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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"Sanity is a comforting blanket, but sometimes the monsters sleep beneath it."
The sprawling estate of Lord Everard Blackwood glowed with unnatural warmth amidst the bleakness of the autumn night. Within its walls, a boisterous symphony of laughter and clinking crystal assaulted the senses – a celebration fit for a monarch, rather than the obscure lord known only for his sudden and rather dubious inheritance. Tonight was Everard's unveiling, a debut into the upper echelons of society armed with his newfound wealth.
Guests swarmed like moths to a flame. Rich velvets met shimmering silks, whispered conversations carrying hints of speculation and a healthy dose of skepticism regarding the origins of Everard's riches. Yet, Everard held court, his pale grin as fixed and artificial as a porcelain mask. A toast here, a practiced laugh there – all executed with a mechanical precision that belied the maelstrom of unease churning within him.
Amongst the crush of humanity, Everard felt the prickle of eyes upon him, an unseen and uncomfortably focused attention. His fingers tightened around his champagne flute, the delicate crystal protesting under the sudden pressure. "My lord," a smooth voice purred in his ear, "May I steal you away for a moment? One would think you a ghost yourself, haunting your own soiree."
Lord Everard whipped around, a half-uttered apology dying on his lips as he faced the speaker. His heart took a treacherous leap within his chest.
Before him stood a woman swathed in midnight satin, a dark veil obscuring her features. What little was visible sent a shiver down his spine. Alabaster skin, a mouth drawn in a crimson slash of amusement, and eyes...oh, the eyes. As green as emeralds and twice as cold, they stared right through him. With chilling clarity, he knew her.
"My dearest Edith," he croaked, his voice scarcely a whisper, "Your presence here…it cannot be. I saw you laid to rest myself!"
A tinkling, brittle laugh rang out, chillingly melodic in the grand hall. "Did you now, Everard? And is your conscience yet troubled by your hand in that…arrangement?" She gestured vaguely to the floor. He recoiled as if she'd struck him.
Edith, his wife. It had been so easy. Her sickly pallor, a convenient cough. No one thought much of her decline, no one but him. No one had looked closely when her coffin disappeared the day after the funeral, replaced with rocks for mere appearances. They never discovered the shallow grave under the gnarled oak tree on the far edge of the estate, his hasty handiwork with an axe. With Edith gone, there had been no more questions about his dwindling family coffers. No one questioned the will she'd supposedly drafted - the will that made him her sole heir. Everything had fallen into place with such beautiful, horrifying simplicity.
"How?" he breathed, icy horror lacing his words. He’d never been a religious man, yet his knees threatened to give way, a desperate prayer caught behind his clenched teeth.
"My love," she cooed, stepping closer. The guests swirled around them, but she might as well have been the only figure in the world. "Surely a clever man such as yourself didn't believe there are some secrets even the grave can contain?" The veil swept back with a flourish, revealing a face untouched by death or decay.
