"Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world."—Mary Shelley
I am Addison Poe, and presently, I am in the process of writing a new novel, far away from the tormenting spirits that pursued the owner of the Allan Mansion. I do not expect the reader to fully grasp the grievous nature of my dreadful experience. Therefore, I shall proceed with the incontrovertible facts surrounding the terror that existed within that haunted house of reprobation.
On the late afternoon of October 30th, 1888, I arrived by carriage from Boston at the lone Victorian mansion, situated on the outskirts of Amherst, Massachusetts. I had been offered an inheritance by a wealthy man who claimed to be a distant relative, though I was not entirely apprised of his lineage. His name was Benjamin Allan, and his proud ancestry traced directly to the original settlers of New England, established there for centuries.
I cannot forget the indelible image of the mansion's unique architecture—the Stick style framing and the wood exteriors of the second and third floors. The first floor was constructed of brownstone quarried nearby. Above, an imposing tower loomed over a shorter turret to the left, casting a long shadow across the fading autumn light.
Once there, my carriage was taken to the carriage house in the rear. I was promptly greeted at the gate by a gentleman dressed in a Chesterfield-cut overcoat with a short shoulder cape and a top hat. The autumn breeze carried a biting chill.
He introduced himself as Mr. Eugene Landon, a banker. Though grateful for the inheritance, I had questioned along the journey the propriety of my selection. After exchanging pleasantries, Mr. Landon led me into the house. Inside, I beheld the mansion’s interior—decayed and forlorn.
The rickety staircase and the dusty, crude furniture betrayed a house in ruin, lacking the charm of its former refinement. Mr. Landon promised the rooms and halls would be refurbished within a week, once the house’s new purchase was finalized.
I was unaware of any pending sale, and I had the distinct impression there was more Mr. Landon had to disclose once we were in private. At first, I refrained from pressing the matter, as I assumed my involvement in the transaction was only peripheral. I was wholly unprepared for the revelations to come.
My original intention was to sojourn in Amherst until the signing of the will was complete. I was eager to learn more about the former life of this distant kin, of whom I knew nothing of significance. I had never met or even heard the name Benjamin Allan mentioned by any member of my immediate family. I could not fathom the motive behind his generosity, given our utter lack of acquaintanceship—save for the tenuous thread of familial connection.
“Mr. Landon, if I may inquire—how was I, of all the family, chosen for this inheritance?” I asked.
“I would assume,” Mr. Landon replied, “that from the details of Mr. Allan’s will, he must have discovered your existence, Mr. Poe.”
“That does not explain my inclusion.”
“I cannot answer for Mr. Allan, since he is no longer among us. I can only attend to the legal matter. He specified the urgency of locating you. The importance of the house’s renovation cannot be allowed to diminish its worth.”
“Forgive my incredulity,” I said, “but surely you understand my doubts.”
“Frankly,” he admitted, “I did not expect Mr. Allan would disappear so abruptly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought you were aware of the mysterious circumstances of his disappearance.”
“I was not informed of any such particulars.”
“Pardon my indiscretion, Mr. Poe—I assumed you knew. Nevertheless, it is not my place to disclose such things. My only concern now is ensuring the mansion finds its new proprietor. If I were you, I would honor your benefactor’s generosity with due consideration.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I conceded. “But as you realize, I am an inquisitive man by nature.”
“Cheer up, Mr. Poe! You are by far the most rational of Mr. Allan’s relatives. The others are little more than parasitic schemers. Mr. Allan had an inveterate distrust of them, all born of their unrelenting greed.”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said, glancing around, “but there is something particular, something eldritch, about this house—a mystery I cannot yet comprehend.”
Mr. Landon’s expression shifted, betraying a subtle unease. “As to the mansion’s inner secrets, that I cannot answer. You don’t believe in wandering ghosts now, Mr. Poe?”
For the time being, I let the matter rest. I allowed Mr. Landon to complete his duties, and the will was signed. I read the document attentively and discussed at length the question of the mansion’s future.
It was too early to make a rash decision about whether to keep the property or seek a profit through its sale. Such a matter required both time and judicious reflection.
According to Mr. Landon, I had one week to determine the mansion’s fate. He did not wish to confound or rush my decision, though he mentioned a legal injunction imposed by another relative who objected vehemently to the planned business ventures regarding the property.
I was not one to be easily frightened by any haughty gesture or brash impudence, but I did not wish to embroil myself in a scandalous contention with any family members that might exacerbate the situation. Once Mr. Landon had finished his paperwork, he departed the property. He informed me that I could stay at the local inn in Amherst, only a few miles ahead. We agreed to meet at the house the next day.
I was kindly taken by the carriage driver to the inn. The bumpy road caused the wheels of the carriage to jolt from side to side, but we arrived without incident. The innkeeper was an elderly man of small stature, and I noticed his conspicuous stare and careful observation. He owned the inn, which had belonged to his family for several decades. Though I was from Baltimore, I was well acquainted with the mystique and traditions of New England.
