Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former involving himself in perilous moves that put his king in sharp and unnecessary danger. Mr. White, his wife, and their grown son Herbert lived a quiet, contented life in the English countryside — until the evening Sergeant-Major Morris came to visit.
Morris had traveled widely through India and brought with him a strange curiosity: a dried monkey's paw. He told the Whites that a fakir had placed a spell upon it, granting three separate men three wishes each. Morris himself had already used his three, and his face grew pale when he spoke of it. He threw the paw into the fire, but Mr. White snatched it out.
"If you must keep it," Morris warned gravely, "don't blame me for what happens. The wishes are granted, but they come at a terrible cost. The fakir wanted to show that fate rules people's lives, and that those who interfere with it do so to their sorrow."
After Morris departed, Herbert laughed at the tale and urged his father to wish for two hundred pounds to pay off the house. With a grin, Mr. White held the paw aloft and spoke his wish. The paw twisted in his hand like a snake, and he dropped it with a cry. Herbert and his mother laughed nervously, and the family retired for the night.
The next morning brought no magic windfall, and Herbert left for work at Maw and Meggins with a cheerful wave. But by afternoon, a stranger appeared at the gate — a representative from the factory. There had been an accident. Herbert was caught in the machinery. He was dead. The company accepted no liability, but wished to present a sum as compensation. Mrs. White gasped. Mr. White answered the unspoken question: "How much?" The visitor placed an envelope on the table. Inside was a payment of exactly two hundred pounds.
The funeral left the old couple shattered. For days, the house was suffocating in its emptiness. Then, one sleepless night, Mrs. White remembered the paw. "Wish!" she cried. "Wish our boy alive again!" Mr. White recoiled in horror — Herbert had been mangled beyond recognition — but his wife's desperation was overpowering. With trembling hands, he raised the paw and made the second wish.
Nothing happened. They waited in the darkness, the candle flickering, the clock ticking. Then — a knock. Soft at first, then louder. Then a frantic pounding shook the front door. Mrs. White shrieked with joy and scrambled down the stairs. "It's Herbert! It's my boy!" She clawed at the bolt.
Mr. White stood paralyzed at the top of the stairs. He imagined what waited on the other side of that door — not the son he remembered, but the broken thing they had buried. The knocking grew thunderous. As his wife wrenched the bolt free, Mr. White found the paw on the floor. He raised it and whispered his third and final wish.
The knocking stopped. Mrs. White flung open the door. Beyond it lay only the cold, quiet street, the gas lamp flickering against the empty darkness. Whatever had come to their door was gone. The old couple stood together in the doorway, staring into the night, the monkey's paw lying spent and powerless at their feet.