Edgar Allan Poe, on inspiration and writing:

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.

- Edgar Allan Poe.

On this day in television history - The Fall of the House of Usher (2023):

The Fall of the House of Usher

8-part mini-series directed by Mike Flanagan and Michael Fimognari,

written by Dani Parker, Emmy Grinwis, Jamie Flanagan, Justina Ireland, Kiele Sanchez, Mat Johnson, Mike Flanagan, Rebecca Klingel,

based on the works of Edgar Allan Poe,

was released on Netflix in the United States on October 12, 2023.

Music by The Newton Brothers.

Episode titles: A Midnight Dreary; The Masque of the Red Death; Murder in the Rue Morgue; The Black Cat; The Tell-Tale Heart; Goldbug; The Pit and the Pendulum; The Raven.

Cast:

Carla Gugino, Bruce Greenwood, Mary McDonnell, Henry Thomas, Rahul Kohli, Samantha Sloyan, T'Nia Miller, Zach Gilford, Willa Fitzgerald, Michael Trucco, Katie Parker, Matt Biedel, Crystal Balint, Ruth Codd, Kyliegh Curran, Carl Lumbly, Mark Hamill, Kate Siegel, Sauriyan Sapkota, Paola Núñez, Malcolm Goodwin, Daniel Jun, Nicholas Lea, Igby Rigney, Aya Furukawa, William Kosovic, Mark Redfield, Jason Tremblay, Paul Jarrett, Felicity Anne, Selma Heyman, Annabeth Gish, Robert Longstreet, Kevin Miller, David Santana, Kate Gajdosik, Molly C. Quinn, Toby Poser, Eileen Cruz, Kyle Mitchell, Edwin Perez, Ava Johnson, Monique Durian, Lulu Wilson, JayR Tinaco, Ryan Mah, Camille Atebe, Bill Lawrie, Graham Verchere, Jason Simpson, Daylin Willis, Aidan Wright, Chelsea Hamill, Thomas Strumpski, Gerry Durand, Danielle Klaudt, Kate Whiddington, Ian Ronningen, Leo Chiang, Arianna Bent, Alexandra Essoe, Logan Tarasoff, Lincoln Russo, Jaren Moore, Sarah-Jane Redmond, Ruth Bidner, Ali Karr, Baldeep Singh, Vincent Gale, Sabrina Miniaci, Ambika Vas, Tracey Power, Aaron McCallum, Alex Weed, Niki Wipf, Elan Gale, Marco Walker-Ng, Gus Tayari, Britney Katelyn Miller, Elyse Maloway, Kelly McCabe, Jaiden Brown, Fox Brewster, Milena Brewster, Jason Cecchini, Jazmine Campanale, Robbie Segulam, Jennifer Clarke, Irma Leong, Janene Carleton, Jimmy Clarke, Jason Bell, Dustin Pederson, Carolyn Adair, Natasha Prasad, Peter Brown, Stewart Prince.

Recommended reading - The Fall of the House of Usher (2023):

The Fall of the House of Usher

And Other Stories That Inspired the Netflix Series

By Edgar Allan Poe.

Foreword by Mike Flanagan.

Published by Random House Worlds.

Media TV tie-in edition.

Published 2023.

Hardcover.

ISBN-10: 0593725255

ISBN-13: 978-0593725252

Description:

A deluxe anthology of works by Edgar Allan Poe that inspired Netflix’s The Fall of the House of Usher, curated by series creator Mike Flanagan.

There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart – an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it – I paused to think – what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher?

Slip behind the bleak walls and vacant windows of Netflix’s reimagining of the mansion of doom in this anthology of works by Edgar Allan Poe that inspired the limited series The Fall of the House of Usher. From well-loved classics like The Raven and The Tell-Tale Heart to lesser-known gems such as Tamerlane and The Murders in the Rue Morgue, these collected tales have withstood the test of time, haunting readers for nearly two hundred years.

With a foreword by series creator and horror maverick Mike Flanagan, this anthology is the perfect viewer’s companion to Netflix’s The Fall of the House of Usher.

Recommended reading - The Fall of the House of Usher and the Other Major Tales and Poems by Edgar Allan Poe (2023):

The Fall of the House of Usher and the Other Major Tales and Poems by Edgar Allan Poe

By Edgar Allan Poe.

Published by Reader's Library Classics.

Published 2023.

Paperback.

ISBN-10: 1954839480

ISBN-13: 978-1954839489

Description:

I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.

At the request of his good friend Roderick Usher, a visitor travels to the House of Usher where Roderick and his sister Madeline live. From the time the traveler first steps foot onto the Usher property, a mysterious and foreboding presence fills the air. Almost as if the house itself is alive.

