Original subtitles

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. 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.

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.

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