The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast – Halloween Hangover

Episode Date: November 9, 2014

The NoSleep Podcast is taking a break this week due to our exhaustion from the Halloween episodes. Instead we're presenting our Halloween Hangover show. Enjoy two tales which were produced by David for our friends at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. S4E16 will be released on Sunday November 16th. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first three tales.  "The White Face in the Window" written by Nick Ledesma and read by Caden Von Clegg (Story starts at 00:02:45) "The Monkey's Paw" written by W.W. Jacobs and performed by: Narrator: Peter Bishop Mr. White: David Lewis Richardson Mrs. White: Melissa Exelberth Herbert White: David Alnwick Sergeant-Major Morris: Jeff Clement Company Rep: Jeff Clement (Story starts at 00:16:30) Click here to learn more about Chilling Tales for Dark Nights Click here to learn more about Nick Ledesma Click here to learn more about Caden Clegg Click here for the full credits to the production of The Monkey's Paw Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings Theme song arranged and performed by: Brandon Boone The NoSleep Podcast uses the PSE Hybrid Library exclusively for its sound design. This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2014. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi folks, this is David, and this is not our regularly scheduled episode of the No Sleep Podcast. You see, producing the four and a half hours of stories for our Halloween shows really took it out of us. Our narrators, along with my musical collaborator, Brandon, and myself, well, we were absolutely worn out putting those shows together. So much so that we just couldn't muster up the energy for our weekly release this weekend. So that's why we're calling this our Halloween hangover placeholder show. Even though this isn't an official release for the podcast, we don't want to leave you without some stories to listen to. And so we've got two tales that I know you'll enjoy.

There are two stories which I produced for our friends over at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. We have an original story and a classic tale of horror written in 1902. So while we roll over and go back to bed, enjoy these tales knowing that we'll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and back with our regularly scheduled episode next Sunday. Now, I'd better go pour myself another shot of, I mean another cup. Yeah, a cup of coffee. So thanks for listening and cheers and all that. Shoot, I better introduce the stories.

Okay, our first tale comes to us from the pen of Nick Ledesma. His story is about a man who discovers a strange, piece of wood which seems destined to be destroyed. But before long, he realizes this wood has powers which makes it very hard to get rid of. It's narrated by Caden von Clegg. And so, with no further ado, let's listen to The White Face in the Window. The White Face in the Window. Written by Nicla Desma.

by Caden von Clegg. Last winter, I was walking through a park near my apartment when I came across five young boys attempting to smash an object with a hammer. Granted, Chicago children are probably more violent than most, but I'm not used to seeing such things in my particular neighborhood. I jogged over to them mostly out of curiosity, but also to make sure they weren't torturing some poor squirrel or a pigeon or something. If I had known the sort of thing I was about to come in contact with,

I would have probably went home and bolted the door. One of the boys was clutching some sort of dark, wooden board, covered with black paint, and holding it at arm's length with his face turned away and his eyes closed. A second boy, I remember one of his friends calling him either Peter or Paul, was aggressively prying the hammer out of the hands of the boy who had been swinging at the wooden board moments earlier while the other two kids watched without saying a word. In spite of all the hammering and arguing, the surface of the board looked perfectly smooth and intact from the angle I was approaching. I put on my toughest adult voice and got the kids to quit yelling and fighting over the hammer just long enough to ask them what in the hell they were trying to do.

The boy holding the hammer, Peter or Paul, looked me straight in the face and said, We're going to break the devil into six pieces and bury him in the woods. I was stunned, but also amused. I figured he had seen something like this on television and sort of laughed it off, as I said, So you kids think this plank is the devil? Peter or Paul was clearly not pleased by this question and said something along the lines of, Are you stupid or what? That thing ain't a plank. As I took my first look at the wooden board up close,

I was surprised to see that the entire surface had not been painted with black paint as I at first thought. It was actually hand-painted to the point that it was nearly covered with a light. language I wasn't familiar with. It looked vaguely Asian or Middle Eastern. It was entirely alien to me, aside from the upper left and right corners, which displayed very detailed paintings of the sun and moon. In the center of both the sun and moon were unnerving faces with blank expressions. As I thought about this last detail, it became clear to me that this board was some sort of antique handmade Ouija.

