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The History of Literature Podcast is a member of the podglomerate Network and Lit Hub Radio. Hello dear listeners and my friends, this is Jack Wilson reminding you that the History of Literature Podcast is going on tour. It's still a few months away, but the deadline is this month, September. That's your chance to put down your deposit if you would like to go. Let me tell you a little more about the trip. In May of 2026, I will be accompanying a small group of travelers on a trip through London, Oxford and Bath with stops at literary sites, houses of authors, restaurants where they ate and so on. There will be a chance to meet some like minded people as we all enjoy literature and life. Nice hotels and restaurants, lots of meals and fellowship, traveling together in the land of Shakespeare and Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, Dr. Johnson and more. And some special guests. People you've heard on the show will be joining us to shake our hands and answer our questions and generally participate in this celebration of books and writers and all the things we like best here at the podcast. As I said though, the signup is only open through September. That's so we can plan the trip. That's right, you have until the end of the month to secure your spot. So head over to John Shores Travel, that's our partner who's taking care of all the logistics and put down your deposit. That's John Shores S H O R S. Or you can go to historyofliterature.com and follow the links there. Join us for an experience you can't get anywhere else because you deserve it.
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I'm Alan Sisto, the Man of the west here at the Prancing Pony Podcast and I'm Sean Marchese, the real life Lord of the Mark. Every week here at the Prancing Pony Podcast, along with Sean or other co hosts, I explore the works of J.R.R. tolkien, author of the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings, bringing along lots of pop culture references, plenty of nerd humor, and the occasional bad pun. It's just a couple of friends hanging out at the pub talking about our favorite books. We cover just a few pages every episode, reading important sections of the books and having a chat about what we've read. Now we do a ton of research for each episode so that we can bring as much background information to our conversation as possible. We do all the heavy reading so you don't have to. It's a great way for first time readers to learn the basics of Tolkien's world, while for Middle Earth veterans it's a deep dive into their favorite stories. The Tolkien fandom is like no other. So we spend time in the community giving talks at Tolkien events, recording live episodes, and hanging out with our listeners on Discord to engage with our audience every chance we get. So if you're ready to to dive into the most beloved world in fantasy literature and become a part of a vibrant, active community of listeners, then look for the Prancing Pony podcast wherever you listen.
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Hello. Today on the podcast, we look at a classic horror story that was not written by Edgar Allan Poe, the Monkey's Paw by W.W. jacobs. We'll tell you who he was and then hear the story in its entirety. That's all coming up today on the history of of literature. Okay, here we go. Welcome to the podcast, everyone. I'm Jack Wilson. I'm so excited for October, which, as you may know, is my favorite month. We're going full mood here today. Autumnal mood. I'm lucky this is my favorite month because otherwise I'd be completely depressed. The world is full of bad news and my home is almost empty. Emma and I are rattling around like a couple of ghosts or zombies. It is a boy less house at the moment. An empty nest. Our two beloved children have both flown the coop and are attending college. And let's not dwell on that, because I'll start bawling like a baby. Or like dear Emma did at the moment of farewell on campus. Our little one is all grown up. The baby. The little one. The one we had under our wing even as the older one took off some years ago. The little one is big now, biggest one in the family. Big enough to know that his mother would cry tears of joy and loss. Here come the waterworks, he said. Not exactly Mr. Sympathy at that moment, but he did do one of his patented hugs, which aren't quite what they used to be when he was little, when he would. He would sprint toward us and fling himself at us and disappear into our arms. But the hugs are still nice nevertheless. I'm not tired of them. And I'm not tired of October every year. I eagerly anticipate this month, and I think, is it going to disappoint me? Did I build it up in my imagination too much that October isn't actually all that it's cracked up to be? And then it comes through. Every year there's a nip in the air and a metallic quality to the light. And I am in love with this month all over again. God bless you, October and death. And the smell of the air. Love that, too. The harvest and the leaves and the loamy earth getting ready to go into its deep freeze for a few months. Strange knocks on the door. Spooky air. Your skeleton, the one you carry around inside your body. You know it's in there, right? A skeleton. You have one. It rattles when you wear the wrong jacket and the cold wind bites its way through your clothing and your skin and your flesh. And today we have a real treat. Now, some of you might think the treat is because the signup period for the History of Literature podcast tour is closed and so there will be no extended discussion of the tour and how to sign up. Well, I wish I could deliver on that one, but I can't because it turns out we still have a little in our tour. And I want to make sure that you have heard the news that we're going to Literary England