Edgar allen poe Stories

Despite this cold December evening, I nudge the window open. A breath of wind flutters the silk curtains but does nothing to soothe my burning loins. I won’t reach to relieve myself. Just one stroke is all it would require, but no, I don’t deserve such pleasure—not after tonight. In a futile attempt to distract myself from my misery, I settle on the cushioned chair, reaching for the book on the side table. If I can’t refo...