The Cats of Ulthar by H. P. Lovecraft It is said that in Ulthar which lies beyond the river sky, no man may kill a cat. And this I can verily believe as I gaze upon him who sitteth purring before the fire, for the cat is cryptic and close to strange things which men cannot see. He is the soul of antique Egyptis, and bearer of tales from forgotten cities of marrow and offer. He is the kin of the jungle's lords, and heir to the secrets of Horry and Sinister Africa. The Sphinx is his cousin, and he speaks her language, but he is more ancient than the Sphinx, and he remembers that which she hath forgotten. In Ulthar, before ever the Burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an old codder and his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their neighbors. Why they did this I know not, save that many hate the voice of the cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run stealthily about yards and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and woman took pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel. And from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancy that the manner of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such things with the old man and his wife, because of the habitual expression on the withered faces of the two, and because their cottage was so small and so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them more, and instead of berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished pet or mouser should stray too near the remote hovel under the dark trees. If through some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed and sounds heard after dark, the loser would lament impotently, or console himself by thanking faith that it was not one of his children who had thus vanished. For the people of Althar were simple and knew not whence it was that all cats first came. One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the south entered the narrow cobbled streets of Althar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the village twice every year. In the marketplace they told fortunes for silver and bought gay beads from the merchants. What was the land of these wanderers none could tell, but it was seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange figures with human bodies in the heads of cats, hawks, rams, and lions. And the leader of the caravan wore a headdress with two horns and a curious disc betwixt the horns.  The plague had not been kind to him, yet had left him this small furry thing to mitigate his sorrow. And when one is very young one can find great relief in the lively antics of a black kitten. So the boy whom the dark people called meanies smiled more often than he wept as he sat playing with his graceful kitten on the steps of an oddly painted wagon. On the third morning of the wanderers' stay in Althar meanies could not find his kitten, and as he sobbed aloud in the marketplace certain villagers told him of the old man and his wife and of sounds heard in the night. And when he heard these things his sobbing gave place to meditation and finally to prayer. He stretched out his arms toward the sun and prayed in a tongue no villager could understand, though indeed the villagers did not try very hard to understand, since their attention was mostly taken up by the sky and the odd shapes the clouds were assuming. It was very peculiar, but as the little boy uttered his petition there seemed to form overhead the shadowy nebulous figures of exotic things, of hybrid creatures crowned with horn-flank discs. Nature is full of such illusions to impress the imaginative. That night the wanderers left Althar and were never seen again, and the householders were troubled when they noticed that in all the village there was not a cat to be found. From each hearth the familiar cat had vanished, cats large and small, black, grey, striped, yellow and white. Old Crane and the Burgermeister swore that the dark foe could take the cats away in revenge for the killing of meanies' kitten, and cursed the caravan in the little boy. But Nith the lean notary declared that the old Cotter and his wife were more likely persons to suspect, for their hatred of cats was notorious and increasingly bold. Still no one durst complained to the sinister couple.  And though they feared that the evil pair had charmed the cats to their death, they preferred not to chide the old Cotter till they met him outside his dark and repellent yard. So Althar went to sleep in vain anger, and when the people awakened at dawn, behold, every cat was back at its accustomed hearth, large and small, black, gray, striped, yellow and white. None was missing. Very sleek and fat did the cats appear, and sonorous with purring content. The citizens talked with one another of the affair and marveled not a little. Old Crane and again insisted that it was the dark folk who had taken them, since cats did not return alive from the cottage of the ancient man and his wife. But all agreed on one thing, that the refusal of all the cats to eat their portions of meat or drink their saucers of milk was exceedingly curious, and for two whole days the sleek lazy cats of Althar would touch no food but only doze by the fire in the sun. It was fully a week before the villagers noticed that no lights were appearing at dusk in the windows of the cottage and of the trees. Then the lean nith remarked that no one had seen the old man or his wife since the night the cats were away. In another week the burgermeister decided to overcome his fears and call at the strangely silent dwelling as a matter of duty. Though in so doing he was careful to take with him shang the blacksmith and thaw the cutter of stone as witnesses, and when they had broken down the frail door they found only this. Two cleanly picked human skeletons on the earthen floor, and a number of singular beetles crawling in the shadowy corners. There was subsequently much talk among the burgesses of Althar, Zath the coroner disputed at length with nith the lean notary, and Cranon and Shang and Thal were overwhelmed with questions. Even little Adol the innkeeper's son was closely questioned and given a sweetmeat as a reward. They talked of the old Cotter and his wife, of the caravan of dark wanderers, of small meanies in his black kitten, of the prayer of meanies in the sky during that prayer, of the doings of the cats the night the caravan left, and what was later found in the cottage under the dark trees in the repellent yard. And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law which is told of by traders in Hathak and discussed by travelers in Nure, namely that in Althar no man may kill a cat. End of The Cats of Althar by H. P. Lovecraft. I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain, since by tonight I shall be no more. Penelous, and at the end of my supply of the drug which alone makes life indurable, I can bear the torture no longer, and shall cast myself from this garret window into the squalid street below. Do not think from my slavery to morphine that I am a weakling or a degenerate. When you have read these hastily scrawled pages you may guess, though never fully realized why it is that I must have forgetfulness or death. It was in one of the most open and least frequented parts of the broad Pacific that the package of which I was supercargo fell victim to the German sea raider. The Great War was then at its very beginning, and the ocean forces of the Hun had not completely sunk to their later degradation, so that our vessel was made a legitimate prize, whilst we of the crew were treated with all the fairness and consideration due us as naval prisoners. So liberal indeed was the discipline of our captors, that five days after we were taken I managed to do escape alone in a small boat with water and provisions for a good length of time. When I finally found myself adrift and free, I had but little idea of my surroundings. Never a competent navigator, I could only guess vaguely by the sun and stars that I was somewhat south of the equator. Of the longitude I knew nothing, and no island or coastline was in sight. The weather kept fair, and for uncounted days I drifted aimlessly beneath the scorching sun, waiting either for some passing ship or to be cast on the shores of some habitable land. But neither ship nor land appeared, and I began to despair in my solitude upon the heaving vastness of unbroken blue. The change happened whilst I slept, its details I shall never know, for my slumber, though troubled and dream infested, was continuous. When at last I awakened, it was to discover myself half sucked into a slimy expanse of hellish black mire, which extended about me in monotonous undulations as far as I could see, and in which my boat lay grounded some distance away. Though one might well imagine that my first sensation would be of wonder at so prodigious and unexpected a transformation of scenery, I was in reality more horrified than astonished, for there was in the air and in the rotting soil a sinister quality which chilled me to the very core. The region was putrid with the carcasses of decaying fish, and of other less describable things which I saw protruding from the nasty mud of the unending plain. Perhaps I should not hope to convey in mere words the unutterable hideousness that can dwell in absolute silence and bear in immensity. There was nothing within hearing, and nothing in sight save a vast reach of black slime. Yet the very completeness of the stillness and the homogeneity of the landscape oppressed me with a nauseating fear. The sun was blazing down from a sky which seemed to me almost black in its cloudless cruelty, as though reflecting the inky marsh beneath my feet. As I crawled into the stranded boat, I realized that only one theory could explain my position. Through some unprecedented volcanic upheaval, a portion of the ocean floor must have been thrown to the surface, exposing regions which for innumerable millions of years had lain hidden under unfathomable watery depths. So great was the extent of the new land which had risen beneath me, that I could not detect the faintest noise of the surging oceans, strained my nears as I might, nor were there any seafowl to prey upon the dead things. For several hours I sat thinking or brooding in the boat, which lay upon its side and afforded a slight shade as the sun moved across the heavens. As the day progressed, the ground lost some of its stickiness and seemed likely to dry sufficiently for travelling purposes in a short time. That night I slept but little, and the next day I made for myself a pack containing food and water, preparatory to an overland journey in search of the vanished sea and possible rescue. On the third morning I found the soil dry enough to walk upon with ease. The odor of the fish was maddening, but I was too much concerned with graver things to mine so slight an evil, and set out boldly for an unknown goal. All day I forged steadily westward, guided by a far away hummock which rose higher than any other elevation on the rolling desert. That night I encamped, and on the following days still travelled toward the hummock, though that object seemed scarcely near than when I had first despised it. By the fourth evening I attained the base of the mound, which turned out