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a crawling shape intrude, A blood-red thing that writhes from out the scenic solitude. It writhes! It writhes! With mortal fangs, the mimes become its food And seraphs sob at vermin fangs With human gore imbued. Edgar Allan Poe, "The Conqueror Worm"
Edgar Allan Poe, master of the macabre, purveyor of the bizarre. My fourth grade class spent a week on Poe, and I've been frightened of him ever since. As a ten year old boy, I had never before encountered tales of people locking up their friends in the cellar ("The Cask of Amontillado"), sleeping with their dead girlfriends ("Annabel Lee"), or dying in droves at parties ("The Masque of the Red Death").
Almost all of Poe's tales are classics - "The Black Cat," "The Pit and the Pendulum," "The Raven," "The Fall of the House of Usher," "To Helen," "The Conqueror Worm," "The Gold Bug," "The Tell-Tale Heart," etc. Suffice to say, they don't come much scarier."FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!" "Yes...for the love of God..."
