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The Man Who Called Himself Poe

Page 23

by Sam Moskowitz


  whether I might come over and explain my request of the

  previous night.

  But it was her sister-in-law, not Rose, who answered my

  ring.

  Rose had gone out. “A gentleman called for her.״

  “Did you know him?״ I asked.

  “No, Mr. Phillips.״

  “Did you hear his name?״

  She had not heard it. She had, in fact, caught only a

  glimpse of him as Rose hurried out to meet him, but, in an-

  swer to my insistent probing, she admitted that Rose’s caller

  had had a moustache.

  Mr. Allan! I had no further need to inquire.

  For a few moments after I had hung up, I did not know

  what to do. Perhaps Rose and Mr. Allan were only walking

  the length of Benefit Street. But perhaps they had gone to

  that mysterious house. The very thought of it filled me

  with such apprehension that I lost my head.

  I rushed from the library and hurried home. It was ten

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  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  o’clock when I reached the house on Angell Street. For-

  innately, my mother had retired; so I was able to procure my

  fathers pistol without disturbing her. So armed, I hastened

  once more into night-held Providence and ran, block upon

  block, toward the shore of the Seekonk and the knoll upon

  which stood Mr. Allan’s strange house, unaware in my in-

  cautious haste of the spectacle I made for other nightwalkers

  and uncaring, for perhaps Rose’s life was at stake—and be-

  yond that, vaguely defined, loomed a far greater and hideous

  evil.

  When I reached the house into which Mr. Allan had

  disappeared I was taken aback by its solitude and unfit

  windows. Since I was winded, I hesitated to advance

  upon it, and waited for a minute or so to catch my breath and

  quiet my pulse. Then, keeping to the shadows, I moved

  silently up to the house, looking for any sliver of fight.

  I crept from the front of the house around to the back. Not

  the slightest ray of fight could be seen. But a low humming

  sound vibrated just inside the range of my hearing, like the

  hum of a power line responding to the weather. I crossed to

  the far side of the house—and there I saw the hint of fight—

  not yellow fight, as from a lamp inside, but a pale lavender

  radiance that seemed to glow faintly, ever so faintly, from

  the wall itself.

  I drew back, recalling only too sharply what I had seen in

  that house.

  But my role now could not be a passive one. I had to know

  whether Rose was in that darkened house—perhaps in that

  very room with the unknown machinery and the glass case

  with the monster in the violet radiance.

  I slipped back to the front of the house and mounted the

  steps to the front door.

  Once again, the door was not locked. It yielded to the

  pressure of my hands. Pausing only long enough to take my

  loaded weapon in hand, I pushed open the door and en­

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  173

  tered the vestibule. I stood for a moment to accustom my

  eyes to that darkness; standing there, I was even more

  aware of the humming sound I had heard—and of more—the

  same kind of chant which had put me into that hypnotic

  state in the course of which I had witnessed that disturb-

  ing vision purporting to be that of life in another world.

  I apprehended its meaning instantly, I thought. Rose must

  be with Mr. Allan and his brothers, undergoing a similar

  experience.

  Would that it had been no more!

  For when I pushed my way into that large room on the

  far side of the house, I saw that which will be forever in-

  delibly imprinted on my mind. Lit by the radiance from the

  glass case, the room disclosed Mr. Allan and his identical

  brothers all prone upon the floor around the twin cases,

  making their chanting song. Beyond them, against the far

  wall, lay the discarded life-size likeness of Poe I had seen

  beneath that weird creature in the glass case bathed in

  violet radiance. But it was not Mr. Allan and his brothers

  that so profoundly shocked and repelled me—it was what

  I saw in the glass cases!

  For in the one that lit the room with its violently pul-

  sating and agitated violet radiation lay Rose Dexter, fully

  clothed, and certainly under hypnosis—and on top of her

  lay, greatly elongated and with its tentacles flailing madly,

  the rugose cone-like figure I had last seen shrunken on the

  likeness of Poe. And in the connected case adjacent to it—

  I can hardly bear to set it down even now—lay, identical in

  every detail, a perfect duplicate of Rose!

  W hat happened next is confused in my memory. I know

  that I lost control, that I fired blindly at the glass cases, in-

  tending to shatter them. Certainly I struck one or both of

  them, for with the impact the radiance vanished, the room

  was plunged into utter darkness, cries of fear and alarm rose

  from Mr. Allan and his brothers, and, amid a succession of

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  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  explosive sounds from the machinery, I rushed forward and

  picked up Rose Dexter.

  Somehow I gained the street with Rose.

  Looking back, I saw that flames were appearing at the

  windows of that accursed house, and then, without warning,

  the north wall of the house collapsed, and something—an

  object I could not identify—burst from the now burning

  house and vanished aloft. I fled still carrying Rose.

  Regaining her senses, Rose was hysterical, but I succeeded

  in calming her, and at last she fell silent and would say noth-

  ing. And in silence I took her safely home, knowing how

  frightening her experience must have been, and resolved to

  say nothing until she had fully recovered.