to be much higher than it had appeared from a distance, an intervening valley setting it out in sharper relief from the general surface. Too weary to ascend, I slept in the shadow of the hill. I know not why my dreams were so wild that night, but ere the waning and fantastically givest moon had risen far above the eastern plain, I was awake in a cold perspiration, determined to sleep no more. Such visions as I had experienced were too much for me to endure again, and in the glow of the moon I saw how unwise I had been to travel by day. Without the glare of the parching sun, my journey would have cost me less energy. Indeed, I now felt quite able to perform the ascent which had deterred me at sunset. Picking up my pack, I started for the crest of the eminence. I have said that the unbroken monotony of the rolling plain was a source of vague horror to me, but I think my horror was greater when I gained the summit of the mound and looked down the other side into an immeasurable pit or canyon whose black recesses the moon had not yet soared high enough to illumine. I felt myself on the edge of the world, peering over the rim into a fathomless chaos of eternal night. Through my terror and curious reminiscences of paradise lost, and Satan's hideous climb through the unfashioned realms of darkness. As the moon climbed higher in the sky, I began to see that the slopes of the valley were not quite so perpendicular as I had imagined. Ledges and outcroppings of rock afforded fairly easy footholds for a descent. Whilst after a drop of a few hundred feet, the declivity became very gradual. Urged on by an impulse which I cannot definitely analyze, I scrambled with difficulty down the rocks and stood on the gentler slope beneath, gazing into the stygian deeps where no light had yet penetrated. All at once my attention was captured by a vast and singular object on the opposite slope, which rose steeply about a hundred yards ahead of me, an object that gleamed whitely in the newly bestowed rays of the ascending moon. That it was merely a gigantic piece of stone I soon assured myself, but I was conscious of a distinct impression that its contour and position were not altogether the work of nature. A closer scrutiny filled me with sensations I cannot express, for despite its enormous magnitude, and its position in the abyss which had yawned at the bottom of the sea since the world was young, I perceived beyond a doubt that the strange object was a well-shaped monolith, whose massive bulk had known the workmanship and perhaps the worship of living and thinking creatures. Dazed and frightened, yet not without a certain thrill of the scientists or archaeologists' delight, I examined my surroundings more closely. The moon, now near the zenith, shone weirdly and vividly above the towering steeps that hemmed in the chasm, and revealed the fact that a far flung body of water flowed at the bottom, winding out of sight in both directions, and almost lapping my feet as I stood on the slope. Across the chasm, the wavelets washed the base of the Cyclopean monolith, on whose surface I could now trace both inscriptions and crude sculptures. The writing was in a system of hieroglyphics unknown to me, and unlike anything I had ever seen in books, consisting for the most part of conventionalized aquatic symbols, such as fishes, eels, octopi, crustaceans, mollusks, whales, and the like. Several characters obviously represented marine things which are unknown to the modern world, but whose decomposing forms I had observed on the ocean-risen plain, it was the pictorial carving, however, that did most to hold me spellbound. Plainly visible across the intervening water on account of their enormous size was an array of bas-reliefs whose subject would have excited the envy of a door. I think that these things were supposed to depict men, at least a certain sort of men, though the creatures were shown to sporting like fishes in the waters of some marine grotto, or paying homage at some monolithic shrine which appeared to be under the waves as well. Of their faces and forms I dare not speak in detail, for the mere remembrance makes me gro faint. Grotesque beyond the imagination of a pole or a ball-ware, they were damnably human in general outline, despite webbed hands and feet, shockingly wide and flabby lips, glassy bulging eyes, and other features less pleasant to recall. Curiously enough, they seemed to have been chiseled badly out of proportion with their scenic background, for one of the creatures was shown in the act of killing a whale represented as but little larger than himself. I remarked, as I say, their grotesqueness and strange size, but in a moment decided that they were merely the imaginary gods of some primitive fishing or seafaring tribe, some tribe whose last descendant had perished eras before the first ancestor of the Piltdown or Neanderthal man was born. Awestruck at this unexpected glimpse into a past beyond the conception of the most daring anthropologist, I stood musing whilst the moon cast queer reflections on the silent channel before me, then suddenly I saw it. With only a slight churning to market's rise to the surface, the things slid into view above the dark waters. Vast, polyphemous like and loathsome, it darted like a stupendous monster of nightmares to the monolith, about which it flung its gigantic scaly arms. The while it bowed its hideous head and gave vent to certain measured sounds. I think I went mad then. Of my frantic ascent of the slope in the cliff, and of my delirious journey back to the stranded boat, I remember little. I believe I sang a great deal, and laughed oddly when I was unable to sing. I have indistinct recollections of a great storm some time after I reached the boat. At any rate, I knew that I heard peals of thunder and other tones which nature udders only in her wildest moods. When I came out of the shadows, I was in a San Francisco hospital, brought thither by the captain of the American ship which had picked up my boat mid-ocean. In my delirium I had said much, but found that my words had been given scant attention. Of any land upheaval in the Pacific, my rescuers knew nothing, nor did I deem it necessary to insist upon a thing which I knew they could not believe. Once, I sought out a celebrated ethnologist, and amused him with peculiar questions regarding the ancient Philistine legend of Dagon, the fish god, but soon perceiving that he was hopelessly conventional, I did not press my inquiries. It is at night, especially when the moon is gibbous and waning, that I see the thing. I tried morphine, but the drug has given only transient surcease, and has drawn me into its clutches as a hopeless slave. So now I am to end it all, having written a full account for the information or the contemptuous amusement of my fellow men. Often I ask myself if it could not have all been a pure phantasm, a mere freak of fever as I lay sun-stricken and raving in the open boat after my escape from the German man of war. This I ask myself, but ever does there come before me a hideously vivid vision in reply. I cannot think of the deep sea without shuddering at the nameless things that may at this very moment be crawling and floundering on its slimy bed, worshipping their detestable stone idols, and carving their own detestable likenesses on submarine obelisks of water-soaked granite. I dream of a day when they may rise above the billows to drag down in their reeking talons the remnants of puny, war-exhausted mankind, of a day when the land shall sink and the dark ocean floor shall ascend amidst universal pandemonium. The end is near, I hear a noise at the door, as of some immense slippery body lumbering against it, it shall not find me. God, that hand, the window, the window, end of Dagon. The Lost Ghost by Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by A. Music. The Lost Ghost by Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman Ms. John Emerson, sitting with her needlework beside the window, looked out and saw Ms. Rhoda Miserve coming down the street and knew at once by the trend of her steps and the cant of her head that she meditated turning in at her gate. She also knew by a certain something about her general carriage, a thrusting forward of the neck, a bustling hitch of the shoulders that she had important news. Rhoda Miserve always had the news as soon as the news was in being, and generally Ms. John Emerson was the first to whom she imparted it. The two women had been friends ever since Ms. Miserve had married Simon Miserve and come to the village to live. Ms. Miserve was a pretty woman, moving with graceful flirts of ruffling skirts. Her clear-cut, nervous face, as delicately tinted as a shell, looked brightly from the plumy brim of a black hat at Ms. Emerson in the window. Ms. Emerson was glad to see her coming. She returned the greeting with enthusiasm, then rose hurriedly, ran into the cold parlor, and brought out one of the best rocking chairs. She was just in time after drawing it up beside the opposite window to greet her friend at the door. Good afternoon, she said. I declare, I'm real glad to see you. I've been alone all day. John went into the city this morning. I thought of coming over to your house this afternoon, but I couldn't bring my sewing very well. I'm putting the ruffles on my new black dress skirt. Well, I didn't have a thing on hand except my crochet work, responded Ms. Miserve, and I thought I'd just run over a few minutes. I'm real glad you did, repeated Ms. Emerson. Take your things right off here. I'll put them on my bed in the bedroom. Take the rocking chair. Ms. Miserve settled herself in the parlor rocking chair, while Ms. Emerson carried her shawl and hat into the little adjoining bedroom. When she returned, Ms. Miserve was rocking peacefully and was already at work, hooking blue wool in and out. That's real pretty, said Ms. Emerson. Yes, I think it's pretty, replied Ms. Miserve. I suppose it's for the church fair? Yes, I don't suppose it'll bring enough to pay for the Worsted, let alone the work, but I suppose I've got to make something. How much did that one you made for the fair last year bring? Twenty-five cents. It's wicked, ain't it? I rather guess it is. It takes me a week every minute I can get to make one. I wished those that bought such things for twenty-five cents had to make them. Guess they'd sing another song. Well, I suppose I oughtn't complain as long as it is for the Lord, but sometimes it does seem as if the Lord didn't get much out of it. Well, it's pretty work, said Ms. Emerson, sitting down at the opposite window and taking up her dress skirt. Yes, it is real pretty work. I just love to crochet. The two women rocked and sewed and crocheted in silence for two or three minutes. They were both waiting. Ms. Miserve waited for the others' curiosity to develop in order for her news might have, as it were, a befitting stage entrance. Ms. Emerson waited for the news. Finally, she could wait no longer. Well, what's the news? said she. Well, I don't know if there's anything very particular. Hedged the other woman, prolonging the situation. Yes, there is. You can't cheat me, replied Ms. Emerson. Now, how do you know? By the way, you look. Ms. Miserve laughed consciously and rather vainly. Well, Simon says my face is so