Stuff You Should Know - The 13th Annual Halloween Spooktacular!

Episode Date: October 27, 2022

It's hard to believe, but this is our 13th edition of the Halloween Spooktacular! So pour up a creepy brew and gather the kids for a dramatic reading of two horror shorts. See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Stuff You Should Know, a production of iHeartRadio. Hey, and welcome to the Spookcast. I'm Josh, and there's Chuck, and there's Jerry Boo-Berry Rowland. Boo-Berry. That was the best one. I like it. And this is Stuff You Should Know, the Spooktacular Spooky Halloween Edition. That's right.

This is our 13th Spooktacular. That's awesome. I went back and looked, and we started out kind of timid with the early days. And then we kind of got, I think it was a few years in when we finally started in with like the two stories and really got our wheels, our Halloween wheels going. I can feel them just burning up the track right now. They're revving to go. That's right.

And also this is, as we always like to mention, one of our two episodes of the year that we have fought tooth and nail to keep ad-free. That's right. Because nothing will ruin a spooky Halloween story more than stopping to sell stamps. That's right. You just want the scares and the thrills and the chills to be perfectly uninterrupted, right? Yeah, and both of these stories, the parents have never heard these. They are both fine for kids to listen to.

Little creepy, but largely because we have to use what's it called when you can read it, public domain stories. Oh, sure, yeah. And usually those aren't, you know, they're older, so they're not as gross as the stories you would get today. Yeah. I mean, the language they use, adults barely know what's going on. Kids definitely don't.

So those are the stories we like to pick. Two good ones, though. I'm looking forward to these, two quality stories. Let's start with yours, the boarded window by Ambrose Bierce, right? Yeah, Ambrose Bierce, one of the great journalists and spooky story writers in history. I believe we already have done one Bierce piece. Definitely. I can't remember the name of it, but it was good.

Me either. Yeah, it was good. I think he was also called like the wickedest man alive at some point in time. No, that was what's his face. I think more than one person's been called that. Oh, okay. I've been called that before. No, that's not true.

All right, so you want to start this one? Yeah, I'll give this one a whirl. All right, and Jerry, if you don't mind, bringing on the amazing sound effects, a hand for Jerry, everybody. She does it up every year. She does it up. So here we go, everybody, darken the lights, pour up a spooky cider or something, and here we go with The Boarded Window by Ambrose Bierce.

In 1830, only a few miles away from what is now the great city of Cincinnati lay an immense and almost unbroken forest. The whole region was sparsely settled by people of the frontier, restless souls who no sooner had hewn fairly habitable homes out of the wilderness and attained to that degree of prosperity, which today we should call indigence, then impelled by some mysterious impulse of their nature, they abandoned all and pushed farther westward to encounter new perils and privations in the effort to regain the meeker comforts, which they had voluntarily renounced. It's quite a sentence.

It is. It's clever, though. I love how they pushed further westward into Cincinnati. That's right. Many of them had already forsaken that region for the remote settlements, but among those remaining was one who had been of those first arriving. He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by the great forest, of whose gloom and silence he seemed to part, for no one had ever known him to smile nor speak

a needless word. Most were supplied by the sale or barter of skins of wild animals in the river town, for not a thing did he grow upon the land which, if needful, he might have claimed by right of undisturbed possession. So this guy's like the king of his domain out there, basically. Definitely, but he doesn't really do anything. He just kind of lays around in skins, animals, I guess. Yeah, as we will see.

There are evidences of, quote, improvement in, quote, which is kind of harsh, I think, to say. A few acres of ground immediately about the house had once been cleared of its trees, the decayed stumps of which were half concealed by the new growth that had been suffered to repair the ravage wrought by the axe. Apparently, the man's zeal for agriculture had burned with a failing flame, expiring in penitential ashes. The little log house with his chimney of sticks, its roof of warping clapboards, waited with

traversing poles, and its, quote, chinking, quote, of clay, had a single door and directly opposite a window. The latter, however, was boarded up. Nobody could remember a time when it was not, and no one knew why it was so closed. Certainly not because of the occupants' dislike of light and air, for on one of those rare occasions when a hunter had passed that lonely spot, the recluse had commonly been seen sunning himself on his doorstep if heaven have provided sunshine for his need. I fancy there are a few persons living today who ever knew the secret of that window, but

I am one, as you shall see. All right, so yeah, these guys living out there in the woods seems a little bit lazy, and he's got a boarded up window. And he likes to sun himself, and just because of his living situation and where he lives, there's just no way he's wearing clothes while he's sunning himself outside of his house. Very much naked out there, I bet. Okay, my turn? Yes.

