“NEVERMORE”
Excerpt by Zack Stentz
“Lonely and sad, a specter glides along
Aisles where of old his living footsteps fell;
No common glance discerns him, though his song
Peals down through time with a mysterious spell.
Only the few who sorcery’s secret know,
Espy amidst these tombs the shade of Poe.”
H.P. Lovecraft, “In a Sequester’d Providence Churchyard Where Once Poe Walk’d”
The atmosphere in front of Baltimore’s Westminster Burying Grounds was downright festive the night of January 19th, bordering on a mob scene. Hundreds of onlookers gathered behind makeshift cordons and barriers, bundled in heavy coats and scarves to ward off the chill of the winer night, some holding Poe books or flyers like the one Jim had printed, others with cell phone and video cameras, while on the other side, local and national media reporters filed stories and interviewed spectators while a dozen police officers kept watch over the entire scene, most of them happy to be racking up overtime for what to them was fairly easy and even enjoyable duty.
The normally shy and diffident Duncan suddenly turned aggressive when faced with obstacles to his coveted goal, plunging fearlessly into the crowd and jostling his way toward the front for a better view. Jim followed him as closely as he could, astonished by the amount of activity and commotion. He glanced at his watch: it was already 11:15 at night. At least it’s a little warmer in the crowd, Jim thought to himself. He’d lived in Miami long enough to have completely lost his tolerance for cold, and had put on the heaviest jacket he owned for the occasion, a totally inadequate North Face windbreaker.
Jim finally caught up with Duncan, who already had reached the front of the crowd and leaned against a highway cordon that had been pressed into service for the night. “Okay,” Jim said. “I think I’ve figured out who the Poe Toaster is.”
Duncan whipped his head toward his father, looking expectant. “He’s from the Baltimore Tourism Board,” Jim announced, grinning. “They’re going after that coveted ‘literary weirdo’ demographic.”
Duncan sighed heavily and turned away, back toward the darkened street and the closed wrought iron gates of the cemetery across it. “Come on,” his father protested. “It was a joke.”
While Jim searched for something to say to salvage things with his son, Duncan’s attention had already turned elsewhere, fixed on a distinguished-looking man in a suit and tailored overcoat walking briskly toward the gates. Duncan called out to him: “Professor Ingram? Is that you?”
The man turned at the sound of his name, a surprised expression on his lined face. Professor Ingram was a man who was unaccustomed of being recognized on sight in public. He stepped into the light of a streetlamp, squinting as he looked for the person who had called out to him, then smiling as he saw Duncan waving at him.
“Yes?” Ingram said, in a friendly but slightly guarded tone of voice.
“I recognized you from your book jackets,” Duncan replied, realizing that Ingram must be wondering how he’d been spotted and identified. “I’m sorry to disturb you, I just wanted to tell you what a great admirer of your work I am and how much I’ve enjoyed corresponding with you at the Friends of Poe website.”
Ingram entire posture changed and he now beamed a genuine smile, as if Duncan had given a password or secret handshake. Jim suppressed a sudden surge of hostility toward this kind-faced man. Was it because Duncan apparently was in correspondence with a middle-aged stranger across the country, or because he was getting a glimpse into his son’s vast interior world that normally remained hidden from him?
Ingram stepped forward and took off his leather gloves to shake Duncan’s hand. “Always nice to see the face behind the screen name,” he said. “And who might you be, young man?”
Duncan’s eyes shot down at his feet for a moment as he flushed with embarrassment. Finally he spoke, haltingly: “Um… I post as… ‘Arthur Gordon Pimp.’”
Professor Ingram slapped his knee and let out a laugh, a gesture that combined with his neat silver beard and wire-rimmed glasses to make him look to Jim like Santa Claus’ more intellectual brother. “Really?” Ingram said. “And you came all the way here, hoping to see the Poe toaster?”
“Me and my dad, yeah,” Duncan said in a quiet voice, awkwardly motioning toward Jim.
Hey, at least he’s acknowledging I’m here, Jim thought, before stepping toward the barrier and extending his own hand. “Hello, Professor Ingram. I’m Jim Marshall, and this is my son, Duncan.”
