In honor of All Hallow's Eve I've composed a companion piece to "A Cask of Amontillado", and at K's request, using the exact same number of words.
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Ghosts of Amontillado
A susurrus in the dark roused me with a rush of warm air, a soft tickle at my ear. Paralysis struck all but the racing heart and darting eyes.
The whisper!
Years seemed to elapse before my tremulous hand reached for a candle at the side of my bed. Although the air was still, the light faltered and then mysteriously extinguished. Again I brought match to wick in vain; no flame would burn. My mind conjured ghastly specters and abhorrent creatures to suffer in the gloom that I could not elude as the constant trickle of water within the room sent a shiver through me. A pungent, foul smell filled the air.
Indeed I was troubled, for this was not the first occasion. Many a moonless night woke me when the wind outside was quiet and the silence inside vociferous.
“Salvatore!” I cried, feeling for my robe. My manservant opened the door and illumination seeped slowly across my bed.
“Yes, Montresor. Is all well?” Salvatore crossed the room and lit a candle. It immediately blazed, filling my room with a splendid glow. The odoriferous apparition evaporated in this exposed atmosphere and my heart resumed its natural rhythm.
“Yes, yes...bring me the tea you’ve brought.” My hand, wrinkled from age, stopped shaking. Then a pounding from below signaled a visitor at the gate.
“Expecting someone?” he asked.
I had barely shaken the sleep from my eyes let alone the dream that plagued me; I waved my hand impatiently, “No, send them away. Who would come at such a late hour?” He set a cup of tea at my side and took leave.
I rose and walked to my dresser. My good nature was returning, however there would be no sleep tonight. Picking up a bottle of sherry, I glanced at the label and smiled. “Fortunato! It is to you that I owe all my good fortune and all my dark nights!”
From the window came the sound of revelers on the street below caught up in the rapture of drink and merriment. Of course, I chuckled to myself, tonight was the commencement of carnival. The night, fifty years to the day, I avenged my family name by punishing the one who tarnished it. Fortunato.
As you know, the name brought immense joy for it reminded me of victory. Since his death, my life had been blessed peace of mind, respect from the community and riches. I had become Fortunado’s greatest ally in my countryman’s eyes - resuming his business, caring for his widow, making sure his son went to the best schools. Although speculation lingered along the outskirts of society, his mysterious departure was never solved.
But the whisper!
The idea that Fortunato could taunt me from beyond was infuriating; it filled me with a sense of dread. On these occasions I considered returning to the place of his untimely demise, deep within my catacombs, to reassure paranoid curiosity.
A movement at the door startled me from thought. “Sir, there is a man to see you.”
Irritation sprung from my weary state, “Can you not send him away?”
“Pardon, sir, he would not depart and demanded to see you personally.”
“Well...who is this man? Could you not at least obtain his name?”
Salvatore brought his hands together in a nervous manner, “I tried, Montresor, but he refused to give it and requested to speak to you directly. Should I let him into the meeting room for you?”
“Incompetent!” I spat. “Make him wait at the door!” I dressed and had Luca, my nurse, help me down the stairs to the front door.
There I was faced with a tall, cloaked figure hidden in cloth and shadow. The street was shrouded in fog as well, affording little light to gain perspective. Luca gracefully bowed to the man and left us.
“The hour is late, what business could you possibly have here?” I strained to see his face. The figure said nothing at first, pointing to a cask at his side. “The Amontillado, as was requested.”
“Amontillado?” I finally managed with a tone of astonishment and fear. The revelry along the street subsided and I was once again plagued with silence. “Requested by whom?”
“Yes,” he paused momentarily before continuing, “a gift from an old friend.” When I offered no response he laughed - a deep, low sound. “The hour is late, but this opportunity was the only afforded to me. Of course...if you don’t want it.”
“Oh, please forgive my manners! Why, I wouldn’t mind at all. But where is your servant?” I peered back at the street beyond him, my stance at the door trepidacious - for the fog, the hour, and the dream forged an ominous texture.