expressive I can't hide anything more than five minutes. No matter how hard I try, she said. Well, there is some news. Simon came home with it this noon. He heard it in South Dayton. He had some business over there this morning. The old sergeant places let. Ms. Emerson dropped her sewing and stared. You don't say so. Yes, it is. Who to? Why some folks from Boston that moved to South Dayton last year. They haven't been satisfied with the house they had there. It wasn't large enough. The man has got considerable property and can afford to live pretty well. He's got a wife and his unmarried sister in the family. The sisters got money too. He does business in Boston and it's just as easy to get to Boston from here as from South Dayton. And so they're here. You know the old sergeant house is a splendid place. Yes, it's the handsomest house in town, but... Oh, Simon said they told him about that. He just laughed. Said he wasn't afraid and neither was his wife and sister. Said he'd risk ghosts rather than little tucked up sleeping rooms without any sun like they've had in the Dayton house. Said he'd rather risk seeing ghosts than being ghosts themselves. Simon said he was a great hand to joke. Oh well, said Ms. Emerson, it is a beautiful house and maybe there isn't anything in those stories. It never seemed to me they came very straight anyway. I never took too much stock in them. All I thought was if his wife was nervous, nothing in creation would hire me to go into a house that I'd ever heard a word against of that kind. Declared Ms. Miserve with emphasis. I wouldn't go into that house if they would give me the rent. I've seen enough of haunted houses to last me as long as I live. Ms. Emerson's face acquired the expression of a hunting hound. Have you? She asked in an intense whisper. Yes, I have. I don't want any more of it. Before you came here? Yes, before I was married when I was quite a girl. Ms. Miserve had not married young. Ms. Emerson had mental calculations when she heard that. Did you really live in a house that was...? She whispered fearfully. Ms. Miserve not had solemnly. Did you ever really see anything? Ms. Miserve nodded. You didn't see anything that did you any harm? No, I didn't see anything that did me harm looking at it in one way, but it don't do anybody in this world any good to see things they haven't any business to be seen. You never get over it. There was a moment's silence. Ms. Emerson's features seemed to sharpen. Well, of course, I don't want to urge you, said she. If you don't feel like talking about it, but maybe it ought to do you good to tell it out, if it's on your mind worrying you. I try to put it out of my mind, said Ms. Miserve. Well, it's just as you feel. I never told anybody but Simon, said Ms. Miserve. I never felt if it was wise, perhaps. I didn't know what folks might think. Someone who don't believe in anything they can understand that they might think my mind wasn't right. Simon advised me not to talk about it. He said he didn't believe it was anything supernatural, but he had to own up that he couldn't give any explanation for it to save his life. He had to own up that he didn't believe anybody could. Then he said he wouldn't talk about it. He said lots of folks would sooner tell folks my head wasn't right than to own up they couldn't see through it. I'm sure I wouldn't say so, returned Ms. Emerson reproachfully. You know it better than that, I hope. Yes, I do. Replied Ms. Miserve. I know you wouldn't say so. And I wouldn't tell it to a soul if you didn't want me to. Well, I'd rather you wouldn't. I won't even speak of it to Mr. Emerson. I'd rather you wouldn't even to him. I won't. Ms. Emerson took up her dress skirt again. Ms. Miserve hooked up another loop of blue wool. Then she begun. Of course, said she. I ain't going to say positively that I believe or disbelieve in ghosts. But all I tell you is what I saw. I can't explain it. I don't pretend I can, but I can't. If you can, well and good, I shall be glad. For it will stop tormenting me as it is done and always will otherwise. There hasn't been a day or night since it happened that I haven't thought of it. And always I have felt the shivers go down my back when I did. That's an awful feeling, Ms. Emerson said. Ain't it? Well, it happened before I was married when I was a girl and lived in East Wilmington. It was the first year I lived there. You know my family all died five years before that, I told you. Ms. Emerson nodded. Well, I went there to teach school and I went to board with Ms. Amelia Dennison and her sister, Ms. Bird. Abby, her name was. Abby Bird. She was a widow. She never had any children. She had a little money. Ms. Dennison didn't have any. And she had come to East Wilmington and bought the house they lived in. It was a real pretty house. Though it was very old and run down. It had cost Ms. Bird a good deal to put it in order. I guess that was the reason they took me to board. I guess they thought it would help pay along a little. I guess what I paid for my board about kept us all in vitals. Ms. Bird had enough to live on if they were careful. But she had spent so much fixing up the old house that they must have been a little pinched for a while. Anyhow, they took me to board and I thought I was pretty lucky to get in there. I had a nice room, big and sunny and burnish pretty. The paper and paint all new and everything was neat as wax. Ms. Dennison was one of the best cooks I ever saw. And I had a little stove in my room and there was always a nice fire there when I got home from school. I thought I hadn't been in such a nice place since I had lost my own home until I had been there about three weeks. I had been there about three weeks before I found it out. Though I guess it had been going on ever since they had been in the house and that was most four months. They hadn't said anything about it and I didn't wonder. For there they had just bought the house and been to so much expense and trouble fixing it up. Well, I went there in September. I began my school the first Monday. I remember it was a real cold fall. There was a frost the middle of September and I had to put on my winter coat. I remember when I came home that night, let me see, I began school on a Monday and that was two weeks from the next Thursday. I took off my coat downstairs and laid it on the table in the front entry. It was a real nice coat, heavy black broadcloth trimmed with fur. I had had it in the winter before. Miss Bird called after me as I went upstairs that I ought not to leave it in the front entry for fear somebody might come in and take it. I only laughed and called back to her that I wasn't afraid. I was never much afraid of burglars. While though it was hardly the middle of September it was a real cold night. I remember my room faced west and the sun was getting low and the sky was a pale yellow and purple. Just as you see it sometimes in the winter when there's going to be a cold snap, I rather think that was the night the frost came the first time. I know Miss Denison covered up some flowers she had in the front yard anyhow. I remember looking out and seeing an old green plaid shaw of hers over the verbena bed.  Miss Bird made it, I know. She was a real motherly sort of woman. She always seemed to be the happiest when she was doing something to make other folks happy and comfortable. Miss Denison told me she had always been so.  It's lucky Abby never had any children, she said, for she would have spoiled them.  There was a plate of nice apples on my table. Miss Bird put them there. I was always very fond of apples. Well, I sat down and ate an apple and was having a beautiful time and thinking how lucky I was to get to board in such a place with such nice folks.  For a minute, I thought it was a mouse, but I waited and it came again. And then I made up my mind that it was a knock, but a very scared one. So I said, come in. But nobody came in. And then presently I heard the knock again. Then I got up and opened the door thinking it was very queer. And I had a frightened feeling without knowing why. Well, I opened the door and the first thing I noticed was a draft of cold air, as if the front downstairs was open. But there was a strange close smell about the cold draft.  Then I saw something. I saw my coat first. The thing that held it was so small that I couldn't see much of anything else.  It was a dreadful little face with something about it, which made it different from any other face on earth. But it was so pitiful that somehow it did away a good deal with the dreadfulness. And there were two little hands spotted purple with the cold, holding up my winter coat. And a strange faraway voice said, I can't find my mother. For heaven's sakes, I said, who are you? Then the little voice said again, I can't find my mother. All the time I could smell the cold. And I saw it was about this child. The cold was clinging to her as if she had come out of some deadly cold place. Well, I took my coat. I did not know what else to do, and the cold was clinging to that. It was as cold as if it had come off ice. When I had the coat, I could see the child more plainly. She was dressed in one little white garment, made very simply. It was a nightgown, only very long, quite covering her feet. And I could see dimly through it, her thin little body modeled purple with cold. Her face did not look so cold. That was a clear wax and white. Her hair was dark, but it looked as if it might be dark only because it was so damp, almost wet, and might really be light hair. It clung very close to her forehead, which was round and white. She would have been very beautiful if she had not been so dreadful. Who are you? says I again, looking at her. She looked at me with her terrible, pleading eyes and did not say anything. What are you? says I. Then she went away. She did not seem to run or walk like other children. She flitted, like one of those filmy white butterflies that don't seem like real ones, they are so light and move as if they had no weight. But she looked back from the head of the stairs. I can't find my mother, said she, and I had never heard such a voice. Who is your mother? says I. But she was gone. Well, I thought for a moment I should fade away. The room got dark and I heard a singing in my ears. Then I flung my coat onto the bed. My hands were as cold as ice from holding it, and I stood in my door and called first Miss Bird, and then Miss Denison. I didn't dare go down over the stairs where that thing had gone. It seemed to me I should go mad if I didn't see somebody, or something like other folks on the face of the earth. I thought I should never make anybody hear, but I could hear them stepping downstairs, and I could smell biscuits baking for supper. Somehow the smell of those biscuits seemed the only natural thing left to keep me in my right mind. I didn't dare go over those stairs. I just stood there and called. And finally I heard the entry door open and Miss Bird called back. What is it? Did you call Miss Arms? Come up here, come up here as quick as you can, both of you. I screamed out, quick, quick, quick. I heard Miss Bird tell Miss Denison, come quick, Amelia. Something is the matter in Miss Arms's room. It struck me even then that she expressed herself rather queerly, and it struck me very