ENG3C Short Stories

English Short Story Unit
ENG3C
Short
Stories
Short Story
“The Cask of Amontillado” by Edgar Allan Poe
Edgar Allan Poe
“The Cask of Amontillado”
Word Count: 2340
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge.
You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At
length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled - but the very definitiveness with which it was
resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed
when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as
such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I
continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of
his immolation.
He had a weak point - this Fortunato - although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared.
He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their
enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian
millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines
he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; - I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and
bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my
friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on
a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to
see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him - 'My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking today. But I have
received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.'
'How?' said he. 'Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!'
'I have my doubts,' I replied; 'and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in
the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.'
'Amontillado!'
'I have my doubts.'
'Amontillado!'
'And I must satisfy them.'
'Amontillado!'
'As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me -'
'Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.'
'And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.'
'Come, let us go.'
'Whither?'
'To your vaults.'
'My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchresi -'
'I have no engagement; - come.'
'My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are
insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.'
'Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for
Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.'
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a
roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in hour of the time. I had told them that
I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicitly orders not to stir from the house. These orders
were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was
turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of
rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be
cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together upon the damp ground
of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
'The pipe,' he said.
'It is farther on,' said I; 'but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls.'
He turned towards me, and looked onto my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.
'Nitre?' he asked, at length.
'Nitre,' I replied. 'How long have you had that cough?'
'Ugh! ugh! ugh! - ugh! ugh! ugh! - ugh! ugh! ugh! - ugh! ugh! ugh! - ugh! ugh! ugh!'
'My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
'It is nothing,' he said, at last.
'Come,' I said, with decision, 'we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired,
beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you
will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi -'
'Enough,' he said; 'the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.'
'True - true,' I replied; 'and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily - but you should use all
proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.'
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
'Drink,' I said, presenting him the wine.
'He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
'I drink,' he said, 'to the buried that repose around us.'
'And I to your long life'
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
'These vaults,' he said, 'are extensive.'
'The Montresors,' I replied, 'were a great and numerous family.'
'I forget your arms.'
'A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the
heel.'
'And the motto?'
'Nemo me impune lacessit.'
'Good!' he said.
'The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had
passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of
the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
'The nitre!' I said; 'see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops
of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough -'
'It is nothing,' he said; 'let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc.'
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light.
He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement - a grotesque one.
'You do not comprehend?' he said.
'Not I,' I replied.
'Then you are not of the brotherhood.'
'How?'
'You are not of the masons.'
'Yes, yes,' I said; 'yes, yes.'
'You? Impossible! A mason?'
'A mason,' I replied.
'A sign,' he said, 'a sign'
'It is this,' I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel.
'You jest,' he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. 'But let us proceed to the Amontillado.'
'Be it so,' I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it
heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches,
descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our
flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human
remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior
crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay
promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the
displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in
height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the
interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their
circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his full torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its
termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
'Proceed,' I said; 'herin is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi -'
'He is an ignoramus,' interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at
his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock,
stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron
staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the
other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too
much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
'Pass your hand,' I said, 'over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more
let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little
attentions in my power.'
'The Amontillado!' ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
'True,' I replied; 'the Amontillado.'
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them
aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my
trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a
great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It
was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the
third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The nose lasted for several minutes,
during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the
bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the
sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the
flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to
thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with
it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the
catacombs, and felt satisfied. I re-approached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I
aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth
tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and
plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I paced it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out
the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty
in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said 'Ha! ha! ha! - he! he! he! - a very good joke, indeed - and excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about
it at the palazzo - he! he! he! - over our wine - he! he! he!'
'The Amontillado!' I said.
'He! he! he! - he! he! he! - yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the
palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.'
'Yes,' I said, 'let us be gone.'
'For the love of God, Montresor!'
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew inpatient. I called aloud 'Fortunato!'
No answer. I called again 'Fortunato!'
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return
only jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. I hastened to
make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of bones. Of the half of a century no mortal had disturbed them. In pace requiescat!
W. W. Jacobs
“The Monkey’s Paw”
Word Count: 3959
"Be careful what you wish for, you may receive it." -- Anonymous
Part I
Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnum villa the blinds were drawn and the
fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess; the former, who posessed ideas about the game involving
radical chances, 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 streched out his hand. "Check."
"I should hardly think that he's 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," balled 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. Path'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 grey 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, "Tut, tut!" and coughed gently as her husband entered
the room followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.
"Sargeant-Major Morris, " he said, introducing him.
The Sargeant-Major took hands and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly as 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 dougty
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 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 around a bit, you know."
"Better where you are," said the Sargent-Major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass and sighning softly,
shook it again.
"I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers," said the old man. "what was that 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 Sargeant-Major off-handedly.
His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set
it down again. His host filled it for him again.
"To look at," said the Sargent-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 Sargent-Major, "a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate
ruled people's lifes, and that those who interefered 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 manners were so impressive that his hearers were concious that their light laughter had jarred somewhat.
"Well, why don't you have three, sir?" said Herbert White cleverly.
The soldier regarded him the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptious 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 seargent-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 me 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 like a sensible man."
The other shook his head and examined his possesion closely. "How do you do it?" he inquired.
"Hold it up in your right hand, and wish aloud," said the seargent-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 his pocket, and all three burst into laughter as the Seargent-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 thier guest, just in time to catch the last train, "we shan't make much out of it."
"Did you give anything for it, father?" inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely.
"A trifle," said he, colouring slightly, "He didn't want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw
it away."
"Likely," said Herbert, with pretended horror. "Why, we're going to be rich, and famous, and happy. Wish to be an
emporer, father, to begin with; then you can't be henpecked."
He darted around the table, persued 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 two hundred pounds, 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 and struck a few impressive chords.
"I wish for two hundred pounds," said the old man distinctly.
A fine crash from the piano greeted his words, interupted 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 thier pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever,
an the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled
on all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the rest of 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
goodnight, " and something horrible squatting on top of your 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 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
containig 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.
Part II
In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears.
There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the
dirty, shriveled little paw was pitched on the side-board with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its
virtues.
"I suppose all old soldiers are the same," said Mrs White. "The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could
wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?"
"Might drop on his head from the sky," said the frivolous Herbert.
"Morris said the things happened so naturally," said his father, "that you might if you so wished attribute it to
coincedence."
"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 Sargeant-Majors of
bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a tailor's bill.
"Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home," she said as they sat at
dinner.
"I dare say," said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; "but for all that, the thing moved in my hand; that I'll
swear to."
"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 conexion with the
two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three
times he paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then
with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs White at the same moment placed her hands
behind her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cusion
of her chair.
She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively, and listened in a
preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband's coat, a
garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit for him to
broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent.
"I - was asked to call," he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. "I come from
'Maw and Meggins.' "
The old lady started. "Is anything the matter?" she asked breathlessly. "Has anything happened to Herbert? What is
it? What is it?
Her husband interposed. "There there mother," he said hastily. "Sit down, and don't jump to conclusions. You've
not brought bad news, I'm sure sir," and eyed the other wistfully.
"I'm sorry - " began the visitor.
"Is he hurt?" demanded the mother wildly.
The visitor bowed in assent."Badly hurt," he said quietly, "but he is not in any pain."
"Oh thank God!" said the old woman, clasping her hands. "Thank God for that! Thank - "
She broke off as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned on her and she saw the awful confirmation of her
fears in the others averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her
trembling hand on 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 out the window, and taking his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do
in their old courting days nearly forty years before.
"He was the only one left to us," he said, turning gently to the visitor. "It is hard."
The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. " The firm wishes me to covey 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 womans face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband's
face was a look such as his freind the seargent might have carried into his first action.
"I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility," continued the other. "They admit no liability at all,
but in consideration of your son's services, they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation."
Mr. White dropped his wife's hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips
shaped the words, "How much?"
"Two hundred pounds," was the answer.
Unconcious 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.
Part III
In the huge new cemetary, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to the house
steeped in shadows 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 way to resignation - the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes
mis-called apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their
days were long to weariness.
It was a 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 sounds of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed
fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.
"THE PAW!" she cried wildly. "THE MONKEY'S PAW!"
