Gothic Story

The porch of the house sagged against the weight of rain and fallen leaves, its support beams rotting and twisted. Rusty nails just barely stitched the dilapidated porch to the building.  A crooked hand-painted sign read "Bed and Breakfast".  Looking to be in much better shape, the handsome brick building itself towered against the scenery.  A large window faced the frothy sea, with a rusted lantern hung just outside, swaying slightly despite the lack of a breeze.  Kathryn stepped out of her car, and her heels crunched on the gravel as she made her way to the door.  The rotted wood under her feet groaned in protest as she ascended the steps.  Clutching her purse at her side, Kathryn knocked timidly on the faded green door.  Almost instantly, the door swung open and an elderly woman introduced herself as Edith.  

Edith held a soup ladle and a faded washcloth in her hand.  Despite the warm weather, she wore a heavy knit sweater and a long gray skirt.  Her eyes looked tired, but she stood tall and smiled eagerly.  She pulled Kathryn through the door and took her to tour the house.  

They entered through the kitchen, which was dimly lit, with outdated appliances lining the walls.  The soup Edith was cooking smelled much like the salty sea air, but with hints of spices.  Edith led Kathryn to the dining room, which was elaborate, yet antique.  Shelves lined the walls, filled with fragile porcelain tea sets.  A thin layer of dust covered the higher shelves, and Kathryn assumed Edith was either too short or frail to reach them.  A steep staircase led to the second floor, where Edith's bedroom was located, and then they climbed slowly to the third, the fourth, and finally, fifth floor.  Gasping in the stifling heat, Kathryn watched Edith in awe as she bustled around.  Swinging open the door, Edith announced that it was to be Kathryn's room during her stay.  Kathryn nodded and looked around.  A large, ornate bed was pushed into the corner.  The carved oak bedposts supported a black bed curtain that would surround the bed if pulled taut.  On top of the pillow was an old doll.  Its hair was missing in patches, and the fabric was worn out and colorless.  Kathryn turned away when she caught Edith looking at it adoringly.  What caught Kathryn’s attention most of all, though, was the window.  It faced out toward the water.  The leaded glass panes were framed with beautifully carved wood that curved up towards the center.  Sitting in front of it, was a handsome, matching oak desk.  An ancient typewriter sat on the corner, with a stack of blank paper and pens.  Kathryn walked over and set her purse on the desk.  She turned to thank Edith for the beautiful view, but Edith had slipped out silently while her back was turned. 

Kathryn joined Edith for dinner once her belongings had been unloaded from the car and transferred into the dresser upstairs. Edith welcomed her with a bowl of steaming soup and fresh-baked bread.  They sat in silence for a while, while Kathryn ate, then Edith spoke up.

"If you don't mind my asking, what are doing in a small town like this?" Edith glanced up at Kathryn, who looked down at her hands and blushed.

"Just getting away, mostly," Kathryn responded quietly.  Her face turned an even darker shade of red, due to the long pause that followed.  She looked up to see Edith watching her intently.  "My mother wanted me to stay, but I just needed to leave home," Kathryn watched Edith.  "It's a long story…" Kathryn blurted into the uncomfortable silence.

"Of course," Edith stared at Kathryn, and then returned again to eating her soup.

Later that night, Kathryn sat at the large desk, and scribbled out a short letter to her mother, then scratched it out.  Frustrated, she leaned back and looked out the window.  The sky was a deep violet, with stormy gray clouds dotting the horizon.  Her eyes followed the panes of glass, and she admired the woodwork surrounding it.  The iron lantern swayed ever so slightly.  Yearning for the breeze that swung the lantern, Kathryn unlatched the rusted hinges and swung the window open.  The familiar salty smell wafted into the room, and the night seemed to come in with it.  The room darkened and Kathryn shivered, even though the breeze was warm.  