The man's name was said to be Murlock. He was apparently 70 years old, actually about 50. Something besides years had had a hand in his aging. His hair and long full beard were white. His gray, lusterless eyes sunken, his face singularly seemed with wrinkles, which appeared to belong to two intersecting systems. In figure, he was tall and spare, with a stoop of the shoulders, a burden bearer. I never saw him.

These particulars I learned from my grandfather, from whom I also got the man's story when I was a lad. He had known him when living nearby in that early day. One day, Murlock was found in his cabin, dead. It was not a time and place for coroners and newspapers, and I suppose it was agreed that he had died from natural causes, or I should have been told and should remember. I know only that with what was probably a sense of the fitness of things, the body was buried near the cabin, alongside the grave of his wife, who had preceded him by so many

years that local tradition had retained hardly a hint of her existence. That closes the final chapter of this true story, accepting, indeed, the circumstance many years afterward. In company with an equally intrepid spirit, I penetrated to the place and ventured near enough to the ruined cabin to throw a stone against it, and ran away to avoid the ghost which every well-informed boy thereabout knew haunted the spot. But there is an earlier chapter, that supplied by my grandfather. When Murlock built his cabin and began laying sturdily about with his axe to hew out a farm,

the rifle, meanwhile his means of support, he was young, strong, and full of hope. In that eastern country whence he came, he had married, as was the fashion, a young woman and always worthy of his honest devotion, who shared the dangers and privations of his lot with a willing spirit and light heart. There is no known record of her name, of her charms of mind and person, tradition is silent, and the doubter is at liberty to entertain his doubt. But God forbid that I should share it. Of their affection and happiness, there is abundant assurance in every added day of the man's widowed life.

For what but the magnetism of a blessed memory could have chained that venturesome spirit to a lot like that. Alright, so he had a wife, she died, he was later found dead. Yeah. Do you know what happened? Well, no, but he's saying like he loved her very much because he didn't move from that place where she died. That's right. One day, Murloc returned from gunning in a distant part of the forest to find his wife, prostrate with fever and delirious.

There was no physician within miles, no neighbor, nor was she in a condition to be left to summon help. So he set about the task of nursing her back to health. But at the end of the third day, she fell into unconsciousness and so passed away, apparently, with never a gleam of returning reason. For what we know of a nature like his, we may venture to sketch in some of the details of the outline picture drawn by my grandfather. When convinced that she was dead, Murloc had since enough to remember that the dead must be prepared for burial. In performance of that sacred duty, he blundered down again, did certain things incorrectly, and others which he did correctly were done over and over. So this guy's kind of stumbling through this. He's like, oh my gosh.

Yeah. Oh, jeez. He's not doing too hot. Oh, I broke her arm off now. His occasional failures to accomplish some simple and ordinary act filled him with astonishment, like that of a drunken man who wonders at the suspension of familiar natural laws. He was surprised, too, that he did not weep. Surprised and a little ashamed, surely it is unkind not to weep for the dead. Tomorrow, he said aloud, I shall have to make the coffin and dig the grave, and then I shall miss her when she is no longer in sight.

But now she is dead, of course, but it is all right. It must be all right somehow. Things cannot be so bad as they seem. Sad. Yeah, he's in the denial stage of grief, I think, right? Yeah, for sure. He stood over the body in the fading light, adjusting the hair and putting the finishing touches to the simple toilet. Now, what does that mean?

I think he was like cleaning her up, but not like she was peeing or pooping. The toilet is like what they call the little overnight kit that you take with you that has all your stuff, your toothpaste and all that stuff. That's the only thing I can think of. That he was like combing her hair and maybe like cleaning whatever off of her mouth or, you know, that kind of stuff. I get that part, but just the simple toilet. I thought they meant her butt. I don't think it could be. He was the wickedest man alive.

All right, so let me just do that sentence again. Putting the finishing touches to the simple toilet, doing all mechanically with soulless care, and still through his consciousness ran an under sense of conviction that all was all right, that he should have her again as before, and everything explained. He had no experience in grief. His capacity had not been enlarged by use. His heart could not contain it all, nor his imagination rightly conceived it. He did not know he was so hard struck that knowledge would come later and never go. Grief is an artist of powers as various as the instruments upon which he plays his jerges for the dead, evoking some of the sharpest, shrillest notes from others, the low grave chords that throb recurrent like the slow beating of a distant drum. Some natures it startles, some it stupefies.