queer indeed. When they both got upstairs and I saw that they knew what had happened, or that they knew of what nature the happening was. What is it, dear? asked Miss Bird, and her pretty loving voice had a strange sound. I saw her look at Miss Denison, and I saw Miss Denison look back at her. For God's sakes, says I, and I never spoke so before. For God's sakes, what was it brought my coat upstairs? What was it like? asked Miss Denison in a sort of falling voice, and she looked at her sister again, and her sister looked back at her. It was a child I have never seen here before. It looked like a child, says I, but I never saw a child so dreadful, and it had on a nightgown, and she couldn't find her mother. Who was it? What was it? I thought for a minute Miss Denison was going to faint, but Miss Bird hung on to her and rubbed her hands and whispered in her ear. She had the coolest kind of voice, and I ran and got her a glass of cold water. I tell you, it took considerable courage to go downstairs alone, but they had set a lamp on the entry table so I could see. I don't believe I could have spunked up enough to have gone downstairs in the dark, thinking every second that child might be close to me. The lamp and the smell of the biscuits baking seemed to keep my courage up. But I tell you, I didn't waste much time going down those stairs and out into the kitchen for a glass of water. I pumped as if the house was a fire, and I grabbed the first thing I came across in the shape of a tumbler. It was a painted one that Miss Denison's Sunday school class gave her, and it was meant for a flower vase. Well, I filled it and ran upstairs. I felt every minute as if something would catch my feet.  And she took a good long swallow. Then she looked hard at the tumbler. Yes, says I. I know I got this one, but I took the first one I came across, and it isn't her to my—'Don't get the painted flowers wet,' says Miss Denison very feebly. They'll wash off if you do. I'll be real careful, says I. I knew she set aside by that painted tumbler. The water seemed to do Miss Denison good. For presently, she pushed Miss Bird away and sat up. She had been laying down on my bed. I'm all over it now, says she. But she was terribly white, and her eyes looked as if they saw something outside things. Miss Bird wasn't much better, but she always had a sort of settled, sweet, good look that nothing could disturb to any great extent. I knew I looked dreadful, for I had caught a glimpse of myself in the glass. And I would hardly have known who it was. Miss Denison, she slid off the bed and walked sort of tottery to a chair. I was silly to give way so, says she. No, you aren't silly, sister, says Miss Bird. I don't know what this means any more than you do, but whatever it is, no one ought to be called silly for being overcome by anything so different from other things which we have known all of our lives. Miss Denison looked at her sister. Then she looked at me, then back at her sister again. And Miss Bird spoke as if she had been asked a question. Yes, says she. I do think Miss Arms ought to be told. That is, I think she ought to be told all we know ourselves. That isn't much, said Miss Denison with a dying away sort of sigh. She looked as if she might fade away again at any minute. She was a real delicate-looking woman, but it turned out she was a good deal stronger than poor Miss Bird. No, there isn't much we do know, says Miss Bird. But what little there is, she ought to know. I felt as if she ought when she first came here. Well, I didn't feel quite right about it, said Miss Denison. But I kept hoping it might stop, in any way, that it might never trouble her, you would put so much in the house, and we needed the money, and I didn't know, but she might be nervous and think she couldn't come, and I didn't want to take a man border. And aside from the money, we were very anxious to have you come, my dear, says Miss Bird. Yes, says Miss Denison. We wanted the young company in the house. We were lonesome, and we both of us took a great liking to you the minute we set eyes on you. And I guess they meant what they said, both of them. They were beautiful women, and nobody could have been kinder than me than they were. And I never blamed them for not telling me before. And, as they had said, there really wasn't much to tell. They hadn't any sooner fairly bought the house and moved into it. Then they began to hear and see things. Miss Bird said they were sitting together in the sitting room one evening, when they heard it the first time. She said her sister was knitting lace. Miss Denison made beautiful knitted lace. And she was reading the Missionary Herald. Miss Bird was very much interested in mission work. When all of a sudden they heard something, she heard it first, and she laid down her Missionary Herald and listened. And then Miss Denison, she saw her listening and she drops her lace. What is it you're listening to, Abby? says she. Then it came again, and they both heard. And the cold gibbers went down their backs to hear it, though they didn't know why. It's the cat, isn't it? says Miss Bird. It isn't any cat, says Miss Denison. Oh, I guess it must be the cat. Maybe she's got a mouse, says Miss Bird, real cheerful to calm down Miss Denison. For she saw she was most scared to death, and she was always afraid of her feigning away. Then she opens the door and calls Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. They had brought their cat with them in a basket when they came to East Wilmington to live. It was a real handsome tiger cat, a Tommy, and he knew a lot. Well, she called Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, and sure enough the Kitty came. And when he came in the door, he gave a big yowl that didn't sound unlike what they had heard. There, sister, here he is. You see, it was the cat, says Miss Bird. Poor Kitty. But Miss Denison, she eyed the cat and she gave a great screech. What's that? What's that? says she. What's what? says Miss Bird, pretending to herself that she didn't see what her sister meant. Something's got a hold of that cat's tail, said Miss Denison. Something's got a hold of his tail. It's pulled straight out and he can't get away. Just hear him y'all. It isn't anything, says Miss Bird. But even as she said that, she could see a little hand holding fast to that cat's tail. And then the child seemed to sort of clear out of the dimness behind the hand. And the child was sort of laughing then, instead of looking sad. And she said that was a great deal worse. She said that laugh was the most awful and saddest thing she had ever heard. Well, she was so dumbfounded that she didn't know what to do and she couldn't sense at first that it was anything supernatural. She thought it must have been one of the neighbor's children who had run away and was making free of their house and was teasing their cat and that they must be just nervous to feel so upset by it. So she speaks up sort of sharp.    And with that, she said the child stopped pulling the cat's tail and went to stroking her just as soft and pitiful. And the cat put his back up and rubbed and purred as if he liked it. The cat never seemed to mind afraid and that seemed quite queer for I'd always heard that animals were dreadfully afraid of ghosts. But then that was a pretty harmless sort of ghost. Well, Miss Bird said the child stroked that cat while she and Miss Denison stood watching it and holding on to each other for no matter how hard they tried to think it was all right. It didn't look right. Finally, Miss Denison, she spoke. What's your name, little girl? says she. Then the child looks up and stops stroking the cat and she says she can't find her mother just the way she said it to me. Then Miss Denison, she gave such a gasp that Miss Bird thought she was going to feign away. But she didn't. Well, who is your mother? says she. But the child just says again, I can't find my mother. I can't find my mother. Where do you live, dear? says Miss Bird. I can't find my mother, says the child. Well, that was the way it was. Nothing happened. Those two women stood there hanging on to each other and the child stood in front of them and they asked her questions and everything she would say was, I can't find my mother. Then Miss Bird tried to catch hold of the child for she thought in spite of what she saw that perhaps she was nervous and it was a real child.  She tried to catch that child. She had an idea of putting a shawl around it and going out. She was such a little thing she could have carried her easy enough and anything to find out which of the neighbors she belonged. But the minute she moved toward the child, there wasn't any child there. There was only that little voice. Seeming to come from nothing saying, I can't find my mother. And presently that died away. Well, the same thing kept happening or something very much the same. Once in a while Miss Bird would be washing dishes and all of a sudden the child would be standing beside her with the dish towel, wiping them. Of course that was terrible. Miss Bird would wash the dishes all over. Sometimes she didn't tell Miss Denison. It made her so nervous. Sometimes when they were making cake, they would find the raisins all picked over. And sometimes little sticks of kindling wood would be found laying beside the kitchen stove. They never knew when they would come across that child. And always she kept saying over and over that she couldn't find her mother. They never tried talking to her, except once in a while Miss Bird would get desperate and ask for something. But the child never seemed to hear it. She always kept right on saying that she couldn't find her mother. After they told me all they had to tell about their experience with the child, they told me about the house and the people that had lived there before they did. It seemed something dreadful had happened in that house. And the land agent had never let on to them. I don't think they would have bought it if he had, no matter how cheap it was. For even if folks aren't really afraid of anything, they don't want to live in houses where such dreadful things have happened that keep you thinking about them. I know after they told me I should never have stayed there another night. If I hadn't thought so much of them, no matter how comfortable I was made, and I never was nervous either, but I stayed. Of course, it didn't happen in my room. If it had, I could not have stayed. What was it? asked Miss Emerson in an odd voice. It was an awful thing. That child had lived in the house with her father and mother two years before. They had come, or the father had, from a real good family. He had a good situation. He was a drummer for a big leather house in the city, and they lived real pretty, with plenty to do with. But the mother was a real wicked woman. She was as handsome as a picture. And they said she came from good sort of people enough in Boston, but she was bad clean through, though she was real pretty spoken and most everybody liked her. She used to dress out and make a great show. And she never seemed to take much interest in the child. And folks began to say she wasn't treated right. The woman had a hard time keeping a girl. For some reason, one wouldn't stay. They would leave and then talk about her awfully, telling all kinds of things. People didn't believe it at first, then they began to. They said that the woman made that little thing, though she wasn't much over five years old and small and babyish for her age, do most of the work, what there was done.  