"What are you doing?" Kathryn spun around to see Edith standing in the doorway.  She had replaced her long skirt and sweater with a frilly white wool nightgown.  It fell to her ankles, buttoned up to her chin, with yellowed lacy ruffles around the wrists.  Her wispy dark gray hair, which had been perfectly combed during the day, was standing in all directions.  Her lips were pursed in a strange sort of grimace.  One side of her mouth sagged into a frown and the other was curled slightly into a strained smile.  

"Well, I was just opening the window for some fresh air.  I didn't think it would be a problem," Kathryn said.  Edith's bizarre appearance surprised her, but Edith didn't seem to hear her.  She hobbled over and stood next to Kathryn and gazed out the window.

"Yes, of course.  The lantern does need to be lit.  So their boat can find us," Edith mumbled.  She fumbled through a desk drawer and retrieved some matches.  After several attempts, Edith lit the lantern hanging outside the window.  She then shuffled away, towards the chair where Kathryn had carelessly tossed the old doll.  Edith placed it carefully back on the pillow, and walked out.  Kathryn remained standing, staring, at the lantern glowing in the darkness.

"Good morning, dear!" Edith smiled as Kathryn entered the kitchen.  "I hope you slept well," she added, despite the gray circles under her eyes.  Kathryn sat herself down at the small island table and ate a few bites of oatmeal while Edith watched. “So what do you plan to do while you’re here?”

“I was thinking I would just stay for a few days, until I get things worked out, decide what I’m going to do,” Kathryn replied.

“I’m a mother, you know.  Maybe I could help you,” Edith suggested, searching Kathryn’s eyes.  Kathryn sighed and rested her chin on her hands.

“She just thinks I’m still a child.  I want to live on my own, and get married.  She thinks she needs me to live at home with her, and take care of her,” Kathryn pursed her lips, surprised by her sudden outburst.  Edith’s expression was emotionless. She appeared sullen, detached.

“Maybe she does need you, Mary,” Edith replied, her voice low.

“It’s Kathryn,” Kathryn reminded her.  Edith’s head twitched, her eyes glazed over.

“What’s that?”

“My name, it’s Kathryn.  You called me Mary,” Kathryn shifted in the uncomfortable silence that followed.  Edith turned to the sink, and began to rinse out Kathryn’s breakfast dishes.

“Did I?” Edith replied icily.

Kathryn spent the day walking along the shoreline.  A storm brewed over the sea, and waves crashed on the rocks, dampening her clothes.  Kathryn waded in knee-deep, and felt the sand shift under her bare feet as the waves rolled back out.  Nearing night time, Kathryn headed back to the house.  Thunder rumbled threateningly overhead, and large raindrops plopped into the sand.  By the time she reached the house, Edith was already shutting the windows and lighting candles.  Kathryn attempted to avoid her and walked up to her bedroom.  Edith, however, came upstairs in a matter of minutes.  “I’m sorry if I seemed short with you this morning”, she said, sitting next to Kathryn near the window.

“Who is Mary?” Kathryn couldn’t seem to contain her curiosity.

Edith sighed and turned her face away from the window, and looked at Kathryn. “She is my daughter.  She left, sailing, with a man she met while travelling.  I begged her not to go, I wanted her to stay.  She would not,” Edith’s face hardened.  She looked at Kathryn in the eyes.  “I needed her,” Kathryn felt offended, mocked, by Edith’s story.  “Some nights I light the lantern, in hope that she will see it and it will guide her home to me,” Edith said.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to come home,” Kathryn suggested coldly.  Edith stood abruptly, and walked out of the room.  The wind whistled and rain pelted the window.  The lantern was glowing outside.  Kathryn walked back and forth in her room, angry with herself and Edith.  She regretted telling Edith about her mother, and why she left home.  She decided she would pack up, and leave the next morning, to stay with her brother.

After packing and getting ready for bed, Kathryn sat at the desk and looked out the window.  It was too dark to see the horizon, but every once and a while, the lantern’s reflection glinted off of the waves.  Kathryn whipped around as she heard the door creak open.  Edith stood there in her nightgown, her eyes smoldering.  “Where are you going?” Her voice cracked, she sounded like she was on the verge of hysteria.