To one it comes like the stroke of an arrow stinging all the sensibilities to a keener life, to another is the blow of a bludgeon, which in crushing benums. We may conceive murloc to have been that way affected for, and this is parenthetical by the way, and here we are upon sure ground, then that of conjecture. No sooner had he finished his pious work than sinking into his chair by the side of the table upon which the body lay, and noting how white the profile showed in the deepening gloom, he laid his arms upon the table's edge and dropped his face into them, tearless yet an unutterably weary. At that moment came in through the open window a long wailing sound like the cry of a lost child in the far deeps of the darkening woods, but the man did not move. Again, and nearer than before, sounded that unearthly cry upon his failing sense, perhaps it was a wild beast, perhaps it was a dream, for murloc was asleep. Very nice, so he fixed his wife's toilet and then was so just overwrought and worn out by the experience that he fell asleep with his face and arms on the table where her body was, right? Yeah, I like that long bit about how grief can act as well. Yeah, I thought that was very good too.

Okay, me? Yes. Some hours later, as it afterward appeared, this unfaithful watcher awoke and lifting his head from his arms, intently listened. He knew not why. There in the black darkness by the side of the dead, recalling all without a shock, he strained his eyes to see. He knew not what. His senses were all alert, his breath was suspended, his blood had stilled its tides as if to assist the silence. Who, what, had waked him and where was it? Suddenly the table shook beneath his arms and at the same moment he heard, or fancy that he heard, a light, soft step, another, sounds of bare feet upon the floor. He was terrified beyond the power to cry out or move. Perforce he waited, waited there in the darkness, through seeming centuries of such dread as one may know, yet lived to tell.

He tried vainly to speak the dead woman's name, vainly to stretch forth his hand across the table to learn if she were there. His throat was powerless, his arms and hands were like lead. Then occurred something most frightful. Some heavy bodies hurled against the table with an impetus that pushed it against his breath so sharply as nearly to overthrow him. And at the same instant he heard and felt the fall of something upon the floor was so violent a thump that the whole house was shaken by the impact. A scuffling ensue and a confusion of sounds impossible to describe. Murlock had risen to his feet, fear had by excess forfeited control of his faculties. He flung his hands upon the table. Nothing was there. Pretty creepy. For sure, because I mean it's just him and his wife in this cabin in Cincinnati and nothing's supposed to be going on.

That's right. He fell asleep for goodness sakes. There is a point at which terror may turn to madness, and madness incites to action. With no definite intent, from no motive but the wayward impulse of a madman, Murlock sprang to the wall with a little groping seized his loaded rifle and without aim discharged it. By the flash which lit up the room with a vivid illumination, he saw an enormous panther dragging the dead woman toward the window, its teeth fixed in her throat. Then there was darkness blacker than before in silence, and when he returned to consciousness, the sun was high and the wood vocal with songs of birds. All right, I didn't see that coming. I didn't even know there were panthers in Ohio and I grew up in Ohio. I guess there were back then.

Yeah, I guess. It was a long time ago, but you know this guy fires off his rifle just out of instinct like it could have been his wife. You don't know what's going on. Yeah, I imagine him being like Barney Fife trying to take a shot while he's really worked up. All right, let's finish this thing up. Okay. The body lay near the window where the beast had left it when frightened away by the flash and report of the rifle. The clothing was deranged. The long hair and disorder. The limbs lay anyhow. From the throat dreadfully lacerated. He had issued a pool of blood, not yet entirely coagulated.

The ribbon with which he had bound the wrists was broken. The hands were tightly clenched. Between the teeth was a fragment of the animal's ear. All right, I read a little bit of what do you call it? When people interpret things? I don't know. Yeah, sure. They seem to be in agreement that the wife was not dead and that he tied her up and then she struggled to try and free herself and fight this panther. I like to think that she was dead, this being Halloween, and came back to life for one last struggle with the panther. She was like, not my man, panther, and saved his life. Okay, I like it. Good story. It was a good story. Good choice, Chuck. Good job, Ambrose Beers, if you can hear us wherever you are now. Oh, I can, Josh.

You sound like Santa Claus. Okay, so you want to start mine because we don't have to take an ab break, remember? Oh, that's right. Yeah, sure. We've got our parts worked out, right? We do. I think you should take the other guy. The landlord? Yeah, you take the landlord because he's talking to my guy, so that makes sense. Okay, cool.

