Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

Edgar Allan Poe’s stories are the tales told by the raven on the longest winter night long after midnight�

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door�
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door�
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Though it is impossible to name the most favourite tale now I remember when I read his stories first time in my childhood somehow I was hypnotized most by The Cask of Amontillado, probably because the festive atmosphere turns into the perfectly sinister one so unexpectedly.

We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

Even now, due to their narrative power and chilling macabre storylines, such tales as The Fall of the House of Usher, The Pit and the Pendulum, The Masque of the Red Death, The Murders in the Rue Morgue and many others remain unforgettable and matchless.
Ever since the cave man has been sitting by his primitive hearth, huddling close to the fire being afraid of every shadow, we still keep our primordial fear. And to win over this fear while reading dark tales is a great pleasure.