100: Halloween Special! Edgar Allan Poe: The Tell-tale Heart, The Cask of Amontillado, & The Raven
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Thomas Alva Edison, the Wizard of Menlo Park, as he was known, made a recent appearance in our Origin of the Movies episode.

because in addition to the electric light and countless other inventions, he also gave us the motion picture camera. It reminded me that Edison didn't do well in the traditional school classroom when he was a boy. This prolific inventor and successful businessman learned better at home. At school, it's reported that he'd likely be lost in thought. His mother, Nancy, recognized a different approach to learning was required for her son. And the rest is history. As a parent, I appreciate that.

because each of my own three children are different. They each learn in different ways, and I want them to thrive at whatever they choose to do later in life. One learning option for kids today is K-12. K-12 powered schools are accredited, tuition-free online public schools for students in kindergarten through 12th grade. K-12 can help your child reach their full potential and give you the support you need to get them there.

This is different from homeschooling, where you are responsible for teaching them. K-12 powered schools have state certified teachers, specially trained in teaching online.

So join the more than 2 million families who have chosen K-12 and empower your student to reach their full potential now. Go to k12.com slash HTDS today to learn more and find a tuition-free K-12 powered school near you. That's the letter K, the number 12 dot com slash HTDS. K12.com slash HTDS. It's September 26th, 1849.

A well-dressed 40-year-old man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a full mustache calls at his fiance's red brick home in Richmond, Virginia. Or is she his fiance? He says so, but she will later describe what they have as a quote-unquote partial understanding. It's complicated, but perhaps it has to be when teenage sweethearts find each other anew some two decades later as widow and widower. Yes, quite a macabre romance.

But should we expect anything different from the love life of 19th century America's most celebrated Gothic author and poet, Edgar Allan Poe? Perhaps not. It just seems fitting. Edgar and his love interest, the dark-haired, fair-skinned, and wealthy Elmira Royster Shelton, begin chatting. How long they do, I can't say, but one thing is clear to Elmira: Edgar is sick. She reaches out to feel his pulse. Oof, her poetic Poe is warm to the touch.

That's worrisome. Edgar, or Eddie as he's sometimes called by those in his closest circles, is meant to ship out in the morning. He's heading to Philadelphia to earn $100 doing editorial work for an amateur poet, then continuing to his current abode in New York to settle affairs before coming back down south. Yet here he is tonight, physically ill and heartbroken at leaving her. This trip seems to be a terrible decision, but at least he's not entirely foolish. Leaving Elmira's place that night, Eddie stops by Dr. John Carter's office.

He gets medicine. He also mistakes the good doctor's walking cane for his own on the way out. Nonetheless, Elmira's concern causes her to rise early the next morning to check on her beloved, but she's too late. Eddie's already departed on a steamer. The fevered author's also forgotten his luggage in the process. Edgar's boat arrives in Baltimore on September 28th. What happens next, though? No one can say for sure.

Like an unfortunate character in one of his pioneering detective stories, E.A. Poe simply disappears into the ether. At least for the next six days, that is. It's now October 3rd. Dr. Joseph Evans Snodgrass is at his Baltimore 4th Ward home on High Street. Suddenly, an impatient message arrives.

He reads the short note with today's date. "Dear sir, there's a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan's Fourth Ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe and who appears in great distress, and he says he's acquainted with you, and I assure you he is in need of immediate assistance. Yours in haste, Joseph W. Walker." The doctor springs to his feet and immediately heads to the Fourth Ward voting station at an Irish pub called Gunner's Hall.

located just around the corner on East Lombard Street. The doctor's there within minutes, and he's horrified at what he sees. There, lying in the gutter, is a 40-year-old man. His face is haggard, bloated, unwashed, pale and covered in sweat. His dark hair is unkempt. He isn't well-dressed, far from it. He has no vest, no tie. His hat is cheap and made of straw. His shirt, pants, and coat are thin, ill-fitting, secondhand, wrinkled, and soiled.

Yet, looking past all of this, the doctor doesn't mistake the sickly man on the ground clutching a fine walking stick. This is Edgar Allan Poe. What has happened since the poet arrived last week? Some speculate he went on a bender. Others say he even went to Philadelphia then came back. Perhaps he's been assaulted and robbed.

