So... apparently this a thing now. This is going to be a repository of all Twific pieces inspired by Poe. If I'm being honest with myself, they'll probably all be Leah/Sam/Emily related. Updated with independent ficlets when the mood so strikes me.

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best 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 gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled – but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

-Edgar Allan Poe "The Cask of Amontillado"

I tolerated the endless ways that Emily figured out how to destroy my life, but when she started going over my sanity like fine-grit sand paper I knew I'd find revenge. I'm not a psycho, but I couldn't fucking stand it anymore. If shit goes wrong in a person's life then c'est la fucking vie. Shit happens. But there's a difference between shit happening, and someone letting or making shit happen. That I couldn't deal with. I had to do something – there were no two ways about it. I couldn't live the rest of my life like this. A hermit, permanently mired in guilt, and guilt for my guilt, and never knowing if I'd finally lose my marbles all because she chose me. I didn't necessarily want her to choose me, but she did.

I was so set on finally being rid of all the bullshit, that I never actually thought about how little sense the plan actually made in the first place. I had been the butt of every horror tale on this square of a reservation for a damn year. I wanted some fucking revenge. Some good revenge.

I never really gave her any hint that my mind had kinda a done a one-eighty on me. I grinned, ate the ridiculous amount of baked goods she produced out of the ether, and continued to indulge her subconscious inability to ever leave the fucking house. After a while, though, the grin-and-bear-it routine changed. And I was grinning because I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. I knew the end of my bullshit was coming.

Emily had a weakness for original art. She taught weaving and other local handicraft work in community centers in the area. And anytime there was an estate sale, a yard sale, a foreclosure, or a new shipment at a local antique joint she would fire up the old LeSabre like it was the fucking Batmobile. She loved stuff from the Pacific Northwestern tribes. Every wall surface in our tiny house was covered with something. It was like living in a museum. Bowls, rugs, mask, photos, paintings, carvings, wood, stone – you name it. The kitchen was Tlingit, the living room Quileute, the hallway Makah, the bedroom Coast Salish, the bathroom Chinook, and the backroom Nuu-chah-nulth.

It was sunset on the night of a massive bonfire celebration. The Cullens were leaving for good. And this was cause for one of the biggest parties the rez had seen in decades. It was total chaos – mostly because Embry and Jacob, in their infinite wisdom, let Quil light and tend the fire unattended. Fiery conflagration didn't even begin to cover it, but it looked like no one was going to get killed or maimed – except maybe Quil, but he'd survive – so I wasn't particularly worried.

Emily was completely smashed because Seth was a fifteen-year-old shape-shifter and therefore had zero clue about appropriate alcohol-to-mixer ratios and had likely dumped a little too much liquor into the communal punch bowl. Everyone else present would likely piss it all out with their metabolisms operating like jackrabbits on crack. Kim and Rachel were mutually wise enough to bring their own beverages to such occasions. I don't know how it slipped Emily's mind given that she was the biggest lightweight ever. And that's including the time I saw Bella Swan make snow angels in the sand two hours after a shot of rez'shine.

It was a good thing Quil and Seth are worth their weight in entertainment value, because I woulda been sick of that shit awhile ago, otherwise.

Emily was in some flowy dress that took her no less than 57 minutes to decide to wear earlier that evening while I watched SportsCenter. She also had all this bangly jewelry on. I could hear her anywhere she went because of the wolfy abilities, however, the jingling of her bracelets allowed any normal human to hear her too. And so she came, jingling and laughing, on up to me a few hours into the hoopla, just as it was starting to get dark. "Lookin' good there, Em?" I remarked.

"Don't patronize me, Sam," she rolled her eyes. "I'm aware I'm drunk. Quil assured me that the punch 'wasn't bad'. I don't know why I believed him."

She wobbled slightly in the rocky terrain, and I reached out trying to make sure she didn't topple over completely. "Hey, I just heard from Rachel that the old Shaw place is being foreclosed on."

"Yeah?" she offered. "So?"

"So, don't you remember? She's the woman that beat you out for like two different Edenshaw pieces in the past year."

Emily gasped in shock. "Oh my god," she tried to whisper and failed. "Are you serious? Her? She's dead?"

"Yep," I nodded in reply. "And she's got no family or friends – because she was an evil old bat – and so the bank's taking the house and selling off all her stuff."

Emily stared with mouth wide. "Oh my goodness. All the stuff in her house? It would be at cut rates just to get it out of the house! Those uncultured idiots at the bank wouldn't even know that the art she has in there could fetch a price. Oh, oh! I wonder if she still has… she must. A few months ago she found an authentic Chinook burial canoe! I have got to see this!"

And without any further prodding, she took my hand and began to drag me up the beach and towards the road. Aside from how easily she submitted to digging through a dead woman's belongings, I wondered where in the hell she thought we were going to put a twenty-five foot burial canoe.

"Em, where are you going?" I asked. I had a pretty good idea, and was rather glad she was taking the initiative herself.

"To Mrs. Shaw's!" she told me like it was obvious. We hit pavement and she picked up the pace. "Her house has to be less than half a mile from here. We're going to check it out!"