with a small group and a travel company that is going to see to our every logistical need. We're going to see some great sights and meet some great people and have some great times. And we would love to have you join us. The itinerary is at John Shores Travel and@historyofliterature.com you're a little past the deadline, but I want you to join us. So we'll make an exception for you. Don't delay. Don't hesitate. Let's make month. Let's make. I'm sorry, let's make May a month to look forward to, even as we make October the month we are currently enjoying here on the podcast. And what could be better? Here's a treat people. What could be better then the delicious story the Monkey's Paw. You probably know about this story. Even if you've never read or heard the story. You probably know it from the Simpsons or some other secondary source. The idea that there's a monkey's paw that can grant a wish. But be careful what you wish for, people, because your wish might turn out poorly. Just how scary is this story? Who the devil wrote it? A lot of questions that we'll answer today, so let's jump right in. William Wymark Jacobs was born in London in 1863 to a wharf manager and his wife. He lived near the River Thames during his childhood and he spent his time there running wild as a wharf rat, we are told. Perhaps because his father was somewhat distracted. He not only had four children with Jacobs mother, who died when the children were young, but he also had seven more children after he married his housekeeper. Eleven kids, wharf rats running around somewhere. Somehow there was money for William to go to private school and then Birkbeck College. But by the time he was 16, he was working as a clerk in the post office bank. And at age 22, he had started publishing short stories. He was a specialist in stories about. Well, let me give you a list of his novels and see if you can detect a theme. The Skipper's Wooing. This is just some of his novels. The Skipper's Wooing. A Master of Craft at Sunwich Port. The Castaways. Hmm. Okay, how about his short story collections? Many Cargoes. Also released as Sea Urchins, Light Freights, the Lady of the Barge, Odd Craft Captains, All Short Cruises, Sailor's Knots, Deep Waters, Night Watches, Ships, Company Sea Whispers. That's. I think you've guessed the theme by now, if you guessed the Sea and Sailors and Seafaring and water. And there's at least 15 books that he wrote with titles with seafaring themes, which is getting into the territory of my aunt's favorite writer, Dick Francis, a former jockey who wrote something like 40 books. And as my aunt said, they're all about horses. Every single one. She was not at all fazed by this. She still loved him, even though she wasn't herself a big fan of horses. Anyway, I'm not sure if that's accurate about Dick Francis. Surely he wrote one book that didn't involve a horse. But I don't know, it does seem like an awful lot of them did include horses. Our favorite thriller writer, Dick Francis, is Back in the Saddle, says a typical review. Back to W.W. jacobs. He was known for his humor and his trick endings. Oh, Henry of the Waterfront, he was called. By the time he was 36, his stories were successful enough that he could quit his day job. He had another specialty as well, not just sea stories, but ghost stories, tales of the macabre. Henry James reportedly told him. Mr. Jacobs, I envy you. You are popular. Your admirable work is appreciated by a wide circle of readers. It has achieved popularity. Mine never goes into a second edition, end quote. And yet today we know the name. Henry James were familiar with his works, and W.W. jacobs is virtually unknown, his novels and stories mostly forgotten, though his most famous story, this one Lives on the Monkey's Paw, first published in the American publication Harper's in 1902 and collected into the lady of the Barge and Other Stories, and which we will hear after this. Hey, everyone. My heartfelt thanks to AG1 for sponsoring this episode and for making a product that I use and enjoy. I've got a busy schedule and I work hard to fit everything in. One scoop of AG1 in the morning and I am good to go. Nutrients. My body needs energy to give me that physical and mental boost and that underrated but very important feature of a good life. Gut health. Yes indeed. Gotta have good gut health. AG1 has five probiotic strains and more than 75 vitamins and minerals. The flavors are delicious. I like berry the best, but tropical is right up there too. And AG1 is backed by gold standard clinical trials, rigorous and peer reviewed. Head to drink ag1.com literature to get a free welcome kit including a bottle of vitamin d and free AG1 travel packs when you first subscribe. That's drink ag1.com literature hey folks, it's my favorite season, autumn, and that means the weather is getting cooler. I love getting dressed in the morning, putting on layers, and I love wearing clothes that get the job done. 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All protected with end to end encryption. It's time for WhatsApp message privately with everyone. Learn more at WhatsApp.com the Monkey's Paw by W.W. jacobs One without the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlor of Laburnum Villa, the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire. Hark at the wind, said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too Late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it. I'm listening, said the latter grimly, surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. Check. I should hardly think that he'd come to night, said his father with his hand poised over the board. Mate, replied the son. That's the worst of living so far out. Bawled Mr. White with sudden and unlooked for violence. Of all the beastly slushy out of the way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway's a bog and the road's a torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses in the road are let, they think it doesn't matter. Never mind, dear, said his wife soothingly. Perhaps you'll win the next one. Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin gray beard. There he is, said Herbert White as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door. The old man rose with hospitable haste and opening the door was heard, condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself. So that, Mrs. White said, and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage. Sergeant Major Morris is, 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 wild scenes and doughty deeds, of wars and plagues and strange peoples. 21 years of it, said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. 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 to 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 should like to see those old temples and fakirs 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. Leastways, 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 off handedly. 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, dried to a mummy. He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously. And what is there special about it? Inquired Mr. White as he took it from his son and, having examined it, placed it upon the table. 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 light laughter jarred somewhat. Well, why don't you have three, sir? Said Herbert White cleverly. The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is want to regard presumptuous youth. I have, he said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened. And did you really have the three wishes granted? Asked Mrs. White. I did, said the sergeant major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth. And has anybody else wished? Persisted the old lady. The first man had his three wishes. Yes, was the reply. I don't know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That's how I got the paw. His 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, Morris, 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 afterward. If you could have another three wishes, said the old man, eyeing him keenly, would you have them? I don't know, said the other. I don't know. He took the paw and, dangling it between his forefinger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off. Better let it burn, said the soldier solemnly. If you don't want it, Morris, said the other. Give it to me. I won't, said his friend doggedly. I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don't blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again, like a sensible man. The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. How do you do it? He inquired. Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud, said the sergeant major, but I warn you of the consequences. Sounds like the Arabian Nights, said Mrs. White as she rose and began to set the supper. Don't you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me? Her husband drew the talisman from 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 in his pocket, and, placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the three sat listening in 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, said he, coloring slightly. He didn't want it, but I made him take it, and he pressed me again to throw it away. Likely, said Herbert with pretended horror. Why, we're going to be rich and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor, Father, to begin with. Then you can't be henpecked. He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White. Armed with an antimacassar, 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 hand on his shoulder. Well, wish for £200, then. That'll just do it. His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman as his son, with a solemn face somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords. I wish for 200 pounds, said the old man distinctly. A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by A shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him. It moved. He cried with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. As I wished. It 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 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. Two in the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table, and 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, shriveled 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 200 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. 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 too. 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 200 pounds. She noticed that the stranger was well dressed and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his 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 Ma and Megan's, 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. 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 was not in any pain. Oh, thank God, said the old woman, clasping her hands. Thank God for that. Thank you. She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her, and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other's averted face. She caught her breath and, turning to her slower witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence. He was caught in the machinery, said the visitor at length in a low voice. Caught in the machinery, repeated Mr. White in a dazed fashion. Yes. He sat staring blankly out at the window and, taking his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting days nearly 40 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 Ma and Megans 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? £200, 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. We will continue the story of the Monkey's Paw after this foreign.
