All language subtitles for The.Raven.2012.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP.5.1.H.264-PiRaTeS

It's the fourth floor.

Upstairs.
Yes, sir.

Come on.

No! Not my daughter!

Mercy!

Give us room.

You stay there. Come on.

No!

No!

Break it down.

Yes, sir.

Baltimore Police!

Give me some light.

Oh, no.

It's empty.
That's impossible.

We heard a door lock.

Damn it, the window!

It's nailed shut.

Dear God.

With kittens.

The ways of God in nature,

as in Providence,
are not our ways.

Lovely to see you all again.

Hello, Reagan, did you miss me?

I'm naturally delighted
to be back in Baltimore.

But in all honesty,
feeling a bit under the weather.

However, it has been said that
what brandy cannot cure has no cure,

so what say you to a snifter
for an old, ailing friend?

I'm sorry, what?
Nothin'.

Am I to assume, then,
that you are out of brandy?

We got many bottles, Edgar.

So it's a question of finances.

I don't mean to shock you, Poe,

but we haven't seen you
in a while.

Last time you were here,
well, things got rather ugly.

Been back in town only a few days
to find, quite shockingly, I might add,

I seem to have exhausted
any sort of credit I once had.

Fine. Fine.

If it's money you want...

try not to shit yourself.

That's real.

And spot these sailors
a round, too, on me.

Christ, man, now what?

That'll just about cover
the last tab.

Are you really
gonna be this cruel?

The Patriotis publishing
one of my reviews tomorrow.

I'll be flush
as a sultan by dawn.

If the paper publishes
anything you write,

you come back tomorrow,
I'll buy you the shot.

Tomorrow?
Tomorrow I might be dead.

Or you might be.

I'll risk it.
How's this?

I get a drink for any man here who
recognizes me or one of my poems.

You better get to the door
before I split your head open.

My head is already split open,
you overgrown mouth-breather.

So show me some respect or
I'll give you a personal tour.

I'm an internationally
lauded poet.

That's why you got no money.

I am Poe.
That's what I said.

Not "poor", mouth-breather!
"Poe"!

Poe! Edgar Allan Poe!
Does it ring a bell?

Ah, shut up.
No.

A drink to any man in this room

who can finish this line:

"Quoth the raven..."

Piss off!

Why, I pee daily!

I repeat, "Quoth the raven..."

"Nevermore!"
Ha! Ha!

It is a very favorite poem.

Vive la France!

Slobs!

Philistines!

You wouldn't recognize an
authentic American literary voice

if it hissed in one ear
and slithered out the other.

Yeah, but we know other things,

like how much it hurts to pick
your teeth up off the floor

with broken fingers. Is that
the limit to your imagination,

you mental oyster?
What?

I can conjure a multitude
of more exquisite...

Ah, shut up! Your eyeball
dissolving in a teaspoon of lye.

Your tongue torn from your
throat with a blacksmith's tongs.

Shut up!
An enema of boiling tar!

A testicle impaled on a
kebob... Get out, you shit!

It's all he... here.

Put her down.

She's just a girl.

What kind of monster
would do this?

Catherine Muford, 36.

Her daughter, Anna, 12.

She was strangled.

She's so young.

He was a large man.

By the extent of his grip, well over
eight inches from thumb to forefinger.

Captain, your men agree that
someone locked the door from the inside?

Absolutely. We heard the door
lock just as we arrived.

But by the time you broke down
the door, the murderer was gone?

Not a trace.

And the window was closed
when you came into the room?

Not just closed, nailed shut.

Tell me,

how does such a large man
escape so quickly from a room

in which the door has been
locked from the inside...

and the window nailed shut?

I'm not sure, but the mayor
wants results this time, inspector.

Have your men
question the neighbors.

I want a list of all the men
who've visited these premises.

Yes, sir.

A lock.

Triggered by a spring.

But the nail. I...

Cut mid-shaft.

I checked that window ten times
and I never found that spring.

I wouldn't have
found it either, except...

What is it?

This crime is familiar to me.

Whoa. Not again, Mr. Poe.

Christ.
Good morning, Percy.

Percy... Captain Hamilton, I have
no intention... of asking for money.

What do you want, Poe?

I've come back to town
for your daughter, Charles.

Over my dead body.

Is that an option?
Oh, please.

You know I find you as revolting
as some of your stupid stories.

Some, but not all.

You look lovely today,
by the way.

Get out, Poe.

Before I shoot you
where you sit.

And risk splattering
blood and brains

over your daughter's
fine silk dress?

Out.
I suppose an invitation

to the upcoming costume ball is
completely out of the question?

Father, don't.

Sorry, Charles.
See you at the track.

See you, Edgar.

Another abject humiliation.

Please! Mercy!

I have children!

Why are you doing this? Why?!

I'm only a critic!

Good morning, Baltimore Patriot.

Mr. Poe, your clothes.

Just beating the
mud-slingers to it.

Fortitude, Ivan, fortitude.

I'm afraid you might need
more than this, Mr. Poe.

Why?
It's a crime, Mr. Poe.

A terrible crime.

Out with it, man, what is it?

Did that marsupial of an editor
dare to change my review again?

I told him not to touch it.
I told him, Mr. Poe.

Where's my review?
Where is it?

What has he done?

He said there was no more room
in the layout.

No more room?
No more room?

