Tribute to Poe

“...The door, of massive iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight caused an unusually sharp, grating sound, as it moved upon its hinges…”

I looked up from the battered hardback that lay on my lap as I sat curled up, swaddled in my afghan. I couldn't see the door from where I was tucked into the nook bracketing the fireplace. Embers glowed and flickered. The shop’s counter stood sentinel between me and the rest of the store.

Had I heard a knock? Or had my mind conjured it upon reading my tale? Well, not just reading, rather speaking aloud, the way in which all Poe stories should be devoured. His grasp of the language, his love of words, his mastery over their use always gripped me during recitation. Maybe my reverent utterance of the author had reached him in the grave, and he'd sent knocking to my mind.

My bookstore, quartered in an old house with high ceilings, exposed beams, and excessive windows (which were presently rattling violently in the furious wind battering them), closed hours ago. Absolutely no cause could persuade someone to be knocking on my door seeking a book at this hour in these conditions; not even an intense longing for a dusty classic or the newest True-Crime would warrant a visit. Perhaps the wind had knocked randomly on my door as it was wont to do on blustery nights such as this.

Shaking my head, I focused back on the tragic plot of Roderick Usher’s descent into madness. I spoke the words as they slipped by before my eyes, interspersed with moments of a barely voiced whisper as tension built.

“...and now with a feeling of wild amazement—for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound…”

My head snapped up. A scream. I had definitely heard screaming. Was it just a shriek from the tempest raging outside? It sounded so human. So tortured and…lonely. Betrayed.

I looked to the winding staircase across from the counter. It stood flanked by overstuffed bookcases at the bottom and half cases stepped up along the heavy wooden treads as they curled around ascending into darkness. Craning my neck, I peered up the stairs, envisioning a distraught woman, with wild hair and white gown floating around her ankles, appearing out of the gloom, dramatically descending the steps. Of course, she didn't, and I chuckled to myself. I'm a victim of my own imagination.

Just to be sure, I scanned the room. Dozens of bookcases filled every wall and formed a maze of alcoves that continued from room to room. Piles of books reached to the ceiling from atop the cases, and collections, whose organization only made sense to me, were stacked knee-high around their bases.

I did try to keep cobwebs at bay, but that didn't stop the webs of intrigue that connected the Thriller section to the Horror, to the Romance, Philosophy and onward, swagging along in dim shadows of the mouldings.

Where was I?  I fluttered the page corners of the book on my lap. Ah, yes. Madeline Usher was about to come forth from the tomb of her premature burial in the labyrinthine cellar of my story. I wasn't supposed to know this yet, but after dozens of readings I did…and it wasn't a spoiler; it heightened the anticipation of the agony soon to unfurl. 

I wiggled deeper into my blanket and let the vortex suck me back to the crumbling house of Usher above the tarn. My hands flexed and gestured as they assisted in telling the tale.

“...the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight—my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder—there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters…”

I slammed the book shut as the sound of splintering and cracking rolled across the second floor shaking the ceiling. I leapt to my feet, abandoning my fire-lit cozy corner, and sprinted toward the Gothic section. Shrieking and scraping and banging echoed down the winding staircase. The unlit light fixture jangled above. 

The bookcase in question stood obscured in shadow, but I knew where each book lived. I jammed my beloved volume into its slotted space and stepped back. I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes. The chaos upstairs settled. Complete silence blanketed the house, and I realized the storm, too, had ended.

I gripped the bannister and headed up to my apartment and my bed. So close to the end! Maybe I can finish it next time.