As I read through the books on Edgar Allan Poe that I had checked out of the school’s library, I saw several synchronicities between our lives: I was thirteen when Poe was assigned to me (which was the age of Virginia when they married); I also had two siblings; and I loved to write, especially poetry. No, it wasn’t enough to connect all the dots, but it made Poe mortal.
I sunk my teeth into the sordid stories of his love life. I realized that even though he came across as cynical and sassy and, to some, dark and macabre, he wore his heart on his sleeve and had been put through the ringer with so much love lost.
Edgar Allan Poe was born on January 19, 1809, to traveling actors in Boston. He was the second of three children and was only two years old when his biological parents passed away. He was taken in by the wealthy tobacco merchant John Allan and his wife Frances Valentine Allan in Richmond, Virginia. Poe’s older brother and younger sister went to live with other families.
Mr. Allan had high hopes that Poe would follow in his footsteps as a tobacco businessman. But Poe had an early love of poetry and writing and by the age of thirteen had enough works of poetry to publish a book, but his headmaster advised Mr. Allan against doing it.
In 1826, Poe attended the University of Virginia, where he was an excellent student. But Poe’s heart never sang when it came to school; instead he loved creative writing. Because his foster father was so disappointed in his life choice of the arts, he stopped paying for his schooling and left Poe with a considerable amount of debt. Desperate, Poe turned to gambling in order to pay off his bills. Obviously a bad gambler, by the end of his first term, Poe was so poor that he had to burn his furniture in order to keep warm. He became bitter and angry at Allan for not providing enough money.
Before attending the University of Virginia, Poe had fallen in love with and proposed to Elmira Royster. However, upon his return to Richmond for a visit, he discovered that Elmira was engaged to another. Betrayed by the woman he loved and unable to take the constant fighting between him and his father, he set out to accomplish what he wanted to do most—write and publish a book and join the military. He did just that.
On May 26, 1827, Poe enlisted in the US army as a private using a false name and age—Edgar A. Perry, twenty-two years old—even though he was only eighteen. Poe’s regiment was sent to Charleston, South Carolina, and he was promoted to artificer, with a raise that doubled his monthly salary. But as history would once again repeat, Poe grew bored after attaining the rank of sergeant-major for artillery (the highest rank a noncommissioned officer can achieve). He came clean to his commanding lieutenant, confessing his true identity and age and asking to be discharged three years early. His lieutenant told him the only way he would allow an early release was if Poe reconciled with his father, John Allan, and wrote a letter of apology.
Poe wrote to Allan, but it was several months before his father responded. He wrote to tell Poe that the only mother he had ever known, Frances Allan, was dying of tuberculosis and wanted to see him before she died. By the time Poe got home, Frances had died and had been buried. Through grief, Poe and Allan briefly reconciled. Allan even helped Poe gain an appointment to the US Military Academy at West Point.
Before going to West Point, Poe published another volume of poetry and was basking in his accomplishment when he heard that his father remarried without even telling him. He took out a pen and paper and poured his heart out to Allan, detailing all that he felt Allan did wrong. Allan obviously didn’t take it well and burned all bridges, including having Poe thrown out of West Point. Poe returned to Baltimore, broke and lonely. This time Poe’s aunt Maria Clemm welcomed him into her home, and she became like a mother to him.
While Poe was in Baltimore, Allan died and left Poe out of his will. Instead, Allan provided for an illegitimate child he had never seen.
Poe continued to write, entering writing contests and applying for newspaper positions. Although he was living in poverty, he was persistent and finally found himself in an editorial position at the Southern Literary Messenger in Richmond, Virginia. It was at that magazine that he found his love as a magazine writer. He worked hard to make it one of the most popular magazines in the south. With sensational stories and scathing book reviews, he earned a reputation as a son of a gun and began to collect many enemies within his field. He didn’t much care, though, and finally felt in charge of his life for once.
At the age of twenty-seven, he moved Maria and Virginia Clemm to Richmond and married Virginia, who was just thirteen. Poe finally had the carefree and loving life that he so wanted. Even though he still wasn’t earning sufficient money, during the day he wrote and at night he doted on a woman whom he loved. He was surrounded by a family he longed for and his evenings were filled with piano playing and singing.
