Fantastic Tales of Terror

by Eugene Johnson

  “He has killed at least three people,” Poe said again, resting his clenched fists on the inspector’s desk. “I am here to report a crime.”

  “Who are these three victims? No bodies have been found, no one reported missing.”

  Poe wished he had a drink as he sat sweating, shuddering, trying to get his thoughts under control. He adjusted his cravat, swallowed hard. “One is an old man . . . I don’t know the name. He was a boarder with a vulture-like eye, a lazy eye. It obsessed Usher so much that one night he killed the old man, smothered him with a pillow. Then he cut up the body into pieces and buried it under the floorboards. You can find the body still there in Usher’s home, if you look. Even his wife does not know about it.”

  The inspector did not look sufficiently horrified, nor convinced. “I can’t send police to tear up a man’s floor because you’ve had a nightmare.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or because you are at odds with your former employer.”

  Not wishing to explain, not yet, Poe pushed on. “The second victim was a business rival. A wealthy man from Atlanta who made a fortune in tobacco. Malcolm . . . ” He struggled for the name. He’d only caught a flash in Usher’s thoughts, drowned out by the hatred and smug satisfaction. “Malcolm Fortunato. They knew each other, disliked each other. Fortunato came to Virginia with plans to start a new newspaper that would have ruined Usher.”

  Poe was breathing hard, the memories as vivid inside him as if he had committed the murders himself. “Usher pretended to be jovial, invited the man to a private dinner at his home, just the two of them. He got Fortunato drunk on expensive sherry, and when the man was unconscious, Usher chained him to a wall in the cellar. He bricked Fortunato up, leaving him there to starve in the darkness, his screams unheard.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But Usher often returned to listen, pressing his ear against the fresh-laid bricks.”

  “Your imagination is horrific, Mr. Poe.” Inspector Dupin placed the cap on the bottle of ink and set aside the quill, upset that his time was being wasted. “Again you have yet to offer a shred of proof. How do you know these things?”

  Poe struggled to put the horrors into words. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. The cravat seemed constricting. “Is there no air in here, man?” The fumes of the kerosene lamp were stifling. Dupin unlatched the leaded glass window and swung it open, although the breezes did little to help. The ringing in Poe’s head changed to a different, higher pitch.

  He continued doggedly, “The third murder was his cousin Berenice, a beautiful young girl with perfect white teeth, like pearls. Usher was obsessed with them just as he was obsessed with the vulture eye of the old man. He and his wife took Berenice as their young ward, but the girl is gone now. You can verify that much.”

  “The man killed his niece because of her teeth?” Dupin asked with a long, dubious sigh.

  “Because he wanted the teeth, he needed the teeth. He broke them out of her jaw and kept them in a jar. I think . . . I think he wanted to make a necklace of them.”

  Dupin was repulsed. “You have tried my patience enough, Mr. Poe.”

  “These things can be checked. Find what happened to Malcolm Fortunato. And the old man, his boarder. And the girl Berenice. Where are they? Surely the great Richmond police inspector can solve the crime.”

  “I am not convinced there is any crime,” the inspector said.

  “Then prove to me there isn’t! If these people have indeed disappeared, will that not be enough to raise questions?”

  Dupin was at least partially swayed by the writer’s earnestness. “I do appreciate solving a crime.” He rose from his desk and went to the office door, calling out into the busy main room. “In the meantime I shall have you wait in a place where you’ll be safe, although not comfortable. You need it for your own good.” He scratched the stubble on his face. “If your assertions turn out to be false, there will also be consequences.”

  The nightmarish visions continued to plague him, the murders he had witnessed through the thoughts of a killer. “They are true. You’ll see.”

  The inspector addressed the two waiting officers. “Take Mr. Poe to the holding cell. He may be drunk or disoriented. At the very least he could use a good, long rest.”

  Poe was alarmed and infuriated as the policemen took him by the arms. “Look into the matter and you’ll see, Inspector! I will wait to be vindicated, and then I will see Reginald Usher pay for what he’s done.”

