Room of Shadows

by Ronald Kidd

  By the time Ms. Fein arrived, Mr. Dudley and I had peeled the tape from Wesley’s face, neck, and arms. With each strip, Wesley had yelped with pain. When his hands were free, he had pushed us away so he could finish the job himself.

  “What’s going on here?” demanded Ms. Fein.

  As she spoke, I noticed a familiar figure behind her. He wore a police uniform and a skeptical expression. It was Sergeant Clark.

  “Hello, David,” he said. “You’re one busy kid.”

  “I didn’t do this,” I said.

  Mr. Dudley agreed. “He may have saved Wesley’s life. Of course, the only reason he was here to do it was that he had ditched class.”

  “I hate laps,” I said.

  “You hate lots of things,” said Clark.

  Wesley looked up from the tape. “He beat up my friend.”

  Clark furrowed his brow. “Jake Bragg is your friend?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I had never heard Wesley Gault call anybody “sir,” but I decided this wasn’t the time to point it out.

  Clark studied me then squatted down beside Wesley. “Okay, son, you want to tell us what happened? Start at the beginning.”

  According to Wesley, he had been late for class that morning, and as he was hurrying down an empty hallway, someone had grabbed him from behind and pulled him into a supply closet. The person had wrapped him with tape, tied a handkerchief over his eyes, and left him there for what seemed like a long time. When the person had come back, he had carried Wesley to the locker room and lifted him up high. At first, all Wesley knew was that he was spinning.

  Then the person had removed the handkerchief, and Wesley had realized he was dangling from the fan, moving higher and higher toward the blades.

  “Did you see who did it?” asked Clark.

  Wesley shook his head. “I never heard him either. He didn’t talk.”

  Ms. Fein snorted. “How do we know it was a him? Women do bad things too.”

  What a concept. Equal rights for thugs.

  I looked around for clues—anything that might help us figure out who had done it. Lying on a bench nearby was a sheet of paper. I picked up the paper. On it, words were printed in blocky, handwritten letters.

  Over the land, under the sea,

  Look all around but you won’t find me.

  Crouching in corners, hiding in one.

  Plenty of pain. Plenty of fun.

  —The Raven

  The money burned like an ember in my pocket. Desperate to keep it from Reynolds, I fled.

  But where could I go? There was just one answer.

  When Ginny and I had lived in Baltimore, a man named Kennedy had befriended me. No, not a man—a saint! He had set up a room for me in his house, where I wrote some of my finest stories.

  Now I went to him again. Seeing my woeful condition, Kennedy begged me to come inside, but I declined. I gave him my money for safekeeping and staggered off to the opium dens.

  Two days later, I awoke to find myself in a hospital, dying.

  Believe me when I tell you this: it wasn’t death I feared. I welcomed it. I would be joining my sweet Ginny. What terrified me was burial.

  Can you imagine it? Trapped beneath tons of dirt. The air seeping out. The worms creeping in. The demons eyeing me, cracking their knuckles. I could not bear the thought.

  So I devised a plan.

  Chapter 10

  A Weird Coincidence

  “Who’s the Raven?” asked Libby.

  By the time school was out, she and every other student at Marshall knew what had happened. The rest of my P.E. class had seen the whole thing, and I noticed that a couple of periods later, in band rehearsal, wild versions of the story had begun to circulate.

  Thankfully, none of the stories involved me. They focused on the mysterious Raven and overlooked the fact that I’d been there at all.

  Finally, to control the rumors, Ms. Fein had made an announcement and given the basic facts. She had even posted a copy of the poem on the bulletin board outside her office, in case anyone recognized the writing.

  Libby had crowded around it along with everyone else. I didn’t need to. I could see it every time I closed my eyes.

  On the way home, she had asked about the Raven.

  I shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “Oh, come on, David. Surely you’ve thought about it. There’s a raven at your house.”

  I remembered the dream and the way the raven’s eyes had glowed, washing the room in blood. For a moment, I wondered if the blood was spreading. I shook my head, and the dream dissolved.

  “That’s totally different,” I said. “It’s a carving.”

  “You’ve got to admit, it’s a weird coincidence.

  “My whole life is weird,” I said. “Why should this be any different?”

  She said, “It’s just so strange. A mummy? A note?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s really strange—poetry in the boys’ locker room.”

  “I’m serious,” she said. “Don’t you wonder who the Raven might be?”

  Truthfully, it was all I’d thought about since P.E. class. I decided to share a few of my ideas. Maybe Libby would have some of her own.

  “I think it’s a guy,” I said. “He was strong enough to grab Wesley, wrap him up, and somehow hang him from the ceiling. That would have been tough. Plus, he had to know about the fan. He must have been in the boys’ locker room scouting it out. I don’t think a girl would have done that.”

  “Makes sense,” said Libby. “What about this? The note was written by someone who likes puzzles. He wants us to figure it out. It’s like…he’s taunting us.”

  “And threatening us,” I said. “‘Plenty of pain. Plenty of fun.’”

  Libby nodded. “He’s creepy, but he likes to write. He’s good at it.”

  “I agree. He’s smart and dangerous.”