At the inn, I was given a room on the second floor of the two-story building. Ironically, I had a clear view from my room of the Allan Mansion, its silhouette plainly visible. The realization of my good fortune made me reflect upon the validity of Mr. Allan's claim of kinship with me through our maternal line. I was a Poe on my father’s side, while he was an Allan; our connection was undoubtedly on our mothers’ side of the family tree.
Unfortunately, I was not well informed about that side of the family. Regardless of the mystery, I accepted the fact that the house was mine to decide its immediate future and care. Although I did not know Mr. Landon well, I entrusted him with the arrangements for the property, as he was a man of geniality and notable reputation.
Renovating the house was essential for restoring the property’s value, but I did not wish the sale of the secluded mansion to disrupt the main course of town affairs. There was also the pending matter of the anonymous relative, Mr. Steven Bowers, a distant kin like myself, who was related to Mr. Allan on his mother’s side.
When I spoke to Mr. Landon the following morning, he warned me of Mr. Bowers’s recalcitrance and tendency toward recrimination. He described Mr. Bowers as a man not reticent in his speech or prone to retraction. His obvious tone of condescension, Mr. Landon noted, could be construed as a sign of his obstinacy and banal hubris. I explained that my chief concern was the renewal of interest in the property and the goodwill of the townspeople.
Mr. Landon mentioned that he could not stay long, as he had other business to attend to in Amherst. We discussed the potential sale of the house. He suggested that once the mansion was remodeled, it could be placed on the market if I decided to sell. I understood the cogency of his argument, but I had not fully determined whether this was the path I wished to pursue.
I could not ignore the potential value of the house if sold. The facts alone stirred my thoughts into deep contemplation. It was difficult to consider renouncing the property or abdicating my familial responsibility.
My finances were not abundant, and completing the transaction would certainly provide a boon to my economic standing. The house contained several priceless antiques that would fascinate any antiquarian, but two items in particular captured my attention: an 18th-century marble-topped Kingwood commode, and a small ornamental box—a gilded silver reliquary with niello and a glass cabochon set over tinted foil.
“These two objects, Mr. Landon, are remarkable in their features and decoration. I can only speculate why they are here amid the house’s state of dishevelment.”
“Your relative Mr. Allan was a prodigious buyer and seller of antiques and invaluable relics of history.”
“I see. And what can you tell me of his reputation among the townspeople—his faith and goodwill?”
“He was always a man of reciprocity and devout religiosity. He treated everyone with judicious fairness. He was not a man of extreme indulgence, though he held one deep conviction: a profound concern over society’s moral decline.”
“As a man of no religious attachment, I can deduce that we share an unusual characteristic—a common passion for antiques.”
“It seems that way, Mr. Poe. But Mr. Allan was also an art collector; there’s a gallery of paintings in the studio, still under sheets. If you wish, I can show them to you another day.”
“I would be most interested in seeing the portraits.”
“Perhaps another day. It’s getting late, and I must be going. I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning at our usual time. Will you be staying or leaving with me?”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Landon, I’ll stay a while longer and have the carriage take me back to the inn later.”
“Suit yourself, Mr. Poe. Until then.”
As his carriage pulled away from the estate, another carriage approached from the solitary patch of road that converged between the countryside and the town of Amherst. A lone stranger descended and made his way toward the front gate where I was standing.
The gentleman identified himself as Mr. Steven Bowers—the same man who had contested the validity of the will. He was indeed a pretentious fellow with a haughty demeanor, of average height and build. His most striking feature was the sharp twinkle of his large, conspicuous eyes, reflecting disdain. He was no modest visitor; his intention was clear—to meet me in person and issue a warning regarding what he called my meddlesome intrusion into the matter of Mr. Allan’s will.
He expounded on his supposed rights and firm determination regarding the property, based on his unyielding interpretation of the law. I informed him that the property had already been assessed for probate. Producing a valid copy of the will, with my signature, I watched as he clenched his fist, his anger barely repressed.
He did not relent. I stood firm in my conviction, stating that I would not renounce my inheritance of my own volition. He warned me again, but I did not heed his threats, dismissing his disparaging conduct.
He interpreted my words as clumsy and injudicious, but I recognized his remarks as desperate. He said he would return with his counsel, and I calmly acknowledged my reliance on the law and the formal confirmation of the inheritance.
My greater concern lay in making the necessary provisions for the house, not in entertaining Mr. Bowers’s inadmissible evidence or innuendos. When I spoke with Mr. Landon again the next morning, I recounted Mr. Bowers’s visit and his brazen provocations. Mr. Landon was unsurprised by my account but reassured me that any petulant demand or fabrication Mr. Bowers presented would be rejected by the Massachusetts courts, regardless of any future depositions.