  ***

  With a rattle of keys in the lock, the iron bars swung open, and Poe groggily rose from the hard, narrow cot. He had slept poorly in the jail cell, hearing the muddled thoughts of another drunk in the next cell. Worse, he also overheard the violent recollections of a policeman in the corridor, a man who enforced the law while he was in uniform but went home to beat his wife because he liked her when she was terrified of him. The shuddery memories rang in his head, and Poe squeezed his eyes shut.

  The frown on Dupin’s face held questions, even uncertainty. Poe recognized the change, heard the doubt in the inspector’s thoughts. “You’ve seen it!” He stepped toward the open cell door, trying to gather his composure. His body smelled of sweat, his mouth tasted of sour old wine. He looked a disgrace.

  “It is enough to make me wonder, Mr. Poe. I investigated the matter, as you requested. Malcolm Fortunato is no longer in Richmond, and he has not been seen for two weeks.”

  Poe felt a shiver. In his mind he saw the images of the man hanging in manacles in the dark space behind the cellar wall, while Usher used trowel and mortar, brick by brick, to seal him alive. “Because he is entombed alive behind a brick wall.”

  Dupin said, “Fortunato apparently boarded a ship to England, where he has other business interests. He is not expected to return.”

  “But you can’t prove that,” Poe said.

  “Now you’re the one who asks for proof?” The inspector extended another finger. “Then there is the old man you spoke of. Some remember a boarder at the Usher’s house, and one person even remarked about the man’s oddly staring eye. But he has moved on, a transient—as boarders often are.”

  “Again, that is no proof! He is buried under the floorboards, I tell you. Tear them up, and you’ll see.”

  Dupin was singularly unruffled. “As for the cousin Berenice, the young girl was a ward of the Ushers, but has been sent off to a boarding school in Baltimore.”

  “No, she is dead. Send a rider to Baltimore,” Poe insisted. “You will find that the girl is not there.”

  “The reasoning is thin to send a courier on such an arduous journey. Rather, I’ll send a letter by post, just to investigate all possibilities. That will be sufficient.”

  Though not satisfied, Poe couldn’t force the inspector to do more. “So I’m free to go then?” Trying to regain his composure, he shuffled out of the cell and down the corridor.

  Following, Dupin scolded him. “In the meantime, you are not to besmirch the honor of Reginald Usher. You’ll only find yourself thrown back in jail.” The inspector spoke wearily as if he knew his words would not be heeded.

  When they reached the front office, a gentleman and lady entered the Richmond police station, both of them finely dressed, both looking indignant. Poe reeled back clutching Inspector Dupin’s arm for support. “Reginald Usher!”

  The newspaperman had a dark goatee, heavy eyebrows, and a stare like obsidian. Poe could not have described a more evil man in his most overwrought short story. Usher had a frock coat, a top hat, and a perfectly knotted purple cravat held in place with a diamond stickpin. Their eyes locked like daggers drawn.

  Usher’s voice boomed, “Poe, you spread vile rumors about me, and I’ll have none of it! You were fired from your position for cause, and this is just some disgruntled revenge.”

  But Poe’s gaze locked on the woman accompanying him, slightly plump with a powdered face, red hair done up in tight curls, a green velvet dress. And a necklace of perfect white, polished pearls, a string set off against her creamy thro
at.

  Poe heard the horrified screams of victims in his mind. “The teeth. Berenice’s teeth! That’s what you did with them, you monster!” He broke free of Dupin’s grasp and lunged forward. As Mrs. Usher shrieked and clung to her husband, Poe fell upon her. He grabbed at the necklace, yanking it free. He felt the hard white objects in the palm of his hand, broke the strand, and they clattered and bounced on the floor of the station.

  The inspector grabbed him, while other policemen rushed to help. Usher raised his walking stick and struck Poe on the shoulders. “Leave my wife alone.”

  “They are teeth. Berenice’s teeth!” Poe howled.

  As the necklace broke, the round white objects spread apart, rattling on the floor. Just pearls . . . ordinary, beautiful pearls.