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This episode is brought to you by Jack Daniels. Jack Daniels and music are made for each other. They share a rhythm in the craft of making something timeless while being a part of legendary nights. From backyard jams to sold out arenas, there's a song in every toast. Please drink responsibly. Responsibility.org, jack Daniels and Old Number 7 are registered trademarks. Tennessee Whiskey 40% alcohol by volume. Jack Daniel Distillery, Lynchburg, Tennessee this podcast is supported by FX's English Teacher. Last year's critically acclaimed series returns to follow Evan, Gwen, and Markie as they vie for their students divided attention. See why Cosmopolitan called its premiere season a master class of comedy, while glamour raved, it's the year's funniest and most heartwarming new comedy series, FX's English Teacher. All new Thursdays on FX. All episodes now streaming on Hulu.
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The Monkey's Paw by W.W. jacobs 3 in the huge new cemetery some 2 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 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 quietly. You've not destroyed it. It's in the parlor on the bracket, he replied, marveling why she cried and laughed together and bending over, kissed his cheek. I only just thought of it, she said hysterically. Why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it? Think of what? He questioned. The other two wishes, she replied rapidly. We've only had one. Was not that enough? He demanded fiercely. No. She cried triumphantly. We'll have one more. Go down and get it quickly and wish our boy alive again. The man sat up in bed and flung the 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 10 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. 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. 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. Okay, there we go. That's going to do it for this episode of the History of Literature. We kick off October with a bang and a shriek and a knock and a street lamp flickering on a quiet and deserted road. Would you have wanted to see that mutilated and now decomposing boy no matter what? Or would you have wished desperately for the knocking to stop? Maybe there's no good answer to that. I wonder if the third wish which got the got the old man what he wanted. I wonder if that turned on him somehow. Well, maybe you could say not seeing the boy was the fate that he shouldn't have interrupted. Okay, there's a good answer. There's no good answer to those questions. But there's a good answer to the question of should you join us on our History of Literature podcast tour through Literary England? And that answer is yes. Yes. Absolutely yes. We are going to have a blast. Find out more at John Shore's Travel or@historyofliterature.com We'll be back with some EA Poe this month. We talked to his biographer and some other October goodies. And goodness for you. I'm Jack Wilson. Thank you for listening and we'll see you next time.
- [45:15]
B
The town of Milton may seem normal at first glance, but the shadows are cursed and the expansive woods surrounding town are forbidden. They call it the void and nobody comes back alive.
- [45:25]
A
You're headed straight for the void.
- [45:27]
B
Milton lives suspended in time, trapped by a darkness that seems to be creeping closer and closer.
- [45:32]
A
It's safe.
- [45:33]
B
The void is kept at bay.
- [45:34]
A
Is it though?
- [45:35]
B
Join three friends as they embark on an epic journey into the heart of darkness. The Void Wherever you get your podcasts.
- [45:42]
A
This is just the beginning.
- [45:45]
C
What does it mean to live for the common Good? Introducing the Garrison Institute Presents the Common Good, the brand new podcast from the Garrison Institute, a leading, not for profit organization exploring the intersection of contemplation and engaged action in the world. Hosted by me, Jonathan F.P. rose, a co founder of the Garrison Institute Institute, the series dives into the threads that bind us all. First, you'll discover the interdependent nature of life with environmental entrepreneur Paul Hawken and trailblazing plant intelligence researcher Monica Gagliano. Next, we unlock the mysteries of the mind with renowned psychiatrist Dan Siegel and Pulitzer Prize winning author Siddhartha Mukherjee. Finally, we experience compassion in action with social justice activist Condamin Mason and environmental leader Bill McKibben. We invite you to listen, reflect and join us in acting for the common good. Follow the Garrison Institute presents the Common Good on Apple Podcasts, Spotify or wherever you are. Listening now.