Pray tell, what fine twat
did he deem more worthy?

Longfellow!
Longfellow?!

Longfellow!

Where is it?
Where's what?

The trash bin.
That is exactly where

all of this brain-sucking,
soul-warping

fish-wrap should be put!

That's lovely, Eddie, that's a
real show of adjectival fireworks

from the great Poe himself.
Not only do you refuse to print

my review of Longfellow, but you
run his third-rate poem instead.

People like Longfellow. That's
because editors like you tell them to.

Have you no soul, Henry? Doesn't
the artistic enrichment of your readers

mean a goddamn thing to you?
Artistic enrichment?

You've got some gall
barging into my office

and lecturing me when all you
do is criticize other peoples' work.

Not true. Not true at all.

You called Emerson "a sad,
festering literary whore."

And I quote.
Because he is precisely that.

Is honesty now a vice or do you
prefer that jaded hack Griswold

fawning over some steaming mound
of hackneyed tripe?

Yeah, he doesn't think much
of your stuff, does he?

The man's a complete
intellectual non-entity.

He's an absolute buffoon.
Which is probably why

he finds so much of
a home here with you.

Ah, you're out of control!

I'm broke.

Then try writing another
Tell-Tale Heart.

People love blood,
they love death.

Don't you think
if I couldn't churn out

another Tell-Tale Heart
or Pit and the Pendulum

I would indenture
my very soul to the devil?

Henry, you've got to publish
my review, I'm desperate.

Look, I need stories,
gripping stories.

I've got nothing left.

I've used up all my tricks.

And try laying off the liquor
and the tinctures,

'cause it's rotting your brain.

I only drink occasionally,
to be social.

To alleviate my shyness.

And the tinctures
are purely therapeutic.

Slight palliative against the
chill of an orphan's despair.

Write me something I can sell.

You're a real bastard, Henry.

Why are you doing this?!

Why?!

What have I done?!

Please!

No!

Consider, Carl,
if you will, the human heart.

This small chamber, a vacancy,
where gasses are wed to fluids

and all the secrets and mysteries
of our species are hidden.

Write another Tell-Tale.

You think you're so clever,
don't you?

Miss Hamilton.

"The angels...

not half so happy in Heaven
went envying her and me.

Yes, that was the reason.

As all men know
in this kingdom by the sea.

That the wind came out
of the clouds by night.

Chilling and killing
my Annabel Lee?"

Continue.

"But our love.

It was stronger by far.

Than the love of those
who were older than we.

Of many far wiser than we.

And neither the angels
in heaven above.

Nor the demons down
under the sea.

Can ever dissever my soul
from the soul.

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee".

Do you like it?

I think that it is the most
romantic thing I've ever read.

So, I had to hear about
your stunt all afternoon.

I just wanted to see if I could
get that little vein

on the side of his neck
to finally explode.

I think father
has begun to suspect.

Yes, well, I consider it my duty

to wrestle you away from
that gun-toting philistine.

And into the arms of you,
of all people?

Who better? Than why do
you always antagonize him?

I can't help it. I despise
people who despise me.

Edgar, we need to talk.

What is Carl eating?
A heart.

A human heart?
Mm-hm.

How in Heaven did you
come by a human heart?

An admirer works at the morgue.
I was searching for inspiration.

So tell me again
exactly how much...

money you made
from your self-proclaimed

"world-famous poem"
about that bird.

Raven. Nine dollars, but did I
mention that it's world-famous?

Edgar. Edgar.

We can't go on like this.

Emily... what do you want?

To begin with, I want you
to get up off your knees

unless you intend to use that
position for another purpose.

The imagination reels
with possibilities.

But what did you
have in mind, specifically?

A proposal.

You mean marriage? It's
not such a horrible thought,

people still do it
from time to time.

Really, when? When
they're in love, I suppose.

If I were in love with
that person, would I...

think about them all
the time? Most likely.

And would I spend
every waking moment

desiring to smother the other
with affection?

It has been described as such.

Emily, you are my greatest
and only inspiration.

Emily Hamilton,
will you be my wife?

Yes.

I love you.

Oh...

You're a ridiculous man.

Now, what do we do
about your dear, dear,

gun-toting father?
I've been thinking about that.

We'll tell him
at my birthday ball.

In front of all of Baltimore.

If I were a better man,
I'd forbid it.

But you're not.
No.

I found some possibilities
for you, inspector.

All are gruesome, if you ask me.

"The careful search soon brought
to light the hidden spring.

I pressed it, and satisfied with the
discovery, forbore to upraise the sash."

That's it.

Edgar Allan Poe.

"And the raven, never flitting.

Still is sitting,
still is sitting.

On the pallid bust of Pallas
just above my chamber door.

And his eyes have all the seeming
of a demon's that is dreaming.

And the lamp-light
o'er him steaming.

Throws his shadow on the floor.

And my soul from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor.

Shall be lifted...

nevermore".

Who's next?

Um...

Well, it's called
The Butterfly and the Bee.

An exquisite title,
Mrs. Bradley.

"The butterfly
to her brother bee.

Did sing a song of spring.

Come listen to my ode of thee.

Thou honey-making thing".

Stop, please.

It's... It's terrible,
I suspected it was.

"Thou honey-making thing?"

I, uh, attempted to rhyme
the lyric. You've succeeded.

