Step into the shadowy realm of "Poe's Nightmares," a mesmerizing collection of short stories and poetry penned by the enigmatic Lady Eckland. This anthology is a tribute to the master of the macabre, Edgar Allan Poe, whose spectral whisper resonates...
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The carriage rattled over the cobblestone streets of London, jostling its lone passenger. Augustus Varney gazed out the window at the gas lamps glowing dimly in the foggy night. He pulled his coat tighter against the chill.
It had been three years since he'd set foot in London. Though it was his hometown, it now felt foreign, the dark alleys and looming buildings conjuring images of secrets and curses rather than the fond memories of his youth. He was returning a changed man. No longer the promising young artist, but a recluse haunted by the consequences of his obsession.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Varney's childhood home. The three-story brick Georgian was dark except for the flicker of a candle in an upstairs window. As he climbed the steps, the front door swung open.
"Master Augustus!" cried the housekeeper, Mrs. Billings. "As I live and breathe! We did not expect you back so soon."
"Just here to collect a few things, I'm afraid," Varney said, stepping into the foyer. "I cannot stay."
Mrs. Billings helped him out of his coat. "You must at least stay for some tea and biscuits. It's a dreadful night out there for traveling."
Varney reluctantly agreed and followed her down the hall. His footfalls echoed in the empty house. "Where is my father?"
"Oh, the senior Mr. Varney spends all his days and many nights at the Royal Academy now," Mrs. Billings replied over her shoulder. "Ever since you left, he throws himself into his work."
Varney felt a pang of guilt. His father had opposed his leaving London to study painting abroad. But Augustus had been headstrong, hungry to hone his skills as a portrait artist. He had shown great promise, winning awards at the Academy where his father taught. Augustus had dreams of becoming a renowned painter.
And so he had gone, despite his father's protests. But the events of the last three nightmarish years had shattered those lofty dreams.
In the drawing room, Varney sank into an armchair by the fire as Mrs. Billings busied herself preparing the tea. His eyes fell upon the mantlepiece and the collection of miniatures displayed there, portraits he had painted of friends and relatives. They had always praised the stunning lifelike quality to his work. He averted his gaze, a shiver running down his spine at the now-sinister connotation.
Moments later Mrs. Billings pressed a cup of steaming Darjeeling into his hands along with a plate of biscuits.
"Now tell me," she said, settling into the chair opposite, "what brings you back so unexpectedly?"
Varney stared broodingly into the flickering fire. "I have been staying at Black Oak Lodge in Derbyshire. But there were...complications. I had to leave." Through the fortnight stay he had descended into the same obsessive madness, with devastating results. He could not bear to remain there any longer, surrounded by his sins.