Poe’s life seemed to be settled, but once again he grew to be unsatisfied. Due to low pay and lack of editorial control, Poe left his job and moved to New York City in the wake of the financial crisis known as the Panic of 1837. Poe struggled to find magazine work and instead spent time writing novels, which weren’t being sold. In 1838, after only a year in New York, Poe moved to Philadelphia and wrote for a number of different magazines, where he finally began to receive the accolades and the fame that he strived for. But that didn’t come without a high price, both in a monetary sense and ego. Poe was beginning to accumulate many enemies along his course to stardom. He didn’t much care about that. Instead, the deep poverty was affecting his male ego. His soul only found solace at home with his wife and mother-in-law, until tragedy struck again.
In 1841, his wife, Virginia, contracted tuberculosis, the disease that had already claimed Poe’s mother, brother, and his foster mother. Poe became even more determined to be successful, and he moved back to New York in 1844. It was there that he wrote a story on a balloon trip around the world. It became a huge sensation and set everyone abuzz until Poe confessed it was all just a hoax. No matter, the sham helped to make Poe a household name until he released the poem, “The Raven” in January 1845, which made him famous. He held lectures and began to receive the pay that he thought he deserved. However, Poe’s notoriety was short-lived. A year later, with a failed magazine venture, rumors of an extramarital affair, and deteriorating health of his wife, Poe left New York. He took refuge in a small country cottage, where Virginia passed away in 1847.
Everyone assumed Poe would drink himself to death. He surprised even his critics when he began traveling from one city to the next, giving lectures and petitioning investors for his newest magazine idea.
While on a lecture tour in Massachusetts, Poe met and befriended Nancy Richmond. He was taken with her poetry, but since she was married, he moved on to poetess Sarah Helen Whitman, who lived in Providence.
Whitman and Poe first met in July 1845 at a lecture. Whitman was attracted to Poe and admired him, so she asked to be introduced. Poe declined. As he left the lecture, Poe saw Whitman standing in her rose garden. In 1848, a friend of Whitman’s asked her to write a poem for a Valentine’s Day party. Whitman wrote the poem titled, “To Edgar Allan Poe.” Poe heard about it, and, being quite full of himself, the two began a relationship through notes and poems. Three months into the courtship, Poe wrote Whitman the poem “To Helen,” referencing the moment when he first saw her in the rose garden. From then on he referred to her as Sarah Helen after the poem he so lovingly wrote for her.
In December 1848, Poe proposed marriage and Whitman agreed with one stipulation—that he remain sober. Poe agreed and they set the wedding date for just a few weeks later. But Poe broke his promise only a few days after making it by hitting the bottle. Whitman’s mother also found out that Poe was still pursuing Nancy Richmond and childhood sweetheart Elmira Royster Shelton. The wedding was called off, apparently just the day beforehand, when he went on yet another drunken rampage. Many believe that he had cold feet and had done it purposefully.
Soon after, Poe was reunited with his first fiancée Elmira Royster Shelton in Richmond, who was now widowed, and he began to court her. He believed himself
engaged when he left for Philadelphia to help edit a poem for a colleague. Along the way, he stopped in Baltimore.
On October 3, 1849, Joseph W. Walker found Poe wandering the streets of Baltimore in clothes that weren’t his own and sent a note to Dr. J. E. Snodgrass stating that he found Edgar Allan Poe at Ryan’s 4th Ward Polls in distress and needing immediate assistance.
Baltimore City, Oct. 3, 1849
Dear Sir,
There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan’s 4th ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe, and who appears in great distress, & he says he is acquainted with you, he is in need of immediate assistance.
Yours, in haste,
JOS. W. WALKER
To Dr. J. E. Snodgrass.
Ryan’s 4th Ward Polls was a tavern where elections were often held. Instead of a sticker or a pin denoting that you voted, as we have today, you received a drink. Dr. Snodgrass and Poe’s uncle, Henry Herring, arrived at the tavern and agreed that Poe should be sent to Washington College Hospital. They believed that Poe was in a drunken stupor and would just sleep it off, not even bothering to alert his new fiancée or mother-in-law. After several days of slipping in and out of consciousness, when they asked Poe what happened, he whispered the name “Reynolds.” On October 7, 1849, depending on which account one accepts, Poe died at about 3:00 a.m. or 5:00 a.m. at the age of forty. His last words were “Lord, help my poor soul.” His cause of death was ascribed to “congestion of the brain,” however no autopsy was performed. Edgar Allan Poe was buried in Baltimore two days later.
To this day, the exact cause of Poe’s death remains a mystery.
