by Ronald Kidd
We considered that one for a while. Finally Libby said, “Maybe the idea was there from the beginning, before Poe ever wrote about it. You know? Like, ‘The Raven’ wasn’t just a poem. It was something inside Poe—horror, evil, death.”
I glanced at the computer monitor, where there was information on Edgar Allan Poe along with a photo. The photo caught my eye. Leaning closer, I studied it for the first time. Poe was a haunted-looking man, with a scraggly mustache and eyes that smoldered like coals.
“Wait a minute,” I breathed.
“Huh?” said Libby.
“That face—I’ve seen it before.”
She snorted. “Well, sure. We’ve been reading about him for the last hour.”
“It wasn’t on the computer,” I said.
“I’m sure there are lots of his photos floating around. Maybe it was in a book.”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t a photo. It was something else.”
Suddenly I knew. My breath stopped, and my heart raced.
Libby watched me. “What is it?”
I mumbled, “Impossible. Crazy.”
“Just tell me.”
“Remember my dream about the room? There was a body in the chest. You know, the one that opened its eyes, sat up, and reached for me? It was Poe.”
Summoning Reynolds, I described my plan.
At the moment of death he would put me into a trance as taught by Franz Mesmer, halting me at the edge of oblivion. I would appear dead, but my spirit would remain, suspended over the void. In the trance, I would be told to awaken at the sound of a bell.
They would bury me—but only for a short time! Reynolds would sneak into the cemetery, dig up the coffin, and take it to Kennedy’s house. There, with Kennedy’s help, the coffin would be placed in the writing room where I had spent so many happy hours.
Then, the crowning moment. Listen and marvel!
They would lift the lid. They would ring a bell. And I would rise—not quite alive, nearly dead. Racing against time and a decaying body, I would write the greatest story of my life—my masterpiece, describing a trip to death and back. Afterward, I would return to the coffin and expire, content that I wouldn’t be buried but would rest forever in the room I loved.
Why should Reynolds cooperate? Because I promised him a fee of one hundred dollars, to be taken from my roll of bills. I gave him a letter to Kennedy with instructions for payment.
Oh, brilliant plan! Oh, dashed hopes!
Reynolds had something different in mind.
Chapter 13
L Is for Loser
In our research at the library, we had looked up the location of Poe’s grave and found that it was just around the corner from my house, near the brickyard, at the Westminster Hall and Burial Grounds. We went there after school the next day and found a marble tombstone with Poe’s name and an engraved picture on it.
Gazing at the tombstone, I ran my fingers over his name. “I read that originally he was buried at the back of the cemetery. Later they moved him to the front, so tourists could see the monument. I wonder what Poe would have thought.”
“You don’t want to talk about it, do you,” said Libby.
“About what?”
“The dream.”
“What am I supposed to say?” I snapped. “The house is haunted? Poe floats through the halls like Casper the ghost?”
“Something is going on,” said Libby. “From the time you walked into that room, things have been happening—you write those stories, you dream about Poe. It’s all about him, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” I said, nervously eyeing the tombstone. “I don’t know.”
“Then you find that mummy in the locker room. There’s a note written in verse, signed by the Raven. Poe again. Poe, Poe, Poe.”
“Shut up! I’m sick of that name.”
I didn’t want to be there. Things were closing in on me. I felt trapped, like a man in a grave.
“You should go to the police,” said Libby.
“Yeah, right. I’ve cracked your case. It involves a coffin and a quill pen.”
Libby said, “We don’t understand it, but Sergeant Clark might. He could help us.”
“He could put me in juvenile detention,” I said. “Anyway, I can’t explain any of this without showing him the room.”
“So?”
“I’m not ready to do that.”
She stared at me. “Someone almost got hurt. He could have died.”
I’m not sure why, but I didn’t want anyone else to know about the room. It was too personal. It seemed risky, dangerous.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
As it turned out, there were other things to worry about. For one, Jake Bragg was back at school. He didn’t talk to me, but I’d see him lurking in the hallways, watching. He would huddle with Wesley. They would look at me and talk, then Wesley and his buddies would circle, watching me, looking for an opening, like wild dogs around their prey. The dogs weren’t very smart, so I was able to slip away. But they knew the scent of blood, and I didn’t doubt, given the chance, that they would pounce.
Then there was the band. Made up of middle school and high school students, it was a big deal at Marshall, partly because our football team was so bad. The team was known as the Fighting Irish, but everyone knew it was a joke. They hadn’t won a game all season, and that wasn’t likely to change.
I’d taken a few trumpet lessons when I was younger, so my mom had convinced me to join the band to make some new friends. Big mistake. The rest of the trumpet section, most of them high school students, had been together for years and had no interest in welcoming a new member. Sometimes it was hard even to understand what they were saying. They spoke in a kind of code, where one of them would say a word or phrase and the others would laugh, usually at me.
A few days after our discovery at the library, I took my trumpet and hurried to the football field, where we practiced during lunch hour. I’d been dodging Wesley and his friends, so I may have been a little late. When I got there, Mr. McGill, the band director, was talking with the mascot, a former trumpet player named Buzz Albright.
