Step into the shadowy realm of "Poe's Nightmares," a mesmerizing collection of short stories and poetry penned by the enigmatic Lady Eckland. This anthology is a tribute to the master of the macabre, Edgar Allan Poe, whose spectral whisper resonates...
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My dearest Isabelle,
Even now, as I put ink to parchment in the dim light of the single candle afforded me, the horrors of that night haunt me still. Would that I could banish them to the recesses of eternal night, but alas, they are etched upon my soul as though by the claws of the Prince of Darkness himself. I shall endeavor to recount the tale faithfully, so that you may know of the events that transpired within the cursed walls of Seraphine Manor.
It was the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and twenty-two, and the dreaded plague men called the Black Death ravaged the land with savage ferocity, sparing neither lord nor peasant its cruel wrath. The Countess Seraphine, mysterious and alluring mistress of the sprawling manor nestled deep in the forest outside Paris, was renowned for her eccentricities amongst the nobility. Tales were told in hushed whispers of her strange nocturnal wanderings, of peasants hearing anguished cries in the night emanating from the manor. Superstitious folk even dared invoke witchcraft and dealings with dark forces against the striking noble lady.
It was on the evening of the Countess’ lavish masquerade ball, however, that the vile rumors were at last horribly substantiated by blackest tragedy and acts of evil so profound, I hesitate to impart them for fear of shaking the very foundations of your spirit. But impart them I must, as solemn duty bids me.
Arrayed in my scarlet doublet, cape and plumed hat, I arrived with you, my angel, on my arm. Your ethereal beauty outshone even the most glittering of gemstones bedecking the throats of the ladies that night. From behind our gilded masks we watched as the nobility, vain and frivolous, reveled and made merry, blithely unaware of the doom soon to befall them. Music and laughter echoed throughout the vast ballroom within which a portion of the guests danced, the remainder engaging in hushed conversation as they sipped blood-red wine from jewel-encrusted chalices.
At the stroke of midnight, the ornate gilded doors slammed shut with an ominous and resounding finality, reverberating like the peals of thunder through the cavernous chamber. A collective gasp arose from the partygoers as all eyes turned toward the Countess Seraphine, resplendent in a black velvet gown trimmed in ermine. Her voluptuous raven tresses cascaded over her bare ivory shoulders and contrasted starkly against her alabaster skin. But it was her eyes that gave me a sudden chill, penetrating azure lamps burning with a malevolent cold light under delicately arched brows.
“Good people,” she addressed the assemblage in silken tones, “Tonight you are all my honored guests. The doors have been secured for your own protection, for the plague ravages the land without pity.”
Murmurs of unease pervaded the crowd at this chilling pronouncement. The Countess moved with preternatural grace and speed then, appearing beside the Duke of Montmarte, her slender hand coming to rest familiarly on his gold-brocaded shoulder.
“Worry not, my dear friends, for inside these walls revelry shall endure eternally!” Her musical laughter tinkled like broken crystal.
I barely had time to react before she savagely wrenched back the Duke’s head, exposing his vulnerable throat. With horrid suddenness, the Countess’ beauty melted away to reveal a nightmare visage from the vilest pits of Hell. Her lustrous lips parted to bare long, glistening fangs in a rictus grin of purest evil. The fiend sank her fangs deep into the hapless Duke’s neck, rivulets of crimson streaming down her chin and staining her gown as she noisily supped.