At least that was what the books all say. There are over twenty theories on how Edgar Allan Poe died, including rabies, diabetes, epilepsy, carbon monoxide poisoning, alcohol, and everything in between.
“Want to know the truth?” Poe grinned and fixed the collar on his coat.
“No, that’s okay,” I nonchalantly answered, putting the books in my denim school bag.
He drew closer. “What do you mean with ‘that’s okay’? I always liked a good whodunit, and my death,” Poe puffed his chest out, “is one of the best, I might add.”
“So you tell me how you died, Edgar, and who am I going to tell? Better yet, who is going to believe me?”
I really was quite curious as to the whole story, the true story, but I wasn’t so sure he would offer me the truth. He was a writer, a poet, a tale teller, and I wasn’t confident that he wouldn’t elaborate. And, as I had asked him, so I become privy to history-changing information and what was I to do with it exactly?
“One day I will tell you, Kristy. No, I will show you. There is a reason that I am your guide.” Edgar pondered for a moment. “Oh, I do love abstruseness, but only when I write it!”
“I didn’t get a position on the paper,” I confessed, changing the subject.
“What do you mean you weren’t given a position?”
“She just doesn’t like me, Edgar.”
It was my sophomore year of high school and I had decided that I wanted to be part of the school newspaper. But the teacher wasn’t allowing that to happen. It was the very same teacher who called my parents the previous year on the poem she was so sure I copied from somewhere.
“She gave me absolutely no criticism, just said that I wasn’t a good fit. This is the same lady who gave me a D in typing because my typewriter stopped working and I couldn’t make it up after class. And this from the same lady who wouldn’t even give me a stagehand position in the play. She just doesn’t like me,” I said, feeling rejected.
“Humph, well, I know all about that, my dear. Critics. There are many, and you have to be prepared for a life of constant judgment.”
Constant? I silently groaned. I wanted to be loved, not hated. Judgment is rarely fun, and I didn’t have thick skin.
“She even thinks that I plagiarized my last poem.” I sniffed back tears.
Poe’s face turned dark and he thrust his hands in his pockets. “I do hate those who plagiarize. I used to call them out in my reviews. Oh, and Kristy, there were many, don’t let the history books tell you differently! But you, my dear, you I saw staring at that odd-looking man.” Poe pointed to my poster of Jon Bon Jovi that was taped right next to my poster of RATT. “And, well, you didn’t plagiarize.”
“So what do I do now, Edgar?”
“Not what I did. The reverse, actually.” He sat down on my bed, looking pensive.
“I’m thinking that my mom and dad would kill me if I started drinking or taking opium. And actually, how did you write such fine literature when you were always lushing it up?”
Poe looked up at me and shook his head. Sadness seemed to vibrate within his energy.
“I didn’t drink that much,” Poe said as I snickered back at him. “Honest.”
“Still in denial, or … ?”
“I drank. There is no denying that, but I had a very low tolerance of alcohol, so only one drink would have me intoxicated. My stepfather, or father as I was to call him, beat me. He beat me incessantly. The wounds were mostly on my back, but there were frequent times that I was hit in the head. Whether it was the beatings or the emotional abuse, I don’t know, but I remember these horrible headaches. I suppose they now call them migraines. When I entered my teenage years, I would do anything to make them go away, and most of the time that was with alcohol. So between the hurt head and the liquor, I suppose I did look like a raging alcoholic.”
I had a pretty keen intuitiveness for liars, and I could tell that he was being truthful.
“And opium?”
Poe shook his head, “I was offered opium for my headaches, and I took it once and only once. I was not an addict like many wanted to—and maybe still do—believe. I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness, and a dread of some strange impending doom.”
“You never sought any further medical assistance?”
“I didn’t trust people in general, and never doctors. They never healed anyone I loved, so what good were they? And if they were to see my old wounds, rumors would start. It was easier to run away and drink.”
“I’m sorry, Edgar.”
He just shrugged. “I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.”
I was born cursed, or gifted, however you wanted to define it, with the ability to see ghosts and spirits. It became apparent at the age of three when my so-called imaginary friends didn’t go away and had detailed information that they had me share with my parents, which could be validated. When my great-grandmother in spirit came through to tell me that her daughter, my grandma, was going to die, and then six months later she did, my mom didn’t take the imaginary friends as lightly as she and the rest of my family had before. It wasn’t all fun and cute after I predicted death.
