The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 4Poe, Edgar Allan
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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 4
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American; Short stories
My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel of
the Odd. Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside
the curtains, and, in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum
puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the
contempt with which I had treated him. He concluded a long
harangue by taking off his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my
gullet, and thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwässer,
which he poured, in a continuous flood, from one of the long
necked bottles that stood him instead of an arm. My agony was at
length insufferable, and I awoke just in time to perceive that a
rat had ran off with the lighted candle from the stand, but _not_
in season to prevent his making his escape with it through the
hole. Very soon, a strong suffocating odor assailed my nostrils;
the house, I clearly perceived, was on fire. In a few minutes the
blaze broke forth with violence, and in an incredibly brief
period the entire building was wrapped in flames. All egress from
my chamber, except through a window, was cut off. The crowd,
however, quickly procured and raised a long ladder. By means of
this I was descending rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a
huge hog, about whose rotund stomach, and indeed about whose
whole air and physiognomy, there was something which reminded me
of the Angel of the Odd,—when this hog, I say, which hitherto had
been quietly slumbering in the mud, took it suddenly into his
head that his left shoulder needed scratching, and could find no
more convenient rubbing-post than that afforded by the foot of
the ladder. In an instant I was precipitated and had the
misfortune to fracture my arm.
This accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more
serious loss of my hair, the whole of which had been singed off
by the fire, predisposed me to serious impressions, so that,
finally, I made up my mind to take a wife. There was a rich widow
disconsolate for the loss of her seventh husband, and to her
wounded spirit I offered the balm of my vows. She yielded a
reluctant consent to my prayers. I knelt at her feet in gratitude
and adoration. She blushed and bowed her luxuriant tresses into
close contact with those supplied me, temporarily, by Grandjean.
I know not how the entanglement took place, but so it was. I
arose with a shining pate, wigless; she in disdain and wrath,
half buried in alien hair. Thus ended my hopes of the widow by an
accident which could not have been anticipated, to be sure, but
which the natural sequence of events had brought about.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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