Edgar Allan Poe's Detective Stories and Murderous Tales - A Collection of Short Stories (Fantasy and Horror Classics)

Edgar Allan Poe

• Publisher: Fantasy and Horror Classics
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9781447466079
• eBook ISBN: 9781473377745
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature

Bridging the gap between chilling horror and intellectual crime-solving, Edgar Allan Poe's Detective Stories and Murderous Tales is a cornerstone volume showcasing his unparalleled genius.

From the brilliant mind of Edgar Allan Poe, the legendary master of the macabre and the inventor of the detective fiction genre, comes an essential collection. Follw early origins of crime detection with the complete trilogy starring the world's first modern detective, C. Auguste Dupin:

• The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841): The foundational tale of the locked-room mystery, where Dupin uses his masterful ratiocination to solve a terrifying, seemingly impossible crime.

• The Mystery of Marie Roget (1842): Dupin applies his rigorous logic to a fictionalized true-crime case, analyzing media accounts to solve a murder.

• The Purloined Letter (1844): A masterpiece of psychological deduction, where Dupin seeks a crucial document hidden in plain sight, proving that the simplest solution is often the most profound.

Alongside these foundational mysteries, the collection explores Poe's darkest psychological dramas, where guilt and madness drive murder:

• The Tell-Tale Heart (1843): A terrifying descent into a murderer's mind, haunted by the sound of his own overwhelming guilt.

• The Black Cat (1843): A harrowing tale of depravity, obsession, and the crushing weight of conscience.

• The Imp of the Perverse (1845): A philosophical look at the inexplicable human impulse toward self-destruction.

• "Thou Art the Man" (1844): A groundbreaking satire that anticipates the modern 'whodunit' by featuring a shocking and unexpected twist.

• The Gold-Bug (1843): A thrilling adventure that blends cryptography and treasure hunting, demonstrating the power of pure intellect.

This volume is a must-read for all lovers of classic mystery, gothic horror, and the thrilling intellectual prowess of one of America's most influential literary giants.

The Gold-Bug

What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!

He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.

--All in the Wrong.

Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy: but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan’s Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.

This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else than the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the mainland by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh hen. The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be seen. Near the western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are some miserable frame buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the fugitives from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of this western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the seacoast, is covered with a dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle so much prized by the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often attains the height of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable coppice, burdening the air with its fragrance.

In the inmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern or more remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a small hut, which he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made his acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship--for there was much in the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm and melancholy. He had with him many books, but rarely employed them. His chief amusements were gunning and fishing, or sauntering along the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of shells or entomological specimens--his collection of the latter might have been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these excursions he was usually accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter, who had been manumitted before the reverses of the family, but who could be induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon what he considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of his young “Massa Will.” It is not improbable that the relatives of Legrand, conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled in intellect, had contrived to instill this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view to the supervision and guardianship of the wanderer.

The winters in the latitude of Sullivan’s Island are seldom very severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed when a fire is considered necessary. About the middle of October, 18--, there occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just before sunset I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut of my friend, whom I had not visited for several weeks--my residence being, at that time, in Charleston, a distance of nine miles from the island, while the facilities of passage and repassage were very far behind those of the present day. Upon reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and getting no reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked the door, and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth. It was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an overcoat, took an armchair by the crackling logs, and awaited patiently the arrival of my hosts.

Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome. Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some marsh hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits--how else shall I term them?--of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown bivalve, forming a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted down and secured, with Jupiter’s assistance, a scarabaeus which he believed to be totally new, but in respect to which he wished to have my opinion on the morrow.

“And why not to-night?” I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze, and wishing the whole tribe of scarabaei at the devil.

“Ah, if I had only known you were here!” said Legrand, “but it’s so long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would pay me a visit this very night of all others? As I was coming home I met Lieutenant G----, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I lent him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it until the morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!”

“What?--sunrise?”

“Nonsense! no!--the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color--about the size of a large hickory nut--with two jet black spots near one extremity of the back, and another, somewhat longer, at the other. The antennae are--”

“Dey ain’t NO tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a tellin’ on you,” here interrupted Jupiter; “de bug is a goole-bug, solid, ebery bit of him, inside and all, sep him wing--neber feel half so hebby a bug in my life.”

“Well, suppose it is, Jup,” replied Legrand, somewhat more earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case demanded; “is that any reason for your letting the birds burn? The color”--here he turned to me--”is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter’s idea. You never saw a more brilliant metallic luster than the scales emit-- but of this you cannot judge till to-morrow. In the meantime I can give you some idea of the shape.” Saying this, he seated himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none.

“Never mind,” he said at length, “this will answer;” and he drew from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty foolscap, and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he did this, I retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly. When the design was complete, he handed it to me without rising. As I received it, a loud growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large Newfoundland, belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my shoulders, and loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much attention during previous visits. When his gambols were over, I looked at the paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a little puzzled at what my friend had depicted.

“Well!” I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, “this IS a strange scarabaeus, I must con...

Table of contents

• Edgar Allan Poe’s Detective Stories and Murderous Tales
• Edgar Allan Poe
• The Murders in the Rue Morgue
• The Mystery of Marie Roget
• The Gold-Bug
• “Thou art the Man”
• The Black Cat
• The Purloined Letter
• The Imp of the Perverse
• The Tell-Tale Heart