The Raven

It’s the time of year for horror stories. In a novel that I wrote, Edgar Allan Poe comes back to life, warped and twisted into a half-human creature called the Raven. Here’s an excerpt:

Poe dragged me to the railing and pointed across the street, where the house crouched like a beast. 

“Of course,” he said, “what you see before you isn’t really a house at all.” 

“What is it?” I said. 

“A coffin.” 

He slammed his fist on the railing. “I was buried there, as sure as the grave. Trapped inside, unable to write, my spirit brooded and festered. Inspired by the carving that sat atop the chest, I began to think of myself as the Raven—like Poe but different, stronger and bolder, more vivid and daring. The Raven was Poe distilled, Poe squared, his strengths and flaws multiplied.

“The Raven took possession of the house, and the room became its beating heart. Residents came and went, never staying for long, frightened off by the powerful spirit of the house and convinced it was haunted. The house stayed that way for a hundred and fifty years. Then you came along.” 

There was a mad gleam in his eye, and I sensed that he had crossed a line and would never return. He wasn’t Poe. He truly was the Raven. 

“When you entered the room,” he said, “my spirit pounced. It inhabited you. It filled you up.” 

“How did you do it?” I asked. 

He smiled slyly. “I had the ingredients: a powerful spirit and the remains of a body. What I lacked was a spark. I got that from you. You brought me to life.” 

“But how?” I asked. “With what?” 

“Your anger,” he said.

Read more in my novel of mystery and horror, Room of Shadows.