The SYSK Annual Halloween Freaky Spooktacular 2026!

(upbeat music) - Welcome to Stuff You Should Know, a production of "I Heart Radio." (upbeat music) - Hey, hey, hey, and welcome to the podcast. I'm Josh and there's Chuck and Jerry's here too. And this is Stuff You Should Know. - That's right, one of our, I'm speaking for me, but I think I can speak for us. One of our favorite traditions is our annual Halloween spooky story reading. - Speak. - Our ad-free spooky story reading. - Yeah, it's in our contract. - And we got a couple of good ones this year. One's a little longer, one's a little shorter. I'm in Bivalent about which we do first. - I think, I feel like, hmm, I don't know, man, I've been leaning toward your second. - Okay, let's do it then. - Okay. - 'Cause you picked a stone-cold classic buddy with the monkeys paw by W.W. Jacobs. Can't believe we haven't done this. And by my, like, you know, we like to just play this fest and lose everyone with the casting. There's mom, dad, son, military guy, and then there's one other minor character at the end, right? - Oh yeah, I hadn't considered him. Yeah, we'll figure that out, but yeah, it's pretty spartan. - Yeah, so I figure since the military guy, maybe whoever plays the military guy should play the person at the end. - Okay. - And then we have mom, dad, and son. - I was thinking, who do you want to play? - You should definitely be the military guy, 'cause I can, I already have like a mile conception of what you're gonna do and it's better than anything I could do with it. - All right, so I'll be him and the person at the end, I can't remember the character, but I read it. And then do you want to be mom, dad, son? - I'll be, I'll be dad. And oh, you want to be dad? That's not what I wanted you to be mom. - All right, I'll try to, I'll try to be mom. - You do the ladies so well. - I disagree, I think you do it better, but okay, I'll be mom and son. And then your dad, the military man, and the guy at the end. - Okay, all right. - Sounds good. - And it's confusing at first, but Herbert is the name of the son. - That's right. - So when you hear Herbert, they're talking about the son. - Who's a grown man, by the way. - Yeah, he never moved out. He's a plantatismal. - Yeah. - Is that what that's called? - Uh, and remember, I coined it from the Asteroid article, the ones that never really become a full planet. - That's right, that's right. I was like, where did I hear that? It was two weeks ago or whatever. - So who's gonna read first? - Right, 'cause we also do the reading. Well, I think, well, I don't know, I'll start it out, and then you just chime in there with Mrs. White whenever she comes around, so. - And the son. - And the son, and I'm Mr. White. - Yes. - Okay, all right, I think I got it. - All right, I gotta do. - Oh, my goodness, the doggy clap and thing. Oh, I'm nervous. - And these are British people, too, right, again. - Yeah, unfortunately. - No, that makes it even better, I think. - Nothing against the Brits, it's just hard for me to do the British. - I just know that people are in pins and needles waiting for what Josh Clark has in mind for everyone. - I know, and it makes me nervous. I'm never gonna top the guy from a couple of years ago. - Well, maybe so, 'cause that was sort of an all-time great character. Well, I'm just gonna do what I can, everybody. - Shmeagle, right? - Shmeagle, yeah, thanks for that. Okay, so you start. - All right, here we go, everybody. And a big thanks to Ben ahead of time, 'cause Ben is doing our sound design, our spooky sound design. - Jerry's doing our recording, thanks, Jerry. - That's right. So here we go, everybody, with the monkeys, Paul by W.W. Jacobs. (soft music) - Without the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlor of LeBernam Villa, the blinds 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 into such sharp and unnecessary perils that had even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady, knitting classedly by the fire. "Hawk at the wind!" said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it. - I'm listening. - Wait, I'm listening. - Said the latter, grimly surveying the board, as he stretched out his hand. - Check. - I should hardly think that he'd come tonight, set his father with his hand poised over the board. - Mate replied his son. - That's the worst of living so far out, bald Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked for violence. Of all the beasties slushy out of the way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathways of bog and the roads are torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about, I suppose, because only two houses in the road are let. They think it doesn't matter. - Never mind, dear. - Said his wife, soothingly. - Bap, Joe in the next one. - That's great, by the way. - Mr. White looked up sharply just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words tied away on his lips, and he hit a guilty grin in his thin gray beard. - There he is. - Said Herbert White, as the gate banged too loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door. The old man rose with hospitable haste and opening the door was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself. - Thanks. - So that Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly man, Bede of I, and Rubicon de Visage. - Sergeant Major Morris, he said, introducing him. The Sergeant Major shook hands in taking the profit seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire. At the third glass, his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of wild scenes and daughty deeds of war and plagues and strange peoples. "21 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. "You don't look to have taken much harm?" said Mrs. White politely. "I'd like to go to India myself," said the old man, just to look around a bit, you know. "But you're