care of. But there had been something else. After Mrs. De Bruyck and I are gone, Letty could no longer hold back the tears. She fell into a chair and they poured forth. But time always passes and with it goes a healing balm for most all sorrows. First there was the funeral, then came other arrangements. And there was the will which Mrs. De Bruyck never mentioned. His things would have fallen into decay but for the hands of Letty. Always her dust cloth made his study immaculate. Always the sofa was in place and the pipe clean and shining in the cabinet. There was a different hardness about Mrs. De Bruyck. No longer was she content with driving Letty like a slave day in and day out. She became even more unbearable. There were little things like taking away her privilege of having Saturday afternoons off, and the occasional forgetting of Letty's weekly pay. Once Letty thought of leaving during the night of packing her few clothes and going forever from the house. But that was foolish. There was no place to go and she was getting too old for maid service. Besides hadn't Mr. De Bruyck said she would be taken care of? After Mrs. De Bruyck and I are gone, perhaps she would not live much longer. And then one morning Mrs. De Bruyck called Letty in to talk with her. It was the hour Letty had been awaiting and dreading. There was a harsh gloating tone in Mrs. De Bruyck's voice as she spoke. She was the master now. There was no hector to think of. Letty, she said, For some time now I've been considering closing the house. I'm lonely here. I intend to go to the city and live with my sister. Although you see, I shan't be needing you any longer. I'll be leaving within the next two days. I'm sorry. Letty was speechless. She had expected something terrible, but not this. This wasn't so. Mrs. De Bruyck was lying. It was the will she was afraid of. Letty remembered Mr. De Bruyck's promise. She did not complain, however. Her only words were, I'll leave tomorrow. That night she packed her things. She had no definite plans. But she hoped something would turn up. Sleep would not come easy, so Letty lay in bed and thought of old Mr. De Bruyck. She imagined he was before her in the room, reclining on the sofa, puffing long on the mirsham. She even saw in fancy the curling wisps of gray smoke drifting upward, upward. It was sleep. Then with a start, she was suddenly wide awake. She had surely heard a scream, but no. And then, as soft and as silent as the night wind came the whisper, Letty had drifted slowly off into silence in a cool breeze crossed her brow. She suddenly felt wet with perspiration. She listened closely, but the whisper was not repeated. Then, noiselessly, she got out of bed, stepped into slippers, and drew a robe about her. Just as silently she left her room and walked down the hall to Mrs. De Bruyck's bedroom. She rapped softly on the door, fearing the wrath of the woman within at being awakened in the middle of the night. There was no answer, no sound from inside the room. Letty hesitated, wondering what to do. And once more she felt that cool, death-like breeze and heard the faintest of whispers, fainter even in the sighing of the night wind. Letty. She opened the door and switched on the light. Mrs. De Bruyck lay in the bed, as in sleep. But Letty knew, as she had known about Mr. De Bruyck, that it was more than sleep. She quickly called the doctor, and sometime much later he arrived. His eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Dead, he remarked after looking at the body. Probably had a shock. Fright, nightmare, or something her heart couldn't stand. I always thought she would have died first. Letty walked slowly from the room, down the stairs, still in her robe and slippers. The doctor followed and passed her, going through the door into the outside. She walked as though directed by some unseen force into Mr. De Bruyck's study. She switched on a lamp beside the sofa on which he had always sat, and she noticed that it was moved slightly out of place. There was something else about the room, some memory of old days. First, she saw some sort of legal document on the table, and wondered at its being there. The title said, Last Will and Testament of Hector A. De Bruyck. It was brief. She read it through and found that Mr. De Bruyck had spoken truthfully in his promise to her. Beside the will on the table was another object, and she knew then what the something else in the room was. The mere sham. It lay there beside the document, and a thin spiral of grayish smoke rose upward from it toward the ceiling. No longer did Letty wonder about anything. The End of The Last of Mrs. De Bruyck by H. Sivia, read by Dennis Smith. The Mirror Made In by Lavgadio Hian. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Aum123. The Mirror Made In by Lavgadio Hian. In the period of the Asikaga Shogwante, the shrine of Akawachi Museum at Minami Issei fell into decay, and the Daimyo of the district, the lord Kitahataki, found himself unable by reason of war and other circumstances to provide for the reparation of the building. Then the Shinto priest in charge, Matsumura Hayago, sought help at Kyoto from the great Daimyo Hosokawa, who was known to have influenced the Shogwante. The lord Hosokawa received a priest kindly, and promised to speak to the soga about the condition of Akawachi Museum. But he said that, in an event, a crown for the restoration of the temple could not be made without the due investigation and considerable delay. And he advised Matsumura to remain in the capital while the matter was being arranged. Matsumura therefore brought his family to Kyoto, and rented a house in the old Kaigoku quarter. This house, although handsome and spacious, had been long unoccupied. It was said to be an unlucky house. On another side of it, there was a well, and several former tenants had drowned themselves in that well. Udo didn't know the cause. But Matsumura, being a Shinto priest, had no fear of evil spirits, and he soon made