Born in 1809, Edgar Allan Poe was an American writer and poet best known for his tales of mystery and macabre. His short stories have long been entrenched in American pop culture, and he is regarded as one of the greatest inspirations to the modern horror and mystery genres. His fictional C. Auguste Dupin stories, all included in this collection, are widely considered the first modern detective story, and these stories would become a foundational influence to Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous detective Sherlock Holmes. Poe's notable works include The Fall of the House of Usher (1839), The Tell-Tale Heart (1843), The Black Cat (1843), and The Raven (1845), among many others. He died in 1849.

The following 13 tales and 13 poems are included:

Tales: The Fall of the House of Usher; The Tell-Tale Heart; the Black Cat; The Cask of Amontillado; The Pit and the Pendulum; The Masque of the Red Death; The Oval Portrait; The Premature Burial; A Descent into the Maelström; Ligeia.

The C. Auguste Dupin Mysteries: The Murders in the Rue Morgue; The Mystery of Marie Rogêt; The Purloined Letter.

Poems: The Raven; Annabel Lee; Alone; Dream-Land; Eldorado; The Sleeper; Lenore; The City and the Sea; To Helen; The Bells; The Valley of Unrest; To One in Paradise; A Dream within a Dream.

Edgar Allan Poe, on writing:

Through joy and through sorrow, I wrote.

Through hunger and through thirst, I wrote.

Through good report and through ill report, I wrote.

Through sunshine and through moonshine, I wrote ...

- Edgar Allan Poe.

Edgar Allan Poe, on imagination:

Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.

- Edgar Allan Poe.

Born on this day - Edgar Allan Poe:

Edgar Allan Poe

Writer

January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849

Credits:

