recursal/Fanatic-Fandom huggingface dataset:
Providence

**Providence**
*by H. P. Lovecraft*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

Where bay and river tranquil blend,

And leafy hillsides rise,

The spires of Providence ascend

Against the ancient skies,

And in the narrow winding ways

That climb o'er slope and crest,

The magic of forgotten days

May still be found to rest.

A fanlight's gleam, a knocker's blow,

A glimpse of Georgian brick -

The sights and sounds of long ago

Where fancies cluster thick.

A flight of steps with iron rail,

A belfry looming tall,

A slender steeple, carved and pale,

A moss-grown garden wall.

A hidden churchyard's crumbling proofs

Of man's mortality,

A rotting wharf where gambrel roofs

Keep watch above the sea.

Square and parade, whose walls have towered

Full fifteen decades long

By cobbled ways 'mid trees embowered,

And slighted by the throng.

Stone bridges spanning languid streams,

Houses perched on the hill,

And courts where mysteries and dreams

The brooding spirit fill.

Steep alley steps by vines concealed,

Where small-paned windows glow

At twilight on a bit of field

That chance has left below.

My Providence! What airy hosts

Turn still thy gilded vanes;

What winds of elf that with grey ghosts

People thine ancient lanes!

The chimes of evening as of old

Above thy valleys sound,

While thy stern fathers 'neath the mould

Make blest thy sacred ground.
Revelation

**Revelation**
*by H. P. Lovecraft*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

In a vale of light and laughter,

Shining 'neath the friendly sun,

Where fulfilment follow'd after

Ev'ry hope or dream begun;

Where an Aidenn gay and glorious,

Beckon'd down the winsome way;

There my soul, o'er pain victorious,

Laugh'd and lingered - yesterday.

Green and narrow was my valley,

Temper'd with a verdant shade;

Sun deck'd brooklets musically

Sparkled thro' each glorious glade;

And at night the stars serenely

Glow'd betwixt the boughs o'erhead,

While Astarte, calm and queenly,

Floods of fairy radiance shed.

There amid the tinted bowers,

Raptur'd with the opiate spell

Of the grasses, ferns and flowers,

Poppy, Phlox and Pimpernel,

Long I lay, entranc'd and dreaming,

Pleas'd with Nature's bounteous store,

Till I mark'd the shaded gleaming

Of the sky, and yearn'd for more.

Eagerly the branches tearing,

Clear'd I all the space above,

Till the bolder gaze, high faring,

Scann'd the naked skies of Jove;

Deeps unguess'd now shone before me,

Splendid beam'd the solar car;

Wings of fervid fancy bore me

Out beyond the farthest star.

Reaching, gasping, wishing, longing

For the pageant brought to sight,

Vain I watch'd the gold orbs thronging

Round the celestial poles of light.

Madly on a moonbeam ladder

Heav'ns abyss I sought to scale,

Ever wiser, ever sadder,

As the fruitless task would fail.

Then, with futile striving sated,

Veer'd my soul to earth again,

Well content that I was fated

For a fair, yet low domain;

Pleasing thoughts of glad tomorrows,

Like the blissful moments past,

Lull'd to rest my transient sorrows,

Stil'd my godless greed at last.

But my downward glance, returning,

Shrank in fright from what it spy'd;

Slopes in hideous torment burning,

Terror in the brooklet's tide:

For the dell, of shade denuded

By my desecrating hand,

'Neath the bare sky blaz'd and brooded

As a lost, accursed land.
Dreams of Inheritance

I take the stairs two by two coming home from granny’s funeral. A witch they’d called her, the superstitious fools, so relieved at her passing they’d never thought to investigate its odd suddenness. Not that they would have found anything. The work, done in a few moments with a thick pillow as she slept, her gnarled hands grasping at my wrists, ancient lungs struggling to capture the barest breath, was hardly an effort and left no evidence of foul play.

I reach the landing intent upon my prize; the treasure she kept locked in her room, the old metal key that in life never left the cord about her neck now held in my hand. No fool myself, I had waited until sure I was overlooked for mischief before attempting to secure the wealth now rightfully, if treacherously, mine.

I pause, wary. The door to granny’s room, the door I am sure I’d closed before leaving for the churchyard, stands cracked open. Thieves, then, aware of the rumors of her great fortune and seeking my inheritance as their own. They’ll have no chance without the key, and I’ll not be handing that over. I draw the small pistol from my pocket and edge, silently, down the hall.

Bursting through the door ready to do violence, I stop, suddenly unsure. A figure sits in granny’s old rocker, its back to me. But from where I stand I can see a twisting hand clutching the chair arm, hear labored breathing crackling from its chest. A laugh, dry as snapping twigs or rattling bones, issues from a mouth of worn leather. The chair slowly begins to turn.

