The Poe Show
Listen to the classic horror stories and macabre poems of Edgar Allan Poe, renowned 19th century authors and more in a solemnly dark tone you've never heard before! Featuring the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, H.P. Lovecraft, J.S. Le Fanu and many more. New episodes the 7th & 21st of every month! Music and narration for episodes by Tynan Portillo. Intro music by Emmett Cooke on PremiumBeat.
The Poe Show
The Cask of Amontillado
Is this tale one of the most haunting stories Edgar Allan Poe has ever written?
In this episode, we will step into the chilling catacombs of The Cask of Amontillado, a pinnacle of Gothic horror crafted by the master of literary suspense: Edgar Allan Poe.
Whether you're a literature lover, horror enthusiast, or Poe fanatic like myself, this episode offers a compelling analysis of key themes like revenge, betrayal and irony, the historical context in Edgar Allan Poe's life, and hidden meanings in Poe’s masterful tale of twisted justice. He wrote more than dark fiction, he put psychological horror from pen to paper.
Edgar Allan Poe wrote The Cask of Amontillado in 1846 in Godey’s Lady’s Book, and it is a chilling narrative of the most sinister kind of revenge. This gothic tale reflects themes from The Black Cat, The Pit and the Pendulum, The Premature Burial and many more of Edgar Allan Poe’s similar works. In The Black Cat, a cat is hidden behind a wall built back up brick by brick. In The Pit and the Pendulum, the agony of slow torture tears apart the mind of the protagonist. The scary story of being buried alive is also featured in The Premature Burial, the most recent creepy story featured on this podcast. If you’re looking for a spooky short story to listen to during the silent night, hoping to gain some fearful terror and delightful frights, then please enjoy The Cask of Amontillado.
Perfect for students, teachers, book clubs, those who love Halloween stories and true crime fans who enjoy the macabre brilliance of Edgar Allan Poe. So please share with others! Subscribe, like, follow and send it to a friend!
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Audible source on AI announcement:
SFX ATTRIBUTION:
DOBCommunications, on Pixabay - Catholic Church Sound Effect
The Audio Horizon SFX on YouTube - Medieval Village sound effect
ZAPSPLAT - jester hat with bells on sound effects: https://www.zapsplat.com/music/jeter-hat-with-bells-on-movements-jingle-version-1/?utm_source=chatgpt.com
GFX Sounds on YouTube - Burning Torch sound effect
Tynan Portillo presents, featuring the works of Edgar Allan Poe and the best horror stories from the 19th century. Welcome to The Poe Show podcast. Music and narration by Tynan Portillo.
Today’s episode, The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe.
Pater, ignosce mihi, quia peccavi
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled — but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point — this Fortunato — although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practice imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; — I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him — “My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”
“How?” said he. “Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!”
“I have my doubts,” I replied; “and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain.”
“Amontillado!”
“I have my doubts.”
“Amontillado!”
“And I must satisfy them.”
“Amontillado!”
“As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me ——”
“Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.”
“And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.”
“Come, let us go.”
“Whither?”
“To your vaults.”
“My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi ——”
“I have no engagement; — come.”
“My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.”
“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado.”
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
“The pipe,” said he.
“It is farther on,” said I; “but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls.”
He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication .
“Nitre?” he asked, at length.
“Nitre,” I replied. “How long have you had that cough?”
“Ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! ugh! — ugh! ugh! Ugh!”
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
“It is nothing,” he said, at last.
“Come,” I said, with decision, “we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi ——”
“Enough,” he said; “the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”
“True — true,” I replied; “and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily — but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.”
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
“Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
“I drink,” he said, “to the buried that repose around us.”
“And I to your long life.”
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
“These vaults,” he said, “are extensive.”
“The Montresors,” I replied, “were a great and numerous family.”
“I forget your arms.”
“A huge human foot d‘or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel.”
“And the motto?”
“Nemo me impune lacessit.”
“Good!” he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
“The nitre!” I said: “see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river‘s bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough ——”
“It is nothing,” he said; “let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc.”
I broke and reached him a flaçon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement — a grotesque one.
“You do not comprehend?” he said.
“Not I.”
