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

by Gordon McAlpine

  “I am no plagiarist, dear sir!” Mr. Poe fired back.

  “Yet you stole my words.”

  “Perhaps I used them. But I never claimed them as my own.” Then Mr. Poe grinned. “Nor would I want to.”

  “That’s enough between you two,” Homer said.

  Mr. Shakespeare turned imperiously to Mr. Poe. “You may return to your cubicle now. Homer and I will discuss appropriate disciplinary action.”

  Mr. Poe turned to go. He wasn’t too worried.

  They’d already busted him down to the License Plate Division.

  How much lower could it go?

  4

  ’ROUND MIDNIGHT

  AT twenty minutes to midnight, Edgar and Allan said good night to Aunt Judith and Uncle Jack in the cozy, antique-rich lobby of the Pepper Tree Inn.

  Aunt Judith kissed each boy on his cheek.

  “’Night, gentlemen,” Uncle Jack said, patting their heads.

  Edgar and Allan started for the stairway, Roderick trotting at their heels.

  But at the foot of the stairs, the trio stopped and turned back.

  “Aren’t you coming up, too?” Allan asked.

  Uncle Jack shook his head “We thought we’d sit in the lobby for a little while.”

  “Maybe have a cup of chamomile tea,” Aunt Judith added.

  The boys looked at each other.

  Uncle Jack and Aunt Judith would never allow them to go outside after midnight. So how were they to sneak out in time to make the Midnight Ghost Tour, which was scheduled to start in just twenty minutes?

  “You boys look worried,” Uncle Jack observed.

  “We are,” Allan said. “About you two.”

  “Us?” Uncle Jack asked, glancing at his wife. “Why?”

  “It’s been a long day, and you two should get to bed. Sipping tea all night is reckless, dangerous behavior. Even chamomile.”

  Aunt Judith raised her eyebrows.

  “What we’re saying,” added Edgar, “is that we’ve all had a long day. And just as young people need sleep, so do old people.”

  This didn’t go over very well.

  “Hey!” Aunt Judith snapped. “We’re not old.”

  “Yeah, we’re middle-aged at most,” Uncle Jack said.

  “But you’re correct, boys, about young people needing their sleep,” Aunt Judith said, motioning the two upstairs. “Now, nighty-night.”

  The twins sighed. “Okay, good night,” they said, and turned and started up the stairs.

  Once in their third-floor room, the twins took stock of their options. The first was to postpone their visit to the cemetery until tomorrow night, when their aunt and uncle might go to bed earlier. The other was to climb out the window and onto the narrow brick ledge that wrapped around the outside of the building, and crawl on hands and knees to the far corner of the hotel, where they could shin down the side of a wrought-iron balcony to an alley below.

  “Which option do you like, Roderick?” Allan asked.

  Roderick turned his head toward the window.

  “Let’s go,” Edgar said.

  Roderick led the way, being not only the most sure-footed but also the most instinctive aerial pathfinder.

  Edgar and Allan followed cautiously. “Don’t look down, Roderick,” Allan called ahead.

  Striding casually along the ledge, Roderick glanced back at the twins with an insulted expression, reminding them that no self-respecting cat had ever suffered from fear of heights.

  The same could not be said of self-respecting boys.

  Being three stories up seemed much higher as they crawled on the narrow ledge than it did when they just took in the view from a window. And, as they soon discovered, sections of the old ledge were crumbling. They inched across the building’s facade, Allan looking ahead at Roderick’s tail, Edgar looking ahead at the soles of Allan’s shoes. Neither boy dared glance down.

  A piece of the ledge came away as they neared the balcony.

  Allan and Edgar heard the brick crash three stories below.

  The boys froze, hoping no one would look up.

  Meanwhile, Roderick leaped neatly onto the wrought iron and waited.

  “If Roderick can do it . . .” Edgar muttered.

  Allan reached across the empty space and grasped the wrought iron, sighing in relief.

  He started shinning down the balcony.

  Edgar followed.

  “We could use stunt doubles,” he remarked as they neared the ground.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Allan replied.

  Soon they were on solid ground in the alley outside the Pepper Tree Inn.

  “Hi, boys,” said Em and Milly Dickinson, who stood on the sidewalk, arms crossed.

  Milly wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a light jacket. But Em looked as if she was still in costume, in a white, floor-length dress with a collar that reached almost to her chin. Her hair was pulled back into a bun. The boys noted how much she looked like the famous photograph of her great-great-great-great grandaunt.

  “What are you two doing here?” Edgar asked.

  Em pointed up to the third-floor ledge, and then across to the window from which the Poe twins had emerged. “You crawled right past our window, so we came downstairs to meet you.”

  “Are you sneaking out to go to a jazz club?” Milly asked. “It’s New Orleans, after all.”

  Edgar and Allan looked at each other but said nothing.

  “You didn’t expect us to just let you two have all the fun, did you?”

  “How’d you get down here?” Allan asked.

  “The stairs,” Em said.

  “But weren’t our aunt and uncle in the lobby, sipping tea?”

  “We told them we were going out for fresh air,” Milly said.