They said the little thing used to stand on a chair and wash dishes, and they'd seen her carrying in sticks of wood most as big as she was many a time. And they'd hear her mother scolding her. The woman was a fine singer, and she had a voice like a screech out when she scolded. The father was away most of the time. And when that happened he had been away out west for some weeks.  And folks had talked some, but they weren't sure there was anything wrong. And he was a man very high up with money, so they kept pretty still for fear he would hear of it and make trouble for them. And of course nobody was sure. Though folks did say afterward that the father or the child had ought to have been told. But that was very easy to say. It wouldn't have been so easy to find anybody who would have been willing to tell him such things as that, especially when they weren't any too sure. He'd said his eyes by his wife too. They said all he seemed to think about was to earn money, to buy her things, to deck her out in, and he about worshiped the child too. They said he was a real nice man. The men that are treated so bad mostly are real nice men. I've always noticed that. Well, one morning that man that there had been whispers about was missing. He had been gone quite a while though before they really knew that he was missing. Because he had gone away and told his wife that he had to go to New York on business and might be gone a week and not to worry if he didn't get home and not to worry if he didn't write. Because he should be thinking from day to day that he might take the next train home and there wouldn't be no use in writing. So the wife waited and she tried not to worry until it was two days over the week. Then she run into a neighbor's and fainted dead away on the floor and then they made inquiries and found out that he had skipped with some money that didn't belong to him too. Then folks began to ask where was that woman and they found out by comparing notes that nobody had seen her since the man went away. But three or four women remember that she had told them she thought of taking the child and going to Boston to visit her folks. So when they hadn't seen her around and the house shut, they jumped at the conclusion that was where she was. They were the neighbors that lived right around her but they didn't have much to do with her and she'd gone out of her way to tell them about her Boston plan and they didn't make much reply when she did.  Then all of a sudden one of the women that lived the nearest remembered something. She remembered that she had waked up three nights running thinking she had heard a child crying somewhere. And once she waked her husband but he said it must be the Bisbee's little girl and she thought it must be. The child wasn't well and was always crying. He used to have colic spells, especially at night. So she didn't think anymore about it until this came up. Then all of a sudden she did think of it. She told what she'd heard and finally folks began to think that they better enter that house and see if there was anything wrong. Well, they did enter it and they found that child dead locked in one of the rooms. Miss Denison and Miss Bird never used that room. It was a back bedroom on the second floor. Yes, they found that poor child there starved to death and frozen. Though they weren't sure she had frozen to death for she was in bed with clothes enough to keep her pretty warm when she was alive. But she had been there a week and she was nothing but skin and bone. It looked as if the mother had locked her into the house when she went away and told her not to make any noise for fear the neighbors would hear her and find out that she herself had gone. Miss Denison said she couldn't really believe that that woman had meant to have her own child starved to death. Probably she thought the little thing would raise somebody or folks would try and get in the house and find her. Well, whatever she thought, there was the child dead. But that wasn't all. The father came home right in the midst of it. The child was just buried and he was beside himself. Anne, he went on the track of his wife and he found her and he shot her dead. It was in all the newspapers at the time. Then he disappeared. Nothing has been seen of him since. Miss Denison said she had thought he had either made way with himself or got out of the country. Nobody knew. But they did know there was something wrong with the house. I knew folks acted queer when they asked me how I liked it when we first came here, says Miss Denison. But I never dreamed why till we saw the child that night. I never heard anything like it in my life, says Miss Emerson, staring at the other woman with awestruck eyes. I thought you'd say so, said Miss Miserve. You don't wonder that I ain't disposed to speak light when I hear there is anything queer about a house, do you? No, I don't, after that, Miss Emerson said. But that ain't all, said Miss Miserve. Did you see it again? Miss Emerson asked. Yes, I saw it a number of times before the last time. I was lucky I wasn't so nervous or I never could have stayed there, much as I liked the place and as much as I thought of those two women. They were beautiful women and make no mistake. I loved those women. I hope Miss Denison will come and see me sometime. Well, I stayed and I never knew when I'd see that child. I got so I was very careful to bring everything of mine upstairs and not leave any little thing in my room that needed done for fear she would come lugging up my coat or hat or gloves or I'd find things done when there'd been no live being in the room to do them. I can't tell you how I dreaded seeing her. And worse than seeing her was hearing her say, I can't find my mother.  I never heard a living child cry for its mother. That was anything so pitiful as that dead one. It was enough to break your heart. She used to come and say that to Miss Birdovner than to anyone else. Once I heard Miss Bird say, she wondered if it was possible that the poor little thing couldn't really find your mother in the other world.  But Miss Denison told her she didn't think she ought to speak so nor even think so. And Miss Bird said she shouldn't wonder if she was right. Miss Bird was always very easy to put in the wrong. She was a good woman and one that couldn't do things enough for other folks. It seemed as if that was what she lived on. I don't think she was ever so scared by the poor little ghost as much as she pitied it. And she was most heartbroken because she couldn't do anything for it, as she could have done for a live child.  I heard her say once and she was an earnest. She cried when she said it. That wasn't long before she died. Now I am coming to the strangest part of it all. Miss Bird died very sudden. One morning it was a Saturday and there wasn't any school. I went downstairs to breakfast and Miss Bird wasn't there. There was nobody but Miss Denison. She was pouring out the coffee when I came in. Why, where's Miss Bird? says I. Abby ain't feeling very well this morning. Says she. There isn't much the matter, I guess, but she didn't sleep very well. And her head aches. She's sort of chilly. And I told her I thought she better stay in bed till the house gets warm. It was a very cold morning. Maybe she's got cold, says I. Yes, I guess she has, says Miss Denison. I guess she's got cold. She'll be up before long. Abby ain't one to stay in bed a minute longer than she can help. Well, we went on eating our breakfast and all at once a shadow flickered across the wall of the room and over the ceiling, the way a shadow will sometimes when somebody passes the window outside. Miss Denison and I both looked up out of the window. Then Miss Denison, she gives a scream. Why, Abby's crazy, says she. There she is out in the bitter cold morning and, and she didn't finish. But she meant the child for we were both looking out and we saw as plain as we ever saw anything in our lives.  She's dead, says Miss Denison, clutching hold of me hard. She's dead, my sister is dead. She was, we hurried upstairs as fast as we could go and she was dead in her bed and smiling as if she was dreaming and one arm in hand was stretched out as if something had hold of it and it couldn't be straightened even at the last, it lay out over her casket at the funeral. Was the child ever seen again? Asked Miss Emerson in a shaking voice. No, replied Miss Miserve. That child was never seen again after she went out of the yard with Miss Bird. End of The Lost Ghost, Recording by A Music. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Steve Mann. Memory by H. P. Lovecraft In the valley of Nist the accursed waning moon shines thinly, tearing a path for its light with feeble horns through the lethal foliage of a great up-ass tree, and in the depths of the valley where the light reaches not move forms not meant to be beheld. Rank is the herbage on each slope where evil vines and creeping plants crawl amidst the stones of ruined palaces, twining tightly about broken columns and strange monoliths, and heaving up marble pavements laid by forgotten hands, and in trees that grow gigantic and crumbling courtyards leap little apes, while in and out of deep treasure vaults writhe poison serpents and scaly things without a name. Vast are the stones which sleep beneath coverlets of dank moss, and mighty were the walls from which they fell. For all time did their builders erect them, and in sooth they yet serve nobly, for beneath them the gray toad makes his habitation. At the very bottom of the valley lies the river Than, whose waters are slimy and filled with weeds. From hidden springs it rises, and to subterranean grottos it flows, so that the demon of the valley knows not why its waters are red or whether they are bound. The genie that haunts the moonbeams spake to the demon of the valley, saying, I am old and forget much. Tell me of the deeds and aspect and name of them who built these things of stone. And the demon replied, I am memory, and am wise in law of the past, but I too am old. Those beings were like the waters of the river Than, not to be understood. Their deeds I recall not, for they were but of the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly, for it was like to the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed with that of the river. These beings of yesterday were called man. So the genie flew back to the thin horned moon, and the demon looked intently at a little ape in a tree that grew in a crumbling courtyard. End of Memory by H. P. Lovecraft The Monkey's Paw by W. W. Jacobs This is a LibriVoc recording. All LibriVoc recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit librivox.org. Recording by Luke Garvik The Monkey's Paw by W. W. Jacobs Without the night was cold and wet, but in the small pawler of the Birmingham villa, the blind were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess. The former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king in a thutch sharp and unnecessary perils, let it even provoke comment from the white-haired old lady, netting placidly by the fire. Hark at the wind, said Mr. White, who having seen a fatal mistake after was too late, was ambivalent to steer him as if preventing his son from seeing it. I'm listening, said the latter, grimly surveilling the board as he stretched out his hand. Check. I should hardly think that he'd come to night, said his father, with his hand placed over the board. Mate, replied the son. That's the worst of living so far out, bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence, a vote of beastly, slushy, and out-of-the-way places to live in. This is the worst, pathways abogged and the road to torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses in a road are let, they think it doesn't matter. Never mind, dear, to this wife subbingly, perhaps you'll end 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 held a guilty grin in his thin gray beard. There he is, said Herbert White, as the gate banged too loudly, and heavy footsteps came towards the door. The old man rose with hospitable haste, and, opening the door, was heard condoling with a new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, but that Mrs. White said, Tut, tut, and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall, curly man, beardy of eye, and rupkinid of vithage. Surgeon Major Morris, he said, introducing him. Surgeon Major took hands, and, taken to proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his hose got out whiskey and tumblers, and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.  