Step inside.

Happy Halloween. How special to host you here on this night. Do you wish to hear a ghostly tale?

Excellent. Come with me.

Which spirit will share their story tonight?

How perfect. The shovel you hold in your hands belonged to Arthur Grimsley, a writer consumed by horror on All Hallow’s Eve. This is the tale of...“A Grave Encounter.”

Same as before: close your eyes, open your ears, and journey back to that frightful evening.

It was October 31st, 1849, in Baltimore, Maryland.

I sat alone in my bedchamber, listening to the clock on the wall, as it ticked like an unabating heartbeat. A pale, lucent moon shone through the window and loomed above Westminster Cemetery. For hours, I had been gazing intently at that quiet graveyard down the road, surveying the burial site of Edgar Poe.

The writer had died about three weeks earlier and was laid to rest shortly thereafter, but the nature of his demise was puzzling. He was first found in a delirious state, lying in a gutter outside the polls at Gunner’s Hall on election day. The clothes he was wearing were unkempt and, more strangely, did not belong to him. He was quickly taken to Washington College Hospital, but never regained full consciousness. When asked about what had led to his plight, he was incoherent in his responses. Four days after being brought in, the famed poet was pronounced dead. But the true cause of his death was shrouded in mystery, much like the very tales he fashioned.

As a writer myself, I greatly admired the author and his works, and had long wished to speak with him. When I heard he had returned to Baltimore, I was filled with jubilation at the prospect of finally conversing with my literary muse. But my delight soon turned to dismay when the news of his untimely death came thereafter.

I grieved the loss of such a singular voice, for even though his writing would remain, Poe himself would be heard “nevermore.” Due to the bizarre and abrupt nature of his passing, my sorrow was accompanied by an overwhelming sense of uneasiness and uncertainty. There were many burdening questions I sought to ask him, which would forever go unanswered.

His tales and poems haunted me deeply, and I longed to understand the origins of their conception. With his arrival, I had hoped to gain insight and inspiration from the creator himself, but his departure from this world instead plagued me with despair. Unable to bear the thought of not knowing any longer, I eventually turned to his works in an attempt to find what I was looking for. Though I could no longer speak with the writer, I could still consult with his words.

I locked myself away in my room, poring over pages of Poe’s poetry and prose. I read each of his published works numerous times, studying them line by line. As I reread them again and again, the characters in his stories started to seem real and the horrors described felt like actual accounts. I began to suspect that his inspiration did not come from imagination...but instead was based in truth.

Perhaps Poe possessed the ability to communicate with forces outside our mortal realm. Several of his stories feature the appearance of spirits returning from the dead to visit and haunt those still living. In one, a mesmerist puts a man who is on the brink of death into a hypnotic trance, and his voice continues to speak even after he has died.

If my theories were correct, then perchance Poe could still be reached. I pondered for hours how to commune with him, but then recalled his poem, “Ulalume.” In the ballad, a man is led by the stars, on one October evening, to the tomb of his wife. There he realizes it is the anniversary of her death. It is believed that on this night, All Hallow’s Eve, the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest. Maybe Poe’s words were the stars, leading me to his grave on the very same evening.

If he truly was sending me a message with his works, then it appeared I would need to dig him up from the ground. Many of his tales describe the unearthing of tombs and some speak of deceased spirits inhabiting bodies once again. If I were to open Poe’s grave, then his ghost could return to his body and I would, at last, be able to converse with him.

My plan was set and I had prepared for the evening, obtaining a shovel and monitoring the cemetery from my window. In time, the city finally fell asleep beneath the tranquil moon. But when the clock in my bedchamber chimed at that late hour, I was met with a pang of doubt and fear. Was this madness? Was I really about to unbury the body of Edgar Poe in the hope of speaking with his spirit

Suddenly, a large raven landed on the windowsill. Its dark, grim eyes stared at me, unblinking. A sleek plume of black feathers cloaked its body and a sharp soot-colored beak pointed my way.

At first I was alarmed by the ominous sight, but soon found it to be reassuring. The raven was surely a sign from Poe. It must have been, for why else would the bird most associated with the poet appear before me on the night I sought to commune with him? With my doubt now quelled, I gathered my coat and shovel, and ventured out to the cemetery.

As I walked down the street, I surveyed the area. There was not a soul in sight or a voice to be heard. The only sound was that of the raven flying above, as it disappeared into the fog ahead. As I approached the misty graveyard, the air began to chill.