We turned our attention to the matter of the property’s status. After much subjective reflection the night before, I had concluded that it was in my best interest to sell the property legally. I instructed Mr. Landon to begin the refurbishment of the mansion at once. We agreed I would remain in Amherst until the property was sold and the new proprietor received full rights.
As we entered the mansion and discussed arrangements that would include a fresh coating of varnish overlaid that would have a scintillating lacquer finished, Mr. Landon noted, “There is much to be done, Mr. Poe. If we hope to achieve a good price on the market, we must repair and redecorate every nook and cranny. We’ll begin with the interior and then address the exterior, which has been far more exposed to the harsh weather over the years.”
"It will not be an easy task to achieve, but I trust that you have the proper personnel to assist in this endeavor conscientiously."
"Of course, Mr. Poe! I would not jeopardize the transaction of the mansion, especially since our bank stands to make a considerable profit."
"I take it then that we are in absolute agreement, and the decision is final."
"I regret that it was achieved under these indivisible circumstances."
"I suppose there is much about my relative that I must explore with the utmost sedulous care."
Mr. Landon showed me the area where the dusty portraits of Mr. Allan were stored in the house. I was uncertain of what awaited me until I reached the place. The sundry portraits had been uncovered by Mr. Landon and polished. The dirt and stains were removed, and the essence of the portraits was reanimated amid the stark dreariness. I found them to be well painted, and their individual concepts were conveyed magnificently.
It was difficult to conceive that the house was once pristine and richly embellished. What could have caused its plausible deterioration? From what Mr. Landon explained, Mr. Allan had disappeared one day and never returned, nor was he seen in Amherst again. Many believed that this unusual outcome was connected to the mystery of the house—or so it was generally supposed.
The truth remained undetermined, as did the thorough investigation by the police. Mr. Allan's reputation was firmly established in the community and the region, even though he was known to have presumptive enemies who inveighed against him constantly regarding his investments and who lacked the probity of proper etiquette.
In time, Mr. Allan's strained relations with others led to his estrangement from the local inhabitants. In my humble estimation, I was not convinced by his abrupt disappearance, but I was not fully cognizant of the facts surrounding his insoluble case or his whereabouts. The only thing of which I was certain was the recent property I had inherited—proffered as a legacy.
Within a week, the complete refurbishment of the mansion’s interior was finalized. Thus, the house was ready to be sold, with my consent. My residence was in Baltimore, and I was eager to find a worthy owner who would take excellent care of the vacant home and property. This, I felt, was a duty owed in fidelity to the original proprietor, Mr. Benjamin Allan.
Soon thereafter, Mr. Landon provided me with a list of potential buyers: John Crane, Thomas Baumgarten, George Watkins, Edmund Garrett, Patrick McKinney, Michael Doyle, and Paul Wagner. All were originally from Amherst, though ironically none of them were living in the town at present.
I found this oddity to be somewhat suspicious, but I placed my trust in Mr. Landon’s thorough background search on each of these men and had high expectations. As the purchase of the property neared completion, we were visited once again by the obstinate Mr. Bowers, who, strangely enough, declared that he had forfeited his claim and was retracting his audacious accusations. I was anxious to learn the true nature of his concocted inveiglement and remonstrance.
He brought along a man who claimed to be his counsel, a Mr. Edgar Sharpe. Mr. Landon addressed him, and they spoke privately. I had no quarrel with Mr. Bowers, but I had no desire to engage in discourse with him or opine on any matter regarding the specifics of the will.
I soon learned that Mr. Bowers’ selfish prerogative had shifted. He now had a pressing matter to resolve with me. My curiosity was piqued by his immediate attempt at persuasion. I did not believe in his sudden resignation, for his demeanor was feigned and his words deceptive despite their outward sentiment.
Mr. Bowers had underestimated my intellect and wit in his unfavorable premeditations. No longer the renowned man of affluence he once was, he had amassed insurmountable gambling debts. He sought to impose his fabricated claims upon my character but failed miserably in his acrimonious dispute and ostensible purpose.
After his attorney and Mr. Landon concluded their conversation, I was apprised of the important details. According to Mr. Landon, Mr. Bowers was willing to forswear his legal claim to the inheritance and avoid obstruction of justice if I conceded to his singular demand: a partial distribution of the inheritance—an equitable share, as he framed it.
To Mr. Bowers, this was a concrete pact of conciliatory gesture and concerted effort. I wanted to obviate this conflict at once but still considered his offer overbold. Mr. Landon was in full agreement and communicated my decision to Mr. Bowers and his counsel. I was only willing to offer a fourth of the profit earned from the sale of the property.
Mr. Bowers stormed out of the estate in vehemence at my paltry proposition. He had attempted to finagle me with his venal tactics and feints but was unsuccessful in the endeavor. We parted ways at variance, our viewpoints vastly divergent. The transaction was formalized and no longer voidable.
