Exactly 205 years ago, the most "gloomy" representative of American romanticism, writer Edgar Allan Poe, was born. Every year on this day, crowds of people gather at his grave in Baltimore to watch a strange ritual performed by a secret admirer of the writer: a figure dressed all in black, with a cane adorned with a black head, appears in the cemetery, makes a toast and leaves, leaving three red roses and an open bottle of Hennessy cognac. This tradition only emphasizes the mystery of the creative and life path Edgar Allan Poe, which is reflected in almost every one of his literary work.

"RG" chose the darkest and creepiest plots of the American writer.

premature funeral

The main part of the story is preceded by a few small stories about cases when people were buried alive, considering them dead, although they were in a deep unconsciousness, coma or stupor. One of them tells about a woman who, having fallen ill with an illness that was not solved by doctors, soon died. At least, that's what everyone decided, because in three days her body became stiff and even began to decompose. The woman was buried in the family vault, and three years later her husband discovered her skeleton. But he was not in a coffin, but stood right next to the entrance.

The hero of the story is ill with catalepsy, when the state of deep lethargy can last from a couple of days to several weeks. He is haunted by the fear of being buried alive. Once, during one of the trances, the hero is overcome by a terrible vision: a demon appears to him, lifts him out of bed, opens the graves in front of him and shows the torment of those buried alive. Impressed by the horror he saw, the narrator decides to prepare a family crypt in case he is nevertheless buried. He stocks up on food and arranges everything so that the coffin can be easily opened. However, after some time, he wakes up not at all in the family crypt. He decides that he was buried and starts screaming. Men who turn out to be sailors come running to the screams: the hero was not buried at all, he just dozed off in the boat. After this incident, the narrator decides to put delusional thoughts about death out of his head and live "like a human being."

Murder in the Rue Morgue

One night, the peaceful sleep of the inhabitants living in the area of ​​the Rue Morgue was disturbed by heart-rending cries. They came from the house of Madame L'Espane, who lived with her daughter Camille. When the bedroom door was broken, people retreated in horror - the furniture was broken, gray strands stuck to the floor. long hair. Later, the mutilated corpse of Camille was found in the chimney, and the body of Madame L'Espane herself was found in the courtyard. Her head was cut off with a razor. The mysterious and brutal murder of a widow and her daughter baffles the police in Paris. Monsieur Dupin, a man with unusually developed analytical abilities, comes to the aid of the policemen. He draws attention to three circumstances: the peculiar, "inhuman" voice of one of the criminals, which witnesses heard, the door closed from the inside and the gold of the deceased untouched by the killers. In addition, the criminals had incredible strength, since they managed to push the body into the pipe, and even from the bottom up. The hairs extracted from Madame L'Espanay's clenched hand and the prints of the "fingers" on her neck convinced Dupin that only a giant ape could be the killer. Later it turned out that the killer, indeed, was an escaped orangutan.

Morella

The narrator is married to Morella, a woman who has access to the "forbidden pages" of mysticism. As a result of her experiments, she ensured that her soul never leaves the material world, but continues to exist in the body of the daughter she gives birth to before her death. Morella spends time in bed and teaches her husband the "black arts". Realizing the danger posed by his wife, the narrator is horrified and passionately wishes her death and eternal rest. His wish is granted, but at the moment of death, Morella gives birth to a daughter.

The widower keeps his daughter under lock and key, does not show her to anyone, does not even give her a name. The daughter grows up and the father realizes in fear that she is an exact copy of her mother. However, he loves his daughter as much as he hated his wife. By the age of ten, the resemblance of the girl to the deceased Morella becomes unbearable, and the signs that evil lives in her are undeniable. The father decides to baptize her in order to expel evil from her. During the ceremony, the priest asks the narrator what name he wants to name his daughter, and the name "Morella" flies from his lips, against his will. Daughter exclaiming "I'm here!" falls dead. The father takes his daughter's body to the family crypt and does not find the remains of her mother there.

Devil on the belfry

Quiet and calm town of Shkolkofremen. Life here goes slowly and measuredly, according to a long-established routine. Cabbage and watches form the basis of the love and pride of the burghers. And suddenly, five minutes before noon, a young stranger appeared on the horizon, for whom these few minutes were enough to break all the foundations of the town and the clock struck thirteen instead of twelve.