  In the week that followed, I came to see clearly what was

  taking place in that house on the knoll. But the charge of

  arson—lodged against me in lieu of a far more serious one

  because of the pistol I abandoned in the burning house—

  has blinded the police to anything but the most mundane

  matters. I have tried to tell them, insisting that they see Rose

  Dexter when she is well enough to talk—and willing to do

  so. I cannot make them understand what I now understand

  only too well. Yet the facts are there, inescapably.

  They say the charred flesh found in that house is not

  human, most of it. But could they have expected anything

  else? Seven men in the likeness of Edgar Allan Poel Surely

  they must understand that whatever it was in that house

  came from another world, a dying world, and sought to in-

  vade and ultimately take over Earth by reproducing them-

  selves in the shape of men! Surely they must know that it must

  have been only by coincidence that the model they first

  chose was a likeness of Poe, chosen because they had no

  knowledge that Poe did not represent the average among

  men? Surely they must know, as I came to know, that
>
  the rugose, tentacled cone in the violet radiance was the

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  175

  source of their material selves, that the machinery and the

  tubing—which they say was too much damaged by the fire

  to identify, as if they could have identified its functions even

  undamaged!—manufactured from the material simulating

  flesh supplied by the cone in the violet light creatures in the

  shape of men from the likeness of Poe!

  “Mr. Allan” himself afforded me the key, though I did not

  know it at the time, when I asked him why mankind was the

  object of interplanetary scrutiny—“To make war on us? To

  invade us?”—and he replied: “A more highly developed

  form of life mould hardly need to use such primitive meth-

  ods.” Could anything more plainly set forth the explanation

  for the strange occupation of the house along the Seekonk?

  Of course, it is evident now that what “Mr. Allan” and his

  identical brothers afforded me in my own home was a

  glimpse of life in the planet of the cubes and rugose cones,

  which was their own.

  And surely, finally, most damning of all—it must be evi-

  dent to any unbiased observer why they wanted Rose. They

  meant to reproduce their kind in the guise of men and

  women, so that they could mingle with us, undetected, un-

  suspected, and slowly, over decades—perhaps centuries—

  while their world died, take over and prepare our Earth for

  those who would come after.

  God alone knows how many of them may be here, among

  us, even now!

  Later. I have been unable to see Rose until now, tonight,

  and I am hesitant to call for her. For something unutterably

  terrible has happened to me. I have fallen prey to horrible

  doubts. While it did not occur to me during that frightful

  experience in the shambles following my shots in that

  violet-lit room, I have now begun to wonder, and my con-

  cern has grown hour by hour until I find it now almost un-

  bearable. How can I be sure that, in those frenzied minutes, I

  rescued the real Rose Dexter? If I did, surely she will re­

  176

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  assure me tonight. If I did not—God knows w hat I may un-

  wittingly have loosed upon Providence and the world!

  From The Providence Journal—July 17

  LOCAL GIRL SLAYS ATTACKER

  Rose Dexter, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Elisha

  Dexter of 127 Benevolent Street, last night fought off

  and killed a young man she charged with attacking her.

  Miss Dexter was apprehended in a hysterical condition

  as she fled down Benefit Street in the vicinity of the

  Cathedral of St. John, near the cemetery attached to

  which the attack took place.

  Her attacker was identified as an acquaintance, Ar-

  thur Phillips. . . .

  CASTAWAY

  T h is story w as e sp ec ia lly w ritten for this b ook an d is p u b lish e d her

  for th e first tim e. It d eals w ith th e p eriod o f P o e ’s life w h e n h e h a ׳

  a c h ie v e d a lo n g -ch erish ed am b ition —th e ow n ersh ip o f his o w n jourm

  —only to find th at m o n ey w as at least as im p ortan t as ed itorial bri'

  lia n ce and literary g en iu s in su stain in g a p eriod ical. B eca u se Ec

  m on d H am ilton has m a d e his prim ary rep u tation as a scien ce fictio

  w riter, this ta le is o f th a t genre. H o w ev er, E d m o n d H am ilto n ackn ow

  ed g es m u ch closer ties to E d gar A llan P oe.

  A t a tim e w h en his im a g in a tiv e excursions o f th e Interstellar P a tn

  ex cited th e im aginations o f th e teen -agers am on g readers o f W eir

  Tales, he took th e id ea o f E dgar A llan P o e’s “T h e Prem ature Burial,

  and c o m p le te ly in vertin g th e th em e, m a d e o f it a m em orab le st013־

  T h a t tale, “T h e M an W h o R etu rn ed ” ( W eird Tales, F eb ru ary 1934]

  lik e P o e’s, tells o f a m an w h o regains con sciou sn ess in a coffin. A b le t

  force his w a y out, h e m akes his w a y h o m e, on ly to find th a t w h etln

  d ea d or b e lie v e d d ead , an in d ivid u al, o n ce erased from th e rolls c

  th e livin g, d oes n o t ea sily resum e his p la ce in their w orld .