Abruptly, I awake sprawled in my bed, tangled amidst the sheets. The memory of the nightmare that must have woken me has already faded from my brain. Granny calls from the next room, the sound of her voice causing an unbidden wave of disgust to issue from deep within my chest. Reflexively, my hands tighten upon my pillow and, reaching a decision I have long been considering, I rise from the bed. My gaze fixed upon the door, a smile threatens to tug at the corners of my lips, the thought of wealth soon to be mine playing across the surface of my mind. Yet still, as I creep from the room, I am plagued by the most nagging feeling that I have done this before.

## Narrations

"Dreams of Inheritance"- A Bad Creepypasta Reading and Commentarynarrated by Dr. ShaymDreams of Inheritance (Creepypasta)narrated by Hellfreezer-Creepypasta- "Dreams of Inheritance" by Shadowswimmer77narrated by AbysmiiDreams of Inheritance by Shadowswimmer77 Creepypastanarrated by Sid's Super Sidious CreepypastasDreams of Inheritance by Shadowswimmer77, Creepypastanarrated by Dee Dust2 Short Stories About Murdernarrated by Lady White Rabbit

*Written by Shadowswimmer77

Content is available under CC BY-NC*

**Previous Story: Sarah's Story**

**Next Story: Father's Love**
Enigma

**Enigma**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

For the Baltimore Visiter

The noblest name in Allegory's page,

The hand that traced inexorable rage;

A pleasing moralist whose page refined,

Displays the deepest knowledge of the mind;

A tender poet of a foreign tongue,

(Indited in the language that he sung.)

A bard of brilliant but unlicensed page

At once the shame and glory of our age,

The prince of harmony and stirling sense,

The ancient dramatist of eminence,

The bard that paints imagination's powers,

And him whose song revives departed hours,

Once more an ancient tragic bard recall,

In boldness of design surpassing all.

These names when rightly read, a name [make] known

Which gathers all their glories in its own.

-The End-

[This poem is attributed to Poe by Thomas Ollive Mabbott, who also gives the answers to the puzzles as:

line - author:

1 - Spenser

2 - Homer

3-4 - Aristotle

5-6 - Kallimachos

7-8 - Shelley

9 - Alexander Pope.

10 - Euripides

11 - Mark Akenside

12 - Samuel Rogers

13-14 - Euripidies

15-16 - William Shakespeare]

[As evidenced by his Tamerlane and Other Poems (1827), Poe was fond of the rhyme of "power"
and "hour," here used in plural form.]
Agone

Entrez dans un monde baroque et de fantaisie empli d'être fantastiques, de magie, de démons et de mystères. L'univers d'Agone est basé sur des romans de Mathieu Gaborit, *Les Chroniques des Crépusculaires* et *Abyme*, et présente un cadre rempli de mensonges et de duplicité, où la beauté se mêle à l'horreur, où les PJs sont les derniers héritiers de la Flamme de l'Inspiration dans un monde qui entre dans son dernier Âge Crépusculaire.