himself very comfortable in his new home. In the summer of that year, there was a great drought. For months, no rain had fallen in the five home provinces. The riverbeds dried up, the whales failed, and even in the capital, there was a dirt of water. But the well in Matsumura's garden remained nearly full. And the water, which was very cold and clear, with a faint blue stench, seemed to be supplied by a spring. During the hot season, many people came from all parts of the city to beg for water. And Matsumura allowed them to draw as much as they pleased. Nevertheless, the supply did not appear to be diminished. But one morning, the death of Yobinyang's servant, who had been sent from a neighboring residence to fetch water, was found floating in the well. No cause for a suicide could be mustn't. And Matsumura, remembering many amplitudes and stories about the well, began to suspect some invisible malevolence. He went to examine the well, or the intention of having a fence built around it. And while standing there alone, he was startled by a sudden motion in the water, as if something alive. The motion soon ceased. And then he perceived, clearly reflected in the steel surface, the figure of a young woman, apparently about 19 or 20 years of age. She seemed to be occupied with the toilet. He distinctly saw her touching her lips with bany. At first, her face was visible in profile only. But presently, she turned towards him and smiled. Immediately he felt a strange shock at his heart. And a desinus came upon him like the desinus of wine. And everything became dark, except that smiling face, wide and beautiful as moonlight. And always seemed to grow more beautiful, had to be drawing him down, down, down into the darkness. But at a desperate thought, he recovered his will and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the face was gone, and the light had returned. And he found himself leaning down over the carp of the well, a moment more of the desinus, a moment more of the desly lure, and he would never again have looked upon the sun. Returning to the house, he gave orders to his people not to approach the well under any circumstances, or allow any person to draw water from it. And the next day, he had a strong fence built round the well. About a week after, the fence had been built. The long drought was broken by great rainstorm, accompanied by wind and lightning and thunder. Thunder soared tremendous that the whole city shook to the rolling of it, as if shaken by an earthquake. For three days and three nights, the downpour and the lightnings and the thunder continued. And the Kamukawa rose as it had never risen before, carrying away many breeches. During the third night of the storm, at the hour of the arcs, there was a heart knocking at the door of the priest's dwelling, and the voice of an omen pleading for admittance. But Matsumura, won by his experience at the well, forbade his servants to answer the appeal. He went himself to the entrance and asked, who calls? A feminine voice responded, pardon, it is I, Ayose. I have something to say to Matsumura-sama, something of great moment, please open. Matsumura half opened the door very cautiously, and he saw the same beautiful face that had smiled upon him from the well. But he was not smiling now. It had a very sad look. Into my house, you shall not come. The priest exclaimed, you are not a human being, but a well person. Quite you, as we kindly try to delude and destroy people. The well person made the answer in your voice musical as a tingling of jewels. It is of that very matter that I want to speak. I have never wished to endure human beings. But from ancient time, a poison dragon dwelt in that well. He was the master of the well, and because of him the well was always full. Long ago I fell into the water there, and so become subject to him, and he had power to make me lure people to death in order that he might drink their blood. But now the heavenly ruler has commanded the dragon to dwell hereafter in the lake called Torino Ike, in the province of Sinshu, and the gods have decided that he shall never be allowed to return to this city. So tonight, after he had gone away, I was able to come out to beg for your kindly help. There is now very little water in the well, because of the dragon's departure, and if we will order search to be made, my body will be found there. I pray you to save my body from the well with the delay, and I shall certainly return your benevolence. So saying, she vanished into the night. Before dawn the tempest had passed. And when the sun arose there was no trace of cloud in the pure blue sky. Matsumura sent an early hour for well cleaners to search the well. Then to everybody's surprise, the well proved to be almost dry. It was easily cleaned, and at the bottom of it were found some hair ornaments of a very ancient fashion, and a metal mirror of curious form, but no trace of anybody, animal or human. Matsumura immersed in, however, that the mirror might yield some explanation to the mystery. For every such mirror is a weird thing, having a soul of its own, and a soul of a mirror is feminine. This mirror, which seemed to be very old, was deeply crusted with scuff. But when it had been carefully cleaned by the priest's order, it proved to be of rare and costly workmanship, and there were wonderful designs on the back of it, also several characters. Some of the characters had become indistinguishable, but they could still be discerned part of the date, and the idographs signifying third month to third day. Now, the third month used to be termed Yosai, meaning the month of increase, and the third day of the third month, which is a festival day, is still called Yosai no Seiko. Remembering that a well person called herself Yosai, Matsumura felt almost sure that this is costly vigilant, had been none other than the soul of the mirror. He therefore resolved to treat the mirror with all the consideration due to his spirit. After having caused