He started up in alarm. "Where? Where is it? Whats 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, 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 in bed and flung the bedcloths 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 get it and wish," cried his wife, quivering with exitement.
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 towards 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 mantlepiece. The talisman was in
its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutillated son before him ere he could
escape from the room seized up on him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the
door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself
in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.
Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed
to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.
"WISH!" she cried in a strong voice.
"It is foolish and wicked," he faltered.
"WISH!" repeated his wife.
He raised his hand. "I wish my son alive again."
The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman,
with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.
He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing ocasionally 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 back to his bed, and a minute afterward the
old woman came silently and apethetically beside him.
Neither spoke, but lat 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
came 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.
"WHATS 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 ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.
"What are you going to do?" he whispered hoarsely.
"It's my boy; it's Herbert!" she cried, struggling mechanically. "I forgot it was two miles away. What are you
holding me for? Let go. I must open the door."
"For God's sake don't let it in," cried the old man, trembling.
"You're afraid of your own son," she cried struggling. "Let me go. I'm coming, Herbert; I'm coming."
There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room.
Her husband follwed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the
chain rattle back and the bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old womans 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 only he could
find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated throgh the house, and he heard
the scraping of a chair as his wife 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'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 dissapointment and misery
from his wife gave him the courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The streetlamp flickering
opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road.
Short Story
Roald Dahl
“The Landlady”
“The Landlady” by Roald Dahl
Word Count: 3552
Billy Weaver had travelled down from London on the slow afternoon train, with a change at Swindon on the way,
and by the time he got to Bath it was about nine o’clock in the evening and the moon was coming up out of a
clear starry sky over the houses opposite the station entrance. But the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a
flat blade of ice on his cheeks.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here?”
“Try The Bell and Dragon,” the porter answered, pointing down the road. “They might take you in. It’s about
a quarter of a mile along on the other side.”
Billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase and set out to walk the quarter- mile to The Bell and Dragon.
He had never been to Bath before. He didn’t know anyone who lived there. But Mr Greenslade at the Head Office
in London had told him it was a splendid city. “Find your own lodgings,” he had said, “and then go along and
report to the Branch Manager as soon as you’ve got yourself settled.”
Billy was seventeen years old. He was wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new brown trilby
hat,
and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly down the street. He was trying to do everything
briskly these days. Briskness, he had decided, was the one common characteristic of all successful businessmen.
The big shots up at Head Office were absolutely fantastically brisk all the time. They were amazing.
There were no shops on this wide street 40 that he was walking along, only a line of tall houses on each
side, all them identical. They had porches and pillars and four or five steps going up to their front doors, and it
was obvious that once upon a time they had been very swanky residences. But now, even in the darkness, he
could see that the paint was peeling from the woodwork on their doors and windows, and that the handsome
white façades were cracked and blotchy from neglect.
Suddenly, in a downstairs window that was brilliantly illuminated by a street-lamp not six yards away, Billy
caught sight of a printed notice propped up against the glass in one of the upper panes. It said BED AND
BREAKFAST. There was a vase of yellow chrysanthemums, tall and beautiful, standing just underneath the notice.
He stopped walking. He moved a bit closer.
Green curtains (some sort of velvety material) were hanging down on either side of the window. The
chrysanthemums looked wonderful beside them. He went right up and peered through the glass into the room,
and the first thing he saw was a bright fire burning in the hearth. On the carpet in front of the fire, a pretty little
dachshund was curled up asleep with its nose tucked into its belly.
The room itself, so far as he could see in the half-darkness, was filled with pleasant furniture. There was a
baby-grand piano and a big sofa and several plump armchairs; and in one corner he spotted a large parrot in a
cage. Animals were usually a good sign in a place like this, Billy told himself; and all in all, it looked to him as
though it would be a pretty decent house to stay in. Certainly it would be more comfortable than The Bell and
Dragon.
On the other hand, a pub would be more congenial than a boarding-house. There would be beer and darts
in the evenings, and lots of people to talk to, and it would probably be a good bit cheaper, too. He had stayed a
couple of nights in a pub once before and he had liked it. He had never stayed in any boarding-houses, and, to be
perfectly honest, he was a tiny bit frightened of them. The name itself conjured up images of watery cabbage,
rapacious landladies, and a powerful smell of kippers in the living-room.
After dithering about like this in the cold for two or three minutes, Billy decided that he would walk on and
take a look at The Bell and Dragon before making up his mind. He turned to go. And now a queer thing happened
to him. He was in the act of stepping back and turning away from the window when all at once his eye was
caught and held in the most peculiar manner by the small notice that was there. BED AND BREAKFAST, it said.
BED AND BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST. Each word was like a large black eye
staring at him through the glass, holding him, compelling him, forcing him to stay where he was and not to walk
away from that house, and the next thing he knew, he was actually moving across from the window to the front
door of the house, climbing the steps that led up to it, and reaching for the bell.
He pressed the bell. Far away in a back room he heard it ringing, and then at once – it must have been at
once because he hadn’t even had time to take his finger from the bell-button – the door swung open and a
woman was standing there.
Normally you ring the bell and you have at least a half-minute’s wait before the door opens. But this dame
was a like a jack-in-the-box. He pressed the bell – and out she popped! It made him jump.
She was about forty-five or fifty years old, and the moment she saw him, she
gave him a warm welcoming smile.
“Please come in,” she said pleasantly. She stepped aside, holding the door wide open, and Billy found
himself automatically starting forward into the house. The compulsion or, more accurately, the desire to follow
after her into that house was extraordinarily strong.
“I saw the notice in the window,” he said, holding himself back.
“Yes, I know.” “I was wondering about a room.”
“It's all ready for you, my dear,” she said. She had a round pink face and very gentle blue eyes.
“I was on my way to The Bell and Dragon,” Billy told her. “But the notice in your window just happened to
catch my eye.”
“My dear boy,” she said, “why don't you come in out of the cold?”
“How much do you charge?”
“Five and sixpence a night, including breakfast.”
It was fantastically cheap. It was less than half of what he had been willing to pay.
“If that is too much,” she added, “then perhaps I can reduce it just a tiny bit. Do you desire an egg for
breakfast? Eggs are expensive at the moment. It would be sixpence less without the egg.”
“Five and sixpence is fine,” he answered. “I should like very much to stay here.”
“I knew you would. Do come in.”
She seemed terribly nice. She looked exactly like the mother of one’s best school- friend welcoming one
into the house to stay for the Christmas holidays. Billy took off his hat, and stepped over the threshold.
“Just hang it there,” she said, “and let me help you with your coat.”
There were no other hats or coats in the hall. There were no umbrellas, no walking- sticks – nothing.
“We have it all to ourselves,” she said, smiling at him over her shoulder as she led the way upstairs.
“You see, it isn’t very often I have the pleasure of taking a visitor into my little nest.”
The old girl is slightly dotty, Billy told himself. But at five and sixpence a night, who gives a damn about
that? – “I should've thought you’d be simply swamped with applicants,” he said politely.
“Oh, I am, my dear, I am, of course I am. But the trouble is that I'm inclined to be just a teeny weeny bit
choosy and particular – if you see what I mean.”
“Ah, yes.”
“But I’m always ready. Everything is always ready day and night in this house just on the off-chance that an
acceptable young gentleman will come along. And it is such a pleasure, my dear, such a very great pleasure when
now and again I open the door and I see someone standing there who is just exactly right.” She was half-way up
the stairs, and she paused with one hand on the stair-rail, turning her head and smiling down at him with pale
lips. “Like you,” she added, and her blue eyes travelled slowly all the way down the length of Billy's body, to his
feet, and then up again.
On the first-floor landing she said to him, “This floor is mine.”
They climbed up a second flight. “And this one is all yours,” she said. “Here’s your room. I do hope you’ll
like it.” She took him into a small but charming front bedroom, switching on the light as she went in.
“The morning sun comes right in the window, Mr Perkins. It is Mr Perkins, isn’t it?”
“No,” he said. “It’s Weaver.”
“Mr Weaver. How nice. I’ve put a water- bottle between the sheets to air them out, Mr Weaver. It’s such a
comfort to have a hot water-bottle in a strange bed with clean sheets, don’t you agree?
