by Pamela Ebel
Enjoy this never before published Halloween short story!
October 31, 2024, Baltimore, Maryland
Clint, Jeff, and Carson stood at the iron gate entrance to Westminster Hall and Burial Grounds. They examined the invitation that had been taped to the door of their dorm room:
Halloween at Westminster Hall and Burial Ground; Date: Thursday, Oct. 31, 2024, Time: 6 p.m. to 9 p.m.
Where: 519 W. Fayette St., Baltimore, MD
Tickets: $5 for adults / children under 4 are free
Featuring: Seasonal music on the 1882 Johnson pipe organ. The movie The Graves of Edgar Allan Poe and the Women who Haunted Him (parental discretion advised). Dramatic performances of “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Tours of the Edgar Allan Poe grave and Westminster Hall catacombs. Scavenger hunt for El Cuervo.
“Clint, I don’t know why I let you con us into coming to this, man. We have a contracts exam in the morning, and none of us have studied for it.”
Jeff waited for an answer from Clint as Carson continued to survey the Egyptian Revival Gate to the catacombs created when Westminster Presbyterian Church was built over the graveyard in 1852.
“I don’t know a lot about our exam tomorrow, but I’m willing to bet the people in those graves didn’t contract to be stuck below some church they didn’t even belong to,” Carson said. “That would be a great lawsuit to bring.”
His roommates turned to look at him.
Clint laughed and finally spoke.
“Carson my man, you really come up with some strange legal theories. And don’t worry so much, Jeff. We have our outlines. We can just do a quick walk through and then head over to the cafeteria to tank up on coffee and do an all-nighter. After all, it is Halloween. Come on, let’s go find some ghosts to scare us awake.”
They headed to the ticket booth.
“Here are your tickets and a map of the Catacombs gentlemen. Enjoy the party and Happy Halloween. Be sure to grab a drink and some candy after your tour.”
The young woman working the ticket booth, whose name tag said “Lucia,” had long dark hair and wore a flowing white dress. Clint, considering himself a lothario, a role he had inherited from his grandfather, looked at the ticket seller and asked, “Can you tell us who the El Cuervo guy on the invitation is?”
“El Cuervo is Spanish for Raven,” Lucia answered.
Clint flashed a broad smile. “It would be a lot more enjoyable if you would come with us. How about a personal tour?”
“Sorry, but I am on duty until 12:30. You three are on your own.”
“Come on, Clint. It will be midnight in another hour, and we want to get into the old part of the graveyard by then. You can be a ‘playboy’ after that.” Jeff pushed the lothario out of the line, and Carson followed after winking at Lucia, who laughed and waved goodbye.
“Man, I was just getting on her good side. Another five minutes and she would have followed us,” Clint said.
The roommates told jokes and kidded each other as they followed the path indicated by the map. But Clint kept turning to look back over his shoulder every few feet.
“We know your astounding luck with women, Clint, but Lucia has a job that she probably wants to keep. So stop waiting for her to appear, and let’s get to the Catacombs.”
“I’m not looking for her. I feel like someone or something is following us. Don’t you two feel it?”
Carson stopped, looked around, then shrugged. “Nope, Clint. It’s just us. So, stop kidding and let’s go.”
One of the gas lights dimmed as a large bird flew in front of it. Then a figure in the shadows of the trees held out an arm. The bird landed on the arm, and the figure followed the boys silently.
Five minutes later, the friends stopped at the gate at 519 West Fayette Street and stared into the darkened graveyard. There was some light offered by old gas lamp poles, but the headstones and crypts were barely visible. Clint dug in his backpack and pulled out a flashlight, and the three began to make their way down the sidewalk. The air grew cold and smelled of damp earth and old brick and mortar as they moved deeper into the Catacombs.
Clint heard a sound in front of him and stopped abruptly. The flashlight dropped out of his hand and hit the ground. As he picked it up, a large black bird was illuminated. Loud laughter caught the boys further off guard and they jumped. A group of teenagers dressed as vampires passed by singing to a cell phone version of “The Monster Mash.” When Clint turned the flashlight back onto the path, they saw the bird was gone.
“The grave should be just ahead, not far from the entrance according to this map. ” Clint waved the flashlight down the path and to the right.
Carson shook his head. “Let’s find this grave and take pictures and get over to the party. This place is too creepy at night.”