The juxtaposition
of the beauty of nature

with the horrors of our
recently mechanized society,

reducing brother bee to nothing
more than a "honey-making thing,"

a meaningless cog,
bound for destruction

within the machine of nature.
It's brilliant, Mrs. Bradley!

It's terrifying,
but it's brilliant.

I'm so sorry to interrupt.

There's someone here to see you.

Excellent, who is it?

Mr. Poe.

Get in here.

Hands off me, old badge.

What's going on?

Why would hair
be attracted to a magnet?

What?

Soot is merely carbon residue
from coal and wood.

Am I under arrest? I'm Detective
Fields. Please sit down, Mr. Poe.

Yes, the infamous
Detective Fields.

Am I under arrest?
No. Not as yet.

Then I'd rather stand,
it makes it easier to leave.

I am, uh...
I'm a reader of your work.

Well, I admit that many of my admirers
have gone to great lengths to meet me...

Oh, I didn't say I was an
admirer. And yet, you read them.

The night before last a young girl
and her mother were found murdered.

The daughter's body
was lodged in a chimney,

the mother's head was nearly
severed with a straight razor.

The killer eluded capture
through a window in which a lock

was feigned with
a nail sawed in half.

Does any of this sound
familiar to you, Mr. Poe?

But you're
talking about my story.

A work of fiction.

I'm afraid I am not.

According to various witnesses,

you were seen drunk two nights
ago in a tavern near the harbor.

What time did you leave?

I don't remember.

My, uh, leaving was involuntary.

Do you actually think
that I murdered these people?

May I see your hand?

Which one?

Either will do.

Perhaps with the aid
of accomplices,

such a scenario
might be conceivable...

however improbable.

Yet, what cannot be disputed is
the fact that your imagination

is the inspiration
of a horrendous crime.

Am I to be charged, then?

Is imagination now a felony?

Come.

Inspector, can I have a word?

This is Henry Maddux,
editor of the Baltimore Patriot.

He was brought in
to identify the body.

His name is...
I mean was Gris... Griswold.

Ludwig Griswold.

He worked for you?
Freelance, as a writer.

What kind of things
did he write?

Some poetry, mostly criticism.
You know, the easy stuff.

Did he, by chance, have any kind of
a relationship with Edgar Allan Poe?

Of course,
they hated each other.

Had a vicious feud
about a year ago.

Sold a lot of papers.

How long have you
known Mr. Poe?

Edgar? Well, past ten years.

You published another one of his
stories, The Murders in the Rue Morgue.

He wrote that one several years
back when he was in Philadelphia.

I reprinted it a couple of times
here. People love the gory ones.

So they do.

Edgar isn't a suspect,
is he, inspector?

At this point, everyone
is a suspect, Mr. Maddux.

Forgive me.

I know there is a darkness
to Edgar, but...

they're all up in here.

Every woman he's ever loved
has died in his arms.

Now, I believe that God
gave him a spark of genius

and quenched it in misery.

But as far as
something like this,

the only thing he's ever killed
is a bottle of brandy.

Thank you for your time, sir.

I know this may come as
a shock to you, Mr. Poe,

but we are in dire need of
your unwholesome expertise.

I really hadn't imagined the
counter weight to be so large.

We have reason to believe
you knew the victim.

Really?
If you would.

I don't believe I know him.

Then perhaps this
will jar your memory.

"Never has the perfunctoriness
of plot been so mechanized

and twisted by soulless
contrivance..."

Griswold.
So you do know him?

Yes.

We traded barbs. As in words,
not actual weapons of any sort.

As writers are wont to do
to sell a few newspapers

or gain a little favor. The Pit and
the Pendulum, when was it published?

'42. Tales of Ratiocination. Are
there other stories in the collection?

Many.

Specifically about murder?
I'm afraid so.

As unfortunate as this is,

you may be uniquely qualified
to cast light on our killer.

There is a logic
underlying these deaths.

Do you think this comes
from a logical mind?

Any man who can
carve a human being in half

doesn't come from a place
of logic. Then from where?

Mental disease, obsession...

passion.

I believe the killer
is taunting us.

He wants us to know
he's gonna strike again.

What do you make of this?

It was covering
the victim's face.

The Masque of the Red Death.

What is it?

The quote from the story
mentions Prospero,

a character I created to
symbolize man's arrogance,

even when confronted
with certain death.

Prospero hosts a costume ball
where Death comes in disguise.

Charles Hamilton is hosting such a
ball tomorrow night at the museum.

"And one by one
dropped the revelers

in the blood-bedewed
halls of their revel."

If The Masque of the Red Death
is his next intended story,

we must use this opportunity to
capture this man at your costume ball, sir.

Too harsh.
I want something older.

"And Darkness and Decay..."
Six cases should be enough.

"And Darkness and Decay
and the Red Death

held illimitable dominion
over all."

So this gentleman dresses
up like a... like a what? Like a...

"The figure was shrouded from head
to foot in the habiliments of the grave."

Like a corpse or a skeleton.

And at the stroke of midnight,
he comes in and kills everybody.

Poe is a damn viper. I ordered him
away from Emily and now he's trying to...

Sir, the similarities
are too coincidental.

I'm asking you again.

Allow me to have my men
scattered about your ball, in costume,

so we can hopefully
catch this monster.

I'll hire extra security myself.

But I will not have this turn into some
kind of policemen's ball, understood?

