Once Upon a Midnight Eerie: Book #2 (Misadventures of Edgar/Allan) (4 page)

Edgar took his position in the large, open entryway of the nineteenth-century townhouse that would stand in for the author’s childhood home. Skillfully backlit, he was visible only in dramatic silhouette, facing out toward the street, his arms at his sides.

“Quiet on the set!”

Moments before, Allan had lost Mr. Wender’s coin flip, which had sent his brother onto the set to do the scene. (Of course, there never was any real winning or losing between the Poe twins, as each could always be said to do whatever the other did, simultaneously.)

“Action!” called Mr. Wender.

YOUNG EDGAR ALLAN POE stands motionless in the doorway. Then, as if giving himself over to a strange, magnetic pull, he steps out of the townhouse and onto the sidewalk, transforming from mysterious silhouette to dimly lit figure. He takes slow steps. At last, he stops in the flickering glow of a gas streetlamp that illuminates his face, which bears an expression almost as dark as the night around him. This is no carefree boy. From out of the darkness comes a girl’s voice, unexpected but appealing.

ANNABEL LEE

“Is this your cat, sir?”

EDGAR turns, spying a lovely young girl
[played by Em]
kneeling beside a black cat
[played by Roderick].

The scene continued as planned until Edgar delivered his last line. Then, instead of walking silently out of the shot after him, as expected, Em turned to the camera and delivered the following speech:

ANNABEL LEE
(to YOUNG EDGAR ALLAN POE)

Your wisdom is consumed in confidence.

Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear

That keeps you in the house, and not your own.

Edgar looked at her, befuddled.

“Cut!” Mr. Wender shouted, striding out from behind the monitor. “What on earth are you doing, Miss Dickinson?” he demanded, his German accent thickening as he grew angrier.

“It’s the new version of the scene,” Em said nervously.

“There
is
no new version,” Mr. Wender snapped. “And I’d know,
since I wrote the script
.”

“But there was a page on my chair. It said ‘New dialogue for scene one.’” She hurried to get it for him.

The director took it, looked it over, and then angrily crumpled it into a ball and tossed it away.

Everyone stood Stuffed Cat-still in response to his rage.

“Does anyone here have a
proper
copy of the script to show this young lady?” he demanded.

Everyone looked at their scripts.

Simultaneously, their faces registered surprise.

Somehow, the speech had been added to
all
of the copies of the script.

Impossible—but nothing piqued the boys’ interest like “impossible” occurrences.

Allan went over to the director. “That speech may be a message to my brother and me.”

“What?” he asked.

“Sometimes the universe sends us messages in mysterious forms.”

Mr. Wender sighed. “Look, boys, this is no time for jokes.”

But the boys weren’t joking.

And neither was the mysteriously inserted speech.

“It’s from Shakespeare’s play
Julius Caesar
,” Edgar explained.

“Caesar’s wife is trying to warn him that he’s about to be assassinated,” Allan added, glancing meaningfully at his brother.

A warning about assassination?

For Edgar and Allan, this was nothing new.

Mr. Wender waved his hands dismissively.

The Poe twins didn’t dismiss the warning. But neither would they allow it to alter their immediate priority, which was to finish shooting tonight’s scene with time enough to return to the
Pepper Tree Inn, pretend to go to sleep, and then sneak out for the midnight ghost tour. Edgar and Allan never allowed caution to overrule curiosity.

“Quiet on the set!”

Edgar returned to his original, silhouetted position in the doorway.

After a moment, Mr. Wender called: “Action!”

Edgar and Em played the scene without the final speech.

“Cut! And print!” called Mr. Wender happily.

Three hours later, after additional takes with the camera in different positions, Mr. Wender strode to the middle of the set and raised his arms joyfully to the skies.

“That’s a wrap for tonight, everyone!” he announced.

It was eleven o’clock and the ghost tour was scheduled to begin in an hour. The boys said quick good-byes to Em and Milly, who had made good first impressions (each in her own way). Roderick wove a quick figure eight around their legs. Then boys and cat raced across the set to Uncle Jack and Aunt Judith, who had spent most of the evening watching from their nephews’ personalized chairs.

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” Edgar said to them.

“Growing boys need a decent bedtime,” Allan added.

Uncle Jack and Aunt Judith looked at them suspiciously.

The boys responded with jaw-cracking yawns.

“OK,” Uncle Jack said. “Bedtime it is.”

Bedtime, sure,
thought Edgar and Allan.

WHAT THE POE TWINS DID NOT KNOW  .  .  .

TRANSCRIPT OF PHONE CONVERSATION RECORDED AT STATE PRISON FOR WOMEN, SENIOR CITIZEN UNIT:

FEMALE:
Hello?

INMATE #89372:
Hello, Cassandra?

FEMALE:
Grandmother? It’s after eleven. We just finished shooting. Is everything all right?

INMATE #89372:
Oh yes, I have wonderful news.

FEMALE:
You mean about our plan? Oh, I’ve already laid the groundwork.

INMATE #89372:
No. Something else. But just as good. I’ve kept it to myself because I wasn’t sure it would really happen. But it has. I’ve been paroled!

FEMALE:
That’s fantastic!

INMATE #89372:
Twenty-six long years. . . . Now I can come to New Orleans.

FEMALE:
To assist me?

