by Ronald Kidd
The Raven was wrong. You didn’t need a target. You didn’t need someone to hate. You needed someone to love, someone you weren’t afraid to yell at, the way my mother yelled at me, because you wanted to make them strong. With that thought, something in me settled into place.
Maybe I was about to die, but I felt calm for the first time in days.
As the Raven approached, he hesitated. He studied my face. Then he leaped. I dove to the side, accidentally bumping the lantern and tipping it over. Kerosene poured out, followed by flames. Fire raced along the floor.
I scrambled to a corner. The Raven, distracted for a moment, gaped at the flames.
The fire reached a pile of papers and exploded. It spread to the stack of kindling that was the desk. We were facing an inferno.
The Raven turned to me. He was black, silhouetted against the red flames.
“You did this!” he roared. “You ruined everything.”
He came toward me. Trapped in the corner, I had nowhere to go. He grabbed my arm where it was bleeding. He squeezed. Pain shot through me, and I moaned.
“It started with Jake Bragg,” he said. “It’ll end with you. I’ll beat you bloody. And this time, I’ll finish the job.”
I tried to back away, and he laughed. “You’re going to die anyway. Let’s go out in style.”
He plowed his fist into my stomach. I doubled over. I couldn’t breathe. He threw a vicious uppercut to my chin. There was a crack, and my jaw went numb.
As he drew back his fist again, the fire advanced, drawn to him like a heat-seeking missile, like hornets to a nest. It found the ragged cuffs of his pants, and his lower body burst into flame.
He stared down at himself. The flames spread to his shirt. Sparks shot to the sky.
“Help me!” he shrieked as his hair caught fire.
I reached out, but the flames were too hot. I stepped back. His face was gone, hidden behind a mask of fire. As I watched, he burned bright, a Roman candle with legs. He jumped and danced around the room. Then, with a loud woosh, he shriveled up and turned black. A moment later, all that was left were cinders.
Inside me, something stirred. It was anger. I could use it. I didn’t want to die.
I had read somewhere that in a fire, the best place to find oxygen is on the floor. I lay down, coughing, trying to breathe. The air was hot. It scorched my chest and lungs.
I closed my eyes and thought of Libby.
Chapter 30
Glue and Paint
She came to me in a dream.
I studied her face. It was kind. It was sweet and stubborn. It was honest, a face you could trust. I gazed at her for a long time. She gazed back. When I touched her, I noticed that her lips were moving.
There were sounds in the distance. One of them was her voice, far away. “David?”
Behind her, the house leaned toward me. The shutters were open. Flames licked out. The house was coming for me, I was sure. This time it would get me.
“David, are you all right?”
The sounds got louder. There were sirens, door slams, people shouting, dogs barking.
I remembered another sound. I had been lying on the floor, and the wall had exploded. Through the hole came firefighters, swinging axes and sledgehammers. One of them leaned down, picked me up, and threw me over his shoulder. As he dove back through the hole, the house lurched. It bounced as he took the stairs two at a time. A moment later I was outside, under a streetlamp on the sidewalk, and Libby was with me.
I looked up at her, blinking.
“What happened?” I asked. As I spoke, pain shot through my jaw.
“That was a great plan you had,” she snapped. “Close off the room. Set a fire. Die.”
I said, “That wasn’t exactly it.”
“Then tell me.”
I shrugged. It hurt my arm. “Well, at least the fire wasn’t planned.”
“You are such an idiot,” she said. “So am I.”
Libby told me she had smelled smoke. She had called the fire department, which luckily was just around the corner.
We turned and gazed at the house. It was consumed by flames, lighting up the block as bright as day. The firefighters, wrestling hoses, shot water onto the house, but you could tell there was no hope of saving it. Fire engines surrounded the place, and beyond them milled a crowd of people.
As we watched, there was a crash and the roof caved in. One wall collapsed, then another. The flames leaped up. In them, it seemed to me that a face appeared. It had a broad forehead, cavernous eyes, and a stringy mustache. It gazed at us, smiled, and melted away.
“Did you see that?” asked Libby.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m not sure about any of it.”
The house settled back and trembled. Then it came crashing in on itself in a great orange cloud.
* * *
They took me to the hospital, where they checked my jaw, stitched up my arm, and gave me oxygen. The oxygen felt good. In some ways it was the first fresh air I’d breathed for weeks.
Later that night, after Libby had gone, my mom came storming into the hospital room. She had been halfway to New York when they had called her. Her reaction was about what I would have expected. She yelled at me, then hugged me within an inch of my life.
I apologized for lying about going to see my dad. I told her I’d wanted some time at home to figure things out, and I’d known she would follow me to New York. As for the fire, I gave the story that Libby and I had agreed to—when the electricity went out, I had lit a kerosene lantern, and that’s what had started the fire. We had escaped, but in the process my arm and jaw had been hurt. It was true, as far as it went. She peppered me with questions, but in the end she was just happy I was all right.
