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dull and faded before. Now they were bright. And getting even brighter. Their very eyes seemed to be blazing with a gleam of fire. Blazing as they looked at me from a thousand directions.
    I realized something else, too. It waswarmer in the dungeon. Sweat was pouring from me.
    There was a new odor as well. I wondered what it was. Then I knew. The smell of heated iron.
    Now I knew what made the light in the dungeon. The light that came through the opening. It was fire. Fire burning behind the walls. And now the Inquisition had added fuel to it. It was burning higher. Hotter.
    The metal walls were glowing. I could feel their scorching heat.
    I stepped back. Back from the rising heat. Back to the edge of the deadly pit. The cool, damp air from it actually felt good.
    I turned my sweating face toward it. I looked down. The glare from the hot roofmade it possible to see deep within the pit. I saw water gleaming far below. And the glowing eyes of countless rats. All waiting for me.
    I screamed and buried my face in my hands. I could not stop myself from shaking. I could not keep tears from my eyes. I drew back from the edge of that horror as far as I could. But I could not go as far as before.
    The dungeon was not only smaller. Its shape was different. It was no longer a perfect square. It was folding in on itself. Like a cardboard box being pushed flat.
    The walls were moving! They were closing in on me!
    I saw the glowing metal coming closer and closer. There was a low rumbling sound. The sound of a machine pushed toits limits. The Inquisition was eager for my death now. It was wasting no time. It was not going to make me suffer for hours. My death would be soon. And certain. And terrible.
    I had to step back from the glowing metal. Back step by step. Back toward the edge of the pit.
    Until I could go back no farther.
    I stood at the edge of the pit. My back was toward it. I tried to hold my ground—my last little bit of ground. Any death but the pit! But the wall facing me was so close. The heat was so intense.
    My face felt as if it were on fire. I could no longer stand it. My feet were slipping over the edge. I began to fall. I shut my eyes. My mouth opened. I gave one long last scream of despair….
    It died in the air. I felt a hand grabbing my arm as I fell.
    I heard a voice saying my name. And other voices behind it. There was a loud blast of many trumpets.
    I opened my eyes. The hot walls had pulled back. A man in uniform held me upright. It was he who had saved me.
    I knew the uniform. It was French.
    I knew the man. General Lasalle.
    The French army had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.

 
    Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts, in 1809. Raised by his uncle, who wanted Edgar to become a lawyer, Poe instead was drawn to a literary life. He worked as a magazine editor and critic while pursuing his writing career. His poems and criticism were greatly respected during his lifetime. However, today he is most famous for his dramatic tales of horror, filled with the strange and terrible, which continue to hold readers under their spell. Poe died at the age of forty in Baltimore, Maryland.
    Les Martin has adapted
Oliver Twist
and
The Time Machine
, as well as
Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales of Terror
, for the Stepping Stones series. He also writes original action and adventure stories for young readers. An avid tennis player, he lives in New York City.

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adapted by Kate McMullan
    I crept up a secret passage behind Box Five. I whispered to the managers. “Carlotta is singing tonight to bring down the lights!”
    The managers looked around. Who had spoken? Then they looked up. The huge chandelier that hung over the hall was swaying back and forth. Back and forth. Faster and faster. And then … Crash! It fell!
    “A little present from the Opera Ghost!” I howled.

by Mary