Shivers 7 (28 page)

He returned his gaze to the garden.
What was I really doing out there at night?

Ed moved across the yard, stopping just prior to the raised bed. He crouched down and inspected the garden. No more damaged plants, everything looked fine. He looked over at the bird feeders and bath. Strange, the birds were suddenly gone and the area had grown deathly quiet, much the way it did when a hawk or other predator was nearby. Shielding his eyes from the sun with a hand, he looked to the sky, expecting to see a large bird of prey circling overhead.

The sky was clear.

His eyes panned back to the garden, slowly considering each plant. Had he really pulled them up without realizing it? Had Hannah? It seemed they had, yet despite the evidence, deep down he wasn’t sure he bought it, and he had no idea why.

Hannah’s words echoed in his mind.

What I don’t understand is how someone or something could trample the plants like that and not leave a footprint.

Sliding forward onto his knees, he dropped a hand to the loose soil and pushed it around a bit.

It’s almost as if someone dropped down from above.

Ed’s finger brushed something foreign.

But that’s not possible, because there’s nothing there for someone or something to hang from. No trees or anything.

Using both hands now, Ed pushed more dirt aside, digging a bit deeper into the garden with his fingers.

Unless…could we be misinterpreting what we’ve seen somehow?

His fingers touched something soft but also hard. What the hell—

And then it hit him. What if the plants hadn’t been trampled at all? What if it only
appeared
that way? Not because someone above had pulled them up, but because something
below
had pushed them
out
.

Frantically clearing the dirt, Ed stopped as quickly as he’d begun, paralyzed with horror so terrifying he could feel his entire body shutting down. What appeared to be a human face was buried in the garden.
His
face—dirty and tangled in weeds and vines, eyes wild, mouth open like a hungry baby bird—and something resembling human hands not quite finished, rising up through the dirt, through the garden floor to clamp onto his wrists.

As his mind shattered, he tried to scream, but even as he slammed forward into the dirt and felt whatever had a hold of him squeezing and pulling him down, he knew it would do no good.

9.

Corky sat in front of the sliders growling.

“What’s the matter?” Hannah asked from somewhere behind him.

The dog cocked his head, confused and trying to understand not only what he’d just witnessed, but what he was now seeing.

“What’s Daddy doing? Do you see Daddy?”

No. Not Daddy. Something
like
Daddy. But not Daddy. Not anymore. Something…finishing…growing…
becoming
. But not Daddy.

As Hannah reached for the sliders, Corky barked, jumped up and tried to block her from going outside.

“Down boy!” she scolded, grabbing his collar.

Reluctantly, and with a whimper, the dog sat down.

“Stay. Be a good boy and stop it now, it’s just Daddy.”

No…not Daddy
…

Hannah opened the sliders and moved out onto the deck to find Ed coming up the steps. He was filthy and disheveled. “What the hell have you been doing, rolling around on the ground? You’re scaring the dog.”

“Come with me.” Coughing, he wiped dirt from his lips and took her hand. “I want to show you something.”

His hand felt odd. “Why,” she asked, “what’s up?”

“There’s something you need to see,” he said, “something in the garden.”

As he led her across the yard, Corky hurled himself against the sliders, growling and barking with furious violence.

Not Daddy!

And there, just beneath the dirt…slowly emerging…growing impossibly from the garden soil…

Not
Mommy.

I Am Become Poe

Kevin Quigley

You may think me mad, I suspect, but I assure you, I am quite sane. My name is Bill Wilson—some know me as William Wilson—and it is the name attached to me at birth. Perhaps that gives some indication as to why my life has run the course it has, and why I felt compelled to follow in that path, though I knew certain destruction lay at the end.

My parents were both Poe aficionados, going so far as to name both their children after characters in Poe’s canon. My sister, Lenore, died early, at the age of six, having fallen down a well and broken her neck. I, William, was but a child at the time, but I do recall the sight of her limp, horrifically twisted body as the paramedics dragged it to the above world. I stared at her—unable to stop myself. I stared at Lenore as she lay on a blanket my parents laid out on the lawn, as she lay mangled and distorted and not my sister but a dead thing which somehow took her form. I gazed, and a phrase, called forth from the depths of my five year old mind,

Nameless
here
forevermore
.

