How long I remained thus unconscious I cannot state with precision. Amid subsequent, earnest efforts to remember—amid determined struggles to regather some token of the condition of seeming nothingness into which my soul had lapsed—there have been brief, very brief periods when I have conjured up vague recollections of droning voices—of milling figures—of urgent efforts to rouse me from my oblivion. But all attempts to restore my mind to consciousness proved fruitless, as though my anguished soul were willfully resisting the painful return to life, perception, and knowledge.

At length, by slow degrees, I did recover. But even then, my harrowed mind clung with a fierce, tenacious hold to the sweet anodyne of utter incomprehension. I perceived but did not understand the details of my surroundings—the brilliantly illuminated bedchamber, now crowded with other people, among whom I recognized Crockett, Count Languedoc, and a number of police officers, including Captain Russell. I heard but could not account for the strange admixture of sounds—the hushed, urgent consultations of the policemen—the sobs of grief and dismayed exclamations emanating from the group of horror-stricken partygoers gathered just outside the doorway of the room.

It was not until I glanced down at the floor and noticed the ponderous and prostrate human form—mercifully shrouded with a white sheet—and, beside it, the discarded, blood-stained sickle, that the truth came rushing back upon me. Bolting into an upright position on the mattress, I emitted a gasp of sheer, inexpressible terror, which immediately brought the frontiersman rushing to my side.

“Rest easy, ol’ hoss,” said Crockett: in a kindly, solicitous tone, as he bestowed several reassuring pats upon my shoulder. “You are amongst friends now”

Trembling convulsively in every limb, I stared wildly about the blood-spattered room. Only then did I notice a second, shrouded form lying prone upon the floor, not far from the threshold. Utterly bewildered as to what had transpired in the interval since I lapsed into oblivion, I parted my lips and attempted to frame a question. My powers of speech, however, had been rendered so feeble by the dreadful experience I had so lately endured that I was unable to utter more than a quavering “B-but wh-hat … ?”

“McGrath!” commanded Captain Russell, addressing one of his subordinates. “Fetch Mr. Poe some water.” In response to this directive, the young officer in question immediately swivelled on his heels and hurried from the room, forcing his way through the crowd of distraught onlookers clustered around the doorway.

In the meantime, Crockett—as though intuiting the question I had attempted to ask—sombrely declared: “It don’t surprise me none that your voice is plumb wore out, Poe. That howl you let out was loud enough to raise the dead. It brought a whole passel of us running.”