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Welcome listeners. It's E. J. Miller, and as promised in the

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month of December, leading up to
season two in January of twenty twenty four,

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we will be producing some of the
classics of short story horror, starting

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with those of Edgar Allan Poe.
We hope you enjoy, and we look

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forward to starting off season two in
January twenty twenty four. So, without

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further ado, I go Frederick take
it away. Welcome listeners to an installment

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of fast food horror classics. In
this installment, we bring you Edgar Allan

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Pose the Raven, narrated by E. J. Miller. Once upon a

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midnight dreary, while I pondered,
weak and weary, over many a quaint

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and curious volume of forgotten lore.
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly

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there came a tapping, as of
some one gently rapping, rapping at my

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chamber door. Tis some visitor,
I muttered, tapping at my chamber door.

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Only this and nothing more, Ah, Distinctly I remember it was in

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the bleak December, and each separate
dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

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Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly
I sought to borrow from my book

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sucrease of sorrow, sorrow for the
loss Lenore, for the rare and radiant

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maiden whom the angels named Lenore,
nameless here for evermore. And the silken,

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sad, uncertain rustling of each purple
curtain thrilled me, filled me with

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fantastic terrors never felt before. So
that now to still the beating of my

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heart, I stood, repeating,
tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber

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door, some late visitor entreating entrance
at my chamber door. This it is,

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and nothing more. Presently my soul
grew stronger, hesitating. Then no

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longer sir, said I, or
madam, truly your forgiveness, I implore,

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For the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

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and so faintly you came tapping tapping
at my chamber door, that I

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scarce was sure I heard you.
Here. I opened wide the door.

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Darkness there and nothing more. Deep
into the darkness, peering long, I

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stood there, wondering, fearing,
doubting, dreaming dreams. No mortals could

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even dare to dream before. But
the silence was unbroken, and the stillness

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gave no token, and The only
word there spoken was the whispered word lenor.

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This I whispered, and an echo
murmured back the wordrd nor merely this

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and nothing more back into the chamber, turning all my soul within me burning.

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Soon again I heard a tapping,
something louder than before. Surely,

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said I, surely that is something
at my window lattice. Let me see

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then what that is, and this
mystery explore. Let my heart be still

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a moment, and this mystery explore
tis the wind, and nothing more.

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Upon here I flung the shutter,
when with many a flirt and flutter in

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there stepped a stately raven of the
saintly days of yore. Not the least

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obeisance made he not a minute stopped
or stayed. He but with the mien

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of Lord or lady, perched above
my chamber door, perched upon a bust

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of palace, just above my chamber
door, perched and set, and nothing

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more then this ebony bird beguiling my
sad fancy into smiling by the grave and

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stern decorum of the countenance at war. Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,

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Thou, I said, art sure, no craven, ghastly grim and

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ancient raven wandering from the knightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is

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on this night's plutonium shore, quoth
the raven nevermore much. I marveled this

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ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, though its answer little meaning, little

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revellency bore, For we cannot help
agreeing that no living human being ever yet

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was blessed with sea being bird above
his chamber door, bird or beast upon

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the sculpted bust above his chamber door, with such a name as nevermore.

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But the raven, sitting lonely on
that placid bust, spoke only that one

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word, as if his soul in
that one word he did outpour nothing farther

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than he uttered, not a feather
than he fluttered, till I scarcely more

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than muttered. Other friends have flown
before. On the morrow he will leave

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me, as my hopes have flown
before. Then, the bird said,

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nevermore. Startled at this stillness,
broken by reply so aptly spoken, doubtless,

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said I what it utters is its
only dock in's store caught from some

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unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster followed fast, and followed faster till his songs one

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burden bore till the dirges of his
hope, that melancholy burden bore of never

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nevermore. But the raven still beguiling
all my sad soul into smiling. Straight,

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I wheeled a cushioned seat in front
of the bird, and bust and

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door. Then upon the velvet,
sinking, I betook myself to linking fancy,

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unto fancy, thinking what this ominous
bird of your what this grim,

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ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous
bird of yore meant in croaking? Nevermore?

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This I sat engaged in guessing,
but no syllable expressing to the fowl,

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whose fiery eyes now burned into my
bosom's core. This and more I

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sat divining, with my head at
ease, reclining on the cushion's velvet,

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lining that the lamp light gloated oar. But whose velvet violet lining, with

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the lamp light gloating oar, she
shall press ah nevermore? Then, methought

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the air grew denser, perfumed from
an unseen censer swung by seraphim, whose

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footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
Wretch, I cried, thy God hath

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lent thee by these angels. He
hath sent thee respite, respite and penthee

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from the memories of Lenore. Quaff, oh quaff this kind penthe, and

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forget is lost. Leonore quoth the
raven nevermore, Prophet said, I thing

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of evil prophets. Still, if
bird or devil, whether temperate scent,

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or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, desolate, yet all undaunted on this

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desert land, enchanted, on this
home of horror, haunted, tell me

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truly, I implore, Is there
is there bomb in Gilead? Tell me

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tell me, I implore, quoth
the raven nevermore, Prophet said, I

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thing of evil. Prophet, Still, if bird or devil, by that

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heaven that bends above us, by
that devil, or we both adore,

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tell this soul with sorrow laden,
if within the distant aiden it shall clasp

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a sainted maiden whom the angels named
Leonore, clasp a rare and radiant maiden

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whom the angels named Leonore. Quoth
the raven nevermore, be that word our

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sign of parting bird or fiend,
I shrieked, starting get thee back into

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the tempest and the Knight's plutonium shore. Leave no black plume as a token

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of that lie thy soul hath spoken, Leave my loneliness unbroken. Quit the

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bust above my door, Take thy
beak from out my heart, Take thy

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form from off my door, quoth
the raven nevermore, And the raven never

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flitting still, is sitting still,
is sitting on the pallid bust of palace

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just above my chamber door. And
his eyes have all the seeming of a

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demon's that is dreaming. And the
lamp lighted or im streaming throws his shadow

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on the floor. And my soul
from out that shadow that lies floating on

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the floor shall be lifted nevermore