I've seen the effects
of this man's determination.

If he has indeed
chosen your gathering...

You will not destroy an evening that
Baltimore looks forward to every year.

Then I insist
my officers be present.

Fine. Just make sure they scrape
the shit off their boots.

Who is Prospero?

He was the host of the ball.

And the first to die.

She's so wonderfully
full of life.

I've been reading this...
What the hell is he doing here?

He's with me
and we were just leaving.

Hello, captain, just wanted
to prove how easy it was

to penetrate the breach. I presume
the police are here to keep me out.

Mr. Fields, I can assure you that if
Mr. Poe is a part of your investigation...

Mr. Poe has a unique perspective
on certain aspects of this crime.

Why? Is the killer a raving
alcoholic? An opium addict, an atheist?

An atheist?
Wow, you misconstrue me, sir.

If you know what's good for you,
Poe, you'll stay away from my daughter.

Father, I've decided to change my
costume for the ball tomorrow night.

No. Mr. Fields, I'm happy to indulge
your request for the additional security,

but I warn you, if I see
this man there tomorrow night,

you will have to
protect him from me.

Why do we need more security?
It appears my writing

has become the inspiration to an
actual killer. Quite gruesome, really.

If I would have known my work would
have had such a morbid effect on people,

I would have devoted
more time to eroticism.

You're a vile little man.
As I said,

we were just leaving.
Yes.

Yes, Percy, show this man
to the door.

Mrs. Bradley, would you join me
in the other room?

What is going on?

Emily.

I think we should
reconsider our announcement.

Why? Are you backing out?
No, no, no. Never.

If your father sees me there
tomorrow, he may have me shot.

And there well may be a depraved
killer on the guest list.

It's a bit much for one night,
don't you think?

I think it sounds thrilling.
Does it? Why?

How else should Edgar Allan Poe
commit himself to eternal love

other than
under threat of death?

The grim reaper, a ghost,

the Headless Horseman,
if you like.

He should be easy to spot.

Elderidge, take some of these
men and patrol the back.

Sir.
Move out.

Yes, sir.

You must be selling a hell of a lot
of newspapers these days, Henry.

Two murders in one week.

Circulation has indeed improved,
despite unfortunate events.

Time for a piss.

May I have this dance?
Father. Not now.

I'm not sure
what's troubling you,

but your future happiness

means more to me
than I can possibly describe.

I really hope you feel that way
at the end of the evening.

Whatever this is about, I need
you to be a little more social.

This is an important gathering
for me and for us.

Father, I know what's expected.

Excuse me.

Please, step aside.

Step aside.

Fields' men aren't causing
any trouble, are they?

No, sir.

What about Poe?
Any sign of him?

Not so far.

Glass of wine, sir?

Nevermore.

"can ever dissever
my soul from the soul.

Of the..." I'm sorry,
I'm waiting for someone.

"Of the beautiful Annabel...

Lee".

You dance passionately, sir.

If I could, I would dance
with you throughout time.

I love you, Edgar.
And I, you.

You really are a reckless girl.

To dance with
a stranger with a mask.

With a murderer in our midst.

Speaking of which...

Courage, Edgar.

Miss Hamilton, this way.
Emily!

Oh, Edgar!
Emily!

Get out of my way!

He told me you'd
ordered it for the party.

Who? Who ordered it?
I'm supposed to deliver this.

My daughter, he has her.
Percy, seal off this building!

Find her!
Now!

Come on!

"I challenge the brilliant
detective mind of Edgar Allan Poe

a game of wits with Emily's life
in the balance.

You will immortalize, for the
exquisite pleasure of your readers,

this, your very own descent
into the maelstrom.

Which shall appear, in serial
form in the Baltimore Patriot.

Know that I will kill again
and on that new corpse,

I will leave you clues
that will lead to Emily.

If I do not read a vivid
accounting of this convergence

of fact and fiction,
then dear Emily will die.

Your only hope is to
imagine a way to save her.

I dare you to try to conceive of the
painstaking care I have taken to secure her

and the elegant means leading
inextricably to her end.

Are you up to the task, Mr. Poe?

Are you even capable of imagining
the means to save your beloved's life?

Or shall this tale end
as all your stories do?

With madness, sin and horror?

The soul of the plot."

Your men are right,
I've killed her.

We must assume Miss Hamilton
is still alive.

Why must we assume that? Because
it's more convenient to do so?

Why am I to blame?

Where were all these officers
last night?

Where were you?

He told you he was coming!
Mr. Poe, listen to me.

This killer is methodical.

He will keep her alive
to keep you involved.

It's part of his game...
Fields!

And that's the logic
that will trap him.

It's the facts of this case
that give us the...

Fields!

Tell your people to familiarize
themselves with my face.

They'll be seeing it every hour
till my daughter is returned to me.

Mr. Hamilton,
I am very sorry.

As well you should be,
she was taken under your watch!

Sir, if you would please...
What the hell is he doing here?

Hey!

Arrest him. It's his fault.

There is plenty of fault
to be passed around.

I'm sure you understand what
I mean by that, Mr. Hamilton.

Now, Mr. Poe, here
is our only connection

to the man
who has your daughter.

I suggest you remember that.

Out of the way.

We will reconvene in two hours.

Until then, I want every street
in Baltimore manned,

is that understood?
Yes, sir.