And the unimaginable began: “all the cabbage heads turned red, and it seemed that the unclean one himself moved into everything that looked like a clock. The clock carved on the furniture danced as if possessed; they twitched and twitched so much that it was terrible to look at. But even worse, neither cats nor pigs could put up with the behavior of watches tied to their tails, and expressed their indignation at the fact that they rushed about, scratched, stuck their snouts everywhere, squealed and squealing and meowing and grunting and throwing themselves in people's faces and getting under skirts - in short, they made the most disgusting hubbub and confusion that any sane person can imagine. From time to time, the bastard could be seen through the clouds of smoke. He was sitting in the tower on a caretaker who fell backwards. In his teeth, the villain held the bell rope, which he pulled, shaking his head. "

Fall of the House of Usher

Roderick Asher, the last offspring of an ancient family, invites a friend of his youth to visit him and stay in the family castle on the shores of a gloomy lake. Lady Madeleine, Roderick's sister is seriously and hopelessly ill, her days are numbered and even the arrival of a friend is not able to dispel Usher's sadness.

After Madeleine's death, one of the castle's dungeons is chosen as the place of her temporary burial. For several days Roderick was in turmoil, until a storm broke out in the night and a monstrous circumstance was revealed. The narrator cannot fall asleep for a long time because of the fears that overcome him in a dark room and torment over the deplorable state of his friend. Suddenly, Asher comes into his room with a lantern in his hands and the hero notes "some kind of crazy gaiety" in his eyes. To calm his friend, he decides to entertain him with Lancelot Canning's book "Crazy Sadness", but the choice turns out to be unsuccessful. All the noises described in the book, the characters hear in reality. After another noise, the narrator breaks down and runs up to his friend, who is already mumbling something in unconsciousness. From the incoherent story of a madman, the hero learns that his friend's sister was alive when she was buried. Asher noticed how she moved in the coffin, but hid this fact from everyone. Suddenly Madeleine appears on the threshold, she hugs her brother and takes him to the world of the dead.

Mask of the Red Death

Prince Prospero, with a thousand close associates during the epidemic, hides in a closed monastery, leaving his subjects to their fate. The monastery is provided for and isolated for everyone, so they can not be afraid of infection. The masquerade ball arranged by the prince is so magnificent that its luxury is reflected in everything: in music, in masks, in drinks and exquisite decoration of rooms decorated with expensive velvet of different colors. Every time the clock strikes the time, the guests stop and the music stops. When the hours subside, the fun continues again. So it happened when the clock struck twelve, but this time, everyone was seized by some kind of incomprehensible alarm. At the ball, a mask appeared that no one had noticed before, the mask of the Red Death. Everyone mistook the unusual guest for a joker. The prince, enraged by the impudence of the stranger, orders to seize him, but no one dares to approach him, while the mysterious mask moves towards the prince with a decisive step. The ruler decides to seize the violator himself and rushes at him with a dagger. However, when he is right next to the stranger, he drops dead. Everyone understands that this is not a mask at all, but the Red Death itself, which came to the ball. One by one, the guests began to die, and "Darkness, Doom and the Red Death reigned supreme over everything."

Berenice

One of Edgar Allan Poe's most frequent plots, based in part on his own life, a young man, Aegeus, is in love with his cousin Berenice, who has frequent epileptic seizures, ending in a trance almost indistinguishable from death. But not only the beloved is sick, Aegeus himself is also sick. The hero calls the mental illness monomania, which makes him understand the little things with manic greed, takes possession of his mind. Once Berenice was beautiful and loved her cousin, but he fell in love with her only now, when she has changed beyond recognition. They - two mentally ill young people - decide to get married. But on the eve of the wedding, a terrible thing happens: the maid finds the body of the hero's future wife. On the night after the funeral, the young man is left alone in his library and tries to remember the few hours of his life that were seemingly erased from memory. He remembered how they buried his beloved, how he went to the house, but what happened after remained a mystery. Finally, a servant broke into him and began to shout about an unheard-of atrocity: someone dug up the grave of Berenice, who turned out to be alive, and mutilated her beyond recognition. The servant brings Aegeus to the mirror, and he realizes with horror that it was he who disfigured his bride: his shirt was stained with blood, and on the table was a box with his bride's snow-white teeth (the thought that they were flawless pursued the madman).