The line, the words, recited often by my parents since I was born, and perhaps that was where the descent really began. I forced myself to learn to read, forced myself at that age to read and forget the death of my sister. By the age of seven, I had read all the works of Edgar Allen Poe, and could recite “The Raven” by heart. Let that be a point of fact to those who would call me mad. Since my earliest days, I have been a fastidious one, an exact one, and some may perceive that precision as madness. So be it. Perchance my tale will change such a one’s mind.

I decided early on that the primary source of pleasure in my life would be derived from the words and works of Poe. This was not a conscious decision; all vital acts, I believe, emerge from the subconscious. In my school years, I became a student of Poe, often knowing more of the man than my professors did. I sought out collections of his work, delighting in the rarest manuscripts. A mere dozen copies of Poe’s first collection,
Tamerlane and Other Poems
, still exist, and I have held one. In school, my essay titled “Edgar Allan Poe and the Dark Art of Madness,” won me the position of head editor on the school literary magazine, and a partial scholarship to the university of my choice. I, of course, chose the University of Virginia, where Poe studied, later neglecting my work and dropping out, just as he did.

I actually did spend a brief time in the Army, but opted out after only a few short months. It was then my true life began, as a newspaper editor and part-time carpenter in a small town named Buxley, Massachusetts. I chose the town for two reasons—firstly, because it was within driving distance of Boston—Poe’s hometown—and secondly, because it was the only place in the country where I was able to locate a street actually called Tamer Lane. I purchased a small house there, and took a wife by the name of Virginia. As I have said, I had done none of these things consciously, nor with any ebb of sanity. From my youngest days, I have felt that my life has been mapped out in the course that Poe navigated. I believe I was born unto this world to resume the shape and form that Poe originally designed—to become Poe, to live again as Poe once lived. And I was almost successful, almost, almost.

It was the frequent appearance of the bird, I believe, that caused my downfall. The bird ever so gently tapping at my window in the dead of night. I awoke late one evening, plagued by headaches that remained as remnants from the opium-laced drink in which I’d earlier indulged. Virginia slept in the other chamber, and perhaps it was for the best that she could not hear the tapping. O, it was maddening! I came to with a start, my head pounding, and I looked toward the window, at the ebony bird beguiling, tapping its beak against the pane of glass. Tapping, tapping. I stood slowly, rising to stand, staring at this bird. This black bird. I knew, in my heart, that this, as with the rest of my life, had been scripted. I delighted in knowing which words to say, and which actions to take.

I threw the window open, and the bird, of course a raven, fluttered in and did indeed perch above the bust of Pallas just above my chamber door. I’d had the bust made to my own specification, no expense spared. To become Poe, one must live as Poe—and as the people he wrote about.

I turned toward the bird, my bedclothes clinging to me with the slick perspiration sliming my skin. “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou,” I said, “Art sure no craven, ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is, from the night’s Plutonian shore!”

Yes, yes he did. Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”

I stood, terrified and exalted, my mind reeling.
This
is what I had been waiting for!
This
was my entire life’s journey, coming to summation here in my chamber! But, as I was to learn, it was simply the beginning. The quiet dedication to my master was finally being rewarded—I was to for once and forever become Poe!

Presently I gathered my wits about me. My heart was racing—the time had come to put Poe’s words into action. I slowly opened my chamber door and allowed myself into the hallway that connected my room and Virginia’s. I would have to be careful—this would have to be precise. I was nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous, but I was calm, and my senses were sharp. I knew what to do.