“Then you are not of the brotherhood.”
“How?”
“You are not of the masons.”
“Yes, yes,” I said; “yes, yes.”
“You? Impossible! A mason?”
“A mason,” I replied.
“A sign,” he said.
“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.
“You jest,” he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. “But let us proceed to the Amontillado.”
“Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. 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.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
“Proceed,” I said; “herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi ——”
“He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
“Pass your hand,” I said, “over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I will positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power.”
“The Amontillado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
“True,” I replied; “the Amontillado.”
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed — I aided — I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said —
“Ha! ha! ha! — he! he! he! — a very good joke, indeed — an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo — he! he! he! — over our wine — he! he! He!”
“The Amontillado!” I said.
“He! he! he! — he! he! he! — yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo — the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”
“Yes,” I said, “let us be gone.”
“For the love of God, Montresor!”
“Yes,” I said, “for the love of God!”
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud —
“Fortunato!”
No answer. I called again —
“Fortunato!” No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick — on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!
Hello and welcome back to The Poe Show, I’m your host Tynan Portillo.
If you’re looking to hire a voice actor for your project then you can contact me at poeshowpod@gmail.com with your project details. And while I usually say here that I am listed as an audiobook narrator on ACX for Audible, I won’t be saying that anymore. Some of you may not know that Audible has decided to start using AI to generate voices, which I take personally. DuoLingo has done the same thing, Google’s VEO 3 Ai has done the same thing, and I’m left wondering why the hell AI is being marketed towards the arts.
Look, I’ve said before that AI can be a useful tool for many people - even I’ve used it as a tool before - and I’m sure this decision by Audible will be helpful for authors who can’t afford to pay real audiobook narrators. But make no mistake, this isn’t for the benefit of authors with no budget. This is a business decision. They are trying to make money.
The way that ACX works, the site used for Audible, is that authors upload their titles and receive auditions from narrators, or they can contact narrators personally about their project. The narrator and author work out an appropriate rate for the work, the narrator reads the audiobook and sends the audio files to the author, and the author pays the narrator and uploads their finished audiobook to ACX. Audible then collects royalties for audiobook sales, which can range between 25% to 40%. With Audible’s new AI service, they are offering Audible-managed service. This tells me that the people in charge at Audible have been looking for a way to get in on the money being made by narrators.
From Audible’s own website, you can see that they will be rolling out a Beta version of their AI translator and authors will be able to purchase voice upgrades for their titles. Interesting. What will the upgrades be? How will these upgrade purchases improve the AI reading? Doesn’t say. They state that they are employing these strategies with AI in order to “expand customer selection thoughtfully,” and “expanding their offerings…to serve increasingly diverse global audiences and new creative possibilities.” That’s a damn lie if I’ve heard one.
Audible wants in on the money that narrators are making for producing audiobooks, and they seem to think that they can do that by using AI, the least amount of effort possible. Authors are going to end up paying even more money than real narrators will be charging, just to receive a stale, lackluster narration with improper inflection, mistakes in pronunciation (you know how many sci-fi and fantasy books there are coming out right now? There are so many names that have pronunciations that need to be specified by authors, which will be nigh on impossible for AI to do) and, more than likely, completely incorrect translation for their audiobooks from and to other languages. But if enough people latch on to this idea, Audible won’t even think twice about it because they’ll be making money. Not to mention, it will affect the rates that real narrators charge and seriously limit the capabilities of narrators to offer their services.
Now, this is a message to those of you who may think that using AI to create music or art or books is not only okay but it’s actually great because you can make money off of automating some kind of content machine.
Just because you’re not creative enough to make something on your own doesn’t mean you can take credit for something you told AI to do for you. Nor does it mean that you are creative, nor does it mean that you have created anything of value. You haven’t, you’ve done nothing. Using AI as a tool has allowed me to find sound effects for this podcast and given me ideas for script writing for the podcast. I think my uncle, who made my logo for this podcast, the updated one, even used AI as a tool to create an idea, and then he refined it. But when it came down to the creative work, I was the one creating! I built my home studio, I saved up for a good mic, I spent my hard earned money on interfaces and cables and plugins, I learned how to use audio engineering to improve my sound, and I read extensively for this podcast, narrate the stories, edit them myself and make all the damn music BECAUSE I LOVE DOING IT. I didn’t want to take a shortcut, I wanted to get better at something I LOVE doing!