  “Accusing me of heinous murder, assaulting my wife! This man should be in a madhouse.” Usher glared at Poe. “I gave you a chance, young man. I thought I saw talent in you, but you are a menace.”

  As Mrs. Usher found a seat and fanned herself, and the policemen collected the valuable pearls from the floor, Dupin dragged Poe to the side of the room, as far as possible from the newspaperman.

  Usher continued, seething. “Have you looked into this man’s life, his character, Inspector? Edgar Allan Poe is a disgrace to everyone who has tried to help him. He was ejected from the University of Virginia due to excessive drinking and gambling, estranged from his foster father because of enormous debts, discharged from the United States Army under questionable circumstances. I could go on at length.”

  Unable to deny any of it, Poe hung his head. His hand clenched, as if longing to hold a bottle of wine so he could drink himself into a stupor.

  The inspector’s expression changed, becoming disappointed, even disgusted. Poe didn’t have to listen in on Dupin’s thoughts, and he doubted the inspector would even write a letter to the boarding school to verify the whereabouts of Berenice.

  “I have seen enough. You are dismissed, Mr. Poe.” Dupin looked up at the newspaper owner. “Unless you wish to press charges, sir?”

  “Poe is pathetic, and he hasn’t a penny to his name. I’d waste no further time on him, although if he continues to sully my good character with his wild accusations, I shall be forced to respond with all the force of the law.”

  Usher turned with his lady, and they left the station. The policemen waited a sufficient length of time before throwing Poe out into the streets.

  ***

  Even drunk enough to blot out his conscious thoughts, Poe could not entirely escape from the resounding thought-echoes buzzing around him. At night the taverns, the dancing halls, and the gambling dens were a maelstrom of shouting minds that sucked him down. Poe had spent his last few coins on a bottle of cheap grog which had only dulled the uproar by a small amount.

  Now he staggered through the dark streets of Richmond, leaning against the brick walls of houses, keeping himself up by holding the rough bark of a stately elm. Feeling too exposed, he walked between buildings, seeking shelter in the shadows of an alley.

  Poe could not go home, not in this condition. Even with the misery and heartache he had given his aunt Maria, she would still fawn over him . . . or his lovely young cousin Virginia, of whom he was quite fond, would want to mother him, though she was just a child. They both knew of Poe’s illness, his passion, the clamor in his mind, but for some odd reason they excused it as the workings of a great creative mind. They knew his muse was so insistent it drove him to the verge of irrational behavior.

  Poe’s parents had been actors, and the spirit of drama surely lived within him. Young Virginia adored him when he told her stories, even the horrific ones that he dredged out of his nightmares. But he couldn’t share all of his pain and misery, not the true horrors he had seen in the hearts of even respectable men like Reginald Usher. Neither Aunt Marie nor sweet young Virginia deserved that.

  Poe didn’t deserve it either, but he had been cursed with a special acuity. All his life the ringing and droning had ricocheted through his head. Guilty memories, dark unintended confessions sloshed out of other minds like the foam from an overfilled mug of beer. He had heard the ghosts of lost loved ones, the violence of past crimes. The only way he could get a modicum of peace was by drowning those mental echoes with brandy, wine, or even cheap grog.

  Lurching down the alley, he took another swig from the dark bottle. He turned into another dark street, lost and uncaring.

  At the police station, Usher had deprecated him, and the man’s belittlement was all true. Poe was a failure in every aspect of his life, not through lack of talent but through a weakness in his character. How could a man lead a normal life when his very existence was an inner battle with tortuous thoughts that rose like a miasma from the crowd of humanity? Poe knew the dark secrets of even the most nondescript man in the crowd. He had to live with the guilt of every sin on which he eavesdropped. How could any man be strong enough for that?

  He drained the last of the grog and tossed the empty bottle aside. The breaking glass masked the sound of other footsteps, and Poe blearily made out the burly shapes of three men at the other end of the alley. He had come here hoping to find silence from all the clamorous thoughts in the city, but now he heard a roar of violent anticipation boiling from the men. These were thugs focused on hurting him, with no subtlety whatsoever. They did not even have thoughts of robbing him, although Poe would have been a disappointing mark for any cutpurse.