Considering his clothes and clear state of intoxication at a polling station, some think a political gang kidnapped Edgar, plastered him up, then made him fraudulently vote over and over in various disguises. Could be. This practice, known as cooping, is rather common in the 1840s, especially in Baltimore. But the fact of the matter is, we'll never actually know. Just moments after Dr. Joseph Evans' Snodgrass Arise, Edgar's uncle by marriage, Henry Herring, happens by.

The two men take the comatose author to Washington College Hospital. Per the usual practice when treating drunkards here, resident physician Dr. John Morin places Edgar in a grim, ghastly prison-like room. After two days, the disheveled writer reaches a sufficient state of recovery to communicate, but he's completely confused.

The perhaps engaged widower speaks of his wife and doesn't know when he left Richmond, nor can he detail what happened to him between his disembarkment in Baltimore and his being found in the gutter almost a week later. When the doctor suggests he'll recover, Edgar answers with a wish that some good friend would blow his brains out with a pistol. The next day, Saturday, Edgar is delirious. "Reynolds! Reynolds!" He cries repeatedly. Who this "Reynolds" for whom he calls is?

I can't say. It's now 5:00 a.m., Sunday, October 7th, 1849. Edgar is frail. His breath grows shallow as he scarcely more than mutters, "Lord, help my poor soul." Or so Dr. John Moran claims. But whether the poet did or did not, whether he was beaten or cooped in the days prior, all of this will remain a mystery. All we know for sure is that at this moment, his heart has beat its last.

E.A. Poe has left this world. The author's pen shall be lifted. Nevermore. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. Friends, I have a confession for you. I love Halloween. And after years of considering doing this,

I'm going to do it. I'm ever so briefly interrupting our usual chronological march through U.S. history for a Halloween special. Haunted history that doesn't suck, if you will. Or perhaps a blend of haunted history and literature. Having just told you how one of my all-time favorite authors, Edgar Allan Poe, met his end, it is now my pleasure to share some of the prose and poetry of this king of American Gothic with you. I'll tell you three twisted tales.

First, The Tell-Tale Heart. Second, The Cask of Amontillado. And of course, his greatest poetic hit, The Raven. I'll move right through the first two tales without commentary, but as poetry can be a bit trickier, I'll briefly set up The Raven before reciting it. Well, settled into your seat? Lights dim? Listening alone? I certainly hope so. Let us begin. The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe

True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous. I had been and am. But why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken and observe how healthily, how calmly I can tell you the whole story."

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion, there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold, I had no desire. I think it was his eye. Yes, it was this. He had the eye of a vulture, a pale blue eye with a film over it.

Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold. And so, by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing, but you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded, with what caution, with what foresight, with what dissimulation I went to work.

I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it. Oh, so gently. And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out. And then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in.

I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! Would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously, oh, so cautiously, cautiously, for the hinges creaked.

I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight. But I found the eye always closed. And so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye.

And every morning when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name and a hearty tone and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see, he would have been a very profound old man indeed to suspect that every night just at 12, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night, I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moved more quickly than did mine.

Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers. Of my sagacity, I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph to think that there I was, opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea. Perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now, you may think that I drew back, but no.

His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers. And so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in and was about to open the lantern when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening and the old man sprang up in his bed crying out, "'Who's there?' I kept quite still and said nothing."

For a whole hour, I did not move a muscle. And in the meantime, I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening just as I have done night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently, I heard a slight groan and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror.

It was not a groan of pain or of grief. Oh no, it was the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it had welled up from my own bosom, deepening with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say, I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart.

I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but he could not. He had been saying to himself, it is nothing but the wind in the chimney. It is only a mouse crossing the floor, or it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp. Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions.

But he had found all in vain, all in vain because death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little, a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it. You cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily, until at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye. It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it.

"'I saw it with perfect distinctness, "'all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it "'that chilled the very marrow in my bones. "'But I could see nothing else "'of the old man's face or person, "'for I had directed the ray "'as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot. "'And have I not told you "'that what you mistake for madness "'is but over-acuteness of the sense?'

Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve.

Meantime, the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme. It grew louder. I say louder every moment. Do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous. So I am. And now, at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror,

Yet, for some minutes longer, I refrained and stood still. Beating grew louder, louder. I thought the heart must burst, and now a new anxiety seized me. The sound would be heard by a neighbor. The old man's hour had come. With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once, once only. In an instant, I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over him.

I then smiled gaily to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me. It would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was a stone. Stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead.

His eye would trouble me no more. If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned. I worked hastily but in silence. First of all, I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and deposited all between the scantlings.

