by Joseph Rubas
“I was making my rounds that morning,” he rasped in a 1962 interview, “and came across the stuff. Now, it didn’t strike me as odd then; all sorts of things turn up on graves. So I let the flowers be and took the liquor for myself.”
The same thing occurred the next year, and the next.
“I had a Negro boy from the south side working with me in nineteen-hundred-and-forty-nine. He was a hard worker, a little slow maybe, but alright. He’s the one found the note and took it to the press.”
The note, which had been left by the Toaster with his latest round of roses and cognac, was folded and left under the glass bottle:
The Master Poe
In Splendid Repose
I Come Unto You
Master
A Student
The Dead.
In the days following the release of the “poem,” a media sensation swept the nation. Suddenly, Edgar Allen Poe’s works were en vogue, and even illiterate laymen were flocking to Baltimore in hopes of discovering the Toaster.
Despite a ten year period of great public scrutiny, the Toaster evaded any attempts on his identity. He was seen out of the shadows only twice, once in 1958 by a city doctor and in 1972 by a police officer, and each man described the Toaster roughly the same: a small man in a large overcoat and wide brimmed hat, a white scarf tossed casually over one shoulder.
With that vision burning in my mind, I finished up my work with tight anticipation, and hurried back to my dorm. Josh was reading a paperback fantasy on his bed when I crashed through the door and spilled out what I had learned. I half expected him to know of the Toaster and to laugh at me, but his eyes only widened.
When I had done, he quickly placed a call to A- and G-‘s dorm. They came over as soon as they could, and were as surprised as we had been, through A- claimed that he had heard something of the Toaster long ago.
The others were enraptured by this turn of events, and excitedly chatted amongst themselves. Preoccupied, I gazed out the window at the gray, rainy day. Potomac Street ran before the campus, and beyond the pointed roofs, across the river, a light mist clung to the barren treetops.
I had to see the Toaster’s face, I had to see race, features, and structure where the world at large saw only darkness.
That’s why I casually suggested to the others that we go to Baltimore on Poe’s Birthday and observe the Toaster, neglecting to mention my true motivations.
My idea was met with eager acclamation, and we at once began preparing for our trip to Baltimore two weeks hence.
After an soul-destroying wait, the morning of the nineteenth dawned cold and clear. We left Keyser after lunch, following US50 across the north branch of the Potomac into Maryland. It was cloudy and sleeting by the time we met the interstate in Cumberland, and the going was slow thereafter. Halfway between the rural western part of the state and the more urbanized east there sits a giant mountain whose name I cannot remember. At a pace of no more than ten miles per hour we surmounted it behind a line of cautious cars. It was so foggy at the summit that the taillights even feet ahead of us were dimmed, as though seen through a veil into a different dimension. Thankfully, Josh was a fussy driver, and obeyed law and instinct rather than juvenile impatience.
Near dusk we pulled into Baltimore, which had been spared from the precipitation. We took the first exit we found, and stopped at a gas station for directions. A-, G- and I waited in the car while Josh went in, and we discussed in excited tones the Toaster and his work. When Josh returned, he weighed into the conversation, whimsically wishing that he had a video recorder so that he could lay a banana peel out and tape the Toaster succumbing.
Even though the old jockey behind the counter provided a nice diagram on the back of a defunct lottery ticket, we still had trouble finding the place. It was nearly dark when we finally located the street and pulled in.
Hawthorn sloped gently down a languid hill lined with ancient storefronts and other inhabitable relics of the past. The church stood in gothic splendor at the foot, its spires rising high into the low cloud cover. We had been talking when Josh slowly took the left hand turn, but a pall of silence overcame us as the holy house loomed ahead like the titanic citadel of some bygone elder race. On the south side of it, the cemetery fell back from the street behind a screen of tarnished wrought iron, slanted slabs of stone peppering the hillside amongst ghoulish trees and boxy crypts. Several horrible statues atop pedestals leered from deep within the most ancient part of the burying ground, appearing wan and giant corpses risen from damp graves.
We parked behind a Chevy Nova a half block upwind of the church, and sat in mesmerized quiet, the heat hemorrhaging from the car and the cold seeping in.
At the end of the hill there was a four way intersection, the traffic lights swaying in the frigid breeze. Beyond, the street continued, its flanks more open and less crowded. A white town car passed going east along the crossing street, followed by an old pickup.
“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 Diary of Dan Cooper
The following papers were released by the FBI on July 11th 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 24th 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. M
edicine. 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 later 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.