“I’m going to leave tomorrow, I’ll pay you for the full weekend, but I just need to go,” Kathryn avoided eye contact.  She played with the hem of her shirt, and glanced around the room.  Thunder cracked and the lights flickered.  Edith walked into the room and approached Kathryn.

“You can’t do this to me, Mary, not again,” her voice was high pitched.  Kathryn backed away as Edith reached for her.  “Please don’t make me force you to stay,” Edith warned.  Kathryn backed against the desk, and Edith pulled from behind her a faded rope.

“I’m not Mary! I’m not your daughter!” Kathryn cried.  Panicking, she lifted herself onto the desk and pressed herself against the window.  Edith grabbed her wrist, and pulled her violently down.

“You’re going to hurt yourself!” Edith cried. “You will not leave!” Kathryn struggled free of the old woman’s grasp and sprinted for the door.  She felt Edith’s nails claw her back, but she burst through the door and down the stairs.  Kathryn heard Edith wailing upstairs for her to stay.  The howling calmed as Kathryn descended the steps, and ceased as she reached the door. Kathryn hesitated for a moment, curious.  She then ran outside to her car.  As she was getting in, she looked towards the window.  The rain pelted her eyes, making it difficult to see.  As she realized what she saw, Kathryn choked out a moan of surprise.  Edith banged her fists on the window until it broke open.  The glass shattered against her curled fists, and spattered her nightgown with blood.  She let out a bloodcurdling scream.  In her rage, she stumbled, and began to fall through the window frame.  Edith wildly thrashed about, trying to grab onto something to save her.  She fell in slow motion before Kathryn, and landed on the sandy gravel with a sickening crunch.  The old doll, faded and soaked in the rain, was clutched in Edith’s hand.  Kathryn swayed, sunk to her knees, and screamed into the night.

Edgar Allan Poe's Obsession with Death

It is fair to say that Edgar Allan Poe was one of the most profound authors of his time.  He is known for his elaborate stories and poems that have captivated and horrified readers for generations.  Any reader, if they examine a number of his pieces, will notice a reoccurring theme.  Death weaves its way through almost every piece written.  One could interpret Poe’s fixation on the subject as a passion or even an obsession.  Poe might have felt a special connection to death, due to being surrounded by it during his life.  Thus, his life’s experiences may have greatly influenced the characters and events in his stories.  The use of Gothic elements in his stories captivates readers as well.  Gothic literature often surrounds the theme of death, and using that technique allowed Poe to write on the subject.  Poe developed his writing style upon Gothic elements.  Poe’s elaborate writings provide a tone and mood about death that the reader can understand.  Another common aspect in his writing is that death comes into play abruptly and surprisingly.  Poe also demonstrates a deep understanding on the subject of death through his stories.  Edgar Allan Poe expressed his obsession with death through the use of parallelism to his personal life, Gothic literature elements, literary elements to achieve the desired mood and tone, abrupt and uncommon events involving death, and evidence of intense analysis of death in his stories.

            Like his stories, Edgar Allan Poe’s life was surrounded by death.  It started with the death of his mother when he was young.  He was then sent to live with his adoptive parents, the Allans.  When Mrs. Allan died, Mr. Allan refused to give any support and excluded Edgar from his will.  After a few years of marriage, Virginia, Poe’s wife and cousin passed away as well.  These events might have shaped Poe’s writing style and his obsession with death.  He may have even felt responsible for their deaths himself.  He expressed his own tortured life through the lives of his characters.

