 Greetings, tonight I'm going to start reading some scary stories for everybody. I'm going to try to do this every night for the next week for Halloween. Now appropriately, I'd like to begin with a great story, and I'd love to hear from you to hear what you think as we go. I'd love to hear also what you'd like to hear, what stories you'd like me to read, which tales you'd like me to focus on. So let me share this around so that people can join us, and then we'll start. Let's give us a few more minutes for a few more people to join us, and then we can start. And we'll see who can join us. But to begin with, now that we have this all shared, now that I've lit the fires so that people can pay attention to this, on LinkedIn, on Twitter, on Facebook. We'll begin with a classic of Edgar Allen Poe. This is one of those stories that people love for all kinds of reasons. It's a wonderful story of vengeance. It's a wonderful story of horror. It's a great story with mixing humor and extreme cruelty. And it's one that has had a lot of influence. It has a lot of jokes, including some in-jokes. One of them is that the title doesn't really work. I'll explain that afterwards. But let's begin with the girl in Poe's story, the cast of Monteado. The thousand injuries of Fortunato. I had borne as best I 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 definitely subtle, but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish a punish with impunity. A wrong is unre-dressed when retribution overtakes its redressor. It is equally unre-dressed when the Avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong. It must be understood that neither my word nor deed had I given Fortunato to doubt my good will. I continued, as one might want, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his emulation. 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 has adopted to suit the time and opportunity to practice imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemery, Fortunato, like his countryman, 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 skillful in the Italian vineages myself and bought largely wherever 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 the excessive worth for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting party 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 ringing his hand. I said to him, My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking today. But I have received a pipe of what passes for a Monteado and I have my doubts. How? said he. A Monteado? 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 Monteado price without consulting you in the matter. Maybe found that I was fearful of losing a bargain. A Monteado? I have my doubts. A Monteado? And I must satisfy them. A Monteado? As you are engaged, I am on my way to Lucchese. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me, Lucchese cannot tell a Monteado from Sherry. And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own. Come, let us go wither. Dear Vaults, my friend, no. I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Lucchese, 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 neither. Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. A Monteado? You have been imposed upon. And as for Lucchese, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Monteado. Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a rocolaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palace. There were no attendants at home. They had absconded to make Mary an honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning and send them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to ensure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned. I took from the sconces to flambeau 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 Mancha sores. The gate of my friend was unsteady and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode. The pipe, said he, it is further 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 room of intoxication. Nighter, he asked at length. Nighter, I replied. How long have you had that cough? Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah. 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 Lucchese. Enough, said he. 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 have no intention of alarming you unnecessarily. But you should use all proper caution. A draft of this medoc will defend us from the damps. Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle, which I drew from a long robe of its fellows that lay upon the mold. 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 took again my arm and we proceeded. These vaults, he said, are extensive. The mantra sores, I replied, were a great and numerous family. I forget your arms. A huge human foot door in a field azure. The foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel. And the motto, nemo ne impune le quesit. Good, he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with a medoc. We had passed through walls of pile bones with casks and punches intermingling and the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time, I made bold to see his fortune auto by an arm above the elbow. The nighter, 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. Air is too late. Your cough. It is nothing, he said. Let us go on. But first, out of the draught of the medoc, I broke and reached in the flagon of the grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed to the fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with the gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement, grotesque one. You do not comprehend, he said. Not I, I replied. Then you are none of the brotherhood. How? You are none 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 rock layer. You just exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. But let us proceed to the Montiado. 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 Montiado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again arrived in a deep crypt in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeau, 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, less exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess in depth about four feet in width three and height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no special 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, the final torch, endeavored 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 Amantillado. As for Lucchesi, he is an ignoramus, interrupted my friend as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I filed immediately at his heels. In an instant, he had reached the extremity of the niche and finding his progress arrested by the rocks to 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 another 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 nighter. 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 Amantillado ejaculated my friend, not yet fully recovered from his astonishment. True, I replied, the Amantillado. As I said these words, I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I before had 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 scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry. When I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunado 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 harken to it with more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When it lasted, the clanking subsided. I resumed the trowel and finished with my 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 flambeau over the mason work threw a few feeble rays upon the figure woman. A succession of loud and shrill screams bursting suddenly from the throat of the chain form seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment, I hesitated. I trembled. Uncheating 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 re-approached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed. I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this and the clamor grew still. It was now midnight and my task was drawn to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and eleventh. There remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight. I placed it partially in its depth in the position. But now there came for out of the niche a low laugh that directed the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said a very good joke indeed. An excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the Palazzo. Over our wine. The Amantillado I said. Yes. The Amantillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be waiting for us at the Palazzo? Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone. Yes. Let us be gone. For the love of God, Montresor. Yes. For the love of God. But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud. Fortunato. I called again. Fortunato. No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall with him. They came forth and returned only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end to my labor. 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 half a century no mortal has disturbed them. Impace Requezcat. Now there is so much to like about this story. There is the way that Poe draws you in right away into the position of a murderer. He doesn't beat around the bush. He puts you in the position where the protagonist is committing atrocity, a terrible crime. So that is interesting by itself, especially in the 18th century when Poe was writing. There's also the fact that the story is funny. There are all kinds of terrible puns and games of language. For example, Fortunato means the fortunate one and he clearly is not. He drinks from a wine called the Grave of the Great and Montreux sort of messes with him in so many ways. Fortunato says, I won't die of a cough. Montreux sort of says, yeah, that's right. I have plans for you. Plus the joke where Fortunato tries to see if he's a Freemason and he is a Mason just in the different sets. The story has echoed and reverberated through time. I hope later on to read a great story by Ray Bradbury which pays homage to this. Well, in the meantime, I've enjoyed reading this very much. I would love to hear your thoughts. I'd love to hear your suggestions for other stories. Please leave them in the comments. Sign up to see us for the next show and we'll keep doing this trying to do once a night for the next week. Until then, Happy Halloween!