INMATE #89372:
Exactly.

Mr. Poe in the Great Beyond

Mr.
Edgar Allan Poe, who had been dead now for more than one hundred and sixty years, slammed his fist on his desk, rattling his stapler, tape dispenser, coffee mug, pen and inkwell, and framed photograph of his great-great-great-great grandnephews, Edgar and Allan. His life on earth had not been easy; likewise, his afterlife, spent working in various writing department cubicles, had offered its share of frustrations. Most recently, he had been demoted from the Fortune Cookie Division to the License Plate Division.

And now this:

That Mr. Shakespeare wanted to meet in his own office was not a good sign. He usually came to Mr. Poe’s cubicle to register his displeasure with Mr. Poe’s projects, particularly those involving Edgar and Allan. He used his own office for only the most serious matters.

Drat!

So Mr. Poe took the elevator to the 184,692,384th floor, roughly the middle of the building.

The first thing Mr. Poe always noticed when he entered Mr. Shakespeare’s office was how thick and cushy the carpeting felt. It was almost like walking on a cloud.

Next, he took in the theatrical posters that lined the paneled walls. These changed daily, representing a selection of Mr. Shakespeare’s plays currently running in theaters on earth. Almost every country was represented.

Finally, Mr. Poe noted that the curtain was drawn across the office’s magnificent picture window. Ordinarily, Mr. Shakespeare took great pride in sharing the breathtaking view from this perch in the celestial skyscraper. The drawn curtain was a bad sign.

Mr. Shakespeare stood behind his big desk. “Come in, Mr. Poe.”

It was only then that Mr. Poe realized they were not alone.

He gasped when he recognized the old man sitting on the oversize sofa.

It was Mr. Shakespeare’s boss: Homer, the ninth-century
B.C.
author of
The Iliad
and
The Odyssey
,
father of Western literature, and, most impressive, the writing department liaison to the executive suite upstairs.

Mr. Poe was speechless.

“Join me here on the couch, Mr. Poe,” Homer said, his blind eyes seeming to have zeroed in on the suddenly humbled American poet and short story writer.

“Um, yes, sir.”

Mr. Poe had met Homer only once before, at a writing department Halloween party. Homer had come costumed as a baseball player. Now, he wore a brightly colored tunic and his bearded face bore a chiseled dignity that even the finest Greek sculptor had failed to capture.

“It seems we have a problem, Mr. Poe,” Mr. Shakespeare said, pulling distractedly at his doublet.

What else is new?
Mr. Poe thought, sitting at the far end of the sofa.

Homer turned to him. “How are you these days, Edgar?”

“Oh, fine,” he answered nervously.

Homer said nothing but merely waited, his blind gaze boring into Mr. Poe.

“OK—actually, I’m not fine but worried, sir,” Mr. Poe said. “See, my nephews on earth are in great danger.” He leaned across the couch and gestured dramatically, even though Homer could not see. “Please understand, they’re extraordinary boys and—”

Homer held up one large, wizened hand.

Mr. Poe stopped.

Mr. Shakespeare sat on the edge of his desk. “Rest assured, Mr. Poe, that Homer knows all about your nephews. And, more significantly, he also knows about your recent efforts to intervene—or shall I say,
interfere
—with their lives on earth, including your recent license plate warnings.”

Yes, Mr. Poe had been quite busy of late breaking rules.

“But plagiarism is a whole other level of offense,” Homer interjected calmly.

In the presence of the Greek master, Mr. Poe hadn’t the will to make the sort of sarcastic remarks that he usually directed toward Mr. Shakespeare. Instead, he just looked away.

“Of course, we refer to your most recent warning to the boys,” Mr. Shakespeare added, anger edging into his voice. “Specifically, the alterations to the movie script being filmed now in New Orleans.”

Mr. Poe gave him a deliberately blank look. “Movie?”

“I’m afraid this time you’ve gone too far,” said Homer.

“Have you ever considered, sir, that perhaps someone else might have sent a warning down to my nephews?” He glanced at Mr. Shakespeare. “Even my boss here, for example.”

Mr. Shakespeare laughed maliciously.

“Yes, we considered that, Mr. Poe,” Homer said. “That’s precisely the trouble.”

Mr. Poe tried to look surprised by the accusation. But he feared he’d never fool Homer, whose insight was not reliant on his eyes alone.

Homer recited from memory:

“Your wisdom is consumed in confidence

Do not go forth to-day: call it my fear

That keeps you in the house, and not your own.”

Mr. Shakespeare stood up and glared at Mr. Poe. “Those lines are taken word for word from
my
play
Julius Caesar
, act two, scene two!”

Mr. Poe said nothing.

“Somehow, you used my log-in to access the Dramatists’ Archives. This flies in the face of all rules, Mr. Poe. Especially since you’d been assigned to the License Plate Division!”

“Temper your temper, Will,” Homer said.

Mr. Shakespeare nodded, closed his eyes, and took a deep, calming breath.

When he spoke again, his manner was as composed as a prosecutor’s in a courtroom. “What matters is that Mr. Poe communicated a warning to his nephews by appropriating
my
words, thereby attempting to place the blame for the malfeasance on me. To say nothing of plagiarism.  .  .  . This, I dare say, is an offense of great seriousness.”

“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?