January 7, 2026

Redress
by Nick Young

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Montgomery Resor was an unassuming man, and he lived a quiet life. Slight of stature, bespectacled, with a plain oval face given to sallowness and a carefully barbered black beard, he was quite easily overlooked in a crowd. He spent his work days poring over balance sheets at the Boston offices of Samuel Redfield and Sons, Accountants. At thirty-five, he had been with the firm for eight years. He did his work conscientiously and gave no reason for quarrel, each January being rewarded with a small raise in his salary.

Montgomery lived frugally with his calico cat Charlotte in a modest townhouse in the city’s South End. He had no social life. With the exception of his once weekly dinner at a cafe around the corner from his lodging, he took his meals at home. 
An unremarkable life—until the morning of October 7, 1879.
At shortly after 9:00, the knocker on his front door sounded heavily. 
“Mr. Resor,” said the liveried postman, “no letters today, sir, but I do have a special delivery parcel.” The carrier handed over the package and, tipping his cap, departed.
When Montgomery had returned to his easy chair by the fire, he mused as his cat curled nearby. “Curious, Charlotte. Did I tell you I was expecting a parcel? I thought not.” Carefully, his thin fingers removed the brown wrapping paper to reveal a handsome black-leather bound book, its cover embossed in scarlet:
Collected Tales of the Macabre
by
E. A. Poe
“Oh, my!” he exclaimed, turning the volume over in his hands. His reaction was understandable, for collecting fine books was his singular passion. Since his youth he had been an inveterate reader, and over the years he had amassed a respectable library. In this he found great comfort and fulfillment. He could think of no more gratifying an evening than one in which he lit a fire, brewed a cup of tea and read from a book in his collection. 
With great care, he opened the book to the gilt-edged title page, and when he did, a sheet of note paper slipped out. Unfolding it, Montgomery read the message, written in black ink with calligraphic artistry and precision:
 For your eyes only. More rare volumes such as this.
 Tonight: 7:00  112 Marlborough Street
Mme. Olga Fortunoff
He was baffled. He knew no one by that name. Was the invitation actually meant for him? He retrieved the wrapper. Indeed, it was his name written on the paper. But who was this “Mme. Fortunoff,” and how would she have known of his keen interest in collecting vintage books?

Though normally the most reticent of men, the allure of the invitation was potent, and he resolved to accept it and learn the answer to his questions. 

The hours of the day seemed to drag on interminably. Montgomery found himself too restless to lose himself in reading, so he occupied his time by running several errands and taking advantage of the mild autumn weather with a long afternoon walk in a lovely park near his home. But despite the serenity of his surroundings, he could not banish the nervous expectancy that grew within him through the day.