You like playing the guitar? The next step is you get a good teacher and you can learn how to play the guitar better and faster. The next step is not using AI to make you sound like Jimi Hendrix.
And the majority of you aren’t even using AI because you WANT to make art! You just know that it’s impressive to be considered creative! You’re looking for attention and fame and money, and you think AI is this shortcut to your little slice of the great big pie!
So you told AI to write you a story, so what? I wrote mine! Fish. I had something to say in my story! Nicholas Leonard has something to say! Listen to the episode where I narrate his story No Chapel Could Compare, he’s got hundreds of sonnets he’s written plastered across his bedroom walls because he loves writing so much! And so did the authors of the 19th century, and so did Edgar Allan Poe, and so do authors and actors and writers and painters and poets and singers today.
Art is the spider’s web for humanity: it’s not just some pretty anomaly of nature, it’s how we survive.
So if you enjoy 19th century authors, the works of Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft’s works, macabre literature and original music, then follow this podcast, give it a good rating and let's celebrate the beautiful creations of mankind together.
As you all know, I make the music for this podcast and I wanted to share the creative process I went through to compose this music. So I will post a more thorough breakdown of it all on The Poe Show YouTube channel. I got a lot of religious vibes while reading this story, like Montresor was confessing a sin. So that means I gotta include an organ, choir, some deep strings, and Latin. I emulated soundtracks like The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Van Helsing, then I chose to have minimal music in the caves to better reflect the solitude that those chambers give, a better sense of Fortunato never being found. The lyrics in Latin are all about confessing sins and claiming the soul of a fool, then burying him deep below where God couldn’t find him.
I know that The Cask of Amontillado is coming right after The Premature Burial, and both stories are about being buried alive, but after I read this story, I kind of fell in love with it. The sadistic nature of the protagonist is so deliciously vile that I couldn’t wait to start voicing him. And I think this story translates to an audio format really well because Edgar Allan Poe creates a great literary soundscape for the reader, so it was easy to find inspiration for this episode.
The Cask of Amontillado was published in Godey’s Lady’s Book in November of 1846, just 3 years before Edgar Allan Poe’s death. And although it is strictly a piece of fiction…The Cask of Amontillado was inspired by a legend…which turned out to be true in some form.
During Edgar Allan Poe’s time serving in the military, he was briefly stationed at Fort Independence on Castle Island in Boston Harbor. It was there that he saw various burial plaques and was told stories about some of the soldiers from previous times. One such story involved the two lieutenants, Robert Massie and Gustavus Drane, who had battled in a duel to the death. Robert Massie was the victor, but after Drane’s burial, no one ever saw him again. He had just disappeared. So a rumor spread amongst the ranks, saying that friends of Drane had secretly captured Massie and buried him alive, somewhere in the fort. Now, as history goes, this wasn’t true. Records show that Robert Massie was promoted to captain and only died in 1846.
Are you paying attention? Robert Massie died the same year that The Cask of Amontillado was published. Coincidence?
But even stranger, in 1905 some Boston workmen were renovating the fort and came across a part of infrastructure which wasn’t listed on any building layouts. After tearing it down, they found a skeleton, wearing a soldier’s uniform, chained to the wall. It wasn’t Robert Massie, but someone had been chained and buried there, forgotten for years. We have no idea who that poor soul was, but all evidence shows that they were left there alive.
The Cask of Amontillado pretty blatantly explores the themes of vengeance and personal justice. Not just any rudimentary form of revenge, but the perfect revenge. The kind of revenge that is never unearthed. And Montresor is seeping with irony, toasting to the long life of Fortunato while enacting the plot to seal him to his doom.
Speaking of. The part of this story that speaks to me so immensely is when Montresor is sealing up Fortunato behind the wall. The interaction between the both of them seems so eerily and captivatingly human, with Fortunato grasping at straws, trying to figure out a way to bargain for his life and changing the tactics he employs to convince Montresor to stop killing him. But Montresor is consumed by his vengeance and has lost his humanity entirely. When the two men scream at each other through the wall it just feels so maddening raw, and it’s a fantastic lifting of the mask for Montresor.
