Poe's Nightmares

The Tell-Tale Scar

He recoiled, bile rising in his throat. He'd dreamed of this moment, twisted visions swirling through his mind during those restless sleepless nights. Now here she was, radiant and very much alive.

"Don't look so crestfallen, darling. After all, everyone loves a good comeback story." A slow, predatory smile twisted her lips. “I've returned just in time to reclaim what's mine."

Everard's panic crested in a wave. "What are you saying? I did what I had to! We were on the brink of ruin!"

"Ruin?" Edith raised an eyebrow, the gesture mockingly delicate. "And yet this splendor was built on that so-called ruin?" Her green eyes gleamed as they swept over the richly appointed room, lingering on the trembling servants whose whispers had fallen into an expectant stillness.

Fury replaced fear in Everard's heart. Desperation tinged his voice. "Silence, you witch! Do you seek to destroy the life I've built?"

A hush descended upon the grand hall. Even the musicians faltered, notes hanging unresolved in the strained air. Every eye was on the pair, the spectacle unfolding akin to some lurid stage play.

His defiance seemed to amuse her. Edith turned slowly, savoring the spotlight the way a cat surveys a room full of oblivious mice. Everard flinched as she gestured to her throat, fingers drawing up an invisible line to the delicate lace collar of her gown. He knew what lay concealed there. The jagged scar left by the axe – imperfect evidence of his terrible deed.

"See for yourself, dearest guests," she purred, her voice honeyed and sharp as broken glass. "See the legacy of my dear husband's love."

With startling grace, she unfastened the clasp of her high collar. Layer by layer, the dark satin dropped away, revealing the damning evidence; the thin, uneven crimson line stretching across her pale neck. An audible gasp tore through the crowd.

He could not meet their eyes, could not bear the silent accusations burning into him. In his vision, those damning stitches warped and danced, transforming into a hangman's noose. All eyes were upon him – no longer was he the envied Lord Blackwood, but a monstrous caricature of a man.

"Surely he didn't…"

"Monster!"

"It can’t be, the poor woman…"

Everard cringed at the murmurs. It was over. Ruined, laid bare by his dead, not-so-dead wife. Yet, even as the room spun, pride held firm in a last ditch defense. "Vile harlot!" he thundered. "How dare you! It is a trick. Her death was confirmed! An impostor!"

Edith's voice held an unnatural edge as if cut from sharp icicles. "Is that indeed your final verdict, husband? Then allow me to offer a counter-argument."

His heart hammered a sickening beat as she untied the silken sash draped at her waist. With agonizing slowness, the gown slid down her slim body, pooling as a dark cloud at her feet. Revealed not only the mark of his monstrous act but also an absence at her midsection. Her stomach was sunken, an obscene and empty cavity.

"Where..." gasped a society matron, clutching at her pearls as a faint wail split the shocked silence.

"My organs," Edith intoned, the emptiness within her voice far more terrifying than any scream. “Gone, dear Everard. Harvested and sold at handsome sums, while my still-warm corpse was spirited away in the night. So tell me, dearest husband, are my claims so very outlandish? Or could it be, perhaps, that your hasty murder left something vital...unfinished?"

A deathly hush cloaked the once-vibrant hall. Even the candles seemed to cower, their light casting monstrous shadows as they danced upon the faces of the horrified guests. And at the heart of this nightmarish scene stood Edith, no longer a figure of ethereal elegance but a grotesque apparition.