  He tried to flee, but his body was too clumsy from the drink, and two big men were upon him in a moment. He realized the third man was a different sort altogether. His thoughts were sharper, more dangerous and black, like the wings of a raven.

  “Hold him,” said the voice. “Hurt him.”

  One thug dutifully grabbed Poe by the collar and hauled him against the alley wall. The other man pummeled him hard in the face and again in his gut. As Poe collapsed, retching, the thoughts of the third man became more distinct. Even though he couldn’t see through the shadows, pain, and alcohol, he knew this man. Reginald Usher.

  Poe managed to croak, “You’ll kill me now, like the others?” He meant to sound defiant and challenging, but he convulsed and spewed vomit on the ground.

  “You are a madman, and your accusations are maddening.” Usher leaned close, grimacing at the stink of vomit and whiskey. “I should have these men cut you open and tie you with your own entrails.” He paused and grinned, showing white pearly teeth that must surely have been as noteworthy as Berenice’s. “Better yet, I should just bury you alive in an unmarked grave. No one would ever find you, and you would suffocate slowly, slowly. Ah, that would be fitting.”

  In the resonance of Usher’s murderous thoughts, Poe knew that he meant to do it.

  “But first you will tell me how you know.” He shook Poe by the shoulders, slamming his head against the alley wall. “Were you watching? What did you see? How is that possible?”

  “I saw because you saw,” Poe said. “And you can’t stop thinking about it.” He laughed. “The teeth . . . the teeth were so hard and white, but you didn’t expect all the blood when you used the hammer to bash them out of her lifeless face, did you?”

  Usher recoiled.

  “And the old man with the staring eye! You could hear his heart beating, couldn’t you? Even after he was dead, pounding in your head, pounding . . . .”

  Usher kicked him in the ribs, but it was more a reflex with little strength behind it. The two thugs, though, beat him harder. Poe kept laughing as he stared up at Usher’s animal eyes, saw even deeper into his mind. “I see Fortunato on the chains, sloppily begging for his life. You may be a powerful businessman, Mr. Usher, but you’re a bad bricklayer.”

  The man was horrified and infuriated. “You can’t know! You have no proof.”

  Poe chucked and then spat blood. “I have your guilt.”

  Usher stepped away, disgusted but clearly shaken.

  “Should we kill him?” asked one of the thugs.

  Usher s
hook his head. “The police know of my connection to him. If he died now, too many people might question me.” He clearly hated his conclusion. “But no one will take him seriously. He’s disgraced and clearly deranged.”

  Even through his fog of alcohol, blood, and pain, Poe found that amusing. “I am deranged? You murder people on a whim . . . and I am deranged?”

  “Let his own demons punish him,” Usher sneered, then considered. “But in the meantime, you can make him hurt.”

  The thugs kicked and pummeled Poe, but before he fell into unconsciousness, he was smiling. He had seen even deeper into Usher’s mind and found exactly what he needed.

  ***

  The annoyed policemen tried to prevent Poe from seeing Inspector Dupin. He tried to break free of their tight grip, and the struggle only exacerbated the pain of his countless bruises, his cracked ribs, his split lip. His black eye was so swollen he could barely see. “I must speak with the inspector! It is a matter of utmost importance.”

  Dupin emerged from his dingy office and regarded the battered man with grave disappointment, though he showed a small amount of sympathy at seeing his injuries. “I see your words have gotten you into even more trouble, Mr. Poe.”

  Poe yanked his arms free of the policemen. “Not my words, sir—it is what I know that makes Usher fear me.”

  One of the policemen interjected sharply, “He was obviously beaten and robbed while he was in a drunken stupor.”

  “Do you intend to blame this on Reginald Usher?” Dupin asked.

  “It was his ruffians, but he will deny it.” Poe tugged on the muddied remnants of his jacket, then stripped off the mangled cravat as a lost cause. “But this assault is insignificant when compared with the heinous murders he has committed.”