well, you're all," said the Sergeant Major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass and sighing softly. Shook it again. "I should like to see those old temples and fackiers and juglos," said the old man. "What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey's paw or something, Morris?" "Nothing," said the soldier hastily. "Least way is nothing worth hearing." "Monkey's?" "Oh," said Mrs. White, curiously, very curiously. "Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps," said the Sergeant Major offhandedly. The three listeners, listeners, yeah. We have three listeners, too. That's good. The three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absinmindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him. "That's class four, I want to point out." Yeah, for sure. "To look out," said the Sergeant Major, fumbling in his pocket. "It's just an ordinary little paw, dry to a mummy." He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously. "And what is that special about it?" inquired Mr. White as he took it from his son and having examined it, placed it upon the table. "It had a spell put on it by an old vacuia," said the Sergeant Major, a very holy man. He wanted to show that trade ruled people's lives and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it. His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that they're light laughter jard somewhat. "Well, White, you have three, sir." said Herbert White cleverly. The soldier regarded him a way that middle ages want to regard presumptuous youth. "I have," he said quietly. And his blotchy face whitened. "And did you really have the three wishes granted?" asked Mrs. White, "I did," said the Sergeant Major and his glass tapped against his strong teeth. Yeah. "And has anybody else wished?" persisted the old lady. "The first man had three wishes, yes," was the reply. "I don't know what the first two were, but the third was for death." "That's how I got the paw." These tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group. Shh, shh, shh, everybody shut up. "If you had three wishes, it's no good to you now then, Morris," said the old man at last. "Why do you keep it for?" "The soldier shook his head." "Fancy, I suppose," he said, slowly. "I did have some idea of selling it, but I don't think I will. It has caused enough mischief already besides, people won't buy." "They think it's a very jailsome of them, and those who do think anything of it, want to try it first and pay me afterward." "If you could have another three wishes," said the old man. "I'm him Keeney." "Would you have them?" "I don't know," said the other. "I don't know." "You want to switch over?" "Yeah, that was good, Chuck." "All right." "Very nice, and you did the Sergeant Major just exactly as I was hoping you would." "The Colonel mustered to him." "Yeah, for sure." "Okay, continuing on, you ready?" "Let's do it." He took the paw and dangling it between his forefinger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire, white with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off. "Better let it burn," said the soldier solemnly. "If you don't want it, Morris," said the other, "give it to me." "I won't," said his friend doggedly, "I threw it on the fire if you keep it, don't blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again like a sensible man." The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. "How do you do it?" He inquired. "I think my voice is changing, but I'm going to stick with this one." "Hold it up in your right hand and wish a loud," said the Sergeant Major, "but I warn you of the consequences." "Sounds like the Arabian nuts," said Mrs. White as she rose and began to set the supper. "Don't you think you might wish for fall pairs of hands for me?" "Oh, what a sassy lady." "Her husband drew the talisman from pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the Sergeant Major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm." "If you must wish," he said, gruffly, "wish for something sensible." Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper, the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the three-sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second installment of the soldier's adventures in India. "If the tale about the monkey's paw is not more truthful than those who have been telling us," said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guests, just in time for him to catch the last train, "we shouldn't make much out of it." "Did you give him anything for a father?" "Inquired Mrs. White regarding her husband's last father closely." "Yeah, they killed each other, mother and father. I think that used to be a thing, right?" "It's that kind of situation, and it's funny, this is 1902, I think, so Mr. and Mrs. White, these very old, old people are probably like in their late fifties." "Right. Yeah. Yeah. He's my age." "Uh, all right, I think it's me, a trifle," said he, coloring slightly. He didn't want it, but I made him take it and he pressed me again to throw it away. "Lightly," said Herbert with pretended horror, "why we're going to be rich, I've lost Herbert." "I don't think so." "Well, let me get back in there. Why we're going to be rich and famous and happy, come back. Wish to be an Emperor, father to begin with, then you can't be in-backed." He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White, armed with an anti-McCassar. "When I was at." "And I'm sure you looked that up." "I did. Thank you for knowing me." "It is one of those pieces of cloth that would doily or something on it that you put over the head of, or the headrest of a chair to keep people's nasty, greasy hair from messing up your chair." "Yeah, you don't want that sole glow on the back of your brick liner." "Right. I thought of that too, man. That was such a great little easter egg in there. So I guess she's chasing. His mom is chasing him with this anti-McCassar. She's going to snap his butt like it's a dish towel. That's how I took it, or else she's going to strangle him with it, one of those two. But she's mad because he just said that essentially she impacts his father. "I got you. She is sassy. It's a butt-pop." "She's hilarious." "Yeah." "Okay. You ready?" "Yeah." Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and I did dubiously. "I don't know what to wish for, and that's a fact." "He said slowly." "It seems to me I've got all I want." "If you only cleared the house, you'd be quite happy, wouldn't you," said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder, "Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then." "That'll just do it." "Okay. If I cleared the house, he means pay off the mortgage, right?" "Mm-hmm. This is 1902." "So, 200 pounds equals about 22,000 pounds today, or about 29,000 US dollars." "Oh, wow. Is that for real?" "You did that." "Buff and beyond." "Thank you to the special thanks to the Bank of England." "That's right. For everything." "And, uh, yeah, and I can't remember where I converted pounds into USD for today, but, you know, whatever." "Yeah." "Uh, should I still keep going, you want me to finish this off to, um, party two?" "Yeah, yeah, through party two, let's do it." "Okay." "His father, smiling shame facetly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, as his son with a solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords." "I wish for two hundred pounds." The old man said distinctly, a fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. "Oh." "Right. His wife and son ran toward him. It moved." He cried with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake. "Well, I don't see the money," said his son as he picked it up and placed it on the table, and I bet I never shall. "It must have been your fancy father," said wife, regarding him anxiously. He shook his head. "Never mind though, there's no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same." They sat down by the fire again, while the two men finished 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, settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night. "I expect you'll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed," said Herbert as he bade them good night, and something horrible squatted up on top of the wardrobe, watching you as you pocket your ill gung-gung. "I wonder if the old man is wondering how he ended up with a cockney family." "It's the only British accent I can do reliably." "That's good." "And I'm even hanging on by my fingernails right now with that." "I love it." He sat alone, this would be Herbert. He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire and seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simmian that he gazed at it in amazement. "Good." It got so vivid that with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. He grasped the monkey's paw. With a little shiver, he wiped his hand on his coat and he went up to bed. "All right, that's part one, so they have made this wish for the 200 pounds, even though it dire warning from Colonel Mustard, that something bad would come of that." "I guess we should take an ad break, huh?" "No, but not on this one." "Okay. I was just setting you up for that." "Perfect. I'll pick it up here." Monkey's paw, part two. In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning, as it streamed over the breakfast table, he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shriveled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues. "I suppose all old soldiers are the same," said Mrs. White. "The idea of all listening to such nonsense, how could wishes be granted these days? And if they could, how could 200 pounds hurt you, father?" "Drop on his head from the sky," said a frivolous Herbert. "More has 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 rose from the table. "I'm afraid it'll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you," as mother laughed, "and following him to the door, watched him down the road, and returning to the breakfast table was very happy at the expense of her husband's credulity, all of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman's knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shorter. to retired Sergeant Majors of Bibbulous Habits when she found that the post brought a tailor's bill. "How about we'll have some more of his funny remarks I expect when he comes home?" She said, as they sat at dinner, "I'd dare say," said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer. "But for all that, the thing moved in my hand, that I'll swear to." "You thought it did," said the old lady soothingly. "I say it did," replied the other, "there was no thought about it. I had just. " "What's the matter?" His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside who, hearing in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well-dressed and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. "Three times," he paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The four-time he stood with his hand upon it, and then, with sudden resolution, flung it open, and walked up the path. Mrs. White, at the same moment, placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair. "What kind of weird?" She hit that apron. "I guess." She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease into the room. He gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband's coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. Then, she waited as patiently as her sex would permit. "Sorry." For him to broach his business, but he was, at first, strangely silent. "All right, this guy's me, right?" "Yeah, you're you." "Oh, let me see. Who is this guy? Who is this guy?" "He's a foppish, dandy gentleman?" "I was