The lofty presence reached up his hands to remove his hood, presenting a hard-angled, yet amiable face. Salvatore opened the door further and joined me.
“Shall I have this taken inside?” he inquired.
The ill-omened spell broke as I looked into the stranger’s eyes, “Yes, into the hall, and bring two goblets that I might share some of this good wine with....”
“Daniel,” he offered. Salvatore snapped his fingers for the kitchen crew to come, then extended his hand to take the man’s cloak and show him in.
We adjourned to the grand room, where a fire was already ablaze, and sat across from each other. He examined me curiously. “You do not remember me do you?” His eyes twinkled.
“Now that you mention it, you do seem familiar to me. I cannot place it,” I said, accepting a glass from my manservant. I brought it to my nose. “What a fine Amontillado!”
“The finest,” Daniel smiled, and partook from his glass. “It was my father’s wish that you have it. It is from Fortunado’s own stock. Branded with the crest he created for his family’s vineyards, that you now own.”
I paused in mid sip; sat the goblet down on the table next to me. “Please go on.”
“Indeed. Grandfather acquired Fortunado’s private stock after his disappearance, but as my family is moving to the Americas, it seemed time to liquidate that we did not wish to take with us. In the process of recapitulation, this Amontillado captured our attention. Such a rare find, as I’m sure you know! We knew immediately you should have it; being a connoisseur of wines, compared only with Fortunato himself - it was a sign.”
“A sign,” I repeated, lost in reflection, “a sign.” I glanced at him, then at the fire. “You are Pantaleo de Vercelis’ grandson. I remember. Pantaleo and Fortunato were good, good friends.”
“Yes, both cherished Masons.”
“Fortunato and I were also the best of friends,” I sighed. “When he vanished it caused me the deepest agony.”
“Really?” the man seemed amused. “Acquaintances, yes, however, from what I understood there may have been bad blood between you.”
“Bad blood? Not at all! Hearsay. I think to this day I should see him walk around the corner of my street and greet me with a ‘Good morn!’”
“What of the talk of the constant jesting he gave you, nothing there?”
“No...what is jesting between compatriots? He took a strange pride in playing practical jokes on me. He often demeaned me at parties, but all in fun to be sure. The public gossip cannot be trusted for accurate information, my son!”
“I beg pardon for troubling you with inconsistencies, for it was my impression, and that of others, that you held injuries, that he disgraced your family name one night in a drunken state. A matter of calling your father a degenerate traitor and coward who was shamed from the brotherhood.”
“Enough!” I said, a bit too sharply. His face lost its humor and blushed a crimson red. “As I stated before, all hearsay. There was no bad blood. The matter of which you speak was disproved immediately, yet the gossip never dies. Have you come so late expressly to offend me?”
“I extend my truest apology.” The man quickly rose. “I have upset you and that was never my intention. As you have said, the hour is late, so I shall retire home. To your health,” he raised his glass, drank the remainder and bowed.
Converging upon the door, he turned back to me. “Enjoy the Amontillado.” The congenial tone misstated the glint of his eye. Salvatore assisted the visitor with his cloak and at once the mood was altered, the room spun; with a parting glance the grandson of Pantaleo had sent a chill straight to my heart.
“Luca! Salvatore! Come at once.” Both entered immediately, awaiting my instruction with earnest. “Salvatore, have the servants take the cask down to the catacombs now. Place where it will never be found, I could not bear to look upon it even accidentally!"
“Sir, you are in no shape to excite yourself,” Luca said as she helped me from my chair. “I implore you to finish with this business and return to bed.”
I was exhausted to be certain, but driven by madness nonetheless. The feeling of being mocked was oppressive, the pain of insult fresh. How could I sleep?!
“Yes...yes. Luca, help me to my room. Salvatore, have the men do as I requested, then let them go for a fortnight, that they may enjoy the festivities. I have nothing more to do but sleep ‘til the morning.” Salvatore bowed and proceeded with my demands.