And you may light the gas fire at any time if you feel chilly.”
“Thank you,” Billy said. “Thank you ever so much.” He noticed that the bedspread had been taken off the
bed, and that the bedclothes had been neatly turned back on one side, all ready for someone to get in.
“I’m so glad you appeared,” she said, looking earnestly into his face. “I was beginning to get worried.”
“That’s all right,” Billy answered brightly. “You mustn’t worry about me.” He put his suitcase on the chair
and started to open it.
“And what about supper, my dear? Did you manage to get anything to eat before you came here?”
“I’m not a bit hungry, thank you,” he said. “I think I’ll just go to bed as soon as possible because tomorrow
I’ve got to get up rather early and report to the office.”
“Very well, then. I’ll leave you now so that you can unpack. But before you go to bed, would you be kind
enough to pop into the sitting-room on the ground floor and sign the book? Everyone has to do that because it’s
the law of the land, and we don’t want to go breaking any laws at this stage in the proceedings, do we?” She gave
him a little wave of the hand and went quickly out of the room and closed the door.
Now, the fact that his landlady appeared to be slightly off her rocker didn’t worry Billy in the least. After all,
she was not only harmless – there was no question about that – but she was also quite obviously a kind and
generous soul. He guessed that she had probably lost a son in the war, or something like that, and had never got
over it.
So a few minutes later, after unpacking his suitcase and washing his hands, he trotted downstairs to the
ground floor and entered the living-room. His landlady wasn’t there, but the fire was glowing in the hearth, and
the little dachshund was still sleeping in front of it. The room was wonderfully warm and cosy. I’m a lucky fellow,
he thought, rubbing his hands. This is a bit of all right.
He found the guest-book lying open on the piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down his name and
address. There were only two other entries above his on the page, and, as one always does with guest-books, he
started to read them. One was a Christopher Mulholland from Cardiff. The other was Gregory W. Temple from
Bristol. That’s funny, he thought suddenly. Christopher Mulholland. It rings a bell. Now where on earth had he
heard that rather unusual name before?
Was he a boy at school? No. Was it one of his sister’s numerous young men, perhaps, or a friend of his
father’s? No, no, it wasn’t any of those. He glanced down again at the book. Christopher Mulholland, 231
Cathedral Road, Cardiff. Gregory W. Temple, 27 Sycamore Drive, Bristol. As a matter of fact, now he came to
think of it, he wasn’t at all sure that the second name didn’t have almost as much
of a familiar ring about it as the first.
“Gregory Temple?” he said aloud, searching his memory. “Christopher Mulholland? ...”
“Such charming boys,” a voice behind him answered, and he turned and saw his landlady sailing into the
room with a large silver tea-tray in her hands. She was holding it well out in front of her, and rather high up, as
though the tray were a pair of reins on a frisky horse.
“They sound somehow familiar,” he said.
“They do? How interesting.”
“I’m almost positive I’ve heard those names before somewhere. Isn’t that queer? Maybe it was in the
newspapers. They weren’t famous in any way, were they? I mean famous cricketers or footballers or something
like that?”
“Famous,” she said, setting the tea-tray down on the low table in front of the sofa. “Oh no, I don’t think they
were famous. But they were extraordinarily handsome, both of them, I can promise you that. They were tall and
young and handsome, my dear, just exactly like you.”
Once more, Billy glanced down at the book.
“Look here,” he said, noticing the dates. “This last entry is over two years old.”
“It is?”
“Yes, indeed. And Christopher Mulholland’s is nearly a year before that – more than three years ago.”
“Dear me,” she said, shaking her head and heaving a dainty little sigh. “I would never have thought it. How
time does fly away from us all, doesn’t it, Mr Wilkins?”
“It’s Weaver,” Billy said. “W-e-a-v-e-r.”
“Oh, of course it is!” she cried, sitting down on the sofa. “How silly of me. I do apologise. In one ear and
out the other, that’s me, Mr Weaver.”
“You know something?” Billy said. ‘Something that’s really quite extraordinary about all this?”
“No, dear, I don’t.”
“Well, you see – both of these names, Mulholland and Temple, I not only seem to remember each one of
them separately, so to speak, but somehow or other, in some peculiar way, they both appear to be sort of
connected together as well. As though they were both famous for the same sort of thing, if you see what I mean –
like ... like Dempsey and Tunney, for example, or Churchill and Roosevelt.”
“How amusing,” she said. “But come over here now, dear, and sit down beside me on the sofa and I’ll give
you a nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit before you go to bed.”
“You really shouldn’t bother,” Billy said. “I didn’t mean you to do anything like that.” He stood by the piano,
watching her as she fussed about with the cups and saucers. He noticed that she had small, white, quickly moving
hands, and red finger-nails.
“I’m almost positive it was in the newspapers I saw them,” Billy said. “I’ll think of it in a second. I’m sure I
will.”
There is nothing more tantalising than a thing like this which lingers just outside the borders of one’s
memory. He hated to give up.
“Now wait a minute,” he said. “Wait just a minute. Mulholland ... Christopher Mulholland ... wasn’t that the
name of the Eton schoolboy who was on a walking-tour through the West Country, and then all of a sudden ...”
“Milk?” she said. “And sugar?”
“Yes, please. And then all of a sudden ...”
“Eton schoolboy?” she said. “Oh no, my dear, that can’t possibly be right because my Mr Mulholland was
certainly not an Eton schoolboy when he came to me. He was a Cambridge undergraduate. Come over here now
and sit next to me and warm yourself in front of this lovely fire. Come on. Your tea’s all ready for you.” She patted
the empty place beside her on the sofa, and she sat there smiling at Billy and waiting for him to come over. He
crossed the room slowly, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She placed his teacup on the table in front of him.
“There we are,” she said. “How nice and cosy this is, isn’t it?”
Billy started sipping his tea. She did the same. For half a minute or so, neither of them spoke. But Billy knew
that she was looking at him. Her body was half-turned towards him, and he could feel her eyes resting on his face,
watching him over the rim of her teacup. Now and again, he caught a whiff of a peculiar smell that seemed to
emanate directly from her person. It was not in the least unpleasant, and it reminded him – well, he wasn’t quite
sure what it reminded him of. Pickled walnuts? New leather? Or was it the corridors of a hospital?
“Mr Mulholland was a great one for his tea,” she said at length. “Never in my life have I seen anyone drink
as much tea as dear,
sweet Mr Mulholland.”
“I suppose he left fairly recently,” Billy said.
He was still puzzling his head about the two names. He was positive now that he had seen them in the
newspapers – in the headlines.
“Left?” she said, arching her brows. “But my dear boy, he never left. He’s still here. Mr Temple is also here.
They’re on the third floor, both of them together.”
Billy set down his cup slowly on the table, and stared at his landlady. She smiled back at him, and then she
put out one of her white hands and patted him comfortingly on the knee. “How old are you, my dear?” she asked.
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen!” she cried. “Oh, it’s the perfect age! Mr Mulholland was also seventeen. But I think he was a
trifle shorter than you are, in fact I’m sure he was, and his teeth weren’t quite so white. You have the most
beautiful teeth, Mr
Weaver, did you know that?”
“They’re not as good as they look,” Billy said.
“They’ve got simply masses of fillings in them at the back.” “Mr Temple, of course, was a little
older,” she said, ignoring his remark. “He was actually twenty eight. And yet I never would have guessed it if he
hadn’t told me, never in my whole life. There wasn’t a blemish on his body.”
“A what?” Billy said. “His skin was just like a baby’s.” There was a pause. Billy picked up his
teacup and took another sip of his tea, then he set it down again gently in its saucer. He waited for her to say
something else, but she seemed to have lapsed into another of her silences. He sat there staring straight ahead of
him into the far corner of the room, biting his lower lip.
“That parrot,” he said at last. “You know something? It had me completely fooled when I first saw it through
the window from the street. I could have sworn it was
alive.”
“Alas, no longer.” “It’s most terribly clever the way it’s been done,” he said. “It doesn’t look in the least bit
dead. Who did it?”
“I did.”
“You did?”
