Welcome listeners. It's E. J. Miller, and as promised in the
month of December, leading up to season two in January of twenty twenty four,
we will be producing some of the classics of short story horror, starting
with those of Edgar Allan Poe. We hope you enjoy, and we look
forward to starting off season two in January twenty twenty four. So, without
further ado, I go Frederick take it away. Welcome listeners to an installment
of fast food horror classics. In this installment, we bring you Edgar Allan
Pose the Raven, narrated by E. J. Miller. 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 some one gently rapping, rapping at my
chamber door. Tis 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 sought to borrow from my book
sucrease of sorrow, sorrow for the loss Lenore, for the rare and radiant
maiden whom the angels named Lenore, nameless here for evermore. 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,
For 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 the darkness, peering long, I
stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams. No mortals could
even dare to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness
gave no token, and The only word there spoken was the whispered word lenor.
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the wordrd nor merely this
and nothing more back into the chamber, turning all my soul within me burning.
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. Surely,
said I, surely that is something at my window lattice. Let me see
then what that is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still
a moment, and this mystery explore tis the wind, and nothing more.
Upon here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter in
there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least
obeisance made he not a minute stopped or stayed. He but with the mien
of Lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, perched upon a bust
of palace, just above my chamber door, perched and set, and nothing
more then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling by the grave and
stern decorum of the countenance at war. Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,
Thou, I said, art sure, no craven, ghastly grim and
ancient raven wandering from the knightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is
on this night's plutonium shore, quoth the raven nevermore much. I marveled this
ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning, little
revellency bore, For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet
was blessed with sea being bird above his chamber door, bird or beast upon
the sculpted bust above his chamber door, with such a name as nevermore.
But the raven, sitting lonely on that 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 this stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, doubtless,
said I what it utters is its only dock in's 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 all my sad soul into smiling. Straight,
I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of the bird, and bust and
door. Then upon the velvet, sinking, I betook myself to linking fancy,
unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of your 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 lamp light gloated oar. But whose velvet violet lining, with
the lamp light gloating oar, she shall press ah 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 penthee
from the memories of Lenore. Quaff, oh quaff this kind penthe, and
forget is lost. Leonore quoth the raven nevermore, Prophet said, I thing
of evil prophets. Still, if bird or devil, whether temperate scent,
or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, desolate, yet all undaunted on this
desert land, enchanted, on this home of horror, haunted, tell me
truly, I implore, Is there is there bomb in 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 devil, or we both adore,
tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant aiden it shall clasp
a sainted maiden whom the angels named Leonore, clasp a rare and radiant maiden
whom the angels named Leonore. Quoth the raven nevermore, be that word our
sign of parting bird or fiend, I shrieked, starting get thee back into
the tempest and the Knight's plutonium 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, Take thy
form from off my door, quoth the raven nevermore, And the raven never
flitting still, is sitting still, is sitting on the pallid bust of palace
just above my chamber door. And his eyes have all the seeming of a
demon's that is dreaming. And the lamp lighted or im streaming throws his shadow
on the floor. And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on
the floor shall be lifted nevermore