My dream within a dream, for his Annabel Lee



By Samantha G.




“What is this place?” I asked, hoping some of the darkness will turn to light. Hoping I am not alone. It’s cold, very cold as I feel the chill going right to the marrow of my bones. I can feel myself shaking to keep any warmth around me. My clothes feel old and made of tattered heavy wool, and smelling very dank. I can hear the faint rhythmic tapping of horses hooves on a hard surface. They seem to echo as though endless in their journey through the blackness.

“Can anyone help me?” I feel consumed in this unrelenting dark and cold. The feeling of hopeless solitude is creeping into my confused mine.

“Are you in despair?” A far away voice seems to have answered my call.

“Yes, I need your help.” I exclaim, somewhat relieved to hear any human presents in this frigid blackness. I can feel the sting of cold earth on my knees and my hands. “Where are you? Please, what is this place?” I fear any truthful answer. I should be lying on my bed at home, and reading some of my old term papers on literary giants of early America.


“What is this place? Please Sir, tell me!” I am full of panic, and near sobbing as the revelation begins to manifest. The odor of dirt reaches my senses. My hands are those that have been deep in the earth, digging and clawing, but for what? My fingers sting with the bite of frost.

“Westminster Burying Grounds.” He says in a low disparaging tone. “You can find your way to me. Come and receive my aid.”

My surroundings slowly turn from pitch-black to reveal it is night. I begin to see the soft glow of a distant kerosene street lamp and then a horse drawn enclosed carriage near the area of dim light. It appears to be parked and waiting for someone. The horse and driver are motionless as though suspended in time for a reason. A force seems to have me in its grip, a force that I cannot see. It’s not one, but more are holding me here.

“Come! Come this way!” The voice of the man is within that enclosed dark carriage, and there’s a hand waving to me from a passenger within its confines. He whispers again.” This way, Annie, come and join me.” Shadowy figures begin to dart off to the left and right of me, making me feel lighter and not pinned to this grisly task. I slowly rose to my feet. Is he calling to this Annie person or, me? The fog in my mind dissipates and it becomes very clear where I am. “OH dear God.” I gasped in disbelief.

“I know this place, and the time.” I exclaimed to the hidden rider of the carriage. “This is Baltimore, isn’t it?” The clanging of far away ships bells piercing through the cold night air confirms that I am near a harbor. My bare feet are standing on freshly turned frosty earth. I have been digging into a recent grave. I look behind and see a large multitude of grave markers as the night air breathes out another blanket of freezing dense fog. I clutch my rags of clothes and begin to run towards the carriage, and away from this corner lot grave. My feet feel the cold wet cobblestone of the street as I approach my rescue. A pale white hand emerges turning the outside lever and opens the door to the dusty dark carriage. I climb into it and sit directly across from the shadowed figure inside. His face remains hidden from view, as his head is tilted down, afraid to see me. He wears a small hat of tightly woven straw, and his clothes are no better than those of street beggars. His hands are small and neatly placed in his lap. Without any signal, the carriage driver snaps the reins and the horse begins to move us forward, into the night. Its hooves know our destination.

“This is a dream, right?” I’m more comfortable with my inquiry, as I search him for some simply answer. We slowly pass by a corner street marker that reads; Fayette and Greene.” Sir, I believe that this is a dream of my own making, but it seems to real for me to comprehend.” I have a thousand questions to query him about.

“I never wanted to come to Baltimore.” He said with regret. “My drink had this destination chosen for me. The sting of the alcohol is a far better comfort than that of losing you.” He slowly raised his head to reveal himself. “Oh my God.” I exclaimed covering my mouth. I know of him, and I also remember falling asleep long ago, and so far away from here, while I slumbered over some old term papers from my college days in literature classes. Wait, what brought me to all of this?

It was a very long day at work, as it now seems to be centuries old to me. I couldn’t wait to get home and feel the comfort of my house, my bed and a good book to get lost in. After a quick supper, I decided to go through some of my old college papers and came across several that I wrote on an author of great importance to American literature, Edgar Allan Poe.