“Of course,” she said. “And have you met my little Basil as well?” She nodded towards the dachshund
curled up so comfortably in front of the fire. Billy looked at it. And suddenly, he realised that this animal had all
the time been just as silent and motionless as the parrot. He put out a hand and touched it gently on the top of its
back. The back was hard and cold, and when he pushed the hair to one side with his fingers, he could see the
skin underneath, greyish-black and dry and perfectly preserved.
“Good gracious me,” he said. “How absolutely fascinating.” He turned away from the dog and stared with
deep admiration at the little woman beside him on the sofa. “It must be most awfully difficult to do a thing like
that.”
“Not in the least,” she said. “I stuff all my little pets myself when they pass away. Will you have another cup
of tea?”
“No, thank you,” Billy said. The tea tasted faintly of bitter almonds, and he didn’t much care for it.
“You did sign the book, didn’t you?” “Oh, yes.”
“That’s good. Because later on, if I happen to forget what you were called, then I can always come down
here and look it up. I still do that almost every day with Mr Mulholland and Mr . . .Mr...”
“Temple,” Billy said. “Gregory Temple. Excuse my asking, but haven’t there been any other guests here
except them in the last two or three years?”
Holding her teacup high in one hand, inclining her head slightly to the left, she looked up at him out of the
corners of her eyes and gave him another gentle little smile.
“No, my dear,” she said. ‘Only you.'
© Roald Dahl Reprinted by kind permission of David Higham Associates ‘The Landlady’ first appeared in ‘Kiss Kiss’
Ray Bradbury
“The Emissary”
Word Count: 2728
"'My name is Torry. Will you visit my master, who is sick? Follow me!" Torry was Martin's only link with the world
outside his sickroom, and he faithfully carried that message around his shaggy canine neck every day. He brought
back the scent of autumn leaves,the chill of snow, and the perfume of freshly cut grass. But then, one awful,
ominous night Torry came home reeking with a different kind of smell.
HE KNEW IT WAS AUTUMN again, because Torry came romping into the house bringing the windy crisp cold
smell of autumn with him. In every black curl of his dog hair he carried autumn. Leaf flakes tangled in his dark
ears and muzzle, dropping from his white vest, and off his flourished tail. The dog smelled just like autumn.
Martin Christie sat up in bed and reached down with one pale small hand. Torry barked and displayed a
generous length of pink, rippling tongue, which he passed over and along the back of Martin's hand. Torry licked
him like a lollipop. "Because of the salt," declared Martin, as Torry leaped upon the bed.
"Get down," warned Martin. "Mom doesn't like you up here." Torry flattened his ears. "Well . . ." Martin
relented. "Just for a while, then."
Torry warmed Martin's thin body with his dog warmness. Martin relished the clean dog smell and the litter
of fallen leaves on the quilt. He didn't care if Mom scolded. After all, Torry was newborn. Right out of the stomach
of autumn Torry came, reborn in the rm sharp cold.
"What's it like outside, Torry? Tell me."
Lying there, Torry would tell him. Lying there, Martin would know what autumn was like; like in the old days
before sickness had put him to bed. His only contact with autumn now was this brief chill, this leaf-flaked fur; the
compact canine representation of summer gone–this autumn-by-proxy.
"Where'd you go today, Torry?"
But Torry didn't have to tell him. He knew. Over a fall-burdened hill, leaving a pad-pattern in the brilliantly
piled leaves, down to where the kids ran shouting on bikes and roller skates and wagons at Barstow's Park, that's
where Torry ran, barking out his canine delight. And down into the town where rain had fallen dark, earlier; and
mud furrowed under far wheels, down between the feet of weekend hoppers. That's where Torry went.
And wherever Torry went, then Martin could go; because Torry would always tell him by the touch, feel,
consistency, the wet, dry or crispness of his coat. And, lying there holding Torry, Martin would send his mind out
to retrace each step of Tony's way through fields, over the shallow glitter of the ravine creek, darting across the
marbled spread of the graveyard, into the wood, over the meadows; where all the wild, laughing autumn sports
went on, Martin could go now through his emissary.
Mother's voice sounded downstairs, angrily.
Her short angry walking came up the hall steps"
Martin pushed. "Down, Torry!"
Torry vanished under the bed just before the bedroom door opened and Mom looked in, blue eyes
snapping. She carried a tray of salad and fruit juices, firmly.
"Is Torry here?" she demanded.
Torry gave himself away with a few bumps of his tail against the floor.
Mom set the tray down impatiently. "That dog is more trouble" Always upsetting things and digging places.
He was in Miss Tarkins's garden this morning, and dug a big hole. Miss Tarkins is mad."
"Oh," Martin held his breath. There was silence under the bed Torry knew when to keep quiet.
"And it's not the only time," said Mom. "This is the third hole he's dug this week!"
"Maybe he's looking for something."
"Something fiddlesticks! He's just a curious nuisance. He can't keep that black nose out of anything. Always
curious!"
There was a hairy pizzicato of tail under the bed. Mom couldn't help smiling.
"Well," she ended, "if he doesn't stop digging in yards, I'll have to keep him in and not let him run."
Martin opened his mouth wide. "Oh, no Mom! Don't do that! Then I wouldn't know-anything. He tells me."
Mom's voice softened. "Does he, son?"
“Sure. He goes around and comes back and tells what happens, tells everything!"
Mom's hand was spun glass touching his head. "I'm glad he tells you. I'm glad you've got him."
They both sat for a moment, considering how worthless the last year would've been without Torry. Only two more
months, thought Martin, of being in bed, like the doctor said, and he'd be up and around.
"Here, Torry!"
Jangling, Martin locked the special collar attachment around Torry's neck. It was a note, painted on a tin
square.
"My name is Torry. WiIl you visit my master, who is sick? Follow me!"
It worked. Torry carried it out into the world every day.
"Will you let him out, Mom?"
"Yes, if he's good and stops his digging!" "He'll stop; won't you, Torry?"
The dog barked.
You could hear the dog yipping far down the street and away, going to fetch visitors. Martin was feverish and
his eyes stood out in his head as he sat, propped up, listening, sending his mind rushing along with the dog, faster,
faster. Yesterday Torry had brought Mrs. Holloway from Elm Avenue, with a story book for a present; the day
before Torry had sat up, begged at Mr. Jacobs, the jeweler. Mr. Jacobs had bent and nearsightedly deciphered the
tag message and, sure enough, had come shuffling and waddling to pay Martin a little how-do-you-do.
Now, Martin heard the dog returning through the smoky afternoon, barking, running, barking again.
Footsteps came lightly after the dog. Somebody rang the downstairs bell, softly. Mom answered the door.
Voices talked.
Torry raced upstairs, leaped on the bed. Martin leaned forward excitedly, his face shining, to see who’d
come upstairs this time. Maybe Miss Palmborg or Mr. Ellis or Miss Jendriss, or–
The visitor walked upstairs, talking to Mom. It was a young woman's voice, talking with a laugh in it.
The door opened. Martin had company.
Four days passed in which Torry did his job, reported morning, afternoon and evening temperatures, soil
consistencies, leaf colors, rain levels, and, most important of all, brought visitors.
Miss Haight, again, on Saturday. She was the young, laughing, handsome woman with the gleaming brown
hair and the soft way of walking. She lived in the big house on Park Street. It was her third visit in a month.
On Sunday it was Reverend Vollmar, on Monday Miss Clark and Mr. Henricks.
And to each of them Martin explained his dog. How in spring he was odorous of wild flowers and fresh
earth; in summer he was baked, warm, sun-crisp; in autumn, now, a treasure trove of gold leaves hidden in his
pelt for Martin to explore out. Torry demonstrated this process for the visitors, lying over on his back waiting to be
explored.
Then, one morning, Mom told Martin about Miss Haight, the one who was so handsome and young and
laughed.
She was dead.
Killed in a motoring accident in Glen Falls.
Martin held on to his dog, remembering Miss Haight, thinking of the way she smiled, thinking of her bright
eyes,her closely cropped chestnut hair, her slim body, her quick walk, her nice stories about seasons and people.
So now she was dead. She wasn't going to laugh or tell stories any more. That's all there was to it. She was
dead.
"What do they do in the graveyard, Mom, under the ground?"
"Nothing."
"You mean they just lay there?"
"Lie there," corrected Mom.
"Lie there. . . . ?"