"That would be breaking and entering."

"Not if we don't break anything. I just want to check it out!"

"Em, really? We can check it out tomorrow," I told her, unconvincingly. "There's no one there now. And you're…"

"I'm fine, Sam. Some alcohol isn't going to kill me. Now, come on!"

As I'd hoped, my attempts to talk her down just egged her on further. I felt the tug – not only from her hand – but from that internal bond we shared, and relished the fact that it would be the last time that I felt it. I lead her up the stairs of the old house once we'd reached it and tried the knob. It was unlocked and we let ourselves inside.

"There's nothing in here," Emily hissed none-to-subtly. "What's all this spray paint on the wall?"

"It looks like it's going to be demo'd. The land is probably worth more without the house on it. Let's check downstairs, maybe they haven't emptied the place, yet."

And sure as shit, Emily held out her hand demanding the lighter I had wrestled from Quil, and proceeded to march into Old Mrs. Shaw's basement with her small light.

"Em, we can come back in the daylight," I reminded her as I watched her wobble on the stairs.

"Sam, it's fine. God." I followed carefully behind her and into the basement and what we found there didn't disappoint. There were paintings by contemporary artists, traditional work, and everything in between – sculpture and artifact alike.

"Oh, wow… this must be her family's crest," Emily remarked as she glanced through some of the work stacked against the foundation wall. Emily had found what were commonly mistaken for 'totem paintings' by outsiders. A family crest of sorts, an artistic rendering that almost every family owned. The painting took elements from the husband and wife's family to make a new piece entirely. They were painted for – usually – only that family to see. They weren't public art pieces. I actually felt a little strange seeing Old Mrs. Shaw's.

"What does that say, there?" she asked. The back of the crest was stamped with the artist's inscription and then something written Quileute. Emily was not a linguist, and the Quileute language was close to dead.

"Um…" I tilted my head to the side and summoned my long-buried language skills from high school. I'd had little cause for my people's tongue as of late. I grinned when I finally figured it out. It was fitting. And mostly served to reassure me of my purpose in reverse psychology-ing Emily into this. "More or less… 'no one shall insult me without consequence'."

"Well that's depressing," Emily noted before passing it over and continuing her perusal. I shook my head. Of course she was oblivious to the symbolism it offered the moment. "I still see no sign of that canoe… she also bought this lithograph from the nineteenth century that depicted the process of actually making the canoe. I was so jealous. I bet I can at least find that. Lord knows how'd they'd get a canoe into or out of this house anyways…"

"What's in here?" Emily wondered aloud as she made her way along the length of the wall. Given the fact that there were only two doors at this level in the basement, my logic said it was either the bulkhead or the housing for the place's major utilities. She finally budged the door open and stepped inside. "It's dark," she announced to me.

"Yep," I replied in an equally obvious manner. Turns out the place was, indeed, a utility room. I glanced around and the room was small, the walls were kinda wet and it reeked of mold. I looked down to the ground to find that the corners and the edges of the walls were littered with the bodies of mice and rats. Emily was apparently oblivious, as she stumbled around. She still hadn't realized that she was no longer surrounded by art and house furnishings but by a hot water heater, shoddy electrical, and rodent remains. I stayed in the doorway, and moments later the lighter flickered out. I heard Emily try and flick it on again, but it must've been out of fuel.

"Feel around," I insisted. "Find anything?"

"Ew, what is this on the walls?" Emily asked in a disgusted tone.

"Not a clue," I replied. "Keep looking though." I stepped out of the shadow of the doorway as I heard Emily fumble around, pulling against the heavy steel door, it dragged across the cement floor. "Hate to be a party-pooper, Em. But it's time to go."

"What?" she replied with a lack of concern. The door clicked shut, and after a few moments of silence I heard the pounding of fists against the solid steel door. She must've sobered up quick, because Emily was not coordinated enough to throw a punch when drunk. Like the rhythm of a drum – boom, boom, boom – the sound echoed but it wasn't enough to force the door back open. The doorknob jiggled a few times and I watched as I leaned against the cold steel, feeling the pressure of her trying to force the door open. It didn't even budge.

In an instant, shrill screaming echoed from the cement block room on the other side of the door. It was loud and powerful enough to throw me back for a moment. I laid my hand against the door and reassured myself. I shouted back at her in reply, growing louder and louder as she grew softer and softer.

"Very funny, Sam! Ha! ha! ha! A very good joke. An excellent joke. You are hilarious!"

"I like to think so."

"It's getting late," she continued, her voice at much higher than normal pitch. "We should head out to meet the rest back at the beach; they'll be waiting for us. Let's head back."

"Yeah, let's head back."

"For the love of God, Sam!" she wailed.

"Yes, for the love of God!" After that, though, I didn't hear a thing. Not even any tears or screaming.

"Emily?" I called out.

Nothing.

"Emily!"

Still nothing.

I heard only the slight tinkling of her bracelets. I took a deep breath, realizing the moldy smell in the basement was starting make me sick. I finally stood. A week later, the house was bulldozed to the ground.

NEMO ME IMPUNE LACESSIT