scary stories Edgar Allan Poe

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Title: Scary stories

About Scary Tales by Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Poe is one of the most famous writers in the genre of psychological prose and modern detective story. His irrationality, mysticism and sense of doom, which are filled with books, shape the mood of the reader. And Scary Stories is a great example of that. This is a collection of eight enough short stories which, nevertheless, leave an incredible and significant imprint in the mind of the reader. "The Great Madman" - that was the name of Edgar Alan Poe, and his work is perceived as such an unusual one.

The book "Scary Tales" in its new manifestation and with illustrations appeared thanks to the work of the famous French artist Benjamin Lacombe. This is a talented illustrator who received recognition even before the design of the collection of works. And thanks to his work on the book Cherry and Olive, the Times even called him one of the best illustrators of our time. According to the artist himself, he was very lucky to come up with illustrations for such a work by a writer like Edgar Allan Poe, because he was Benjamin's childhood favorite.

The collection "Scary Stories" includes the most read of the works of the American author. These are such stories as: "The Black Cat", "Morella", "Fairy Island", "The Fall of the House of Usher" and others. The book is designed in the original style: the stories are written in turn on white paper in black ink, then on black paper in white ink. And each work is accompanied by unique drawings illustrating what was written. Thanks to this design, Edgar Poe is read with even greater pleasure. At the end of the book Scary Tales is printed an article about the life of Edgar Allan Poe, which was once written by Charles Baudelaire. It is located on a gray background, which gives the work a darker look.

Each story is unique and unrepeatable in its own way. It reveals the complex problems of society and individuals, showing their fears and desires. What is a person capable of who is betrayed by the purity of consciousness? How can one drink change the understanding of reality and awaken the desire to act? What happens if the glass turns into a bottle? Each story of the writer is incredibly realistic images that are drawn to the reader with the help of letters and sentences.

On our site about books, you can download the site for free without registration or read online book Scary Tales by Edgar Allan Poe in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. Buy full version you can have our partner. Also, here you will find last news from literary world, find out the biography of your favorite authors. For beginner writers there is a separate section with useful tips and recommendations interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary skills.

Hi all! Today I will tell you about the reasons that prompted me to finish reading the stories of Edgar Allan Poe ahead of time. I picked up his "Stories", read half of the book and decided to end this torment. True to my word, writing small reviews of the books I read this year, I could not just take it and not speak out about this. Therefore, a review of the work of this writer on our air.

Before starting my story, I note that I am subjective. I write about what I read and do not pretend to be the truth. Sometimes I get things that others dislike. Sometimes I am disgusted with popular works and I can not understand what the readers found in them.

I always say that it is better to read this or that author on your own in order to draw personal conclusions, and not focus on me as the only possible authority. I will be glad if my small notes will serve as a kind of guideline and an answer to the question “What to read?”. I will be no less glad if your opinion is formed after a personal acquaintance with this or that book.

Edgar Poe "Stories" - review

Let's talk about the work of Edgar Allan Poe. Before reading his "Stories", I decided to read a little about the author himself. It turned out that Jules Verne, Howard Lovecraft and Arthur Conan Doyle admired the scary stories of Edgar Allan Poe. Edgar Allan Poe is the founder and " godfather» such genres as detective and mysticism. During his lifetime, he tried to earn his living only with a "pen", which turned out to be rather weak. As a result, he drowned financial problems in alcohol, and judging by his work, he sometimes smoked opium. In a word, such an uncle is normal when you read a description of his life and work. Didn't do anything wrong, didn't go crazy. Quite a decent writer from the 19th century.

Pick up a book and start reading. I will refrain from retelling the content of it short stories(there are 5-7 pages each), but after the first works it began to seem to me that I was pushing through some kind of thorny incomprehensible bush. I walk, words cling to me, I want to get rid of them, but they are somehow sticky. Sticky as hell. You read and read, and in the end you realize that you are rereading a paragraph of text, and you cannot move on.