As he squared his broad shoulders in the chair, and spoke of wild scenes and doughty deeds, of wars and plagues and strange peoples. Twenty-one years of it, said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him. He doesn't look to have taken much harm, said Mrs. White politely.  Better where you are, Surgeon Major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass and signed softly, shook it again. I should like to see those old temples and factories and jugglers, said the old man. What was that, you sort of telling me at our day about a monkey's paw or something, Morris? Nothing, said the shoulder hastily. Weasley's nothing worth hearing. Monkey's paw, said Mrs. White curiously. Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps, for the Surgeon Major offhandedly. His three listeners came forward eagerly. The visitor absentmindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then said that again. His host filled it for him. To look at the Surgeon Major fumbling in his pocket, it's just an ordinary good old paw, dried to a mummy. He took something out of his pocket and pro-offered it. Mrs. White drew back of 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 had him examined it, placed it upon the table. And had a spell put on it by an old Parker, the Surgeon Major. A very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives and that those who interfered with it did so to their own sorrow. So he put a spell on it so that three Suburban men could each have three wishes from it. His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat. Well, why don't you have three, sir, that Herbert White library? The soldier regarded him in the way that middle-aged is wont to regard per-them-juice-youth. I have, he said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened. And did you really have the three wishes granted? As Mrs. White, I did, the Surgeon Major, and his glass tapped against a strong thief. And as anybody else wished, persisted the old lady. The first man had three wishes, yes, was reply. I don't know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That's how I got to paw. His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group. If you had your three wishes, it's no good to you now to end, Morris, but the old man at last. But you keep it for—the soldier took his head. Fancy, I suppose, he said slowly. You did have some idea of selling it, but I don't think I will. It has caused enough mischief already. Besides, people won't buy. They think it's a fairytale, some of them. And those who do think any of it, well, they'd try it first and pay me afterward. If you could have another three wishes, to the old man, I and him, can you? What would you have them? I don't know, said the other. I don't know. He took the paw and dangled 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 dotically. I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don't blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again like a sensible man. The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. How do you do it? He inquired. Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud, so that they're major, but I warn you of the consequences. Sounds like the Arabian knights, said Mrs. White, as she rose meek in the supper. You think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me? His husband drew the tail of his midriff's pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the sergeant major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by his arm. If you much 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. The business of supper, the Taoist man was partly forgotten, and afterward, the three sat listening in a throud fashion to a second installment of the Folder's Adventures in India. If the tail about the monkey's paw is not more truthful than though he has been telling us, said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time from the catch-to-lash train, we shout and make much out of it. Did you give him anything, Father? Inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely. A trifle, he said, calling slightly. He didn't want it, but I made him take it, and he pressed me to throw it away again. Likely, said Herbert, with pretended horror, why we're going to be rich and famous and happy, wish to be an emperor, fathered to begin with. Then you can't be hand-packed. He darted around the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White, armed with an anti-commesser. Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and ended up dupously. 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 only you cleared the house to be quite happy, wouldn't you? Said Herbert with his hand on the shoulder. Well, wish for 200 pounds, then, that ought to do it. His father's smiling chain-pastedly, at his own credulity, held the talisman as his son, with solemn pastes, somewhat merried by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords. I wish for 200 pounds, said the old man distinctively. A fine crash on the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him. It moved, he cried, with a glance at the disgust of 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 on the table. I bet I never shall.  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 their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence, unusual and depressing, fell it upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night. I expect off on 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 upon the top of the wardrobe, watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains. He sat alone in the darkness, gazing to the dying fire and seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and still, man, that he gazed at it in amazement. Got so vivid that with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water from over it. His hand grasped a monkey's paw, and a little shiver. He wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed. In the brightness of the wintery sun next morning, at that streamed over the breakfast table, he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosthetic holstiness about the room, which had lacked on the previous night. And the dirty, shriveled little paw was pitched on the sideboard of the carelessness, which betogan to no great beliefs in its virtues. As opposed all soldiers were the same, said Mrs. White. The idea of our listening to such nonsense. How could witches be granted in these days, and if they could, how could you a hundred pounds hurt you, Father? Might drop on his head from the sky, so the proof was for avert. Morris said, the things happen so naturally, said his Father, that you might, if you so wished, attribute it to coincidence. Well, don't break into the money before I come back, said Herbert, as he rode from the table. I'm afraid I'll turn you into a mean, avarvious man, and we shall have to disown you. His mother laughed, and following through 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, gnar-perfencing her from referring to somewhat short-of-the-week retired sergeant-maters of Bibelia's habits, when she found that the post brought a tailor's bill. Herbert loved some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home, he sat as they sat at dinner. I daresay, said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer, but rolled at the thing moving to my hand, that I was swear to you, Father, did, the gold that he said to me, I say it did, I say it did not reply to you, the utter. There was no part about it. I had just, what's the matter? His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movement of a man outside. We preened in undecided fashion at the house. It appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the 200 pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well-dressed and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate and then walked on again. The fourth time, he stood with his hand upon it and then with a sudden resolution, fung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind her and hurriedly unfastened the strings of her apron, put that usable article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair. She brought the stranger, who seemed to let 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 patiently as her sex would permit for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent. I was asked to call, he said at last and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. I come from Ma and Megan's. The old lady started. Is anything the matter? Yes, breathlessly. Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it? Her husband interposed. There is their mother. You said hastily. Sit down and don't drop the conclusions. You've not brought bad news, I'm sure, sir. Any idea to listfully? I'm sorry, be kind to the visitor. Is he hurt? He commanded the mother to waddley. The visitor bowed in ascent. 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 out suddenly as a sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears and the others of her face.  