  “Did the police say what they’ll do?” asked Libby.

  “Sergeant Clark told me they don’t have much to go on. There were no fingerprints on the locker or in the room.”

  She shivered. “I’m worried.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders. It felt good.

  “You think more will happen?” she asked.

  I had to be honest. I was getting a bad feeling about this.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Don’t you?”

  * * *

  The Raven didn’t know it, but in a way he had helped me. At school I’d been the bad guy, the kid who had sent Jake Bragg to the hospital. Now there was a new bad guy. Suddenly everyone was talking about the Raven.

  He had helped me at home too. Ms. Fein notified our parents and told them everything was fine, but my mom had her doubts.

  “This person, the Raven,” she said after school that day. “They’re still trying to catch him?”

  “That’s what Sergeant Clark told us,” I said. “They’re working on it.”

  My mom had started biting her nails again, a sure sign she was worried. “With him running around loose, I don’t like the idea of you spending your afternoons alone at home.”

  Neither did I. When I’d first discovered the room, stories had poured out of me, and I couldn’t wait to go back. Ever since my dream when the clock struck twelve, the torrent had stopped, and the room no longer pulled me in. I was wary of it, almost scared.

  She said, “If you don’t go home after school, why don’t you come to the library?”

  It was my mom’s office, but as far as I was concerned, it belonged to me too. Before I’d started beating up bullies, reading had been my favorite hobby.

  “Can I bring a friend?” I asked.

  She glanced up at me, surprised. Ever since we had moved, she’d been encouraging me to meet people.

  “Sure,” she said. “That would be fine.”

  Chapter 11

  A New Body with an Old Heart

  The Enoch Pratt Free Library was a big gray building on Cathedral Street, just a few blocks from ou
r house. It had that name because over a hundred years ago, some rich guy named Enoch Pratt gave the city enough money to start the downtown library and a few branches. At least, that’s what my mom told me.

  The lobby was huge, with pillars, mosaics, a marble floor, and a skylight that made the place glow. In the center was the reference desk, where after school the next day Libby and I found my mom, helping a man look up some information. His clothes were tattered and he smelled bad, but she treated him the same as everyone else—with respect and a smile. I felt a surge of affection for her, and just as quickly a burst of anger at my dad. How could he leave her? How could he hurt her like that?

  When she finished, she looked up at me. “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Uh, Mom—”

  That’s when she noticed Libby. “Oh, hello.”

  “This is Libby Morales,” I told her. She started to giggle.

  Over many years of practice, my mom has perfected a series of techniques for embarrassing me in any situation. Calling me sweetie had been a good start. Giggling at my friend was even better. What was next—baby pictures of me naked in the bathtub?

  “I’m sorry,” she told Libby. “It’s just that when David asked to bring someone with him, I assumed it would be a boy.”

  Libby looked over at me. “You turn bright red when you blush.”

  “He’s always been that way,” said my mom.

  Great. They were comparing notes, like lab partners in a science experiment. Trying to change the subject, I told my mom about Libby and the shop her father had.

  “I’ve seen that place,” said my mom. “It’s cute.”

  Libby said, “My dad can fix anything.”

  “I’ll come by tomorrow,” said my mom. “I’ve got two chipped nails and a broken heart.”

  My mother, the comedian. I felt my face grow redder.

  “So,” said my mom, looking back and forth between Libby and me, “are you two doing homework?”

  “We finished that already,” said Libby, “but you could help us with something else.”

  She could?

  Libby said, “I was wondering about your house. It’s such an interesting old place. You think the library might have information about it?”

  “Upstairs on the second floor,” said my mom. “It’s the Maryland Room, the local history collection. If we have information, that’s where you’ll find it.”

  She turned to help someone else, and Libby headed for the stairs. I followed.

  “What was that all about?” I asked her.

  “The Raven is out there, and we need to find him,” said Libby. “Your house may be part of it.”

  “Oh, come on. Because of the carving?”

  “It’s the only lead we have. Besides, it’s such a strange old place. Aren’t you curious?”

  I had to admit, I was.

  In the Maryland Room, we found some old maps of the downtown area and learned that our neighborhood had been there for over two hundred years. The photo file even had some pictures. One of them, taken in the 1860s, showed what was supposed to be my block.

  The funny thing was, my house wasn’t there. I found where it should have been, and there was a different house, a big dark place made of bricks.

  We asked the librarian about it. He was Mr. Knox, a friend of my mom’s who was old enough to have taken the picture. I remembered him from a staff Christmas party we’d gone to when I was little. You may not believe it, but librarians throw great parties. This one was based on A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Mr. Knox came dressed as Scrooge. And who played the part of Tiny Tim, with smudged cheeks and a little crutch? That’s right. Even back then, my mom loved to embarrass me.

  Mr. Knox, as much a historian as a librarian, studied the picture. “Sure, I know that neighborhood. So you live there, huh? They replaced those buildings in the 1870s. Built new homes and stores.”

  It sounded funny to hear my house referred to as new. I pointed to the old house in the picture. “When do you think this place was built?”

  Mr. Knox scratched his chin. “If I had to guess, I’d say the early 1800s. The architecture is federal style.”