"Yes," said Mom, "that's all they do." "It doesn't sound like much fun."
"It's not supposed to be."
"Why don't they get up and walk around once in a while if they get tired of lying there?"
"I think you've said enough, now," said Mom.
"I just wanted to know."
"Well, now you know."
"Sometimes I think God's pretty silly."
"Martin!"
Martin scowled. "You'd think He'd treat people better than throw dirt in their faces and tell them to lay still
for keeps. You'd think He'd find a better way. What if I told Torry to play dead-dog?He does it awhile, but then he
gets sick of it and wags his tail or blinks his eyes, or pants, or jumps off the bed, and walks around. I bet those
graveyard people do the same, huh, Torry?"
Torry barked.
"That will do!" said Mom, firmly. "I don't like such talk!"
The autumn continued. Torry ran across forests, over the creek, prowling through the graveyard as was his
custom, and into town and around and back, missing nothing.
In mid-October, Torry began to act strangely. He couldn’t seem to find anybody to come to visit Martin.
Nobody seemed to pay attention to his begging. He came home seven days in a row without bringing a visitor.
Martin was deeply despondent over it.
Mom explained it. “Everybody’s busy. The war, and all. People have lots of worry over besides little begging
dogs.”
“Yeah,” said Martin, “I guess so.”
But there was more than that to it. Torry had a funny gleam in his eyes. As if he weren’t really trying, or
didn’t care, or–something. Something Martin couldn’t figure out. Maybe Torry was sick. Well, to heck with visitors.
As long as he had Torry, everything was fine.
And then one day Torry ran out and didn’t come back at all.
Martin waited quietly at first. Then–nervously. Then–anxiously.
At supper time he heard Mom and Dad call Torry. Nothing happened. It was no use. There was no sound of
paws along the path outside the house. No sharp barking in the cold night air. Nothing. Torry was gone. Torry
wasn’t coming home–ever.
Leaves fell past the window. Martin sank on his pillow, slowly, a pain deep and hard in his chest.
The world was dead. There was no autumn because there was no fur to bring it into the house. There would
be no winter because there would be no paws to dampen the quilt with snow. No more seasons. No more time.
The go-between, the emissary, had been lost in the wild thronging of civilization, probably hit by a car, or
poisoned, or stolen, and there was no time.
Sobbing, Martin turned his face to his pillow. There was no contact with the world. The world was dead.
Martin twisted in bed and in three days the Halloween pumpkins were rotting in the trashcans, masks were
burnt in incinerators, the bogeys were stacked away on shelves until next year. Halloween was withdrawn,
impersonal, untouchable. It had simply been one evening when he had heard horns blowing off in the cold
autumn stars, people yelling and thumping windows and porches with soap and cabbages. That was all.
Martin stared at the ceiling for the first three days of November, watching alternate light and dark shift
across it. Days got shorter, darker, he could tell by the window. The trees were naked. The autumn wind changed
its tempo and temperature. But it was just a pageant outside his window, nothing more. He couldn't get at it.
Martin read books about the seasons and the people in that world that was now nonexistent. He listened
each day, but didn't hear the sounds he wanted to hear.
Friday night came. His parents were going to the theater. They'd be back at eleven. Miss Tarkins, from next
door, would come over for a while until Martin got sleepy, and then she would go home.
Mom and Dad kissed him good night and walked out of the house into the autumn. He heard their footsteps
go down the street.
Miss Tarkins came over, stayed awhile and then, when Martin confessed to being tired, she turned out all the
lights and went back home.
Silence, then. Martin just lay there and watched the stars moving slowly across the sky. It was a clear,
moonlit evening. The kind when he and Torry had once run together across the town, across the sleeping
graveyard, across the ravine, through the meadows, down the shadowed streets, chasing phantasmal childish
dreams.
Only the wind was friendly. Stars don't bark. Trees don't sit up and beg. The wind, of course, did wag its tail
against the house a number of times, startling Martin.
Now it was after nine o'clock.
If only Torry would come home, bringing some of the world with him. A burr or a rimed thistle, or the wind
in his ears. If only Torry would come home.
And then, way off somewhere, there was a sound.
Martin arose in his covers, trembling. Starlight was reflected in his small eyes. He threw back the covers and
tensed, listening.
There, again, was the sound.
It was so small it was like a needle point moving through the air miles and miles away.
It was the dreamy echo of a dog–barking.
It was the sound of a dog coming across meadows and fields, down dark streets, the sound of a dog running
and letting his breath out to the night. The sound of a dog circling and running. It came and went, it lifted and
faded, it came forward and went back, as if it were being led by someone on a chain. As if the dog were running
and somebody whistled under the chestnut trees and the dog ran back, circled, and darted again for home.
Martin felt the room revolve under him and the bed tremble with his body. The springs complained with
metal, tining voices.
The faint barking continued for five minutes, growing louder and louder.
Torry, come home! Torry,come home! Torry, boy, oh, Torry, where've you been? Oh, Torry, Torry!
Another five minutes. Nearer and nearer, and Martin kept saying the dog's name over and over again. Bad
dog, wicked dog, to go off and leave him for all these days. Bad dog, good dog, come home, oh, Torry, hurry
home and tell me about the world! Tears fell and dissolved into the quilt.
Nearer now. Very near. Just up the street, barking. Torry!
Martin held his breath. The sound of dog feet in the piled dry leaves, down the path. And now-right outside
the house, barking, barking, barking! Torry!
Barking to the door.
Martin shivered. Did he dare run down and let the dog in, or should he wait for Mom and Dad to come
home? Wait. Yes, he must wait. But it would be unbearable if, while he waited, the dog ran away again. No, he
would go down and release the lock and his own special dog would leap into his arms again. Good Torry!
He started to move from bed when he heard the other sound. The door opened downstairs. Somebody was
kind enough to have opened the door for Torry.
Torry had brought a visitor, of course. Mr. Buchanan, or Mr. Jacobs, or perhaps Miss Tarkins.
The door opened and closed and Torry came racing upstairs and flung himself, yipping, on the bed.
"Torry, where've you been, what've you done all this week?"
Martin laughed and cried all in one. He grabbed the dog and held him. Then he stopped laughing and
crying, suddenly. He just stared at Torry with wide, strange eyes.
The odor arising from Torry was different. It was a smell of earth. Dead earth. Earth that had Iain cheek by
jowl with unhealthy decaying things six feet under. Stinking, stinking, rancid earth. Clods of decaying soil fell off
Torry's paws. And–-something else–a small withered fragment of–skin?
Was it? Was it! WAS IT!
What kind of message was this from Torry? What did such a message mean? The stench–the ripe and awful
cemetery earth.
Torry was a bad dog. Always digging where he shouldn't dig.
Torry was a good dog. Always making friends so easily. Torry took to liking everybody. He brought them
home with him.
And now this latest visitor was coming up the stairs. Slowly. Dragging one foot after the other, painfully,
slowly, slowly, slowly.
"Torry, Torry–where've you been!" screamed Martin.
A clod of rank crawling soil dropped from the dog's chest.
The door to the bedroom moved inward.
Martin had company.
Celia Rees
“Writing on the Wall”
Word Count: 4858
Mark Banks had a tendency to act on impulse; otherwise he never would have bought the place. The house stood
back from the road, in the hollow of a hill. He glimpsed it through a haze of new green leaves, picked out by a
random shaft of sunlight on a bright spring day. He noted the FOR SALE sign and pulled in to take a closer look. It
was built from dull red brick, not particularly picturesque, but gable ends and steeply pitched roofs, banks of tall
chimneys, and a fancy turret gave it a certain grandeur. A Victorian gentleman’s residence. He liked the idea of
that. The FOR SALE sign had been up for so long that the post was rotting, but he didn’t question why that might
be. He merely noted the estate agent’s number and decided to give them a call. He had to smile when they told
him the price. He put in an offer right over the phone. He knew a bargain when he saw one.
There was something hidden about the house, tucked away in a nook of the landscape, folded in on itself as
if guarding a secret, the twin roofs of the gables rising like great arching brows frowning a warning, but Mark was
not a man given to fancy. His son, Sam, was far more sensitive. He felt a definite prickle of doubt the first time his
dad showed him the photographs, but he didn’t share his misgivings with anyone. Who’d listen to a twelve-yearold?