There was a long silence. He was caught in the machinery, said the visitor at length in a low voice. Caught in the machinery, replied Mr. White in a dazed fashion. Yes. He sat staring blank out the window and taking his wife's hand between his own, trusted as if he had been want to do and are old quarreling these 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, walks slowly to the window. The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you and your great lost, he said about looking around. I beg that you will understand I am only their servant in merely obeying orders. There was no reply. The old woman's face was white, her eyes staring in her breath and audible, on the husband's face with a look that does his friend Thurgeon might have carried into his first action. I was to say that Ma and Megan's disclaim all responsibility, and he needed the other. They meant no liability at all, but in consideration of your son's services, they wished to present you with a certain sum of compensation. Mr. White dropped his wife's hand and right into his feet, gazed at the look of whore at his visitor. His drive looked and shaped the words, how much? 200 pounds, was the answer. When conscious of his wife's shriek, the old man smiled faintly, but out his hands like a sightless man and dropped a senseless heap to the floor. In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it. He remained in a state of expectation as though something else to happen, something else which was too light and disload, too heavy for old hearts to bear. But the days passed and the expectation gave place to vaccination, the hopeless, resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged the word. For now they had nothing to talk about and their days were a long two-wearnedness. It was about a week after that the old man, walking silently into the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened. Come back, he said tenderly. You will be cold. It is colder for my son, said the old woman and wept afresh. The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dosed fitfully and then slept until a sudden wall to cry from his life of welcome with a start. The paw, she cried wildly. The monkey's paw. He started up an alarm. Where, where is it? What's the matter? He came stumbling across the room toward him. I want it, she said quietly. You've not destroyed it? Doesn't the parlor on the bracket replied Marlene, 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 that not enough? He demanded fiercely. No, she replied triumphantly. We'll have one more. Go down and get it quickly and wish her boy alive again. The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes against his quaking limbs. Good God, you are mad, he probably gassed. Get it, she panted. Get it quickly and wish. Oh, my boy, my boy. Her husband struck a match on the candle. Go 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 excitement. The old man turned and regarded her and his wish shook. He has been dead 10 days and besides, he, I would not tell you else but I can 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 heard a child have nursed? He went down to the darkness and felt his way to the parlor and then to the mantel place. The tale as men was in its place and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutated son before him or he could escape from the room seized upon him. And he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat. He thought his way around the table and groped along the wall until he found himself in a small passage with an unwholesome thing in his hand. Even his wife's face seemed changed at the end of the room. It was quite an expectant and to his fears, he 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 tale as man felt 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 a blind. He sat until he was chilled with the cold glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman bringing through the window. The candle end which had burned the blood around the china candlestick was throwing polluting shadows on the ceiling and walls. Until a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man with an unspeakable sense of relief at the paneler of the talisman crept back to his bed and a minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him. Neither spoke but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked and a squeaky mouse squirreled nervously through the wall. The darkness was oppressive and after lying for some time, screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches and striking one went downstairs for a candle. At the foot of the stairs, the match went out and he paused to strike another and at the same moment a knock so quiet and stealthily 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. What's that? Radio the woman starting up. A rat, said the old man and 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 screamed. It's Herbert. She ran to the door, but her husband was before her and kept near her body arm, held her tightly. What are you going to do? You whispered hoarsely. It's my boy, it's Herbert. She cried, shrugging 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.  Let me go. I'm coming, Herbert, I'm coming. There was another knock and another. The old woman of a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband filed to the landing and called after her, appealingly, as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Other than the old woman's voice, strained in 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 and turned to the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect few slot of knocks reverberated throughout the house and he heard the scraping of a chair as its 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 monkey's paw and frantically breathed his third and last wish. The knocking sees suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back and the door open.  The street lamp flicking opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road. End of The Monkey's Paw, Recording by Luke Carvick.


This is from the towers you carry that with you But not too long ago. We had Chris Hemsworth fighting baddies and Asgard and now he's fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan My name is Brandon Keith Avery and this is just my opinion. What's going on everyone? Thank you so much for tuning in to my opinion slash review for 12 strong I really do appreciate it But before we get into the review help you boy out by clicking that subscribe button Click the bell so you can be notified when I make uploads and give me that thumbs up Let's see if we can get this video to 100 likes So now we have 12 strong it stars Michael Pena Michael Shannon and Chris Hemsworth It is based on a true story and also based on a book that was written by Doug Stanton called horse soldiers It is being directed by Nikolai folksig and the only other movie that he directed before 12 strong is something that came out lair shirt called exfield and there is absolutely no Information on that movie one idea try to look it up and what 12 strong is about like I said it is based on a true story It takes place one month particularly after the events of September the 11th of 2001 where the United States was Attacked by terrorists can't believe I forgot that and the planes flew in the building and about the movie It doesn't really waste any time telling us something that we already know and kind of just glint kind of breezes over there And just kind of gets into the perspective that Chris Hemsworth is in and the special forces in these green braids There are deployed over the world across the world to Afghanistan to team up with the Northern Alliance to fight the Taliban And when Chris Hemsworth and his 11 team his 11 members on his team are going to Afghanistan they have to team up team up with another Afghan journal by the name of Abdul Rashid Dostum and He's he's a very important figure in this movie and I'll touch on that in just a second But early on what I really did like about the film is how it did not waste his time going over things that we already knew we knew that there was a terror attack in New York over the Twin Towers and It really focuses on some of the like, you know Chris Hemsworth family Michael Shannon's family and also Chris Hemsworth family and how they're being deployed and how they have to give that information to their family And leave their loved ones and some are you know kind of knew what they signed up for some or that's kind of a hard pill for them to swallow And for example like Michael Shannon's family They're having a really hard time of just taking it in like okay, are you gonna come back? You know don't make any promises and things like that So it really does a great job early on in the film to kind of get you attached to the characters and actually You know have you feel you know, you just really care about them and you feel sorry for them You don't like the position that they're in but once they get over to Afghanistan This is kind of where things kind of went slow for me and fell apart And I'll just kind of go ahead and say now that if this movie was not based on the true story I don't think that I would enjoy as much as I did but me knowing that it was a true story You know, I couldn't really help myself, but you know do nothing else but respect it But you know, this is a war film and we get to see all these soldiers in battle and for the most part The action was just really not that engaging the thing that I really impressed me a lot was the Interaction that Chris Hemsworth that he was a somebody named captain Mitch Nelson he was over the 12 or the 11 man over in Afghanistan And there's another gentleman by the name of Navi Nagana Navid Naganban, he's the general Abdul Rashid Dostum They had to team up with Chris Hemsworth That was the most entertaining part of the film what I found most interesting is that when Chris Hemsworth and went over there to Afghanistan he had to team up with another Afghan general by the name of Dostum and of course It's two completely different lifestyles two completely different customs and perspectives But they have to work together for the greater good to defeat the Taliban, you know, like but I said, they're just so different So just kind of seeing them bounce off each other in the dialogue and between those characters and those groups You know, that was really intriguing to me Initially Dostum was not that receptive to Chris Hemsworth and the rest of his team It's kind of like, you know, he had to really just kind of prove himself And he kind of knew just like I can just look in your eyes and kind of tell Chris Hemsworth or Captain Mitch Nelson that you've never killed anybody before I know your other man have I can just tell by looking at him But you you know, I don't trust you and you're just really gonna have to prove yourself And that's that aspect of the film is really what I appreciate it the most and also Chris Hemsworth character Mitch Nelson Also learned a lot from Dostum.  None of my men my none of my Afghan men are soldiers We're all warriors stop using your head to go on the battle and start using your heart And then we learned later on in the film that there was to a great benefit of them and actually helped them succeed But the really the main problem with the film that I had was The entire all the battles in this movie, none of them seemed realistic at all There was not one moment in this entire movie to where I was at the edge of my seat to where I was thrilled to where You know, I was in suspense or in awe. I never and not one time feel a sense of danger even in the slightest Like they made a joke early on in the film or one of the first and second battles like okay We just bomb this group of Taliban here while we're not attacking them You know why they're down and scattered and Dostum was like we'll just do it tomorrow and one of the soldiers from America was like what was this like a dress rehearsal and That's kind of how some of the battles felt like they were just kind of like walking through it I've never been in war myself before or engaged in battle So I really can't just comment too much on how realistic it was But just when I look at other war movies that are based on a true story, you know Those seem much more intense other than this one right here, but then again, I've never been in war before But that was just I have to be honest something that really just turned me off and like the last Scene of action in this movie. I mean there was bullets and rockets and grenades and rocket launchers and Kamikaze suicide people all over the place But while I was watching I knew that the 12 men led by Chris Hemsworth were gonna make it out of them out of there alive I just had a feeling that they was gonna get back home I mean maybe for a second and two years like okay, this person did or they're gonna make it But at the same time I was just never like oh man.  