Jesus therefore, groaning inside of himself and full of trouble, came to the
grave. It was a cave, and a stone had been raised against the mouth. 'Roll
away the stone,' Jesus said.
Martha said, 'Lord, by this time he will have begun to rot. He has been
dead four days.' And when he had prayed a while, Jesus raised his
voice and cried: 'Lazarus, come forth!' And he that was dead came forth,
bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with
a napkin.
Jesus said to them, 'Loose him and let him go.'
—John's Gospel (paraphrase)
'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 that not 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.'
—W.W. Jacobs (The Monkey's Paw)
Jud Crandall came awake with a sudden jerk, almost falling out of his
chair. He had no idea how long he had slept; it could have been fifteen minutes or
three hours. He looked at his watch and saw that it was five minutes of five. There
was a feeling that everything in the room had been subtly shifted out of position,
and there was a line of pain across his back from sleeping sitting up.
Oh you stupid old man, look what you gone and done!
But he knew better; in his heart, he knew better. It wasn't just him. He hadn't
simply fallen asleep on watch; he had been put to sleep.
That frightened him, but one thing frightened him more: what had awakened
him? He was under the impression that there had been some sound, some—
He held his breath, listening over the papery rustle of his heart.
Here was a sound; not the same one that had awakened him, but something.
The faint creak of hinges.
Jud knew every sound in this house—which floorboards creaked, which stairlevels squeaked, where along the gutters the wind was apt to hoot and sing when
it was drunkenly high, as it had been last night. He knew this sound as well as
any of those. The heavy front door, the one that communicated between his porch
and the front hall, had just swung open. And with that information to go on, his
mind was able to remember the sound that had awakened him. It had been the
slow expansion of the spring on the screen door communicating between the porch
and the front walk.
'Louis?' he called, but with no real hope. That wasn't Louis out there. Whatever
was out there had been sent to punish an old man for his pride and vanity.
Footsteps moved slowly up the hall toward the living room.
'Louis?' he tried to call again, but only a faint croak actually emerged, because
now he could smell the thing which had come into his house here at the end of the
night. It was a dirty, low smell like the smell of poisoned tidal flats.
Jud could make out bulking shapes in the gloom—Norma's armoire, the Welsh
dresser, the highboy—but no details. He tried to get to his feet on legs that had
gone to water, his mind screaming that he needed more time, that he was too old
to face this again without more time, Timmy Baterman had been bad enough and
then he had been young.
The swing door opened and let in shadows. One of the shadows was more
substantial than the others.
Dear God, that stink.
Shuffling steps in the darkness.
'Gage?' Jud gained his feet at last. From one corner of his eye he saw the neat
roll of cigarette ash in the Jim Beam ashtray. 'Gage, is that y—'
A hideous mewing sound now arose, and for a moment all of Jud's bones turned
to white ice. It was not Louis's son returned from the grave but some hideous
demon—
No. It was neither.
It was Church, crouched in the hall doorway, making that sound. The cat's eyes
flared like dirty lamps. Then his eyes moved in the other direction and fixed on the
thing which had come in with the cat.
Jud began to back up, trying to catch at his thoughts, trying to hold on to his
reason in the face of that smell. Oh, it was cold in here—the thing had brought its
chill with it.
Jud rocked unsteadily on his feet—it was the cat, twining around his legs,
making him totter. It was purring. Jud kicked at it, driving it away. It bared its
teeth at him and hissed.
Think! Oh, think, you stupid old man, it mayn't be too late, even yet it mayn't be
too late… it's back but it can be killed again… if you can only do it… if you can only
think…
He backed away toward the kitchen, and he suddenly remembered the utensil
drawer beside the sink. There was a meat-cleaver in that drawer.