Buzz was an important guy, or at least that’s what he thought. Since we were the Irish, our mascot was a leprechaun, so on Friday nights Buzz would dress up in a green coat and a vest covered with shamrocks. He would run around the band when they made their entrance at halftime, leading cheers, pretending to direct, and generally acting like a big shot, which is hard to do when you’re a leprechaun.
“What’s going on?” I asked Toby Kim, a kid who kept a stash of science fiction books in the bell of his tuba.
“Mr. McGill’s all excited,” said Toby. “His big purchase came in.”
Spread out on the field near the goalposts were some green-and-white signs to carry at the front of the band. The signs, shaped like ovals, were about four feet high, and each had a letter on the front: M–A–R–S.
“Mars?” I said.
Toby grinned. “I like it. The band from Mars. We could wear bug eyes and antennas.”
Of course, the signs were supposed to spell Marshall. Unfortunately, the Dream Team had only four members.
I should tell you about the Dream Team. It was a group of girls who didn’t play instruments but still wanted to be part of the band. Their job was to prance around the mascot, jumping, cheering, and wearing glittery outfits.
As we spoke, Mr. McGill nodded, and Buzz Albright, self-appointed boss of the Dream Team, directed the girls to pick up the first four letters. Buzz was holding a gray cat, a neighborhood stray he had adopted. Tying a green ribbon with shamrocks around the cat’s neck, Buzz had named her Lucky. Get it?
Mr. McGill turned to the band. “Okay, listen up. We need four more people to join the Dream Team. Since you’ll be carrying a sign, you’ll have to set aside your instrument.”
Toby leaned over and whispered, “Translation: bad players only.”
A drummer raised her hand, followed by a couple of girls who p
layed the flute.
“Okay, we’ve got H – A – L,” said Mr. McGill. “Who’s going to carry the last L?”
No one moved.
“Come on, people,” he said. “You’ll be helping your school.”
I murmured to Toby, “Whoop-dee-doo.”
Mr. McGill didn’t hear me, but Buzz did. He swung around, holding Lucky, and glared at me. Then a smile played across his lips.
“Here’s an idea,” he said. “Since David’s so excited, maybe he could do it.”
There were a few giggles. I felt my face grow red.
“No thanks,” I said.
Mr. McGill eyed me. “You were late today. It wasn’t the first time.”
Behind me, one of the trumpet players snorted. “L is for loser.”
Someone started chanting, “David’s on the Dream Team! David’s on the Dream Team!”
The others took it up. Soon the whole band was chanting.
My face was beyond red. It was on fire. There was a furnace inside me, and Buzz had kicked open the door. Embers glowed. Flames leaped out. I wanted to shove him in, next to Jake Bragg and my dad, and watch him burn.
Buzz grinned. Maybe it was my imagination, but Lucky did too.
“I think it’s unanimous,” said Buzz.
I was just a few feet away from him. I could swing my trumpet like a hammer. I could make him hurt, the way that I hurt.
Maybe he saw it in my eyes. His grin faded, and he took a step back. I moved forward, gripping my trumpet with both hands. It felt good. It felt right. I took a practice swing. Then I remembered my mom. I smelled the police station.
I lowered the trumpet and walked past him to where the signs were stacked. Picking up the L, I heaved it as hard as I could—over the band, over Buzz Albright, over the goalposts.
Field goal. Three points. Whoop-dee-doo.
“I quit,” I said.
Chapter 14
It Could Be Acid
I was still angry about having to quit the band. I had to admit, though, it wasn’t all bad. Now I could go to the football games with Libby.
Of course, football games at Marshall weren’t the same as in years gone by, when the team had taken state championships and the big stadium had been full every week. These days, the end zone seats were empty, and there were more people on the visitors’ side than on ours. A lot of the Marshall fans, like Libby and me, were middle school students who liked the idea of going to a high school game. That Friday night, we watched the massacre from the tenth row.
“The half’s almost over,” I told her. “Time for the biggest play of the night.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Go long. Get burgers. Eat burgers. I’m calling it now.”
As I got to my feet, she pulled a five-dollar bill from her pocket. “Get me one, huh?”
When I got back, the band was on the field. The Dream Team led the way. Apparently they had found their loser, because the final L was in place. I sat down next to Libby, and we dug into the burgers.
“Buzz Albright is an idiot,” she said.
“You’re too kind.”
“They said you were going to hit him.”
“That’s a lie,” I said. “I was going to wrap my trumpet around his neck.”
“He wanted you on the Dream Team?”
I primped my hair. “What do you think?”
She said, “That’s not funny. He was mean.”
I shrugged. “I don’t need those people.”
She studied me. “Why are you so mad?”
“Do I look mad?”
“You know what I mean. You’re fine. You make jokes. There’s no problem. Then something happens, and you change. It scares me.”
“Sometimes I think I have an evil twin,” I told her. “Unfortunately, it’s me.”
* * *
Glass shattered. There was a thump and a wild laugh.