And then I'll start this one out and we'll just kind of switch off, right? Yeah, yeah. So we're going to read The Toll House, and it's a short story by W.W. Jacobs written in 1907, or at least published for the first time in 1907, and W.W. Jacobs was much more famous for having written The Monkey's Paw. Oh, okay. I knew I knew that name. Yeah. He should have entitled this, The Toll House, parentheses, those ain't cookies. Yeah. Yeah, I can't think of anything but that, but it'll make sense in a minute, right?

Okay, remember when we did the cookies episode, we found out some people actually called chocolate chip cookies Toll Houses? Yeah, it's weird. That is really weird. Don't be weird people, just call them chocolate chip cookies. Exactly. So where are these guys from? I haven't worked on any accents or affectations yet. Well, I think that's great. We can just leave it up to our imaginations, but I'm going to guess somewhere in the Middle East. Oh, no.

All right. Middle East of America? Yeah. Oh, okay. No, no, I was kidding. I meant Middle East. No, I think that they're meant to be British. I think this is set in England probably. Oh, fun. This is going to get weird then. I love it. Yeah, yeah. And it's just long enough that if you could stop and edit like our initial accents with the ones we end up on finally, but they're like night and day.

Oh, all right. Here we go. It's all nonsense, said Jack Barnes. Of course, people have died in the house. People die in every house. As for the noises, wind in the chimney and rats in the Wayne Scott are very convincing to a nervous man. Give me another cup of tea, Miegel. Lester and White finished their cup with irritating slowness, pausing between sips to sniff the aroma and to discover the sex and dates of arrival of the strangers which floated in some numbers in the beverage. Now, what is that? I have no idea. Okay. I really wondered about that. It doesn't make any sense. The only way I can make heads or tails of it is if the beverage is like a bar, another word for the bar, and there's people coming in and out of this public bar that they're in.

Okay. It's it. It's all I can do. Yeah, yeah. That makes a little bit of sense at least. Mr. Miegel served them to the brim and then turning to the grimly expectant Mr. Barnes, blandly requested him to ring for hot water. Try and keep your nerves in a healthy, present condition, he remarked. For my part, I have a sort of half and half belief in the supernatural. All sensible people have, said Blester, an auntie of mine saw a ghost once. White nodded.

I had an uncle that saw one, he said. It always is somebody else that sees them. Well, there's a house, said Miegel. A large house at an absurdly low rent and nobody will take it. It has taken toll of at least one life of every family that's lived there. However short the time, and since it has stood empty, caretaker after caretaker has died there. The last caretaker died there 15 years ago. Wow. I love Miegel. It's really evolved. It's changed all of a sudden that tea is doing something.

Yeah, now I just have to remember the next time he speaks. Well, I've tried to separate my two guys by class. Oh, nice. Okay. All right. Exactly. Said Barnes. Long enough for legends to accumulate. Okay.

I'll bet you a sovereign, you won't spend the night there alone for all your talk, said White suddenly. And I. No. Said Barnes slowly. I don't believe in ghosts nor in any supernatural things, whatever. All the same, I admit that I should not care to pass a night there alone. But why not? Enquired White.

Wind in the chimney, said Miegel with a grin. I don't remember what Miegel sounded like. Rats in the wane, Scott. Chimed in lesser. As you like. Said Barnes coloring. Suppose we all go, said Miegel, start after supper and get there about 11. We've been walking for 10 days now without an adventure, except for Barnes' discovery that ditch water smells longest.

It will be a novelty at any rate. And if we break the spell by all surviving, the grateful owner ought to come down handsome. Let's see what the landlord has to say about it first. Said Lester. There is no fun in passing a night in an ordinary empty house. Let us make sure that it is haunted. He rang the bell and sending for the landlord appealed to him in the name of our common humanity, not to let them waste a night watching in a house in which specters in hobgoblins had no part.

The reply was more than reassuring, and the landlord, after describing with considerable art the exact appearance of a head which had been seen hanging out of a window in the moonlight, wound up with a polite but urgent request that they would settle his bill before they went. It's all very well for you young gentlemen to have your fun, he said indulgently, but supposing is how you are all found dead in the morning. What about me? It ain't called the tall house for nothing you know. Who died there last?

Inquired Barnes with an air of polite derision. A tramp was the reply. He went there for the sake of half a crown, and they found him next morning hanging from the balusters dead. Suicide, said Barnes, unsound mind. The landlord nodded, that's what the jury brought in, he said slowly, but his mind was sound enough when he went in there. I'd known him off and on for years.

