The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2Poe, Edgar Allan
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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American; Short stories
So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my back,
unbound. I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon
something damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain for many
minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what I could be. I
longed, yet dared not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first
glance at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look
upon things horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be
nothing to see. 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. The atmosphere was intolerably close. I
still lay quietly, and made effort to exercise my reason. I
brought to mind the inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from
that point to deduce my real condition. The sentence had passed;
and it appeared to me that a very long interval of time had since
elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself actually dead.
Such a supposition, notwithstanding what we read in fiction, is
altogether inconsistent with real existence;—but where and in
what state was I? The condemned to death, I knew, perished
usually at the autos-da-fe, and one of these had been held on the
very night of the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to my
dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not take place
for many months? This I at once saw could not be. Victims had
been in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as all
the condemned cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was
not altogether excluded.
A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon my
heart, and for a brief period, I once more relapsed into
insensibility. Upon recovering, I at once started to my feet,
trembling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly
above and around me in all directions. I felt nothing; yet
dreaded to move a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of
a tomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and stood in cold big
beads upon my forehead. The agony of suspense grew at length
intolerable, and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms
extended, and my eyes straining from their sockets, in the hope
of catching some faint ray of light. I proceeded for many paces;
but still all was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more freely.
It seemed evident that mine was not, at least, the most hideous
of fates.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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