Of course, the great Edgar owns his name and all his wonderful stories and poems mentioned in this. Hope you enjoy it. It is the joy of every writer to know their work is apriciated.

Fear is a natural tendency that has long plagued that human race, particularly in matters of the supernatural. These phobias, both natural and acquired, do often poison the human spirit. Therefore, one can conclude that it best to keep a sound mind when confronted with this phenomenon called fear. Particularly if you wish preserve the mind and to evade affliction by hysteria and, at length, madness.

I, Elieen Poe, had always considered myself a level-headed woman. Although I could, at times, display a fierce temper when intellectually challenged. I was not easily provoked into a sudden display of acrimony. Nor was I, for the purpose of events that will later be revealed, subject to the many commonplace stereotypical phobias that so often disabled the modern public from living a more integrated existence with the world around them. I had sought, in my 28 years of existence, to rid myself of all natural fear. Much of my recent adulthood had been spent seeking conquest of the phobic madness and the invincibility of fearlessness.

These endeavors had been, for the most part, successful. However, my quest for more worldly necessities, such as a fulfilling occupation, had been a complete debacle. Writing had been my grand passion since the days of my youth and thus I pursued the fantasy that had long since enticed me. Each of my works was a piece of my innermost soul, like that of a lost lover who had gone astray. Yet each of the works my soul could produce was quickly rejected by the people of cold, remorseless time.

It was due to these recent failures that I was forced seek a supplementary occupation. The most recent of my wondering years had been passed within the solemn halls of the prestigious University of Virginia. Though the title of 'professor of English' did little to mend my mortally wounded spirit, lack of a better offer and necessity of money and worldly possessions compelled me to accept the title and maintain it for may years. Being devoid of most caring and maternal instinct, I quickly learned to detest the job and keep my endeavors of social intercourse to a minimum. How the pen and the lonely, blank pieces of paper that adorned the outermost regions of my desk haunted my throughout my day!

It was in those days as well that I developed a fascination for literature in its most depressing form. I acquired a taste for the tragic tales of the days of yore and to read, in my free time, the legends of souls less fortunate than I. My sad countenance delighted in their sadness and these tales became a great source of comfort in my lonely hours of self pity. The most grand and mercilessly tragic tales were those of the late author Edgar Allan Poe.