I retired to pretend at slumber. Tossing and turning, the night seemed endless. I sat up and listened to the noise from outside. My anger would not subside. An involute analogy left me restless.
I gathered my cane and another candle from the bedside before slowly entering the hall. It was dark and empty, no sign anyone had stayed to see me through the night. I called out as I made my way downstairs. There was no response.
“Fortunato! You indignantly begrudge my righteous vengeance; have you now sent others to ridicule me?” Again, no response. I laughed at the irrationality, but craved satisfaction - I had to see his rotted remains, to confirm my ultimate triumph.
Removing a flambeaux from the wall leading to the catacombs, I descended. The stairs presented one obstacle after another, and though I stumbled and leaned heavily on my cane, I pressed deeper into the cavern. The increasing dampness made my head ache; I began to cough.
I stole a vessel of wine from an open case and broke off the top. As I drank, I examined the condition of the cellar - deteriorated tiers of brick saturated in coterminous nitre. My cough threatened to bring me to my knees. I considered turning back; still my face glowed with my intent despite the decay, the infestations that scurried with each step. At length I approached the end of the crypt, covered in moss, layered in broken bones, and foul beyond belief.
I rested, my erratic breath quickly taking in the stench, and could not resume. On the stone bench nearest the opening, I surveyed the breadth. Like discarded mementos, casks littered the floor, and just beyond them was the niche, neglected in turn, with the bricks I had once laid fallen away in one small corner.
I shuffled slowly to the wall, and for the first time felt the thrill of fear. So many years had passed, I thought to myself, would there be anything left? If I found nothing, would I lose my mind? The movement of my torch to the makeshift hole released a cloud of dust and fetid air. I recoiled, staggering back, coughing horribly. I suddenly felt the extent of my solitude in this enclosed space, and as I made my way back to the wall my torch flickered as unsteadily as my breath.
The breach left no room for me to glance through while the torch was held to it. I cursed, placing it at my side, and grasped a hammer left amongst an aggregate of skulls. I could barely lift it. My head pounding, I managed to take one swing: four bricks absconded into the opening. Dropping the heavy appendage, I stretched out my bleeding hands to push at the stones that remained. A cough overtook me once more, and I began to wheeze as I brought the torch to the opening.
The years had withered his sorry remains. How strange that his body had not completely wasted away, how his eye sockets appeared animate. Leathered skin lay tight across his face, contorting the expression to one of agony.
Still gasping for air, I leant closer in to savor my ingenuity, the prize of my machinations. Entranced - I could not divert my gaze - the torch blazed with unnatural color, an endless funnel of lunacy working its magic before me. Then all went black, and I cried out in agony, collapsing amidst the hellish sound of bells – a dirge.
A harsh reality presented itself. The removal of the stones caused the rest of the niche to give way, setting a treacherous weight upon my legs, crushing them. The cask of Amontillado - that very one - set on the high shelf, out of sight by my own command, laid broken upon my body, drenching me in its dark fragrance. In the low light I could not distinguish the sherry from my own blood. I began to laugh, a soft pitiful titter at first, building to a crescendo of insanity. For now, as the torch suffocated, I glimpsed my last. The wall torn, dust heavy in the air, there, propped against the stone suspended by two iron staples, was Fortunato, his grimace of pain a crackling smile.
The light finally gone, only the sound of my breath kept the beat of my heart company in the overwhelming space of what was unknown. The servants, my friends, someone will come for me, I reasoned, holding on to my sensibilities. Then the whisper from my dream, always abandoned in morning’s calm light, became crystal clear in my mind; I realized they would not.
And I heard it, a scratch in the gloom, faintly inscribing my unfortunate tomb: Ut sementem feceris ita metes, est unusquisque faber ipsae suae fortunae.
It would be a very long night.
A susurrus in the dark roused me with a rush of warm air, a soft tickle at my ear. Paralysis struck all but the racing heart and darting eyes.