Slowly, I crept past Virginia’s door and to the stairs, moving slowly so as not to wake her. I had almost reached the bottom when our cat, Plutonian, raced past me in the dark. It was all so perfect, so right. I reached out blindly and caught the cat by its tail, hoisting it up to me. It jerked about, its claws flying in the air. It could scratch me all it wanted—I was no longer myself. I held the beast at arm’s length and carried it out to the backyard, moving slowly, slowly. It scrambled to and fro and I believe even then, it may have known what was to happen to it. I felt an odd sort of pity for the cat, but it was no longer my will which brought the animal to its destiny. It was Poe’s will, Poe’s story, just as it had always been.

Still grasping the creature by its tail, I entered the tool shed I had built in the backyard several years ago. From within I retrieved the two items I would need. The first was a length of rope. I exited the shed and proceeded to the large elm tree looming above. Securing the mewling, scratching creature under one arm, I tossed one end of the rope around a thick high branch. Swiftly, I made a layman’s noose—a sloppy job, but one that would suit my purpose. I dug my hands into the bristly fur on the creature’s back and thrust its head through the noose, yanking the rope tight and killing Plutonian instantly. It jerked twice and hung there, suspended in the moonlight, its tongue lolling out and spittle drying on its whiskers. I looked at it a moment longer, and saw with no surprise that the white patch splayed across the creature’s back was no longer shapeless—it
had
formed into the shape of a Gallows, that mournful and terrible engine of horror and of crime! It was then I knew I was following Poe’s prophecy to the letter—I could feel myself fill with the entity and being that was the man. My actions had shocked me, and I was terrified. Yet that terror was not fright, but a tremendous delight, and I felt the same exaltation I had felt in my chamber, the feeling that my entire life had been lived to be paid off in this moment.

I took the axe, the other item I had removed from the shed, and slowly made my way back to the house.

* * *

I stood outside Virginia’s door, my hand on the doorknob. I needed to be slow, slow—as slow as possible. I turned the knob with exquisite care, opening the door just a crack. Little by little, the door opened, and I prided myself on my patience. An hour or more sped by as I continued to open the door, and finally it was open enough for me to look inside. Virginia lay sleeping, curled up in a ball near the head of the bed. For a moment, some of my original consciousness overtook me—I saw her beauty, and her innocence, and no part of me wanted to do what I was about to do. Yet just then, her eyes flew open, and she saw me and screamed, and the mind and will of Poe rushed back in me and I fled forward, axe high. Bringing it down, I screamed, as if gripped in a mania, “I am chilling and killing my Annabel Lee! I am chilling and killing my Annabel Lee!” I couldn’t help it—the axe sliced down into her pretty face, into her bosom, erasing the young Virginia in a dark spray of blood. My young Virginia, my Annabel Lee.

* * *

After I had buried her parts beneath the floorboards on the first floor, I glanced out the window to see the sun was coming up. I showered briefly, and then set about to telephone my good friend Charles Forten. Here, I would need to stray a bit from the path set before me, but what was important was the end, not the means.

“Hello?” he asked, and I found myself pleased that he was groggy, and that he would be more susceptible.

“Charlie,” I said, keeping my voice regular, “Could you come over, please? I have some matters to discuss with you.”

“Come to the House of Usher at seven in the morning? Why?” I smiled a bit at that. Charlie had always indulged me in my obsession.

“To tell you the truth, Virginia left me,” I said. “We had a fight and she went all to pieces.”

“Oh,” Charles said sympathetically, “Oh, I’m sorry. Sure, I’ll be right over.”

As I waited for him, I prepared his drink—a glass of wine laced with opium. For once, I didn’t take any opium for myself—I would need to be clear-headed for the work I was to perform.

Charles arrived soon after, and I immediately made it clear that I most wanted to be drunk at this time. We could discuss Virginia’s leave at another time, but now was the time to drown my misery in wine. It being a Saturday, and Charles being a man who never passed up a drink—even early in the morning (in this, we were remarkably similar), he agreed. Before we set down in the sitting-room, he noticed the bottle from which I had drawn the wine.

“Amontillado, is it?” he asked.

