After Midnight (2 page)

“Boys,” Josh said, breathing as though he had just climbed a steep flight of stairs, “I give you Poe-land.”

“Alright,” A- drew, opening his door.

We all got out of the car, only to stand in intimidated wonder.

“Well, let’s go, guys,” G- said, once the pause had begun to stretch. We followed the fence until we came to a narrow entrance just above the church. The cold latch shrieked in my hand, startling me.

“So, what are we
gonna do?” A- asked. “We can’t just wait here until he comes.”

“We’re…coming back later,” Josh panted as we stepped onto hallowed ground. “We
gotta…find it first…so we aren’t lost in the dark…not knowing where we are.”

We stopped just inside the gate and agreed to split up. Josh, A- and G- scattered into the gathering gloom. I chose to search the stones closest to the fence, my
boundaries being the church to the south, the end of the fence to the north, and a granite rendition of a young girl standing with arms stretched heavenward to the east.

Hands in my pockets, shoulders hunched against the sweeping fingernails of Old Man Winter, I set off up the hill, and then across the fence when it L-ed. I absently scanned the faded words of the headstones as I passed, and my feet slowed as I became more and more interested in the
 lives and times of the dead. Many of them were pre-Revolution.

I could have spent hours there, immersed in morbid history, but duty called. Wishing that I had more time, I turned and set back off down the listing iron bars. I passed the stone of a child dead in 1721 which I had already seen, and then focused on the headstones along the southern flank of the fence. A small one, moss covered and crumbling for a stillborn baby; one for a slave who saved a small boy from drowning at the cost of his own life; one for a British Army Captain; a slightly larger one with a blossoming halo atop...

I froze before this one, my heart leaping into my throat. I saw inside the halo the image of a perched raven, bent as if staring down into eyes screaming
Lenore.
There was a rather long text running down the front which had been worn illegible by time and the elements, but it was clear what headed it:

Original Burial Place of Edgar Allen Poe. October 9, 1849 to November 7, 1875.

I opened my mouth, swallowed my pounding heart, and screamed, “I found it! Guys, I found it!”

My eyes were glued fast to the stone, caressing it the way that a virgin would caress and relish the body of his first, and I was so caught up in drinking it in that I was unaware of the others’ advent until Josh was panting hard beside me, obviously having run as fast as he could from wherever he was.

Standing before the grave of the master, we held a respecting silence. Each one of us, G- going first, stepped forward to pay our respects. I was last, and laid my hand on the rough stone as if trying to commune with Poe. Maybe I was.

The marker was a simple walk from the gate, so we were confident that we could return unimpeded. In the car, we sat for a moment.

It was seven-fifteen, so we had about four giddy hours ahead of us. We did things, saw the sights, but I won’t bore you with it. I will say that we had dinner at a fifties themed café and visited an occult bookstore that we had all heard about.

As midnight began to draw nigh, we returned to the cemetery. It had been drizzling since the late evening, and a fitting Gothic ground mist had sprung up. There were a few towering streetlamps along the fence, but only one of them worked; the one nearest Poe’s second-to-final resting place, I was pleased to see. The orange light was harsh and dispelled some of the gloomy atmosphere, but it was perfect for my purposes.

We left the car parked down the street, for fear of being discovered by the authorities, and strolled along the sidewalk, our footfalls echoing grotesquely off of the archaic brick-and-glass canyons around us.

At first we passed the opening in case someone, possibly a cop on the beat or a historically-minded spinster with no family to attend to, was about.
Returning, Josh tried the gate and found it unlocked, perhaps left open for the Toaster by a sympathetic caretaker.

In the cemetery, each short of breath from tight anticipation, we took separate hiding spots in the darkness. The others installed themselves behind arthritically warped trees or wide headstones at a safe viewing distance, but I crawled on my hands and knees as close as I could, my bosom afire and my teeth gritted in determination. The mist dancing around my vision like smoke, I found a stone that leaned steeply to the left. I checked my watch, and made sure that I had not lost my wallet during my commando crawl.

As the moment of truth approached, I set myself up on my knees, gripped the edge of the headstone, and peered tentatively over. Poe’s marker was ghastly bathed in the unflattering street light, the mist curling around the base of it like the searching fingers of an unsure adolescent lover.

After a tense wait, sure that the Toaster would break his tradition, I heard the rusted shriek of a gate being opened with careless abandon. Every muscle in my body tensed and my stomach twisted as I waited for him to come into view. Finally, I spotted him moving liquidly through the mist, which seemed to cling to him as if it were a loyal dog and he the benign master. I couldn’t see much more than his silhouette until he came to Poe’s marker and stopped. The large coat and wide brimmed hat lent him the air of a child playing dress-up.