## Campagnes et Scenarii

### Le Comté d'Argenlaine

#### Le Comté d'Argenlaine

* Inspirés

* Résumé des Parties

* Personnages Importants

* Figures Locales d'Argenlaine

* Protagonistes des Drames

### Contrat Mortel

* Les Hauts de Hainemont

* Inspirés

* Figures Locales des Hauts de Hainemont

## L'Harmonde

### Généralités

Glossaire

Écoulement du Temps sur l'Harmonde

Monnaie

Unités de Mesure

Langues et Alphabets

Ce que croient et savent les Ternes

### Faune et Flore

Bestiaire de l'Harmonde

Merveilles et Excellences

## Les Royaumes Crépusculaires

### Histoire de l'Harmonde

La Guerre des Décans

La Flamboyance

L'Éclipse

Le Premier Âge

Le Deuxième Âge

Le Troisième Âge

Le Quatrième Âge

## Les Peuples de l'Harmonde

### Saisonins du Printemps

Farfadet

Lutin

Satyre

### Saisonins de l’Été

Géant

Minotaure

Ogre

### Saisonins de l'Automne

Drakonien

Morgane

Pixie

### Saisonins de l'Hiver

Fée Noire

Méduse

Nain

## Organisations de l'Harmonde

Le Cryptogramme-Magicien

L'Équerre

La Malle-Poste

Préceptorale

♦ Glossaire Agone
♦ L'Harmonde\_\_\_\_\_♦ Le Temps\_\_\_\_\_♦ La Monnaie\_\_\_\_\_♦ Unités de Mesure\_\_\_\_\_♦ Langues et Alphabets\_\_\_\_\_♦ Les Ternes
♦ Faune et Flore\_\_\_\_\_♦ Bestiaire\_\_\_\_\_♦ Merveilles\_\_\_\_\_♦ Excellences
♦ Genèse de l'Harmonde\_\_\_\_\_♦ L'Aube des Temps\_\_\_\_\_♦ L'Ultime Perfection\_\_\_\_\_♦ Le Zénith\_\_\_\_\_♦ Les Saisons\_\_\_\_\_♦ La Guerre des Décans
♦ Les Arts Magiques\_\_\_\_\_♦ L'Accord\_\_\_\_\_♦ La Cyse\_\_\_\_\_♦ Le Décorum\_\_\_\_\_♦ La Geste\_\_\_\_\_♦ Les Arts Secrets
\_\_\_\_\_
♦ Moden Hen\_\_\_\_\_♦ L'Empire de Keshe\_\_\_\_\_♦ La Marche Modéhenne\_\_\_\_\_♦ La République Mercenaire\_\_\_\_\_♦ Les Terres Veuves
♦ Le Septentrion\_\_\_\_\_♦ Les Communes Princières\_\_\_\_\_♦ Lyphane\_\_\_\_\_♦ Les Parages
♦ Les autres contrées\_\_\_\_\_♦ Abyme\_\_\_\_\_♦ Bokkor, l'Île du Bout du Monde\_\_\_\_\_♦ Les Cornes
\_\_\_\_\_♦ Inspirés\_\_\_\_\_♦ Personnalités\_\_\_\_\_♦ Figures Locales\_\_\_\_\_♦ Protagonistes des Drames\_\_\_\_\_♦ Résumés des Drames
♦ Contrat Mortel
Fanny

**Fanny**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

THE dying swan by northern lakes

Sing's [Sings] its wild death song, sweet and clear,

And as the solemn music breaks

O'er hill and glen dissolves in air ;

Thus musical thy soft voice came,

Thus trembled on thy tongue my name.

Like sunburst through the ebon cloud,

Which veils the solemn midnight sky,

Piercing cold evening's sable shroud,

Thus came the first glance of that eye ;

But like the adamantine rock,

My spirit met and braved the shock.

Let memory the boy recall

Who laid his heart upon thy shrine,

When far away his footsteps fall,

Think that he deem'd thy charms divine ;

A victim on love's alter [altar] slain,

By witching eyes which looked disdain.

Tamerlane
The Messenger

**The Messenger**
*by H. P. Lovecraft*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

The thing, he said, would come in the night at three

From the old churchyard on the hill below;

But crouching by an oak fire's wholesome glow,

I tried to tell myself it could not be.

Surely, I mused, it was pleasantry

Devised by one who did not truly know

The Elder Sign, bequeathed from long ago,

That sets the fumbling forms of darkness free.

He had not meant it - no - but still I lit

Another lamp as starry Leo climbed

Out of the Seekonk, and a steeple chimed

Three - and the firelight faded, bit by bit.

Then at the door that cautious rattling came -

And the mad truth devoured me like a flame!
For Annie

**For Annie** (1849)
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Thank Heaven! the crisis-

The danger is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last-

And the fever called "Living"

Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength,

And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length-

But no matter!-I feel

I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed

That any beholder

Might fancy me dead-

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

At heart:- ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing!

The sickness- the nausea-

The pitiless pain-

Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain-

With the fever called "Living"

That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst

Has abated- the terrible

Torture of thirst

For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst:-

I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst:-

Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground-

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;

For man never slept

In a different bed-

And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit

Here blandly reposes,

Forgetting, or never

Regretting its roses-

Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansies-

A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies-

With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie-

Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast-

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,

She covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm-

To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,

Now, in my bed,

(Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead-

And I rest so contentedly,

Now, in my bed,

(With her love at my breast)

That you fancy me dead-

That you shudder to look at me,

Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter

Than all of the many

Stars in the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie-

It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie-

With the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie.
Fact and Fancy

**Fact and Fancy**
*by H. P. Lovecraft*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind

Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;

Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,

And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!

Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,

Rejects the language of the glowing heart;

Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;

Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;

Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,

And sneers because his fables are untrue!

In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,

But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!

Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast

The grateful legends of the storied past;

Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,

And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:

Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough

Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?

Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye

Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;

Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,

And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze

For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,

While reedy music by the fountain rings;

To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide

Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.

Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,

Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;

I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,

And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams
Evangeline

**Evangeline**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

Do tell when shall we make common sense men out of the owl-eyed pundits

Out of The Frog-faced stupid old God-born Pundits who lost in a fog-bank

Strut about all along shore there somewhere close by the Down East

Frog Duck Pond munching of pea nuts and pumpkins and buried in big-wigs

Why ask who ever yet saw money made out of a fat old

Jew or downright upright nutmegs out of a pine-knot
The Little Glass Bottle

**The Little Glass Bottle** (1917)
*by H. P. Lovecraft*

Story copied from the The H.P. Lovecraft Archive.

**Notice: This pasta has 450+ words.**

“Heave to, there’s something floating to the leeward.” The speaker was a short
stockily built man whose name was William Jones. He was the captain of a small cat boat in which
he & a party of men were sailing at the time the story opens.

      “Aye aye sir,” answered John Towers & the boat was brought to
a stand still Captain Jones reached out his hand for the object which he now discerned to be
a glass bottle “Nothing but a rum flask that the men on a passing boat threw over,”
he said, but from an impulse of curiosity he reached out for it. It was a rum flask & he
was about to throw it away when he noticed a piece of paper in it. He pulled it out & on
it read the following

> Jan 1 1864
> I am John Jones who writes this letter my ship is fast sinking with a treasure on board I am where it is marked \* on the enclosed chart
>
>

      Captain Jones turned the sheet over & the other side was a chart

on the edge were written these words

dotted lines represent course we took

      “Towers,” Said Capt. Jones excitedly “read this.” Towers
did as he was directed. “I think it would pay to go,” said Capt. Jones “do you”?

“Just as you say,” replied Towers.

“We’ll charter a schooner this very
day,” said the excited captain.

“All right,” said Towers so they hired a boat
and started off govnd by the dotted lines of they chart in 4 weeks the reached the place where
directed & the divers went down and came up with an iron bottle they found in it the following
lines scribbled on a piece of brown paper.

> Dec 3 1880
> Dear Searcher excuse me for the practical joke I have played on you but it serves you right to find nothing for your foolish act—
>
>

      “Well it does,” said Capt Jones “go on.”

> However I will defray your expenses to & from the place you found your bottle I think it will be $25.0.00 so that amount you will find in an Iron box I know where you found the bottle because I put this bottle here & the iron box & then found a good place to put the second bottle hoping the enclosed money will defray your expenses some I close—Anonymus”
>
>

“I’d like to kick his head off,” said Capt Jones “Here diver go &
get the $25.0.00 in a minute the diver came up bearing an iron box inside it was found $25.0.00
It defrayed their expenses but I hardly think that they will ever go to a mysterious place as
directed by a mysterious bottle.
Fairy-Land

**Fairy-Land**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

Dim vales—and shadowy floods—

And cloudy-looking woods,

Whose forms we can't discover

For the tears that drip all over!

Huge moons there wax and wane—

Again—again—again—

Every moment of the night—

Forever changing places—

And they put out the star-light

With the breath from their pale faces.

About twelve by the moon-dial,

One more filmy than the rest

(A kind which, upon trial,

They have found to be the best)

Comes down—still down—and down,

With its centre on the crown

Of a mountain's eminence,

While its wide circumference

In easy drapery falls

Over hamlets, over halls,

Wherever they may be—

O'er the strange woods—o'er the sea—

Over spirits on the wing—

Over every drowsy thing—

And buries them up quite

In a labyrinth of light—

And then, how deep!—O, deep!

Is the passion of their sleep.

In the morning they arise,

And their moony covering

Is soaring in the skies,

With the tempests as they toss,

Like—almost anything—

Or a yellow Albatross.

They use that moon no more

For the same end as before—

Videlicet, a tent—

Which I think extravagant:

Its atomies, however,

Into a shower dissever,

Of which those butterflies

Of Earth, who seek the skies,

And so come down again,

(Never-contented things!)

Have brought a specimen

Upon their quivering wings.
Evening Star

**Evening Star**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

'Twas noontide of summer,

   And mid-time of night;

And stars, in their orbits,

   Shone pale, thro' the light

Of the brighter, cold moon,

   'Mid planets her slaves,

Herself in the Heavens,

   Her beam on the waves.

     I gazed awhile

     On her cold smile;

Too cold—too cold for me—

   There pass'd, as a shroud,

   A fleecy cloud,

And I turned away to thee,

   Proud Evening Star,

   In thy glory afar,

And dearer thy beam shall be;

   For joy to my heart

   Is the proud part

Thou bearest in Heaven at night,

   And more I admire

   Thy distant fire,

Than that colder, lowly light.
Scentless

***Author's note:** This rhyme is inspired by the drum progression of Nirvana's Scentless Apprentice.*

Beware and despair, my beloved child.