There was a lot of work to be done, Mark told his family, but it was going to be fun. The estate agent had
recommended a good local firm, and they were already transforming the place. The fabric was sound, the survey
said, and that was enough for Mark. There are other sorts of rottenness: kinds that can’t be detected by gauges
measuring dampness or gadgets that find dry rot or woodworm infestation, but Mark Banks didn’t stop to think
about that.
He was due some time off and had decided to oversee the work himself. He liked getting his hands dirty
and had definite ideas about how the place should be. There were interesting features, like a pretty little
summerhouse in the garden, and there had been some fascinating finds already. Just yesterday, one of the men
had found a little glass bottle, half filled with some dark, viscous liquid, hidden above the doorway. None of them
seemed to know what it was, or why it was there. Mark planned to take it to the local museum as soon as he
could find the time.
He’d fixed up a trailer in the garden, and now that school vacation had started, the kids would be joining
him. They were both curious to see the house. Kate was fifteen and had already picked out her room from the
photographs. She wanted the turret because it looked like a tower in a fairy-tale castle, and she’d wanted to sleep
in one of those ever since she was a child. Not that she’d be moving in for a while. She’d be staying with him in
the trailer. It was big enough for all of them, but Sam said he wanted to sleep outside so he could try out his new
tent.
Sam liked the idea of camping, but on the first night he found it hard to sleep. He wasn’t used to the quiet, and
each time he closed his eyes, there would be some unfamiliar noise: the hooting of owls or the sudden sharp
shriek of a fox. There were rustlings, also, and other odd sounds that were hard to identify. He stuck his head out
and shone his flashlight around, but the little pool of light only made the surrounding darkness blacker somehow.
He was aware of the huge bulk of the house looming above him. It seemed to grow outward, radiating blackness,
overshadowing, reaching toward the dim, tinny shine of the trailer. That seemed farther off now, like a toy.
Suddenly, it looked very small, as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope. He could knock on the door and
demand to be allowed in, but then they would know he was scared. That was not the only reason. He could not
leave the tent. He was gripped by a panicky feeling–he might not make it in time. Make it from what? There was
nothing out there, he told himself. It was a hot night, but he made sure to zip the flap tightly. He could make it
through just one night, he thought, as he huddled down into his sleeping bag.
Things look better in daylight. In the morning, Sam didn’t like to admit his fear. He moved his tent, pitching
it next to the trailer, rationalizing away his night terror, coming up with things Dad might say: too much
imagination brought on by difference, strangeness, a change in environment.
Eddie Mayer drew up in his truck, going through the jobs for that day in his head. He scanned the brooding
façade of the house. He knew all about its history. His great-grandfather had been one of the builders involved in
the Edwardian renovation. He’d been a bit of a cunning man. Eddie wouldn’t mind betting that he’d been
responsible for the witch bottle they’d found last week. It would have been put there to protect the building from
evil, and if anywhere needed protecting, this place did. Eddie had been surprised when Haslet and Jones sold it.
The house had been on the market for ages, and with good reason, but then this London chap comes along. Old
man Haslet had tipped him the wink, because there was a lot of work to be done, enough to keep Mayer & Son
busy for months. There were plenty of stories, all right. He would not like to be here at night. Not that he’d be
saying anything, and neither would his men. The new owner might take fright, and Eddie had already bought the
materials and taken on extra workers. He could do without a canceled contract.
Tom Mayer jumped down from the truck. He was tall and dark, well muscled and tanned from working with
his father. He knew the work, the business, but he was going to college, and after that he planned to get a whitecollar job. He had no intention of doing this for the rest of his life. Not that he’d told his father. It would break the
old man’s heart. What was more to the point, he might not hand any more money out, and Tom was always short
on funds. Eddie might even take away his car.
“Would you like some tea?”
Tom smiled down at the girl offering him a mug. Not very old. Fourteen? Fifteen? She’d be pretty if she wore
her hair different and lost the braces. Nice eyes, though, and those shorts and crop top really showed off her
figure. Things were looking up.
“Hi, I’m Tom,” he said. His smile grew wider and he crinkled his dark blue eyes.
“I’m Kate. Kate Banks.”
“Hi, Kate. You weren’t here last week.”
“No. I came on the weekend with my brother. We’re helping Dad. Spending the summer….”
“Bit boring for you.” Tom folded his arms and looked sympathetic. He made his mind up quickly about girls
and didn’t waste time. “Tell you what. There’s a barbecue tonight in the village. Want to come along–meet some
people?”
“Yes,” Kate said. She was so taken aback by his invitation, she’d agreed before she’d even thought about it.
“That’s if Dad says it’s okay.”
“He can come. Your brother, too. It’s a family thing.” Always a winner, that. He looked around. His dad was
shaking a shovel and pointing at the house. “That’s me. Gotta go. Thanks for the tea. See you later.”
Kate walked away, smiling to herself. He was all right! Only been here a day and she’d gotten a date. What
would the girls think about that!
Sam adjusted his facemask against the fine plaster dust billowing from the sitting room. The ground floor was
being systematically stripped. The house was far older than it looked, Eddie said, and Dad was interested in
uncovering some of the original building. If the theory was correct, there should be a bigger, more ancient
fireplace behind the Victorian grate. All work had stopped as everyone gathered to see if Eddie was right.
“Okay. Stand back!” Eddie spat on his palms and hefted the sledgehammer.
The thick muscles bulged in his shoulders and arms as he dealt the chimney piece such a mighty crack that
the whole house shook. Everyone jumped back as plaster and rubble poured across the room, sending up a great
plume of dust and soot.
“Come on,” Eddie shouted, appearing like a ghost through the choking cloud. “Get this lot shifted.”
“What the–”
The workman dropped his shovel, backing away form the thing as it bounced and skittered over the scree of
plaster. The dried-up body of a cat. Tufts of black fur still mottled the brittle blue-gray skin as it lay stretched, the
bone-thin back legs flexed, front paws extended, blunt head up, as if it had been set to hunt through eternity.
“Well, I’ll be…” Eddie removed his mask and licked his black-rimmed lips. “Haven’t seen one of them in a
while.”
“Where did it come from?” Sam asked, staring at the pathetic little corpse.
“From the chimney,” Eddie replied.
“How did it get there?”
“Dunno, son,” the builder said with a shrug. “These old chimneys are full of nooks and crannies. Probably
crawled up when the fire was out, for warmth, and died of fumes when someone lit the coals.”
It seemed a good enough explanation, but Sam could tell that he was lying by the way his eyes shifted, by
the way he licked his blackberry lips.
One of the men went to shovel up the remains with the rest of the rubbish, but Eddie ordered the thing to be
burned. Any protection the creature might have offered was gone now, but that was no reason to treat it with
disrespect.
Eddie set to work shoveling the rubble out, while the rest of his men dispersed to work in different parts of
the house. Tom had been sent upstairs to see what needed doing up there. Curiosity more than any instruction
from his father took him to the little turret room at the end of the second-floor corridor. The house was haunted, so
they said. This room was where it was supposed to kick off. He stepped inside and looked around. There was no
physical evidence of violence and sudden death. He stood, waiting. To his intense disappointment, he felt
absolutely nothing. Not even the slightest shiver. No sign at a ll of psychic activity that was supposed to circulate
from this very room.
He went to the window and looked out. Nice view. Kate was sunbathing on a patch of grass below. You
could see even more of her figure now. He’d seen the other men looking at her…
He pressed the window frame with his thumb. The wood was soft. Rotten underneath the paint. The whole
thing would have to be replaced. He blowtorched a patch of paint to find how bad it was, how far it spread. The
layers bubbled back, turning from yellowy-white to brown and then black. He scraped away at the goo and put
his mask up against the acrid fumes. His father was right to be strict about that–they’d used all kinds of poisons to
make paint back then: lead, arsenic, you name it. His eyes strayed back to the girl and stayed on her a long time.
He was finding it hard to concentrate. She shouldn’t be showing herself off that way where the other men could
see. It wasn’t right. Her dad should have a word with her. Or he would–he would tell her tonight…. He stood
there, brooding. Jealousy and anger growing within him. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He’d only just met
her, and he was thinking about her as though she were his girlfriend or something. Maybe the fumes were getting
to him. He pulled his mask tighter. It was almost as though his thoughts belonged to someone else.