Holding my breath, sure that even the smallest sound would supernaturally travel to his ears, I watched as he gently laid three red roses onto the stone ledge near the ground. Standing tall once more, head bowed as if in prayer, he fumbled the cognac from his pocket. Tipping his head back, he took a long sip, and then bent to lovingly set it next to the roses.

By now, without fully realizing it, I was laboring toward this heartwarming scene, a small part of me loathe
to interrupt it. The Toaster didn’t seem to sense my approach, he only stood reverently before the grave with a downcast head and slumped shoulders, as if battling abject emotion.

Stepping over a last headstone that had fallen and lay on the ground, I was out in the open, and within spitting distance of the Toaster. Eyes narrowed, teeth clamped tightly together, I tiptoed closer and into the spill of light.

I don’t know to this day who it was, but one of my comrades hiding in the dark, perhaps appalled at my obvious intent, gasped loudly. At that moment, snapping to attention like a well-trained solider, the Poe Toaster spun fluidly on his heels. I instinctively fell back a step, my heart leaping, my body tense.

The Poe Toaster’s face was darkened by the brim of his hat, but was revealed when he stumbled back, surprised. When the blasphemous light shone upon his long, ashy horse features, we locked stares. He saw the horrified recognition in my eyes, and in his I saw the strongest and oldest emotion of mankind.

Seeming to quiver, ripple, he turned and fled into the night, leaving me behind, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, my entire being in turmoil.

Like a drunkard, I sank limply to my knees before the grave of Edgar Allen Poe, as if I were offering him my soul, darkness stealing over my vision.

My friends were quick to rush to my side, yelling in alarm and concern. Josh sank down behind me so that I would not fall back onto the ground; A- and G- stumbled into place on either side of me, their faces contorted in mystery and excitement.

“C’mon,
guys, give him some room,” Josh barked.

But I was already gone.

We returned to West Virginia in uneasy silence. I knew that the others wanted to question me, the tension was thick, but they refrained. I tried to rationalize what I had seen two hours back, but I simply couldn’t.

In later days, when it didn’t disturb me to even think of the whole thing, I told myself that I had mistaken the Poe Toaster; that my own active imagination had betrayed me, and had given the face of the man an uncanny resemblance to someone else. And I laughed at my own insistence that I was able to see the grave of Poe
through
the Toaster. It was easier to do this than to wonder or accept, one torturing the brain, the other opening terrifying vistas of madness and possibility.

I had seen the Poe Toaster’s thoughtful British face a million times before, and his serious demeanor had impressed itself on me as doing well in hiding his constant, sometimes tempest-tossed imagination. My brain must have projected a wavering likeness of him onto the true Poe Toaster. That has to be it. Surely, I did
not
confront the ghost of H.P. Lovecraft that night. I simply did
not.

The following papers were released by the FBI on July 11
th
2014 after numerous requests under the Freedom of Information Act.

TOP SECRET
. Transcription of tape recordings found in cave at map reference 45 degrees 42’ 38”N, 122 degrees 45’ 33”W on December 12th 1971, in relation to the investigation into the hijacking of Northwest Airlines flight #305 November 24
th
1971.

Nov. 24, 1971- I can’t believe it. I mean...I’m in shock. Literal shock. Two years this thing has been in the making, two years of talk, planning, strategizing...and I never thought that I would actually do it. I didn’t think we’d make it this far, and I sure as hell didn’t think I’d have the balls to pull it off if we did.

We did.

I
did. I hijacked an airplane, I stole 200,000 dollars, and I parachuted into a snowstorm.

I’m not going to lie, I was sick with nerves, especially as I stood on the
Airstair, looking out into the white tempest. The only thing that pushed me out was Wilhelm. I couldn’t let him down. Not after all he’s done for me.

So I jumped.

In the planning stages, my main concern was the jump. People weren’t meant to jump out of airplanes. It’s unnatural. As it turns out, that part wasn’t so bad, per se. It was the air. Rushing face first, it was so cold that it was like sandpaper, rubbing me raw the entire way down.

Thankfully, I landed on a treeless ridge, flopped into a big, fluffy pile of snow. I worked
frantically to cut the chute loose, the wind-driven snow lashing me, nearly shoving me off of my feet, and nearly dropped the knife: my fingers were numb, my face was numb, my
eyes
were numb. Stupid me, I was dressed in nothing but a cheap suit, a pair of briefs, and a cheap, scuffed up pair of loafers.

When the cord finally snapped, I struggled to my feet and dug the compass out of my pocket.

West.

