And so the three young players walked back onto the stage. One of the women sighed, downcast by the unappreciative audience. Their gloom reflected that of the stage. ‘Let’s collect up the set and go,’ said the young man wearily. The first woman lifted the lid of a tea chest and took out the monkey’s paw that lay within. She raised it high above her head and laughing said, ‘I wish we never have to perform to an audience like that, ever, ever, again!’ The man felt something move at his feet as the rope used in the story of the Judge’s house began to coil itself around first one ankle then both, rising fast up his legs and body, cocooning him into immobility, knocking him off balance and bringing him to the ground. He began to writhe and scream. A sound came from the wings, a scratching, scrabbling sound and suddenly the whole floor seemed to move as a swarm of rats flooded onto the stage herding the first woman into the centre, one of them leading the attack, its eyes glowing red. The second woman screamed as cold arms entwined around her neck, the dead weight dragging her to the floor; as the ring that encircled the icy finger uncoiled itself and the serpent slithered up her arm and dragged her through the seething sea of rats. The tea chest that had held the monkey’s paw flipped onto its side and the lid opened like a door. The corporeal existence of the players dissipated as they were drawn like a genie returning to its bottle, struggling in vain against incarceration. Shrinking into a wisp of cloud they vanished into the chest and beyond to another dimension. The tea chest righted itself as the last desperate plea of the players to let them out faded into the darkness and the lid snapped tightly shut.