  It is a sim p le sta tem en t o f fa c t th at w h e n h e w ork ed and p o lish e

  his w ork, E d gar A llan P o e ranked as o n e o f th e m o st superb stylis

  o f all tim e, p ro d u cin g a m em orab le effect w ith o u t th e u se o f a supe:

  fluous w ord. H o w ev e r, it is th e m ark o f his gen iu s th at e v e n his flaw e

  an d h astily con trived p ie c e s are so su p erb ly correct as to metho

  th at th e y h a v e served as th e inspiration o f scores o f w riters w h o h a

  fo llo w e d .

  Castaway

  By Edmond Hamilton

  It seemed to him that Broadway had never looked so d<

  pressing as in this early winter twilight, with the gas lamj

  yet unlit and the remnants of the old poplars stirring slu!

  178

  THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  gishly in a cold wind. Hoofs and wheels slapped over the

  cracked paving, and a tentative flake of snow drifted down.

  He thought that any place would be better than this, Rich-

  mond, Charleston, even Philadelphia. But they had really

  been no better, he had wearied of them all. He always

  wearied of places, even of most people. Perhaps it was just

  today's disappointment, after all the other disappointments,

  that made him feel this way.

  He reached and entered the shabby little two-room office,

  and the faded little man writing at a desk looked up quickly,

  with a dim hope.

  “No. Nothing.״

  The hope—there had not been much—left the face of the

  other. He muttered, “We c a n t keep going much longer.״

  Then he said, “There's a young lady to see you. She's wait-

  ing in your office.״

  “I am in no mood to write in young ladies' autograph

  albums.”

  “But—but she is quite a wealthy-looking young lady. . . .״

  Poe smiled his white, twisted, sarcastic smile. “I see. And

  wealthy young ladies have wealthy papas, who might be

  induced to invest in a dying literary magazine.”

  But when he went into the inner office, he was all the

  courteous Virginian as he bowed to the seated girl.

  “I am most honored, Miss . . .”

  She did not raise her eyes as she murmured, “Ellen

  Donsel.”

  She was expensively dressed, from her fur-lined cloak to

  her blue rohan bonnet. Her face was plump, pink, and stupid-

  looking. Then she looked up at him, and Poe felt surprise.

  The eyes in that round face were blazing, vibrant with life

  and intelligence.

  “I suppose,” he said, “that you wish me to read my poems

  at some gathering, a thing which I have not the time to do.

  Or perhaps it’s a copy of ‘The Raven' in my own hand-

  writing—"

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  179

  “No,” she said. “I have a message for you.”

  Poe looked p
olite inquiry. “Yes?”

  “A message from . . . Aam.”

  The word seemed to hang in the air, echoing like a dis-

  tant bell, and for a moment neither spoke and he could

  hear the clip-clop of traffic out in the street.

  “Aarn,” he repeated, finally. “Now, that is a fine, sonorous

  name. Whose is it?”

  “IPs not a person,” said Miss Donsel. “I ts a place.”

  “Ah,” said Poe. “And where may this place be?”

  Her gaze stabbed him. “Don’t you remember?”

  He began to feel a little uneasy. Because he had writ-

  ten stories of the fantastic, cranks and mentally unbalanced

  people tended to seek him out. This girl looked normal,

  even commonplace. Yet the intensity of her eyes . . .

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have not heard the name before.”

  “Have you heard the name Lalu?” she said. “It’s my

  name. Or the name Yann? It’s your name. And we came

  from Aarn, though you came long before I did.”

  Poe smiled guardedly. “This fancy of yours is a rare one,

  madam. Tell me . . . what is it like, this place we came

  from?”

  “It lies in the great bay of the purple mountains.” Her

  eyes never left his. “And the river Zair flows down through

  the mountains, and the towers of Aam loom above it in the

  sunset . . .”

  He suddenly interrupted her with a bursting laugh. Then

  he declaimed, “. . . glittering in the red sunlight with a

  hundred oriels, minarets, and pinnacles; and seeming the

  phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the sylphs, of the fairies,

  of the genii, and of the gnomes.”

  He laughed again, shaking his head. “That is the con-

  elusion of my tale of "The Domain of Arnheim.’ Of course

  . . . Aam . . . Arnheim. And you got the name Lalu from

  my Ulalume, and Yann from my Yaanek . . . why, madam,

  I must congratulate you on your cleverness.”

  1 8 0

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  ״No,” slie said. And again, “No. It was quite the other

  way around, Mr. Poe. You got your names from those I

  have just spoken.”

  He regarded the girl with interest. He had not had an

  experience quite like this one before, and was intrigued.

  “So I came from Aarn, did I? Then why don’t I remember

  it?”

  “You do, a little,” she murmured. “You remembered the

 

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