It seemed like it took me hours to find the old oak with the red ribbon tied around the gnarled trunk, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour and a half.
Wilhelm
, I thought smilingly as I touched it, knowing I was close. Ten minutes later, over a ridge and up a hillside, I was at the cabin, a tumbledown relic nestled between two arched and looming trees. The front door was locked and the porch collapsing. Around back, the door was unlocked but I had to clear a shitload of snow before I could open it.

Inside, the kitchen was dark and coated with heavy dust. A table and chair lay in shards on the floor. The cabinets on the pale yellow walls hung askew and the old refrigerator stood ajar.

I shut the back door, latched it, and went into the living room. Near the front door, I found the supplies Wilhelm left for me. Food. Medicine. Warm clothes. A pistol. A flashlight. Some other things. He even included a six pack of Coca-Cola. The thoughtful old lug.

Inventory done, I
lit a fire in the stone hearth with wood Wilhelm had stacked along the far wall, and I spent an hour or so warming up and snacking on beef jerky and cola. I was too keyed up to sleep, so I took the flashlight and explored. I found this portable tape-recorder in an upper office, and I’m going to use it to tell my story. There’s  a pack of fresh batteries in the drawer, should last me until I’m out of the area.

It’s late, and I have to get some sleep. I
'll tell more tomorrow.

Nov. 25, 1971- I woke up around eight, and wolfed down a can of pork and beans while looking out the window. That storm left nine inches, at the very least. The ground’s piled with it and the tree branches are almost snapping under the glistening white weight. I wonder if they’ll delay starting the search.

Probably not. I better get going.

It’s l
ater and I’ve stopped for the night. It’s about an hour or so before sundown, but I came across a convenient little cave in a hillside and figured I’d better be safe in case I didn’t find anything else.

Before settling in, I checked to
make sure no cranky bears were inside, and found some strange drawings on the walls accompanied by alien hieroglyphics. I bet it’s left over from the Indian days. Pretty interesting. I thought of going deeper and seeing if I could find any pottery, arrowheads, things like that, but decided against it. If I slip and fall or something, I’m fucked, and I won’t do something stupid this late in the game. I’m rounding third and heading for home.

Nov. 26, 1971- I was up at sunrise, and made three miles by noon. If it wasn’t for this damn snow I could be at Wilhelm’s tonight or the night after tomorrow.

It’s overcast again, and cold, but it’s such beautiful country, tranquil and serene. I’ve only been up here a handful of times with Wilhelm, but never for very long, and I never went far from him in case he hurt himself or something.

I love that old guy like a father. I owe him. I was a bum, robbing houses and riding the rails, when he pulled me out of the gutter and took me in. I’d probably be dead or in prison right now if it wasn’t for him. He found me and gave me a home, a job, a life. This was all his
idea, and I just went along with it. Like I said, I owe him.

Anyway, I found another cave, this one huge. I’m
gonna go way back in it and have a fire. I think I can spoil myself a little.

Nov. 27, 1971- I found some weird looking footprints in the snow near the cave mouth this morning. They just...start and stop out of nowhere,
kinda like a ghost materialized in mid-step and then vanished again. I stood over one for a moment looking at it, trying to figure out what the hell could have made it, and was pretty damn shocked when I discerned the outline of a human foot.

Needless to say, I was spooked, so I packed up the party and took off as fast as I could, glancing over my shoulder here and there, looking for a cop or a guardsmen. I made about two miles before my sense caught up with me and stopped me in my tracks. I saw a footprint, which meant that it would have had to have been made by a bare human foot. Now, I don't know
much about police procedure, but I'm pretty sure that no cop would run around in the snow with no shoes on. And the size of the print was too small to have been left by even the tiniest pig. It looked like a woman's, or a child's.

It's g
ot to be an animal, I figure, and I chuckled at myself for being so stupid. Of course it was.

Anyway, I made about six miles by late afternoon. I crossed a creek between two rising hills and got soaked to the knees, so my legs are aching with cold. I hope I don't get frostbite. That would be awful. Wilhelm would have to come looking for me, and he's not really in the best of shape. I guess if it came down to it I'd let the police find me, but that's something I don't want to even think about.

Right now I'm hunkered down in a little lean-to against a sharp incline, nestled in a dead tangle of thin branches. A fire would probably get out of hand and roast me alive, but I can't have one anyway; too dangerous. Earlier, as I was pushing through the forest, I heard the whup-whup-whup of chopper blades. Screened behind the intertwined treetops I glimpsed a big green helicopter. Probably National Guard. Who knows who all's looking for me? The Guard. State police. F.B.I. Hell, probably even civilian search parties, yee-haw hunters with bright orange vests, plaid caps, hunting rifles, and a thirst for fame. I still haven't decided what I'll do if I come across someone on the other team. Is murder worth it?

Maybe.
They’ll probably put me away for life anyway. What do I have to lose?

