The night pressed cold and wet against the windows of Laburnum Villa, the rain striking like restless fingers upon the glass. Beyond the blinds, the world was a muddied wasteland, wind sweeping through the bare branches with a howl that rattled the house. But inside, in the small parlour, warmth reigned. The fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth, throwing shifting shadows across the walls, while the air held the faint, soothing scent of smoke and wool.
Mr. White and his son sat opposite one another at a small table, locked in the familiar battlefield of chess. The old man, stubborn in habit and reckless in strategy, maneuvered his pieces with a kind of daring that often placed his king in the gravest of dangers. His son, younger, sharper, and blessed with patience, watched with a faint smirk curling his lips. Beside the hearth, Mrs. White knitted steadily, her silver hair gleaming faintly in the firelight, her calm presence contrasting with the storm beyond the house.
"Listen to that wind," muttered Mr. White irritably, shifting in his chair. He had just noticed a mistake in his play—too late to remedy it—and now sought to draw his son's attention elsewhere.
"I am listening," Herbert replied dryly, stretching a hand forward. His eyes never left the board. "Check."
Mr. White hesitated, hovering over the pieces. His eyes darted to the window, then back to the board. "I hardly think he'll come tonight, in weather like this."
Herbert's move was swift, merciless. "Mate."
The old man slammed his hand on the table with a burst of sudden temper. "That's the worst of living out here, cut off from the world!" he grumbled. His voice rose, echoing in the little parlour. "Of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places, this is the worst. The path's a bog, the road's a river, and still they think it's fine to let only two houses stand in this forsaken lane!"
Mrs. White's needles clicked quietly. She looked up with a smile that softened his grumbling. "Never mind, dear," she said, her voice gentle. "Perhaps you'll win the next one."
The old man looked sharply at his wife, just in time to catch a quick, amused glance exchanged between her and Herbert. His protest died on his lips, and with a sheepish grin, he rubbed his beard, hiding his defeat in silence.
At that very moment, the gate outside clanged shut, the sound loud against the storm. Heavy footsteps approached, crunching through the wet gravel. Herbert rose slightly in his chair. "There he is."
Mr. White leapt up, all irritation forgotten, and hurried to the door. The sound of voices carried faintly—his own hospitable tones, and another deeper voice, muttering complaints against the weather. Moments later, he returned, ushering in a man of imposing stature.
"Sergeant-Major Morris," Mr. White introduced proudly.
The newcomer filled the room with his presence. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a ruddy face and keen, beadlike eyes that seemed to drink in everything at once. His heavy boots left wet marks upon the floor, and his greatcoat dripped steadily as he removed it. But when he settled into a chair by the fire, his large hands curled comfortably around the glass Mr. White pressed upon him, he seemed utterly at ease.
The storm outside raged on, but inside the parlour, the visitor's tales soon drowned it out. At the third glass of whiskey, his voice grew louder, his eyes brighter, and he spoke of far-off lands: of steaming jungles and parched deserts, of wars fought under foreign suns, of strange peoples with stranger customs. The Whites listened in rapt attention, Mrs. White with polite interest, Herbert with eager curiosity, and Mr. White with open admiration.
"Twenty-one years of it," Mr. White remarked, nodding toward his wife and son. "When he went away, he was but a lad in the warehouse. Now look at him."
Mrs. White's eyes twinkled kindly. "He doesn't look to have taken much harm," she said.
"I'd like to see India myself one day," Mr. White mused, warming to the thought. "To walk among those temples, to watch the jugglers and fakirs—"
"Better where you are," the Sergeant-Major interrupted with a grim shake of his head. His face darkened, the lines around his mouth tightening. "Better where you are."
The words hung heavily in the room. Then, as if to break the uneasy silence, Mr. White leaned forward. "You were telling me the other day… something about a monkey's paw?"
The glass froze midway to the soldier's lips. He set it down abruptly. "Nothing," he said hastily. "Nothing worth hearing."
"Monkey's paw?" Mrs. White repeated, curiosity piqued.
The Sergeant-Major shifted uncomfortably. "It's just a trinket," he muttered, "a bit of… magic, perhaps."