His thin shanks struck the swinging door that led into the kitchen and he
pushed it open. The thing that had come into his house was still indistinct, but
Jud could hear it breathing. He could see one white hand swinging back and
forth—there was something in that hand, but he could not make out what. The
door swung back as he entered the kitchen, and Jud at last turned his back and
ran to the utensil drawer. He jerked it open and found the cleaver's worn
hardwood handle. He snatched it up and turned toward the door again; he even
took a step or two toward it. Some of his courage had come back.
Remember, it ain't a kid. It may scream or somethin' when it sees you've got its
number; it may cry. But you ain't gonna be fooled. You been fooled too many times
already, old man. This is your last chance.
The swing door opened again, but at first only the cat came through. Jud's eye
followed it for a moment and then he looked up again.
The kitchen faced east, and dawn's first light came in through the windows,
faint and milky-white. Not much light, but enough. Too much.
Gage Creed came in, dressed in his burial suit. Moss was growing on the suit's
shoulders and lapels. Moss had fouled his white shirt. His fine blonde hair was
caked with dirt. One eye had gone to the wall; it stared off into space with terrible
concentration. The other was fixed on Jud with glittery, blank intensity.
Gage was grinning at him.
'Hello, Jud,' Gage piped in a babyish but perfectly understandable voice. 'I've
come to send your rotten, stinking old soul straight to hell. You fucked with me
once. Did you think I wouldn't come back sooner or later and fuck with you?'
Jud raised the cleaver. 'Come on and get your pecker out then, whatever you
are. We'll see who fucks with who.'
'Norma's dead and there'll be no one to mourn you,' Gage said. 'What a cheap
slut she was. She fucked every one of your friends, Jud. She let them put it up her
ass. That's how she liked it best. She's burning down in hell, arthritis and all. I
saw her there, Jud. I saw her there.'
It lurched two steps toward him, shoes leaving muddy tracks on the worn
linoleum. It held one hand out in front of it as if to shake with him; the other hand
was curled behind its back.
'Listen, Jud,' it whispered—and then its mouth hung open, baring small milkteeth, and although the lips did not move, Norma's voice issued forth.
'Cuckold! Miserable cuckold! I always hated you! I laughed at you! We all
laughed at you! How we laaaaaauuughed—'
'Stop it!' The cleaver jittered in his hand.
'We did it in our bed. Herk and I did it, I did it with George. I did it with all of
them. I knew about your whores but you never knew you married a whore and how
we laughed, Jud! We rutted together and we laaaaaaaaaughed at—'
'STOP IT' Jud screamed. He sprang at the tiny, swaying figure in its dirty burial
suit, and that was when the cat arrowed out of the darkness under the butcher
block where it had been crouched. It was hissing, its ears laid back along the
bullet of its skull, and it tripped Jud up just as neat as you please. The cleaver
flew out of his hand. It skittered across the humped and faded linoleum, blade and
handle swiftly changing places as it whirled. It struck the baseboard with a thin
clang and slid under the refrigerator.
Jud realized that he had been fooled again, and the only consolation was that it
was for the final time. The cat was on his legs, mouth open, eyes blazing, hissing
like a tea kettle. And then Gage was on him, grinning a happy black grin, mooneyes rimmed with red, and his right hand came out from behind his back, and Jud
saw that what he had been holding when he came in was a scalpel from Louis's
black bag.
'Oh m' dear Jesus,' Jud managed, and put his right hand up to block the blow.
And here was an optical illusion; surely his mind had snapped, because it
appeared that the scalpel was on both sides of his palm at the same time. Then
something warm began to drizzle down on his face and he understood that it was
no illusion.
'I'm gonna fuck with you, old man!' The Gage-thing chortled, blowing its
poisoned breath in his face. 'I'm gonna fuck with you! I'm gonna fuck with you
all… I… want!'
Jud flailed and got hold of Gage's wrist. Skin peeled off like parchment in his
hand.
The scalpel was yanked out of his hand, leaving a vertical mouth.
'All… I… WANT!'
The scalpel came down again. And again. And again.