The Monkey paw

Rain tapped against the windows of the old Whitmore residence, a lonely cottage nestled deep in the English countryside. Inside, the fireplace crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows on the worn furniture. John Whitmore, a retired military officer, sat polishing his cane while his wife Martha knitted beside him. Their grown son, William, leaned against the mantle, watching the flames dance.

It was an ordinary evening until a sharp knock echoed through the house. William opened the door to reveal a shrouded figure—an old friend of John's from his army days, Sergeant Major Tom Morris. His eyes were sunken, and he carried a small, strange parcel wrapped in cloth.

"Tom!" John greeted, surprised. "Come in, man, you’re soaked!"

The sergeant stepped inside, his heavy boots leaving muddy prints on the wooden floor. After some tea and catching up, the conversation turned to his travels in India.

"It’s not the place I remembered," Tom muttered, eyes distant. "Too many shadows. Too much... unnatural."

"What do you mean?" William asked, intrigued.

Tom hesitated. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a shriveled, mummified monkey’s paw.

"This," he said, placing it on the table. "Is cursed."

Martha gasped and leaned back. John leaned in. William’s eyes widened with curiosity.

"It’s said to grant three wishes to three different people," Tom explained, voice low. "But each comes with a terrible price. I’ve seen it ruin men. Destroy families."

John chuckled. "You don’t really believe that, do you?"

Tom’s face turned grim. "I used my third wish to rid myself of it."

Despite Tom’s warning, John insisted on keeping the paw. After much reluctance, Tom gave in, pressing it into John’s hand.

"I warned you," he said solemnly, before disappearing into the night.

That night, curiosity got the better of them.

“What would we even wish for?” Martha asked.

“Something simple,” John said. “Let’s test it. I wish for two hundred pounds. That’s all.”

The room fell silent. The paw twisted in John’s hand like a living thing, and he dropped it with a start.

They laughed it off nervously and went to bed, but no money appeared.

The next morning, life resumed as normal—until a knock came at the door.

It was a man from the textile mill where William worked. He looked pale, his hat in his hands.

“There’s been... an accident,” he said, voice trembling. “Your son... William... he’s dead.”

Martha screamed. John fell to his knees.

“As a gesture of goodwill,” the man continued, “the company offers you a sum of two hundred pounds for your loss.”

The same amount. To the pound.

The money was of no comfort. Martha sank into despair. John, tormented by guilt, buried the paw in the garden. But grief makes people desperate.

One night, weeks later, Martha burst into their bedroom, wild-eyed.

"The paw!" she cried. "We can bring him back!"

John refused. “It’s unnatural. You don’t know what will come back.”

But Martha was relentless. Eventually, John retrieved the paw and gave it to her.

She gripped it tightly. “I wish my son alive again.”

Nothing happened at first. They waited all night in silence. But as dawn broke, a distant, dragging sound echoed through the fog. A heavy knock rang out at the door.

Martha rushed forward.

“No!” John shouted, grabbing her wrist. “You don’t know what you’ve brought back!”

She struggled against him. The knocking came again, louder, more urgent, as though something—or someone—was trying to get in.

John broke free, stumbled to the table, and seized the monkey’s paw.

"I wish he were dead again!" he cried.

Silence.

Martha flung the door open—but there was no one there. Just the cold morning air and the empty road beyond.

She collapsed to her knees in the doorway, wailing. John stood behind her, the paw crumbling to dust in his hand.

Epilogue

Years passed. The Whitmore house stood abandoned, its windows broken, garden overgrown. Villagers whispered about the cursed family and the night of the knocking.

But deep within the woods, where the wind howled and shadows stretched long at dusk, something still moved. And somewhere, in the dirt where it had once been buried, the paw twitched once more.