left of Edgar Allan Poe, and I am all that
is left of Ambrose Bierce and all that is left of a man named Lovecraft. I am a
gray night bat with sharp teeth, and I am a square black monolith monster. I am
Osiris and Bal and Set. I am the Necronomicon, the Book of the Dead. I am the
house of Usher, falling into flame. I am the Red Death. I am the man mortared
into the catacomb with a cask of Amontillado … I am a dancing skeleton. I am a
coffin, a shroud, a lightning bolt reflected in an old house window. I am an
autumn-empty tree, I am a rapping, flinging shutter. I am a yellowed volume
turned by a claw hand. I am an organ played in an attic at midnight. I am a
mask, a skull mask behind an oak tree on the last day of October. I am a poison
apple bobbling in a water tub for child noses to bump at, for child teeth to
snap … I am a black candle lighted before an inverted cross. I am a coffin lid,
a sheet with eyes, a foot-step on a black stairwell. I am Dunsany and Machen
and I am the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I am The Monkey’s Paw and I am The
Phantom Rickshaw. I am the Cat and the Canary, the Gorilla, the Bat. I am the
ghost of Hamlet’s father on the castle wall.
All
of these things am I. And now these last things will be burned. While I lived they still lived. While I moved and
hated and existed, they still existed.
I am all that remembers them. I am
all of them that still goes on, and
will not go on after tonight.
Tonight, all of us, Poe and Bierce and Hamlet’s father, we burn together. They
will make a big heap of us and burn us like a bonfire, like things of Guy
Fawkes’ day, gasoline, torches, cries, and all!
And
what a wailing will we put up. The world will be clean of us, but in our going
we shall say, oh what is the world like, clean of fear, where is the dark
imagination from the dark time, the thrill and the anticipation, the suspense
of old October, gone, never more to come again, flattened and smashed and
burned by the rocket people, by the Incinerator people, destroyed and
obliterated, to be replaced by doors that open and close and lights that go on
and off without fear. If only you could remember how once we lived, what Halloween was to us, and what Poe was, and how we
gloried in the dark morbidities. One more drink, dear friends, of Amontillado,
before the burning. All of this, all, exists but in one last brain on earth. A
whole world dying tonight. One more drink, pray.
“Here
we are,” said McClure.
The
Incinerator was brightly lighted. There was quiet music nearby. McClure got out
of the beetle, came around to the other side. He opened the door. Lantry simply
lay there. The talking and the logical talking had slowly drained him of life.
He was no more than wax now, with a small glow in his eyes. This future world,
how the men talked to you, how
logically they reasoned away your life. They wouldn’t believe in him. The force
of their disbelief froze him. He could not move his arms or his legs. He could
only mumble senselessly, coldly, eyes flickering.
McClure
and the two others helped him out of the car, put him in a golden box, and
rolled him on a roller table into the warm glowing interior of the building.
I
am Edgar Allan Poe, I am Ambrose Bierce, I am Halloween, I am a coffin, a
shroud, a Monkey’s Paw, a Phantom, a Vampire …
“Yes,
yes,” said McClure, quietly, over him. “I know. I know.”
The
table glided. The walls swung over him and by him, the music played. You are
dead, you are logically dead.
I
am Usher, I am the Maelstrom, I am the MS Found In A Bottle, I am the Pit and I
am the Pendulum, I am the Telltale Heart, I am the Raven nevermore, nevermore.
“Yes,”
said McClure, as they walked softly. “I
is left of Ambrose Bierce and all that is left of a man named Lovecraft. I am a
gray night bat with sharp teeth, and I am a square black monolith monster. I am
Osiris and Bal and Set. I am the Necronomicon, the Book of the Dead. I am the
house of Usher, falling into flame. I am the Red Death. I am the man mortared
into the catacomb with a cask of Amontillado … I am a dancing skeleton. I am a
coffin, a shroud, a lightning bolt reflected in an old house window. I am an
autumn-empty tree, I am a rapping, flinging shutter. I am a yellowed volume
turned by a claw hand. I am an organ played in an attic at midnight. I am a
mask, a skull mask behind an oak tree on the last day of October. I am a poison
apple bobbling in a water tub for child noses to bump at, for child teeth to
snap … I am a black candle lighted before an inverted cross. I am a coffin lid,
a sheet with eyes, a foot-step on a black stairwell. I am Dunsany and Machen
and I am the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I am The Monkey’s Paw and I am The
Phantom Rickshaw. I am the Cat and the Canary, the Gorilla, the Bat. I am the
ghost of Hamlet’s father on the castle wall.
All
of these things am I. And now these last things will be burned. While I lived they still lived. While I moved and
hated and existed, they still existed.
I am all that remembers them. I am
all of them that still goes on, and
will not go on after tonight.
Tonight, all of us, Poe and Bierce and Hamlet’s father, we burn together. They
will make a big heap of us and burn us like a bonfire, like things of Guy
Fawkes’ day, gasoline, torches, cries, and all!
And
what a wailing will we put up. The world will be clean of us, but in our going
we shall say, oh what is the world like, clean of fear, where is the dark
imagination from the dark time, the thrill and the anticipation, the suspense
of old October, gone, never more to come again, flattened and smashed and
burned by the rocket people, by the Incinerator people, destroyed and
obliterated, to be replaced by doors that open and close and lights that go on
and off without fear. If only you could remember how once we lived, what Halloween was to us, and what Poe was, and how we
gloried in the dark morbidities. One more drink, dear friends, of Amontillado,
before the burning. All of this, all, exists but in one last brain on earth. A
whole world dying tonight. One more drink, pray.
“Here
we are,” said McClure.
The
Incinerator was brightly lighted. There was quiet music nearby. McClure got out
of the beetle, came around to the other side. He opened the door. Lantry simply
lay there. The talking and the logical talking had slowly drained him of life.
He was no more than wax now, with a small glow in his eyes. This future world,
how the men talked to you, how
logically they reasoned away your life. They wouldn’t believe in him. The force
of their disbelief froze him. He could not move his arms or his legs. He could
only mumble senselessly, coldly, eyes flickering.
McClure
and the two others helped him out of the car, put him in a golden box, and
rolled him on a roller table into the warm glowing interior of the building.
I
am Edgar Allan Poe, I am Ambrose Bierce, I am Halloween, I am a coffin, a
shroud, a Monkey’s Paw, a Phantom, a Vampire …
“Yes,
yes,” said McClure, quietly, over him. “I know. I know.”
The
table glided. The walls swung over him and by him, the music played. You are
dead, you are logically dead.
I
am Usher, I am the Maelstrom, I am the MS Found In A Bottle, I am the Pit and I
am the Pendulum, I am the Telltale Heart, I am the Raven nevermore, nevermore.
“Yes,”
said McClure, as they walked softly. “I
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