Room of Shadows

by Ronald Kidd

  “This is where we split up,” said Libby.

  I gazed up at the abandoned building across the street. “Come back when you can,” I told her. “You’ll know where to find me.”

  Nodding, she squeezed my hand. Then she was gone.

  Chapter 24

  Buried?

  Suddenly I was starved.

  It was as if, when I finally stopped moving, my stomach caught up with the rest of me. And I can tell you, it wasn’t happy. Since lunch, I had saved Jake Bragg, escaped Sergeant Clark, run halfway across town, and searched two buildings. I figured the least I deserved was a sandwich.

  The gas station up the street carried a few grocery items, and I bought a couple of flat gray things that could serve either as sandwiches or hockey pucks. I plopped down on the curb outside and wolfed them down.

  It was the first chance I’d had all day to think. Maybe that was a good thing. Sitting there, I thought of all that had happened. It seemed that people were always leaving—first my dad, now Libby. I hoped she would turn out to be more loyal than he had been.

  Shaking off the thought, I hurried back to the abandoned building. I pulled back the board over the door, stepped inside, and climbed the stairs.

  It happened so fast that I didn’t have time to react. One minute I was standing on the third-floor landing. The next, an arm gripped my neck and a knife gleamed at my throat.

  “Hello, David.”

  It was more a growl than a voice. I strained to turn and see who was holding me, but he pressed the knife harder against my throat.

  “Patience,” he rasped.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “The Raven, of course.”

  His breath was hot against my neck. It smelled like garbage.

  “Let’s go inside, shall we?” he said.

  He opened the door and dragged me into the hallway. The dirty blanket and empty beer bottle were still there. He gave me a rough shove. I stumbled, lost my balance, and fell onto the blanket.

  I looked up, not knowing what to expect—my twin, a stranger, a monster? As it turned out, the Raven was none of those things. He had stringy hair and flashing eyes. A mustache crawled like a caterpillar across his lip. I recognized the face because I’d seen it in my dreams.

  I gasped. “Edgar Allan Poe!”

  “I hate that name,” he growled. “Edgar is fine. Poe is good. But Allan—”

  He spit on the floor, a yellow-black substance that bubbled and heaved. A bug skittered through it, slowed momentarily, and lurched on.

  “Allan was the name of my foster father,” said Poe, “a man who thwarted me at every turn. I visited him on his deathbed, hoping at last to win his blessing. He picked up his cane and beat me! The strokes were feeble, but by God they stung. I curse his name. I want no part of it. Edgar Poe—that is who I am.”

  I remembered the carved raven, with the initials E. P., not E. A. P. Now I knew why.

  Staring at him, I blinked a few times, half-expecting the apparition to fade away. It didn’t.

  “This is impossible,” I said. “You’re dead. I saw your grave.”

  His lips curled into something like a smile. “Ah, yes, the grave. Impressive, isn’t it? Beautiful cemetery, marble tombstone, thousands of visitors. At last my genius has been recognized. There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “The grave is empty.”

  I shook my head. “There was a funeral. I read about it. They buried you.”

  He shuddered. “Buried? Don’t utter that word.”

  “Well, didn’t they?”

  He lunged forward and grabbed my arm. His grip was strong and slimy.

  “Yes,” he hissed, “and burial was what I feared most. Shut inside a box, lying in the dark, trapped beneath tons of dirt for all eternity. I wrote about that fear—‘The Premature Burial,’ ‘The Cask of Amontillado’—trying to kill it with my pen. It didn’t work. The thought terrified me then and still does.”

  A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead. He swiped at it, his eyes wild.

  “But,” he went on, “I outsmarted them. I plotted it, oh so carefully. And it almost worked!”

  “Almost worked?” I said. “What do you mean?”

  He eyed me, then let go of my arm and stepped back, knife gleaming.

  “Do you want to hear a story?” he asked.

  You dreamed.

  My spirit was there, managing, changing, channeling your thoughts. I pulled you out of bed and into the room that fateful night. I dragged you to the clock, and you started it ticking.

  Midnight struck. The bells chimed—the bells, bells, bells!

  Inside my head, something happened. The seed, planted in a trance by Reynolds that wretched day so long ago, sprouted and opened like a black flower.

  I rose.

  Oh, life! Oh, limbs! Oh, hands that could kill. Now I was the Raven.

  I climbed from the coffin, into the world. And I discovered an amazing thing. My body—white, pale, withered—was suddenly strong. It had found a new source of power, a cauldron of heat and flame.

  Your anger.

  Chapter 25

  Green Stuff Came Out

  The Raven examined the knife blade, checking it with his thumb. Then he looked up, his eyes far away.

  “The story began, as it ended, with death,” he said.

  His tale was as horrifying as it was irresistible. Starting with the death of his wife, he took me with him to Richmond and Baltimore, introduced the evil Reynolds, described the crippling pain, detailed his plan, and bellowed the betrayal that had buried him alive.

  “And then,” he said, “I discovered your anger.”

  I was back at Lexington Market, kicking Jake Bragg, watching him bleed. The thing I kept in the basement had burst free, and now it was loose in the world, staring at me through the Raven’s eyes.