I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly that no human eye, not even his, could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out. No stain of any kind. No blood spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught it all. When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock. Still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door.

I went down to open it with a light heart, for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night. Suspicion of foul play had been aroused. Information had been lodged at the police office, and they, the officers, had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled. For what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream.

The old man I mentioned was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search, search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed.

In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room and desired them here to rest from their fatigues while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things.

But ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached and I fancied a ringing in my ears. But still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct. It continued and became more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definiteness until at length I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale, but I talked more fluently with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased, and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound, much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently, but the noise steadily increased.

I arose and argued about trifles in high key with violent gesticulations, but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone?

I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men. But the noise steadily increased. Oh God, what could I do? I foamed, I raved, I swore, I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting and grated it upon the boards. But the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder, louder, louder, and still the men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?

Almighty God, no! No, they heard. They suspected. They knew. They were making a mockery of my horror. This, I thought, and this, I think. But anything was better than this agony. Anything was more tolerable than this derision. I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer. I felt that I must scream or die. And now, again, hark, louder, louder, louder, louder. Villains! I shrieked.

Dissemble no more. I admit the deed. Tear up the planks. Here, here, it is the beating of his hideous heart. Are you earning and investing in the stock market? In real estate? How about in relationships? Are you earning and investing in your life?

I'm Doc G, semi-retired hospice physician and host of the Earn and Invest podcast, where we have the 201 or next level conversations about money and life. Not only how you make money and grow it, but also how you use your wealth to create a better and more fulfilling existence. Join us every Monday and Thursday wherever you listen to fine podcasts. The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe.

The thousand injuries of Fortunato, I had borne as I best could. But when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length, I would be avenged. This was a point definitively settled, but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity."

A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my goodwill. I continued, as was my want, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point, this Fortunato, although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part, their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practice imposture upon British and Austrian millionaires.

and painting in gemery, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack. But in the matter of old wines, he was sincere. In this respect, I did not differ from him materially. I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk one evening, during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley,

He had on a tight-fitting, party-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said to him, My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking today! But I have received a pipe of what passes for a Montiato.

"'And I have my doubts.' "'How?' said he. "'Amontillado? A pipe?' "'Impossible. And in the middle of the carnival. "'I have my doubts,' I replied. "'And I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price "'without consulting you in the matter.'

You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain. Amontillado. I have my doubts. Amontillado! And I must satisfy them. Amontillado? As you are engaged, I am on my way to see Lucchesi. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he.

He will tell me... Lucchese cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry. And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. Come, let us go. Whither? To your vaults. My friend, no. I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Lucchese... I have no engagement. Come, my friend.

"No, it is not the engagement but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre. Let us go, nonetheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado, you have been imposed upon." And as for Lucchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado. Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm.

putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a rocolaire closely about my person. I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. There were no attendants at home. They had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to ensure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux and, giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. The pipe!

said he. It is farther on, said I, but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls. He turned towards me and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the room of intoxication. Nighter? He asked at length. Nighter, I replied. How long have you had that cough? Cough, cough,

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said at last. "Come," I said with decision. "We will go back. Your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved. You are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back. You will be ill and I cannot be responsible.

"Besides, there is Luque's-" "Enough," he said. "The cough is a mere nothing. It will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True, true," I replied. "And indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily. But you should use all proper caution. A draught of this medoc will defend us from the damps."

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mold. "Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly while his bell jingled. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us, and I to your long life."

He again took my arm and we proceeded. These vaults, he said, are extensive. The Montresors, I replied, were a great and numerous family. I forget your arms. A huge human foot door in a field azure. The foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel. And the motto? Nemo me impune la caset. Good, he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled.

My own fancy grew warm with the Maedoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time made bold to seize Fortunato by the arm above the elbow. "'The nighter,' I said. "'See, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed.'

The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. "Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cup--" "It is nothing," he said. "Let us go on. But first, another draught of the Médoc." I broke and reached him another flagon of Degrave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise.

He repeated the movement, a grotesque one. "You do not comprehend," he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you are not of the Brotherhood." "How?" "You are not of the Masons." "Yes, yes," I said. "Yes, yes." "You?" "Impossible. A Mason?" "A Mason," I replied. "A sign," he said.

"'It is this,' I answered, "'producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my rocolaire. "'You jest!' he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "'But let us proceed to the Amontillado.' "'Be it so,' I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak "'and again offering him my arm. "'He leaned upon it heavily. "'We continued our route in search of the Amontillado.'