100 Creepy Little Creature Stories (1994); 100 Hair-Raising Little Horror Stories (1993); 100 Wild Little Weird Tales (1994); 21 Great Stories (1969); 30 Press Presents: Classic Horror Poems Volume One (2023); 40 Short Stories: A Portable Anthology (2000); 50 Great American Short Stories (1963); 50 Great Short Stories (1952); 65 Great Spine Chillers (1982); A Cat of a Different Color (2020); A Cat of Artistic Sensibilities (2021); A Cat of Cozy Situations (2020); A Cat of Disdainful Looks (2020); A Cat of Fantastic Whims (2021); A Cat of Feral Instincts (2021); A Cat of Heroic Heart (2020); A Cat of Perfect Taste (2020); A Cat of Strange Lands (2020); A Descent into the Maelstrom (1841); A Few Words on Secret Writing (2014); A Predicament (1838); A Tale of Jerusalem (1832); A Tale of the Ragged Mountains (1843); Adventure Stories for Boys and Girls (1985); Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane and Minor Poems (1829); American Midnight (2019); Anastatic Printing (1845); Annabel Lee (1849); Behind the Mask - Tales from the Id (2018); Berenice (1835); Birds of Prey (2010); Books to Die For (2012); Classic Cat Stories (2020); Classic Sea Stories (1996); Classic Victorian & Edwardian Ghost Stories (1996); Dark (2000); Detective Duos (1997); Diddling (1843); Dreams and Wonders (2010); Easy Reading for Difficult Devils: An Anthology of Dark Fiction (2014); Echoes Of Terror (1980); Edgar Allan Poe Short Stories (2018); Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works (2007); Eerie Archives Volume 13 (2013); Eerie Archives Volume 14 (2013); Eerie Archives Volume 16 (2014); Eerie Archives Volume 2 (2009); Eerie Archives Volume 21 (2016); Eerie Archives Volume 22 (2016); Eerie Archives, Vol. 1 (2004); Eerie Archives, Vol. 10 (2012); Eerie Archives, Vol. 11 (2012); Eerie Archives, Vol. 12 (2013); Eerie Archives, Vol. 3 (2010); Eerie Archives, Vol. 4 (2010); Eerie Archives, Vol. 5 (2010); Eerie Archives, Vol. 8 (2011); Eerie Archives, Vol. 9 (2012); Eleonora (1842); Eureka (1848); Fantastic, Fall 1952 (1952); Fifty Famous Detectives of Fiction (1948); Fireside Horror Stories About Mummies and Curses (2017); Fireside Horror Stories About Supernatural Cats (2017); Fossil Lake II (2015); Four Beasts in One - The Homo-Cameleopard (1836); Ghost Stories (1986); Great Fantasy (1983); Great Law and Order Stories (1990); Great Short Stories of Detection, Mystery and Horror (1931); Great Tales of Action and Adventure (1958); Great Tales of Edgar Allan Poe (1979); Great Tales of Terror (1845); H. P. Lovecraft's Book of the Supernatural (2006); H.P. Lovecraft's Book of Horror (1993); King Pest (1835); Landor's Cottage (1845); Letters Until Now Unpublished (1973); Ligeia (1838); Maelzel's Chess-Player (1836); Master's Choice: Mystery Stories by Today's Top Writers and the Masters Who Inspired Them (2000); Masters of the Macabre (1999); Mesmeric Revelation (1844); Metzengerstein (1832); Morella (1835); Morning on the Wissahiccon (1844); Ms. Found in a Bottle (1833); Never Bet the Devil Your Head (1841); Night Frights Issue #2 (2021); Nightmares on Congress Street, Part V (2006); Perspectives in Literature: A Book of Short Stories, Vol. 1 (1983); Poetry Comix (2020); Politian: An Unfinished Tragedy (1923); Psychos (2012); Red Sky (2014); Sea Tales of Terror (1974); Sea-Cursed (1994); Selected Tales of Edgar Allan Poe (2016); Shadow (1835); Short Stories: After Dark Classics (2012); Some Words with a Mummy (1845); Stories for the Dead of Night (1957); Tainted: Tales of Terror and the Supernatural (2008); Tales and Poems (2004); Tales of Mystery (1963); Tales of Mystery and Imagination (1908); Tales of Mystery and Terror (2008); Tales of the Devil (2020); Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque (1840); Tales of the Occult (1989); Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827); The Angel of The Odd (1844); The Balloon-Hoax (1844); The Bells and Other Poems (2017); The Black Cat (1843); The Campfire Collection: Spine-tingling Tales to Tell in the Dark (2000); The Cask of Amontillado (1846); The Colloquy of Monos and Una (1845); The Complete Stories (1993); The Complete Tales of Edgar Allan Poe (1849); The Detective Stories of Edgar Allan Poe (1979); The Devil in the Belfry (1839); The Domain of Arnheim (1846); The Essential Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe (2023); The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar (1845); The Fall of the House of Usher (2016); The Giant Book of Zombies (1993); The Gold-Bug (1843); The Great Sea Adventure (2019); The Greatest Ghost and Horror Stories Ever Written: volume 3 (2019); The Imp of The Perverse (1845); The Journal of Julius Rodman (1840); The Literary Life of Thingum Bob, Esq (1844); The Longman Anthology of Detective Fiction (2004); The Mammoth Book of Body Horror (2012); The Mammoth Book of Fantasy All-Time Greats (1988); The Mammoth Book of Zombies (1993); The Man of the Crowd (1840); The Masque of the Red Death (1842); The Monster Book of Monsters (1988); The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841); The Murders in the Rue Morgue and Other Tales (1841); The Mystery of Marie Roget (1842); The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket (1838); The Oblong Box (1844); The Oval Portrait (1845); The Oxford Book of Gothic Tales (1992); The Philosophy of Composition (1846); The Philosophy of Furniture (1840); The Pit and the Pendulum (1842); The Poetic Principle (2000); The Prose Romances of Edgar A. Poe (1843); The Purloined Letter (1844); The Rationale of Verse (2013); The Raven (1845); The Raven and Other Poems (1845); The Raven and Other Selected Poems (2015); The Short Story: 30 Masterpieces (1992); The Spectacles (1844); The Tell-Tale Heart and Other Writings (1843); The Thousand-And-Second Tale of Scheherazade (1845); The Ultimate Short Story Bundle (2020); The Unparalleled Adventures of One Hans Pfaall (1835); The Vintage Book of Classic Crime (1997); The World's Greatest Horror Stories (2004); Thrillers (1994); Weird Business (1995); Wickedest Show on Earth (1985); William Wilson (1839); Writers: Their Lives and Works (2018); Writing New York (1998); Zombies!: Tales of the Walking Dead (2013).

A Dream Within a Dream, by Edgar Allan Poe:

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
 

Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

The Black Cat, by Edgar Allan Poe:

The Black Cat, by Gino Severini (1910–1911)

 

Published in 1845

FOR the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not – and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburden my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified – have tortured – have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror – to many they will seem less terrible than baroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place – some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.

From my infancy I was noted for the docility and humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my companions. I was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by my parents with a great variety of pets. With these I spent most of my time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, and, in my manhood, I derived from it one of my principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.

I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.

This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon this point – and I mention the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.

