Ep. 4 - Alone
Sep 15, 2026 · 33 min · 11 segments
This episode follows Edgar Allan Poe as he confronts increasingly disturbing spirits who seek his help in telling their stories. At a séance, Poe encounters the tortured ghost of Mary Ward ***(The…
Sep 15, 2026 · 33 min · 11 segments
This episode follows Edgar Allan Poe as he confronts increasingly disturbing spirits who seek his help in telling their stories. At a séance, Poe encounters the tortured ghost of Mary Ward ***(The…
[eerie music] Poe stands in a black void surrounded by hushed whispers.
A curtain opens with the rush of a storm.
He is center stage, alit with blinding lights.
His hands, his arms, his knees and feet all tied with string extending high above the stage into blackness above.
Through searing light, he can see the audience has wings.
Angels all look on with horror as the performance begins.
He is not alone on stage.
His foster mother, tied too with strings, kneeling, dropping sand through her fists, wailing.
Her strings jerk her arms up and down, exaggerated, grotesque, and frantic.
His sister stands beside her reading his poetry, eyes blank, unblinking, laughing maniacally, bouncing up and down.
Beside him, his mother, sickly and frail, recites Shakespeare, muttering and mumbling low the soliloquies of Ophelia.
Her arms pulled high above her, she is dangling, her feet barely touching the ground.
And the hands of Virginia, the puppet, bounce violently upon the keys of her piano.
Her strings sway her body to and fro on the stool, blood spurting from her mouth.
All lost in their performance, unaware of the other flesh marionettes around them.
Poe tries to free himself from his strings to save his family from this grotesque charade, but his strings are tied to his bones.
He cannot free himself, and the angels cry and moan at the sight of this twisted, sickening show.
Ah.
This is not a performance.
This is not a play.
Stop this.
Stop this madness, please.
And all at once, with a gasp from the crowd, a blood red thing, a writhing, massive, crawling shape emerges from behind the stage and bares its vermin teeth.
One by one, it devours his family, ripping them from their strings, crunching, slurping.
A roar of terror, blood-curdling screams from the sobbing seraphs in their seats, till in a flash, all is quiet.
The angels are gone.
Single feathers gently fall where they sat.
His family is dead, and only he remains alone with the slowly approaching worm.
Where did they go? The angels, where did they go? Not alone.
Please, not alone.
As the conqueror worm spreads its fangs, Poe awakes in starched white sheets.
Sounds of doctors and nurses, screams and moans from down the hall.
The pain of his organs failing, and the newly felt fear of dying alone.
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[eerie music] Poe stands in a black void surrounded by hushed whispers.
A curtain opens with the rush of a storm.
He is center stage, alit with blinding lights.
His hands, his arms, his knees and feet all tied with string extending high above the stage into blackness above.
Through searing light, he can see the audience has wings.
Angels all look on with horror as the performance begins.
He is not alone on stage.
His foster mother, tied too with strings, kneeling, dropping sand through her fists, wailing.
Her strings jerk her arms up and down, exaggerated, grotesque, and frantic.
His sister stands beside her reading his poetry, eyes blank, unblinking, laughing maniacally, bouncing up and down.
Beside him, his mother, sickly and frail, recites Shakespeare, muttering and mumbling low the soliloquies of Ophelia.
Her arms pulled high above her, she is dangling, her feet barely touching the ground.
And the hands of Virginia, the puppet, bounce violently upon the keys of her piano.
Her strings sway her body to and fro on the stool, blood spurting from her mouth.
All lost in their performance, unaware of the other flesh marionettes around them.
Poe tries to free himself from his strings to save his family from this grotesque charade, but his strings are tied to his bones.
He cannot free himself, and the angels cry and moan at the sight of this twisted, sickening show.
Ah.
This is not a performance.
This is not a play.
Stop this.
Stop this madness, please.
And all at once, with a gasp from the crowd, a blood red thing, a writhing, massive, crawling shape emerges from behind the stage and bares its vermin teeth.
One by one, it devours his family, ripping them from their strings, crunching, slurping.
A roar of terror, blood-curdling screams from the sobbing seraphs in their seats, till in a flash, all is quiet.
The angels are gone.
Single feathers gently fall where they sat.
His family is dead, and only he remains alone with the slowly approaching worm.
Where did they go? The angels, where did they go? Not alone.
Please, not alone.
As the conqueror worm spreads its fangs, Poe awakes in starched white sheets.
Sounds of doctors and nurses, screams and moans from down the hall.
The pain of his organs failing, and the newly felt fear of dying alone.