Lord help my poor soul.

Oh, my... Oh, my God.

Help! Let me out!
Let me out of here!

No, stop! Stop!

Shut it, Emily...

or I'll shut it for you.

OK.

OK. I'm sorry.

Sorry.

The human body is to be revered.

We must, at all times,
be respectful.

Remember that a cadaver

is more than
a mere learning tool.

We shall examine the lungs.

Now, this man is an alleged
victim of consumption.

Professor, what is it?

Dear God.

She could be a prostitute,
the way she's painted up.

Did you open this?

Were your hands clean?

Yes. I don't believe
I left that smudge, inspector.

She must have fought him
or scratched him.

She didn't fight him.

But there are no wounds
on her wrists,

it can't be her blood,
inspector.

He came at her from behind.

Strangled.

Another of your stories?

Mr. Poe.

I asked, is this another
of your stories?

The Mystery of Marie Roget.

It's the same knot.

It's a bowline knot, to be
exact, just as it was in the story.

All right, then what of it?
Who was she?

She was a girl...

who worked in the stores
in Paris, near the quay.

She drowned.

There was no mention
of blood on her hands.

He added that detail.

You must write it now.
Every detail.

The knot, her dress, her hands.

Her eyes, her hand.

Her smile portended nothing.

Her innocence was the first
part of her soul to die.

And while it happened,
he stood still,

watching to fully enjoy
the dreadful metamorphosis

from a life full of hope...

to a death without purpose.

Mr. Poe?

I've been, um...

I'm sorry to disturb you, but...

I was a little concerned
about your...

My progress?
Yes.

I feel as if I've gone from author
to character in one of my tales.

I'm as trapped and bedeviled as any
of the hapless bastards I ever created.

I can appreciate that.

Regardless of what
you think of me, Fields,

I am a master of my art.

And I will not fail, ever.
I know that.

Look, I, uh...

I think I was overly harsh
with you the other day

and, for that,
I'd like to apologize.

My wife was singing at the piano
when she first coughed up blood.

I prepared myself for the worst,

but Virginia seemed to recover.

And, foolishly,
I succumbed to hope.

But by year's end,
the blood came again.

And again.

Great effusions of blood,
raging fevers,

her sheets spattered with
crimson, drenched with sweat.

I often thought I could hear
the sound of darkness

as it stole across the horizon,
rushing towards me.

But here I...

I was overwhelmed
by a sorrow so poignant.

When she finally died, I felt,
in all candor, a great release.

But it was soon supplanted
by the return

of that dark
and morbid melancholy

that has followed me
like a black dog...

all my life.

Until I met Emily.

Time is running out, inspector.

Do you really believe
she's still alive?

I'm sure of it.

Magnificent.

Poe, you have done it again.

The invention is breathtaking.

The line of truth and fiction
has never been so...

so...

I'm not sure
about your headline.

Henry, you will
not change one word.

Fine. Ivan. Ivan.

Reset page one, immediately.

Melancholy has followed me

like a black dog all my life.

I love you, Edgar.

Fields.

The blood, Poe. It's fake.

The blood.
On the prostitute.

She's not a prostitute.

It's stage blood,
she's an actress.

The blood on the
hands. Macbeth. Exactly.

He's like the hangman,
Poe, the right bastard.

Making money off the dead.
Mm-hm.

Baltimore serial killer
on the loose!

Cantrell is at the theater,
all the exits are secure.

The Imperial, I'm assuming.
Her mother's playhouse.

The victim was
still in her costume,

which suggests she was abducted
directly from the theater.

We'll find her.

I would gladly give my life
for hers, Mr. Fields.

I know you would.

Out, damned spot! Out, I say!

One, two.

Then, 'tis time to do't.

Hell is murk...!

What the hell is happening?
Who are you?

By order of
the police department,

I have a warrant
to search these premises.

What for?
There's a show going on!

Bring all your
stagehands here now!

They have to man the ropes.

First, Lady Macbeth takes a
powder and now you bastards...

Ten seconds.

Put out your hands.

Ladies and gentlemen,
the play will resume shortly.

Please take your seats.

You. Step forth.

Take off the gloves.
Is this your entire crew?

Yes.
Are you sure?

I am.
Count them again.

The Thane of Fife had a wife...

What are you doing?

You know we got no more than
seven minutes before the act change.

You, where are you from?
Liverpool.

Got three days shore leave
to make some extra scratch.

So if you don't mind, please.
Read it.

It's Macbeth.
I know the play.

Someone's missing.
Who?

Maurice.
Where is he?

I don't know, but nobody's allowed
to leave until the show is over.

He's here.

If any of these men
try to leave,

shoot them.
Yes, sir.

Put on your night-gown.

You, there.
Come out, show yourself.

To bed, to bed.
Stop!

Show yourself.

I will kill you!

I have a pistol aimed on you.
Come out now.

Put you hands where
I can see them or I will fire.

Don't shoot me, I'm in the play.

You're all right.
You stay here, OK?

What happened?
My pistol, I lost it.

I saw him.
Damn it.

Seal the doors! He's here!
Yes, sir!

The missing stagehand,
what was his name?

Maurice.
Maurice.

Hey, hey, hey! Where does
the crew keep their things?

We have lockers downstairs.

Poe.

Fields, up here.

What is that?

It looks like a piece of fish.