The whisper!
Years seemed to elapse before my tremulous hand reached for a candle at the side of my bed. Although the air was still, the light faltered and then mysteriously extinguished. Again I brought match to wick in vain; no flame would burn. My mind conjured ghastly specters and abhorrent creatures to suffer in the gloom that I could not elude as the constant trickle of water within the room sent a shiver through me. A pungent, foul smell filled the air.
Indeed I was troubled, for this was not the first occasion. Many a moonless night woke me when the wind outside was quiet and the silence inside vociferous.
“Salvatore!” I cried, feeling for my robe. My manservant opened the door and illumination seeped slowly across my bed.
“Yes, Montresor. Is all well?” Salvatore crossed the room and lit a candle. It immediately blazed, filling my room with a splendid glow. The odoriferous apparition evaporated in this exposed atmosphere and my heart resumed its natural rhythm.
“Yes, yes...bring me the tea you’ve brought.” My hand, wrinkled from age, stopped shaking. Then a pounding from below signaled a visitor at the gate.
“Expecting someone?” he asked.
I had barely shaken the sleep from my eyes let alone the dream that plagued me; I waved my hand impatiently, “No, send them away. Who would come at such a late hour?” He set a cup of tea at my side and took leave.
I rose and walked to my dresser. My good nature was returning, however there would be no sleep tonight. Picking up a bottle of sherry, I glanced at the label and smiled. “Fortunato! It is to you that I owe all my good fortune and all my dark nights!”
From the window came the sound of revelers on the street below caught up in the rapture of drink and merriment. Of course, I chuckled to myself, tonight was the commencement of carnival. The night, fifty years to the day, I avenged my family name by punishing the one who tarnished it. Fortunato.
As you know, the name brought immense joy for it reminded me of victory. Since his death, my life had been blessed peace of mind, respect from the community and riches. I had become Fortunado’s greatest ally in my countryman’s eyes - resuming his business, caring for his widow, making sure his son went to the best schools. Although speculation lingered along the outskirts of society, his mysterious departure was never solved.
But the whisper!
The idea that Fortunato could taunt me from beyond was infuriating; it filled me with a sense of dread. On these occasions I considered returning to the place of his untimely demise, deep within my catacombs, to reassure paranoid curiosity.
A movement at the door startled me from thought. “Sir, there is a man to see you.”
Irritation sprung from my weary state, “Can you not send him away?”
“Pardon, sir, he would not depart and demanded to see you personally.”
“Well...who is this man? Could you not at least obtain his name?”
Salvatore brought his hands together in a nervous manner, “I tried, Montresor, but he refused to give it and requested to speak to you directly. Should I let him into the meeting room for you?”
“Incompetent!” I spat. “Make him wait at the door!” I dressed and had Luca, my nurse, help me down the stairs to the front door.
There I was faced with a tall, cloaked figure hidden in cloth and shadow. The street was shrouded in fog as well, affording little light to gain perspective. Luca gracefully bowed to the man and left us.
“The hour is late, what business could you possibly have here?” I strained to see his face. The figure said nothing at first, pointing to a cask at his side. “The Amontillado, as was requested.”
“Amontillado?” I finally managed with a tone of astonishment and fear. The revelry along the street subsided and I was once again plagued with silence. “Requested by whom?”
“Yes,” he paused momentarily before continuing, “a gift from an old friend.” When I offered no response he laughed - a deep, low sound. “The hour is late, but this opportunity was the only afforded to me. Of course...if you don’t want it.”
“Oh, please forgive my manners! Why, I wouldn’t mind at all. But where is your servant?” I peered back at the street beyond him, my stance at the door trepidacious - for the fog, the hour, and the dream forged an ominous texture.
The lofty presence reached up his hands to remove his hood, presenting a hard-angled, yet amiable face. Salvatore opened the door further and joined me.
“Shall I have this taken inside?” he inquired.