Pluto – this was the cat's name – was my favorite pet and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me wherever I went about the house. It was even with difficulty that I could prevent him from following me through the streets.

Our friendship lasted, in this manner, for several years, during which my general temperament and character – through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance – had (I blush to confess it) experienced a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intemperate language to my wife. At length, I even offered her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still retained sufficient regard to restrain me from maltreating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in my way. But my disease grew upon me – for what disease is like Alcohol! – and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish – even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill temper.

One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat avoided my presence. I seized him; when, in his fright at my violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fiber of my frame. I took from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it, grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity.

When reason returned with the morning – when I had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch – I experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.

In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of PERVERSENESS. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart – one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself – to offer violence to its own nature – to do wrong for the wrong's sake only – that urged me to continue and finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; – hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; – hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; – hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin – a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it – if such a thing were possible – even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.

On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair.

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts – and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, which stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire – a fact which I attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "strange!" "singular!" and other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I approached and saw, as if graven in bas relief upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvelous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.

When I first beheld this apparition – for I could scarcely regard it as less – my wonder and my terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to my aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd – by some one of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into my chamber. This had probably been done with the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as I saw it.

Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep impression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me, among the vile haunts which I now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.

One night as I sat, half stupefied, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my hand. It was a black cat – a very large one – fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast.

Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very creature of which I was in search. I at once offered to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made no claim to it – knew nothing of it – had never seen it before.

I continued my caresses, and, when I prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. I permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with my wife.

For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising within me. This was just the reverse of what I had anticipated; but – I know not how or why it was – its evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and annoyed. By slow degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, preventing me from physically abusing it. I did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually – very gradually – I came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.

What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures.

With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for myself seemed to increase. It followed my footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it would crouch beneath my chair, or spring upon my knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I arose to walk it would get between my feet and thus nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in my dress, clamber, in this manner, to my breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly – let me confess it at once – by absolute dread of the beast.

This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil – and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. I am almost ashamed to own – yes, even in this felon's cell, I am almost ashamed to own – that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired me, had been heightened by one of the merest chimeras it would be possible to conceive. My wife had called my attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which constituted the sole visible difference between the strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The reader will remember that this mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite; but, by slow degrees – degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time my Reason struggled to reject as fanciful – it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that I shudder to name – and for this, above all, I loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid myself of the monster had I dared – it was now, I say, the image of a hideous – of a ghastly thing – of the GALLOWS! – oh, mournful and terrible engine of Horror and of Crime – of Agony and of Death!

And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretchedness of mere Humanity. And a brute beast – whose fellow I had contemptuously destroyed – a brute beast to work out for me – for me a man, fashioned in the image of the High God – so much of insufferable woe! Alas! Neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing of Rest any more! During the former the creature left me no moment alone; and, in the latter, I started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast weight – an incarnate Night-Mare that I had no power to shake off – incumbent eternally upon my heart!

Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. Evil thoughts became my sole intimates – the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas, was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.

One day she accompanied me, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building which our poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed me down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing me headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an axe, and forgetting, in my wrath, the childish dread which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.

This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself forthwith, and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered my mind. At one period I thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, I resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I deliberated about casting it in the well in the yard – about packing it in a box, as if merchandize, with the usual arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a far better expedient than either of these. I determined to wall it up in the cellar – as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.

For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a false chimney, or fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect anything suspicious.

And in this calculation I was not deceived. By means of a crow-bar I easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, I propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, I re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and with this I very carefully went over the new brick-work. When I had finished, I felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked up with the minutest care. I looked around triumphantly, and said to myself – "Here at least, then, my labor has not been in vain."

My next step was to look for the beast which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for I had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my previous anger, and forbore to present itself in my present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the detested creature occasioned in my bosom. It did not make its appearance during the night – and thus for one night at least, since its introduction into the house, I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!

The second and the third day passed, and still my tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a freeman. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed me but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted – but of course nothing was to be discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as secured.

Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house, and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they descended into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of my guiltlessness.

"Gentlemen," I said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By the bye, gentlemen, this – this is a very well-constructed house." (In the rabid desire to say something easily, I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.) – "I may say an excellently well-constructed house. These walls – are you going, gentlemen? – these walls are solidly put together;" and here, through the mere frenzy of bravado, I rapped heavily, with a cane which I held in my hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my bosom.

But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs of the Arch-Fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of my blows sunk into silence, than I was answered by a voice from within the tomb! – by a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman – a howl – a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.

Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!

In memory of Edgar Allan Poe.

January 19, 1809 – October 7, 1849.