I'm a poor man, but I wouldn't spend the night in that house for a hundred pounds. And also by the way Chuck, I went ahead and did the inflation calculator and then translated it into USD. So he's saying, the landlord's saying here that he wouldn't spend the night in that house for 9,272 pounds in today's money, or $10,488.53 in America. Very nice. He repeated this remark as they started on their expedition a few hours later.

They left as the inn was closing for the night, bolts shot noisily behind them, and as the regular customers trudged slowly homewards, they set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the house. Most of the cottages were already in darkness, and lights and others went out as they passed. All right, so I mean, here we have four gentlemen. We have a haunted house and a bit of a dare to each other, right,

to go spend the night in that thing. Exactly, and I think it was Barnes who just apropos of nothing started talking about how he doesn't believe in ghosts, right? But he's like, I don't want to go there, but it's not because of ghosts. Right, exactly. So they're like, okay, we're going to get you out. We're all loaded up on English tea right now, so let's go see this haunted house. That's right.

So I think you should take over. Okay, all right. But we'll keep the same voices, right? Or should we just get really weird? Well, I think it doesn't matter whether we try or not. That's what's going to happen. Hey, I've got my guys. Okay, well, I guess I'm talking about me then.

All right, so that's you starting out as White. Yep. It seems rather hard that we have got to lose the night's rest in order to convince Barnes of the existence of ghosts. Wait, is White from Maryland all of a sudden? Yes. Said White. It's in a good cause, said Miegel.

A most worthy object, and something seems to tell me that we shall succeed. You didn't forget the candles, Lester. Oh man, I love Miegel. I got to hang out with this guy. What's he going to say next? It makes me act like Miegel all the time. I brought two, was the reply. All the old man could spare.

There was but little moon, and the night was cloudy. The road between high hedges was dark, and in one place, where it ran through a wood, so black that they twice stumbled in the uneven ground at the side of it. Fancy leaving our comfortable beds for this, said White again. Let me see. This desirable residential sepulcher lies to the right, doesn't it? Further on, said Miegel. They walked on for some time in silence, broken only by White's tribute to the softness,

the cleanliness, and the comfort of the bed, which was receding farther and farther into the distance. Under Miegel's guidance, they turned off at last to the right, and after a walk of a quarter of a mile, saw the gates of the house before them. The lodge was almost hidden by overgrown shrubs, and the drive was choked with rank growths. Miegel leading, they pushed through it until the dark pile of the house loomed above them. There is a window at the back where we can get in, so the landlord says, said Lester, as they stood before the hall floor, Window, said Miegel.

Nonsense, let's do the thing properly. Where's the knocker? He f- Oh, that's my new ringtone for you. Where's the knocker? Uh, I'm not getting either, Jerry. Isolate that and send it to me, please. He fell for it in the darkness and gave a thundering ratatad at the door. Don't play the fool, said Barnes crossly. Ghostly servants are all asleep, said Miegel gravely.

But I'll wake them up before I've done with them. It's scandalous keeping us out here in the dark. He plied the knocker again and the noise volleyed in the emptiness beyond. Then, with a sudden exclamation, he put out his hands and stumbled forward. Why, it was open all the time. He said with an odd catch in his voice. You're not kidding there. I didn't really put that in there. Come on.

I don't believe it was open, said Lester hanging back. Somebody is playing us a trick. Nonsense, said Miegel sharply. Give me a candle. Thanks. Who's got a match? Your butt and my face. Oh wait, sorry. Barnes produced a box and struck one and Miegel shielding the candle with his hand led the way forward to the foot of the stairs.

Shut the door, somebody. He said. There's too much draft. It is shut, said White, glancing behind him. Miegel fingered his chin. Who shut it? He inquired, looking from one to the other. Who came in last?

I did, said Lester, but I don't remember shutting it. Perhaps I did though. Miegel, about to speak, thought better of it and still carefully guarding the flame began to explore the house with the others close behind. Shadows danced in the walls and lurked in the corners as they proceeded. At the end of the passage, they found a second staircase and descending it slowly gained the first floor. Careful, said Miegel as they gained the landing.

He held the candle forward and showed where the balusters had broken away. Then he peered curiously into the void beneath. This is where the Trump hanged himself, I suppose. He said thoughtfully. You have an unwholesome mind, said White as they walked on. This place is quite creepy enough without you remembering that. Now let's find a comfortable room and have a little nip of whiskey a piece and a pipe. How will this do?