The ill-omened spell broke as I looked into the stranger’s eyes, “Yes, into the hall, and bring two goblets that I might share some of this good wine with....”
“Daniel,” he offered. Salvatore snapped his fingers for the kitchen crew to come, then extended his hand to take the man’s cloak and show him in.
We adjourned to the grand room, where a fire was already ablaze, and sat across from each other. He examined me curiously. “You do not remember me do you?” His eyes twinkled.
“Now that you mention it, you do seem familiar to me. I cannot place it,” I said, accepting a glass from my manservant. I brought it to my nose. “What a fine Amontillado!”
“The finest,” Daniel smiled, and partook from his glass. “It was my father’s wish that you have it. It is from Fortunado’s own stock. Branded with the crest he created for his family’s vineyards, that you now own.”
I paused in mid sip; sat the goblet down on the table next to me. “Please go on.”
“Indeed. Grandfather acquired Fortunado’s private stock after his disappearance, but as my family is moving to the Americas, it seemed time to liquidate that we did not wish to take with us. In the process of recapitulation, this Amontillado captured our attention. Such a rare find, as I’m sure you know! We knew immediately you should have it; being a connoisseur of wines, compared only with Fortunato himself - it was a sign.”
“A sign,” I repeated, lost in reflection, “a sign.” I glanced at him, then at the fire. “You are Pantaleo de Vercelis’ grandson. I remember. Pantaleo and Fortunato were good, good friends.”
“Yes, both cherished Masons.”
“Fortunato and I were also the best of friends,” I sighed. “When he vanished it caused me the deepest agony.”
“Really?” the man seemed amused. “Acquaintances, yes, however, from what I understood there may have been bad blood between you.”
“Bad blood? Not at all! Hearsay. I think to this day I should see him walk around the corner of my street and greet me with a ‘Good morn!’”
“What of the talk of the constant jesting he gave you, nothing there?”
“No...what is jesting between compatriots? He took a strange pride in playing practical jokes on me. He often demeaned me at parties, but all in fun to be sure. The public gossip cannot be trusted for accurate information, my son!”
“I beg pardon for troubling you with inconsistencies, for it was my impression, and that of others, that you held injuries, that he disgraced your family name one night in a drunken state. A matter of calling your father a degenerate traitor and coward who was shamed from the brotherhood.”
“Enough!” I said, a bit too sharply. His face lost its humor and blushed a crimson red. “As I stated before, all hearsay. There was no bad blood. The matter of which you speak was disproved immediately, yet the gossip never dies. Have you come so late expressly to offend me?”
“I extend my truest apology.” The man quickly rose. “I have upset you and that was never my intention. As you have said, the hour is late, so I shall retire home. To your health,” he raised his glass, drank the remainder and bowed.
Converging upon the door, he turned back to me. “Enjoy the Amontillado.” The congenial tone misstated the glint of his eye. Salvatore assisted the visitor with his cloak and at once the mood was altered, the room spun; with a parting glance the grandson of Pantaleo had sent a chill straight to my heart.
“Luca! Salvatore! Come at once.” Both entered immediately, awaiting my instruction with earnest. “Salvatore, have the servants take the cask down to the catacombs now. Place where it will never be found, I could not bear to look upon it even accidentally!"
“Sir, you are in no shape to excite yourself,” Luca said as she helped me from my chair. “I implore you to finish with this business and return to bed.”
I was exhausted to be certain, but driven by madness nonetheless. The feeling of being mocked was oppressive, the pain of insult fresh. How could I sleep?!
“Yes...yes. Luca, help me to my room. Salvatore, have the men do as I requested, then let them go for a fortnight, that they may enjoy the festivities. I have nothing more to do but sleep ‘til the morning.” Salvatore bowed and proceeded with my demands.
I retired to pretend at slumber. Tossing and turning, the night seemed endless. I sat up and listened to the noise from outside. My anger would not subside. An involute analogy left me restless.
