Castle of Blood (Danza macabra)

"It was past midnight, and the fire had died to embers.

A light knock was heard at the door of the library,

and pale as a visitor from a tomb,

a servant entered, walking on tiptoe.

He had a look filled with terror.

He tried to speak to me, but he was unable.

He trembled!

What was he trying to say?

I only picked up fragments of what he was saying.

He spoke of an ungodly scream that lacerated the silence of the night;

of a gathering of all the family members;

of a search in the direction of the sound.

Then...

The sound of his voice

became frighteningly clear,

as he whispered

of a violated grave,

of a body wrapped in a shroud, disfigured but

nevertheless breathing,

nevertheless quivering, nevertheless alive!

He pointed to my clothes.

They were

mud-caked and bloodstained!

I didn't speak.

And he took,

gently, one of my hands,

And horribly, his fingers were all bloody.

He staggered toward the far side of that room and...

And then he grabbed up a poker from the fireplace.

With a scream, I threw myself at the table

and grabbed the box that was on it.

I pulled at the lid, but it didn't open.

The box slid out of my hands. It fell heavily,

and it was smashed.

It was weird.

As we stared at the contents,

we saw instruments that a dentist uses.

Mixed in there, I could see 32 white objects.

They were small and jagged and seemed made of ivory.

The next moment, I held one in my hand, and I remembered it.

I recognized one of the magnificent teeth

of my cousin Berenice.

My obsession of earlier, it was created by her teeth.

The sight of them had consumed me,

and it had been fully six months

since the night of her death...

The night that I had blanked out.

There wasn't a thing that I could recall. Memory failed.

Had I killed her? I wondered."

I recently read that story of yours, Mr. Poe.

It's fiction, but hearing you narrate it,

I begin to believe it could be true. Fascinating!

Who are you, sir?

Alan Foster, writer for The Times.

Ah, the journalist who's been storming me

with letters for the last five days.

Because you've refused me an appointment,

you've forced me to come here to see you.

It doesn't happen very often that Edgar Allan Poe

comes here to London.

This is in fact my first visit to England,

and it will also be my final visit.

Oh? Has London disappointed you?

No, life itself.

Sit down here, please.

Let me inform you, Mr. Foster, that I am not a novelist,

but one of your colleagues, a reporter.

Every story that I've ever written is true.

It really happened. - Oh, yes,

I'm quite sure it did,

with everything that you have written.

You see, it happened in your imagination.

No, it didn't.

It's pure and simple truth. Let me assure you, young man.

I believe there are only seven years

difference between us.

It could be eight.

Eight, then. But to me, it's a lifetime, you see,

and I await here something that doesn't exist: my death.

You're extraordinary.

I'd been led to believe that death is certain,

yet you say it doesn't exist.

It does, though. - You're confusing death

with the tomb, young man.

It's a common mistake.

A sheet of marble that'll cover all of us,

assures us that it's certainly the tomb,

but life has not been ended.

Of the people who are buried,

there are many who haven't died.

They survive. I've researched this.

Oh, I think you're making fun of me.

A man of your great intelligence certainly doesn't believe

that there's a hereafter. Oh, no, no.

I'd like to give you more credit.

My gratitude. You have properly insulted my intelligence

with I'd say an exquisite elegance.

If I've insulted you, I didn't mean to, and I apologize.

You've always had my admiration and all my respect, as well.

And you still do.

However, I disagree with you.

I think life's cycle terminates with death and entombment.

After that, well, there's nothing. It's the end.

If there is some existence after that...

If there is, I firmly believe that it's in the spirit.

That may never die.

Nobody ever returns from the dead, as in your stories.

I admit that I'm afraid,

yet I'm not afraid of the dead.

Not at all. It's the living.

Oh, yes. My fear is of the living.

They're the ones who can harm us.

You must agree.

Pardon me, sir.

I am Sir Thomas Blackwood.

I'll bear a hundred pounds sterling on the theory

that you, sir, cannot spend a single night

in my castle in Providence.

Why?

Do you believe that I might run away from the place?

No, you'd remain there.

Of all those who have agreed to take up my wager,

not one has ever lived to run away.

I'm sorry that I'm unable to take you up on your bet.

Oh, perhaps it's just as well, young man.

I've heard of this castle of Sir Thomas.

It's on a cliff overlooking the valley

in the Providence vicinity.

Approximately 12 months ago,

a bride and groom visited there.

They were the last. - That's right.

He was a cousin of my wife's.

The information I was given was that,

and Sir Thomas might dispute it,

they were never seen again. - Now, these honeymooners

decided that they'd stay.

Is that it?

You don't want me to think that they disappeared

into nothing.

Whether they still live or if they died,

I'm certain that they left.

Mr. Poe is telling the truth.

He happens to be right.

They remain there.

They are both resting there in the family cemetery.

Each year, I search like this.

I seek to locate a courageous man who will say

that he's willing to spend the night in the castle

and dispel the legend.

But you are quite a nice young man,

and I feel grateful that you've decided

to refuse to accept the wager.

It's not that I don't want to wager, milord.

I'm not a coward.

The fact is I lack the required sum.

You see, most journalists these days don't have money.

Am I right?

For 10, I'd be glad to-- - You'd take the wager

for 10 sterling? - Right away.

Then you will go there tonight...

The Night of the Dead.

It is only from midnight tonight,

the first midnight in November, until the sunrise,

that you may see the dead come back to perform again

those tragedies which had cost them their lives.

Well, you know, this experience is likely to prove

a valuable addition to my thesis.

I have an excellent title already:

"The Castle of Terror."

Please think about whether you really want to go there.

I look forward to it.

But you, sir, I want that interview now.

No, you must go there immediately.

It's a distance away.

It will take us at least about two hours in my carriage.

What about my interview with Mr. Poe here?

If it's so important to you,

perhaps we can talk while we're traveling.

Do you mind if I accompany you? I would like to.

I assure you, I'll be honored.

Come on, I'm ready to go.

Coming, sir?

During the journey, I should be able to get

a good interview tonight.

Of course.

Thank you, gentlemen. Goodnight.

Goodnight.

Have you ever tried to write stories

inspired by reality?

Reality...

Always lies beyond,

on the outside,

or below,

all the stabilized forms,

be they of society

as well as of the spirit.

In the abysses,

at the bottom of the sea,

at the South Pole.

Of all the subjects more or less melancholic,