“A pleasure, a pleasure indeed,” said Ingram, pumping Jim’s arm in one of those two-handed handshakes favored by politicians and Episcopal ministers.
Ingram did a half-turn, seemingly deep in thought, then motioned to a nearby police officer as he walked by. “They’re with me,” he said with a brusque authority.
To Jim’s surprise, the police officer nodded immediately, then moved aside the highway barrier and motioned Jim and Duncan to step through to the other side. “Wow,” murmured Duncan, as they left the crowd behind and followed Professor Ingram toward the cemetery’s front gates.
“Yeah,” Jim replied. “College professors have serious pull in this town.”
And for the first time since their reunion, Jim saw the hint of a real smile cross his son’s face. As they approached the gate, Ingram reached into his coat pocket and produced a big, heavy 19th Century iron key that looked more suited to opening the gates of Mordor than a padlock. Jim and Duncan watched Ingram struggle for a moment to fit it into the similarly large and antique lock on the cemetery gate before successfully turning it and opening the caretaker’s door.
Ingram motioned them inside, then closed the door behind them. Here on the other side of the thick stone walls and away from the crowd and television lights, the cemetery was surprisingly quiet, and a low mist clung to the wet grass. Jim glanced around at the grave markers, which ranged from simple headstones to towering, ornate obelisks. It looks like a horror movie set, Jim thought, rubbing his hands together, half-expecting a zombie Michael Jackson in a red leather jacket to pop out of the ground nearby.
Jim and Duncan stayed close to Ingram, who walked swiftly and with a sense of purpose. At least he seemed to know where he was going, Jim thought, trying to reassure himself.
“I must admit,” Ingram said to Duncan as they walked, “I had no idea you were so young! The scholarship and quality of your writing always suggested someone much more mature. Your analysis of the Jeremiah Reynolds letters for evidence of Poe’s influence on him was particularly impressive. So what university do you attend?”
“I’m in high school,” Duncan said shyly.
“Extraordinary.” Professor Ingram stopped in his tracks and turned to Jim.
“You must be very proud.”
Jim hesitated before answering. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I’m proud.”
Ingram hadn’t just stopped to make a dramatic point. It appeared they were actually at their destination. Ingram led Jim and Duncan to a vantage point behind an old nineteenth century crypt that rose above their heads. Father and son were both surprised to see several other people already waiting there. The four middle-aged men and one elderly women smiled and shook hands with Ingram as he appeared, clearly friends or acquaintances. “There aren’t many material benefits to being president and secretary-treasurer of the Friends of Poe society,” Ingram explained. “But getting to witness the Poe toaster’s annual ritual from up close is definitely one of them.”
Ah, thought Jim to himself. If the arrival of the Poe toaster was the Superbowl for these people, then they were in the luxury skybox with the NFL commissioner. He gave another glance around, at the graves, the mist, and the darkness. A cold, uncomfortable, and very creepy luxury skybox, Jim sighed.
After two hours of standing in a chilly graveyard and listening to Duncan and the crew of aged Poe enthusiasts talk about literature, mid-nineteenth century urban politics (Duncan had much to say on this matter) the weather, and their health complaints, Jim found his thoughts returning to football. “And to think,” he said with a forced smile, “I passed up playoff tickets for this.”
Duncan paused his animated conversation long enough to glare at his father. “So when does this Poe Taster show up,” Jim added, quickly changing the subject. A quick glance at his watch revealed it to be nearly 1:30 in the morning.
Professor Ingram, who had been surreptitiously sipping from a silver flask, tucked it back into an overcoat pocket and walked over to Duncan and Jim. “Ah, an excellent question,” he said with a smile. Up close, Jim saw that Professor Ingram’s face was slightly flushed from the alcohol. Jim wished he’d offer him some.
“He likes to vary his ritual each year to keep everyone on their toes,” Ingram continued, “so it could be anytime between now and 4 a.m.”
Great, thought Jim, wincing at the prospect of another two and a half hours of this tedium. But at that moment, a strange noise pierced the darkness, coming from the direction of the cemetery’s front gate. Jim suddenly realized what it was: a distant cheer, from the crowd gathered outside. “That must be him now,” said Ingram, motioning to the others. “Now quiet, everyone. He doesn’t mind us being here, but it’s important we don’t spook him.”