            Poe’s disheartening life probably was the root of many of his stories.  An example of this parallelism is found in the story The Masque of Red Death.  After disinherited by his wealthy adoptive father, Edgar struggled financially essentially for the rest of his life.  In the story, Prince Prospero, obviously named for being wealthy, constructed an impenetrable fortress for him and his friends to hide in.  During that time period, the Plague, or “Red Death” rampaged Europe, killing people in multitudes.  Poe describes Prince Prospero’s hiding as such, “There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine.  All these and the security were within.  Without was the ‘Red Death’” (Masque of Red Death 1).  Poe’s obvious distaste for the wealthy is represented through this quote.  Poe’s obsession with death comes into play in the end of the story, where the “Red Death” enters dressed as a Plague victim, and all inside the castle are killed.  Poe mocks the prosperous with the ridiculous things the Prince provided when they were in the castle.  By ultimately ending the lives of the prosperous, it gives the reader a look into how Poe feels about the wealthy.  This parallelism to Poe’s tragic life allows the reader to see how death has become a theme of Poe’s personal life, not only in the story.

            The stories focus a lot on death, as Poe did in his life.  Gothic literature is known for horror stories, and stories of death and despair.  Poe’s stories use Gothic elements to focus mainly on death, as Poe did in his life.  In the story The Fall of the House of Usher, the narrator visits his childhood friend, Roderick, when he is ailing.  At the death of his beloved twin sister, Roderick enters a state of despair, wondering whether or not she actually was dead.  The narrator describes Roderick’s actions as such, “…I could but partially perceive his features, although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly.  His head had dropped upon his breast- yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance of it in profile” (Poe, House of Usher 17).  Insanity is a common element in Gothic literature.  Poe might have used it to reflect his own feelings that he felt through his life when his loved ones died.  The utter hopelessness and struggle is portrayed through the writing elaborately.  Poe may have released his personal feelings into the stories through the use of Gothic elements.

            Out of his Gothic literature elements, Poe developed his style of writing by creating a very intense mood and tone in many of his stories.  The reader gets a sense of claustrophobia and fear.  The stories have a dark feeling to them, often ending sadly as well.    The diction used is very intricate and detailed.  The intricate descriptions in the story, The Pit and the Pendulum, provide a sense of reality that gives the reader a feeling of hopelessness.  When the narrator awakened in a strange place, he feared more that upon opening his eyes, he would see nothing, rather than something terrifying.  He writes, “At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I quickly unclosed my eyes.  My worst thoughts, then, were confirmed.  The blackness of eternal night encompassed me.  I struggled for breath.  The intensity of the darkness seemed to oppress and stifle me” (Poe, Pit and Pendulum 2).  Poe understood death on a level that many do not.  Poe tried to convey this emotion of understanding to the readers through description of feelings that most readers will have experienced.  The fear of the dark, as used in this example, gives the reader the feeling that Poe may have felt.  The oppressed feeling the reader experiences while reading is Poe’s accomplishment in portraying how he views death.

            Poe addresses the topic of revenge in his story The Cask of Amontillado. The story begins with the narrator informing the reader that his friend, Fortunado, has offended him.  An insult causes Montresor, the narrator, to seek revenge upon Fortunado.  Montresor decided to lure Fortunado into the vaults in his house, where there are buried ancestors, and apparently, Amontillado for them to drink.  Montresor lead him there and chained Fortunado to the wall.  Montresor decided to build a wall to build a chamber where Fortunado is chained, and leave him there to die.  As he built the wall, he heard Fortunado plead, “For the love of God, Montresor” (Poe, Amontillado np)! This allows the reader to feel sorry for Fortunado.  The reader is never informed on what the insult was, but this was how Poe ended the story.  To the reader, it seems an extremely cruel method of revenge.  This does, however, exemplify Poe’s obsession of death.  In a story that could have resulted in any other way, he chose to end it with a brutal death.  Poe’s obsession with death caused him to write stories ending with death, when an alternate ending could have been more reasonable for the story.