After Mr. Bowers’ departure, I felt that I had not seen the last of him or his peevish attitude. I hoped my instinct was wrong. His final words were an utterance of foul umbrage:
"I shall not stay idly by as you steal that of which a bastard is not entitled!"
I reciprocated with my own gesture, striking him in the face with a closed fist. "I would rather be a bastard than a pathetic craven like yourself!"
I do not know how he had obtained the slanderous information that I was an illegitimate son. He fell to the ground but, upon rising, dared me to a foolish duel. He soon desisted upon the wise counsel of his attorney. The strength of my action was enough to dissuade the mediocrity of his pompous act of valiance.
He dusted off his clothing, grabbed his top hat, and left promptly in his carriage, wearing a defiant smirk. Afterward, I dismissed the heated confrontation from my mind. We reentered the house and resumed preparations for the visit of the interested purchasers.
The vestigial opacity had been replaced by variations of wondrous colors, bedecked magnificently within the interior composition of its original form and grandeur. By the end of the day, after the gentlemen had visited and inspected the property, Mr. Crane became the new owner of the Allan Estate and was given the deed. He would not occupy the mansion until the following week, when his servants were scheduled to arrive a day before him.
I had agreed to remain in Amherst for the duration of that week. As a publisher and author of numerous Gothic horror novels, I had never suspected the fathomless malignity I was about to witness. I was extremely grateful for Mr. Landon's diligence and his appreciation of my kindred.
Having sufficient funds, I decided to spend my time leisurely among the townspeople. There was much to learn about Amherst’s storied history. I was aware of its significance in the state's colonial epoch, but this was my first—and only planned—visit to the town.
That night, I visited Amherst’s sole local museum and was intrigued by what I learned of the Allan Mansion and the descendants of Mr. Allan. The curator provided me with thick volumes on the history of Amherst. Regarding the Allan house and Mr. Allan’s lineage, there was an unusual story involving unspeakable acts of witchcraft. It was said that, in the early 18th century, the mansion had been built atop a former graveyard, its remains desecrated by the offspring of the Puritans. All of this was considered unfounded rumor and hearsay. What struck me as more than mere coincidence was that the first proprietor was related to me, through Mr. Allan.
His name was Theodore Allan, and he had officially purchased the land in 1715 from Sir William Hampshire, the English governor who relinquished his deed before returning to England. I did not consider myself a man of superstition or prone to credulous gossip; thus, I was not unsettled by these meticulous accounts.
After my visit to the museum, I returned to the inn, meditating on the circumstantial and reputed events recounted. I struggled to sleep, uneasy about the vilification of my estranged relative. The accusation of witchcraft seemed hardly a credible claim. Though the local university and museum had received several endowments from the Allan family, there were few who would vouch that Mr. Allan had been a truly magnanimous man.
I could not believe he was entirely innocent of moral failing. The next day, I was awakened by news of Mr. Bowers’ ghastly death. Incredibly, he had been discovered murdered inside the mansion. I was stunned by this shocking revelation.
Soon after, the local police knocked on my door at the inn to question me. They asked specifically about my whereabouts the previous night, and I had no objection to their inquiry. I answered every question truthfully. At the presumed hour of death, I had been at the museum, a fact the curator confirmed. Mr. Bowers was found bludgeoned to death in one of the mansion’s corridors.
After the police left, I hurried to the house and informed Mr. Landon of Mr. Bowers’ death. Upon entering, I sensed an inexplicable energy. Something felt amiss. I did not foresee the embodiment of an inimical force of evil intrinsically tied to the house.
There was a ghastly effusion of scarlet blood, with scant evidence pointing to the murderer—except for a lone cruet of blood placed on the dressing table. There was also an ornamental tablet of silver, inscribed with a monogram that appeared to bear the Allan name. These items had not been there before. Whatever the motive, the police were baffled by the lack of clear evidence. The entire ordeal, especially my disturbing encounter with Mr. Bowers, was witnessed by Mr. Sharpe—a man later arrested for accepting a bribe from a politician and found guilty of malfeasance.
Before long, to my amazement, the murder weapon was discovered in my room at the inn, enfolded in a bloody handkerchief. Once again, the police questioned me about Mr. Bowers’ murder.
How was I to explain, in any reasonable and tangible way, this apparent evidence of my guilt? The bloody fingerprints on the bludgeon would be the key to either my culpability or exoneration. The police’s questions were direct and required clear, unhesitating answers aligned with the sequence of events that led to Mr. Bowers’ death.
Whoever killed Mr. Bowers had framed me with insidious precision. This bizarre subterfuge was no facile maneuver. I was taken into custody, though not formally charged. I spent the day in the county jail, pondering who could be behind this macabre machination. I was confident in my innocence and believed I could prove it. When I spoke to Mr. Landon, he was visibly nervous, faltering in his statements and appearing flustered in my presence.