Stepping into the haze, I made my way through the rows of tombstones, following the bird’s call, until I arrived at the grave of Edgar Poe. Perched on top was the raven, staring at me with those gloomy eyes. Not wanting to look any longer, I lowered my gaze to the ground, but was met with more uneasiness, knowing who was buried beneath my feet. The hour had finally come. I checked my surroundings and, with all still quiet, began digging.

I shoveled pile after pile of dirt, slowly opening the mouth of the grave. As I removed layers of earth, I sunk deeper and deeper into the pit. I looked back up for a moment and realized the bird had vanished. I peered around, squinting through the clouded darkness, but those black feathers and dark eyes were nowhere in sight.

I returned to my digging for a short moment, but stopped when I thought I heard something else through the fog. I slowly examined the shadowed area.

Suddenly, a cat sprang from the shadows and started studying me. Its fur was as black as coal and its eyes were gray and cold, just like the bird’s. Perhaps it was another sign from Poe. First the raven from his poem and now the black cat from his story.

With a strengthened resolve, I went to continue my excavation. But as I lifted my shovel, the feline started hissing at me with a ghastly expression on its face. The sight frightened me and filled me with uncertainty once again. I tightened my grip on the shovel, but as I did, the cat charged at me and scratched my hand, drawing blood. I winced and dropped the shovel, clutching my fist, which was now streaked red. Those claws were razor sharp. When I looked up to find where it had gone, I saw its black tail disappear into the dark haze.

Blood was dripping from my hand onto the deep soil beneath my feet. I grabbed the handkerchief from my coat pocket and tied it around my hand to stop the bleeding. I stood alone in that grave, unsure of what to do. I had come this far and was so near unearthing Poe. But perhaps the cat’s aggression was a warning not to continue. My mind went back and forth, as fear and apprehension consumed me.

But suddenly, I heard the sound of a beating heart that was not my own. It sounded like it was coming from right below my feet. With the cat out of sight, I quickly picked up the shovel and started digging again. The more I dug, the louder the heartbeat got. I continued scooping soil away until finally I heard a thud. My shovel had reached the coffin.

When I finished clearing off the last layer of dirt from the lid, I pried it open. But as I did...the beating stopped.

Inside the coffin was the body of Edgar Poe, lying confined in that wooden frame, pale and lifeless. His eyes and mouth were closed, not showing any signs of being able to converse.

But then I noticed his leg begin to move, followed by his arm and then his chest. As this ripple of movement worked its way up his body, his limbs jostled like a skeletal puppet, and I soon realized he wasn’t alone in the casket. Beneath his corpse was a dark creature crawling toward the top of the coffin. It emerged beside his head and I immediately recognized the coal black fur. It slowly tilted its face up, unveiling its fang-like teeth, and those familiar eyes stared at me, gray and ghastly—

Arthur Grimsley met his own demise that evening, disappearing in that harrowing grave on All Hallow’s Eve. But now you have released his spirit and he is free to converse with his literary hero at long last.

Once again you have aided the spirits here in the Attic, and for that I will tell you more. But first, I must warn you that the next piece of information I have to share will not be easy to hear. When I have told other curious guests before you, many of them fled in fear for their own safety, choosing never to return to the Attic. I still aim to honor our agreement, but I do not wish to lose you. With that being said, are sure you’d like me to continue?

Very well. Previously, I explained that my brother leaves these walls every evening and returns each morning with a new object from the outside world. You also know these items belong to those who lost their lives and whose spirits became trapped inside. However, my brother does not simply find the inhabited objects on his nightly trips...he is the one who entombs those unfortunate souls when he hunts.

He also possesses another power that I have yet to share with you. When he goes out to feast each night he can shapeshift into any form, from a black cat to a raven, a specter to a slasher, an icy zombie to a scarecrow, or even a malevolent arcade game. Those gray, soulless eyes and that familiar growl you’ve heard time and time again belong to one singular monster...My brother.

Now you understand why you must leave at once. If he finds you here when he returns then you will end up just like the spirits whose stories you listen to. I hope you will come back, and that this doesn’t frighten you away. The ghosts and I still need your help.

Be prepared, for I will open the Attic door for you again. We are grateful for your service and appreciate your company. Stay safe out there...and don’t dig up the dead on All Hallow’s Eve.

Thank you for listening to Alone in the Attic. Tonight's episode was written, directed, and edited by Samuel Weston Evans, with vocal performances by Ryan Crants as Arthur and Samuel Weston Evans as The Keeper.

Join us next October for one final season of terrifying tales, and to find out what conclusion awaits...Alone in the Attic.