Once Upon a Midnight Eerie: Book #2 (Misadventures of Edgar/Allan) (11 page)

WHAT THE POE TWINS DID NOT KNOW . . .

A LETTER SENT THAT DAY:

IDENTITY SPECIALISTS, INC.

MOSCOW • SHANGHAI • ABU DHABI • BUENOS AIRES • CAPE TOWN • LAS VEGAS

Dear Professor Perry,

We hope you are pleased with our services so far.

Doctors report that your facial reconstruction surgery was a success and that you are on your way to a complete and unrecognizable recovery. Our document department is currently completing your new identity papers, including passport. All will be in order by the time you are ready to move on.

Here’s to fresh starts!

Best Wishes,

Founder and CEO

P.S. I hope you do not mind that I used your previous name in the salutation above. I take satisfaction in being the last to do so. I trust you will destroy this letter immediately after reading.

P.P.S. As requested, we have booked you an open airline ticket to Baltimore, Maryland, USA.

Mr. Poe in the Great Beyond

Mr.
Poe didn’t know what to expect of his first afternoon in the Animal Languages Division. Would it be as dull as watching alfalfa grow in a farmyard populated only by sleeping cows, dozing ducks, and sloppy pigs? Or would it be as stressful as being set to work with pen and paper on the sandy floor of the Roman Colosseum while roaring lions, growling bears, and maddened bulls circled maliciously? He didn’t know which would be worse.

On the elevator ride down, he steeled himself for either.

When the elevator doors opened on the 121,347,935th floor, he was greeted by a surprise. The office looked almost indistinguishable from the working space he’d occupied for the past 180 or so years. There was the same foot-worn, institutional carpeting and fluorescent-lit cubicles.
Not so bad,
he thought. But as he started into the office, his box of desk supplies in his hands, he realized that seated in each cubicle was an animal murmuring to itself. Cows mooed, pigs oinked, and horses whinnied—all very quietly, thoughtfully.

“Most of them are suffering from writer’s block,” said someone behind him.

He turned.

It was Homer, the blind poet.

“But every once in a while, one of them will stumble across something quite worthwhile,” he continued, motioning for Mr. Poe to draw nearer. “Did you know that one of the cows here named a famous lost continent?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“The continent was consumed in prehistory by the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Moo?” Mr. Poe asked.

“Well, it’s spelled ‘M-u,’ but this is where the name comes from,” Homer answered.

“So what am
I
supposed to do here?”

Homer placed his hand on Mr. Poe’s shoulder. “Just as these animals are exploring the possibilities of human language, admittedly with only rare success, you will explore the possibilities of animal language.”

“Without
any
success  .  .  .” Mr. Poe muttered.

“Now, let’s be positive,” Homer answered. He pointed in the general direction of an empty cubicle. “That’s yours.” He turned and walked away.

Discouraged, Mr. Poe set his box of supplies on the empty desk and took his seat. He expected the afternoon to consist of nothing but overheard lamb bleats, donkey brays, dog barks, and elephant trumpeting. But a mere five minutes after getting his desk set up to his liking, Mr. Poe was visited by, of all things, a pair of human beings.

Specifically, a gracious husband and wife.

Their apparel suggested they’d died in the first decades of Poe’s own nineteenth century. Then he recognized them from his nephews’ recent cemetery adventure.

“May we have a moment of your time?” the gentleman asked.

Mr. Poe stood and extended his hand. “Monsieur and Madame Du Valier, I presume?”

Clarence bowed; Genevieve curtseyed.

“We came to commend your excellent nephews, who represent your family so honorably down on earth,” Genevieve said.

“We wouldn’t be here without them,” Clarence added.

“Here?” Mr. Poe asked, confused. “In the Animal Languages Division?”

“Oh, no,” Clarence said, chuckling. “We’re not writers  .  .  . or, um, animals. No, we’re going to be running the inn a million or so floors upstairs. Good food and spirits.”

“And in honor of your family, we’re going to rename our split pea soup,” Genevieve said.

Mr. Poe narrowed his eyes questioningly.

“Split Poe.” Clarence beamed.

“Isn’t it remarkable how changing just one letter can make such a difference?” Genevieve observed.

“Yeah, great,” Mr. Poe murmured, recalling the many times that one changed letter had scrambled the meaning of communiqués he’d smuggled down to his great-great-great-great grandnephews. “But thanks.”

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Poe fell asleep with his head on his desk, having despaired of ever finding a way to communicate with his grandnephews using only the grunts of pigs or the clicking of dolphins.

In a dream, he found himself in a book-lined chamber, the setting of his most famous poem, “The Raven.” He heard a tapping at the moonlit window. When he opened the shutters, a raven flew inside, perching on a sculpture of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Oddly, the dreaming Mr. Poe did not associate any of this with his poem but with real life. So when he asked the raven if he would ever find a way to help his grandnephews, and the raven replied, “Nevermore,” it disturbed Mr. Poe so much that he woke up in a sweat.

Opening his eyes, he looked around his cubicle.

That’s when he saw a real raven perched on the cubicle divider.

He couldn’t stop himself from asking the same question that had tortured him in the dream. “Can I still be of help to my grandnephews?”

“Evermore!” the raven replied, before flying off to the other side of the Animal Languages Division.

Mr. Poe sighed in relief.

He had hope yet of warning Edgar and Allan that they were still not out of danger.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again, my thanks to those who generously shared their talents with Edgar, Allan, and me. First, to my whip-smart editor, Sharyn November and my ever-insightful agent, Kelly Sonnack—you both went above and beyond the call of duty to help me find this story. To Sam Zuppardi and Eileen Savage, whose lively art and design infuse the book with delights. And much gratitude to Arte Johnson for literally giving voice to my words.

Also, thanks to my teachers, from elementary school through university, particularly Marie Dannenbring, Thomas Halleen, Anthony Corradino, Joseph Bell, Oakley Hall, Don Heiney, and Tom Massey—you are all in these pages (even if some of you have moved on to the celestial skyscraper to hang out with Mr. Poe).

Finally, thanks to my inspiring sons, Jonathan, Shane, and Harlan. And to my wife, Julie, whose love makes fictional flights of fancy seem ordinary by comparison. —G.M.

Thanks firstly to Gordon, for writing all the words, and to my fantastic agent, Kelly, for having had the bright idea to match my pictures with them. To Sharyn, Nancy, Eileen, and the whole team at Viking, who brought everything together so brilliantly—and sent me transatlantic cookies!

To my parents, my grandparents, and Nic and Luisa, who offered so much support and encouragement. And finally to the lovely Jade, who has been there every step of the way, and who said “Yes!”—S.Z.

GORDON McALPINE
is the author of the first Poe Boys misadventure,
The Tell-Tale Start
. He is also the author of adult novels ranging from magical realism to hard-boiled literary mysteries. He lives with his wife in Southern California.

Visit the Poe twins (and the Dickinson sisters) at www.The-poes.net.

Visit Gordon at www.gordonmcalpine.com.

SAM ZUPPARDI
spent much of his childhood drawing complicated treasure maps, although he never actually owned any proper pirate treasure.

He now lives in York, England—a particularly good city for ghost walks. He illustrated
The Tell-Tale Start
, and his first picture book,
The Nowhere Box
, is available now. Visit www.samzuppardi.com for more.