When you gather your attention into a fist and master a paragraph of text, you seem to be able to take a few steps in the thicket of meaning. Then you move with even greater effort, and after a while you begin to think about when the end of this work. When you reach the final, you think - what was it?

If we return to our image of the thorny bush, it will be like you are walking through the forest, pushing your way through the undergrowth. There is nothing in the hands. You are breaking through the branches, you are tired and you are exhausted. And then the end of your path is shown and you think that you have reached your goal. Go out to the clearing, and there is a wall. And that's it. There is nothing more. You think “How is there nothing? What a dead end? But no one gives you an answer. You don’t understand at all what you forgot here and why you went down this path. Here is such a misunderstanding.

In general, this story reflects my attitude towards Poe's stories. You read mystical scary stories with absolutely no idea what a weak ending.

Something I could not resist and still decided to tell about one of the stories. Don't worry, Po wrote more than 70 pieces in his lifetime, so you will have something to read from this author.

A free retelling of one of Edgar Allan Poe's stories "The Plague King"

Two sailors are drinking in a bar. One says to the other that they have already drunk on the most unindulgent, and that it's time to get out of here. I didn't pay. They get up and run out of the barevicha. They are in pursuit. They reach the part of the city where the outpost stands. Behind the outpost there is a plague area, a retricted area and all that. jump over the wall, and find themselves in an abandoned city of the dead. They run through the streets where people who died from the plague are lying around, and as a result, they run into an abandoned building where the light is on.

There are several people in the building strange looking and drink alcohol. The sailors were frightened at first, then they got used to it and began to drink with them. Glass after glass, word for word, a scuffle breaks out. Sailors give cunts to everyone present, except for the women. Bab grab under the arm and run away. End.

And here is such a leapfrog in every story. You read and think about why such simple stories it was written in such abstruse language. Maybe I'm spoiled modern culture and I find creativity outdated and uninteresting to my time. It may be that for his time he was an innovator and his contemporaries found his stories something fresh and newfangled, and after some time they said that he was a classic of mysticism and a man with an extraordinary imagination.

When I read Poe's stories, the thought came to my mind that he writes in great detail. The devil, as usual, is in the details. It is they who are painted very scrupulously, sometimes busting happens with this, because instead of the full picture, you read about particulars that do not advance you in the course of the story. It is this treading on the spot that makes Poe's prose very viscous and viscous, like a nightmare. I experienced something similar when .

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In a word, I did not master it. Honestly. It's been a long time since I've put a book down until I've read it. But this is beyond my strength, and I could not rape myself in the brain to the end. If you have read Poe's Tales and you can write something positive - light it in the comments, I will be glad to read your feedback.

Find Edgar Allan Poe's Scary Stories here:

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Mountain peaks doze; valleys, rocks and caves are silent.

“Listen to me,” said the Devil, putting his hand on my head. - The country I'm talking about is a desert region in Libya, along the banks of the Zaire River. And there is no peace, no silence.

The waters of the river are of an unhealthy saffron color, and do not flow into the sea, but eternally tremble under the fiery eye of the sun in restless and convulsive motion. For miles on either side of the muddy river bed stretched a pale desert of gigantic water lilies. They sigh in this desert, stretching their long ghostly necks to the sky and shaking their undying heads. An indistinct whisper is heard among them, like the murmur of underground waters. And they exchange breaths.

But there is also a border to their kingdom - a dense, terrible, high forest. There, like waves around the Hebrides, low bushes are forever swaying. But there is no wind in the sky. And the huge primeval trees are forever swaying with a formidable creak and rumble. And from their peaks the eternal dew oozes drop by drop. And at their roots, strange poisonous flowers intertwine in a disturbing dream. And in the heights with noise and whistling gray clouds rush to the west, falling like a waterfall over the fiery vault of the horizon. But there is no wind in the sky. And on the banks of the river Zaire there is neither peace nor silence.