And I mean it was still good. I'll say that and I really think you should see it and I don't mean any disrespect to the 12 brave soldiers that went over to the horse soldiers. Thank you very much for serving your country I got nothing but respect for you and I really do appreciate it But the way that your characters was portrayed in this movie is like I said just really didn't seem that realistic to me And other than Chris Hemsworth and Dustin, you know going back and forth You know that was really just the most entertaining part if I had to rate 12 strong out of a 1 out of 10 I would give it a 6 out of 10. Yes a 6 out of 10 But guys, that's just my opinion. Have you seen excuse me? Have you seen 12 strong? Or do you want to see it? Have I turned you on? Have I turned you off? Do you agree with me or do you disagree with me? Let me know in the comment section below Let's get this conversation going and keep it flowing. If you liked this video Go ahead and give me the thumbs up and if you don't that's fine Go ahead and subscribe to my youtube channel go to my website checking me out there book market And also look me up on social media Facebook Instagram and Twitter It's right there at the bottom of your screen and also I'll provide a link to all that good stuff down in the Description box below and guys like I've always said or recently said it will really help me out if you like my Facebook page But guys, thank you again for tuning in to my opinion slash review of 12 strong starting Michael pinion Michael Shannon and Chris Hemsworth and before you go don't forget But my name is Brennan Kid Avery and that's just my opinion peace


Can you imagine using anything for 18 years? A TV, a phone, a monitor, a computer, you get the idea. I'm Rafael from Hardware Shooker and our job as dictated by capitalism is to sell you stuff. And not just any kind of stuff, but new stuff. I waited 4 years before getting a new gaming PC. 9 years before upgrading my TV and 3 years was the longest I have ever gone before I upgraded my cell phone. Electronics aren't Omega's or Eames' lounge chairs which are considered heirlooms you pass on to the next generation.  And be replaced. It is... Check out our video on CDK offers in the video description. Use our promo code to get extra 20% discount on your purchase. If you are looking for cheap, legit, and original software, check out cdkoffers.com. However, I have one companion who has consistently broken that rule for 18 years. My Altec Lansing 221 speakers with subwoofer. In the words of one reviewer on Amazon, I bought these at Best by over 20 years ago and they have lasted longer than 5 cars, a marriage, and 6 computer builds. Not being able to adjust the base is annoying, but let me tell you, these things are bulletproof. I have taken them to Iraq and back, moved several times, and they are as good as the day I got them. Wish I could say that much for the ex-wife. I may not have gone to Iraq or held on to them as long while being in an unhappy marriage. I have, however, held on to mine for 18 years, or all the way dating back to 2003. To put things in context, I received my very first cell phone, a Nokia 3210 in 2001, which is 2 years longer than I have owned these speakers. It would be like saying I refuse to change my phone all the way through the period when we still use dial-up internet, up until the presence of 5G. But that is exactly what I did with my Altec Lansing speakers, and I didn't file it away in storage. No, these speakers have always been front and center ever since my first gaming PC as they are now. In short, wouldn't we all want to spend on something once and never again after 2 decades, rather than repeat the cycle of throwing and spending over and over? In this video, I outline what Altec Lansing did so well with design and quality that it might make you rethink buying those Razer speakers. I am not an audiophile, so I'm not an expert on if the speakers sound as they should in a music studio. What I can say is that I didn't change entire gaming rigs over 18 years to just get subpar machine gun fire, half-baked explosions, or get un-life-like screams. No, these guys have given me the most enriching sound experience I could ever have wanted with the added benefit of me not having the need to spend money on one less thing. These speakers boomed Warcraft 3 clashes, flak cannons from Free Space 2, and countless crispy gun fires stemming from Half-Life 2, Battlefield 1942, which by the way will always be close to my heart, and every Battlefield game which came afterwards. In short, there might be better speakers out there, but at no point was I ever taken out of the immersion of the game due to the sound. In fact, it was probably the great sound from the speakers, which encouraged me over the years not to upgrade my gaming PC for a little longer. If my current gaming PC at the time couldn't make it look pretty, at the very least, the game sounded amazing. The two-to-ones are embodied in a matted finish of black and grey metal. They feel as light as aluminum, but seem to be more impervious to scratches, which even modern-day cell phones have difficulty in preventing. I have lost count how many times I have dropped these speakers, however, it shows little signs that I did so. I have a couple of gashes on them, but considering that these have been with me through maybe five to six gaming rigs, moving in and out of rooms over the years, and yet still just harbor these minor scuffs and smudges of dirt, I'm gonna conclude that these are amazingly sturdy. A matted metal frame combined with the short cube design makes for a timeless minimalist design before minimalism was even a thing. Nowadays, we just have too much stuff on our desks, and the dream goal is to get things down to the least obstusive without sacrificing functionality. One thing which never occurred to me was how handy it is to have short speakers. If they were any higher, like the other Altec Lansings I own, their sound would be partially muffled due to the height of the monitors. It is true that I can bring up and down the height of my current MSI, however, the height of the monitor is determined not by if it blocks your speakers, but rather if your eyes are facing the top of the screen when you are sitting up straight. And so, others might have difficulty finding quality speakers, especially when using a multiple monitor setup like mine. I am also not a fan of these strange tower things. You can bring down the height further by removing the metal plate stands. There used to be rubber pads for every edge of each cube, but I have lost some of them over the years. Nevertheless, the metal plate has weight and sturdiness to it. In short, I see them outliving the speakers themselves. Something to keep in mind if you want to buy speakers with support brackets made of plastic which probably won't last as long. The speakers can be manually turned on and off by a single power switch at the right speaker which glows a simple green when it is switched on. The volume knob used to come in handy, however, six years ago it didn't survive one accidental drop and so now I am forced to leave it on maximum. Otherwise, if I twist it to the left, the right speaker loses sound entirely. This is the only serious damage it has suffered in 18 years of daily use. The speakers also come with a subwoofer, something which is only optional nowadays. It is still alive and kicking and delivers the deep lows and beats it is meant to. It has a wooden finish which has been painted over so that it matches the colors of the black metal. And the front grills, however, are metal in order to match the accompanying cubes. Hey! If you like what you're watching so far, please consider liking and subscribing to Hardware Sugar where we generate regular tech content. Right off the bat, you won't find any special features here. It doesn't have Bluetooth and it plugs into the computer motherboard through the old-fashioned green audio plug. Back in the good old days, green was always the color of choice to help guide PC assemblers to showcase that that was where the audio jack went. Now though, uh... The Altec Lansing also works with cell phones which manage to survive with a headphone jack and they work great for parties when we still had parties to go to. You could probably still buy these second hand from anywhere between $50 to $100. At the time of launch, these sold for $50 which if you take into 3% annual inflation in the United States, it comes to $85 in 2021 times. In short, those popular Razer speakers are almost quadruple the price of these. The Razer Nomopro of which retails for close to $500 alone. Just ask yourself, based on what people say about Razer products, will those last 18 years like the Altec Lansing 211s? I want to highlight that I'm not telling you to buy 18-year-old speakers. But rather to make you stop and wonder what speakers are on the market which can carry over your satisfaction for two decades rather than three years. MKBHD for instance has used the Yamaha HS8 Studio which he's had for 7-8 years. I have seen a lot of YouTubers using audio engine speakers and if I do get the chance, I might give them a try. Because they seem to encapsulate the same design aesthetic of these two-to-ones. However, I am not in a rush because honestly, I feel like I would be buying it just for the sake of an upgrade I don't feel I need. In conclusion, the Altec Lansing 2-to-ones demonstrates that it is possible for electronics to retain a timeless design and maintain quality which are on par with modern, more expensive brands which might not last as long. At no point in my 18 years of owning them have I needed to repair them. And in case they did break down, I doubt I could have them repaired anywhere. In short, before you pull the trigger on $500 speakers or even $100 speakers, ask yourself, will they live as long as the Altec Lansing 2-to-ones? I dare you to do better. And if you do, please let us know in the comment section below because I would love to test out speakers just as good, or darn I say it, better but which don't break the bank. And we want to give a special shout out to our top fans, Liam Magnaje, Ian Meru, Richard Ronkinko, ITX Addict, John Ocea, and Christian Espinosa. Again, thank you so much for your support. It really helps us out a ton. Thank you so much.