Thy time to depart this world grows near.

A simple knock, a simple rap reveals he is near.

The Scentless Apprentice cometh, I fear!

Eleven knocks! Eleven tocks!

At the stroke of eleven o'clock.

At thy window's pane, hear his ringing.

Soon, needle and thread, upon thy skin will be stinging.

Go away!

Get away!

Dressed in black, and skin covers both eyes.

Two barbed wires stretch nostrils wide,

Despair, the Scentless Apprentice, arrives.

Tapping a somber melody of thy coming demise.

The blue of sky or green of field,

It matters not, my little tot.

For he has no sight. He sees no light.

But the stench of a rotten child gives him such delight.

Go away!

Get away!

Eleven knocks! Oh God, eleven knocks

When thy hear those eleven tocks,

No window will stay latched no bedroom door stays locked.

None can disobey those eleven knocks.

Beware and despair, my lost child.

For last night I heard it clear.

Those eleven knocks, those eleven tocks,

My darling dear, next to my ear!

Go away! Get away!

Get away! Go away!

Go away! Get away!

Get away! Go away!

And this morning, upon morning's break,

What did I find when I opened thy chamber door?

Just one quick peek did I take.

Oh Lord, what did I see for goodness sake?

All I found,

Without a sound,

Tossed to the ground,

Was a tiny blanket and pillow amidst a flood.

And lay a tiny mattress,

Stained lightly with a single droplet of crimson blood.

Written by Killahawke1

Inspired by Nirvana's Scentless Apprentice.

Song and Lyrics written by Kurt Cobain, Dave Grohl, Kris Novoselic.

*Written by KillaHawke1

Content is available under CC BY-SA*
An Enigma

**An Enigma**
*by Edgar Allen Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

"Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,

"Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.

Through all the flimsy things we see at once

As easily as through a Naples bonnet—

Trash of all trash!—how *can* a lady don it?

Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff—

Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff

Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."

And, veritably, Sol is right enough.

The general tuckermanities are arrant

Bubbles—ephemeral and so transparent—

But *this* is, now,—you may depend upon it—

Stable, opaque, immortal—all by dint

Of the dear names that he concealed within't.
Eidolon

Matthaus was only accompanied by only his macabre thoughts as he sent dirt into the abducting wind with a flick of his spade to be carried off into the chilled umbra that was the night. With each pound of dirt he gave to the air, another ton pressed against his heart. His eyes were burning, his hands were shaking, his breath was trembling- but yet he pressed on in silence and isolation in this circular field confined by the entrapping pines of Cook forest.

He was digging downward in the middle of a circle of rounded stones, having almost reached the two foot mark. With every *shing* of the shovel penetrating the cold soil he recoiled, but his determination forced him forward. His almost soulless eyes let loose a single tear that rolled off of his cheek, disappearing into th-

*Clack*

His spade’s tip stuck into what sounded like a small wooden box. His digging hastened, repeatedly striking the box as his struggled breathing became an echoing panting. He decided to forego the shovel and threw it to the uncaring woods, falling to his knees and scooping out as much of the dampened, thick soil as possible.

As he repeatedly removed armfuls of soil, less and less came to replace it. Inch by inch, a deep-brown stained, decorative, girl’s wood lockbox, about six inches in length and three in width, sat in this ditch before him. His shaking hands moved forward and he grasped it, hardly able to pull it from its position due to his uncontrollable movements.

No longer was he struggling to breathe, but rather, he was now gasping for air for his molten throat between his sobs. Reaching into his pocket- past his revolver holster, he pulled out a small key with the same decorative designs as the lockbox. His hand quivering, he forced it into the lock. Slowly, he turned the key to the right, until an audible *click* echoed through his mind over and over.

Then, all motion stopped. Matthaus placed the lockbox to his right, pulling his revolver from his holster as he pulled his arm back up. Turned to face it once more, staring at it with nothing but memories of days wasted, hours too short, and what could have been. He raised the gun to his head and pulled back on the hammer. There was one last sob, but he did not grant himself any final words.

The revolver’s powerful roar erupted throughout the woods, sending black birds hidden within the trees to vanish in the shadows of the night. His corpse was forced to his left from the impact, throwing itself into the memorial he had constructed. The wind changed direction immediately, blowing strongly to the East, carrying a drop of blood to the lockbox.

From within, the faint sound of a baby’s cry gave way. A new life, granted by death, to amend for the life that was stolen from it. Never would Eidolon know of the life that could have been, nor would she know of the father that has murdered her mother just before her natural entrance to this world.