It was night and it was raining; and when it fell it remained rain, but when it fell it became blood. And I stood in the swamp among the white lilies, and the rain fell on my head, and the lilies exchanged sighs in the joyless grandeur of their despair.

And suddenly the moon rose in a thin ghostly mist, and its color was crimson. And my gaze fell on a high gray rock that stood on the bank of the river and was illuminated by moonlight. And the rock was gray, and transparent, and huge - and the rock was gray. Letters were carved on her forehead, and I passed through the bog, reached the bank of the river, and stopped under a rock to read the inscription on the stone. But I couldn't make out the inscriptions. And I wanted to return to the swamp, but the moon flashed a bright crimson, and I turned around and looked again at the rock and at the inscription; - and the inscription was: despair.

And I looked up and saw a man on top of a rock, and hid among the water lilies to watch him. And he was tall and slender, and from neck to toe wrapped in a toga ancient rome. And his features were unclear, but they were divine features, because the cover of night and fog, and the moon, and dew could not hide his features. And his forehead was high and imprinted with thought, and his eyes were full of anxiety; and in the few wrinkles on his face I read a tale of sorrow, and fatigue, and disgust for humanity, and a thirst for solitude.

And the man sat on a rock, his head on his hand, and looked at the picture of the bleak. He looked down at the restless bushes, and up at the great primeval trees, and still higher at the noisy sky and crimson moon. And I lay under the cover of lilies and followed the movements of a person. And the man trembled alone, but the night was waning, and he was still sitting on the rock.

And the man averted his gaze from the sky and looked at the gloomy river Zaire, and at its yellow sinister waters, and at the pale legions of water lilies. And the man listened to the sighs of the water lilies and to their quiet murmur. And I lay in my shelter and watched the actions of a person. And the man trembled alone; but the night was waning, and he still sat on the rock.

Then I went into the depths of the swamps, and passed through the thicket of lilies, and called the hippos that lived in the bogs, in the depths of the swamps. And the hippos heard my call, and came to the foot of the rock, and roared loudly and terribly in the moonlight. And I lay in my shelter and watched the actions of a person. And the man trembled alone; but the night was waning, and he still sat on the rock.

Then I cursed the elements with a curse of confusion; and a terrible storm broke out in the heavens where there had been no wind before. And the skies turned black from the fury of the storm, and the rain lashed the man, and the waters of the river overflowed their banks, and the river foamed, disturbed by the storm, and the water lilies groaned on their bed, and the forest crackled under the pressure of the wind, and thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed, and the rock shook to its very foundations. And I lay in my shelter and watched the actions of a person. And the man trembled alone; but the night was waning, and he still sat on the rock.

Then I became furious and cursed the river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the sky, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water lilies, cursed them with a curse: silence. And they became cursed, and fell silent. And the moon stopped making its way across the sky, and the thunder stopped, and the lightning died out, and the clouds hung motionless, and the waters, returning to their bed, stopped, and the trees did not sway anymore, and the lilies did not sigh, and their murmur was not heard, and not a shadow of a sound was heard in the wide, boundless desert. And I looked at the inscription on the rock, and it changed, and there was this inscription: silence.

And my eyes fell upon the face of the man, and his face was pale with terror. And he raised his head quickly, and straightened up on the rock, and listened. But not a single sound was heard in the boundless desert, and the inscription on the rock was silence. And the man trembled, and turned away his face, and ran away so hastily that I never saw him again.

Yes many beautiful fairy tales in books written by Magi, in sad iron-bound books written by Magi. There, I say, are wonderful stories of Heaven and Earth and the mighty sea and Geniuses, ruling the sea and the earth and the high sky. And there was much wisdom in the sayings of the sibyls; and holy, holy secrets were heard by antiquity in the trembling of the leaves around Dodona, but, by Allah, the tale told to me by the Devil, when he sat with me in the shade of the tomb, I consider the most wonderful of all. And having finished his tale, the Devil leaned back into the deepening of the tomb and laughed. And I couldn't laugh with the Devil, and he cursed me for not being able to laugh. And the lynx, which always lives in the tomb, came out from there, and lay down at the feet of the Devil and looked into his eyes.

Qui n "a plus qu" un moment a vivre,

N "a plus rieu a dissimulator.