At length, with evening approaching, he ate a light supper; and, as the clock neared a quarter to seven, he hailed a hansom for Marlborough Street.
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Number 112 was a handsome brownstone a few steps off Clarendon Street on one of the Back Bay’s leafier blocks. Montgomery climbed the dozen cement steps to the landing and gave the brass knocker several sharp raps.  Presently, the door opened, and he was greeted by a tall, arrestingly beautiful woman he took to be in her early thirties.
“Mr. Resor,”she said, as she ushered Montgomery into the foyer. “you're right on time.” Her voice had a smoky, breathy quality. Walking a few more paces, she gestured to her right. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable here in the library, shall we? Please, take a seat.”   
The room was lit only by a fire and several tabletop candelabra, but there was ample illumination for Montgomery to be struck by the rich mahogany bookcases on every wall that held what he could only guess were scores of rare volumes.
“Now,” his hostess said warmly, as Montgomery eased into a deep leather chair, “a proper introduction. My name as you know from the invitation is Olga Fortunoff. My late husband was an importer of fine wines; and, like you, he was a lover of books. More in a moment, but first let me see to refreshment.”  On a table between them sat  a crystal decanter and two wine glasses.   Montgomery took note of the woman's attractiveness—the fine features of her face, green eyes, her beautifully coiffed dark hair and tasteful, obviouly expensive, clothes. She lifted the decanter and began to fill the goblets.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Madame Fortunoff—and I’m very pleased to meet you—but, in truth, I am not much of a drinker,” Montgomery said rather meekly.
“Well, I urge you to make an exception on this occasion, Mr. Resor. This is an especially fine médoc, and I have saved it just for your visit. Please,” she continued, proferring the glass containing the shimmering deep burgundy-colored wine. Her voice he found most alluring, her manner quite persuasive.  His reluctance melted away.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the goblet.
“A toast, then,” Mme. Fortunoff announced, lifting her glass. Somewhat haltingly, Montgomery did the same. “For the love of fine books.” He took a tentative sip. “Come, come,” said his hostess with mild reproval, “you must do better, sir.” At that, Montgomery followed with a healthy draft, and it made his head swim.
Madame Fortunoff took a chair opposite her guest.
“Now, I know how curious you must be about your presence here this evening.”
“Indeed,” replied Montgomery, “most curious.”
“All your questions will be answered, I assure you. As I said—and as you can see around you—Mr. Fortunoff was a passionate collector. Frankly, his ardor was much greater than mine, and now that he’s gone, I am intent on divestment. It became known to me that you were a discerning collector, so I sent along the invitation; the volume of Poe’s stories I hoped would serve as an inducement.” She paused. “Pray, finish your wine. Another glass perhaps?”
“No, no, really, this one is quite enough.” And not wishing to appear ungrateful, Montgomery drained what remained in his goblet.
“Perhaps, if you’ll permit me, Mr. Resor, a few more details about the collection.”
“Certainly, madam.”
“Mr. Fortunoff began amassing these volumes ten years ago, shortly after our marriage…” As she continued, Montgomery strained to follow his hostess, but the power of the wine was acting upon him as a soporific. Time seemed to elongate and slow. Madame Fortunoff’s words took on the character of speech emanating from the depths of a chasm. With supreme effort, he struggled to refocus. “…but I must not waste another minute before I show you my late husband’s most prized acquisition,” Mme. Fortunoff said, rising from her chair.  “Please come with me. This volume I keep in very special place, a very secure place.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Montgomery stammered. “I’m embarrassed to say I’m feeling a bit woozy. Perhaps I should stay here.”
“Think nothing of it,” Mme. Fortunoff said airly. “I’llassist you. After all, you wouldn’t want to miss examining what is purported to be one of the very few copies of the Gutenberg Bible extant. I have my doubts and would very much value your appraisal.”
“Well,  I…” Montgomery began as his hostess helped him to his feet and steadied him as they left the library and began descending a winding staircase off the main hallway. “Two…left…feet,” he mumbled as they moved haltingly down.
“Here we are,” Mme. Fortunoff said when they reached the bottom of the staircase. They were in what appeared to be a basement, not a large space, with brickwork all around. It had a dank, musty feel. The only illumination was provided by several beeswax candles that flickered in wall sconces. “Let me help you to this small bench, Mr. Resor. You can take a moment to gather your senses.”
But instead of shaking off the effects of the wine, Montgomery slipped into a kind of twilight, and there he remained for how long he did not know. When he began to return to greater lucidity, he became aware that both of his arms were raised and his wrists were shackled in rings to a chill brick wall behind him. And his consciousness registered something else—a sound very near. 
“Madame Fortunoff…” he slurred.
“Ahh, Mr. Resor, you’ve come around. Good. Now I can complete the explanation of how you’ve come to be here.” With each passing minute, the fog in Montgomery’s head was clearing, and as it did, he realized that not only was he chained but that a low wall had been built up around the space he occupied. And there was more to his dawning horror, for he beheld before him not the sublime elegance and beauty of the woman who had been acting as his hostess, but the grotesque figure of a rotting corpse, its grinning skull topped by a decaying conical cap festooned with tiny jingling bells.
“W-Who are you? Where is Madame Fortunoff?? And what are you doing?”
“Why, Mr. Resor, I am Madame Fortunoff, and I am, shall we say, cementing a long-standing relationship. You see, your name, ‘Montgomery Resor’? That was the name your great-grandfather took when he came to this country, the better to mask his Italian heritage from the prejudices of the Boston brahmins. In turn, it was handed down through the generations to you.  In truth, your family name is ‘Montresor’, with its origins in Venice. And that is where your family and mine intertwine. For, you see, my Christian name is Fortunato.”
“Montresor? Fortunato?” Montgomery struggled to comprehend.
“Yes! And the wine you drank? Why, of course, it was Amontillado!” The hideous figure threw its head back and roared with laughter.
“But,” Montgomery protested weakly, “that was only a story…a-a fiction.”
“Was it now? And this is merely a fiction?” the creature snapped, troweling a fresh layer of cement and setting more bricks, bringing the height of the wall to the level of his captive’s chin.
“But why?” Montgomery cried out, now completely lucid and gripped by panic, “I’ve done nothing to you!”
“Not directly, of course Mr. Res--Signor Montresor. But your ancestor in Venice, during the height of the carnival season…surely, you need not have me recount the particulars.”
“But I bear you no ill will!” The grotesquerie paused, its decayed flesh reflecting dully in the low light. Its countenance, what remained of it, was a rictus of mockery.
“Immaterial, I’m afraid,” the hellish thing said, drawing so close that its foul breath filled Montgomery’s nostrils. “You are the last of your line, and I find it only fitting that the same fate to which your ancestor condemned me be visited upon you.”
“You can’t,” Montgomery cried, straining against his bonds..
“Ah, but I will!” The creature declared, resuming its diabolical work.
Once the final brick was set in its place, the thing admired its handiwork for a moment, before tipping its skull backward and laughing maniacally. It echoed off the brick recesses of the basement and swiftly died away, leaving an abyss of silence broken only by the hiss of one of the guttering candles.
From behind the freshly cemented wall came the faint rattle of chains,  a low moan and an anguished:
“For the love of God, Fortunato!”
“Indeed,” replied the abomination, “for the love of God!”

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Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent.  His writing has appeared in more than thirty publications including the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Garfield Lake Review, Backchannels Journal, the San Antonio Review, the Bosphorus Review of Books, The Best of CaféLit 11 and Vols. I and II of the Writer Shed Stories anthologies.  He lives outside Chicago.