Welcome, friend, to Edgar Allan Poe’s Murder Mystery Invite-Only Casual Dinner Party/Gala for Friends Potluck. Someone is killing us off one by one, and one of us is the killer! Don’t do murder! Perhaps the answer has been under our nose the whole time. She is not able. Guess Charlotte can’t be the murderer. She was with us the whole time. Thank you. It is possible that Oscar is the murderer. *gasp* *thuds* Annabel: It was always you. Annabel Lee. Good day! Happy birthday! I have written you a poem. Let me read it now. Oh! Hello, Edgar. Annabel. Yes, hello. Lovely door you have here. Thank you. I have something for you, for today is your birthday. Oh, how sweet of you to remember. Oh! By the way, this is Eddie. I was telling you about him, remember? You said you had something for me? Yes. Well–uh–well, it’s… This. A…pet rock! For the beautiful Annabel Lee. Thank you. Bye! *rock falls* *scream* Look! His knife is all bloody! He just stormed in here all crazed. Uh, no it isn’t. I dropped it in the damn soup. No respect. Annabel is dead. It was Hemingway! He was about to attack me before you came in. You lunatic. What, are you just trying to kill of people who write in purple prose? As much as I think brevity is the strongest asset of composition, I would never murder anyone! Competition is the fire that fuels the author within, right? Ah! So you admit we’re competitors! Annabel wasn’t a writer. I had no reason to kill the woman. The obvious killer is the one who invited us to this God-forsaken mansion in the boondocks– Edgar Allan Poe. Confess, or be damned! Whoa. You do not understand how much my roomie loved that ginger! You can walk through walls. I see no other explanation here! You straight-up murdered these biddies with your magic beans– You were jealous of the life that Annabel had, and you want her, and all her friends, dead! Hm. Way harsh, Wilde. Now that the shock of Hemingway lunging at me with a soup-stained knife has subsided– Grow up. –I still think it was Annabel. Wha-what? She’s the one who invited us all here. The poor girl couldn’t handle what she’d done–what, with all the murdering in cold blood– so she killed herself. Maybe you were even in on it, Ernest. Oh, *spills* I doubt that waif of a girl could have dropped that portrait on George Eliot. Oh, goodness, that Mary Ann. I mean, all of us ladies have used a male pen name to get published, but she went over the top! She doesn’t have the face for a mustache. Exactly. You used a male pen name? Yes. I’m sorry, are you hard of hearing? I just said that. And your sisters too? Yes. It’s ridiculously hard to get published with names like Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. People think you’re all fluff and bunnies. What was your pen name? Currer Bell. Androgynous, no? I quite liked it. I’d certainly allow a Currer Bell to escort me to the Vivian Nightingale Memorial Ball if you know what I mean. And what were your sisters’ pen names? Anne was Acton Bell and Emily was Ellis. I remember, she thought it was silly, but I insisted it was terribly professional. Oscar: It was. Very. Acton Bell. A Bell. This handkerchief belongs to your family. It’s yours. Guy wasn’t saying Annabel wasn’t able. He was saying she wasn’t “A Bell”! You crazy, contemptuous cow! You murdered by best fri–my acquaintances! Let’s call them acquaintances, mm? What the actual heck is wrong with you? I’m going to the police. Wait. Why?! This woman is an admitted murderer! She didn’t do it alone. How could she have done this all by herself? That’s what I was saying just now, Lenore. This is a time for listening, okay? Alright, well, I’m just trying to– I always have the idea and then you piggyback– This is just like the time the cleaning lady– No, don’t–don’t tell me it’s just like the time– It’s just like the time– It’s not–I’m– Oh, stop your bickering, you two. You’re just as pathetic as the characters you create. But I do thank you for helping me fulfill my dream of creating the perfect gothic novel in real life. Oh, ew. Is that why you’re doing this? To create some literary fantasy you can fulfill? Oh no. I did it for family. Gentlemen! Ghosts. Let me introduce myself. I’m Anne Brontë. So sorry I’m late for dinner. I haven’t pissed in five days.