  He said, “Your anger was beautiful—living, breathing, pulsing. Horrible.”

  The description brought an image to mind. “The dream!” I exclaimed.

  He smiled.

  “Terrible things were chasing me,” I said. “There were worms and snakes.”

  “What else?”

  “Skeletons. An army of them.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Right, right. Then what?”

  I said, “Something inside me ripped. Green stuff came out.”

  “Yes!” said the Raven.

  “The house sucked it up. There was an awful noise.”

  “That was me!” he shrieked. “I pulled you inside. I dragged you up the stairs and into the room.”

  I shivered. “I didn’t like that dream.”

  “Oh,” said the Raven, “that wasn’t a dream. That part was real.”

  “Huh?”

  He was gesturing wildly. His knife flashed in the dim light.

  “Don’t you remember?” he said. “Mesmer! He was right! Spirits hover. They reach out. Mine found you. It planted the dream, then hauled you out of bed and into the room.”

  “In real life?”

  “Yes! I reached into your body and made you start the clock. It was all I needed. The bells chimed. And I awoke!”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Can you imagine? Alive again after a hundred and sixty-five years. After you were back in bed, I stopped the clock again, put things back the way they’d been, and escaped. For the next few days, I roamed the streets, shadowing you and observing your remarkable and appalling world.”

  As he spoke, I could see the excitement in his face. I imagined him following me through the streets, staring at cars, gaping at buildings. Then his voice dropped and his face fell.

  “But there was a problem,” he said. “I noticed that when I wandered too far away, my energy lagged. If I stayed very long, my skin wrinkled and my hair began to fall out. Then the awful truth occurred to me: Your beautiful anger, which had brought me back to life, was keeping me alive. It was the source of my power. I was its captive, tethered to
it like a dog on a leash.

  “It was a bitter pill to swallow. After all I had done to free myself—first from the grave and then from that grave with walls—I had come back to discover that I wasn’t truly alive. I was still half-dead, a half-man doomed to a half-life.

  “Filled with despair, I took up residence here, across the street from you. I considered ending it all. Then I thought of something I could do instead. I could create stories, but not the kind you scratch onto paper. These stories would be written in life. They would involve real people doing real things, and each would be signed with a poem.”

  “The mummy,” I said. “The cat.”

  He grinned, revealing teeth that were brown and crooked. “Best of all, the pendulum. Do you see how brilliant it was?”

  “You threw the rock through my window that night. You came into my room while I was sleeping.”

  “Thump. Thump. Thump.” He threw back his head and laughed. “They were works of art—overtures, concertos, symphonies. Each one built on the last, going further, delving deeper. And now, for the grand finale, my greatest achievement…”

  He wheeled and grabbed me. Holding the knife to my throat, he wheezed, “We’re not done yet. There’s something else.” He nodded toward one of the offices. “It’s behind that door.”

  Holding the knife in place, he let go of my shoulders. With his free hand, he reached for my shirt pocket.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He pressed the knife harder.

  I said, “If you want money, you can have it.”

  I glanced down and saw a paper sticking out of my pocket. He pulled it out. It was the poem Libby and I had found in the building.

  He grinned. “This will explain everything.”

  “No, it won’t.” I knew that in spite of what the poem said, my mom was safe. Of course, I didn’t want to tell him that.

  Smoothing out the paper, he read from the poem. “‘Think of someone you adore.’ Let’s see, who could that be?”

  My heart raced, though I tried not to show it.

  He said, “You’re a reader. You know words. Think about that one: adore. It’s a special word, don’t you think? Not for fathers. Not even for mothers.” He twisted his face into a sickly smile. “It’s for that one special person, the one who brightens your day, who makes you sigh when she walks into the room…oh, God, it’s enough to make you sick.”

  His face, suddenly dark, loomed over mine. I smelled his awful breath, and my mind was filled with pictures—not of the Raven, but of a person who had quietly slipped into my life alongside him, who had helped me stand up and fight him.

  “Think of someone you adore,” rasped the Raven.

  I knew who it was. I dreaded the thought that he did too.

  Pressing the knife against my back, he dragged me toward the office and kicked open the door. Inside, lying on the floor, was Libby.

  * * *

  The office hadn’t been used in years. There was an old metal desk and what was left of a chair. The window was broken and partially boarded up. A wastebasket had been turned over, and trash littered the floor.

  Next to the trash, Libby lay on her back, bound and gagged. Seeing me, she pleaded with her eyes and struggled to get free.

  “Let her go!” I said.

  The Raven chuckled. “Oh, I could never release her. She’ll be my greatest story, my grand finale, my Mona Lisa.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to kill her,” he said. “And you’re going to watch.”

  He hurled me to the floor. Before I could recover, he had slid in beside Libby and cradled her head in his lap. His knife was poised above her throat.

  “Don’t move,” he purred. “Either of you.”

  Libby’s eyes were open wide, staring at the blade. He lowered it to her neck and drew it gently across, never breaking the skin. At any moment, he could plunge it in. I struggled to my feet, wanting to help but not knowing how.