I gathered my cane and another candle from the bedside before slowly entering the hall. It was dark and empty, no sign anyone had stayed to see me through the night. I called out as I made my way downstairs. There was no response.
“Fortunato! You indignantly begrudge my righteous vengeance; have you now sent others to ridicule me?” Again, no response. I laughed at the irrationality, but craved satisfaction - I had to see his rotted remains, to confirm my ultimate triumph.
Removing a flambeaux from the wall leading to the catacombs, I descended. The stairs presented one obstacle after another, and though I stumbled and leaned heavily on my cane, I pressed deeper into the cavern. The increasing dampness made my head ache; I began to cough.
I stole a vessel of wine from an open case and broke off the top. As I drank, I examined the condition of the cellar - deteriorated tiers of brick saturated in coterminous nitre. My cough threatened to bring me to my knees. I considered turning back; still my face glowed with my intent despite the decay, the infestations that scurried with each step. At length I approached the end of the crypt, covered in moss, layered in broken bones, and foul beyond belief.
I rested, my erratic breath quickly taking in the stench, and could not resume. On the stone bench nearest the opening, I surveyed the breadth. Like discarded mementos, casks littered the floor, and just beyond them was the niche, neglected in turn, with the bricks I had once laid fallen away in one small corner.
I shuffled slowly to the wall, and for the first time felt the thrill of fear. So many years had passed, I thought to myself, would there be anything left? If I found nothing, would I lose my mind? The movement of my torch to the makeshift hole released a cloud of dust and fetid air. I recoiled, staggering back, coughing horribly. I suddenly felt the extent of my solitude in this enclosed space, and as I made my way back to the wall my torch flickered as unsteadily as my breath.
The breach left no room for me to glance through while the torch was held to it. I cursed, placing it at my side, and grasped a hammer left amongst an aggregate of skulls. I could barely lift it. My head pounding, I managed to take one swing: four bricks absconded into the opening. Dropping the heavy appendage, I stretched out my bleeding hands to push at the stones that remained. A cough overtook me once more, and I began to wheeze as I brought the torch to the opening.
The years had withered his sorry remains. How strange that his body had not completely wasted away, how his eye sockets appeared animate. Leathered skin lay tight across his face, contorting the expression to one of agony.
Still gasping for air, I leant closer in to savor my ingenuity, the prize of my machinations. Entranced - I could not divert my gaze - the torch blazed with unnatural color, an endless funnel of lunacy working its magic before me. Then all went black, and I cried out in agony, collapsing amidst the hellish sound of bells – a dirge.
A harsh reality presented itself. The removal of the stones caused the rest of the niche to give way, setting a treacherous weight upon my legs, crushing them. The cask of Amontillado - that very one - set on the high shelf, out of sight by my own command, laid broken upon my body, drenching me in its dark fragrance. In the low light I could not distinguish the sherry from my own blood. I began to laugh, a soft pitiful titter at first, building to a crescendo of insanity. For now, as the torch suffocated, I glimpsed my last. The wall torn, dust heavy in the air, there, propped against the stone suspended by two iron staples, was Fortunato, his grimace of pain a crackling smile.
The light finally gone, only the sound of my breath kept the beat of my heart company in the overwhelming space of what was unknown. The servants, my friends, someone will come for me, I reasoned, holding on to my sensibilities. Then the whisper from my dream, always abandoned in morning’s calm light, became crystal clear in my mind; I realized they would not.
And I heard it, a scratch in the gloom, faintly inscribing my unfortunate tomb: Ut sementem feceris ita metes, est unusquisque faber ipsae suae fortunae.
It would be a very long night.
There's quite a bit of graveyard humor in the artwork around the office. It's what I look at every day. A picture of a cute orange kitten standing on its hind legs holding up its paws to play, a .45 pistol at its nose in the foreground.
BRUSSELS (Reuters) - Belgian police warned thieves Friday who made off with leeks from a vegetable farm: don't eat them -- they could be toxic.
