text: [Themes: fan fiction, true story, horror, historical]
  
  'Come on then, wretch!' You answer, 'Bird, or beast, or restless devil! Come forth from your wretched darkness, and show your countenance to your prey!'
  
  Icy tendrils grasp at your mind's defences, yet you continue on unfaltering. 'Show yourself you graceless demon! Come on forth, your prey is here! Why do you cower in the shadows, is the light too much to bear? Ceaselessly you have tormented, cast your shadow upon my soul. Yet I shall give you no more token, leave your shadows, I implore!'
  
  'Nevermore.'
  
  From the shadows a voice rung out, clear as water, yet creaking like ice. A rain of feathers, black like the darkest abyss, falls down from the darkness above you. Slowly, swiftly, you hear something shifting above you, until suddenly, a shadow emerges on the placid bust of Pallas high above your chamber door. A raven, black as night, looming on its elevated perch, gazing ominously into your very soul. A raven, a seemingly common raven, which yet stares into you with a soul-shattering intensity.
  
  Feeling your mind briefly falter under your visitor's gaze, you address it. 'There you are, you baseless heathen. Perched above my chamber door. Can you tell me what your name is on this night's Plutonian shore?'
  
  Once more, that voice rung clearly, yet certain enmity it bore. With his piercing gaze unbroken, still above my chamber door, that ebon beast answered clearly, one simple word: 'Nevermore'.
  
  Again, that singular word. Though still firmly unsettled, you cannot but feel intrigued by this winged messenger. Slightly amused, very much frightened, you address the bird once more: 'Tell me, oh saintly raven, of the region whence you came. Tell me of your master, who gifted such a singular name. How did you ever learn this, did you witness great a pain? Tell me of the grief which shall hold no more name.'
  
  'Nevermore.'
  
  His eyes not shifting, nor his gaze relenting, perching placidly on the pallid bust of Pallas high above my chamber door, this beast, this demon answered only with that word, that singular word, that never- nevermore. A familiar feeling of dread overcomes you as you continue to stare into the black abyss of his gaze. Yet, that shining image of Lenore is still present in the back of your mind.
  
  'Beast or devil, work of evil! Vile demon you might be! Tell me if you know of one no longer here with me. Tell me if the saints and angels have the one that I adore. Tell me of the one I lost, my radiant Lenore.'
  
  Quoth the raven 'Nevermore'.
  
  Staring into the unblinking eyes of that shadowy prophet, you feel the last of your courage leaving your body. The shining image of Lenore slowly fading from your mind. Suddenly, in the blackness of the raven's eyes, you see the shimmer of a reflection, of the maiden you adore. Yet now, instead of hope, instead of defiance, it fills you with an overwhelming feeling of...
  
  > Guilt.
  Seeing her, seeing Lenore like that. Seeing her reflection fringed by the dark abyss of the raven's eyes, brings back memories you so desperately tried to suppress. Unable to draw your gaze away from the raven's eyes, you feel yourself falling into their darkness.
  
  Lenore.
  
  Lenore.
  
  'Lenore!' You do not know where you are. The last thing you remember, the last thing burned into your mind's eye is the darkness of the raven's eyes. Yet you know you have not fallen down, at least not physically.
  
  Before your mind's eye, a scene unfolds, one so vaguely familiar to you that you know you've experienced it before, yet one which you cannot place, nor remember correctly. You find yourself in a kitchen, looking at yourself, or at least a slightly younger version of you, not yet aged by deep sorrow, in a heated discussion with the one you immediately recognise as Lenore. You see yourself assuming a threatening stance, muscles tense as if preparing for a physical assault.
  
  Yet you cannot see what happens as a fog obscures your vision, a fog so dense it blocks all senses, muffling every last detail. But you are not frightened. In fact, you feel relieved, as if inviting it into your mind, for you know how these events unfold.
  
  The fog lifts, and you once more gaze upon yourself in the kitchen. Lenore, however, has gone. In your hand, you spot a vial, filled with a clear liquid. Stirring into a pot with unknown contents, you slowly and deliberately empty the vial until there is not a single drop left. As your younger you finishes whatever he is preparing, you try to scream with all of your might. Try to prevent yourself from serving that meal, yet you know you cannot change what happens.
  
  The scenery changes once more, and you find yourself back in the bedroom from your earlier dream. A pale woman drowning in a sea of pillows, being comforted by an unknown man. However, this time you can see his face, it's you, the younger you. 'I promise my dear, I promise. I... I will never forget you.' A tear rolls down your face, both that of your ghostly image, and your own.
  
  The memories, those blasted, long-repressed memories come rushing into your mind. The unreconcilable truth, your darkest secret. Your blame in your lover's death. All confront you in the naked light of your own mind's eye. You feel shattered, broken, torn apart by the gravity of your actions. A deep, dark pit in your innermost sanctum,that had been closed for many, many months, bursts open with renewed strength.
  
  > Continue...
  You give up. You only realise it now, but you have already given up so very long ago. Glancing around you once more, you notice the raven has finally left. Softly shaking your head, as if to clear the cobwebs inside it, you wonder if he was even ever there. Your library lies forsaken in the pale light of the winter's moon. The hearth's fire died, your tome cracked and spineless on the frozen floor. Soft snowflakes dance around the pallid bust of Pallas high above your chamber door. You take one last look at the painting of Lenore. Your dear, sweet, lost Lenore. You wonder how long it will remain here.
  
  Treading softly on the broken glass, you grip the shattered shutters, the broken bones of your dying house. Winter grips your throat with his icy fingers. As far as you can look, the landscape is covered, softened by a blanket of white snow. Apart from the howling of the wind, only silence dwells in the deserted landscape.
  
  Beneath your bare feet, the splintered wood scratches and claws at your pale flesh. The broken bones leave splinters in your palms, a parting gift. You let go. Weightless, you take one last look into the dark abyss. In the distance, a shadow glides over the horizon. Pale snow floats weightless beside you, guiding your way. Its thick blanket growing larger, approaching rapidly from within the darkness. Through the fog within your mind, Lenore appears below you, beckoning you, tempting, calling. Lenore. The name echoes for an eternity, before the silence sets in once more.