            Experiencing as many deaths as Edgar Allan Poe did, it is not surprising that Poe seems to have a much deeper understanding of death than many.  In The Premature Burial the narrator provides a horrific description of being buried alive.  However horrible it was, when the narrator is released, he goes on to explain the new feeling he has towards death.  He writes, “There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell… Alas! The grim legion of sepulchral terrors cannot be regarded as altogether fanciful- but… they must sleep, or they will devour us- they must be suffered to slumber, or we perish” (Poe, Premature Burial 10).  The quote means that even though life on earth might feel as if it is Hell, if we dwell on our troubles too much, they will consume our lives.  This outlook exemplifies a profound comprehension of death.  Most people do not question death as Poe has in his stories.  He expresses death to the reader so that they will question it the way he had.  Poe presents death in way that makes the reader understand his uncommon, ominous respect for death.  It can be perceived that Edgar Allan Poe put a great deal of thinking into death.  A reoccurring theme through many of his stories is the thought of buried alive.  This idea, emerging in many of his stories, appeared to captivate Poe.  The characters in the stories dwelled on the horrifying possibility, most likely how Poe did in his personal life. Poe attained an abnormal comprehension of death, and expressed it in his writings.

            Edgar Allan Poe possessed a unique fascination with death, and expressed it in his writing through parallelisms, elements of Gothic literature, gloomy mood and tone, unnecessary deaths, and an unusual amount of insight on death.  Poe’s personal experiences with death may have shaped his stories, due to the impact they had on him.  The Gothic literature elements Poe used allow him to develop the horrific details he desired to achieve.  The mood and tone of his stories were set to allow the reader to understand death on a more personal level.  Death seemed to be involved in almost every Poe story, even sometimes unexpected.  Poe also seems to reflect over death.  He imagined intricate stories and developed ideas that, normally, would not arise.  Perhaps humans share with Edgar Allan Poe a slight fascination with the macabre that make the horrific stories of Edgar Allan Poe last as long as they have.

Faust Legend

                Richard Benton searched the face of the tall stranger on his doorstep.  As the dark impassive eyes held his gaze, Richard cleared his throat and demanded, “What did you say?”  The stranger sighed impatiently, took a long drag of his cigarette and replied, “They don’t have to find out about the money.”  The smoke curled out from his blood red lips as he spoke in his heavy, deliberate intonation.  “I am offering help,” the stranger suggested.  Richard leaned back, nauseated from the smoke and the entire overwhelming situation. 

For eight years, middle- aged Richard Benton worked as the head of the financial department in a successful corporation that assisted charities.  In a thriving company such as that, Richard soon learned that it was easy to deceive their many clients into adding a large bonus for him.  His efficient process was flawless, or so he thought.  Richard managed to lay low for years, building his wealth steadily.  When he accidentally misplaced a file, a curious associate read a correspondence between Richard and a client who was unsatisfied with the sudden interest increase that was irrational and unexplained.  Seizing the opportunity to humiliate Richard, Madelyn Waller kept the file and planned to expose him, hopefully taking his position in the company once he was fired.  She emailed him regularly, reminding Richard of the power she held over him.

“Who told you?” Richard said as threateningly as he could muster.  The stranger edged his way around Richard and into the foyer. 

“I’d like to sit down,” the stranger said, as he strolled purposefully into Richard’s elaborately decorated sitting room.  Richard followed cautiously, feeling that he was the stranger in his own home.  The visitor sat in a grand leather chair with carved mahogany armrests.  Richard sank into the sofa opposite the chair.  The guest’s skeletal fingers curled around the edges of the armchair as he leaned forward.  “How much does that money mean to you?” He asked, his steady gaze causing Richard to shift uncomfortably on the sofa.  Richard watched, interested, as the guest lit a small tea candle on the glass coffee table between them.  Richard then averted his eyes, and took a sudden interest in arranging the books on a table beside him.  His clammy hands shook when he thought of the consequences of losing his money.  “What else do you posses? No family you care to contact, friends strayed away over the years.  Can you afford to lose your money as well?” Richard stared at his hands, dumbfounded at his guest’s knowledge. 