Now let's ask some questions. Who is Montresor talking to here? He’s been keeping this secret of abandoning Fortunato to die for over 50 years! So what changed his mind in keeping it a secret? Who mattered enough to Montresor to confess his secret to?
As I read this story, and reread it, I asked myself these questions. And an answer that I cam up with is that Montresor is talking to a priest. Which makes sense because he is confessing his crime, and the second sentence says, “You, who so well know the nature of my soul.” Montresor is a character who hides, who puts on a face, who puts on a mask. Honestly, he took on a kind of Patrick Bateman vibe from American Psycho, just putting on this face of what seems to be important in this world while holding those insane and nefarious thoughts to himself. And the only person who would ever truly know him and the evils of his mind, in my theory, is a priest. Thus, I also added the line at the beginning of the story of “Father, forgive me for I have sinned” in Latin, and then have the story end in Latin - in its original Latin for “May he rest in piece.” Just felt like a great to way to bring it all together and tie it up neat with a nicr little Latin bow.
What reasons can we assume made Montresor comfortable in revealing his betrayal of Fortunato? Can we actually trust Montresor as a reliable narrator at all? And do we side with Montresor, deciding that Fortunato deserved his fate?
Fortunato is not necessarily an innocent victim. Montresor has suffered the thousand injuries of Fortunato already by the beginning of the story. What are those injuries? Did he sleep with your wife or steal your fortune? Well, it’s clear to see that Fortunato is quite prideful, especially when it comes to knowing about expensive wines; his knowledge of wine is how he shows to others his superiority in a high class activity.
Montresor exploits Fortunato’s pride as a weakness in order to lure him, unknowingly, into the depths of his own intended tomb. I also noticed the similarities in how Montresor described his manners with Fortunato. “I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.” Montresor is putting on a mask, hiding his true intentions. And as he takes Fortunato down to his vaults, he dawns a mask of black silk. It is only in the vaults that he metaphorically takes off the mask, and only for a moment.
So is there a moral to the story? Montresor got away with it, there’s no consequence for him and he got to live his life pretty normally afterwards. He doesn’t explicitly share any kind of guilt for what he’s done, although if he’s confessing then perhaps that can be argued. It could also be argued therefore that he is trying to take credit for a perfect crime. Well, if you take a look at Edgar Allan Poe’s life during this time, you’ll find the explanation.
Edgar Allan Poe was good friends with Thomas Dunn English, a fellow poet and writer who later went into politics. During the early 1840’s however, they had a serious falling out and they became bitter enemies. They wrote scathing criticisms of each other’s work, Thomas English even writing a piece called, “The Doom of the Drinkers,” where he portrayed an incredibly offensive caricature of Edgar Allan Poe as a brilliant writer who was a treacherous drunk. Poe took legal action against English for libel and for publishing a parody story under Poe’s own name, trying to damage and mock his reputation. The parts of The Cask of Amontillado where Fortunato demonstrates a Masonic hand gesture, or the strange Monstresor family crest, were direct references to Thomas English’s novel 1844, which was a veiled dig at Poe. This story was a personal fantasy of Edgar Allan Poe…one of burying a fool with a big mouth where no one would ever hear of him again.
So it seems that Poe is saying the moral of the story is: even your best of friends can become the greatest of fiends, preying on your weaknesses for their own plots. A dour outlook, sure, but one which does seem satisfying…if one could punish with impunity.
Thank you so much for listening to this episode of The Poe Show! If you enjoyed it then please give this podcast a good rating, subscribe and follow and share it with your family and friends! You can also follow on YouTube, where I will be doing more horror movie and TV show reviews quite soon, follow on TikTok, Instagram, Threads, Spotify, Bluesky, and more. All links are in the description of this episode. And be sure to text the podcast anonymously if you have any questions or suggestions for future episodes, using the link in the episode description.
That’s all for now. But you’ll hear from me again on the next episode of The Poe Show.
