Castle of Blood

1

There came a light tap

at the library door -

and, pale as the tenant of a tomb,

a menial entered upon tiptoe.

His looks were wild with terror,

and he spoke to me in a voice

tremulous,

husky, and very low.

What said he?

- Some broken sentences I heard.

He told of a wild cry disturbing

the silence of the night -

of the gathering together of the household -

of a search in the direction of the sound;

and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct

as he whispered me of a violated grave -

of a disfigured body

enshrouded,

yet still breathing - still palpitating -

still alive.

He pointed to garments;

they were muddy and clotted with gore.

I spoke not,

and he took me gently by the hand:

it was indented with the impress

of human nails.

He directed my attention

to some object against the wall.

I looked at it for some minutes:

it was a spade.

With a shriek I bounded to the table,

and grasped the box that lay upon it.

But I could not force it open;

and in my tremor, it slipped from my hands,

and fell heavily, and burst into pieces;

and from it, with a rattling sound,

there rolled out some instruments

of dental surgery,

intermingled with thirty-two

small, white and

ivory-looking substances

that were scattered to and fro

about the floor.

They were the thirty-two magnificent

teeth of my cousin Berenice,

The teeth that had obsessed me

during her illness,

and which,

six months after her death,

I had found again

during a horrible night

when I no longer remembered

what I had done

and what had befallen me.

I know that story. It's by you.

It almost seems real

when you tell it.

- Who are you?

- Alan Foster, journalist for The Times.

You're the one who's been after me

for the last five days.

You refused to see me. It was the

only way to get an interview.

It's not every day that

Edgar Allan Poe shows up in London.

Yes, it's the first time

I've been in England

and certainly the last.

London has disappointed you so much?

Life has disappointed me.

Please sit down.

I admit that I'm not a fiction writer.

I'm one of your colleagues.

I'm a chronicler.

My tales

are drawn from real facts.

Real in your writer's

teeming imagination.

No. It's simply a matter of

true cases, my young friend.

I'm not a child. There's only

seven years difference between us.

Seven?

No. Between us, there are centuries

and a word that doesn't exist:

Death.

You are extraordinary.

If death is really

the only sure thing, then...

You confuse the grave

with death, my young friend.

The marble slab of a sepulchre

proves the existence of the grave,

but not of what lies

beyond the grave,

a world inhabited by an incalculable

number of anonymous beings.

Don't ridicule me.

An intelligent man like you

couldn't believe in the beyond

except for poetic purposes.

I thank you for treating me

like a fool in such an elegant way.

That was not at all my intention.

I admire and respect you too much

to talk to you in such a manner.

But I'm convinced

that the cycle of life

finishes with death, in the grave.

Beyond, there is the void, nothingness.

Therefore, nothing material,

nothing concrete.

The spirit is impalpable

without the body

which is the essence of living beings.

The dead cannot return to earth,

as they do in your stories,

much less frighten us.

As for me, I'm very afraid,

but only of the living.

Who stop doing harm

only after their death.

Permit me, sir?

I am Lord Thomas Blackwood.

I wager 100

that you will not be able

to spend the night in my castle

in Providence.

You think that I would run away,

blinded by fear?

No, you won't run away.

All those who accepted my wager

died in the castle.

I'm sorry, but I can't

accept your wager.

You're right, my young friend.

I heard of this castle

located on Providence hill,

when I arrived in London.

The last ones to enter it were

a young couple on their honeymoon.

The husband was a cousin of my wife.

Lord Thomas will correct me if I'm wrong,

but it's my understanding

that they never left it again.

- They stayed there because they liked it.

I doubt they vanished into thin air.

Dead or alive,

they left the castle.

Forgive me for contradicting you,

but Mr. Poe is right.

They never left the castle.

They are resting there,

in the family cemetery.

Every year, I search for a brave man

to take up my challenge,

in the hope of clearing up the mystery

of this terrifying legend.

You are very nice,

and I'm happy

that you have refused my wager.

It's not that I don't want to,

but I can't, my lord.

A 100,

that's too great a sum

for the pocket of an honest journalist.

- But 10...

- You'll accept for 10?

- Whenever you like.

- It must be tonight...

the night of the dead.

Today is the first of November.

From midnight to dawn,

the dead return to the castle

to relive the tragedies of their deaths.

Very well! Tonight,

my theory will be confirmed,

and I'll write a sensational article

about the castles of terror.

Think well, my young friend.

Everything's been thought of.

I'll finish the interview, and we'll go.

We must leave now.

The castle is far. It will take

at least two hours by coach.

Yes, but I have

to write my article.

If that's the only thing that keeps you,

we can talk on the way,

for I don't mind accompanying you.

It's a great honour, Mr. Poe.

In that case,

let's go. Would you mind if we stop

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