That is a human tongue.

What does it mean?

Wait, yes.

The Facts in the Case
of M. Valdemar.

A man suspended between life
and death by mesmerism.

He's a living, conscious corpse
who can only speak

via the vibrations of his
tongue. It's a bit of burlesque.

Mr. Poe, your house!
But the tongue wasn't severed.

Mr. Poe, sir,
there's been an accident.

Put your backs into it!

Come on, keep it going!
We're gonna need more!

The fire's not gonna
put itself out, come on!

Jack, get all those people
back from the building!

Please, step back. Move back!

It's not safe, get back, sir.
Everybody, get back!

A damnation on Earth.
Hell's brimstone is food.

Consumed from birth in solitude.

Let's go, men!
Move it! Move it!

The windows
were shattered first.

I don't think
it was an accident.

I'm certain you're correct.

Sir, we also found this.

I'd be happy to take it in
if it's not yours.

He's been sticking with us
since we got here.

I can tell from the sound

of his voice he's mine.

Thank you, officer.
Switch out!

Let's go!
Yes, sir!

Oh, God.

Why are you doing this to me?

Please let me out.

I can't.

Yes, you can. You can.

Please.

I'm so cold.

Why are you doing it?

Please don't let me die in here.

Miss Hamilton.

No! No! No, no!

Mr. Poe.

I'm afraid I have found myself
without lodgings. Yes, I heard.

I don't mean to impose.

Oh, yes, of course, uh...

Forgive me, please.
Come in.

It appears, to Baltimore,

I've become one of the
very demons I conceived.

The fire was intentional,
did you know that?

Yes, I heard. The town is
angry, the mayor wants results.

Another set of unsolved murders,
inspector? Is that it?

He was inches away.
If I hadn't dropped my weapon...

Perhaps.

But we have made some headway.

According to theater records,
the sailor's name

is Maurice Robichaux.
Does that mean anything to you?

No.

Cantrell and I made some
inquiries at the docks.

Apparently, he was signed
on to a trading vessel

which made port five days ago.

The start of the murders.
And like many sailors,

he took employment in the theater
working the backstage riggings.

But as we know,
he wasn't there today.

Everything, down to our entrance
was pre-arranged.

Look...

It may be arduous, but, uh,

I've learned in order to find
a needle in a haystack,

you simply have to
go through the hay.

These ship's records, I think...

Ship's records?

Well, I must remind you, Mr. Poe,
every detail here is essential.

Tell me, Emmett,
are you not piqued

by your abject failure
to ferret out this assassin?

Your reputation is at stake.
Look at me.

Four people are dead!

An angel breaks on the rack
of some depraved beast,

but this clerk squints over his
eyeshades at ledgers and typing.

Is this a fucking joke, boy?!
What else should we do?!

Run around all of Baltimore
screaming out her name?

Now, please, think.

Start with the sailor.

Have you ever written
anything about a sailor?

No.

Did you speak with
the ship captain?

I did.
And?

Robichaux is a valued crewman.

Well-liked,
had a family back home.

Where?
In France.

Nimes.

Anything?
No.

Yes. Possibly. Who knows?

See, what I keep
asking myself is...

why Baltimore?

I mean the Fortunato had docked
in several ports around the world.

The what? It's been
all over the world...

The name of the ship,
say it again. Fortunato.

"The thousand injuries
of Fortunato

I had borne as best I could."
What is that?

The first sentence of
The Cask of Amontillado.

Go on.

A story I wrote about revenge.

A man kills his rival
by walling him up.

The victim, named Fortunato,
is entombed alive.

Where? In the catacombs of a
palazzo. The story's set in Italy.

Well, there are no
catacombs in Baltimore.

No, but there are tunnels
underneath the city.

Tunnels.
The water works.

You are looking for
anything that would indicate

recently laid masonry.

We will be timing this.
I will blow my whistle as such.

We will then shout her name in
unison from all areas of the tunnels.

Emily!

There will be a pause of
ten seconds of absolute silence

when we will listen
for the smallest sound.

Anything to indicate movement
from behind the walls.

If an officer detects something,
he will blow his whistle

and we will examine the wall
at that point.

Are we clear?
Yes, sir.

Then move out.

Emily!

Emily!

Shh!

Emily!

Emily!

Over here,
I think I hear something!

The mortar's
a different color. Look.

Hold that.

Here, stand back.

What is it?
Do you have her?

Shh, shh!

Give me that.

What is it, inspector?

Keep digging.
Yes, sir.

Halt!

"Do not bemoan
the sailor's life,

he was always
sure to die anyway.

But his demise did serve a
purpose of leaving you clues.

Godspeed, Poe.
Emily weakens by the hour,

both physically
and spiritually."

I will kill him.
No matter how this ends,

I will kill this
perversion of a man.

For Godspeed,
even his prose is barbaric.

Why would he dress him up
like Miss Hamilton?

For the thrill
of watching me suffer.

Here, John. Bring the light
closer, I think I found something.

What is that?
Help me turn him over.

Ready, one...

Well, I think we found
our missing sailor.

It's a sextant. A natural
choice for a seaman, I suppose.

My brother, he went to sea.

A lot of men,
they get these in the Orient.

This notch
in the flesh is fresh.

It's still clotted.
The killer did this.

You mean it was part
of the struggle?

Too deliberate.