We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeau rather to glow than flame. At the most remote end of the crypt, there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner.

From the fourth, the bones had been thrown down and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven.

It seemed to have been constructed for no special use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination, the feeble light did not enable us to see. Proceed, I said. Herein is the Amontillado.

As for Lucchese, he is an ignoramus, interrupted my friend as he stepped unsteadily forward while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant, he had reached the extremity of the niche and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples distant from each other about two feet horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock.

Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped back from the recess. "'Pass your hand,' I said, over the wall. "'You cannot help feeling the niter. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return.'

"'No, then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.' "'The Amontillado!' ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment. "'True,' I replied, "'the Amontillado.' As I said these words, I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar.'

With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche. I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depths of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier and the third and the fourth

and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clinking subsided, I resumed the trowel and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeau over the masonwork,

threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud and shrill screams bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment, I hesitated. I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess. But the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs. I felt satisfied. I re-approached the wall.

I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed. I aided. I surpassed them in volume and strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still. It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh. There remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in.

I struggled with its weight. I placed it partially in the destined position. But now there came from out of the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said, A very good joke in me.

An excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo. Over our wine! The Amontillado, I said. Yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest?

"Let us be gone." "Yes," I said. "Let us be gone." "For the love of God, but for a sword." "Yes," I said. "For the love of God." But to these words, I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud, "Fortunato." No answer. I called again, "Fortunato." No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within.

There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position. I plastered it up. Against the new masonry, I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century, no mortal has disturbed them. "'Impace requiescat.'"

Now, ghosts and ghouls, with the beating of a hideous heart underfoot and Fortunato's final cries stifled by stone, we turn to our final tale of terror, Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven. This is without a doubt the most famous of Edgar's poems and stories, as evidenced by its numerous references in pop culture and retellings in various mediums. It even got mentioned in the first Simpsons treehouse of horror.

Given that level of notoriety, it seems befitting that before telling the story, I should elaborate a bit on some of the imagery in and meaning of the melancholy tale. Not that I can give you a definitive interpretation. Good luck with that on any masterful work of literature. But here is a quick walkthrough and broad strokes on what we might make of E.A. Poe's masterpiece. Put simply, The Raven is a poem about death, and for Edgar, it isn't a pretty picture.

Right out the gate, he flips the cheerful story opening of Once Upon a Time by hitting us with Once Upon a Midnight Dreary. From there, we meet our narrating protagonist, a student or scholar who's reading volumes of forgotten lore in an attempt to mend his broken heart as he mourns the death of his lover, Lenore. But all the wisdom of the ages found in his books of learning won't help our despondent intellectual.

Instead, he hears a tapping outside that leads to the very symbol of death itself, the raven, entering his room. Worse still, the fiery fowl plants itself right on top of the learned man's bust of the Greek goddess of wisdom. Now, you might be thinking, Athena, and you're right, but she's also known as Pallas, a name she took while grieving the death of a friend by that same name.

Keep that in mind when you hear about the raven perched on top of a bust of Pallas, that is, Athena, in the poem. It's a powerful scene as it depicts the symbol of death putting under foot, or claw rather, reason and wisdom. And we aren't done with the ancient Greco-Roman references yet. Our scholar will inform us that the raven comes from, quote, the night's Plutonian shore, close quote. Pluto, of course, is the god of the underworld.

In other words, this bird of death even hails from the land of the dead. At first, the narrator is amused by the raven and tries speaking with it as the raven replies with that immortal phrase, nevermore. And yes, ravens like parrots are able to talk or at least mimic what someone is saying. Thus, our learned young man logically concludes the bird is just repeating something picked up from some other unfortunate soul. But again, reason fails in the face of this symbol of death.

As the raven refuses to leave and keeps repeating that one word, nevermore, the scholar slips from his logical position and starts to give the bird's repetition meaning. Specifically, he comes to think that the fowl is telling him that the thought of death, whether his own or his lover's, will never leave him. Faced with this terrible fate, the intellectual surrenders his scholarly ideas and seeks comfort elsewhere, religion.

As the air begins to feel heavier, perhaps a physical manifestation of his extreme emotional turmoil, he's sure it's due to angels, called seraphim, who must be in the room swinging incense-burning censers. In this religious state of mind, the young scholar now wonders if the raven is a devil. But he also hopes it's a prophet sent by the angels to bring him an ancient potion that induces forgetfulness, nepenthe.

