This is a preface I guess for the story The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allen Poe. I wrote this for English class and I liked it. So here it is!
(I don't own Edgar Allen Poe's stories)
I soundlessly stepped into the ancient corridors of my ancestor's catacombs. The dark tunnels that lay before me seemed to breathe death softly into my lungs. A subtle breeze rustled my hair and a shiver ran down my spine. I had never perceived the hidden staircase as a passageway to the tombs of those before me and had decided to investigate. Now, in my old age, as I look back in time, I regret my decision more than anything.
The musty, concrete walls gave off a distinctly revolting odor, supporting a bleak atmosphere to the room. Hundreds of human remains clung to the wall, sending a similar smell up my nostrils. Curious as I was, I decided not to touch the wall or the corpses. The smell was already staining my body without any physical contact involved. I came to the conclusion that I need not make it worse.
I vigilantly made my way towards the flambeaux firmly fixed into it's stand on the wall. Careful not to touch the corpses, I took hold on the flambeaux and pulled it out of it's resting place. The light it produced penetrated little darkness, as it had no help from the upstairs room. Never the less, I was able to see enough of my surroundings to move forward.
Challenging the dark, I stalked it, following all it's channels to wherever they led. I cared not whether I made it back out; that was all part of the adventure. Quite suddenly, a familiar sight came into view. I sighed, relieved as the torch lit up my family's crest, reflecting its exquisiteness onto my face. I smiled when I saw the beautiful serpent with it's venom coated fangs embedded into the heel of a man. I was reminded of my culture and class briefly before continuing farther down the passageways.
My quest through the blackness abruptly ended with a brick wall that had been plastered into place. It seemed most definitely inappropriate for this miserable setting as the bricks were hardly faded. It looked as though they had only lived a few decades. As I pondered this mystery, something caught the corner of my eye.
Hmm, I thought, fixing my eyes through the darkness towards the object. What might this be?
I crossed the room, and cautiously peered at the item I had spontaneously discovered. It was- or, more accurately, what appeared to be- a scroll. It obviously did not belong in such a location as this because of its modern texture. I thought it safe to reach down and feel the manuscript; surely it would not bite. The document was old, I could tell, but not nearly as ancient as the corpses peering down at me. I grasped the scroll; it was crusty and desiccated, brittle, but I opened it all the same.
And again, I tell you, I regret my decision more than I have ever regretted anything. What I read that day was something terrifically grave, something that, not on any account should ever have happened, nor inscribed, for that matter.
I read, shocked and dizzy, of a man my father wickedly, inhumanely, and nauseatingly murdered.