“But of course, “ I said, smiling. Once more, I felt a vague unease begin to creep into my senses. Perhaps this was not the way. Perhaps…

But then Charles put the glass of opium-wine to his lips, and I thought,
Nemo me impune lacessit
. No one challenges me with impunity. True, Charles hadn’t challenged me with anything, but they were the right words at this point in the path, and again, I felt the presence of Poe grow strong within me.

* * *

By his fourth glass of Amontillado, Charles began to hallucinate—imagining he saw rats traipsing about the floor, and blood pouring out of the walls. I tell you, his imaginations of blood unnerved me, in light of Virginia’s leave of this world. I knew the time had come to rid myself of Charles Forten, and that in doing so, my transformation would be complete. No longer just William Wilson, a character, but Poe himself. I would become Poe.

Charles nodded, nearly napping, and I dragged him by the armpits to my cellar door, kicking it open. His boots thumped softly on the cellar stairs, and he grunted once or twice from the depths of his stupor. I had used this place mainly as a wine cellar and a workroom, but I had also constructed something in the under dwelling my wife had never discovered: a sub-cellar. As with all things, I had built it primarily without knowing why, but I had persevered in the project, and eventually had a small warren of rooms nearly the size of the actual cellar itself. One could get there through means of a trapdoor, if one knew the exact place it was set into the basement floor (I had cleverly hidden the whole floor with a carpet several years before.) It was here I bought Charles.

The ladder leading into the sub-cellar was steep, and I had to hoist Charles down bodily. I would have to hurry—the movements were quickening Charles’ revival, and I wanted him to be in place before that happened. I dragged him to the smallest room in the cellar—not more than an alcove, really, with twin iron supports standing parallel from the floor to the ceiling. I dumped Charles into the room and quickly went to retrieve a box I had kept down here for years without knowing why. Now, I understood.

Inside were four pairs of handcuffs, a bag of cement mixture, and a straight razor. Another room in the catacomb was filled with solid red bricks. I smiled as I realized my plan and set to work securing Charles’ feet and legs to the iron supports. He finally began to come around when I got the last appendage—his left foot—clinched tightly.

“What are you doing?” Charles asked, his mouth moving slowly and deliberately as if stuffed with cotton.

“I am exacting the thousand injuries of Charles Forten,” I said, smiling. “You have done nothing out of sorts to me, so I must prepare the injuries myself. Stand still, Charles.” It was then I brought the straight razor up and proceeded to cut my friend, over and over. Murder was not my intention, oh no, and the cuts I made were shallow. I counted—I was ever so precise—one thousand times I cut him, one thousand injuries. As it was written.

Charles stood alert, bleeding and whimpering, as I began to brick up the entryway to the alcove. He had weakened, and he called my name over and over. He begged of me. Once, he tried to laugh and pretend as if it were a joke. It appeared as if he remembered the story, and thought that by playing along he would appease me. I needed no appeasement, however. The horror and dread which had gripped my heart during the previous encounters had departed—and I felt free.

Before I fastened the last brick into place, I looked in at Charles. He had grown quiet, and now, I saw, his eyes had closed. “Charles,” I called in a singsong manner.

His eyes opened slowly, and he turned his face to me. It was a bloody ruin. He began to grunt at me, trying to fight weakly against his bondage.

“Now you dwell alone, in a world of moan,” I said, laughing, and put the last brick in. Satisfied with my work, I retreated to house above, where I partook in a bit of opium myself.

* * *

The police arrived some time later, answering calls regarding strange noises from my house. I appeared to them puzzled, then knowingly I revealed that my wife and I had had an argument the night before. They nodded, smiling, and I was about to send them on their way when I was taken by an overpowering need to extend hospitality to them. I invited them to stay for cookies and ale, and they stayed awhile with me, joking and talking. I began to show them around the house, noting all the additions and improvements I made. Eventually, God help me, I led them to the cellar, feeling an overwhelming and compelling need to show them the sub-cellar. I was so taken with pride over its construction, and no one had seen it but Charles, who was well on his way to dying in it.