With it, perhaps our intellectual hopes to overcome his failure to negotiate death by simply forgetting it. And to this, the raven replies once again, nevermore. As the inescapable idea of death begins to drive the narrator into madness, he begs the raven to tell him if there is balm in Gilead. Ah, this is a biblical cry for help. Edgar could be influenced by Jeremiah 8.22 in the Old Testament, which reads,

Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? This healing balm is a medicinal resin made from the evergreens in Gilead, located east of the Jordan River. Symbolically, though, it echoes cries for divine rest and relief from suffering. Essentially, our anguished intellectual is asking if there is divine comfort to be had in the face of death. The raven replies once more in the negative.

The languishing narrator then asks one final question. If in some distant Aden, meaning Eden, the heavenly paradise, he shall once again be with his beloved Lenore. And to this, the raven utters a heartbreaking, nevermore. Seeing that neither reason nor the divine are able to spare him, the desperate man orders the raven to leave. But this is to no avail.

The raven remains firmly planted atop Pallas Athena's defeated head and casts a shadow, the shadow of death, over our dejected protagonist. And no matter what he says or does, he will never escape this shadow. Okay, so Edgar Allan Poe is quite the Debbie Downer. But why then, if that's the case, do so many love this poem so much?

Perhaps the answer is found in the Cambridge Companion to the Gothic, which says that we are, quote, fascinated by the strange beauty of sorrow, close quote. And there is beauty in the way Edgar presents this tale of insurmountable death. Or maybe we don't even care about the content as much as the delivery. After all, Edgar put thought into appealing to average people, the masses. And further, he considered poetry passion, a pure art that doesn't require a deep meaning.

For Edgar, poetry wasn't about purpose. The aesthetic and beauty of sounds was a higher calling in and of itself. I think you'll see that in this poem. Take note when you hear his masterful use of alliteration, such as when our morbid poet describes the raven as being grim, ungainly, ghastly, and gaunt. But that's enough of me talking. Now that you have some thoughts and context, we'll let Edgar speak for himself.

This is the last version he approved of, published in September 1849, just before he set off on his own deadly trip to Baltimore. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping.

rapping at my chamber door. "To some visitor," I muttered, tapping at my chamber door, "only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember. It was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow. Vainly I had sought to borrow from my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.

Nameless here forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before. So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. This it is, and nothing more."

Presently, my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer. Sir, said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore. But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you. Here I opened wide the door, darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "'Lenore?' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "'Lenore?' Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before.'

"'Surely,' said I, "'surely that is something at my window lattice. "'Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore. "'Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. "'Tis the wind, and nothing more. "'Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirting flutter, "'in there stabbed the stately raven of the saintly days of yore. "'Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, "'but with mean of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.'

perched upon a bust of palace just above my chamber door, perched and sat and nothing more. Then this ebony bird, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, "'art sure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's plutonian shore?'

Quoth the raven, Nevermore. Much I marveled, this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore, for we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, bird or beast, upon the sculpted bust above his chamber door, with such name as Nevermore.

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered, till I scarcely more than muttered, Other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, Nevermore.

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store, caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore, till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore of never, nevermore.

But the raven, still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door. Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore meant in croaking. Nevermore.

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing, to the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core. This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining, on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, but whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating o'er, she shall press nevermore. Then methought the air grew denser,

perfumed from an unseen censer, swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch, I cried, thy God hath lent thee. By these angels he hath sent thee. Respite, respite, and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore. Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore, quoth the raven, nevermore. Huff it, said I,

The king of evil, prophet still if bird or devil, whether tempter sent or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, on this home by horror haunted, tell me truly I implore. Is there, is there balling Gilead? Tell me, tell me I implore, quoth the raven, nevermore. Prophet, said I.

thing of evil, prophet still if bird or devil, by that heaven that bends above us, by that god we both adore, tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore, clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore, quoth the raven, nevermore.

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend?" I shrieked, upstarting. "Get thee back into the tempest, and the night's plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken. Quit the bust above my door. Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven. "Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting.

still is sitting on the pallet bust of palace just above my chamber door. And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, and the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor. And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted nevermore.

HTVS is supported by fans at patreon.com forward slash history that doesn't suck. My gratitude to Kind Souls providing funding to help us keep going. Thank you. And special thanks to our patrons whose monthly gift puts them at producer status.

Thank you.

Mark Ellis, Mark Price,

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