asked to call." He said it 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 matter?" She asked breathlessly, "has anything happened to her about what is it? What is it?" Her husband interposed there, there, mother. He said hastily sit down and don't jump to conclusions. "You've not brought bad news, I'm Shosa," and he eyed the other wistfully, "I'm sorry," began the visitor. "Is he hurt?" demanded the mother wildly. The visitor bowed in a scent. "Bad they hurt," he said quietly. "But he is not in any pain." "Oh, thank God!" said the old woman, clasping her hands. "Thank God for that! Thank!" She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her, and she, the awful confirmation of her fears and the others averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, later trembling old hand upon his that was a long silence. "He was caught in the machinery," said the visitor at length in a low voice. Caught in the machinery, repeated Mr. White in a day's fashion. "Yes." He sat, staring blankly out at the window and taking his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had, "want to do when their old courting-days nearly forty years before." "He was the only one left to us," he said, turning gently to the visitor. "It is hard." The other coughed, "and rising walks slowly to the window. The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you and your great loss," he said without looking around. "I beg that you will understand, I am only this event in merely obeying orders." "It's like, don't shoot the messenger." "Yeah, for sure." There was no reply. The old woman's face was white, her eyes staring in her breaths in audible. On the husband's face was a look such as his friend, the sergeant, might have carried into his first action. "I was to say that Ma and Meghan's display an old responsibility," continued the other, "they admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son's services, they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation." Mr. White dropped his wife's hand and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, "Oh, much. Two hundred pounds was the answer, unconscious of his wife's shriek." "Oh, heck!" The old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped a senseless heap to the floor. "Wow." "All right. There it is." "I had to catch my own breath because I've been trying to breathe in audibly this whole time." "You okay?" "Yeah, I'm good now. Now that I'm free of that." "You need an O2 canister?" "I see. I need a CPAP." "Yeah, okay." "All right. You ready?" "Yeah. You know what? And the fate has been revealed, sun is mangled to the tune of two hundred pounds in compensation." "Yeah. Caught in the machinery definitely equals mangled." "Yeah." "So this is the third and final act of the monkey's paw starting right now." 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 and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen, something else which was to lighten this load too heavy for old hearts to bear. But the days passed and expectation gave place to resignation, the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word for now they had nothing to talk about. And their days were long to weariness. It was about a week after that that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened. "Come back," he said tenderly, "you will be cold, he's cold if all my son," said the old woman in whipped afresh. The sound of her sob died away on his ears. The bed was warm and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dosed fitfully and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start. "The paw!" she cried wildly, "the monkey's paw!" He started up in alarm, "Where is it, what's the matter?" She came stumbling across the room toward him, "I want it!" She said quietly, "Oh, I want it," she said quietly, "you've not destroyed it." "It's in the parlour on the bracket," he replied, marveling, "Why?" She cried and laughed together and bending over a kiss to his cheek. "I only just thought of it," she said hysterically, "why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it? Think of what?" He questioned. "The other two wishes," she replied rapidly, "we've only had one," was not that enough. He demanded fiercely, "No," she cried triumphantly, "we'll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish I'm on a long again." The man sat up in bed and flung the bed close from his quaking limbs, "Good God, you're mad," he cried, a gas. "Get it!" she painted, "Get it quickly and wish, oh my boy, my boy!" Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. "Get back to bed," he said unsteadily, "you don't know what you're saying." "We had the first wish granted," said the old woman feverishly, "why not the second?" A coincidence, stammered the old man, "go and get it and wish," cried his wife, quivering with excitement, "The old man turned in regard to her and his voice shook. She has been dead ten days, and besides, he, I could not tell you else, but I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now, brown cow, bring him back!" cried the old woman and dragged him toward the door, "Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?" He went down in the darkness, and he felt his way to the parlor, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him, air he could escape 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 was sweat, he felt his way around the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in a small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand. Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon him. He was afraid of her. "Wish!" she cried in a strong voice. "It is foolish and wicked!" He faltered, "Wish!" repeated his wife. He raised his hand, "I wish my son alive again." The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully, then he sank, trembling into it shares the old woman. burning eyes, walk to the window, and raise the blind. He sat until he was chilled with the cold. Wait, maybe you should take over here, 'cause I think this is a good spot for you to take us home, wouldn't you? - Okay, and I gotta say, they didn't think this through, because he even set out loud like he would be mutilated when he comes back, when he comes back. And all he had to do was say, I wish my son alive again, and in the manner he was before caught in the machinery. - Yeah, I thought that too. - Well, there wouldn't be a story here. - Right, true. - All right, all right, taking his home. He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window, the candle in, which had burned below the rim of the China candlestick, was sowing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls until, with the flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure 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 scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time, screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches and striking one went downstairs for a candle. At the foot of the stairs, the match went out, and he paused to strike another, and at that same moment, a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible sounded at 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. The third knock sounded through the house. "What's that?" cried the old woman, starting up, a rat, said the old man in shaking tones. A rat. It passed me on the stairs. His wife sat up in bed listening, allowed knock resounded through the house. "It's her, but!" she screamed. "It's her!" She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm held her tightly. "What are you going to do?" he whispered hoarsely. "It's my boy. It's her, but!" She cried, struggling mechanically. "I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door." "For God's sake, don't let it in." cried the old man, trembling. "You're afraid of your own son?" She cried, struggling. "Let me go. I'm coming, I'm about. I'm coming." There was another knock in another of the old women with a sudden wrench, broke free, and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. "Oh, lady!" He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman's voice strained and panting. "The bolt!" She cried loudly. "Come now! I can't reach it!" But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. You could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fuselot of knocks reverberated through the house and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back and at that same moment he found the monkey's paw and frantically breathed his third and last wish. The knocking ceased suddenly. Although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back and the door opened. The cold wind rushed up the staircase in a long, loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife. "Son of a f***!" Gave him courage to run down to her side and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on the quiet and deserted road. So he wished for the street lamp to flicker? Yup, he got his last wish. Man, what a stone-cold classic. I know, man, W.W. Jacobs did a great job with the pacing at the end where it just suddenly became frantic and frenetic and scary. Yeah, yeah. I like it. And I love it good. It sort of reminds me of the, what's the Christmas one? Christmas story? No, it's the Carol. The fated. You bought combs and sold a hair? Oh, oh, the gift of the magi. Yeah, kind of a gift of the magi vibe, but then a spooky way. It was written around the same time too. I wonder if it was influenced at all by Oh Henry. Oh, interesting. I wonder who was first depressed. Who's Zoom in Who? Yeah, exactly. You know, the thing that stands out about the monkey part of me today is the whole idea of AI-friendlyness and alignment. Like being careful what you wish for, how you train an AI to do things, or else it'll just turn on you and in a horrible ironic twist and wipe out your entire species. IE humanity. Man, I love it. Still relevant. Yeah. Still relevant today. Okay, I think we should take our Ed break, huh? No. Oh, I almost got you again. That's right. We turn now to story number two, a bit shorter, which is kind of perfect. You get pairs well with that one, and it's called August Heat by another British writer, W.F. Harvey. And there's only two characters in this, right? Yeah. Yeah. I think the guy's wife is in it, but she has no lines. Yeah, I mean, this was the turn of the century. Yeah. This is a good one, too. This August Heat apparently changed the way that fiction, like horror fiction was, because before it was all Victorian and stuffy, and there was somebody in a club and over stuff, chair, counting a ghost story, and then it comes back to the club. This just changed all that, like almost single-handedly. It started weird fiction in a lot of ways. Yeah, and I think the ending to this, as you'll see, it's sort of that, the thing that you would see movies later on, like the vagaries of what possibly would happen, is kind of a nice thing. All right, so you want to roll with it? August Heat by W.F. Harvey? Yeah. Do you want me to start? You're saying? Yeah. I'm going to start it out. Wait, who's going to play Who? Do you want to play the artist or the other guy? I don't, I want to play the artist, because I think you can play him a little straighter, I can, so I'm going to leave the other guy to you. All right. Okay, you ready? Yep. August Heat by William Fryer, W.F. Harvey. I have had what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible. Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft. I'm 40 years old, in perfect health, never having known a day's illness. By profession, I am an artist. Not a very successful one, but I earn enough money from my black and white work to satisfy my necessary wants. And my only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent. I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper, I lighted my pipe, and proceeded to let my mind wander, in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil. The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighborhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came. I began to draw. So intent was eye on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude struck four. The final result for a hurried sketch was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done. It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. Man was fat, enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin, it creased his huge stumpy neck. He was clean shaven, perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven, and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as a utter absolute collapse. There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh. So he's drawn a picture, essentially, as we're right now. Yeah, and he's kind of fat-shaming this guy. Pretty much, yeah. Continuing on? Sure. Do you want to? No. Go ahead. Okay. I rolled up the sketch and without quite knowing why placed it in my pocket. I almost just did a herber impression accidentally. I know, he's peeking in there at me. He's in my mouth. Like Tony. Done with the rare sense of happiness, which is a knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house. I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, which I think is a town or neighborhoody saying. Yeah. For I remember walking along Lighten Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill, where the men were at work on the new tram lines. From there onwards, I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-colored cloud that hung low over the western sky. I must have walked five or six miles when a small boy roused me from my river by asking the time. What time is it? - It was 20 minutes to seven. Very nice chuck. - Yeah, do that in there. I think it's your turn. This is a good transition spot. - When he left me, I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth. For there were flowers, purple stock, and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription. From the yard itself, came a cheery whistle. The noise of hammer blows and the cold sound of steel melting stone. A sudden impulse made me enter. A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously vained marble. He turned around as he heard my steps and I stopped short. It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket. He sat there huge and elephant in, the sweat pouring from his scalp which he wiped with a red silk hankerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different. He greeted me smiling as if we were old friends and shook my hand. I apologize for my intrusion. - Everything is hot and glary outside. - No British? - Are these Brits do they have to be? - All right, they don't have to. - Oh no, they are Brits, you're right. Everything is hot and glary outside. - I said. - This seems to be an oasis in the wilderness. - I don't know about the oasis. - He replied. - But it's certain he is hot as hell. Take a seat, sir. - He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work and I sat down. - That's a beautiful piece of stone you got hold of. - I said. He shook his head. - In a way it is. - He answered. - The surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there's a big floor at the back. Though I don't expect you'd ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this. Wouldn't mind the blasted heat, but right to winter comes, there's nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone. - That's a great Donald Pleasant, I feel like. - Oh wow. - Yeah, that is one to reach for for sure. Nice work. - You have a Duke, A number one. - What's that from? Escape from New York? - Is it, okay, he was the president in that, right? - Yeah, yeah, which is weird that he was the British president. - I never really put that together. - Then what's it for? - I asked. The man burst out laughing. "Oh, you'd hardly believe me if I was to tell you "it's for an exhibition, but it's the truth." Autists have exhibitions, so do crosses and butchers. We have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know? - He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best would stood wind and rain and which were easiest to work with? Then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute, he would drop his tools wiping his shining head and curse the heat. You wanna take it over? - Sure. I said little for I felt uneasy. Lil. - Right. - There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man. I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out of the way corner of my memory. But I knew that I was practicing little more than a plausible piece of self-deception. Mr. Atkinson, his name, finished his work, spat on the ground and got up with a sigh of relief. - Curves. - There, what do you think of that? - He said with an air of evident pride, the inscription which I read for the first time was this. Sacred to the memory of James Clarence with encroft. Horn, January 18th, 1860. He passed away very suddenly on August 20th, 1909. In the midst of life, we are in death. For some time I sat in silence and a cold shutter ran down my spine. I asked him where he'd seen the name. - Oh, I didn't see it anywhere. - Replyed Mr. Atkinson. - I wanted just some name. I put down the first it came into my head. Why do you want to know? - It's a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine. He gave a long little whistle, Chuck. - And the dates? - I can only answer for one of them and that's correct. - It's a rum girl. - He said, but he knew less than I did. I told them of my morning's work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn. - And it was only the day before