“I guess you’re right,” Richard replied, glancing up at the stranger sitting across from him.  A slight grin spread across the man’s face. “But what can you do about it?” Richard pulled together his dignity and glared at the merciless eyes across from him. 

“I’ll make a deal with you.  Your eternal protection, for something in return,” his pallid skin seemed to glow in the dimly lit room.  His eyes smoldered as he held Richard’s gaze.

“Anything!  You can have anything- just please, help me,” Richard begged.  His money was his world.  Without it, he felt he would die.  “You make sure Madelyn doesn’t notify them, and…” Richard cut off.

“And I decide your fate,” The stranger stated.  A flicker of recognition crossed Richard’s eyes.

“Who are you?” He whispered, his voice trembling with awe and terror.  The stranger leaned forward once again, and blew smoke into Richard’s face.

“I have many names, but they don’t really matter.  All that matters is that I can help you achieve what you want more than anything else,” he said.  He stood, and straightened the black jacket over his broad shoulders.  “So is it a deal?” he proposed.

Richard stood and met the guest’s eyes once more, “Deal.”

“Wonderful,” the stranger said, and ground out his cigarette on the glass table.

After the company had recovered from Madelyn Waller’s strange disappearance, Richard settled into his old ways of life.  He called clients regularly to remind them that they had not paid their additional fees or the increased interests on their loans.  Several charities questioned his legitimacy, but as promised, they were struck down during any attempt to reveal his corruption.  For twenty years, Richard profited from the charities, greedily stashing the money for himself.  Once he turned fifty, he retired from his job and lived off the small fortune he had acquired.  He confined himself to his house, spending his time counting his money and making calls to buy time shares in exotic countries.  Richard continued to distance himself from his family, and avoided contact with the outside world as much as possible.

One stormy evening, Richard flicked through channels on the large television mounted on the wall in his bedroom.  Outside the wind screamed and violently tore the leaves from the trees.  When he heard the name of his previous employers mentioned on the news channel, he stopped to listen.  The inappropriately cheerful voice of the announcer rang in his head, “It has been announced that the Children’s Home, here in Boston will be shut down by the Assisting Charities Corporation due to their inability to pay back the loans given to them over the course of twenty years of business.  This will result in over sixty children placed in foster care. The company claims that they had been given steep increases in their interest over the years. The Assisting Charities Corporation denies that they purposefully added these payments, but agreed to investigate further. The company claims…”  The power flickered out.  Richard leapt from his bed and fumbled in the dark for the remote.  The electricity stayed off.  Thoughts streamed through his mind, one thing after another.  How could this happen… eternal protection….they will find the files… sue me for all I have…  Richard clicked on the flashlight from his bedside drawer and stumbled into the closet where his vault was.  As he entered the combination, his hands shook uncontrollably.  “Better half than everything.  Just to keep them running,” he mumbled to himself as he drew out a wad of bills. He stuffed them into an envelope and addressed it to the Children’s Home. 

Guided by the narrow beam of light provided by his flashlight, Richard went downstairs while securing his coat around him.  As he passed the sitting room, he noticed the small tea candle on the glass table.  The small flame was lit and it cast an eerie glow on its surroundings.  Richard’s breath caught and he froze.  He spun around frantically, shining his flashlight all around the room in a panic.  When he didn’t see anyone, he grumbled to himself and shook his head, then continued out the door.

Barely making it to his car through the torrential rain and brutal wind, Richard collapsed into the driver’s seat with the envelope clasped in his sweaty hand.  With the post office only two blocks away, he imagined getting back home, crawling into bed, and finally relaxing.  As he tore down the street, he noticed a lofty stranger standing next to a downed electrical wire that most likely caused the power outage.  He continued towards the post office, watching in his rearview mirror as the man turned toward the car and begin to casually follow it on foot despite the ghastly weather.  Richard pulled into the parking lot, and stumbled towards the office with the envelope.

Richard Benton never made it back to his car.  The next day, his car was found in the parking lot.  An empty envelope was wedged in the window.  A tea light was burning on the dashboard.