it to be carefully repolished and resealable, he had a case of precious wood made for it, and a particular room in the house prepared to receive it. On the evening of the same day, that it had been respectfully deposited in that room, Yosai herself unexpectedly appeared before the priest as he said alone in his study. She looked even more lovely than before, but the light of her beauty was now soft as the light of a summer moon shining through pure white clouds. After having humbly saluted Matsumura, she said in a sweetly tinkling voice, Now that you have saved me from solitude and sorrow, I have come to thank you. I am indeed as you supposed the spirit of the mirror. It was in the time of the Emperor Simey that I was first brought here from Kuduara, and I dwelt in the August residence until the time of the Emperor Saga. When I was Augustine Bistard upon the Lady Khamo, Nassino of the Imperial Court, therefore I became an heirloom in the house of Fujiwara, and so remained until the period of Hogan when I was dropped into the well. There was left and forgotten during the years of the Great War. The monster of the well was a venomous dragon. He used to live in a lake that once covered a great pan of this district. After the lake had been filled in by government order in order that houses might be built upon the place of it, the dragon took position of the well. And when I fell into the well, I became subject to him, and he compelled me to lure many people to their deaths. But the Gods have banished him forever, and I have one more favor to beseech. I entree that you will cause me to be offered to the Shogayan, the Lord Oshimasa, whom I descent is related to my former possessions. Do me but this last great kindness, and it will bring you good fortune. But I have also to warn you of a danger. In these hours after tomorrow, you must not stay, because it will be destroyed. And with these words of warning, your sigh disappeared. Matsumura was able to profit by this premonition. He removed his people and his belongings to another district the next day. And almost immediately afterwards, another storm arose, even more violent than the first, causing a flood which swept over the house in which he had been residing. Sometime later, sometime later, my favor of the Lord Hosokawa, Matsumura was enabled to obtain an audience of the Shogan Oshimasa, to whom he presented the mirror, together with a reading account of its wonderful history. Then the prediction of the spirit of the mirror was fulfilled. For the Shogan, greatly pleased with this strange gift, not only bestowed costly presents upon the Matsumura, but also met an ample grant of money for the rebuilding of the temple of Ogawa Sea. Myosin, and of Jamir Medin. I'll have got you here. Father and son were a 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 passively by the fire. Hark at the wind, said Mr. White, who having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amably 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 the father, with his hand poised over the board. Mate, replied the son. That's the worst of living so far out, bald 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 a bog and the roads a 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 he'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 hid a guilty grin in his thin grave beard. There he is, said Herbert White, as the gate banged too loudly and heavy footsteps came towards the door. The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door was heard condoling with the new arrival. The 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 eyes and rubricant of 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 whiskey 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 doubty deeds of wars and plagues and strange people. Twenty-one years of it, said Mr. White, nodding at his white and sun. When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him. He don't look to have taken much harm, said Mrs. White politely. I'd like to go to India myself, said the old man. Just look round 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'd like to see those old temples and fiqirs 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 a ways, 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, fumbling in his pocket, it's just an ordinary little paw, dry 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. It 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 like laughter jarred somewhat. Well, why don't you have three, sir? said Herbert White cleverly. The soldier regarded him in the way that middle ages want to regard presumptuous youth. I have, he said quietly, and his butchy face whitened. And did you really have the three wishes granted, as Mrs. White? I did, said the Sergeant Major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth. And 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 debt. That's how I got the paw. His tones 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, Mars, said the old man at last. What do you keep it for? The soldier shook his head. Fancy, I suppose, he said slowly. I did have some idea of selling it, but I don't think I will. It has caused enough mischief already. Besides, people won't buy. They think it's a fairy tale, some of them. And those who do think anything of it want to try it first and pay me afterwards. If you could have another three wishes, said the old man, eyeing him kingly, 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, Mars, 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. Pitched 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 knight, said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set this up her. 