Nevermore: A Retelling of The Raven

Hi friends! I am so excited to share with you a short story. It's based on "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe and on the poet's personal life and the story surrounding the conception of the original poem. It's spooky and dramatic, perfect for this time of year.

All quotations in the story are Poe's original, and the flow and concept come from the original poem.

Trigger Warnings: Death, alcohol abuse, mention of drugs from ancient mythology, creepy birds

Nevermore

The night was dark, dark and bleak, a snowstorm was rolling in with me. I meant to fly further south, but from a window I heard a crazed shout, so curiously, I flew into a house.
    
A woman pale, almost dead, lay breathing - barely, but still breathing, in her bed. 

And in the neighboring room lay the man who had let out that deranged cry. He lounged on a tattered couch, a book propped on his stomach, his tie loosed and hair a mess, seemingly forgetting the girl next door. Was it she who was dying, or him? Her face turned to heaven, his to the ground, acting as if she was already dead.

Unable to hold myself in, I rapped with my beak against the man’s chamber door, a ceaseless tapping to wake him from his misery.

From inside I heard him muttering half-crazed to himself “ ‘Tis some visitor tapping at my chamber door - only this and nothing more.” He didn’t open the door, instead dreamed of the girl, imagining her dead - the faithless man imagining the girl - Lenore - dead. 

In his insanity he continued on muttering, reassuring himself of things unassurable. “ ‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; this is it and nothing more.”

I rolled my small eyes inside of my head, the poor man should not be surprised by such a thing when his beloved is not yet dead. She could be up and walking, but he won’t move from his couch to see.

“Sir,” he cried out from inside, “or Madame, truly your forgiveness I implore…” I wouldn’t listen to the rest of his speech, instead I few in to see the girl. Her chest falling, softly falling, then - to my horror, it fell no more. 
Silence reigned - then from the man’s chamber came a raspy proclamation, “Lenore?”

“Lenore,” I whispered praying that departed would be happier in her next life. I flew back outside, not wanting any longer to remain in that house of dark and death. The thought of that man, lying while his beloved died, haunted me, so rapidly, I returned, scratching at the shutter. 

I heard the man, in violent speech utter, “Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; ‘Tis the wind and nothing more.” He flung the shutter open, letting the wind in and the dying heat out. The scent of whisky also floated into the December night.

Deciding to teach the man something, I stepped into his chambers, and with a flutter of my wings, went and rested upon a bust of Pallas. I stood there looking down on the pitiful creature that was this young widower.
And he began to laugh, a lunatic, drunken laugh. “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,” he said through his laughter, (I shrank at his insult to my feathers), “though art sure no craven,” he went on “ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore - tell me what thy Lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore.”

His speech was appalling, I wished he would cease his poetic nonsense, so I called out - half a squawk half a word, “Nevermore.” Nevermore speak to me in such a way as if I was more than a bird.
Shocked into silence the man was, his silence allowing my word to echo across the chamber. He took a drink from a bottle on his nightstand as I watched him, I being the conscience he didn’t have.

“Other friends have flown before,” he said to himself or to a ghost I did not see, “On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

I’m afraid he misunderstood my response, but once again I shouted “Nevermore,” trying to silence him.

Then he began to speak again - nonsense pouring from his lips, “That melancholy burden bore - till the dirges of his Hope,” he spoke of me, “that melancholy burden bore of Never -nevermore.”

He moved a chair to the door and sat down backwards, looking up at me. I couldn’t read what was spoken in his eyes, myself only being a bird. But I could guess that in them lay a thousand unuttered cries. A haunted man was this.

I glared at him, selfish man who imbibed himself while his wife lay dying, crying to himself and never seeking to be a help.

He drank once more from the bottle and again cried out, “Wretch! Thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff of quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore.”

His alcohol would not be nepenthe enough to make him forget, no matter how he tried - so once again I spoke, “Nevermore.”

He stood and began knocking things off shelves and tables, ranting, ““Prophet! thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—” I wasn’t any other than just a bird, but there was no telling him of that. “Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,” he went on, “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!” 
 
I didn’t know of such a place as Gilead, and what the balm he sought there was, so giving him the only answer I knew, I tried to silence him “Nevermore.”

In rage, he stood now, hair crazed, eyes dilated, ranting and ranting so loudly he could waken Lenore from death, ““Prophet! thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!” he was repeating himself, louder as if I hadn’t heard before, “By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,” his voice waned and faltered, “It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

If he walked into the room next door he could clasp her dead body, but I wouldn’t tell him such a thing as that, his drunken state wore on me, so with all the vocal energy I could muster I shouted as if to end it all “NEVERMORE!” When, oh when would silence reign again.

Likely instigated by me he began to shout again,”Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” he shrieked so that the whole neighborhood could hear,“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!” (as if I were from such a place,) “Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!” His voice broke with pain and sorrow, “Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

To abate and to vex him, one last time I muttered the solemn word “Nevermore.”

The stories often say, I lived on the bust for the rest of my days, haunting the man all his life. But those accounts are wrong.
For after my prophesy was said, the man fell dead onto the floor, his eyes fixed above the door, his mind on the fair Lenore.

And this time, from his lips came the word “Nevermore.”​

Belle Thomas

Belle is the writer and dreamer behind An Old Fashioned Girl. She is passionate about reminding girls of their identity in Christ, classic books, history, Louisa May Alcott, and earl grey tea. ​​