  Em added, “Actually, what I told them was ‘My cocoon tightens, colors tease, I’m feeling for the air.’”

  Milly rolled her eyes and turned back to the boys. “Anyway, your aunt and uncle just told us not to wander far and then let us go outside. After all, they’re not our guardians.”

  “You didn’t say anything about our—” Edgar began.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “we didn’t tell them about your little Spider-Man stunt on the window ledge, which, incidentally, I got on my phone. Maybe I’ll post it to my blog, as one of the ‘inside features’ on the making of our movie.”

  “And your parents?” Allan asked.

  “Oh, they’re sleeping peacefully, so we needn’t worry about them,” Em said.

  “OK, fine, you can come with us. But we don’t have time for chitchat.”

  “It’s almost midnight,” Allan added.

  “What, are you turning into pumpkins or something?” Em asked.

  “We have an appointment.”

  “Where are we going?” Milly held up her phone. “I can Google the most direct route.”

  The boys already knew where they were going.

  “Look, if you two are fast enough runners, you’re welcome to come along,” Allan said.

  Then the boys took off.

  The girls kept up just fine.

  It was three minutes to midnight when the Poe and Dickinson twins arrived at the gates of Saint Louis Cemetery, panting from their run. They’d pushed through the throngs of tourists on Bourbon Street, turned up Toulouse, and continued past Rampart, all the time with Roderick clinging to the back of Allan’s shirt like a feline backpack.

  At the cemetery, they caught their breath.

  Looking around, they were surprised how quickly the neighborhood had turned from boisterousness to stillness and solitude. Here it seemed as if they were miles from the bright lights, jazz music, and tourists, instead of just a few blocks away.

  Naturally, Em had something to say:


  “Great streets of silence led away

  To neighborhoods of pause;

  Here was no notice, no dissent,

  No universe, no laws. . . .”

  The front gate of the cemetery was locked.

  This might have been a problem were it not for the crumbling condition of the cemetery walls.

  In no time, the four found a crevice.

  They climbed through just as a bell chimed midnight.

  “We made it!” the boys said.

  On the run here, they had explained to Em and Milly where they were going, and why.

  But inside the cemetery grounds all was still.

  “Hello?” called Edgar into the night.

  “We’ve come for the tour,” Allan added, his voice echoing off the crumbling stone mausoleums. “Anybody here?”

  No answer.

  The four moved deeper into the cemetery, continuing up one row of gravesites and down the next.

  “Is it possible you two might have misunderstood those worn-away letters?” Em asked.

  As if in answer, a shadowy figure emerged from around one of the mausoleums. He spoke with a French accent. “Did you say you’re here for the tour?”

  A man stepped into the moonlight. He wore a tall hat, an old-fashioned cutaway coat with long tails, a frilly linen shirt, and a cravat. His sideburns were long and reached halfway across his cheeks. In short, he sported an early nineteenth-century style, like old pictures of President Andrew Jackson. “Bonsoir, mes petits,” he said. “Welcome.”

  His voice was reassuring.

  A second shadow emerged, this time revealing itself as a woman, likewise dressed in the fashion of the Regency period—a long dress with a high waistline and a small but elaborate bonnet atop her head. “So glad you could join us,” she said, her voice almost musical.

  “You’re the guides for the ghost tour?” Edgar asked the man.

  “Yes, I’m Clarence Du Valier.” He bowed. “And this is my wife.”

  “Genevieve,” she said, curtsying.

  The boys thought it clever that the tour guides used the names of the long-deceased New Orleans residents whose weathered stones had served as “advertisements.”

  “Are there others here tonight for the tour?” Allan asked.

  The man shook his head. “Our means of publicizing our enterprise is very selective.”

  “The missing letters on the grave markers,” said Milly. “Not exactly a Super Bowl commercial.”

  Clarence turned to her, frowning. “What is a ‘super bowl’?”

  “Or a ‘commercial’?” Genevieve asked.

  The four children looked askance at them.

  Then the Poes realized that the pair must be portraying period characters to add authenticity to the tour—like hired actors at Disneyland who pretend to be Sleeping Beauty or Peter Pan, or “residents” of a living history museum. It was only natural that they’d claim not to know what a Super Bowl commercial was.

  “Oh, we might have chosen another method by which to advertise our endeavor,” Clarence said. “We could have employed an ordinary wooden sign, for example, of the sort you find hanging outside pubs or shoemakers’ shops.”

  Allan played along. “Or blacksmiths’.”

  Clarence nodded, his expression still serious. “Exactly. But we opted for subtlety, so as to attract only a very clever clientele.”

  “And you’re it, children!” Genevieve added, beaming.

  “Our first customers!” Clarence said.

  “Have you been at this long?” Allan asked.

  Clarence and Genevieve looked at each other tenderly. Then they turned back to the Poes and Dickinsons. “Yes, a long time.”

  “Maybe we should get started,” Allan suggested.

  “Oui, let’s go,” Genevieve said, leading the way.

  “Wait, can you two stand still for a minute so I can get your picture before we start?” Milly asked.

  The tour guides looked at her, confused.

  “You want to draw our picture?” Clarence asked.