I had never seen him in such a state of distress. He obtained an attorney on my behalf, and I was subsequently released on bond—though I remained under a cloud of suspicion. Every remark I made would now be scrutinized intensely. The extenuating circumstances of my ordeal had evolved into a deeply unsettling quandary.
Upon my release, I stayed at the mansion, fearing adverse public reproach and having admittance to the property. I applied my best judgment to guide my decisions and actions, though it was difficult to ignore the fact that I was now the prime suspect in Mr. Bowers’ murder.
The weight of suspicion gnawed at my conscience, creating an anxiety I could not easily dismiss. I tried to refute the circumstantial evidence in my mind, but it was difficult to shake the damning implications. The news of the crime had not yet reached Mr. Crane, and no one else knew of his recent purchase of the estate. I could not allow myself to fall prey to a judicial system that might dispense justice unfavorably. I needed to think carefully and act decisively.
An eerie stillness encompassed the house. Perhaps I was overreacting, but the murder had profoundly unsettled me. Finding peace was impossible amid the growing fear and disillusionment.
The hours before my fateful confrontation with Mr. Allan were thick with an intangible dread. That evening, as the last rays of twilight bled through the cracked windows, I wandered the dim corridors of the mansion, compelled by an uneasy intuition. The house seemed to breathe around me, the walls whispering secrets long buried. I carried only a candle, its flickering flame casting distorted shadows that danced and warped across the faded wallpaper.
As I moved deeper into the west wing—a section of the house I had hitherto avoided—I noticed a peculiar draft of cold air seeping through the cracks of a seemingly solid wall. Curious and unnerved, I pressed my hand along the panels until my fingers traced the faint outline of a hidden door. With some effort, I found the latch, and the panel creaked open to reveal a narrow, winding staircase descending into darkness.
The air was damp and stale, thick with the scent of mold and decay. Each step I took echoed hollowly, as though the house itself was swallowing the sound. My candle quivered, as if it too feared to trespass further. I descended cautiously, my pulse quickening, until I reached a low-ceilinged chamber illuminated faintly by the moonlight seeping through tiny cracks in the walls.
In the center of the room was an ancient writing desk, cluttered with yellowed papers and a tarnished oil lamp. I sifted through the brittle documents, my eyes widening as I deciphered Mr. Allan’s unmistakable handwriting. These were letters—fragments of correspondence to unknown recipients—detailing his morbid fascination with death and power, and hints of occult rituals that, he claimed, tethered his soul to the mansion long after his supposed death.
One letter stood out, its ink darker and fresher than the rest:
"To whom it may concern: should fate lead my bloodline to stumble upon these words, know that you are but a pawn in a grander design. This house—my eternal sanctuary—shall never belong to you, for it is cursed by my own volition. You, like the others before you, shall succumb to its will. And I shall rise again."
My blood ran cold. I stepped back, heart pounding, and in that instant, the room seemed to shift. A groaning noise rumbled from the walls, and a frigid gust extinguished my candle, plunging me into complete darkness. I fumbled, my breath shallow, the sound of whispers growing louder—more urgent—as if the same souls of the damned were stirring in their slumber.
Driven by restless compulsion, I entered the study—a somber, wood-paneled room lined with cracked leather-bound tomes. My eyes were drawn again and again to the massive portrait that hung above the fireplace: Benjamin Allan himself, painted in grim tones, his eyes dark pits that seemed to follow my every move. In the firelight, his expression twisted subtly, or so my fevered mind believed—his smile deepening into a sneer.
Suddenly, a sharp sound—like a chair scraping against the floor upstairs—snapped my head around. My breath caught. The house fell silent again, but the damage was done. I could no longer ignore the pull of dread. Lantern in hand, I mounted the grand staircase, each step an echo of my thudding heart.
At the top, the corridor stretched ahead like a yawning throat. The door to the master bedroom—the room where Mr. Allan had once resided—stood ajar, swaying slightly on its hinges. A draft breathed out from the darkened room, carrying with it the scent of mildew and something fouler…something metallic, like blood.
I hesitated, my hand trembling as I pushed the door open. The room was thick with shadow, but as I raised my lantern, I saw the furniture covered in dusty white sheets, their shapes like the shrouded dead. The bed, massive and mahogany, was stripped bare save for a moth-eaten blanket. But what struck me most was the mirror—the towering glass that faced the bed—cracked down its center as though something had hurled itself against it.
I stepped forward, unable to resist the mirror’s pull, and as I stared into it, my reflection wavered. For an instant, I saw not myself, but the fainting image of Mr. Allan—his hollow eyes staring back at me, lips moving in silent mockery. I recoiled in horror, my lantern shaking wildly, its flame flickering dangerously close to extinguishing.
Then, the whispering began again—soft at first, like a lover’s murmur, but growing insistent. It seemed to seep from the walls, from the floor beneath me, from within my own skull. I turned, disoriented, and saw that the closet door beside the bed was slightly ajar.