Hey, now we're talking. That's right. There's a white at every party, I like it. He opened the door at the end of the passage and revealed a small square room. Miegel led the way with the candle and first, melting a drop or two of tallow, stuck it on the mantelpiece. The others seated themselves on the floor and watched pleasantly as White drew from his pocket a small bottle of whiskey and a tin cup.

Hmm, I've forgotten the water. He exclaimed. I'll soon get some. Said Miegel. He tugged violently at the bell handle and the rusty jangling of a bell sounded from a distant kitchen. He rang again. Don't play the fool. Said Barnes roughly.

Miegel laughed. I only wanted to convince you. He said kindly. There ought to be at any rate one ghost in the servants hall. Barnes held up his hand for silence. Yes. Said Miegel with a grin at the other two. Is anybody coming?

All right, this seems like a good switch point. It seems like Miegel is making a big spectacle of this whole thing. He's a bit of a jackass, I'm just going to say it. He's not taking this very seriously. No, for sure not. He's being a little mean to Barnes who's clearly on edge. Barnes for all his fawning over not being afraid of ghosts is clearly afraid. Right.

Miegel is heating it up like a puppy on a raw steak. All right, here we go with Barnes and then you're taking over. Good? Yep. Suppose we drop this game and go back. Said Barnes suddenly. I don't believe in spirits, but nerves are outside anybody's command. You may laugh as you like, but it really seems to me that I heard a door open below and steps on the stairs.

His voice was drowned in a roar of laughter. He's coming around, said Miegel with a smirk. By the time I've done with him, he will be a confirmed believer. Well, who will go and get some water? Will you, Barnes? No. Was the reply. If there is any, it might not be safe to drink after all these years.

Said Blester. We must do without it. Miegel nodded and taking a seat on the floor held out his hand for the cup. Pipes were lit and the clean wholesome smell of tobacco filled the room. White produced a pack of cards. Talk and laughter rang through the room and died away reluctantly in distant corners. Cypress Hill played on the high-fi. Marlon Wayans showed up.

Empty rooms always delude me into the belief that I possess a deep voice. Said Miegel. Tomorrow. He started with a smothered exclamation. Eck as the light went out suddenly and something struck him on the head. The other sprang to their feet. Then Miegel laughed. It's the candle he exclaimed.

I didn't stick it enough. Barnes struck a match and relighting the candle, stuck it on the mantelpiece, and sitting down took up his cards again. What was I going to say? Said Miegel. I know. Tomorrow. I listen, said White, laying his hand on the other's sleeve.

Upon my word, I really thought I heard a laugh. Look here, said Barnes. What do you say to going back? I've had enough of this. I keep fancying that I hear things too. Sounds of something moving about in the passage outside. I know it's only fancy, but it's uncomfortable. Oh, you go if you want to, said Miegel, and we will play dummy.

Or you might ask the tramp to take your hand as you go downstairs. Barnes shivered and exclaimed angrily. He got up and walking to the half-closed door, listened. Go outside, said Miegel, winking at the other two. I'll dare you to go down to the hall door and back by yourself. Co-co-co. Co-co-co. Barnes came back.

Oh, sorry. Barnes came back and, bending forward, lit his pipe at the candle. I am nervous but rational. He said, blowing out a thin cloud of smoke. Mie nerves tell me that there is something prowling up and down the long passage outside. Mie reason tells me that it is all nonsense. Wear my cards. He sat down again and, taking up his hand, looked through it carefully and led.

Your play, White. He said after a pause, White made no sign. Why, he is asleep, said Miegel. Wake up, old man. Wake up and play. Lester, who was sitting next to him, took the sleeping man by the arm and shook him, gently at first, and then with some roughness. But White, with his back against the wall and his head bowed, made no sign. Miegel bawled in his ear and then turned a puzzled face to the others.

He sleeps like the dead, he said, grimacing. Well, there are still three of us to keep each other company. Yes, said Lester, nodding. Unless, good lord, suppose. He broke off and eyed them trembling. Suppose what, inquired Miegel. Nothing, stammered Lester. Let's wake him.

Try him again. White, White. It's no good, said Miegel, seriously, there's something wrong about that sleep. That's what I meant, said Lester. And if he goes to sleep like that, well, why shouldn't? Miegel sprang to his feet. Nonsense, he said roughly. He's tired out, that's all.