Agreeing with his assessment, they walked rapidly. Nearing the monument, Clint turned at the sound of rustling and looked up at a large black bird perched on a leafless tree limb.
“Hey! What are you doing up there?” He pointed. “Fella’s look.”
“Come on Clint. We agreed no more jokes. There is nothing to see.”
Turning back, Clint saw the limb was empty, but he thought he saw a figure moving behind the tree as fog began to roll in.
“But that black bird was watching us, and I think there was someone near us. I’m pretty sure we’re being followed,” Clint said.
“Fine. All the more reason to get our task over with and leave.” Jeff grabbed Clint’s arm, and they ran to Edgar Allen Poe’s gravesite.
As Clint removed the camera from the backpack, Jeff took a bag of pennies from his coat pocket and laid them down at the base of the monument.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” Carson said.
“I’ve told you a million times. Poe died destitute, and they buried him in the back of the cemetery, no headstone, nothing but the numbers 8 and 0 on stones. A teacher started a “Pennies for Poe” drive with her students, and children from all over the city raised enough money to make the mayor look bad. So they built this monument and moved Poe here. Then moved his wife and mother-in-law too. People leave pennies to remember the kids and how such a famous man could end up penniless. I thought since we were here, the pennies would be a nice gesture.”
“A nice gesture indeed, young men. But the master of words and melancholy would much prefer a stiff drink and the smell of red roses.”
The friends turned to see a tall man in a black suit, black cape, and white hooded scarf and hat that hid his face, staring down at them. Sitting on his shoulder, the large black bird eyed them silently. The man raised a black lacquered cane and pointed its silver tip at the bronzed visage of Poe.
“The face doesn’t do you justice, Edgar. You were magnetic, and I haven’t forgotten you.”
“Who are you?” the three stammered in unison.
“An admirer of the master of the macabre. One waiting for the torch to be passed. I normally come on his birthday, the 7th of this month, but this year it seemed more fitting in such tumultuous times to consider with Edgar whether one can breach the divide between life and death and know and share both worlds.”
As he moved toward the headstone, Clint, Jeff, and Carson moved quickly to the side. They watched him kneel and place three long stemmed red roses on the base. The bird flew to the top of the monument.
The man pulled a bottle of cognac from his cape, filled a shot glass, and held it high.
“To you, Edgar. If you can, let us know if we will see you while we still walk on the earth.”
He downed the cognac, and turned to Clint, Jeff, and Carson.
“Would you three young gentlemen like to toast the master of the macabre? Edgar is always looking for more followers who will come and visit at times other than this holiday, which really has nothing to do with his work. I would be glad to have you join me now at my home so I can tell you Edgar’s true story.”
He stood and smiled down at the roommates who were backing up slowly.
“No takers tonight? Too bad. It would have been most interesting to hear a legal explanation of Edgar’s wrongful demise.”
He sighed, put the bottle of Cognac on the ground in front of the monument, placed the shot glass in his pocket, tipped his hat, and whirled around. Clint pointed his camera as the apparition disappeared into air.
Saying nothing, they gathered their gear, took one more look at the monument, the pennies, the roses, and the cognac, and headed toward the entrance to the Catacombs. Clint looked at the map as they walked and stared at a description of one of the ghosts often seen at night; a young woman with long dark hair wearing a flowing white gown. Her name was . . . No.
Lucia was waiting at the gate. Standing under the gas light, she seemed to be surrounded by a white glow, and the friends would later agree that they could see through her.
“I was hoping you would all still be here. I’m off now and I thought we could go to the party upstairs in the hall. But first I need to go to the Master’s grave. I have three roses to leave and I know there will be cognac waiting for me to have a toast to him.”
She pulled a shot glass and three roses from her white skirt.
Clint offered a shaky smile as they pushed past her. “I’m sorry Lucia, but we have to get to the law school cafeteria to study. You go have fun.”
They jogged down West Fayette Street as she called out.
“Won’t you come back? Come back and celebrate the birthday of the Master of the Macabre? We would love your company.”
They heard a rustling sound and looked back. On top of the gate sat the giant raven.
Lucia looked up and smiled. “What say you, El Cuervo, my friend? Do you think they might come back?”
Staring at the receding figures, he spread his wings and quoth,“Nevermore!”
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