Peter or Paul explained to me that his grandfather, owned an antique store and was on his deathbed. He had requested that the boy's mother take this board from his store safe and break it into six pieces and dispose of it immediately, burying each piece in the woods not less than a mile apart from each other. He would not say why this had to be done, but continuously referred to the board as, that wooden devil. When the boy's mother had refused thinking it ludicrous as any rational person would, the grandfather had enlisted the boy and his friends, given them the store key, and told them the safe combination. I remember the kid telling me he was disappointed. He had always thought the safe held his

grandfather's stash of ancient pirate treasure. Upon grabbing the wooden board from the safe, however, the boys had run into two problems. Firstly, the board was hard as stone, and the best way to break the thing was turning into a point of argument now that the hammer had failed. The second issue was that woods in Chicago are scarce, and woods large enough for burying things miles apart from each other are even scarcer. Realizing it was most likely not the best idea to get in the way of a group of kids' family issues when a hammer and wooden slab are involved, I figured my best option was to break the thing myself to make sure the kids didn't get themselves hurt, then be on my way. This proved extremely difficult. I remember thinking that the board

had to be reinforced with a steel plate or something. I was beating on the thing with the hammer for the hundredth time when I remembered that I had a hacksaw I had bought to remove a broken tree limb two years earlier and had never touched it since. I told the kids to sit tight and jogged down the block to my apartment. By the time I got back, it was snowing, and the boys were picking up the snow and throwing at each other in clumps rather than snowballs. It was an unusually mild winter for us last year, and I think this may have been the

beginning of the only snowstorm we had all year, if I remember correctly. The five of them continued to play with the snow as I hacked into the board with my saw. It took an unusually long time, but it worked. When the first piece snapped off, I picked it up and saw that the grain where it had been cut was unlike anything I had ever seen before, spiraling in a very distinct pattern that I can still picture in my head. The unstained wood was a deep reddish-brown. When the board was in six pieces, Peter or Paul, grabbed the corner with the picture of the sun, then he and one of his friends ran a short distance into a wooded area on the edge of the park and buried it about a foot down. As this was going on, the other boys explained to me that they were planning on spending the day riding the elevated train

and taking the pieces to the various wooded areas they had come up with. They just needed one more place to bury the sixth piece and hadn't come up with anything yet. As it happened to be Sunday, if I recall, I offered to do it on the way to work the next day, and they agreed that it was a good plan. As the five of them walked away toward the north, I saw them enter a station for the Blue Line train, and I never saw them again. Later that night, as the snowstorm started to get really bad, I remember thinking that I hoped I hadn't made a mistake by letting them go off on their own. But a strange adult hanging around with five neighborhood kids tends to give people the wrong idea. regardless of whether he's looking out for their safety. I hope they had gotten their task finished before the storm had really hit.

The white face in the window. Ouija piece. The corner of the board I had wound up with was the corner with the painting of the moon with the blank expression. I had really planned to bury it, I swear I did, but we all wound up snowed in the following morning, and it ended up in the drawer of an end table. I don't know if you've ever been snowed in during a sugar. Chicago winter, but when this happens, they tend to send out these huge monolithic snow plows that push all of the snow into the mountains on top of all the parked cars, none of which will

be capable of moving an inch for at least two days. The day was rather uneventful, but as nightfall approached, I was taken by the eerie notion that someone was watching me through my living room window. I kept glancing toward it, expecting to see someone peering in at me, despite the fact that I live on the third floor and my living room window faces the street. After a while, I shook off the notion, and I believe I went to sleep around 11. Around 1 a.m., I was awoken by what sounded like a mechanical device humming loudly and assumed it to be my heater, possibly being overworked due to the snowstorm. I stood up and put my ear next to the vent, but the sound wasn't coming from there. I walked into the living room to check the settings on my thermostat, and immediately every

hair on my body stood at full attention. The sound was coming from the direction of my living room window, and as I turned to look, I caught the ghastly image of a solid white face with a wide mouth and dark eye sockets on the other side of the glass. I quickly turned on a light, and the face disappeared. The mechanical droning noise seemed to recede. the white face in the window. Noise.