He stayed only a little while longer, but by then the damage was done. No kind of mask could protect
against the poison that seeped from the fabric of that particular room.
Sam had been looking forward to the barbecue, hoping to meet some kids his own age there, but most turned out
to be younger, so he stayed with Dad. Sam wished he was old enough to join Kate and hang out with Tom and his
friends drinking beer. That looked like more fun–although he’d be annoyed if her were Kate. Tom had seemed like
a nice guy, pretty happy-go-lucky, but he obviously had another side to him. He kept her close, as if they’d been
going out forever, and he didn’t like it if she went away from him or talked to anyone else. She seemed okay with
it. When Tom’s friends moved to their cars, ready to go somewhere, she came to ask Dad if she could go with
them. He said that she could, as long as she wasn’t back late.
Sam didn’t know how late it was, but he was woken up by a door slamming and what sounded like a sob. A
car drove off, engine roar and wheel spin ripping through the silence. The trailer door opened and Dad called out,
sounding anxious. Kate replied to him, and Sam heard her go in. Or at least, he thought he did.
When Sam woke again, he was dying to pee. He crawled out of the tent, urgency quelling any fears he
might be feeling. He wasn’t scared anymore. Moonlight made tonight quite different. It was pleasant to be outside
after the stuffiness of the tent. He wandered up toward the top of the garden, looking at the stars.
That’s when he saw them.
They were in the ruined summerhouse. Lit by moonlight. Two people standing close enough for their
shadows to almost merge. Sam stood transfixed. One was taller, bending down toward the other. He could hear
them murmuring, whispering, and then the shadows joined into just one shape. He found it hard to tear himself
away. It must be Tom and Kate. Maybe they’d had a fight or something, and were getting back together. But he’d
heard her go into the trailer, he was sure. How had she sneaked out again without disturbing Dad?
Not that Sam had much of a chance to find out. The next day, Kate stayed in the trailer. When Sam asked
what was the matter, she refused to answer. Dad said he didn’t know either, but he looked as though he wished
Mom were here.
There was no sign of Tom.
“Stayed at his friend’s house and hasn’t turned up this morning,” Eddie said. “If he weren’t the son and heir,
I’d fire him.” The builder laughed and ruffled Sam’s hair. “You’ll have to do instead.”
Sam spent the morning with Eddie, but by the afternoon he had tired of the dust and noise. He mounted the
stairs to get away from it. The upper floors would be deserted and quiet. He hadn’t really explored up there.
Sam looked along the dark-paneled corridors leading off from the first landing and decided to take the lefthand passage, pushing doors open one by one. Most of the rooms were empty, with bare wooden floorboards and
chipped skirting boards. The old furnishings showed as darker patches on the wallpaper, like ghostly imprints of
the former inhabitants.
The room at the end was round, like a turret. Light shone through the open door, spilling bright into the
tunnel-like passage. Sam squinted, trying to see better. There seemed to be someone in there. A girl standing at the
window, facing out, away from him. She raised her arms, the light around her breaking into shafts in the dustladen air. It was hard to see because of this halo effect, but it had to be Kate. What was she doing up here? It was
the room she wanted, so perhaps she’d come to inspect it. But how did she get past him? He looked around, as if
to check his route again. When he turned back the room was empty. The girl was gone.
Sam went in cautiously, searching the room carefully, looking for a secret passage or stairway, but if there
was one there, he failed to find it. He was about to go, when he noticed something. Something on the wall. He
hadn’t noticed it before. It was as if it had suddenly appeared. Strange. Weird. He’d have to tell Kate.
He found her in the trailer, reading a book.
“How did you do it?” he asked.
“How did I do what?” she replied without looking up.
“Get out of the room without me seeing.”
“What room? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. The little turret room. I saw you up there.”
Kate looked up. “I’ve been here all afternoon reading this book.”
“Well, okay.” Sam didn’t believe her, but stopped short of calling her a liar. “But you better come. There’s
something you ought to see.”
“Aren’t you a bit old for writing on walls?”
“It wasn’t me! I swear it! It just appeared….”
The writing was a jagged scrawl, the letters at least a foot tall.
KATE
PLEASE
he–”
“And I’m supposed to think you’ve got nothing to do with this?” Kate turned on her brother. “Yeah. Right!”
“Tom was up here yesterday.” Sam spoke cautiously, sensing Kate didn’t want to talk about him. “Maybe
“No. Why would he?” Her tone was cold, dismissive.
The writing was malformed. There was something hideous about the straggling, spidery letters. Why would
Tom do that? It was easier to believe that Sam had done it, even though he was telling the truth and Kate knew it.
She grabbed a loose corner. The sheet came away, buckling to the floor. There was more underneath.
I AM TRYING
Kate worked away at the edges of the paper with her fingernails, pulling it off the wall in strips. On the layer
below was more writing in the same spiked hand.
LISTEN
TO ME
“The men are leaving,” Sam said as he looked out of the window at the sound of the truck. “It’s getting late.
Dad’s waving us down to go into town.”
“You go. I want to get to the bottom of this.”
Kate went to find some kind of scraper and came back with a chisel and a trowel. The writing both intrigued
and disturbed her. She’d thought at first that maybe it was Tom, but now words were appearing below the surface
layer. She worked in the still quietness of the deserted house with single-minded intensity, seeing only the patch of
paper before her. She put the curls of paper on the floor as she found them. Maybe a girl named Kate had lived
here once. It was a common enough name, after all. These messages must have been left for her by some other
person. That had to be the explanation. Someone who didn’t write very well. A servant, maybe. Lots of people
couldn’t write back then. Or someone who had to use his or her other hand for some reason, perhaps because of
a broken arm or something…. Sam had not wanted to leave Kate in the house on her own, but he knew it was no
use arguing.
“Where’s Kate?” his dad asked.
“She doesn’t want to come.”
Mark Banks shrugged, not surprised. Kate had been in a mood all day.
“I don’t think we should leave her–” Sam started to say, but his dad interrupted him.
“Why not? She’s a big girl now, and I don’t have time to argue. I’ve got things to do. I want to catch the
museum before it closes. They’ve got some news for me.”
“About what?”
“That bottle the builders found.”
Sam settled back in his seat. That sounded interesting. Some of his concern for Kate slipped from his mind
as his father headed into town.
The younger curator was there to meet them. She’d prepared a written report on their find. Sam craned to
read it over his father’s arm.
Witch bottles may be of glass or pottery and are usually found concealed beneath the hearth or threshold,
but sometimes in walls or beneath the floor. Upon analysis, these bottles have most commonly been found
to contain iron, in the form of pins or nails (often bent), human hair, and urine. All of these substances
have associations with folk magic and together would seem to constitute a kind of spell. The locations in
which these bottles were placed are significant. There is an emphasis on placing the objects at the entry
and exit points of the building to serve as protection against supernatural forces that might want to invade
the premises.
The curator held up their bottle, agitating it slightly.
“Your find pretty much conforms to the norm as far as contents are concerned. Have there been any more
finds of a similar nature?”
“They found a dead cat yesterday,” Sam said.
“Did they?” The young woman turned her vivid blue eyes on him. “Where exactly?”
“In the chimney.”
“Now that’s interesting. The finding of dried-up cats in buildings is quite common,” she said, addressing
both of them. “Some may have died naturally, but there is ample evidence to suggest that many of these poor
creatures were deliberately placed at significant points, particularly the chimney or hearth, and that they were put
there as some form of protective magic. Cats were widely believe to be gifted with sixth sense and to have psychic
awareness. So maybe they were put there so that they could exercise their psychic ability and hunting prowess as
spiritual protectors of the house. That’s what I think, anyway. Were the remains kept, by any chance?”
“No.” Mark Banks shook his head. “Disposed of, I’m afraid.”
“Pity.” The young woman frowned. “That’s the difficulty. People don’t hang on to them. Too yucky. They
usually end up in the trash.” She looked up at Mark. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to donate the bottle to the
museum?”
Mark smiled. “I’d be delighted!”
“Oh, good.” Her face cleared, and she smiled back at him. “Where is the house, by the way?”
