While I was reading and reading and reading and researching the Author Spotlight on Edgar Allan Poe for an edition of the Bubbly Bibbly newsletter, I found a short story called "The Black Cat", which was published in 1943 in The Saturday Evening Post, otherwise known as "The Great Family Paper for Half a Century".
Y'all. Have you read this story? If not, you can find it in its entirety here. It is CREEPY AS FUCK. Basically, Poe is writing about a serial killer in the making. How can a sane person come up with this stuff?
Side note: I have also thought this about the writing of Stephen King.
At first, the unnamed narrator seems kind of normal. More or less. He talks about his affinity for pets. He and his wife had a number of pets, the last a big, solid, black cat named Pluto.
And then it goes bad. I am not going to go into detail.
But then, I have to think of Rachel's husband John reading the short stories of Edgar Allan Poe to their children before bed at night. Sure, it was a lovely edition, but the stories were the same.
John! What the actual hell were you thinking?
I mean, DAYUM. Those poor kids. It's a good thing you make a helluva drink.
Side note to John: Read "Clifford, the Big Red Dog" to your grandchildren. You can thank me with a Negroni later.
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