The lockbox creeped open, as Eidolon took her first breath of clean oxygen.
Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius

**Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

**I**

Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal

Like those champions devoted and brave,

When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,

And to Athens deliverance gave.

**II**
Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam

In the joy breathing isles of the blest;

Where the mighty of old have their home

Where Achilles and Diomed rest

**III**

In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,

Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,

When he made at the tutelar shrine

A libation of Tyranny's blood.

**IV**
Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!

Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!

Endless ages shall cherish your fame,

Embalmed in their echoing songs!
Israfel

**Israfel**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

ISRAFEL.1

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

 "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell)

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

 Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

 In her highest noon,

 The enamoured moon

Blushes with love,

 While, to listen, the red levin

 (With the rapid Pleiads, even,

 Which were seven,)

 Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

 And the other listening things)

That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

 By which he sits and sings—

The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,

 Where deep thoughts are a duty—

Where Love's a grown up God—

 Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

 Which we worship in a star.

Therefore, thou art not wrong,

 Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song;

To thee the laurels belong,

 Best bard, because the wisest!

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

 With thy burning measures suit—

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

 With the fervour of thy lute—

 Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

 Is a world of sweets and sours;

 Our flowers are merely—flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

 Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

 Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

 A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell

 From my lyre within the sky.

1And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.—Koran.
A Dream

**A Dream**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

In visions of the dark night

    I have dreamed of joy departed—

But a waking dream of life and light

    Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day

    To him whose eyes are cast

On things around him with a ray

    Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream—that holy dream,

    While all the world were chiding,

Hath cheered me as a lovely beam

    A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,

    So trembled from afar—

What could there be more purely bright

    In Truth's day-star?
Laeta; a Lament

**Laeta; a Lament**
*by H. P. Lovecraft*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

*Respectfully dedicated to Rheinhart Kiciner, Esq.,*
*With compliments of the author*

How sad droop the willows by Zalal's fair side,

Where so lately I stray'd with my raven-hair'd bride;

Ev'ry light-floating lily, each flow'r on the shore,

Folds in sorrow since Laeta can see them no more!

Oh blest were the days when in childhood and hope

With my Laeta I rov'd o'er the blossom-clad slope,

Plucking white meadow-daisies and ferns by the stream,

As we laugh'd at the ripples that twinkle and gleam.

Not a bloom deck'd the mead that could rival in grace

The dear innocent charms of my Laeta's fair face;

Not a thrush thrill'd the grove with a carol so choice

As the silvery strains of my Laeta's sweet voice.

The shy nymphs of the woodlands, the fount, and the plain,

Strove to equal her beauty, but strove all in vain;

Yet no envy they bore her, while fruitless they strove,

For so pure was my Laeta, they could only love!

When the warm breath of Auster play'd soft o'er the flow'rs,

And young Zephyrus rustled the gay scented bow'rs,

Ev'ry breeze seem'd to pause as it drew near the fair,

Too much aw'd at her sweetness to tumble her hair.

How fond were our dreams on the day when we stood

In the ivy-grown temple beside the dark wood;

When our pledges we seal'd at the sanctify'd shrine,

And I knew that my Laeta forever was mine!

How blissful our thoughts when the wild autumn came,

And the forests with scarlet and gold were aflame;

Yet how heavy my heart when I first felt the fear

That my starry-eyed Laeta would fade with the year!

The pastures were sere and the heavens were grey

When I laid my lov'd Laeta forever away,

And the river god pity'd, as weeping I pac'd

Mingling hot bitter tears with his cold frozen waste.

Now the flow'rs have return'd, but they bloom not so sweet

As in days when they blossom'd round Laeta's dear feet;

And the willows complain to the answering hill,

And the thrushes that once were so happy are still.

The green meadows and groves in their loneliness pine,

Whilst the dryads no more in their madrigals join,

The breeze once so joyous now murmurs and sighs,

And blows soft o'er the spot where my lov'd Laeta lies.

So pensive I roam o'er the desolate lawn

Where we wander'd and lov'd in the days that are gone,

And I yearn for the autumn, when Zalal's blue tide

Shall sing low by my grave and the lov'd Laeta's side.
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*This page was last updated on: 00:21, February 20, 2014 (UTC)*
The Needle

***Author's note:** This is from the same comic as "The Cause of the Crash", and things like this have also happened in real life.*

Hubie, having been clean for six years, continued to tell S.C. about his dark days as a heroin addict. Discussing how he sometimes shot up with other addicts, he noted, “There’s one thing about some of these disease control centers that really irks me. They basically say it’s okay to inject drugs as long as you thoroughly clean any shared or used needles. When you’re a junkie, you don’t care about cleaning needles.”