Had it all been my imagination, I wondered? When I was younger, I once had an episode of sleep paralysis where I witnessed a tree devouring my neighbor's dog through a bedroom window. But when I came out of it, the tree was back to normal and the dog was perfectly fine. Had this been something similar? Nevertheless, I hardly slept the rest of the night.

I kept thinking I was hearing that deep mechanical drone somewhere in the distance. By the next night I had regained my wits and fell asleep in my bed sometime around midnight. I awoke once again, terrified to the sound of the same mechanical drone as the previous night, but this time much louder. As I sat up in bed, I saw the ghastly white face with sunken eyes on the other side of the window near the foot of my bed, no more than three feet from where I lay sleeping. It had no neck, arms, torso, nothing.

It seemed to just float there above the streetlights below, emanating that horrible humming sound. I instinctively grabbed the drapes and pulled them closed, but the sound continued. Remembering what had happened the night before, I ran to the lights and flipped the switch. The noise slowly faded, but I was too afraid to open the drapes for the rest of the night. The next morning, I was still unable to get to work due to my car being frozen beneath a seven-foot pile of ice, but I absolutely had to get out of that apartment. I thought that if the face was going to come back, that I would have to be ready for it, somehow.

I went to a sporting goods store in the neighborhood and purchased a box of ammo for the 22-range pistol I hadn't used in years. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. I also bought some caffeine tablets and a bag of coffee. Before nightfall, I set up camp in my living room with the pistol and a coffee pot, Took one of the caffeine tablets and rigged up a portable audio recorder that I sometimes use for work. I don't own a camera, and my cell phone's video function has not been working for months, so the best I could do was attempt to snap some photos in the dark with the cell if the face appeared again.

It showed itself around three in the morning. I was beginning to crash from all of the caffeine when I began to hear the droning sound approaching from the distance. I readied my gun in one hand and my cell phone in the morning. the other, but the face didn't appear at the window. I began to wonder if perhaps the face was outside my bedroom window, and as I snuck through the dark toward the door, the sound seemed to get louder. However, as I entered the room, the door slammed and locked behind me, and I heard glass shattering in the living room. Suddenly, the apartment was filled with the noises of things being smashed, thrown and torn to pieces. The groaning noise was deafeningly loud, and I covered one

and turned my head away as I clawed at the doorknob with my other hand, but it simply would not open. It was as if the lock had been welded shut. After about 30 seconds of this, I raised my foot and smashed the door open with two kicks. Immediately, the crashing in the living room stopped, but the room itself had been completely torn to pieces. And as I looked up above the debris at the shattered window, I saw the face one last time staring at me from the other side of my demolished Venetian blinds. It opened its mouth, exposing a wide, dark cavern, the likes of which I hoped to never see again, and the horrible sound got louder and louder as I snapped a single photograph with my camera, and the flash went off. The white face in the window. Then, in an instant,

the face was gone. All I have to prove my story is a single blurry photograph and the audio taken by my portable recorder in those last few minutes. But the thing about it that disturbed me the most is the corner of the wooden board with the painting of the moon. It was sitting atop the debris in the exact center of the room and the face had been altered so that the expression was identical to what I had just seen in the window pane with the wide, gaping, cavernous mouth. I buried it in the woods the following morning.

Well, yes. Time for our second and final tale. of the Halloween Hangover Show. This one is a classic tale. You may have even read it yourself, perhaps in an English class or course on literature. Crafted by author W.W. Jacobs, his tale, entitled The Monkey's Paw,

was a smash hit back in its day. It's been referenced many times since its publication, and you may even recognize its influence from a story on the second Treehouse of Horrors episode of The Simpsons. We have an excellent cast of performers for this story. It's narrated by Peter Bishop. The role of Mr. White is performed by David Lewis Richardson. The role of Mrs. White is performed by Melissa Exelberth. The role of Herbert White is performed by David Lewis,

by David Anick, and the roles of Sergeant Major Morris and the company representative are performed by Jeff Clement. So, ladies and gentlemen, raise a glass, I mean, I give you the Monkey's Paw. The Monkey's Paw by W.W. Jacobs. Narrated by Peter Bishop, One, without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small part of, of LeBernan 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 in such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.