Quinault-Atys.

Who has a moment to live

He won't hide anything.

Philip Kino "Atis"

It is not worth talking about my homeland and family. Human injustice and the cycle of time forced me to part with the first and stop intercourse with the second. The hereditary condition enabled me to receive an exceptional education, and the contemplative mentality helped to put in order the knowledge acquired by diligent study. Most of all I was fascinated by the works of the German philosophers; not because I admired their eloquent madness - no, it gave me great pleasure to notice and expose their weaknesses, in which the habit of strict critical thinking helped me. My genius has often been reproached for being dry; I was reproached for lack of imagination; and I have always been famous for my Pyrrhonian mentality. Indeed, my extreme predilection for the exact sciences made me fall into a mistake, quite common at this age: I mean the tendency to subsume all kinds of phenomena, even those that are decidedly irreducible, under the laws of the exact sciences. In general, I, less than anyone, was able to exchange the strict data of truth for the ignesfatuos of superstition. I say this because my story will seem to others rather a dream of a sick imagination than an account of a real incident with a person for whom the dreams of imagination have always been a dead letter or nothing.

After spending several years traveling, I set off in 18 ... from the port of Batavia, on the rich and populous island of Java, to the Sund archipelago. I was traveling as a passenger, impelled by some morbid restlessness that had long haunted me.

Our ship was a fine vessel of four hundred tons, with copper braces, built in Bombay from Malabar tack wood. He was carrying a load of cotton and oil from the Lakedive Islands, plus a supply of coconut flakes, coconuts, and several cases of opium. Due to careless loading, the ship was very swathed.

I don't like horror movies at all, all those ghosts that suddenly appear, creepy howls, crazy laughter, etc. not touched at all. Yes, of course, I'm scared, but I don't get pleasure at all. But I really like to tickle my nerves with subtle hints of horror. To experience not fear, but rather a premonition, a feeling of something coming and terrible, something that chains to the place, and you find yourself like in a dream: it seems like you want to run, but you can’t.
Edgar Allan Poe is simply a master of just such "intimidating", scary stories. The pages of the book are not full of blood, dismembered bodies, maniacs, but, nevertheless, chilling horror emanates from them.
Of course, it will be difficult to scare a modern reader, tempted by the work of the King of Horrors - Stephen King, to a pulp, but there is something truly terrible in Poe's stories, hiding and successfully hiding behind everyday life, and sometimes even for virtue. Who could have imagined that a devout animal lover would turn out to be a sociopath? Can an old man's blue eye drive you crazy? And the white teeth of the bride to move to the murder?
It would seem that very small, even tiny things become a real obsession for the heroes, for some reason they open the hidden doors of their souls, exposing the essence that is disastrous for themselves and those around them. And from this simplicity of the catalyst it becomes chilly: who knows, maybe there is such a key for every person?
In total, the book includes 8 stories, a biography and bibliography of the author, as well as an informative article by Charles Baudelaire “Edgar Poe. His Life and Works. Indeed, who can understand the Great Madman better than one of the founders of decadence, who perfectly felt the loneliness, melancholy, and decline that reign in Poe's stories.
The book is richly illustrated by Benjamin Lacombe, a talented young French artist. Actually, the whole essence of the Metamorphoses series, within which this edition was released, is in the unity of classical examples of literature and a look at them. contemporary artists. Lacombe perfectly felt the images of Poe's heroes and was able to "revive" them on paper. These puppet figurines, infernal, with painful skin, high forehead and huge eyes fit into the stories so organically that it seems that there simply cannot be more appropriate drawings.
The edition is amazing!!! I would like to put a dozen more exclamation marks. Hard cover with embossing, partial varnishing, lace, thick coated paper, high-quality printing. The endpapers alone are worth something: skulls mixed with tiny Edgar Alans Poe!
Some of the stories are traditionally printed: black letters on white sheets, and some are the opposite: white letters on black pages. And I like the second option more: the feeling of gloom intensifies, and the eyes do not hurt at all.
This book is a wonderful gift for yourself, friends, relatives - no one will remain indifferent to this terrible beauty.