It's a latitudinal coordinate.

If you mark the angle of the sun
at the highest point

of the day, it tells you how far
you are from the equator.

North, south. It's useless
without longitude.

Even in the Army,
they teach basic navigation.

I went to West Point.

I was expelled, don't worry.

Fields, look there.

Give me a scalpel.

Here.

His tongue has been removed.

And this... has replaced it.

What's it for?
Longitude.

Pen and paper.

He's giving us a location.

Open up!
Open the door!

Where's Hamilton?

Hamilton!
What's happened?

We need to use
your navigational maps.

Celestial almanacs as well.
Why?

He's giving us
the location of Emily.

This watch is mine.
I thought I'd lost it.

The killer left this?
On the dead sailor.

"In" to be more exact.
The gall...

One with the latitudinal
coordinates.

Incredible.
You must forgive me,

I have no background in
navigational techniques.

To plot an exact
position, you need three things:

a sextant, an accurate
chronometer and a celestial almanac.

Celestial almanac tells us the
exact time at which the sun

hits its zenith.
Exact noon.

Should I bring some more, sir?
Leave it, please.

It's all right, Percy,
get another.

If you have a watch set
to Greenwich Mean Time

you can calculate
how far east or west

of Greenwich, London you are.
Twelve, 27...

Twenty-eight, rather.
Which one, damn it?

Twenty-eight.
Twelve, 28, right?

Yes. Longitude is the
measure of time east or west.

Latitude, distance from the
equator, that's north and south.

Seventeen degrees north.

The West Indies? It can't be.

He couldn't have
transported her that far.

Here. St. Croix.

That's impossible.

The Danish West Indies
is a two-week journey.

It's not an island.

St. Croix. Holy Cross.

Holy Cross. Holy Cross
Church, that's our parish.

Hyah! Yah! Yah!

Cantrell, you and
the others around back.

Spread out.
OK.

If need be, break a window,

we must get inside!

Emily!
Come on!

Emily!

Northwest corner!

John.

Don't move, John.

He's over here!

There. Black horse.

Steady.

Fields.
Get him! Find him, Edgar!

Go!

Your name! You coward!

Who are you?!

Poe.

Poe.

The killer escaped.

My horse is gone.

What about Fields?
He was shot?

He's at Doc Clements'.
What of you?

Paper goes to press
in three hours.

There was an empty grave
that had Emily's name on it.

That was his clue.
That's why he sent us there.

Perhaps.

He'll kill again.

I'm sorry, Poe.
This is my fault.

I should never have
gone ahead with the ball.

These are my stories.

Your daughter's love for me is
the reason another man's dead.

Go to Doc Clements'.
I have one more story to write.

Yeah.

Edgar.

For today, she's still alive.

Doctor, let me go!

Let me go!
We're running out of time!

For God's sake, you've got
a bullet in your chest.

Now lie down and let me do my
job before you bleed to death!

You son of a bitch,
he's gonna kill her today.

So you get the bullet out
and you patch me up now!

There's a bottle of whiskey
in the kitchen, bring it here.

What the hell is that?
A magnet.

I need to find the bullet
before I can cut it out.

Soak that pillowcase
in the whiskey,

then give the rest to him.
He'll need it.

"The gossamer white of bone

was now visible beneath the
tattered meat of her fingertips

as Emily clawed madly at the
wooden slats of her coffin.

A desperate, drowning animal.

The dirt rose around her,

the inescapable sand
of an hourglass,

as her final breath
of air slipped her

into the twilight of
consciousness, until..."

Shh. Emily.

"He knew now,
that all hope was lost.

He had failed his beloved.

And there was but one
last thing left to do.

One last act."

"The final desperate plea.

One life offered
for another's."

Oh, Mr. Poe, no.
No, you can't.

Set the print, Ivan.
But, sir...

Do it!

You can't take it
as your fault, Mr. Poe.

Is there someone else
you'd like to blame?

Yes, the killer
is to blame, sir.

Let me read that.
Oh, sir, I need to...

"Poe could feel the poison
already feeding on his blood

as the maggots were soon to do."

Jesus, Edgar.

Are you making enough
money, Henry?! Mr. Poe, don't!

Will it sell?! Will it?
Mr. Poe!

You madman! I'll have you thrown
in jail, you damned animal.

I'll send you to Hell!
Huh? Hell!

Mr. Poe, Mr. Poe, don't.

He's not worth it.

Clements!

I'm sorry, Mr. Poe.

I fell asleep waiting for you
and the inspector.

What time is it?
Just past six, sir.

Uh, the paper's here for you.

Rather remarkable, seeing that
people are stealing other's papers.

They can't print enough of them
between the election today

and this horrible killing
they keep writing about.

Here's something else
for you, Mr. Poe.

"It is a masterpiece, Mr. Poe.

An epitaph worthy
of your gifts."

When did this come?
I don't know exactly,

but before the paper
was delivered.

How do you know that?
It was underneath the paper.

Quite impossible, look
at the streaks in the ink.

I don't understand,
I'm sorry, Mr. Poe.

It's been rained on. It
rained last night before dawn.

But the newspaper is bone dry.

I'm not sure what, um...

The paper was delivered later,
after it stopped raining.

This note was written in response
to what I wrote in this newspaper.

He delivered the note
before the paper.

So he knew the story in advance.

He'd already read it.

Where's my gun?