  “There’s a place on the side of the neck,” said the Raven. “When you cut it, blood gushes out like water from a hose.”

  Libby closed her eyes. Her face was white and chalky.

  The Raven coughed. As he did, his hand slipped, and the knife broke the skin on Libby’s neck. He stared down at her, shocked.

  “My darling, did I hurt you?”

  I realized that for a moment he was speaking not to Libby but to another kind and lovely young woman, his wife, Ginny.

  A drop of blood appeared on her neck, and he wiped it away tenderly. In that moment I saw a way out.

  “Edgar,” I said softly.

  “I’m the Raven!” he said.

  “Are you?”

  “Shut up!” he said.

  “The love of your life isn’t horror or telling stories. It’s Ginny.”

  “No!” he begged. “Don’t utter her name!”

  “Ginny—what a pretty word,” I said. “It sounds like Libby, don’t you think? Do you really want to hurt her?”

  He gazed down at Libby, and in his face I glimpsed the fragile, troubled spirit of Poe, haunted by fear but believing, at last, in love.

  I was surprised at how gently he laid her down. Then he lurched to his feet and pointed at me.

  “I’ll get you!” he said.

  Moving to the door, he took one final look back. His eyes were sad. Then they narrowed, and his face contorted with rage.

  “I’m coming back,” he thundered. “You’ll see!”

  He staggered through the door and slammed it behind him.

  Chapter 26

  Hideous and Deformed

  I hurried to Libby’s side, cut the ropes, and removed the gag. When her arms were free, she threw them around me.

  “I was so scared,” she said, pressing her face against my chest.

  I held her close. The Raven had been right about one thing. Adore. It was a special word.

  We stayed that way for a while. But the Raven was still out there. We couldn’t rest.

  “Now what do we do?” said Libby.

  It was a question we’d been asking a lot. Ever since the Raven had appeared, we’d been bouncing like pinballs from one decision to the next.

  I said, “He’s been one step ahead of us the whole time. All we’ve done is react. We have to change that.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “Did you hear what he told me? He said, ‘I’m coming back.’ Remember?”

  “So?”

  I said, “Think about it. He needs power. And we know where he gets it.”

  She stared at me blankly.

  “From me!” I said. “He has to come back. He has no choice.”

  “That makes sense,” she said. “But then what?”

  “We’ll wait for him at my house. I have an idea.”

  “And your mom?” asked Libby.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s at your house. She might be there when he comes.”

  I thought about it for a minute. Then, standing up, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I punched a key and waited.

  “David!” said my mom. “Where are you? What have you done?”

  The quiver in her voice told me everything I needed to know. She was scared—not just of what would happen to me, but of what I might do. Sergeant Clark had told her I was the Raven.

  It was wrong, but it was something I could use.

  “It’s all Dad’s fault,” I blurted.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t want to move. I hate that house. I hate the school. I hate him! I’m going to talk to him.”

  “Talk to him?”

  “I’m on my way to New York.”

  “By yourself? David, no!”

  “Sorry, Mom. I’m sorry about everything.”

  I hung up, then walked over to the window and looked out.

  “Now, we wait,” I said.

  Less than five minutes later, the front door of the house flew open, and my mom hurried out ca
rrying a half-stuffed suitcase. She threw it into the back of the car, jumped in, and raced off down the street.

  “That should buy us some time,” I said.

  “For what?” asked Libby.

  “You’ll see. Come on.”

  As we left the building, I noticed the sky had darkened. Clouds blew past the moon. The wind howled. Thunder cracked.

  The house had changed. There was a fungus growing on the roof that had worked its way down to the windows. A yellow mist, hugging the walls, seemed to throb and glow. The house, like Poe, seemed to be changing into an evil version of itself.

  We approached the front door, and I pushed it open. The hinges creaked. A hot breeze blew past us, smelling of mold and rot.

  We stepped inside. Spiderwebs brushed my face, and I jumped back.

  “Turn on the light,” said Libby.

  I flipped the switch. Nothing happened. I tried another one. The lights were out.

  “When did that happen?” I asked.

  “Maybe the lightning did it,” said Libby.

  I felt my way into the kitchen, found a pair of flashlights, and handed one to Libby. We turned them on and went upstairs. We checked the room. Everything was just as I’d left it.

  Venturing forward, Libby moved the raven to the desk, then opened the chest. I joined her, and we looked inside. It was empty except for cobwebs.

  “Think of all those years,” she said. “How could he bear it?”

  “He couldn’t,” I said.

  I lowered the lid and moved around to the front of the desk, where I took the door key from the drawer and put it into my pocket. I told Libby my plan.

  We went to the brickyard. It was down the street, just a block away. When we finished our work there, we went back to the house and made preparations. Then we waited.

  “Where is he?” asked Libby.

  “He’ll be here,” I said.

  I stood at a window in the second-story hallway, too nervous to sit down. Libby settled onto the floor. She had spread a blanket in front of her and set out a few things from the fridge, trying to convince herself that what we were doing was almost normal, something you might take a break from to have a picnic.