  Something caught my eye. Remember the mystery chimney on my house, the one that didn’t seem to have a fireplace? It had unusual brickwork with a diamond pattern. That same chimney was on the house in the picture, I was sure of it.

  I showed Libby, and she turned to Mr. Knox. “When they tear down an old house and build a new one, do they ever keep the chimney?”

  “Sometimes.”

  I could see where she was headed. “If they used the chimney,” she went on, “they’d probably keep the fireplace too, right?”

  “I suppose,” he said.

  “So,” said Libby, “you could have a new house built around part of an old one.”

  “A new body with an old heart,” I murmured.

  Libby shot me a look. I didn’t say anymore. I didn’t have to. We were thinking the same thing. If my house was built around the old chimney and fireplace, maybe it was also built around an old room. It would have been difficult to do, especially with a second-floor room, but it might be possible.

  She said, “Could we find out who lived in that house?”

  “Sure, if we have the address,” said Mr. Knox.

  I gave it to him, and he shuffled over to a shelf of fat books. They were city directories, listing names and addresses in a time before telephones. He looked up the address, starting in the late 1800s and going back as far as 1825.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he said.

  “What?” said Libby.

  “It appears that your house was built by John Pendleton Kennedy. He also owned the house before it—the one in the picture.”

  “You know who he was?” I asked.

  “Of course. So does any Baltimore historian worth his salt. He was Secretary of the Navy and a member of Congress. But around here, the thing he’s most famous for is writing—not his own, but someone else’s.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Libby.

  “In the 1830s, Kennedy was one of three judges in a writing contest held by the Baltimore Saturday Visiter, a local magazine. The winner was a strange, penniless young man none of them had ever heard of. His story was called ‘MS. Found in a Bottle.’ Like most of the young man’s stories, it showed a fascination with death and horror. Kennedy not only helped to launch the young man’s career; he became a friend and mentor.”

  I thought of my house, built around a room from the old house. Someone had worked in that room, in a time before electricity and ballpoint pens. Maybe Kennedy, as a friend and mentor, had let the young man use the room for writing. It would explain a lot—the desk, the quill pen, the lantern. It might even explain why, when I sat in the chair, thoughts bombarded me and words poured out.

  “This writer,” I said. “What was his name?”

  Mr. Knox raised his eyebrows and said, “Edgar Allan Poe.”

  Chapter 12

  More Like a Coffin

  The room started to spin. Mr. Knox flashed by, like a painted face on a merry-go-round.

  “I need to be going,” I mumbled.

  “Me too,” said Libby.

  Mr. Knox watched as we left the room. Ducking into the hallway, Libby looked over at me. Her face was pale. “Do you realize what this means?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m going insane.”

  She said, “The room, the desk, the lantern, the pen—those are hard enough to believe. But the carving!”

  I nodded dully. “A raven. Like the famous poem.”

  “With the author’s initials in the base,” said Libby. “E. P.—Edgar Poe.”

  “It must be true,” I said. “Edgar Allan Poe worked in that room.”

  We stared at each other. Suddenly I needed to know more.

  “Come on,” I said.

  I didn’t own a computer, but the library had a room full of them. We sat down at one, opened a browser, and typed Poe’s name. A long list of r
eferences popped up, pages of them. We picked a few and started reading.

  An hour later, we knew a lot more. You’ve heard the term misunderstood genius? That was Poe. People thought he was crazy. Maybe he was, but he had reason to be. His life was one disaster after another. His parents died when he was little, and he was raised by a man who grew to hate him. Later, when he started writing, his work was so strange and different that he had trouble getting it published, so he worked as a bricklayer and took on other odd jobs. Through it all he kept writing, virtually inventing three kinds of stories that are popular today: science fiction, mystery, and horror. His one big success was “The Raven,” a poem with the famous line “Nevermore!” But he wasn’t able to enjoy the success. His wife, Ginny, was dying of tuberculosis. Not long after she passed away, Poe was discovered, sick and delirious, on the streets of Baltimore.

  No one knew what had happened or how he got there. It’s still a mystery. The only clue was a name he kept repeating when they took him to the hospital: Reynolds. Four days later he was dead.

  “What a sad life,” said Libby. “Kennedy must have been one of his only friends.”

  “Poe was always broke,” I said. “I’m sure he appreciated having a place to write.”

  Libby scanned the computer screen. “According to this, the writing contest was in 1833. That’s when they met. Poe moved to Richmond a couple of years later, which means he only would have used the room for a little while.”

  “Kennedy must have kept it ready for him,” I added, “with a pen and paper and lantern. Maybe he thought of it as Poe’s room—you know, the way parents keep a kid’s room when he goes off to college.”

  Libby said, “Then Poe died just a few blocks from there. Kennedy must have been devastated.”

  “If we’re right, maybe it explains the room in my house,” I said. “When Kennedy tore down the old house, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the place where Poe had worked. So he sealed it off and kept it as a kind of monument.”

  Libby shivered. “More like a coffin.”

  I looked at the computer again. “Wait a minute. It says here that Poe didn’t write ‘The Raven’ until years later, in 1845, when he was living in New York. So where did the carving come from?”