As everyone dutifully quieted down and crouched low behind the crypt, Jim shook his head at the absurdity of it all; of treating some local eccentric as if he were a rare woodpecker to be noted in an Audubon Society logbook.
The viewing party peered off into the darkness. Jim was shocked to feel his throat constrict and his heart rate accelerate as a figure seemed to materialize from the gloom. Tall and thin, in a long cloak with a scarf pulled up over his face. In the darkness it was impossible to see any more. Jim nudged his son and whispered: “Is that him?”
“Shhhhh.”
Duncan sounded like a particularly annoyed librarian. Jim thought of saying something to him, but instead watched with the others in silence as the wraithlike Poe Toaster finally reached the gravesite of the author himself. He paused in front of the monument (“not put there until 1875, Poe was originally put into an unmarked grave” as Duncan had told him earlier), then with a flourish produced a glass bottle from his coat pocket. Taking a shot glass from another, the figure deftly poured himself a generous helping of the cognac, then drained it in one gulp.
Then the Poe Toaster carefully set the bottle down in front of the grave, and with the skill and grace of a stage magician produced three roses to place beside them (this provoked a collective gasp of delight from the audience behind the crypt.)
Finally, the Poe toaster reached into a breast pocket for some other token to place on the gravesite. But at that moment another figure, larger and burlier than the first one, suddenly stepped from behind a nearby crypt. Was this some part of the annual ritual Duncan and Professor Ingram had neglected to mention, thought Jim, until he saw the second figure grab the Poe Toaster roughly by the arm, reaching for whatever the thin man held in his right hand.
Jim shot a quick glance at Duncan, Ingram, and the others, who all wore expressions as confused as his own. Definitely not part of the script, Jim thought, as he saw the two men appear to struggle with each other. A glint of metal in the hand of the second man caught the moonlight for a moment, then Jim heard a sound he did recognize. He had heard it once before in his warehouse in Miami, when an overexcited young Columbian truck driver had backed over the foot of Sebastian, Jim and Ozzie’s softspoken Jamaican warehouse foreman: it was a man crying out in agony.
“Something’s wrong,” Ingram murmured, then turned to the elderly woman standing to his left. “Call the police.”
Jim instinctively threw his arm in front of his son in a protective gesture, only to have his hand meet air. Jim whipped his head to the side and saw that Duncan no longer stood beside him but had broken into a run, sprinting through the graveyard toward the Poe Toaster, who was now staggering off into the gloom. The second figure had seemingly vanished.
For a moment, Jim stood frozen, watching his son, the part of his brain that remained detached from events observing that despite having quit the cross-country team, Duncan still had excellent running form and speed. A second later, the realization of what his son was actually doing hit Jim like a baseball bat to the chest, and he yelled “Duncan, stop!”
Now Jim broke into a run, chasing after Duncan, but his son was quicker, disappearing out of sight among the gravestones, crypts, and monuments. Jim stopped, breathing hard as he looked around, scanning for movement. This place is a maze, Jim thought, searching in vain for any sign of his son until he finally thought to activate the flashlight function on his smart phone and look down at his feet, where a clear line of footprints in the dewy grass marked the path of Duncan and the unlucky Poe Toaster. Jim followed behind, more slowly this time, careful not to lose the trail.
A hundred yards away, Duncan too had come to a stop, realizing that he was alone among the graves of the Westminster Burying Grounds. The cemetery itself was tiny, but seemed much larger in the darkness. As his body slowly cooled and he felt a chill crawl up his spine from far more than the coldness of the night, it now occurred to Duncan that chasing after the Poe Toaster had been a very, very bad idea.
From behind him, Duncan heard sudden movement. An odd rustling sound, like…
Wings. Duncan laughed out loud as he saw a black form, about a foot and a half long, come to a rest perched atop a Revolutionary War-era tombstone. It was a real, live, actual raven, which regarded Duncan with dark, glittering eyes.
“Nevermore,” Duncan murmured aloud. Under the circumstances, it seemed the only thing to say. The raven replied with a guttural “Kaugh!,” then flapped its wings and flew off into the night sky, toward parts unknown.
