For a moment, I simply stood in the threshold of the chamber and gazed longingly at this alluring article of furniture. Even in my somewhat fuddled state, I was cognizant that—for a guest to uninvitedly enter his hostess’s boudoir and avail himself of her bed—represented an egregious violation of every known standard of propriety. Still, I silently argued, what harm could there be in reposing for a moment on so inviting a surface—particularly when there was no one about to witness this entirely innocent transgression of etiquette?

Having thus settled the matter to my satisfaction, I softly closed the door behind me, staggered towards the enormous bed, and, with a great sigh of contentment, threw myself backwards onto the mattress, my arms and legs extended in a “spread-eagle” position. No sooner had I settled onto the bed, however, than I became conscious of the heavy tread of approaching footsteps—the door flew open to its fullest extent—and there, in the threshold, loomed Mrs. Nicodemus, her features wrought into an expression of shocked incomprehension.

“Mr. Poe!” she exclaimed in a tone in which outrage and reproach were equally commingled. “I saw you walk—or, rather, stagger—from the party and followed you to ask what was the matter. Little did I suspect that I would discover you stretched out upon my bed! What is the meaning of this extraordinary breach of decorum?”

Head swimming, I hurriedly pushed myself into an upright attitude and began to stammer out an explanation. Before I had managed to complete a single sentence, however, I was rendered utterly speechless by an intensely startling circumstance.

Directly to the rear of Mrs. Nicodemus, another presence had suddenly materialized in the doorway—a masquerader whom I had not previously noticed at the party. This figure was made up to resemble the hideous spectre of Death, as it is commonly depicted in the medieval danse macabre. Of medium height—and dreadfully gaunt—it was shrouded from head to foot in the babillements of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the grisly countenance of a fleshless human skull that the very sight of it caused the marrow to freeze in my bones.

In its hands it grasped a long-handled scythe, the razor-like edge of whose great, crescent blade glittered in the light from the gas-jets.

At the sight of this wan—this hideous—apparition, my own countenance must have grown deathly pale; for Mrs. Nicodemus—who continued to scrutinize me from her vantage point in the threshold—suddenly exclaimed: “Are you ill, Mr. Poe? Your face has gone white as chalk.”