“C’mon, ol’ hoss,” said Crockett, clutching me by one elbow. “Lemme help you navigate.”

Submitting myself to the frontiersman’s assistance, I allowed him to lead me from the kitchen and through the intricate passageways and cavernous chambers of the great, gloomy manse—our pallid host preceding us by several paces, his glowing candelabrum held aloft. My faculties of perception—so acute under ordinary circumstances—had been reduced to a state of such alcohol-induced bleariness that I was able to form only a vague and general impression of my surroundings: of the heavy, sombre tapestries—the dark, massive furnishings—the phantasmagoric armorial trophies—and the atmosphere of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom that hung over and pervaded all.

After what seemed to be an interminable period, I found myself ascending—with the aid of the frontiersman—a long, steep, and twisting stairway. Then I was escorted along a dark and narrow corridor, whose walls were lined with countless antique portraits in the fantastic style of the sixteenth-century visionary Domenico Theotocopuli. At last, our host came to a halt before a heavy, carved door, into whose lock he inserted a key from an iron ring which he extracted from his coat pocket. Then the door was flung open, and I felt myself being led across the threshold and into a musty-smelling chamber, whose central feature was a large canopied bed that occupied the middle of the room.

While Crockett helped me struggle out of my frockcoat, Asher stepped to the head of the four-poster and enkindled an agate lamp that stood upon a small, oval bed-table. Then, turning towards me with a little bow, he bade me good-night and walked briskly from the room.

Crockett steered me towards the bed, whereupon I seated myself on the edge of the mattress, crossed one leg over the other, and began to remove my boots in preparation for retiring. As I struggled with the laces, my companion took a quick glance over his shoulder—as though to ascertain that Asher had, in fact, departed—then leaned close to me and said, in a voice that was scarcely louder than a whisper: “You had best hit the hay, Poe, for that liquor has made you downright obfusticated. I aim to do me some more jawin’ with ol’ Asher and see what I can pry out o’ him, for I am plumb mistrustful of that rascal. If he ain’t nuttier’n a squirrel in an acorn patch, I wish I may be hanged!” Patting me on the shoulder, he said, “See you in the mornin’, pard”—then turned and hurried from the room.