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 gruffly, wish for something sensible. Mr. White dropped it back into his pocket, and placing chair as motioned his friend at the table. In the business of supper, the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterwards the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second installment of the soldier's adventures in India. If the tale about the monkey's paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us, said Herbert as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, we shan't make much out of it. Did you give him anything for it, father? inquired Mrs. White regarding her husband closely. A trifle, he said colouring 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, 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 antimicassur. 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. It 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 hands on his shoulder. Well, wish for two hundred 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 two hundred 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 towards him. It moved, he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake. Well, I don't see the money, said his son, as he picked it up and placed it on the table, and I better never shall. It must have been your fancy father, said his wife, regarding anxiously. He shook his head. Never mind, though, there's no harm done, but it gave me a shock all 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 you bade them good night, and something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe, watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains. 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 lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shriveled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which be tokened no great belief in its virtues. I suppose all old 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. Marr said that things happened so naturally, said his father, that you might, if you so wish, to tribute it to coincidence. While don't break into the money before I come back, said Herbert, as he rose from the table, I'm afraid it will turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you. His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down the road, and returning 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 that 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 dare say, said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer, but for all that the thing moved in my hand, that I'll swear to him. 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 two hundred 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 hand 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 unfastening 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 furtively at Mrs. White, and listened in a preoccupied fashion, as the old lady apologised 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 called to ask, he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. I come from Moen, Meghans. 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 he eyed the other wistfully. I'm sorry, begged the visitor. Is he hurt? demanded the mother. The visitor bowed in ascent. Badly hurt, he said quietly. But he is 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 of the window, and taking his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had been want 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 is hard. The other coughed, and rising walked slowly to the window. The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you and your great loss, he said. Without looking around. I beg that you will understand I am only their servant, and 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 Mawn Megan's disclaim all 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 the look of horror at his visitor, his dry lips shaped the word, 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 pass, 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, 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 tenantly. You will be cold. It is colder for my son, said the old woman, and wept afresh. The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dosed fitfully, and then slept, until a sudden cry from his wife awoke him with a start. The monkey's paw, she cried wildly. The monkey's paw. He started up an alarm. Where? Where is it? What's the matter? She came stumbling across the room towards him. I want it, she said quietly. You've not destroyed it. It's in the parlour 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 that not 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 bedclothes from his quaking limbs. Good God, you are 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 unsettling. 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, and dragged him towards the door. He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, 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. Airy 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 wished my son alive again. The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it shudderingly. Then 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-end, which had burned below the rim of the China candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceilings 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 afterwards the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him. Neither spoke, but both lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock, a stare creaked, and a 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 stealthy 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, it 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, 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 before? 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 drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman's voice strained in 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 fuselad 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 drawn back and the door opened. A 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 street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road. End of The Monkey's Paw by W. W. Jacobs Recording by Chris Coffey