Nov. 28, 1971 - I had no idea I camped so close to the highway. Not even half a mile back, so close I could
hear cars whooshing back and forth this morning. Good thing I couldn't have a fire, it would have been easily visible from the road.

Oh, and I found more footprints. Same deal as before; looks like the tracks of a child or a small monkey.
Really weird.

Nov. 29, 1971-
It’s midnight, and something's out there, screaming in the dark, wailing and fucking shrieking like a banshee or something. You might just hear it in the background. [Note by FBI: Severe winds were reported on this night.]

I have the flashlight on, but I'm not brave enough to shine it out there. I'm afraid of what I'll see…maybe a rotted, grinning face with maggots squirming in its empty eye sockets...

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

It started about an hour ago. I was outside taking a piss when it rose sharply in the distance, quivering and breaking like insane laughter. My heart froze mid-beat and my stomach tightened. It fell away and came back again, this time sounding more like the crying of a sick infant neglected in its crib. I was so petrified I couldn't even move. I only ran back to the lean-to I built when it came a third time, now seemingly from a totally different direction...and closer. I have no idea what it is.
Maybe bobcats. I saw a documentary on them with Wilhelm once, and the host made note of their "unsettling nighttime calls." If that's what's out there, then unsettling ain't the word. It sounds like a ghost out looking for its lost head or something.

Nov. 30, 1971- I think someone's following me. Someone other than the police, that is. First there’re
those footprints. I admit I'm no naturalist, but...they're
too
human, you know? I found some more this morning, and took one of my boots and socks off to compare: They matched exactly, except the size. (I still can't imagine who would be running around in the snow with bare feet.) And then today, around noon, I found a deer trail and was following it through a thicket. It was overcast, and the forest was in perpetual twilight. I kept hearing twigs snapping and snow crunching behind me, but I figured it was an animal...until a snowball hit me in the back of the head.

I whipped around so fast I nearly fell over. I thought I saw something dark disappear into the underbrush, but in hindsight it was probably nothing.

"Who’s there?" I demanded, but the only reply came from birds in flight.

I scanned the empty path. Nothing seemed amiss, but suddenly I had that uncanny being-watched feeling.

It couldn’t be a cop or a guardsman, I told myself; if anything, they would have shot me. I called out.

An icy breeze swept the path.

For a moment I stood in place, my hand on the butt of the revolver, an old wild-west sheriff wary to the danger of ambush. Who in the hell?

I didn’t like it. No matter if it was a playful hillbilly or the county constable, it was a person, and a person means only bad things.

I went on, and about an hour later, as I was about to stop to eat something in a  little clearing, I heard what sounded like a muttered cough stifled by a considerate moviegoer. A sudden rush of fear shot through me like an electric shock, and I spun around.

Again, I saw nothing.

"Who’s there?" I called and didn’t like the way my voice trembled.

Nothing.

"I know you’re there," I shouted, pulled the gun out and took a shooter’s stance, feet wide apart, gun held out in both hands. "Show yourself!"

A small animal crashed through the overgrowth.

I tried to shrug it off, but I couldn’t. I know I heard a goddamn cough out there. I spent the rest of the day watching over my shoulder and listening for anything odd. I stopped around 4:30 and threw a little matchstick teepee together. I’m exhausted. I wanna go to sleep so bad, but I’m kinda afraid to. I changed the batteries in this thing, and threw away the old ones.

It's somewhere on the wrong side of midnight, and that ghostly screaming is so damn close I swear I could see the source...if only I had the courage to look.
[FBI note: strong winds again recorded this night.]

Nov. 31, 1971- The sick fuck left me a present! I found it this morning when I went out for a piss, a fucking raccoon lying in a pool of bloodstained snow, tangled in pink intestines, its dark eyes upturned and its little teeth overhanging its lips, sneering accusingly. I nudged it with my foot, and then looked out at the forest, crooked trees rising from sun-bedazzled snowdrifts.

"You better leave me alone!" I shouted, raising the pistol.

My voice echoed through the vast stillness. I knew in the back of my head I was being stupid, that someone might hear me and coming running, hissing into a
walkie talkie that Cooper was around flapping his thieving gums, but I didn’t care.

I swept my gun back and forth, letting him get a good look at it. "See this? I’ll fucking use it! Don’t think I won’t!"

I didn’t wait for him to respond. I had to get the hell out of there in case anyone heard me.

I’ve s
topped to eat something, it’s about four hours later. I’ve climbed onto this huge rock overlooking a little ice choked stream and eaten my pork and beans. Awful shit. I used to like it, but now…I can’t wait to get some real food. Maybe a nice big pizza with hearty chucks of pepperoni, melty cheese, zesty tomato sauce, crisp green peppers…