Web of the Spider (Nella stretta morsa del ragno) (Nella stretta morsa del ragno)

Berenice Morris, the my cousin's grave.

Edgar Allan Poe, dearest cousin.

I didn't know if I had written a I had written a new story,

or whether this experience had really taken place.

Was it just a fever dream?

I remember:

I had been sitting in the library.

I was pretty exhausted.

There was a timid knock on the door.

Pale as one who has risen from the grave,

a servant entered on tiptoe.

His face was contorted in horror.

He spoke in a quiet, trembling, choked voice.

I only understood bits and pieces.

A ghastly scream had shattered the silence of the night.

He immediately woke everyone up,

and they had followed the direction direction of the noise.

Then his voice took on took on a piercingly clear tone.

He spoke of a desecrated grave,

of a half-shrouded, disfigured corpse,

who was still breathing.

The heart was beating as if it were alive.

As if to emphasize all this he approached me

and pointed to my clothes.

They were muddy and hung in tatters,

and I also saw horrible red spots.

It was blood.

The servant gently took my hand.

He pointed to...

several deep wounds.

They tear like fingernails.

He stared at me in horror.

Then his eyes slid to to an object on the wall.

I stood up to to see what he saw there.

It was a spade!

Also completely covered in blood.

This terrible story had actually happened.

I rushed to the table,

and reached for the box that was standing there.

But I was unable to open it.

It slipped out of my hand.

32 ivory-white, small objects fell out!

They lay on the floor scattered around. They were...

the beautiful teeth of my cousin Berenice,

that had tormented me during my tormented me so much during my illness,

and which I found months after her death that terrible night.

That night I don't know what happened.

Mr. Poe, I have read your story,

but from your mouth it almost rings true.

Mr. Poe? My name is Alan.

Alan Foster.

Don't you remember?

You...

You had promised me an interview.

Alan, I didn't recognize you! recognized you! I'm delighted!

May I introduce my friend Lord Blackwood.

He served excellent English cognac.

- Understand. - French.

This is Alan Foster, the American reporter I told you about.

He followed me around like a puppy.

And let's get straight to the point.

Since you know my work it is enough for me,

if you tell me that you don't understand them.

I admit I have been following you.

But one thing should should be reasonably obvious.

I didn't have to come all the way I didn't have to come all the way from London.

They talk badly about you there.

This is my first visit to England, and it will definitely be my last.

Why?

Have you become disillusioned with England?

Life has let me down.

Let's start with the interview, which for you

certainly the only reason for our meeting.

Yes, unless you have another one.

- Probably. - Sir?

I don't know if our guest wants something?

Yes, of course, thank you. A scotch please.

Now you've bribed me with alcohol.

I hope we can talk seriously talk to me about your work.

Safe.

Let me first make it clear: I am not a novelist.

More like a reporter like you, with everything I've written so far.

Strictly speaking.

But as a writer you have a brilliant imagination.

Yes, why... the dead...

I'm sure they can't like in your novels

return to this earth.

They confuse death with the grave.

Maybe.

Mr. Poe, I hold you in too high esteem to disagree with you.

But I am convinced that the life cycle ends with death.

In the hereafter there is nothingness.

Even if there is something there, then it is certainly nothing earthly.

There is nothing. Beyond of the grave is nothingness.

Therefore you can only work to be untrue.

Your whisky, sir.

Thank you.

- I don't understand... - Of course you don't.

Cheers!

The marble slab that closes the grave provides a certain security.

Beyond the grave lies an area,

which is populated by an immeasurable number of people who are no longer alive.

A man of your intelligence can't be serious.

I do not agree with that.

I bet you 100 pounds that you don't have the courage,

to spend a night in my castle in my castle. And alone.

In your opinion, would I flee from fear?

No. You couldn't do that.

Because of all those who have tried so far,

no one has ever left my left my castle alive.

I'm sorry, but I can't I can't accept your bet.

That's a real shame.

I've heard a lot about Lord Blackwood's castle

and would like to write a story about it.

That's why I asked Poe for help to find a brave man,

who would take my bet, to debunk this legend.

But I like you,

That's why I'm glad that you you rejected my bet.

Well, I don't have 100 pounds. Would you be happy with 10?

Really? At 10 pounds would you be willing to do that?

Certainly. Whenever you want.

Perhaps your experiences will convince you of this,

that my stories are not fantasies.

A deal?

Is it a deal? I'll do it.

Tonight we do it.

The castle is not far away.

A two-hour drive.

Can we continue the discussion during the continue the discussion during the journey?

I mean the interview.

If it's that important to you...

I still have a lot of questions.

- Thank you. - Let's go then.

- Good evening, Mr. Poe. - Your Lordship.

I hope it is all right if I a passage from a poem.

"Since my childhood not like the others.

I have seen nothing like the others.

I didn't feel the same felt like the others.

Because reality goes beyond beyond any known concept."

You can see it materially or spiritually.

In many of your stories

your characters lose first of all lose their minds

- and then her life. - Mr. Foster...

- Here, an encouragement. - No.

Take.

- Is it loaded? - Of course it is.

All right.

Mr. Poe, why is it is it usually like this with your characters?

that every character loses their mind often loses their lives too.

That's simple, Mr. Foster, it's is the expanded consciousness

A soul cannot a soul cannot process.

The resulting transition is in my opinion

one of the most interesting topics you can write about.

- Are we there? - Yes, we are.

Irritating.

You can still turn back.

No, no! I'm counting with your 10 pounds!

In addition, we Americans are old haunted castles.

They are still a very young people.

Well, at least we don't have any old locks.

We are just convinced of being immortal.

Probably a sign of our megalomania.

We return at daybreak.

Good luck.

Thank you. Mr. Poe...

We will continue our interview tomorrow in the morning if it suits you.

Of course. Tomorrow morning then.

Good night.

Oh, I forgot,

Torches can be found in the pavilion at the back of the park.

At the back of the park? Thank you.

Why did you that he should come here?

Because a story needs needs its protagonist.

Not bad for a start.

Good night.

Come on, Allister.

Good night.

Coincidence.

A marble slab that closes the grave provides a certain security.

Beyond the grave lies an area,

which is populated by an immeasurable number of people who are no longer alive.

They confuse death with the grave.

You are my talisman.

Hey, who's there?

Good evening.

Did you think I was a painting?

My brother sent you here.

If Lord Blackwood is your brother, then yes.

My name is Alan Foster.

I am Elisabeth Blackwood Dollister.

I apologize for any inconvenience,

but your brother told me that this castle was completely uninhabited.

He's not wrong about that so wrong, because I am...

- I am dead. - Dead?

Yes, yes.

My brother doesn't want to see me anymore.

I left his world to seek a happiness happiness that I never found.

Have you succeeded in reconcile with him?

No.

And so I have been all this time alone.