The ink.

It's printing ink.

The Patriot.

Henry, you're gonna
tell me where she is.

Henry.

Tell me, where is sh...

Ivan.

Surprised?

Where is she?
Dying.

More quickly than I expected.

So I had to speed things along
and deliver the morning edition

so you could finally
realize it had to be

none other than your humble
typesetter and biggest fan.

Drink?

You don't know how I've looked
forward to this moment, sir.

To sit here like this,
no more masks.

Artist to artist.

"Artist to artist."

Though, I admit,
as I read your final chapter,

I felt more muse than artist.

You're mad.

Really, Mr. Poe?
You're one to talk.

Where is Emily?
Where is Emily?

Just like that?

No probing the devious twists
and turns of man's darkest motives?

No prying into the mysteries
of his conscience?

So very unlike you, Mr. Poe.
Where is she?!

Ow!

Rather disappointing denouement,
I have to say.

But that's life, isn't it?

So much less satisfying
than fiction.

It's time this story
comes to an end.

Very well.

Give me the gun.

You've come this far, Mr. Poe,
are you really gonna back out now?

You know what happens next,

you are the one who wrote it,
after all.

You either pull that trigger and
kill me and young Miss Emily,

or you give me the gun.

She will live.
That was your solution, right?

I have to admit,
I don't cry easily,

but you had me bawling
like a baby.

And I've always had a fancy for
poisons. That's how I done my dad.

The idea of drinking something
that will kill you,

but having time
to carry on a conversation

is, as they say, fraught with
dramatic possibilities, right?

Listen to me,

talking about
dramatic possibilities

with one of the
greatest writers of our time.

But, I must say,
it has been a profound honor

working with you, sir.
Working with me?

Well, I know they're your ideas,
and I'm just borrowing.

Except for Valdemar's tongue,
that was me.

Quite the subtle metaphor,
I thought.

Subtle? It made
no sense at all.

Even in the end,
confronted by plagiarists,

without even the originality
to invent themselves.

I've concocted you.
I couldn't agree more.

I am your crowning achievement,
your masterpiece.

You know, whose world do we
each exist right now, Edgar?

Mine or yours?

I don't really know the answer.

It's quite brilliant.

Well, go on, sir.

Bottoms up.

I need a carriage now!

Inspector.
Get a carriage,

and send a messenger
to Charles Hamilton's house.

Tell him to get to
the Baltimore Patriot. Do it!

So it has been written.
I will die today.

A hole of
moldering earth awaits.

It is a just end to a man
consumed by death his entire life.

Emily, take this kiss
upon my brow.

Really good stuff, sir.

A poet till the end.

I suppose this bit
is for Miss Hamilton.

Where is she?

Where is she?
I tell you, Mr. Poe,

I used to live for your stories,
just live for them.

When you stopped writing...

I guess I went a little nuts.

But I kept on believing,
even when you closed me out.

I still believed in your vision.

In a future where people
would stand in lines

to see the kind of things that
only people like you and I can see.

I knew you had
one more in you, sir.

No one will ever forget you.

Have you ever been to France?

There's a young writer
over there, Jules Verne.

You heard of him?
What? Paris.

He really reminds me
of you, sir.

Where is she? You owe me!

Where is she?

"Anything was better
than this agony.

Anything was more tolerable
than this derision.

I could bear those
hypocritical smiles no longer."

The Tell-Tale Heart.

She's here.

She's here.

Carriage for Mr. Reynolds.

On my way in just a moment.

Goodbye, Mr. Poe.

I've enjoyed our time together.

Reynolds.

Emily!

Emily! Answer me.

Emily! Please answer me!

Oh, my God.

Emily. Emily.

Emily.
Open your eyes.

Open your eyes.
Open your eyes.

Emily, open your eyes.

Yeah.

Is it really you?

I love you.
I love you.

I'm here.
I came for you.

OK.

Stay awake.

I have you.

We're going home.

You did mean it.
Mean what?

You said you would marry me.

In this life and the next.

Clear the way!
Clear the way!

What's wrong with you?
Make way!

Where's Poe?
He was here a moment ago.

Poe!
Hurry!

Where's Edgar?
Where's Edgar?

Go, go, go!

Sir, you are Edgar Poe, correct?

I am...

for a few more minutes, anyway.

Are you all right? I mean, you
look a little worse for wear.

Is there someone
I can call for you?

Reynolds. You want me
to find Reynolds, huh?

Does he have a first name?
No...

Tell Fields his last name
is Reynolds.

I'm sorry, sir, you're
not making much sense.

Tell Fields.

Oh, Lord, help my poor soul.

Mr. Fields.

I'm Dr. John Morgan.
Doctor.

Do you have a cause of death?

I'm sorry, I don't.
I have a few ideas, but...

as you know, he was brought
in in a very deranged state.

I'm told he was ranting.
Yes.

He kept going on and on about telling
you that your last name is Reynolds.

Is that helpful
or just gibberish?

Maybe both.

Well, thank you
for your help, Doctor.

I'd be interested in hearing
your final analysis.

Take this kiss upon my brow.

And in parting from you now.

Thus much let me avow.

You are not wrong who deem.

That my days have been a dream.

All that we see or seem.

Is but a dream within a dream.

Mr. Reynolds, please
follow me to your carriage.

Hello, Ivan.

English US Line 21