Hi, I'm Ashley Flowers, creator and host of the number one true crime podcast, Crime Junkie. Every Monday, me and my best friend Britt break down a new case, but not in the way you've heard before, and not the cases you've heard before. You'll hear stories on Crime Junkie that haven't been told anywhere else. I'll tell you what you can do to help victims and their families get justice. Join us for new episodes of Crime Junkie every Monday, already waiting for you by searching for Crime Junkie wherever you listen to podcasts. Poe is a 2021 audio chuck original made for our friends at SiriusXM. We hope you enjoy this exclusive content, re-released for free on Full Body Chills. And for the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Picture of the macabre, grand sire of gothic horror, the enigmatic penman, Edgar Allen, Poe. Few names survive the slaughter of time, fewer still befriended. The drear, passionate poet was no stranger to death as evidenced by his work, and perhaps because of that intimate insight into humanity's frailty, there is something to be raised from every reader. His stories speak to us because, disconcertingly, his stories describe us. Meet Lenore. In centuries past, the raven has been held as a symbol of death, but she is so much more than that. Listen to her cry, and you will hear the primordial sense so fiercely strong in every heart. For as soon as we are born, death is a mystery. And yet we cry. We cry for a sense of loss, loss of comfort, loss of union, the loss of each moment as the promises of life begin their endless recession. In this story, you will meet more than death. For that knocking at your door, the sound of sweet Lenore is a heartfelt song heard only wrong, delivered by the raven. The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. Published in 1845. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over a many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, while I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Tissed some visitor, I muttered, tapping at my chamber door. Only this, and nothing more. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, and each separate dying ember brought its ghost upon the floor. Suddenly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow from my books, surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore, for the rare and radiant maiden, and the angels named Lenore, nameless here, forevermore. And the silken sad on certain rustling of each purple curtain, thrilled me, filled me, with fantastic terrors never felt before. So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, to some visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door. Some late visitor in treating entrance at my chamber door. This it is, and nothing more. Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer. There said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore, but the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you. Here I opened wide the door. Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, and the only word there spoken was the whispered word, Lenore. This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, Lenore. Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning. One again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. Surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice. Let me see then what there at is, and this mystery explore. Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. Tiss the wind, and nothing more. Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, in their stepped, a stately raven over the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute, stopped or stayed he, but with mean of lord or lady perched above my chamber door. Perched upon a bust of palace just above my chamber door. Perched and sat, and nothing more. Within this ebony bird beguiling, my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance at war. Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou, I said, art sure no craven, ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is, on the night's plutonian shore. Quote the raven. Nevermore. Not try marveled this ungainly fowl to hear, discourse so plainly. Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore. For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door with such name as nevermore. But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust spoke only that one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further than he uttered, not a feather than he fluttered, till I scarcely more than muttered other friends have flown before. On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. Then the bird said, nevermore. Called at the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken. Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store. Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster, till his songs won burden bore, till the dirges of his hope, that melancholy burden bore, of never, nevermore. The raven still beguiling, all my sad soul into smiling. Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door. Then upon the velvet sinking I betook myself to linking, fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, what this grim, ungainly, ghastly gaunt and ominous bird of yore, meant in croaking, nevermore. Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing, to the vow whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core. This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining, on the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated oar. But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating oar, she shall press on, nevermore. Then me thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor, swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Ratch, I cried, thy God hath lent thee, by these angels he hath sent thee, respite, respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore. Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore. Quoth the raven, nevermore. Prophets that I, thing of evil, Prophets still if bird or devil, whither tempter sent, or for the tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, on this home by horror haunted, tell me truly I implore, is there, is there balm in Gilead, tell me, tell me I implore. Quoth the raven, nevermore. Prophets that I, thing of evil, Prophets still if bird or devil, by that heaven that bends above us, by the God we both adore, tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant aiden, it shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore, clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore. Quoth the raven, nevermore. Be that word our sign of parting bird or fiend, I shrieked up starting. Get thee back into the tempest, and at night plutonian shore. Leave no black plume, as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door, take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door. Quoth the raven, nevermore. And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, on the pallid bust of palace, just above my chamber door, and his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming, and a lamp light, or him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor. And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted, nevermore. Poe is an audio chuck original. This episode was read to you by Jake Weber. So, what do you think Chuck? I'll see you approve. AAAAAAAAHHHHH! Everyone's told a lie, but what happens when one lie becomes a life, a movement, a conspiracy? I'm Josh Dean, host of Chameleon, and I uncover true stories of deception scams so intimate and convincing they fooled the people closest to them. These aren't strangers, they're lovers, friends, and trusted allies. Because the most dangerous cons don't feel like crimes, they feel personal. Listen to Chameleon wherever you get your podcasts.