Something compelled me—I know not what force—to approach it. I swung the door open, half-expecting some monstrous form to leap out. But inside was only darkness… and the faintest glimmer of something metallic. I reached in and grasped it: a small, rusted key.
A sudden crash from downstairs shattered the spell. I bolted from the room, clutching the key, my footsteps loud and frantic on the creaking stairs. When I reached the bottom floor, my lantern’s beam cut through the gloom to reveal the front door, now inexplicably wide open, though I had locked it myself earlier. The night air poured in cold and sharp, and with it, a deep, guttural groan—no human voice, but something ancient, something that reverberated through the marrow of my bones.
I slammed the door shut, securing the bolt, and sank against it, heart hammering. The key trembled in my hand. What did it unlock? And why had it been hidden away for all these years?
Thus, I awaited Mr. Landon’s visit with great anticipation. When we spoke, he informed me that Mr. Crane had requested my presence at the house. Apparently, Mr. Crane was unaware of my damaging implication in Mr. Bowers’ death. Though the evidence against me was incriminating, my alibi was solid. Mr. Landon, seeing my obvious unease, suggested I remain vigilant at all times.
When I inquired about the reason, he merely stated that the killer of Mr. Bowers was still at large, roaming the community of Amherst. I felt deeply unsettled by that ominous possibility. Two days had elapsed, and still, there was no evidence revealing the culprit’s identity. I had been awaiting Mr. Landon’s arrival; all while being closely watched by the police as they conducted their thorough investigation.
I, on the other hand, had been trying to understand the motive behind the murder. All I could deduce was the calculated method employed by the murderer, who showed no mercy in his execution. How was this murder connected to the Allan Estate in the end? Who stood to gain from my misfortune? I knew of no actual enemy or hostile figure who wished me harm. Thus, the clues were sparse and inconclusive—hardly enough to build a solid case or even form a basic argument.
While I was observing the recent alterations to the mansion, I heard a door creak open. It was one of the upper rooms. I moved toward it and entered. I assumed it was Mr. Landon, who had perhaps arrived unnoticed. I called out his name, but there was no response.
Suddenly, I caught sight of a shocking scene—Mr. Landon lying dead on the floor. I was immediately horrified by the grisly sight. He had been stabbed to death, blood scattered everywhere. I knew that if the police found his body with me present in the house, they would undoubtedly accuse me of his murder. I had to react quickly and with great caution.
As I stood in the middle of the room, I noticed the chandeliers swaying, and I realized that someone else had been in the house recently. What if that person was still inside—and worse, the cold-blooded murderer? I didn’t have to wait long. There was a knock at the front door, and there stood a gangly fellow. It was Mr. Crane, who had appeared unannounced. He apologized for not informing me about his untimely visit and seemed to sense my unnerved demeanor, though I greeted him as genially as I could.
I struggled to conceal my obvious fear of Mr. Crane discovering Mr. Landon’s body upstairs. I hadn’t had enough time to think of what to do. Mr. Crane, a man of calm disposition, insisted on seeing the interior of the Victorian mansion.
I hesitated, and he asked if I was lost in thought or distracted. For a brief moment, I was. But my quick instincts kicked in, and I responded rationally. Once inside, I led him around the house, showing off the impressive renovations. It was a macabre situation, considering poor Mr. Landon lay dead upstairs. The ambiguous nature of the two murders seemed part of a larger, depraved scheme. Mr. Crane’s expression didn’t betray any suspicion—at least, I presumed so. Of course, the dead body upstairs was undeniable proof of a crime.
We were in the foyer when blood suddenly began dripping from the staircase above, followed by a loud, eerie moan. Panic seized me. I feared that Mr. Landon was not dead after all. The noise sounded like the tortured groan of a dying man. I knew that if I let Mr. Crane ascend the stairs, he would surely find Mr. Landon. I had to act fast. I grabbed a brass antique and struck Mr. Crane on the head.
He collapsed to the floor, motionless, and I wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead. My panic soon turned into utter desperation when I heard another knock at the door and recognized the unmistakable voices of policemen calling my name. I couldn’t tell if madness had taken hold of me, or if I was simply caught in a web of rash, impetuous decisions.
Either way, I was doomed if the police discovered Mr. Landon’s body. Leaving Mr. Crane behind in the foyer, I rushed to the front door. I had mere seconds to compose myself before opening it. The police entered immediately and began questioning me about Mr. Landon’s whereabouts. According to them, he had been reported missing and was last seen entering the Allan Estate by a witness. Events were spiraling out of control. I understood the precariousness of my situation but knew I couldn’t let them arrest me for crimes I hadn’t committed.
I had no choice but to comply. Sweat poured down my face and palms, something the police noticed as they grew more suspicious of my strange behavior. They asked for permission to search the house, and I had no choice but to agree.