At once, all three leaned closer, the firelight catching the eagerness in their eyes. With a reluctant sigh, Morris reached into his pocket. "To look at, it's nothing—just a withered paw, dried and shriveled like a piece of leather."
He held it out. Mrs. White recoiled with a little shiver, but Herbert seized it, turning it curiously in his fingers. "And what's so special about this?"
The Sergeant-Major's voice dropped, his tone solemn. "It had a spell put on it. By a very holy man. A fakir." His gaze darkened. "He wanted to prove that fate ruled men's lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He cast a spell upon it, so that three different men could each have three wishes."
Silence fell over the parlour, broken only by the crackle of the fire. The family's faint laughter sounded forced against the weight of his words.
"Why don't you have three more, then?" Herbert asked lightly, with the careless boldness of youth.
The soldier's eyes fixed on him, cold and stern. "I have."
The answer silenced them. A pale shadow passed across Morris's ruddy face. He drained his glass with a clink of teeth.
"And were your wishes granted?" Mrs. White asked softly.
"They were."
"And the others?" she persisted.
The soldier hesitated. "The first man had his wishes… I don't know what the first two were. But the third was for death." His voice dropped to a whisper. "That's how I got the paw."
The words sent a chill through the room. Even the fire seemed to falter.
Mr. White cleared his throat. "If you've had your three wishes, it's of no use to you now. Why keep it?"
The soldier shook his head slowly. "Fancy, perhaps. Or a curse. I tried to sell it once, but people laughed. Those who believed wanted to test it first and pay afterward. It has brought me nothing but mischief."
"And if you could have another three wishes?" asked Mr. White quietly, his eyes narrowing.
Morris looked into the flames. "I don't know," he said at last. "I don't know."
Then, with a sudden, violent gesture, he hurled the paw into the fire. The shriveled thing writhed among the coals.
With a startled cry, Mr. White leapt forward, snatching it out with trembling fingers.
"Better let it burn," the Sergeant-Major warned, his voice sharp.
"If you don't want it, Morris," Mr. White replied stubbornly, "give it to me."
"I won't." The soldier's tone was grim. "But if you keep it, don't blame me for what comes. Throw it back in the fire, like a sensible man."
But Mr. White only studied the paw with fascination, holding it up in the flickering light. "How do you make a wish?"
"Hold it in your right hand and speak aloud," Morris said reluctantly. Then, in a lower voice, "But remember—there will be consequences."
Mrs. White laughed lightly, breaking the tension. "It sounds like something out of the Arabian Nights," she said. "Why don't you wish for four pairs of hands for me, so I can finish my work quicker?"
Her husband pocketed the paw. The moment passed, and soon they were drawn back into Morris's tales of India.
Later, after their guest had gone—leaving behind warnings and unease—the family spoke of the paw once more. Herbert, half-mocking, suggested wealth, fame, even emperorship. His mother laughed, chasing him playfully around the room.
At last, Mr. White drew out the paw again, holding it awkwardly. "I don't rightly know what to wish for. I've got all I want."
Herbert clapped him on the shoulder. "Wish for two hundred pounds, then. That'll clear the house."
Smiling sheepishly, Mr. White raised the paw. The fire crackled, Herbert struck dramatic chords upon the piano, and Mrs. White watched with amused indulgence.
"I wish for two hundred pounds," Mr. White declared.
The words were swallowed by the storm outside. Then—a sharp movement. The old man cried out, dropping the paw as if it had stung him.
"It moved," he gasped. His face was pale, his eyes wide. "It twisted in my hand, like a snake!"
Herbert retrieved it, frowning. "I don't see the money, Father. And I'll wager I never shall."
Mrs. White laid a gentle hand on her husband's shoulder. "It must have been your fancy."
But the old man only shook his head, staring uneasily at the small, shriveled paw.
That night, as the storm howled, Herbert joked about bags of gold and monsters lurking in bedrooms. But later, when all was quiet, Mr. White sat long by the fire, gazing into the coals. Faces formed there—strange, grotesque, and one so hideous, so simian, that he started in horror. His hand groped for a glass of water, but instead brushed against the paw. With a shudder, he thrust it back into his pocket and extinguished the fire.
Upstairs, the house creaked with the wind. The night pressed close, heavy with unseen promise.