It was Saturday night. My mom and I had driven home from a day at the library, and after checking the fridge, she had realized we didn’t have anything for dinner. She went to the grocery store, and I headed for the den, where I turned on my favorite TV show. Five minutes later I heard the glass break.
Whirling around, I spotted a broken window directly behind me. There was a jagged hole in it. Beyond the window, a dark figure hurried away.
“Hey!” I exclaimed.
Leaping off the sofa, I scrambled down the hall to the front door, yanked it open, and raced out into the night. The figure dove into an abandoned building across the street, and I followed.
My mom had always complained about the building being a safety hazard, and she was right. The door was boarded over, but it had been pulled away so people could pass through.
Inside, the floor was covered with broken glass and twisted metal. I ducked to avoid an exposed pipe, from which water dripped into a big puddle. Small pink-eyed creatures scurried across my path.
I looked up just in time to see the dark figure disappear around a corner.
“Stop!” I yelled.
The figure kept going, and so did I. He found a stairwell at the end of the hall and ducked inside. When I followed, I heard footsteps pounding on the stairs above me. Laughter echoed off the concrete walls.
Leaning out into the stairwell, I peered upward, hoping to see him, and something splashed my face. Surprised, I stopped and shook my head. My eyes stung, and a panicky thought rose up inside me. It could be acid. It might be destroying my eyesight, eating through my eyeballs and optic nerve. Then I smelled something. It was beer.
There was another laugh, and a door slammed. Wiping my eyes, I raced up the stairs to the second floor and threw open the door. There was no sign of him. I did the same thing at the third and fourth floors, but it was no use.
He was gone.
Chapter 15
Libby Snores
I walked down the stairs, stepping around the trash. On the third-floor landing, I spotted a beer bottle. I picked it up and shook it. There was still some beer left inside. Breakfast of champions, I thought. A college kid had told me that once. It had seemed funny at the time.
Returning to my house, I went into the den and inspected the area around the broken window. On the floor, surrounded by bits of glass, was a rock the size of a baseball.
“David?” called a voice from the kitchen. “Can you help with the groceries?”
I looked up, startled. My mom was home. For some reason, I wanted to hide what had happened. Maybe I was protecting her. Maybe I didn’t want her to worry. Maybe I wanted to figure it out myself.
“Just a minute,” I called back.
I stuffed the rock into my pocket. As I stood up, my mom walked into the room.
She noticed the broken glass and asked, “What’s this?”
“Huh? Oh, I was watching TV, and something hit the window.”
Coming closer, she studied the pane and the bits of glass on the floor. “You don’t think it was a prowler, do you?”
“Maybe it was a bird,” I said. “Sometimes they fly toward the light.”
“Really? A bird?”
I shrugged. “It could have been anything.”
She went outside and checked the ground under the window. I went with her and pretended to help. As I did, I noticed a flash of white under a bush. I reached in and picked it up. It was a napkin from Faidley’s, the kind they give you when you buy crab cakes.
“What’s that?” she asked.
I showed her and said, “I must have dropped it the other night.”
We kept looking but didn’t find anything. Finally she turned and gazed out into the darkness.
I headed back inside. “Come on. Let’s get the groceries,” I said.
She followed, looking nervously over her shoulder.
As we unloaded the groceries, I noticed her sniffing. “What’s that smell?” she asked.
“Oh, that,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You know those beers you keep in the fridge? I accidentally s
pilled one.”
She fixed me with a stare. “Have you been drinking?”
“No. Of course not.”
“David—”
“I swear, Mom. Not a drop.”
“Sounds like things got pretty exciting when I left.”
“Not really,” I said, looking away.
After dinner I went upstairs to my bedroom, called Libby, and told her what had happened. Of course, she thought I should contact the police.
I said, “I can’t. My mom doesn’t even know. She thought it might have been a prowler. Maybe it was.”
“Oh, right,” said Libby. “Just another coincidence.”
“Well, it could be.”
We said good-bye, and I went to bed. I had trouble sleeping that night. Finally I rolled over and looked at my clock. It was after midnight. Libby had told me I could call anytime, so I decided to take her up on it.
“Hey,” I said when she answered.
I could hear her fumbling at the other end. “Huh?”
“Sorry to wake you up. I was just thinking about my evil twin. The one who gets mad.”
“Hmm.”
“You know, I don’t like him any more than you do. I try to push him down. Most of the time it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. I get this feeling, like a wave. I don’t understand it. Nobody does. Except you. Libby? Libby, I really like you. I just want you to know—”
A low sound came from the phone. I guess you learn something every day.
Libby snores.
I died but didn’t.
When I awoke, all was darkness. I was in the coffin! I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move. But I could hear. Reynolds was speaking. Oh, cursed voice!
He gave instructions. The coffin creaked like a gate, then was ripped from the earth and carried to Kennedy’s house. I heard the front door open, and Reynolds spoke.
He read the letter and said he would take it to the police as proof of a grave-robbing scheme, causing a scandal and ruining Kennedy’s reputation, unless—
Wicked, wicked word—unless! Like a fence. Like a cage. Like a coffin.