  “Won’t that take quite a while?” Genevieve added.

  Milly didn’t bother answering. She aimed her phone, snapped—flash!—and then looked at the screen, baffled. “Weird. It’s not working. Nobody’s in the picture.”

  “Let’s just go!” cried Edgar and Allan.

  Roderick meowed.

  Cat at their side, the two sets of twins followed Clarence and Genevieve down a long row of aboveground tombs. The boys expected the costumed guides to stop at any moment, since it seemed unlikely any place could be more haunted than a cemetery. But the Du Valiers continued silently to an open auxiliary gate in the wall of the cemetery and then strode out onto Basin Street.

  “Where’s our first stop?” Allan asked.

  “We will begin just up the street,” Clarence said.

  The four had to scramble to keep up, as the Du Valiers set a surprising pace. For older folks, their movements were graceful and effortless.

  “This is our first site,” Genevieve announced, stopping on the sidewalk before an empty lot that was overgrown with weeds and littered with broken bottles and wadded-up fast-food bags.

  The twins joined the tour guides. “Here? This?”

  Clarence motioned at the abandoned lot with a sweep of his hand. “You children see before you the beautiful town house of Etienne de Boré, who became the first mayor of New Orleans in 1803.”

  “Yes, and you’ll notice the lovely balconies and flower boxes, overflowing with our city’s beloved bougainvillea,” Genevieve added, gazing rapturously at the vacant lot. “Ah, Madame de Boré was such a decorous and stylish woman. And quite good on the harpsichord, too!”

  The two sets of twins looked at each other. The lot was vacant. Were they missing something here?

  “And if you observe above the front doorway, you’ll see an architectural flourish that’s likely of particular interest to a pair of adventurous boys like you,” Clarence continued, grinning widely as he pointed at empty space. “That’s right—crossed muskets!”

  Allan and Edgar furrowed their brows in confusion.

  “You see,” Clarence continued, “Monsieur de Boré had been a musketeer for the king of France before coming to the Louisiana Territory.”

  “Are you telling us this is where his house used to stand?” Em asked Clarence.

  Clarence laughed. “What do you mean, ‘used to’? The house is there before us!”

  Ah, so this is how the tour would work, the boys surmised. They were being asked to use their imaginations.

  Imagination was no problem for the Poe twins.

  Em caught on too. She spoke, her voice dreamy:

  “The gleam of an heroic act,

  Such strange illumination—

  The Possible’s slow fuse is lit

  By the Imagination!”

  “More Dickinson,” Edgar observed.

  Milly groaned. “Naturally.”

  “Do you ever quote our ancestor, Mr. Edgar Allan Poe?” Allan asked Em.

  She smiled at him. “‘Nevermore,’”she said, quoting from Mr. Poe’s best known poem, “The Raven.”

  The boys grinned at the acknowledgment.

  “So is this Etienne a ghost?” Milly asked the guides, returning to the subject at hand.

  Clarence and Genevieve turned to her with curious expressions.

  “No, he died peacefully in his sleep and has moved on,” Clarence said.

  “Then does his wife haunt this place?” Allan inquired.

  Genevieve shook her head no. “She died peacefully, too.”

  “So why—”

  But Clarence and Genevieve had already started up the street.

  “Come!” Clarence called over his shoulder.

  “We�
��ve still much to see!” Genevieve added, looking back with a charming smile.

  “Strange tour,” Milly whispered.

  The Du Valiers stopped after a few blocks at yet another vacant lot.

  Sure enough, Clarence motioned to the weedy property. “Here stands the friendly pub called the Wet Whistle, where a thirsty man can get delicious ale.”

  “Once, Clarence and I were proprietors of this fine establishment,” Genevieve said.

  Clarence turned to his wife with love in his eyes. “Yes, we had many good years, eh, dear?”

  “Hey, this is supposed to be a ghost tour, right?” Allan interrupted.

  “We’re really not that interested in vacant lots,” Edgar added. “Unless they’re haunted.”

  Clarence turned from the lot to face the boys. “Wait a minute. . . .” He took a long, deep breath, his eyes expressing new concern. “What do you mean ‘vacant lot’?”

  “What else would you call this?”

  “That’s all you boys see here, a vacant lot?”

  The Poe twins nodded.

  Clarence turned to Em and Milly. “Is that all you two see?”

  The girls nodded.

  “Is it at least haunted?” Edgar asked.

  Genevieve touched her husband gently on the shoulder, worry in her eyes. Then she turned to the four twins. “No, it’s not haunted.”

  “So what’s up with this tour, anyway?” Milly asked.

  “We came to see haunted places,” Edgar reminded him.

  The man sighed. “Ah, a misunderstanding.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These ‘vacant lots’ do not appear vacant to us,” Genevieve explained gently. She seemed to be sorting through the misunderstanding as she spoke. “Instead, my young friends, they’re alive with what to you must seem the distant past.”

  “Are you speaking in metaphor?” Em asked, confused.

  The Du Valiers shook their heads.

  “So you actually see these long-gone, historical places?” asked Edgar.

  “We see them because my wife and I are of the same long-gone, historical time,” Clarence said.