The Premature Burial

story by Edgar Allan Poe (1844)

“I writhed, and made spasmodic exertions to force open the lid: it would not move. I felt my wrists for the bell-rope: it was not to be found. And now the Comforter fled for ever, and a still sterner Despair reigned triumphant; for I could not help perceiving the absence of the paddings which I had so carefully prepared–and then, too, there came suddenly to my nostrils the strong peculiar odor of moist earth. The conclusion was irresistible. I was not within the vault. I had fallen into a trance while absent from home-while among strangers–when, or how, I could not remember–and it was they who had buried me as a dog–nailed up in some common coffin–and thrust deep, deep, and for ever, into some ordinary and nameless grave.”

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