By Kevin Deutsch

There’s no tell-tale heart under the floor boards, no raven tapping at the window, but Edgar Allan Poe’s tiny cottage is still one of the creepiest spots in the Bronx.

The forlorn-looking home sits on the Grand Concourse at East Kingsbridge Road, shrouded by tall trees and long shadows. On dreary evenings between 1846 and 1849, the brilliant, troubled writer sat hunched over a tiny desk inside, writing poems like Annabel Lee, The Bells, and Eureka, as well as short stories like Landor’s Cottage and The Cask of Amontillado. In the next room his wife, Virginia, lay dying from tuberculosis.

A visitor to the cottage today could be forgiven if, amid the dark, eerie rooms, he imagined seeing the sad-eyed scribe scribbling away, sick with worry over financial trouble and his fading wife.

On Jan. 30, 1847, just months after Poe rented the cottage so that the fresh “country” air might save Virginia, she died. Her wooden bed frame still sits in the same room where she perished — a room that gives many visitors to Poe Cottage the chills.

The death of his wife — who was also his first cousin — ravaged Poe emotionally. Two years later, he too met his end.

The writer was found drunk and delirious in a dreary Baltimore alley, and expired three days later. The exact cause of his death remains a mystery.

In the cottage where he spent his final years, though, Poe seems very much alive. The mirror he once used, perhaps to groom his signature mustache, still hangs on the parlor wall. Portraits and primitive photographs of him line the halls. And in the silence of the place, alone with the possessions of the gothic master, a visitor can almost hear the raven squawk, or that beating heart beneath the floorboards.

To schedule a tour of the cottage, call 718-881-8900.