Still, let's take him up and clear out. You take his legs and bonds will lead the way with the candle. Yes, who's that? He looked up quickly towards the door. Thought I heard somebody tap, he said with a shame-faced laugh. Now Lester, up with him. One, two, Lester, Lester. He sprang forward too late.

Lester, with his face buried in his arms, had rolled over onto the floor, fast asleep, and his utmost efforts failed to awaken him. He is asleep, he stammered. Asleep! Barns, who had taken the candle from the mantelpiece, stood peering at the sleepers in silence and dropping tallow over the floor. We must get out of this, said Miegel. Quick! Barns hesitated. We can't leave him here.

He began. We must! said Miegel in strident tones. If you go to sleep, I shall go. Quick, come! He seized the other by the arm and strove to drag him to the door. Barns shook him off, and putting the candle back on the mantelpiece, tried again to arouse the sleepers. It's no good.

He said at last, and turning from them, watched Miegel. Don't you go to sleep. He said anxiously. Miegel shook his head, and they stood for some time in uneasy silence. May as well shut the door. Said Barns at last. I think this is a good time to transition over to you. All right.

I got to say, Miegel, this chap has a flair for the dramatic. He's very easily excitable, it turns out. Very much. I really like this guy. Just to recap, Lester and White have inexplicably fallen asleep and cannot be roused. Yeah, they're not dead, because it seems like they're definitely asleep and breathing. Right. Miegel and Barns are freaked out, and it's sufficiently freaky that even Miegel's like,

let's get out of here, but Barns, his credit is like, no, we're not leaving these guys. We got to wake him up. Yeah, but I also get the feeling Barns is like, now I'm stuck with Miegel. Yeah. Everybody, no one likes that. All right, here we go. He crossed over and closed it gently. Then at a scuffling noise behind him, he turned and saw Miegel in a heap on the hearthstone.

With a sharp catch in his breath, he stood motionless. Inside the room, the candle, fluttering in the draft, showed dimly the grotesque attitudes of the sleepers. That's a great line. Beyond the door, there seemed to be his overwrought imagination, a strange and stealthy unrest. He tried to whistle, but his lips were parched, and in a mechanical fashion, he stooped and began to pick up the cards which littered the floor.

He stopped once or twice and stood with bent head listening. The unrest outside seemed to increase. A loud creaking sound from the stairs. Who's there? He cried loudly. The creaking ceased. He crossed to the door and flinging it open, strode out into the corridor as he walked.

His fears left him suddenly. Come on. He cried with a low laugh. All of you, all of you, show your faces. Your infernal ugly faces. Don't skulk. He laughed again and walked on, and the heap in the fireplace put out his head toward his fashion and listened in horror to the retreating footsteps.

That's creepy. Not until they had become inaudible in the distance did the listener's features relax. Good Lord Lester, we've driven him bad. He said in a frightened whisper, We must go after him. There was no reply. Meagol sprung to his feet. Do you hear?

He cried. Stop your fooling now. This is serious. White. Lester, do you hear? He bent and surveyed them in angry bewilderment. All right. He said in a trembling voice.

You won't fuck me, you know. His crotch wet with urine. W.W. Jacobs just sat up in his grave and applauded. He turned away and walked with exaggerated carelessness into the direction of the door. He even went outside and peeped through the crack, but the sleepers did not stir. He glanced into the blackness behind and then came hastily into the room again. So he's all alone at this point, right? Yeah, and freaked out.

He stood for a few seconds regarding them. The stillness in the house was horrible. He could not even hear them breathe. With a sudden resolution, he snatched the candle from the mantelpiece and held the flame to White's finger. Then as he real back stupefied, the footsteps again became audible. He stood with the candle in his shaking hand, listening. He heard them ascending the farther staircase,

but they stopped suddenly as he went to the door. He walked a little way along the passage and they went scurrying down the stairs and then at a jog trot along the corridor below. He went back to the main staircase and they ceased again. Again. Alright, so this is getting really creepy at this point. Yeah, so you can't see anything. All of his buddies are all in some weird mystical sleep

and now there's phantom footsteps chasing him around the house. Alright, I think you should take it over. For a time, he hung over the balusters listening and trying to pierce the blackness below. Then slowly, step by step, he made his way downstairs and holding the candle above his head, peered about him. Bones! he called out. Where are you?

Shaking with fright, he made his way along the passage and summoning up all his courage, pushed open doors and gazed fearfully into empty rooms. Then, quite suddenly, he heard the footsteps in front of him. He followed slowly for fear of extinguishing the candle until they led him at last into a vast bear kitchen with damp walls and a broken floor. In front of him, a door leading into an inside room had just closed.

He ran toward it and flung it open and a cold air blew out the candle. He stood aghast. Bones! he cried again. Don't be afraid, it is our meagle! Yeah, to save the day. Right. There was no answer. He stood gazing into the darkness and all the time, the idea of something close at hand watching

was upon him. Then suddenly, the steps broke out overhead again. He drew back hastily and passing through the kitchen groped his way along the narrow passages. He could now see better in the darkness and finding himself at last at the foot of the staircase began to ascend it noiselessly. He reached the landing just in time

to see a figure disappear around the angle of the wall. Still careful to make no noise, he followed the sound of the steps until they led him to the top floor and he cornered the chase at the end of a short passage. Bones! he whispered. Bones! Something stirred in the darkness.

A small circular window at the end of the passage just softened the blackness and revealed the dim outlines of a motionless figure. Meagle, in place of advancing, stood almost as still as a sudden horrible doubt took possession of him. With his eyes fixed on the shape in front, he fell back slowly and as it advanced upon him, burst into a terrible cry.

Bones, for God's sake, is it you? I think you take over now. Okay. And then you can take it home. How about that? Yeah, also I just want to... W.W. Jacobs doesn't really play this up as much. He kind of touched on it with the creepy, vast bear kitchen with damp walls and broken floor,

but he hasn't really included this empty, abandoned, scary haunted house as much of a character. You just have to remind yourself, like, this is going on in an empty house where this man is alone in the dark and scared-essless. Scared-essless.

The echoes of his voice left the air quivering, but the figure before him paid no heed. For a moment, he tried to brace his courage up to endure its approach. Then, with a smothered cry, he turned and fled. The passages wound like a maze and he threaded them blindly in a vain search for the stairs. If he could get down and open the hall door,

he caught his breath in a sob. The steps had begun again. At a lumbering trot, they clattered up and down the bare passages, in and out, up and down, as though in search of him. He stood appalled, and as they drew near, entered a small room and stood behind the door as they rushed by.

He came out and ran swiftly and noiselessly in the other direction, and in a moment, the steps were after him. He found the long corridor and raced along it at top speed, the stair he knew were at the end, and with the steps close behind, he descended them in a blind haste. The steps gained on him, and he shrank to the side

to let them pass, still continuing his headlong flight. Then, suddenly, he seemed to slip off of the earth into space. Why don't you take it home? Okay. Whoa! Lester awoke in the morning to find the sunshine streaming into the room, and White, sitting up

and regarding with some perplexity a badly blistered finger. Where are the others? inquired Lester. Gone, I suppose, said White. We must have been asleep. Lester arose, and White could have used a better, a little more development, but I'm going to stick with it

since that was the last quote of his. That's right, he's the least interesting guy here, I think. Lester arose, and stretching his stiffened limbs, dusted his clothes with his hands, and went out into the corridor. White followed. At the noise of their approach, a figure, which had been lying asleep at the other end,

sat up and revealed the face of Barnes. Ugh, why, I've been asleep. He said in surprise. I don't remember coming here. How did I get here? Nice place to come for a nap, said Lester severely, as he pointed to the gap in the balusters. Look there!

Another yard, and where would you have been? He walked carelessly to the edge and looked over. In response to his startled cry, the others drew near, and all three stood gazing at the dead man below. And W.W. Jacobs doesn't say it, but the dead man was Miegel. That's right, Miegel. I think Lester there was exclaiming how like, that could have been you, that could have been any of us.

Yeah, for sure. But thank god it was Miegel. It was Miegel, the central European cousin. Good stuff, that's a really good story. That was a good story. We should do the monkey's paw sometime too. Yeah, for some reason I've been avoiding that, because it's so well known, but yeah, we should totally do that.

I honestly have never read it. What? I just know about it from like the Simpsons Treehouse of Horror. Right, it's good, good story. Yeah, well that's it everybody, right Chuck? I mean, it's time to say happy Halloween and all that, right? That's right. You guys be safe out there, have fun trick or treating,

or go into your parties, or if you choose to not participate, then that's fine too, but Halloween's the best, so get out there. And don't forget to take every piece of your candy to your local ER and wait around while they x-ray it for you. That's right. Happy Halloween everybody from Us and Jerry. Stuff You Should Know is a production of iHeartRadio. For more podcasts on myHeartRadio, visit the iHeartRadio app.

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