"'Harker that 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. Chick. I should hardly think he'd come tonight, said his father, with his hand poised over the board. Mate, replied the son. That's the worst of living so far out, old Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence.

Of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathways are bog and the roads are 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 too loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door. The old man rose with her spitable 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 Rubikund de Vizage. Sergeant Major Morris, he said, introducing him. The Sergeant Major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblers

and stood a small copper kettle on the fire. At the third glass, his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk. The little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of the wild scenes and doughty deeds, of wars and plagues and strange peoples. Twenty-one years of it, said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. When he went away, it was a slip of a youth in the warehouse.

Now look at him. He don't look to have taken me. much harm, said Mrs. White politely. I'd like to go to India myself, said the old man. Just to look around a bit, you know. Better where you are, said the sergeant major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again. I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers, said the old man.

What was that? he started telling me the other about a monkey's poor or something, Morris? Nothing, said the soldier hastily. Leasteworthy. Monkey's paw? Said Mrs. White, curiously. Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps. Said the sergeant major, offhandedly.

His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor, absent-mindedly, put his empty gloat. to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled in for him. To look at it, 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 brought 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 ages won't 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 ball. His tones were so grave that a harsh fell upon them. 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'd 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. I. 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 sudden 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, said his friend doggedly. I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don't blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again like a sensible man. The other shook his head and examined his. new possession closely. How do you do it? He inquired. Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud, said the sergeant major.

But I warn you of the consequences. Sounds like the Arabian Knights, said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set the supper. Don't you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me? Her husband drew the talisman from her. 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 set listening in an enthralled fashion to a second installment. of the soldier's adventures in India. If the tale about the monkey's paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us, said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch the last train.

We shan't make much out of it. Did you give him anything for it, father? inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely. A trifle. He said, colouring slightly. He didn't want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away. Likely, said Herbert with pretend 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 anti-Makasa. 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 that house, you'd be quite happy, wouldn't you?

Said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. Well, wish for two hundred pounds then. That'll just do it. His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, and his son, with a son. with a solemn face somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, set down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords. I wish for £200, 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. ball. 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 one done. It gave me a shock all the same. They set 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 games he sat alone in the darkness gazing at the dying fire and seeing faces in it the last face was so horrible and so simeon 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, 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 sidewalk 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 a 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 Biblous Habits when she found that the post had brought a tailor's bill. Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks I expect when he comes home. She said as they set 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. It 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. A fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then with a 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 reserve 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 Megins. 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.

Hello, 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. Sorry. Begin 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 thing.

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 a slower, witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence. You 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 You was the only one left to us He said turning gently to the visitor It is hard

The other coughed and rising walks slow slowly to the window. The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you and your great loss, he said without looking round. I beg that you will understand that 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 Megan's disclaim all responsibility, continued the other. They admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son's services, they wished 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. Three, 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 expectations 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 poor!

She cried wildly. He started up in alarm. 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 parlour on the bracket.

He replied marvelling. Why? She cried and laughed together and bending over, kissed his cheek. He just thought of it. She said hysterically. Why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it? Think of what?

He questioned. The other two wishes. She replied rapidly. We've only had one. Was that not enough? He demanded fiercely. No. She cried triumphantly.

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 were mad. He cried, aghast. Get it. She panted. Get it quickly and wish?

Oh, my boy, my boy! Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. Get back to bed, he said unsteadily. You don't know what you're saying. We had the first wish granted. said the old woman feverishly. Why not the second? A coincidence, stammered the old man.

Going to 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 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 groping along the wall until he found himself in a 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 stare creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, 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, 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 set up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house.

She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by her 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 were 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.

So bald! She cried loudly. Reach it! But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the poor. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fuselard 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 monkeys' paw and frantically breed 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 wing rushed up the staircase, and a long, loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him the 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. And with that, we draw to a close. our little unofficial Halloween hangover episode.

Join us again next week when we'll have the 16th episode of our fourth season of the podcast ready to go. Make sure you go to the no sleeppodcast.com to learn more about the show and, uh, yeah, I'll hold another place. And, uh, yeah, blah, blah, have a good night.