I was raised from birth by a father who started his day with his weathered, leather-bound Bible in his lap while sipping his morning coffee and who said a prayer before each meal. After my prediction at the age of four, my parents enrolled me at the local Lutheran school. I was now taught in school and at home that anything to do with spirits, ghosts, and even reading horoscopes were huge no-nos. So how ironic was it that I was placed in a household of paranormal nonbelievers and naysayers being able to see, hear, feel, and know that which was unexplained? Not only was I able to build a relationship with my spirit guides, but I lived between the thin line of two worlds. And so did my house.
The Victorian house in Detroit, Michigan, was what was called home, yet felt anything but homey. The house had a haunted history, with frequent unexplained occurrences: shadows that lurked, voices that could be heard through the radio and television despite them being shut off, phone calls in the middle of the night with heavy breathing, temperature changes, and a feeling of being watched.
My bedroom seemed to be one of the hot spots for the most paranormal activity. I hated my bedroom, most of the time sleeping on the living room couch, but spending my afternoons in my room doing homework and watching television. Even in the daylight you could feel a darkness that loomed over the house.
I never knew why the house was so paranormally active. With my mom so afraid of anything ghostly and my dad such a skeptic, I didn’t know what was true or not. I heard whispers that my siblings once played with an Ouija Board in the home. During their attempted contact, the planchette flew across the room, which frightened them. My mom made them put the board in the garbage, only for it to show back up in the room later that night. Another rumor was that a man was killed in the basement because of a bitter argument from a love triangle. No matter how it happened, or why it happened, the house had an evil energy that was disruptive. It was as if a black cloud hovered over the house and the sun shined around it and nothing ever moved that black cloud away, it just got darker and darker day by day, year by year.
Other than Poe, I had several other guides who had been assisting me since birth, including a Native American named Alto and a pretty Irish lady named Tallie. But like most everything else in life, we all have free will and free choice, which means that I didn’t have to listen or take their advice. What a frustrating job for them. I always wished that they could assist with the paranormal activity and thought perhaps Poe, due to his haunting works, was assigned to me because of my magnetism from the supernatural, and ultimately to the supernatural.
“Edgar, do you see the ghosts that haunt me—that haunt this house?” I inquired, licking my grape lip-glossed lips.
“Whether it is a house, or a soul, we forever remain haunted,” he replied ominously and disappeared.
Poe was different from my other guides. My other guides rarely communicated with me unless I inquired upon something or needed help. Poe, apparently, was still coloring outside the lines of the norm, bucking the system even when it came to the other side. I didn’t feel as if he was necessarily guiding me, but almost felt as if I was guiding him, which made me wonder if he was truly a guide or more of a ghost.
Ghosts are different than spirits, a misconception rarely taught. We all have souls and spirits, so we have a choice when we die to cross over or to continue to visit our loved ones. Once we cross, we become a spirit. But there are a few who are afraid of judgment once they cross, they don’t want to leave their family, or possibly they just miss the boat, err, I mean light, and they then become a ghost.
Maybe Poe was right. Maybe it wasn’t the house that was haunted, but my soul, and maybe it had something to do with a past life, or lives. In school we had just begun studying Buddhism (yes, even in Lutheran schools we studied other religions), karma, and past lives. Maybe that was why he came through right then. Maybe I had a karmic lesson to learn. Or maybe he still did.
Eh, it was too deep for a thirteen-year-old. I just wanted to crush on boys, read romance novels, and go bowling. Instead, I was pouring over biographies of a dead poet and pondering life’s mysteries when I hadn’t even had many years of which to ponder.
At least in this lifetime.
I knew from an early age that I didn’t quite fit in. My brother always told me that I was dropped off by an alien spaceship, and I don’t think he was too off the mark. I didn’t look like anyone in my family, I saw spirits from the early age of three, and I wasn’t a typical kid. I lived in the city but ached to be in the country. I dreamed of old farmhouses with big, wraparound porches, a barn overflowing with kittens, and a Dutch oven filled with cut up, homegrown vegetables cooking over a fireplace. Instead of Barbie, I would rather play with rag dolls, Holly Hobbie being my favorite. My mom would laugh and ask if I was watching too much Little House on the Prairie, but I rarely watched television and would rather read, except for one of my favorite shows—Dark Shadows, a gothic soap opera that followed strange happenings to the Collins family from Maine. The show featured vampires, witches, werewolves, and other supernatural creatures, and also had dream sequences that went back in time to the 1800s, alluding to past lives.
It was right up my alley. And probably Poe’s, too.