by The Penguin Book of Ghost Stories- From Elizabeth Gaskell to Ambrose Bierce (retail) (epub)
‘Well, I don’t see the money,’ said his son as he picked it up and placed it on the table, ‘and I bet I never shall.’
‘It must have been your fancy, father,’ said his wife, regarding him anxiously.
He shook his head. ‘Never mind, though; there’s no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same.’
They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night.
‘I expect you’ll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed,’ said Herbert, as he bade them good-night, ‘and something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains.’
He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it in amazement. It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. His hand grasped the monkey’s paw, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed.
II
In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which betokened 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?’
‘Might drop on his head from the sky,’ said the frivolous Herbert.
‘Morris said the things happened so naturally,’ said his father, ‘that you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence.’
‘Well, don’t break into the money before I come back,’ said Herbert as he rose from the table. ‘I’m afraid it’ll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.’
His mother laughed, and 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 at the postman’s knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a tailor’s bill.3
‘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.’
‘You thought it did,’ said the old lady soothingly.
‘I say it did,’ replied the other. ‘There was no thought about it; I had 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 at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband’s coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent.
‘I – was asked to call,’ he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. ‘I come from “Maw and Meggins.” ’
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 – ’ began the visitor.
‘Is he hurt?’ demanded the mother, wildly.
The visitor bowed in assent. ‘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 perverted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.
‘He was caught in the machinery,’ said the visitor at length in a low voice.
‘Caught in the machinery,’ repeated Mr White, in a dazed fashion, ‘yes.’
He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife’s hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting-days nearly forty years before.
‘He was the only one left to us,’ he said, turning gently to the visitor. ‘It is hard.’
The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. ‘The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,’ he said, without looking round. ‘I beg that you will understand I 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 Maw and Meggins 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 a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, ‘How much?’
‘Two hundred pounds,’ was the answer.
Unconscious of his wife’s shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.
III
In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen – something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear.
But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation – the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were long to weariness.
It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened.
‘Come back,’ he said, tenderly. ‘You 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 dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.
‘The paw!’ she cried wildly. ‘The monkey’s paw!’
He started up in alarm. ‘Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?’
She came stumbling across the room toward him. ‘I want it,’ she said, qu
ietly. ‘You’ve not destroyed it?’
‘It’s in the parlour, on the bracket,’ he replied, marvelling. ‘Why?’
She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.
‘I only just thought of it,’ she said, hysterically. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before? Why didn’t you think of it?’
‘Think of what?’ he questioned.
‘The other two wishes,’ she replied, rapidly. ‘We’ve only had one.’
‘Was not that enough?’ he demanded, fiercely.
‘No,’ she cried, triumphantly; ‘we’ll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again.’
The man sat up in bed and flung the 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, unsteadily. ‘You don’t know what you are 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 his wife, quivering with excitement.
The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. ‘He has been dead ten days, and besides he – I would not tell you else, but – I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now?’
‘Bring him back,’ cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door. ‘Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?’
He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the 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 ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.
Even his wife’s face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.
‘Wish!’ she cried, in a strong voice.
‘It is foolish and wicked,’ he faltered.
‘Wish!’ repeated his wife.
He raised his hand. ‘I wish my son alive again.’
The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. 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 ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him.
Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, he 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 and spilled in the passage. 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 her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.
‘What are you going to do?’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘It’s my boy; it’s Herbert!’ she cried, struggling mechanically. ‘I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door.’
‘For God’s sake don’t let it in,’ cried the old man, trembling.
‘You’re afraid of your own son,’ she cried, struggling. ‘Let me go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m coming.’
There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.
‘The bolt,’ she cried, loudly. ‘Come down. I can’t reach it.’
But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade 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.
MARY WILKINS FREEMAN
The Wind in the Rose-Bush
Ford Village has no railroad station, being on the other side of the river from Porter’s Falls, and accessible only by the ford which gives it its name, and a ferry line.1
The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train with her bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry-boat as it shot swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing, with as dully reflective an expression as a cow. Beside Rebecca sat a woman of about her own age, who kept looking at her with furtive curiosity; her husband, short and stout and saturnine, stood near her. Rebecca paid no attention to either of them. She was tall and spare and pale, the type of a spinster, yet with rudimentary lines and expressions of matronhood. She all unconsciously held her shawl, rolled up in a canvas bag, on her left hip, as if it had been a child. She wore a settled frown of dissent at life, but it was the frown of a mother who regarded life as a froward child, rather than as an overwhelming fate.2
The other woman continued staring at her; she was mildly stupid, except for an over-developed curiosity which made her at times sharp beyond belief. Her eyes glittered, red spots came on her flaccid cheeks; she kept opening her mouth to speak, making little abortive motions. Finally she could endure it no longer; she nudged Rebecca boldly.
‘A pleasant day,’ said she.
Rebecca looked at her and nodded coldly.
‘Yes, very,’ she assented.
‘Have you come far?’
‘I have come from Michigan.’
‘Oh!’ said the woman, with awe. ‘It’s a long way,’ she remarked presently.
‘Yes, it is,’ replied Rebecca, conclusively.
Still the other woman was not daunted; there was something which she determined to know, possibly roused thereto by a vague sense of incongruity in the other’s appearance. ‘It’s a long ways to come and leave a family,’ she remarked with painful slyness.
‘I ain’t got any family to leave,’ returned Rebecca shortly.
‘Then you ain’t – ’
‘No, I ain’t.’
‘Oh!’ said the woman.
Rebecca looked straight ahead at the race of the river.
It was a long ferry. Finally Rebecca herself waxed unexpectedly loquacious. She turned to the other woman and inquired if she knew John Dent’s widow who lived in Ford Village. ‘Her husband died about three years ago,’ said she, by way of detail.
The woman started violently. She turned pale, then she flushed; she cast a strange glance at her husband, who was regarding both women with a sort of stolid keenness.
‘Yes, I guess I do,’ faltered the woman finally.
‘Well, his first wife was my sister,’ said Rebecca with the air of one imparting important intelligence.
‘Was she?’ responded the other woman feebly. She glanced at her husband with an expression of doubt and terror, and he shook his head forbiddingly.
‘I’m going to see her, and take my niece Agnes home with me,’ said Rebecca.
Then the woman gave such a violent start that she noticed it.
‘What is the matter?’ she asked.
‘Nothin’, I guess,’ replied the woman, with eyes on her husband, who was slowly shaking his head, like a Chinese toy.
‘Is my niece sick?’ asked Rebecca with quick suspicion.
‘No, she ain’t sick,’ replied the woman with alacrity, then she caught her breath with a gasp.
‘When did you see her?’
‘Let me see; I ain’t seen her for some little time,’ replied the woman. Then she caught her breath again.
‘She ought to have grown up real pretty, if she takes after my sister. She was a real pretty woman,’ Rebecca said wistfully.
‘Yes, I guess she did grow up pretty,’ replied the woman in a trembling voice.
‘What kind of a woman is the second wife?’
The woman glanced at her husband’s warning face. She continued to gaze at him while she replied in a choking voice to Rebecca: