All language subtitles for The.Raven.2012.1080p.BluRay.x265-RARBG

(CAWING)

(WOMAN SHRIEKS HYSTERICALLY)

Someone help us!

Giddap!

- It's the fourth floor, upstairs.
- Yes, sir.

Come on.

(WOMAN SHRIEKS)

No!

Not my daughter! Mercy!

Give us room.

(WOMAN SCREAMS)

Stay there. Come on.

WOMAN: Not her!

- (WOMAN SCREAMS)
- (SWISH / THUD)

(FOOTSTEPS)

- Break it down.
- Yes, sir.

Baltimore Police!

Give me some light.

Oh, no.

- It's empty.
- That's impossible.

We heard a door lock.

(CREAKING)

Damn it, the window!

It's nailed shut.

Dear God.

- (FOOTSTEPS)
- (CAWS)

(CAWING)

Phylum Chordata...

Subphylum Vertebrata.

With kittens...

The ways of God in nature,
as in providence, are not our ways.

(GLASS SMASHES)

(IRISH REEL MUSIC)

Lovely to see you all again.

Hello, Reagan. Did you miss me?

I'm naturally delighted
to be back in Baltimore,

but in all honesty I'm feeling
a bit under the weather.

However, it has been said
that what brandy cannot cure has no cure.

So what say you to a snifter
for an old, ailing friend?

I'm sorry. What?

Nothing.

I can assume, then,
that you're out of brandy?

- We've got many bottles back there.
- So it's a question of finances.

I don't mean to shock you, Poe,
but we haven't seen you in a while.

Last time you were here, well,
things got rather ugly.

Been back in town only a few days
to find quite shockingly,

I seem to have exhausted
any sort of credit I once had.

Fine, fine. If
it's money you want...

Try not to shit yourself.

That's real.

Spot these sailors
a round, too, on me.

Christ, man, now what?

That'll just about cover
the last tab.

Are you really gonna
be this cruel?

The "Patriot" is publishing a review
tomorrow. I'll be flush by dawn.

If the paper publishes
anything you write,

you come back tomorrow,
I'll buy you the shot.

Tomorrow? Tomorrow
I might be dead.

Or you might be.

- I'll risk it.
- How's this?

I get a drink for any man
here who recognises me

or one of my poems.

Better get to the door
before I split your head open.

My head is already split open,
you overgrown mouth-breather.

So show me some respect
or I'll give you a personal tour.

I'm an internationally
lauded poet.

That's why you've got no money.

- I am Poe.
- That's what I said.

Not poor, mouth-breather! Poe!

Poe! Edgar Allan Poe!
Does it ring a bell?!

No.

A drink to any man in this
room who can finish this line!

"Quoth the Raven..."

- Piss off!
- By IP Daley!

(LAUGHTER)

I repeat: "Quoth the Raven"!

- "Nevermore!"
- Hah! Hah!

(FRENCH ACCENT) It
is a very favourite poem.

- Vive la France!
- (GLASS SMASHES)

Slobs!

Philistines!

You wouldn't recognise an authentic
American literary voice

if it hissed in one ear
and slithered out the other.

We know it hurts to pick
your teeth up with broke fingers.

Is that your imagination's limit,
you mental oyster?

I can conjure a multitude
of more exquisite torments.

Your eyeballs dissolving
in a teaspoon of lye!

Your tongue torn from your throat
with a blacksmith's tongs!

An enema of boiling tar! A testicle
impaled on a kebab skewer!

Get out, you shit!

Slowly. Here.

Put her down.

She's just a girl.

What kind of monster
would do this?

(BELL TOLLS)

Katherine LaForte, 36.

Her daughter Anna, 12.

She was strangled.

She's so young.

He was a large man.

By the extent of his grip, over eight inches
from thumb to forefinger.

You agree someone locked
the door from the inside?

Absolutely. We heard
the door lock as we arrived.

And by the time you broke
down the door, the murderer was gone.

Not a trace.

The window was closed when
you came into the room?

Not just closed, nailed shut.

Tell me, how does such a large
man escape so quickly

from a room in which the door has
been locked from the inside...

and the window nailed shut?

I'm not sure, but the mayor wants
results this time, Inspector.

Question the neighbours.

I want a list of all the men
who visited these premises.

Yes, sir.

A lock... triggered by a spring.

But the nail had...

Cut, mid-shaft.

I checked the window ten times
and never found a spring.

I wouldn't have found
it either except...

What is it?

This crime is familiar to me.

Giddap!

Whoa!

Not again, Mr. Poe.

Christ.

Good morning, Percy.

Contrary to precedent,
Captain Hamilton, I've no intention...

(SIGHS)... of asking
for money.

What do you want, Poe?

I've come back to town
for your daughter.

- Over my dead body.
- Is that an option?

Poe, please.

You know I find you as revolting
as some of your stupid stories.

Some, but not all.

You look lovely today.

Get out, Poe, before I shoot
you where you sit.

And risk splattering blood and brains
over your daughter's fine silk dress?

- Out.
- Is an invitation...

to the costume ball
out of the question?

(COCKS PISTOL)

- Father, don't.
- Sorry, Charles.

- See you at the track.
- See you, Edgar.

Giddap!

Another abject humiliation.

Please! Mercy!

I have children!

Why are you doing this? Why?!

I'm only a critic!

(GRUNTS)

(SWISH-l)

- (CHOP)
- Aaaaarghhh!

Good morning.
"Baltimore Patriot."

Mr. Poe! Your clothes.

Just beating
the mudslingers to it.

Fortitude, Ivan, fortitude.

I'm afraid you might need
more than this, Mr. Poe.

- Why?
- It's a crime, a terrible crime.

Out with it, man. What is it?

Did that marsupial of an editor
dare to change my review again?

I told him not to touch
it. I told him, Mr. Poe.

Where's my review?
Where is it?

What has he done?

He said there was no
more room in the layout.

No more room? No more room?

Pray tell, what fine twat
did he deem more worthy?

Longfellow!

Longfellow?!

Longfellow!

Where is it?

- Where is what?
- The trash bin.

That is where all this brain-sucking,
soul-warping fish wrap should be put!

That's lovely, Eddy.

A real show of adjectival fireworks
from the great Poe himself.

Not only do you refuse to print
my review of Longfellow,

but you run his third-rate
poem instead!

- People like Longfellow.
- Editors like you tell them to.

Have you no soul, Henry?

Does the artistic enrichment
of your readers mean nothing to you?

Artistic enrichment?

You've got some gall, barging
into my office and lecturing me

when all you do
is criticise others' work!

Not true. Not true at all.

You called Emerson a "sad,
festering literary whore".

Because he is precisely that.

Is honesty now a vice, or do you
prefer that jaded hack, Griswold,

fawning over some steaming
mound of hackneyed tripe?

- Doesn't think much of YOUR stuff.
- He's an intellectual nonentity.

He's a buffoon, which is probably
why he's so at home here with you.

Aw, you're out of control.

I'm broke.

Then try writing
another "Tell-Tale Heart".

People love blood.
They love death.

If I couldn't churn out a "Tell-Tale
Heart" or a "Pit and the Pendulum",

I'd indenture my very
soul to the devil.

You've got to publish
my review. I'm desperate.

I need stories.
Gripping stories.

I've got nothing left.

I've used up all my tricks.

Try laying off the liquor
and tinctures. It's rotting your brain.

I only drink occasionally,

to be social,
to alleviate my shyness.

And the tinctures
are purely therapeutic.

A slight palliative against the chill
of an orphan's despair.

- Write me something I can sell.
- You're a real bastard, Henry.

Why are you doing this?! Why?!

What have I done?!

Please!

No!

Aargh!

Agh! Argh!

Aaaargh!

AAARGHH!

Consider, Carl, if you
will, the human heart.

This small chamber,

a vacancy, where gases
are wed to fluids

and all the secrets and mysteries
of our species are hidden.

(SIGHS)

Write another "Tell-Tale Heart".

(KNOCK AT DOOR)

(KNOCKING)

You think you're so
clever, don't you?

Miss Hamilton.

"The angels,"

"not half so happy in heaven."

"Went envying her and me -."

"Yes - that was the reason,"

"as all men know, In this
kingdom by the sea."

"That the wind came
out of the clouds by night."

"Chilling and killing
my Annabel Lee."

Continue.

"But our love... it was stronger
by far than the love."

"Of those who were
older than we -."

"Of many far wiser than we -."

"And neither the angels
in heaven above."

"Nor the demons
down under the sea."

"Can ever dissever
my soul from the soul."

"Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."

Do you like it?

I think that it is the most romantic
thing I've ever read.

So, I had to hear
about your stunt all afternoon.

I wanted to see if I could get
that vein on the side of his neck

- to finally explode.
- (GIGGLES)

I think Father has
begun to suspect.

Yes, and I consider it my duty

to wrestle you away
from that gun-toting Philistine.

And into the arms
of you, of all people?

- Who better?
- Then why antagonise him?

I can't help it. I despise
people who despise me.

Edgar, we need to talk.

- What is Carl eating?
- A heart.

- A human heart?
- Mm-hm.

- How in heaven did you come by it?
- An admirer works at the morgue.

I was searching for inspiration.

So tell me again exactly...

how much... money you made

from your self-proclaimed
world-famous poem about that bird?

Raven. $9. But did I mention
that it's world-famous?

Edgar... Edgar.

We can't go on like this.

Emily, what do you want?

I want you to get
up off your knees

unless you intend to use
that position for another purpose.

The imagination reels
with possibilities.

But what did you have
in mind specifically?

A proposal.

- You mean marriage?
- (SIGHS)

It's not such a horrible thought.
People still do it from time to time.

- Really? When?
- When they're in love, I suppose.

If I were in love with that person,
would I think about her all the time?

Most likely.

And would I spend
every waking moment

desiring to smother
the other with affection?

It has been described as such.

Emily, you are my greatest-
and only - inspiration.

Emily Hamilton,

will you be my wife?

Yes.

I love you.

You ridiculous man.

Now, what do we do about your dear,
dear, gun-toting father?

I've been thinking about that.

We'll tell him
at my birthday ball,

in front of all of Baltimore.

If I were a better
man, I'd forbid it.

- (CHUCKLES) But you're not.
- I know.

I found some possibilities
for you, Inspector.

All are gruesome, if you ask me.

"A careful search soon brought
to light the hidden spring."

"I pressed it, and, satisfied
with the discovery,"

"forbore to upraise the sash."

That's it.

Edgar Allan Poe.

And the Raven, never flitting, still
is sitting, still is sitting.

On that pallid bust of Pallas
just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming
of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him steaming
throws his shadow on the floor;

My soul from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor.

Shall be lifted...

nevermore...

Who's next?

(CLEARS THROAT)

It's called "The
Butterfly and the Bee".

An exquisite title,
Mrs. Bradley.

"The butterfly to her brother
bee did sing a song of spring."

"Come, listen to my ode of thee,
thou honey-making thing..."

Stop, please.

It's terrible.
I suspected it was.

"Thou honey-making thing"?

- I attempted to rhyme the lyric.
- You've succeeded.

The juxtaposition
of the beauty of nature

with the whores of our recently
mechanised society,

reducing brother bee to nothing
more than a "honey-making thing",

a meaningless cog
bound for destruction

within the machine of nature.

It's brilliant, Mrs. Bradley!
It's terrifying, but it's brilliant.

I'm so sorry to interrupt.

- Someone's here to see you.
- Excellent. Who?

Mr. Poe?

(MUTTERS) Barbarian
with a badge.

What's going on?

- Why is hair attracted to a magnet?
- What?

Soot is merely carbon
residue from coal and wood.

Am I under arrest?

I'm Detective Fields.
Please, sit down, Mr. Poe.

Yes, the infamous Detective
Fields. Am I under arrest?

No. Not as yet.

Then I'd rather stand. It
makes it easier to leave.

I am...

I'm a reader of your work.

I admit my admirers have gone
to great lengths to meet me.

I didn't say I was an admirer.

And yet you read them.

The night before last a girl and her
mother were found murdered,

the daughter lodged
in a chimney,

the mother's head nearly
severed with a straight razor.

The killer fled through a window

in which a lock was feigned
with a nail sawn in half.

Does any of this sound
familiar to you, Mr. Poe?

But you're talking
about my story.

A work of fiction.

I'm afraid I'm not.

According to various witnesses, you
were seen drunk two nights ago

in a tavern near the harbour.

What time did you leave?

I don't remember.

My leaving was... involuntary.

Do you actually think
that I murdered these people?

May I see your hand?

Which one?

Either will do.

Perhaps with the aid
of accomplices

such a scenario might
be conceivable,

however improbable.

Yet what cannot be disputed

is the fact that your imagination
has inspired a horrendous crime.

Am I to be charged, then?

Is imagination now a felony?

- (KNOCKING AT DOOR)
- Come!

Inspector, can I have a word?

(WHISPERS)

(GAGGING)

This is Henry Maddux, editor
of the "Baltimore Patriot".

He was brought
in to identify the body.

His name is... l mean,
was... Gris... Griswold.

- Ludwig Griswold.
- He worked for you?

- Freelance writer.
- What things did he write?

Some poetry. Mostly criticism.
You know, the easy stuff.

Did he have a relationship
with Edgar Allan Poe?

Of course. They hated each other.
Had a vicious feud a year ago.

Sold a lot of papers.

- How long have you known Mr. Poe?
- Edgar? Well, the past ten years.

You published his story, "The
Murders in the Rue Morgue".

He wrote that several years
back in Philadelphia.

I reprinted it a couple
of times here.

People love the gory ones.

So they do.

Edgar isn't a suspect,
is he, Inspector?

At this point everyone
is a suspect, Mr. Maddux.

Forgive me.

I know there is a darkness
to Edgar, but...

they're all up in here.

Every woman he's ever loved
has died in his arms.

I believe that God gave him a spark
of genius and quenched it in misery.

But as far as something
like this...

The only thing he's ever
killed is a bottle of brandy.

Thank you for your time, sir.

This may come as a shock
to you, Mr. Poe,

but we are in dire need
of your unwholesome expertise.

(THUNDER RUMBLES)

POE: I really hadn't imagined
the counterweight to be... so large.

We have reason to believe
you knew the victim.

- Really?
- If you would?

I don't believe I know him.

Then perhaps this
will jar your memory.

"Never has
the perfunctoriness of plot"

"been so mechanised and twisted
by soulless contrivance..."

- Griswold.
- So you do know him.

Yes.

We traded barbs, as in words -
not actual weapons of any sort -

as writers do to sell
a few newspapers.

"The Pit and the Pendulum",
when was it published?

'42. "Tales of Ratiocination."

Are there other stories
in the collection?

- Many.
- Specifically about murder?

I'm afraid so.

As unfortunate as this is,

you may be uniquely qualified
to cast light on our killer.

There is logic
underlying these deaths.

Do you think this comes
from a logical mind?

A man who carves
a human being in half

doesn't come
from a place of logic.

- Then from where?
- Mental disease. Obsession.

Passion.

I believe the killer
is taunting us.

He wants us to know
he's gonna strike again.

What do you make of this?

- It was covering the victim's face.
- "The Masque of the Red Death."

What is it?

The quote from the story mentions
Prospero, a character I created

to symbolise man's arrogance even when
confronted with certain death.

Prospero hosts a costume ball
where Death comes in disguise.

Charles Hamilton is hosting a ball
tomorrow night at the museum.

"(FIELDS)" And
one by one dropped the revellers

"in the blood-bedewed
halls of their revel. "

If "The Masque of the Red Death"
is his next intended story,

we must use this opportunity
to capture this man at your ball.

Too harsh. I want
something older.

"And Darkness and Decay..."

Six cases should be enough.

"And Darkness and Decay
and the Red Death"

"held illimitable
dominion over all."

So this gentleman dresses
up like a... what? Like a...

The figure was shrouded "head to foot
in the habiliments of the grave".

Like a corpse, or a skeleton?

Then, at the stroke of midnight,
he comes in and kills everybody?

Poe is a damn viper. I ordered
him away from Emily.

- Now he's trying to...
- Sir...

The similarities
are too coincidental.

I'm asking you again.

Allow me to have my men scattered
about your ball, in costume,

so we can hopefully
catch this monster.

I'll hire extra security myself,

but I will not have this turned
into a policeman's ball.

Understood?

I've seen the effects of this
man's determination.

If he has chosen
your gathering to...

You will not destroy an evening
Baltimore looks forward to each year.

Then I insist
my officers be present.

Fine. Just make sure they scrape
the shit off their boots.

Who was Prospero?

He was the host of the ball.

And the first to die.

(GENTLE PIANO MUSIC:
CHOPIN'S "NOCTURNE")

She's so wonderfully
full of life.

(MUSIC ENDS)

- I've been reading...
- What's he doing here?

- He's with me. We were just leaving.
- Captain.

Just proving how easy it
is to penetrate the breach.

I presume the police
are here to keep me out.

Mr. Fields, if Mr. Poe is a part
of your investigation...

Mr. Poe has a unique perspective
on aspects of this crime.

Why? Is the killer an alcoholic,
an opium addict and atheist?

An atheist? You
misconstrue me, sir.

Poe, you stay away
from my daughter.

Father, I've decided to change
my costume for the ball tomorrow.

No.

Mr. Fields, I'm happy to indulge
your request for security,

but if I see him tomorrow night,
you'll have to protect him from me.

Why do we need security?

My writing has become the inspiration
to an actual killer.

Quite gruesome, really.

If I'd known my work had
a morbid effect on people,

I'd have devoted more
time to eroticism.

You're a vile little man.

As I said, we were just leaving.

- Yes.
- Percy, show this man to the door.

Mrs. Bradley, could you
join me in the other room?

(WHISPERS) What is going on?

Emily.

We should reconsider
our announcement.

- Why? Are you backing out?
- No, never.

If your father sees me
there, he may have me shot.

And a depraved killer may
be on the guest list.

It's a bit much for one night,
don't you think?

I think it sounds thrilling.

Does it? Why?

How else should Edgar Allan Poe
commit himself to eternal love

other than under threat
of death?

(WALTZ MUSIC)

The Grim Reaper. A ghost. The
Headless Horseman, if you like.

He should be easy to spot.

Elderidge, take some of these
men and patrol the back.

Sir.

You must be selling a lot
of newspapers. Two murders in a week.

Circulation has indeed improved,
despite unfortunate events.

Time for a piss.

- May I have this dance?
- Father.

Not now.

I'm not sure what's troubling
you, but your future happiness

means more to me than I could
possibly describe.

I really hope you feel that way
at the end of the evening.

Whatever this is about,
I need you to be more social.

It is an important gathering
for me and for us.

Father, I know what's expected.

Excuse me! Please.

Please, step aside.

Step aside!

Fields' men aren't
causing any trouble?

No, sir.

What of Poe? Any sign of him?

Not so far.

A glass of wine, sir?

(GLASS SMASHES)

You look just stunning, my dear.

(WHISPERS) Nevermore.

"Can ever dissever
my soul from the soul.

"Of the..." I'm sorry,
I'm waiting for someone.

"Of the beautiful
Annabel... Lee."

You dance passionately, sir.

If I could, I would dance
with you throughout time.

- I love you, Edgar.
- And I you.

- You really are a reckless girl...
- (GIGGLES)

to dance with a stranger
with a mask,

with a murderer in our midst.

- Speaking of which...
- (CRASH)

- Courage, Edgar.
- (HORSE NEIGHS)

- (SCREAMS)
- It's happening! This way.

Oh!

POE: Emily!

(WHINNIES)

Agh!

He told me you'd ordered
it for the party.

- Who? Who ordered it?
- I'm supposed to deliver this.

My daughter. He has her.

- Percy! Seal off this building!
- Find her!

- Come on!
- (CLOCK CHIMES)

"I challenge the brilliant detective
mind of Edgar Allan Poe."

"A game of wits with Emily's life
in the balance."

"You will immortalise for the exquisite
pleasure of your readers"

"this, your very own 'Descent
into the Maelstrom',"

"which shall appear in serial
form in the 'Baltimore Patriot'."

"Know that I will kill again,
and on that new corpse."

"I will leave you clues
that will lead to Emily."

"If I do not read a vivid
accounting of this convergence"

"of fact and fiction, then
dear Emily will die."

"Your only hope is to imagine
a way to save her."

"I dare you to try to conceive
of the painstaking care."

"I have taken to secure her"

"and the elegant means leading
inexorably to her end."

"Are you up to the task,
Mr. Poe?"

"Are you even capable
of imagining"

"the means
to save your beloved's life?"

"Or shall this tale end
as all your stories do,"

"with Madness, Sin and Horror
the soul of the plot?"

Your men are right.
I've killed her.

We must assume Miss Hamilton
is still alive.

Why must we assume that? Because
it's more convenient to do so?

Why am I to blame?

Where were all these
officers last night?!

Where were you?!

He told you he was coming!

Mr. Poe, listen to me.

This killer is methodical.

He will keep her alive
to keep you involved.

It's part of his game
and that's the logic that will trap him.

It's the facts of this case
that give us the advantage.

Did you tell your people to familiarise
themselves with my face?

They'll see it every hour
till my daughter is returned to me.

Mr. Hamilton, I'm very sorry.

As well you should be! She
was taken under your watch.

- Sir, if you would please...
- What the hell is HE doing here?

- Bastard!
- Hey!

Arrest him. It's his fault.

There is plenty of fault
to be passed around.

I'm sure you understand what I mean
by that, Mr. Hamilton.

Mr. Poe here is our only connection
to the man who has your daughter.

I suggest you remember that.

(GROANS)

Out of the way.

We will reconvene in two hours.

Until then, I want every street
in Baltimore manned. Understood?

ALL: Yes, sir.

Lord help my poor soul.

(DIRT BEING SHOVELLED)

Oh. Oh, Lord.

(DIRT BEING SHOVELLED
AND THROWN)

Wait. No. No...

Wait... Please... (SOBBING)

- (THUD)
- Help! Let me out!

Let me out of here!

- (DIRT BEING THROWN)
- (SCREAMS) No, stop! Stop!

MAN: Shut it, Emily,

or I'll shut it for you.

(MAN BREATH ES HEAVILY)

OK.

OK. I'm sorry.

- (SHOVELLING CONTINUES)
- Sorry.

(DIRT BEING THROWN)

The human body is to be revered.

We must at all times
be respectful

and remember that a cadaver is more
than a mere learning tool.

We shall examine the lungs.

This man is an alleged
victim of consumption.

(THUMP FROM INSIDE COFFIN)

(MOVEMENT)

Professor? What is it?

Dear God.

(CAWING)

(RAVEN CAWS)

(VOMITS)

(RAVEN CAWS)

She could be a prostitute,
the way she's painted up.

Did you open this?

Were your hands clean'?

Yes. I don't believe I left
that smudge, Inspector.

She must have fought
him or scratched him.

She didn't fight him.

There are no wounds on her wrists.
It can't be her blood, Inspector.

He came at her from behind.

POE: Strangled.

(FIELDS) Another
of your stories?

Mr. Poe, I asked is this
another of your stories?

"The Mystery of Marie Roget."

(FIELDS) It's a sailing knot.

It's a bowline
knot, to be exact.

Just as it was in the story.

All right. Then what of it'?

Who was she?

She was a girl... who worked
in the stores in Paris

near the Quais.

She drowned. There was no
mention of blood on her hands.

He added that detail.

You must write it
now. Every detail.

The knot, her dress, her hands.

Her eyes. Her end.

(LAUGHING)

Her smile portended nothing.

Her innocence was the first
part of her soul to die.

And while it happened,
he stood still,

watching to fully enjoy
the dreadful metamorphosis

from a life full of hope

to death without purpose.

(KNOCK AT DOOR)

Mr. Poe.

I've been, erm...

I'm sorry to disturb you but...

I was a little concerned
about your...

- My progress?
- Yes.

I feel as if I've gone from author
to character in one of my tales.

As trapped and bedevilled as any of the hapless
bastards I ever created.

I can appreciate that.

Regardless of what you
think of me, Fields,

I am a master of my art,

and I will not fail her.

I know that.

Look, I... I think I was overly
harsh with you the other day,

and
for that I'd like to apologise.

My wife was singing at the piano
when she first coughed up blood.

I prepared myself for the worst,
but Virginia seemed to recover,

and foolishly
I succumbed to hope.

But by year's end
the blood came again...

and again.

Great effusions of blood.

Raging fevers, her sheets spattered
with crimson, drenched with sweat.

I often thought I could
hear the sound of darkness

as it stole across the horizon
rushing towards me.

But here I...

I was overwhelmed
by a sorrow so poignant,

when she finally died I felt
in all candour a great release.

But it was supplanted
by the return

of that dark and morbid melancholy
that followed me like a black dog...

all my life...

until I met Emily.

Time is running out, Inspector.

Do you really believe
she's still alive?

I'm sure of it.

(BREATH ES SHALLOWLY)

(SIGHS)

(SIGHS)

Magnificent.

Poe, you have done it again.

The invention is...
breath-taking.

The line of truth and fiction
has never been so...

SO...

I'm not sure
about your headline.

Henry, you will not
change one word.

Fine. Ivan? Ivan...

Reset page one immediately.

POE: melancholy that's followed me
like a black dog all my life...

EMILY: I love you, Edgar.

(POUNDING ON DOOR)

(DISTORTED HOWLING)

Fields!

- The blood, Poe, it's fake!
- The blood?

The prostitute. She's no prostitute.
It's stage blood. She's an actress.

- The blood on the hands. "Macbeth."
- Exactly.

Poe's like the hangman, the bastard,
making money off the dead.

Get your paper! About
a serial killer on the loose!

(FIELDS) Cantrell is at the theatre.
All the exits are secured.

The Imperial, I'm assuming.
My mother's playhouse.

The victim was still
in her costume,

which suggests she was abducted
directly from the theatre.

We'll find her.

I would gladly give my life
for hers, Mr. Fields.

I know you would.

Out, damned spot. Out, I say!

One, two...

then, 'tis time to do it!

Hell is murky!

Who are you?

Police. I have a warrant
to search these premises.

What for? There's a show on!

- Bring all stagehands now.
- They have to man the ropes.

First Lady Macbeth takes a powder,
and now you bastards...

Ten seconds.

(SPITS)

Put out your hands.

MAN: Ladies and gentlemen,
the play will resume shortly.

Please take your seats.

You, step forth.
Take off the gloves.

- Is this your entire crew?
- Yes.

- Are you sure?
- I am.

- Count them again.
- (PLAY RESUMES ON STAGE)

What are you doin'?!

We've got seven minutes
before the act change.

- You, where are you from?
- Liverpool.

Got three days' shore leave
to make extra scratch.

- So if you don't mind, please...
- Read it.

It's "Macbeth". I know the play.

- Someone's missing.
- Who?

- Maurice.
- Where is he?

I don't know, but nobody's allowed
to leave until the show is over.

He's here.

If any of them try
to leave, shoot them.

Yes, sir.

(PLAY CONTINUES ON STAGE)

put on your nightgown...

(FOOTSTEPS)

(CLATTER)

You there, come
out. Show yourself.

Stop!

Show yourself!

I Will kill you!

I have a pistol aimed on you.

Come out now. Put your hands where
I can see them or I will fire.

(GASPS AND GROANS)

(GUNSHOT)

(SCREAMING)

CHILD: Don't shoot
me! I'm in the play!

You're all right.
You stay here, OK?

- What happened?
- My pistol, I lost it.

- I saw him.
- Damn it.

- Seal the doors! He's here!
- Yes, sir!

The missing stagehand,
what was his name?

Maurice.

Hey! Where do the crew
keep their things?

We have lockers downstairs.

Here. Poe!

Fields, up here.

What is that?

Looks like a piece of fish.

That is a human tongue.

What does it mean?

Wait. Yes. "The Facts
in the Case of M Valdemar."

A man's suspended between life
and death by mesmerism.

A living corpse who can only speak
via the vibrations of his tongue.

It's a bit of burlesque.

But the tongue wasn't severed.

Mr. Poe! Sir,
there's been an accident.

Put your backs into it!

Come on! Keep it going!
We're gonna need more!

The fire's not going to put
itself out! Come on!

Jack, get all those people
back from the building!

Please, step back! Move back!
It's not safe. Get back, sir.

Everybody, get back!

A damnation on earth.

Hell's brimstone his food,
consumed from birth, in solitude.

Let's go, men!
Move it, move it!

The windows were shattered first.
I don't think it was an accident.

I'm certain you're correct.

- Sir, we also found this.
- (CHITTERING)

I'll take it if it's not yours.
He's stuck with us since we got here.

I can tell from the sound
of his voice he's mine.

Thank you, Officer.

(RACCOON CHITTERS)

(THUNDER RUMBLES)

(BREATH ES IN DEEPLY)

(WHIMPERS)

- (THUD)
- (CRIES OUT)

(BREATHES HEAVILY)

Why are you doing this to me?

Please let me out.

I can't.

Yes, you can.

You can.

Please.

I'm so cold.

(SNIGGERING)

(MAN CONTINUES TO SNIGGER)

Why are you doing it?

Please don't let me die in here.

Miss Hamilton...

(WHIMPERS)

(SNIGGERS)

(BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAM)

No! No! No!

(HYSTERICALLY SCREAMING
AND SOBBING)

(DIRT BEING SHOVELLED
AND THROWN)

(PANTING HYSTERICALLY)

(KNOCK AT DOOR)

(COCKS GUN)

Mr. Poe.

I'm afraid I found
myself without lodgings.

Yes, I heard.

I don't mean to impose.

Oh, yes, of course. Forgive
me, please. Come in.

It appears to Baltimore I've become
one of the very demons I conceived.

- The fire was intentional.
- Yes, I heard.

The town is angry. The
mayor wants results.

Another set of unsolved
murders? Is that it?

(THUNDER RUMBLES)

He was inches away. If
I hadn't dropped my weapon...

Perhaps.

But we have made some headway.

According to theatre records,
the sailor's name is Maurice Robichaux.

Does that mean anything to you?

No.

Cantrell and I made
some inquiries at the docks.

He was signed on to a trading vessel
which made port five days ago.

The start of the murders.

And, like many sailors, he took
employment in the theatre,

working the backstage riggings.

But, as we know,
he wasn't there today.

Everything down to our entrance
was prearranged.

Look, it may be arduous,

but I've learned, in order
to find a needle in a haystack,

you have to go through the hay.

- These ship's records I think...
- Ship's records?

I must remind you, Mr. Poe,
every detail here is essential.

Tell me, are you not piqued
by your abject failure

to ferret out this assassin?

Your reputation
is at stake. Look at me.

Four people are dead!

An angel breaks on the rack
of some depraved beast,

but this clerk squints over his eyeshades
at ledgers and timetables!

Is this a fucking joke?!

What else should we do?!

Run around all of Baltimore
screaming out her name?!

(CRASH OF THUNDER)

(RAIN FALLS HEAVILY)

Now, please, think.

Start with the sailor.

Have you ever written
anything about a sailor?

No.

Did you speak
with the ship captain?

- I did.
- And?

Robichaux was a valued
crewman. Well liked.

Had a family back home.

- Where?
- In France.

Nîmes.

- Anything?
- No.

Yes. Possibly. Who knows?

You see, what I keep asking
myself is... why Baltimore?

The Fortunato had docked
in ports around the world.

- The what?
- All over the world.

- The name of the ship, say it again.
- Fortunato.

"The thousand injuries of Fortunato
I had borne as I best could."

What is that?

The first sentence of "The
Cask of Amontillado".

- Go on.
- A story I wrote about revenge.

A man kills his rival by walling him
up. Fortunato is entombed alive.

- Where?
- In the catacombs of a palazzo.

- The story is set in Italy.
- There are no catacombs here.

No, but there are tunnels
underneath the city.

Tunnels?

The waterworks.

You are looking for anything
that would indicate recently laid masonry.

We will be timing this.

I will blow my whistle
as such... (WHISTLE)

We will then shout her name in unison
from all areas of the tunnels.

Emily!

There'll be a pause of ten seconds
of absolute silence

when we will listen
for the smallest sound.

Anything to indicate movement
from behind the walls.

If an officer detects something,
he will blow his whistle

and we will examine
the wall at that point.

- Are we clear?
- ALL: Yes, sir.

Then move out.

(FOOTSTEPS SQUELCH IN WATER)

(WHISTLE)

(WHISTLE ECHOES)

POE: Emily!

OFFICERS: Emily!

Emily!

- (FOOTSTEPS)
- Shh!

Emily!

- Emily!
- (WHISTLE)

EMILY!

- (WHISTLE)
- (OFFICERS SHOUT TO EACH OTHER)

OFFICER: Over here.
They're down here.

The mortar's a different
colour. Look.

Hold that.

Here. Stand back.

What is it? Do you have her?

- Give me that.
- What is it, Inspector?

- Keep digging.
- Yes, sir.

(REVERBERATION)

(SWINGING PICKAXE)

Halt!

Aaarghhh!

- Get the doctor.
- (GRUNTS)

"Do not bemoan
the sailor's life."

"He was always sure
to die anyway."

"But his demise did serve
a purpose of leaving you clues."

"Godspeed, Poe. Emily
weakens by the hour,"

"both physically
and spiritually."

I Will kill him.

No matter how this ends, I will kill
this perversion of a man.

"Godspeed"? Even
his prose is barbaric.

Why dress him
up like Miss Hamilton?

For the thrill
of watching me suffer.

Here, John. Bring
the light closer.

I think I've found something.

What is that?

Help me turn him over.

I think we've found
our missing sailor.

It's a sextant.

Natural choice
for a seaman, I suppose.

My brother, he went to sea.

A lot of men, they get
these in the Orient.

This notch in the flesh
is fresh. It's still clotted.

The killer did this.

Think it was part
of the struggle?

- Too deliberate.
- It's a latitudinal co-ordinate.

If you mark the angle
of the sun at its highest point

it shows you how far you
are from the equator.

It's useless without longitude.

Even in the army they teach
basic navigation.

I went to West Point.

I was expelled, don't worry.

Fields, look there.

Get me a scalpel.

Here.

His tongue has been removed.

And this...

has replaced it.

What's it for?

Longitude.

Pen and paper.

He's giving us a location.

- (POUNDING)
- Open up! Open the door!

Where's Hamilton?

- Hamilton!
- What's happened?

We need your navigational
maps and celestial almanacs.

- Why?
- He gave us the location of Emily.

This watch is mine.

I thought I'd lost it.

- The killer left this?
- On the dead sailor.

- In, to be more exact.
- The utter gall.

Along with the latitudinal
co-ordinates.

Incredible.

Forgive me. I have no background
in navigational techniques.

To plot an exact position,
you need three things:

A sextant, an accurate chronometer
and a celestial almanac.

The almanac tells the exact time
at which the sun hits its zenith.

- Exact noon.
- Shall I bring more?

Leave it! Please.

It's all right,
Percy. Get another.

If your watch is set to Greenwich
Mean Time, you can calculate

how far east or west
of Greenwich, London you are.

Twelve... twenty-seven.
Twenty-eight, rather.

- Which one, damn it'?
- Twenty-eight.

- Twelve twenty-eight, right?
- Yes.

Longitude is a measure
of time east or west.

Latitude, distance from the equator.
That's north or south.

Seventeen degrees north.

The West Indies? It can't be.

He couldn't have
transported her that far.

Here. St Croix.

That's impossible. The Danish West
Indies is a two-week journey.

It's not an island, St Croix.

Holy Cross.

Holy Cross!

Holy Cross Church.
That's our parish.

Giddap!

Cantrell, you
and the others around back.

Spread out. If need be, break
a window. We must get inside!

- Emily!
- Come on!

Emily!

(CLICK FROM INSIDE)

(PLASTER DROPS)

North-west corner!

(CHOKING / GURGLING)

John!

- Don't move, John.
- (GASPING FOR AIR)

- (GUNSHOT)
- Argh!

He's over here!

There! Black horse!

(GUNSHOT)

Steady.

- Fields?
- Get him!

Find him, Edgar! Go!

(HORSE WHINNIES)

(BIRDS CALL)

(HORSE NICKERS)

(GUNSHOT)

(HORSE WHINNIES)

- (TWIGS SNAPPING)
- Your name!

You coward!

(GUNSHOT RICOCHETS)

Who are you?!

(GUNSHOT)

- (HORSE HOOVES)
- (GUNSHOT)

(HORSE HOOVES RECEDE)

(HAMILTON, IN DISTANCE) Poe!

Poe!

The killer escaped.

My horse is gone.

What about Fields?
He was shot.

He's at Doc Clements'.

What of you?

The paper goes to press
in three hours.

There was an empty grave.
It had Emily's name on it.

That was his clue.
That's why he sent us there.

Perhaps, or to kill again.

I'm sorry, Poe.
This is my fault.

I should never have gone
ahead with the ball.

These were my stories.

Your daughter's love for me
is the reason another man's dead.

Go to Doc Clements.

I have one more story to write.

Edgar

for today, she's still alive.

(YELL OF PAIN)

(FIELDS) Doctor, let me go!

(GRUNTS) Let me go! We're
running out of time!

For God's sake, a bullet
is in your chest!

Lie down and let me do my job
before you bleed to death.

The son of a bitch
is gonna kill her today.

So you cut the bullet
out and you patch me up now!

There's a bottle of whiskey
in the kitchen. Bring it here.

- What the hell is that?
- A magnet.

To find the bullet
to cut it out.

Soak that pillowcase in the whiskey,
and give him the rest. He'll need it.

(GRUNTS)

(YELLS IN AGONY)

The gossamer white of bone

was now visible beneath the tattered
meat of her fingertips,

as Emily clawed madly at the wooden
slats of her coffin,

a desperate, drowning animal.

The dirt rose around her,
the inescapable sand of an hourglass,

as her final breath of air

slipped her into the twilight
of consciousness until...

(EMILY WHIMPERS)

(SIGHS WITH RELIEF)

(GASPS FOR AIR)

(WHIMPERS)

(RETCHES)

(MUFFLED SCREAMS)

He knew now
that all hope was lost.

He had failed his beloved, and there
was one last thing left to do.

One last act.

"A final desperate plea: One
life offered for another's."

Oh, Mr. Poe, no...
No, you can't!

- Set the print, Ivan.
- But, sir...

Do it!

You can't take it
as your fault, Mr. Poe.

Is there someone
else you'd blame?

It's the killer
who's to blame, sir.

- Let me read that.
- Sir, I need to...

"Poe could feel the poison
already feeding on his blood,"

"as the maggots
were soon to do."

Jesus, Edgar...

- Making enough money, Henry?!
- Mr. Poe, don't! Mr. Poe!

Will it sell?!

- Will it?!
- Mr. Poe!

You madman!

I'll have you thrown
in jail, you damned animal!

I'll send you
to hell! Huh?! Hell!

Mr. Poe, don't.
It's not worth it.

(CRIES OUT)

(GRUNTS)

(GROANS)

Clements!

(BELL TOLLS)

I'm sorry, Mr. Poe. I fell asleep
waiting for you and the inspector.

- What time is it?
- Just past six, sir.

The paper's here for you.

Rather remarkable seeing that people
are stealing others' papers.

They can't print enough,
with the election today

and this horrible killing
they keep writing about.

Here's something else
for you, Mr. Poe.

"It is a masterpiece, Mr. Poe. An
epitaph worthy of your gifts."

- When did this come?
- I don't know, but before the paper.

- How do you know that?
- It was under the paper.

Impossible. Look
at the streaks in the ink.

- I don't understand.
- It's been rained on.

- It rained last night before dawn.
- But the newspaper is bone dry.

I'm not sure what...

The paper was delivered later,
after it stopped raining.

This note was written in response
to what I wrote in this newspaper.

He delivered the note
before the paper.

So he knew the story in advance.

He'd already read it.

Where's my gun?!

Damn it.

The ink.

It's printing ink.

The "Patriot".

Henry, you're gonna
tell me where she is.

- (COCKS GUN)
- Henry!

Tell me, where is sh...?

Ivan.

Surprised?

Where is she?

Dying.

More quickly than I expected.

So I had to speed things
along and deliver the morning edition

so you could finally
realise it had to be...

none other than your humble
typesetter and biggest fan.

A drink?

You don't know how I've looked
forward to this moment, sir.

To sit here like this,

no more masks,

artist to artist.

Artist to artist.

Though I admit, as I read
your final chapter,

I felt more muse than artist.

You're mad.

Really, Mr. Poe?

You're one to talk.

Where is Emily?

Just like that?

No probing the devious twists
and turns of man's darkest motives?

No prying into the mysteries
of his conscience?

So very unlike you, Mr. Poe.

Where is she?!

Ow!

A rather disappointing
denouement, I have to say.

But that's life, isn't it?

So much less satisfying
than fiction.

It's time this story
comes to an end.

Very well.

Give me the gun.

You've come this far, Mr. Poe. Are
you really gonna back out now?

You know what happens next.
You wrote it, after all.

You either pull that trigger
and kill me and young Miss Emily

or you give me the gun.

She will live.

That was your solution, right?

I have to admit,
I don't cry easily,

but you had me
bawling like a baby.

And I've always had
a fancy for poisons.

That's how I done my dad.

The idea of drinking
something that will kill you

but having time to carry
on a conversation

is, as they say, fraught
with dramatic possibilities, right?

Listen to me, talking
about dramatic possibilities

with one of the greatest
writers of our time.

I must say, it has been a profound
honour working with you, sir.

Working with me'?

I know they're your ideas.
I'm just borrowing.

Except for Valdemar's tongue.
That was me.

- Quite a subtle metaphor, I thought.
- Subtle?

It made no sense at all.

Even in the end, I'm
confronted by a plagiarist

without even the originality
to invent themselves.

I've concocted you.

I couldn't agree more.

I am your crowning achievement.

Your masterpiece.

In whose world do we each exist
right now, Edgar?

Mine, or yours?

I don't really know the answer.

It's quite brilliant.

Well... go on, sir.

Bottoms up.

I need a carriage now!

- Inspector!
- I need a carriage.

And send a messenger
to Charles Hamilton's house.

Tell him to get to the "Baltimore
Patriot". Do it!

POE: So it has been written:
I will die today.

A hole of mouldering
earth awaits.

It is a just end to a man consumed
by death his entire life.

Emily, take this
kiss upon thy brow.

Really good stuff, sir.

A poet to the end.

I suppose this bit
is for Miss Hamilton.

Where is she?

- Where is she?
- I tell you, Mr. Poe,

I used to live for your stories,
just live for them.

When you stopped writing...

I guess I went a little nuts.

But I kept on believing,
even when you closed me out.

I still believed in your vision,

in a future where people
would stand in lines

to see the kind of things that only people
like you and I could see.

I knew you had
one more in you, sir.

No one will ever forget you.

Have you ever been to France?

There's a young writer
over there - Jules Verne.

- You heard of him?
- What?

Paris.

He really reminds
me of you, sir.

Where is she? You owe
me! Where is she?!

"Anything was better
than this agony."

"Anything was more tolerable
than this derision."

"I could bear those
hypocritical smiles no longer."

"The Tell-Tale Heart."

She's here... She's here.

- (KNOCK AT DOOR)
- Carriage for Mr. Reynolds!

On my way in just a moment!

Goodbye, Mr. Poe.

I've enjoyed our time together.

Reynolds...

Almost...

Emily!

(LABOURED BREATHING)

Emily?

Answer me.

Emily! Please, answer me!

Oh, my God.

(MUTTERS)

Emily...

(BREATH ES RAGGEDLY)

Emily... Emily...

Emily.

Open your eyes.

Emily, open your eyes.

Yeah.

Oh, yeah.

Is it really you?

(SIGHS WITH RELIEF)

- I love you.
- I love you.

I'm here.

I came for you.

Okay.

Stay awake.

I have you, always.

We're going home.

- You did mean it?
- Mean what?

When you said you
would marry me.

In this life and the next.

Clear the way! Clear the way!

What's wrong
with you? Make way!

- Where's Poe?
- He was here a moment ago.

Poe!

Hurry!

Where is Edgar?
Where is Edgar?

HAMILTON: Now, be careful.

Go, go, go!

Sir?

You are Edgar Poe, correct?

I am.

For a few more minutes, anyway.

Are you all right? You look
a little the worse for wear.

Is there someone
I can call for you?

- Reynolds.
- You want me to find Reynolds?

Does he have a first name?

No.

Tell Fields... his last
name is Reynolds.

I'm sorry, sir, you're
not making much sense.

Tell Fields.

The Lord help my poor soul.

(EXHALES SLOWLY)

Mr. Fields?

- I'm Dr John Morgan.
- Doctor.

- Do you have a cause of death?
- I'm sorry, I don't.

I have a few ideas but...

As you know, he was brought
in in a very deranged state.

I'm told he was ranting.

Yes.

He kept going on and on about telling
you that your last name is Reynolds.

Is that helpful,
or just gibberish?

Maybe both.

Well, thank you
for your help, Doctor.

I'd be interested in hearing
your final analysis.

POE: Take this kiss
upon thy brow,

And, in parting from you
now, Thus much let me avow -

You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream.

All that we see or seem Is
but a dream within a dream.

(TRAIN ANNOUNCEMENT IN FRENCH)

Mr. Reynolds, please follow
me to your carriage.

(TRAIN WHISTLE)

Merci pour votre aide.

(GUN COCKS)

Hello, Ivan.

(GUNSHOT)

(MUSIC: "BURN MY
SHADOW" BY UNKLE)

# I have burned my tomorrows

# And I stand inside today

# And burn my shadow away

# And burn my shadow away

# And burn my shadow away #