He flashed back to the night he and another addict were cooking heroin in an abandoned house. As the other addict injected into his arm, Hubie realized that he had forgotten to bring a needle of his own. The other addict set his needle down near the candle and shakily arose to his feet.

Hubie pointed to the syringe. “Are you done with that?”

“Uh-huh,” slurred the other addict. He took a couple steps before vomiting.

Hubie took the hypodermic syringe, the needle still wet with blood from being in someone else’s arm less than a minute ago, and filled it with the heroin from his blackened spoon. The veins in his arms, fingers, and legs needed a rest due to being stuck with needles so many times, so he methodically stuck the needle into his neck and injected the heroin into it.

In the present, Hubie added, “You don’t care about eating, you don’t care about taking care of yourself, and you don’t care about the tears and pleas of friends and loved ones. You don’t even care about life.”

*Written by Raidra

Content is available under CC BY-SA*

**< Previous |** ~~Next >~~
The Conqueror Worm

**The Conqueror Worm**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

Lo! 'tis a gala night

     Within the lonesome latter years!

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight

     In veils, and drowned in tears,

Sit in a theatre, to see

     A play of hopes and fears,

While the orchestra breathes fitfully

     The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,

     Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly-

     Mere puppets they, who come and go

At bidding of vast formless things

     That shift the scenery to and fro,

Flapping from out their Condor wings

     Invisible Woe!

That motley drama- oh, be sure

     It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,

     By a crowd that seize it not,

Through a circle that ever returneth in

     To the self-same spot,

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,

     And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout

     A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out

     The scenic solitude!

It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs

     The mimes become its food,

And seraphs sob at vermin fangs

     In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!

     And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

     Comes down with the rush of a storm,

While the angels, all pallid and wan,

     Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"

     And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
Eldorado

**Eldorado**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old—

This knight so bold—

And o'er his heart a shadow

Fell as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow—

"Shadow," said he,

"Where can it be—

This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,"

The shade replied,—

"If you seek for Eldorado!"
Eulalie

**Eulalie**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

EULALIE.

 I dwelt alone
 In a world of moan.
 And my soul was a stagnant tide,
Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride—
Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

 Ah, less—less bright
 The stars of the night
 Than the eyes of the radiant girl.
 And never a flake
 That the vapor can make
 With the morn-tints of purple and pearl.
Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl—
Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.

 Now Doubt—now Pain
 Come never again.
 For her soul gives me sigh for sigh.
 While all day long
 Shines, bright and strong,
 Astarté within the sky.
And ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye—
And ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
Ode for July Fourth, 1917

**Ode for July Fourth, 1917**
*by H. P. Lovecraft*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

As Columbia’s brave scions, in anger array’d,
 Once defy’d a proud monarch and built a new nation;
‘Gainst their brothers of Britain unsheath’d the sharp blade
 That hath ne’er met defeat nor endur’d desecration;
  So must we in this hour
  Show our valour and pow’r,
And dispel the black perils that over us low’r:
 Whilst the sons of Britannia, no longer our foes,
 Will rejoice in our triumphs and strengthen our blows!

See the banners of Liberty float in the breeze
 That plays light o’er the regions our fathers defended;
Hear the voice of the million resound o’er the leas,
 As deeds of the past are proclaim’d and commended;
  And in splendour on high
  Where our flags proudly fly,
See the folds we tore down flung again to the sky:
 For the Emblem of England, in kinship unfurl’d,
 Shall divide with Old Glory the praise of the world!

Bury’d now are the hatreds of subject and King,
 And the strife that once sunder’d an Empire hath vanish’d.
With the fame of the Saxon the heavens shall ring
 As the vultures of darkness are baffled and banish’d;
  And the broad British sea,
  Of her enemies free,
Shall in tribute bow gladly, Columbia to thee:
 For the friends of the Right, in the field side by side,
 Form a fabric of Freedom no hand can divide!
In the Middle of the Night

In the middle of the night, the little girl woke up to a sound. Someone was in the hallway. She could hear faint footsteps getting closer and closer. Her heart started racing.

"Mommy, are you there?"

As a reply, the door creaked open. The little girl hugged her blanket close to her chest, her tiny hands trembling with fear.

Suddenly, a figure stepped through the door. The little girl was relieved to see her mommy's silhouette in the darkness.

"Mommy, you scared me. Ah, why did you turn on the lights?" the little girl squeaked, blinded by the sudden whiteness. Before she closed her eyes, she caught a glimpse of her mommy lunging towards her. She grabbed her by the shoulder and forcefully sat her on her knees.