Afterward, we talked about what to do now that the house was gone. Everything we owned had been destroyed—our clothes, furniture, family albums. I remembered a special photo of my dad and realized I would miss it.
Sergeant Clark came by the next morning. He had some questions about the fire, and I gave him the same story I’d told my mom. He listened, then shook his head in wonder.
“More trouble, and you’re right there. If you’re not the Raven, who is?”
I said, “You really think I’d burn down my own house? I almost died.”
He walked to the window and looked out. He knew I was right, but I hadn’t answered his question.
“Look, Sergeant,” I said, “I have a feeling the Raven won’t be bothering us anymore.”
“Why do you say that?”
I shrugged. “Just a feeling. Anyway, there’s one way to find out. Let’s wait and see.”
He turned and studied me. “You’re a strange kid, David. But I like you. I always did.”
I clenched my hand into a fist. After all that had happened, it still felt good.
“You told me the police have a boxing club,” I said. “Think I could join?”
He flashed me a tired smile. “I’d like that.”
My mom checked me out of the hospital later that day. When I asked where we were going, she was vague. I figured there was a motel room waiting for us.
We turned onto our block and drove slowly past what was left of the house. In the daylight it didn’t seem scary at all. It was just a pile of rubble. The only thing left was the chimney. It had outlasted two houses and looked as strong as ever.
We drove farther down the block and parked in front of a shop. The sign said Second Chance. In front stood Libby and her father.
When we got out of the car, Libby asked my mom, “Did you tell him?”
“Not yet.”
Libby turned to me. “Welcome home.”
I stared at her.
“There was a vacancy in the apartment next door,” she told me. “We’re neighbors again.”
“It’ll be a fresh start,” said my mom. “We could both use it.”
I noticed my reflection in the shop window. There was a bandage on my arm, and my jaw was swollen.
>
“I look awful,” I said.
Mr. Morales smiled. “A little glue and paint—you’ll be as good as new.”
* * *
These days, Libby and I walk to school. Some days it’s a short trip. Other days it takes longer. Our route goes by the lot where the house used to be. They’ve put a chain-link fence around it. You can see through the fence. Kids climb over it. It’s not the same as a brick wall.
As we walk, we talk about school. We talk about other things too. Sometimes I get mad. I think it’s okay.
Recently I’ve been talking about a different kind of trip. My mom would drive, but in a way I’d be going alone. I would stay for a day or two. Then I’d come back home. It scares me, but I think I can do it.
I’m going to New York.
There was just one story left to tell. It was horrible and terrifying, worthy of the name Poe.
Death would be my masterpiece, death in the manner I had feared most—trapped, unable to escape. I faced my demons, willing myself out of this world and into the next.
You rescued me from the void. You brought me back to life. You chained me to your fury. You watched me explode in flames.
Oh, glorious end!
Now I am going to a place where I might find, at long last, peace.
Good-bye. Thank you.
Ginny, I am coming.
Author’s Note
I write historical fiction, and I try to be true to the facts. But when I researched Edgar Allan Poe, it struck me that the facts were incomplete—specifically, the facts about his death.
We know almost nothing about Poe’s final days, and what we do know is squalid and sad. He lived in New York, and after his beloved wife, Ginny, died he spent time in Philadelphia and Richmond, trying to raise money for the Stylus, a journal of literature and the arts that he dreamed of starting. In October of 1849, Poe found his way to Baltimore, where his writing career had begun and he had spent some of his happiest years. There he was discovered in a tavern, suffering from an unidentified illness, and was taken to a hospital, where he died a few days later. It was reported that before he died, Poe repeatedly called out the name “Reynolds.” That’s all we know.
Poe deserved a fitting death, not an ignominious one. My goal in writing this book, therefore, wasn’t to portray history but to fix it. I took those few facts, built on them, and reimagined his death—not as it was but as it should have been.
What if…
…Poe concocted a final magnificent story that he was determined to live out when he died.
…the plan went terribly wrong and left him trapped in agony between life and death.
…his soul wailed and screamed and grew twisted over time.
…a house sprouted like an evil mushroom—haunted, horrible, worthy of Poe.
…a boy moved there years later and, through his anger, unleashed Poe’s spirit.
If you live in Baltimore, don’t be surprised when I describe places that don’t exist. This is dream Baltimore, other Baltimore, where John Pendleton Kennedy created a monument to his friend, where terror took root in the closet, and where Edgar Allan Poe, at long last, got the death he deserved.
Ronald Kidd is the author of thirteen novels for young readers, including the highly acclaimed Night on Fire and Monkey Town: The Summer of the Scopes Trial. His novels of adventure, comedy, and mystery have received the Children’s Choice Award, an Edgar Award nomination, and honors from the American Library Association, the International Reading Association, the Library of Congress, and the New York Public Library. He is a two-time O’Neill playwright who lives in Nashville, Tennessee.