yesterday. - He said, - That I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts. - Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant. You probably heard my name, I said. And you must have seen me somewhere and I've forgotten it. Were you at Clackden on sea last July? - I had never been to Clackden in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone and one was right. - Come inside and have some supper. - Said Mr. Atkinson. - I feel like this is you taking a song? - Okay. - Does everyone get what's going on? So he has drawn a random picture. It turns out to be the sky, this carving headstones and this guy has carved this dude's name and birth date and today's date as the death date. - Yeah, and they don't know each other. They've never heard of each other. They've never seen each other. It's just the most astounding coincidence you can imagine. - That's right, all right. Here we go with the end of Augusteat. - His wife was a cheerful little woman with the flaky red cheeks of the country bread. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate for after the sardines and watercress had been removed. She brought out a Dwarr Bible, which I actually looked that up. That's like a woodcut, hand carved illustrated Bible. - I've seen a few of them before. - And I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour because not easily impressed. I guess he's his mind is somewhere else. - Yeah, I think so. - I went outside and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestones smoking. We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off. - You must excuse my asking. - I said. - But do you know of anything you've done for what you could be put on trial? - He shook his head. - No, not bankrupt. The business is prosperous enough. Three years ago, I gave turkeys to some of the guardians of Christmas, but that's all I can think of. There were small ones too. - He added as an afterthought. He got up fetched a can from the porch and began to water the flowers. - Twice a day regular in the hot weather, he said, and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good lord, they could never stand it. Where do you live? - I told him I address. We take an hour's quick walk to get back home. - It's like this, he said. - We'll look at the matter straight. If you go back home tonight, you take your chance of accidents. A cot may run over you and there's always banana skins in orange peel to say nothing of fallen ladders. - He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before, but I did not laugh. - The best we can do, he continued, is for you to stay here till 12 o'clock. Well, go upstairs and smoke, it may be cooler inside. - To my surprise, I agreed. We are sitting now in a long low room beneath the ease. Atkinson has sinned his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening tools at a little oilstone smoking one of my cigars the while. The air seems charged with thunder. I'm writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked and atkinson. Who seems a handyman with his tools is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel. As after eleven now, I shall be gone in less than an hour, but the heat is stifling. It is enough to send the man now. (light music) - There's a low whistle, too. - Man, I love the ambiguity. Like, I'll be gone in less than an hour. This guy's putting an edge on his chisel, like the idea here is this guy kills him, right? - I guess that's one way to interpret it. It's also possible that the whole thing just turns out to be a total coincidence that the guest survives till midnight, in which case that the death date on the gravestone would be wrong, which would undermine everything, you know? - Yeah, I like it a lot. I wonder how much ambiguity had been used before in stuff like this? - None, essentially, like this. - Oh, really? - I don't know that this guy was the ground zero for this stuff, but he was certainly one of the pioneers. And he was even a doctor, too. He wasn't even like a professional horror fiction writer. - Oh, wow. Like a medical doctor? - Yeah, he's got this and the beast with five fingers is probably his most famous-- - Yeah, I had that one picked out, but this one shorter, I think, paired better. - Totally. - No, I agree, this is a great pairing. This is like, um, Shardonnay and peanut butter. (laughs) - This is great, Chuck. - Yeah, I like this story. These are both winners, I think. - You knocked it out of the park like a Cleveland Guardian. - Yeah, you did. - A Milwaukee Brewer. - You did great, too, man. - Thanks. - That's always love hearing the Josh takes. - It's so fun. - I think what is today is today, Halloween. - I think it is Halloween today. - Is it really? That's amazing. - I think we got lucky that Halloween, oh no, no, no, no. Halloween's on a Saturday, so. - This is the 29th and podcast on. - All of you yelling at your speakers or your buds or whatever can just calm down everybody. Just wait a couple more days for your big pillowcase of candy, all right? - Yeah, but hopefully people save these for Halloween. That's what I would do. - Sure. - Sure. - Sure. - Sure. You can have a whole party and just play this. - Yeah. - And I guarantee you'd have at least a third of the people you started out with by the end of this. - Yeah, people who are game and drunk. - Exactly, who are on their fourth class of whiskey. - That's right. - Yeah, I guess that's it for annual Halloween spooktacular, everybody. We hope you loved it and we hope you have a safe and happy Halloween, aka Saoen. And if you wanna email us something about this, we would love to hear from you. You can send it off to [email protected]. (dramatic music) Stuff you should know is a production of I Heart Radio. For more podcasts, my heart radio, visit the I Heart Radio app. Apple podcasts are wherever you listen to your favorite shows.