“Just out of Stoneham. On Amershed Road. It’s set back a bit–”
“The Pearson house?”
“Why, yes.”
“Oh, that explains a lot. The house has something of a history. There’s a famous ghost story attached to it.
Didn’t you know?”
Mark shook his head.
“What happened? In the story, I mean,” Sam asked, gripped by a creeping dread.
“Well, you know the turret room?”
Sam nodded, his unease growing.
“A young girl died there in Victorian times. She was found below the window. Fell, apparently, but whether
she threw herself out or someone pushed her, nobody knows. Restless spirit, though. There have been sightings
ever since.”
Sam listened, a sense of terrible foreboding settling inside him, giving him a sick, cold feeling as if he’d
taken down a whole mouthful of ice cream in one big swallow.
“When…when there’s a sighting,” he asked, “what do people usually see?”
“Well, usually she’s standing by the window, with her arms raised, like so.”
“Come on, Dad!” Sam grabbed his father’s arm, pulling him toward the museum’s glass doors.
“What’s the rush?” His father looked down at him, thoroughly puzzled.
“I’ll explain in the car. We have to go!”
He knew where she was. He’d seen her come to the window. He’d been watching for most of the afternoon,
hidden in the trees, waiting for them all to go. Different thoughts turned and twisted in his head, braiding
themselves together until he knew what he would do. He couldn’t let it go. Rejecting him like that. It was too
humiliating. He’d show her. And her father. A tradesman’s son. She thought he wasn’t good enough. Well, he’d
teach her. A thin smile curled. But he’d have his satisfaction first….
Tom didn’t even question how he knew the staircase was there. He just did, that was all. He found the little
door to the servants’ passage at the base of the tower and crept up the winding stairway, feeling his way to the
room where she’d be waiting, his shuffling feet scraping on the gritty stone.
Kate rocked back on her heels, surveying the words that she had just revealed.
NOW
A WARNING
GO
What could that mean? The words were at odds with the previous messages, perhaps signifying a new twist
in the tale. Speculating about the possible story behind the phenomenon took some of the strangeness from it,
made it seem less sinister. She stared at the wall, so completely absorbed in her thoughts that she heard nothing.
His soft-soled footfalls were almost silent. Then there was a creaking sound from the corner, a tearing crack as
wood broke through paper and he was there.
She leaped up, whirling around, the trowel in her hand clattering to the floor.
“How did you get there?!”
“There’s more than one way up here.” Tom grinned, shutting the secret door behind him. “I’ve been
watching. Waiting for the others to go. For you dad and the brat to disappear. For a chance to be alone with you.”
He came across the room toward her, his tone changing to harshness. “I reckon we’ve got some unfinished
business.”
Kate moved away from him, backing toward the window. There was nowhere else to go.
“Careful.” Tom gave a frown of feigned concern. “The frames are rotten, and so is the stone around them.”
He laughed. “That was my job for today.”
Kate put her hand out, gripping the sill. It crumbled under her fingers like sand.
“This room’s got a history. The whole house does. Didn’t anyone tell you? S’pose not, or your dad never
would have bought it.”
He was close now, nearly upon her. She tried to make a break across the room.
“Don’t even think about it.” He grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her back. “A young girl died. Here.
In this room. It’s a tragic story. Listen to me!” The thoughts were coming thick and fast, in no particular order. “She
had a lover. They used to meet down in the summerhouse. One night she told him it was all over; she couldn’t see
him ever again. He followed her back here, not prepared to believe it. She wouldn’t tell why, but he guessed it.
He knew her father was behind it, saying he wasn’t good enough. He begged her, he pleaded, but she came
across all haughty. Said she didn’t love him, never had. He was a…a dalliance. A dalliance, merely. Hardhearted
little bitch she turned out to be. Needed a lesson, see? She never should have done it. Never should have
rejected–” He broke off, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “There was a fight. I don’t know. Then she fell–fell from
the window.” A slight shudder ran through him. He paused to collect himself. “It doesn’t have to be like that, does
it? Not with you and me.”
“I–I don’t know….”
Kate shrank away from him. He was really scaring her. All that must have happened a long time ago, but he
was talking as though he were there. She was right up against the window now. She felt the whole frame shifting
in its mountings, bulging out, the rotting frame ready to crack.
“Yes, you do. You want me as much as I want you.”
He was really close now. She could feel his breath hot on her, see his face sweating above her. She
remembered how it had been in the car the night before, how hard it had been to resist him. He was so much
stronger. His arms were reaching for her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to fight him off a second time.
“Come on, Katie.” His voice was muffled. “You know you want to.”
He hadn’t seen the chisel hidden behind her back. The black was thin, the wedge-shaped tip razor sharp.
Then there was noise, her name being called. Light feet running, followed by a heavier, adult tread.
“Sam! Wait!” Her father’s voice was shouting. “Leave it to me.” He was right outside now. The door was
opening. “Kate? Katie?”
Mark Banks found his daughter sitting under the window, the chisel still clutched in her hand. Tom Mayer’s
body lay stretched out beside her. Curls and shreds of wallpaper lay drifted about them, rustling like leaves on the
bloodstained floor.
Shirley Jackson
“The Lottery”
Word Count: 3773
The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were
blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between
the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two
days and had to be started on June 2th. but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the
whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to
allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily
on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. and their talk
was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full
of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and
Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of
stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking
among themselves, looking over their shoulders at rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or
sisters.
Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They
stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than
laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one
another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands,
began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin
ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and
Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers. who
had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and
people were sorry for him. because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square,
carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called.
"Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put
in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a
space between themselves and the stool. and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?"
there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the box steady on
the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.
The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been
put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the
villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black
box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one
that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr.
Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's
being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly
along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.
Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers
thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been
successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood,
Mr. Summers had argued. had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than
three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black
box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and
it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to
the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had
spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in
the Martin grocery and left there.
There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make
up--of heads of families. heads of households in each family. members of each household in each family. There was the
proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people
remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant
that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when
he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of
the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to
use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it
was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in
his clean white shirt and blue jeans. with one hand resting carelessly on the black box. he seemed very proper and
important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.
Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along
the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean
forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my
old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on. "and then I looked out the window and the kids was
gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and
Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the
front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people
separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said. in voices just loud enough to be heard across
the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her
husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. "Thought we were going to have to get on without
you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said. grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?," and
soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.
"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work.
Anybody ain't here?"
"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."
Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for
him?"
"Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said.
"Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the
answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers
waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.
"Horace's not but sixteen yet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."
"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I m drawing for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes
nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said thin#s like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see
your mother's got a man to do it."
"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"
"Here," a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now,
I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper
folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"
The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet. wetting
their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself
from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said. and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one
another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it
firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd. where he stood a little apart from his
family. not looking down at his hand.
"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."
"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.
"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."
"Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves said.
"Clark.... Delacroix"
"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.
"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. "Go on. Janey,"
and another said, "There she goes."
"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr.
Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the
small folded papers in their large hand. turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood
together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.
"Harburt.... Hutchinson."
"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near her laughed.
"Jones."
"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking
of giving up the lottery."
Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them.
Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live hat way for a while.
Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed
chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up
there joking with everybody."
"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.
"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."
"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."
"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."
"They're almost through," her son said.
"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called,
"Warner."
"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh
time."
"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers
said, "Take your time, son."
"Zanini."
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All
right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women
began to speak at once, saving. "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices
began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."
"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in
his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he
wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"
"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."
"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.
"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get
done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other
households in the Hutchinsons?"
"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"
"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone
else."
"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.
"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And
I've got no other family except the kids."
"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for
households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"
"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.
"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.
"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.
"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."
"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and
put it in."
"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give
him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and he dropped all the papers but those onto the
ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.
"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.
"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children. nodded.
"Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help
little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of
the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper." Mr. Summers
said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and
held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.
"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward
switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet
overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute,
looking around defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.
"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with
the slip of paper in it.
The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the
crowd.
"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."
"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."
Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone
could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the same time. and both beamed and laughed. turning
around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.
"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his
paper and showed it. It was blank.
"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black
spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it
up, and there was a stir in the crowd.
"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The
pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper
that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to
Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."
Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said. gasping for breath. "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead
and I'll catch up with you."
The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers
moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on,
come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.
"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.