There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I
      thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as
      characteristic of the intonation—as well adapted to convey some
      idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice
      seemed to reach our ears—at least mine—from a vast distance, or
      from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place, it
      impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make
      myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress
      the sense of touch. I have spoken both of “sound” and of “voice.” I mean to say that
      the sound was one of distinct—of even wonderfully, thrillingly
      distinct—syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke—obviously in reply to
      the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had
      asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said:

      “Yes;—no;—I have been sleeping—and now—now—I am dead.”

      No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress,
      the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus
      uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L—l (the student)
      swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not
      be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to
      render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied
      ourselves, silently—without the utterance of a word—in endeavors
      to revive Mr. L—l. When he came to himself, we addressed
      ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar’s condition. It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the
      exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of
      respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I
      should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my
      will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my
      hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric
      influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue,
      whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be
      making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed
      utterly insensible—although I endeavored to place each member of
      the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have
      now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the
      sleep-waker’s state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured;
      and at ten o’clock I left the house in company with the two
      physicians and Mr. L—l. In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His
      condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion
      as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had
      little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be
      served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what
      is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric
      process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar
      would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy,
      dissolution. From this period until the close of last week—an interval of
      nearly seven months—we continued to make daily calls at M.
      Valdemar’s house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other
      friends. All this time the sleeper-waker remained _exactly_ as I
      have last described him. The nurses’ attentions were continual. It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the
      experiment of awakening, or attempting to awaken him; and it is
      the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which
      has given rise to so much discussion in private circles—to so
      much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling. For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric
      trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time,
      were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded
      by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially
      remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by
      the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the
      lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor. It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the
      patient’s arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr.
      F—— then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so,
      as follows:

      “M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or
      wishes now?”

      There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks;
      the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth
      (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before), and at
      length the same hideous voice which I have already described,
      broke forth:

      “For God’s sake!—quick!—quick!—put me to sleep—or, quick!—waken
      me!—quick!—I say to you that I am dead!”

      I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided
      what to do. At first I made an endeavor to recompose the patient;
      but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I
      retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In
      this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful—or at least I
      soon fancied that my success would be complete—and I am sure that
      all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken. For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that
      any human being could have been prepared. As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of
      “dead! dead!” absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from
      the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once—within the
      space of a single minute, or even less,
      shrunk—crumbled—absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the
      bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of
      loathsome—of detestable putrescence. THE BLACK CAT. For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to
      pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be
      to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own
      evidence. Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream. But
      to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My
      immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly,
      succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household
      events. In their consequences, these events have terrified—have
      tortured—have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound
      them. To me, they have presented little but horror—to many they
      will seem less terrible than _barroques_.