Duncan laughed at the poetic appropriateness of it all. Until a figure loomed from the darkness, staggering toward Duncan. Thin, wearing a black coat and scarf pulled over his features. The Poe Toaster. Duncan yelled, an incoherent cry of alarm, but was too frozen by fear to move or run.
The Poe Toaster grabbed Duncan, each hand on a lapel of Duncan’s coat, his balding head glistening with perspiration even in the cold. The thin man sank to his knees, pulling Duncan down with him. Duncan’s eyes glanced down and saw blood dripping from a wound on the Poe Toaster’s back, onto the dark soil beneath them.
The sight of the blood and the Poe Toaster’s ragged breathing finally snapped Duncan out of his paralysis. “Help!” he cried out. “Someone call an ambulance! Call 9–11!”
In the shadow of the graveyard’s Gothic pile of a church, Jim heard his son’s voice and broke into a sprint, running toward it.
Meanwhile, Duncan leaned over the Poe Toaster, trying to put his hand over the man’s wound. He pulled down the scarf to help the man breathe, revealing the face of a rather nondescript looking, balding middle-aged man. Like his father, Duncan had a part of his brain which remained detached and observational even in the midst of crisis and chaos. This part of his brain registered disappointment that the legendary Poe Toaster should look like an accountant or an assistant principal in a public middle school.
The Poe Toaster looked up and Duncan and smiled. As he did, he pressed an object into Duncan’s right hand — small, rectangular, paper. Duncan pocketed it without thinking as the man moved his lips to speak. He leaned in to hear the dying man’s words. “Lord help my poor soul,” the man said in a quiet, resigned voice.
And with that, the Poe toaster sunk to the soil of the Westminster Burying Grounds and stopped breathing with a final moaning wheeze. Duncan recognized it. He had heard it before, when he had gone with his mother to the hospital in Berkeley to visit his grandfather and had arrived just after he had suffered a massive stroke. It was the sound a person made as he died.
Duncan looked down at his hand. The Poe Toaster had given him a small, rectangular piece of white paper, folded in two. Without thinking, Duncan opened it. Inside were two rows of strange, non-alphabetic symbols — like some sort of indecipherable code.
“Duncan! Duncan!”
Duncan froze and snapped his head toward the sound of his father’s voice, frantically calling his name. Was that movement he saw out of the corner of his peripheral vision, or was Duncan imagining things as he knelt over a dead man in the middle of a cemetery at one-thirty in the morning? Whatever the case, Duncan felt himself begin to shiver. Without even thinking about it, he felt himself calling out: “Dad!”
Now Duncan was sure he saw movement in the darkness. He scrabbled in the grass and dirt around the Poe Toaster, frantically looking for something he could use to defend himself with. He let out sharp exhale of relief as Duncan realized the figure emerging from the gloom was his father. Duncan even found himself laughing for a moment as he saw that his father, who had never been in a physical fight in his life, had his fists raised like a pugilist from some turn of the century boxing poster.
Spotting Duncan kneeling over a prone figure, Jim ran to him, grabbing his son roughly and checking him for injuries. “Oh my God,” Jim said. “What happened?”
At the touch of his father’s hands, Duncan began to shake uncontrollably, adrenaline surging through his body. At this moment, what he wanted most to do was to throw up. He suddenly squinted his eyes as flashlights pierced the darkness and a deep voice cried “Over here!”
In seconds, Jim and Duncan were surrounded by six Baltimore city policeman, guns drawn and flashlights in hand. A second police officer, a short African-American woman with broad, muscular arms, spoke into a portable radio. “Dispatch, this is unit twelve,” she said. “Possible Eleven Forty-two, roll paramedics.”
Her eyes shot down and saw the Poe Toaster, unmoving, eyes open and lifeless. “Correction,” she said. “Eleven Forty-Four. Cancel ambulance, call the coroner.”
As the half-dozen police officers surrounded Jim and Duncan and moved slowly toward them, Duncan felt himself palming the Poe Toaster’s note and casually slipping it into the back pocket of his jeans.
Excerpt from the novel “Nevermore”, written by Zack Stentz.