I couldn’t take down three police officers, though my instinct for self-preservation was overwhelming. I had never considered murder, but my fear was becoming unmanageable. In the end, I suppressed that unthinkable urge and allowed them to investigate. I trembled in sheer fright, the eerie whistle of the wind echoing from outside.
When they passed through the foyer, there was no trace of Mr. Crane. He had vanished without a trace. Then, they glanced up at the upper rooms and began to climb the staircase, walking through the adjacent corridor. They examined each room and found nothing.
Soon, they would reach the room where Mr. Landon’s body lay. This was the moment I had dreaded most. They found him, unmoving on the floor. This time, there was no doubt—he was dead.
In one of his waistcoat pockets, they discovered a piece of paper with a chilling message: “Beware of Mr. Crane. He is not who you think he is. He is the real murderer—Mr. Benjamin Allan in the flesh.”
If true, this was almost unbelievable. Mr. Allan had long been accused of evil deeds. Were the groans I’d heard the dying cries of other hidden victims in this deadly game? Where in God’s name was Mr. Crane—or whoever he truly was? Was he still in the house? Had he escaped?
The police tried to use the telephone, but the line was dead. The cables had been cut from both inside and outside—clearly the work of the murderer. Who was this fiend? The police began to suspect my involvement in Mr. Landon’s death and pressed me for an explanation. The circumstances and apparent motive pointed directly at me. I couldn’t hide my frantic thoughts; my state of mind was all too visible.
I was so nervous that I stammered incoherently, trying to explain my innocence. They didn’t seem convinced and assumed I was complicit in Mr. Landon’s murder. They asked if anyone else was in the house, and I told them no one.
I couldn’t bring myself to mention Mr. Crane, even though he was likely the murderer. That would only worsen my predicament. Just as I thought I was about to be arrested and taken in for questioning, Mr. Crane entered the room, holding a hunting rifle. Without saying a word, he opened fire on the police before they could react.
The officers fell dead to the floor—a horrific, blood-soaked scene of utter chaos. I was the only one left alive. Mr. Crane’s graceless smile reflected a chilling misanthropy. After slaughtering the police in cold blood, he pointed the hunting rifle at me and, with derisive words, revealed his deranged contempt.
"Come now, Mr. Poe! You should not regret their deaths, for they died deservedly, seeking what they ought not have sought!"
"Who are you really? Am I to assume you are Mr. Benjamin Allan, returned from the dead?"
"Indeed, I am Mr. Allan, reincarnated in flesh and bone! I must commend you and Mr. Landon for the marvelous refurbishments done to the house. I detest that I had to permit its total deterioration and obsolescence, but that was beyond my control."
"Why did you do all this? For what reason?"
"It is a long story, but I shall relate the essential details. You see, Mr. Poe, I have been planning this concoction—if you wish to call it that—for some time. My greatest difficulty was finding a relative I could trust. I could not place my trust in the other idiots of our family, for they are nothing more than greedy leeches, who would sell their souls to the Devil, as I myself have done in the grander scheme of my intent. I employed a distractive measure of dissimulation to accentuate my deceit. How else could I actuate such a masterful plan?"
"You used me as your sacrificial accomplice. The inheritance was merely bait to lure me into your trap and mansion."
"Exactly. And everything developed according to my plan and wise consideration."
"Why allow the sale of the mansion? And why did you murder Mr. Bowers and Mr. Landon?"
"If you must know, first—the sale of the property was but a peerless diversion. I had already accrued my fortune through an inheritance of my own. My father was a naive man who worshipped his children; I suppose that was his greatest flaw, which led to his sudden downfall. As for your other question: I killed Mr. Bowers because I could not allow him to disrupt my plan. Moreover, he was an intolerable lout who had to be silenced. As for Mr. Landon, I regret his death, for he was a man of distinction and a dedicated employee of the family. I was inside the home upstairs when he discovered my presence. Naturally, I could not permit him to ruin my plan. Thus, I had to eliminate him."
"Why did you disappear all these years? And what now? Am I to be your next victim?"
"You could say I took a sabbatical to pursue other activities outside of Amherst. Verily, the rumors of my demise were exaggerated, a belittling premise of futility. As for what is to happen to you—you have two choices. Either you kill yourself and it shall be deemed a suicide, or I will kill you myself. I do so enjoy the thrill of murder."
He let out a guttural laugh and pointed the rifle at me, finger tightening on the trigger, when suddenly we heard a pounding on the door leading to the cellar below. The chandelier began to sway side to side, and the shutters clattered violently. The lamplights dimmed, and we heard the chilling voices of the dead echoing around us.
His grotesque sense of gratification faded. He ordered me, in a cutting, gruff tone, to walk toward the cellar door, the rifle pressing into my back. We descended the staircase, heading toward the door. The thousand voices of trapped spirits grew louder, their sorrowful wails reverberating within the cellar walls.