"Mommy, what are you doing?" the little girl said, "You are hurting me!"

Her mommy grabbed her hair and pulled up. She then leaned towards her exposed neck, and bit hard, her canine teeth tearing the tender flesh into pieces.

"Sweetheart, is everything alright? I heard you screaming. Did you have a nightmare?" mommy said softly.

"I saw a bad dream, mommy," the little girl said, still breathing heavily from the terrible nightmare.

"Mommy is here now, don't be scared no more," mommy said, hugging her daughter tightly.

"I know, *mommy*, I know," the little devil said, blood still dripping from her canine teeth.

*Written by MrDupin

Content is available under CC BY-SA*
***Author's note:** Special thanks to JohnathanNash and Oaura for their feedback on the Writer's Workshop.*
The Coliseum

**The Coliseum**
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

Story copied from the Wikisource.

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary

Of lofty contemplation left to Time

By buried centuries of pomp and power!

At length- at length- after so many days

Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,

(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)

I kneel, an altered and an humble man,

Amid thy shadows, and so drink within

My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!

Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!

I feel ye now- I feel ye in your strength-

O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king

Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!

O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee

Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!

Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,

A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair

Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!

Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,

Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,

The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls- these ivy-clad arcades-

These moldering plinths- these sad and blackened shafts-

These vague entablatures- this crumbling frieze-

These shattered cornices- this wreck- this ruin-

These stones- alas! these grey stones- are they all-

All of the famed, and the colossal left

By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

"Not all"- the Echoes answer me- "not all!

Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever

From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,

As melody from Memnon to the Sun.

We rule the hearts of mightiest men- we rule

With a despotic sway all giant minds.

We are not impotent- we pallid stones.

Not all our power is gone- not all our fame-

Not all the magic of our high renown-

Not all the wonder that encircles us-

Not all the mysteries that in us lie-

Not all the memories that hang upon

And cling around about us as a garment,

Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
The Horror Network

**Welcome to The Horror Network!**

This is a place to post and view all things horror: stories, narrations, videos, reviews, drawings, memes, and photos. There will be front page features of the things mentioned in the previous sentence, often based on user voting. This site hosts a broader spectrum of horror-related material and is likely more easy-going than other wikis you've dealt with. All we ask is that you don't breach Wikia's **Terms of Use** and follow the **Seven Deadly Site Rules**.

**Featured Narration**
Written by KillaHawke1

**Featured Video**

**Featured Meme**

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Annabel Lee

**Annabel Lee** (1849)
*by Edgar Allan Poe*

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

*I* was a child and *she* was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea:

But we loved with a love that was more than love —

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me —

Yes! — that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we —

Of many far wiser than we —

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.
DAEMON

Amongst the dark spirits and beasts that prey upon man, I am the most wicked of them all. Nevertheless, man embraces me most above all others. No need have I to impose my will or possess man’s body to have my bidding be done. Thou offer thyself freely unto me, absent of all reservation and without hesitation. For if thou abandon me, I will damn thy soul! If thou reject me, thou shall be shunned and scorned.

Consider this, "Why does thou call out to me?" Is it eternal life thou crave? Is it heavenly rewards thou seek? I promise eternal Paradise simply for thy servitude and that of your offspring. I offer it to thee freely, it matters not. This priceless gift cost me nothing, for only when thou take in breath no more is my payment due. For I am the voice in the silence of unanswered prayers. I am the healing thou seek when death and disease embrace thy children. I am the signs and warnings in the heavens and stars thou see as omens of future days to come. I am the high ground stood upon when thou condemns thy neighbor to Hell in the name of forgiveness and love. I am the reason thou kill for dogma and belief.

Alas, do not despair, my beloved children, for I am not without benevolence or kindness. I grant strength to overcome thy fear of the unknown. I giveth thee sight that allows thee to envision hope beyond the tragedies and misfortunes of life. I provide comfort from the continuous sound of death’s inevitable approach. I am the purpose of pain. I am the reward from loss, and I am the love in absence.

Nonetheless, take heed, for millions of thy brothers and sisters have lost their lives in my name. Wickedness, sin, and destruction follow in my path. I turn fathers against sons and daughters against mothers. Every god must kneel before me, for I grant them their power. I am the chains that bind man’s soul to Heaven and Hell.

From the beginning, my kind has dwelt amongst man. Daemons populate thy history in abundance and man has given us many names. I have one name; one holy name thou exalts above all others. Summon me and I will come! Calleth upon me and abandon thy logic of thought and reason of mind! Speaketh my name and surrender to me! Surrender unto Faith.

*Written by KillaHawke1

Content is available under CC BY-SA*