As we approached, a rapid gust of wind burst through the windows, making us flinch. Mr. Allan gnashed his teeth in anxious rage at the unwelcome intrusion of vagarious souls. He ordered me back upstairs, and I obeyed, climbing the staircase. But then, with a force beyond comprehension, the door to the cellar burst open, and spectral shapes—eidolons of terror—rose from the old graveyard.
They began to seep out of the walls, now dripping with thick, pouring blood. As we struggled up the staircase, Mr. Allan's eyes widened with abject horror. He recognized the malignant souls that now pursued him with merciless intent.
Panicked, he lurched backward, trying to escape, but lost his footing. With a sickening crack, he tumbled down the staircase and broke his neck, dying instantly. The agency of retribution had claimed his soul, holding him accountable for his spree of murder.
The spirits, vitreous and indistinct, were terrifying in their ethereal form. I recoiled, dread gripping my heart, expecting my own demise. But my extirpation did not come. Instead, with Allan’s death, the horrific eidolons were finally liberated.
One by one, they disappeared into the gusting wind, vanishing before the shimmering twilight. Within a minute, a muffled calm overtook the room, erasing the ghastly sounds that had filled it moments before. The blood evaporated, and the nightmare was over.
In the end, I was exonerated of all suspicion, as instrumental evidence surfaced, revealing Allan’s malevolent acts. He had evaded justice in life, but not the inexorable judgment of death. His despotic nature, his lust for murder, could not placate his careless whims or shield him from retribution. Though he avoided earthly detention, his sins were never forgiven, his abasement eternal.
I suppose my only guilt was the gullibility of accepting a gracious inheritance from a man I scarcely knew, bound only by distant ties of blood. I never fully comprehended the true nature of the inscrutable phenomenon that occurred within that Victorian house.
Perhaps it would have been better had I refused the inheritance outright, never stepping into that shadowed realm of horror. The ghosts, I believe, were a confluence of innumerable souls from the forgotten graveyard beneath the mansion.
Had I known of the prescient warnings, the evil festering in Amherst, I would never have concealed the truth from myself. My fond days of innocent reverie would have remained unspoiled. But now, the effacement of that ghastly memory troubles my waking dreams forever.
It had been weeks since that harrowing night, yet the chill of its memory clung to me with tenacious grip. I had returned to my modest home in Baltimore, far removed from the cursed estate in Amherst, but peace eluded me. Every corner of my room seemed to hold a whisper of what I had seen, each shadow lengthening with quiet menace when dusk fell.
The newspapers had sensationalized the tragedy—“Bizarre Inheritance Ends in Bloodbath!”—while the authorities, convinced by the mountain of evidence left behind, had closed the case with clinical precision. The mansion itself was sealed, boarded up by order of the town council, and the townsfolk, ever prone to superstition, avoided its vicinity as though it were a leper’s tomb.
But for me, there was no sealing away the nightmares.
One evening, driven by a compulsion I could neither name nor resist, I found myself poring over the old letters and papers I had recovered from Mr. Allan’s desk—papers I had brought with me in a futile attempt to make sense of it all. Among them was the will that had lured me into his trap, its elegant script mocking my gullibility. My eyes drifted to the curious brass key I had pocketed that terrible night. It lay now atop my writing desk, cold and inert, yet somehow still pulsing with mystery.
What lock had it meant to open? What secret had Mr. Allan hidden even from himself?
Sleep was impossible, and so, in the oppressive quiet of midnight, I made a decision that would haunt me for the rest of my days. I wrote a detailed account of my experience, sealing it in an envelope alongside the key, and addressed it to a colleague I trusted—a man of reason and discretion. Then I set out to walk the dim streets of Baltimore, hoping the cool air might cleanse my restless mind.
The city slept uneasily beneath a shroud of low-hanging mist. Gas lamps flickered along the cobbled lanes, their glow like wraiths trapped in glass. As I wandered, my steps echoing hollowly, I became aware of a figure moving parallel to me across the street—a silhouette tall and gaunt, familiar in its rigid bearing.
I halted, my breath catching. The figure halted too.
Heart pounding, I stepped into the middle of the road, peering through the gloom. The figure took a step forward, and the light caught its face—pale, sunken, eyes black as pitch.
Benjamin Allan.
A strangled cry escaped my lips. I stumbled backward, but when I blinked, the apparition was gone, leaving only the mist swirling in its wake.
I returned to my home, pondering the recent occurrence. Hours passed before dawn finally seeped through the windows, pale and unfeeling. But in that dreadful silence, I came to understand a chilling truth: the curse of Amherst had not died with Mr. Allan. Some sins, I realized, are too great to be buried. Some spirits, once awakened, do not sleep again.
And as I sit here now, penning these omninous words by the dim glow of a flickering lamp, I can feel it—something watching from the dark corner of the room, waiting with endless patience.
The story is not over.
It has only just begun, and I am one of the main characters.
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