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“Not the most impressive sight.” Jake Crowley and Rose Black stood outside The Edgar Allan Poe House on West Third Street, in New York City. Already the place was proving to be something of an anti-climax. The three-story home had been completely engulfed by a much larger building, the façade itself a recreation of the original structure. The whole thing had the impression of a pretty flower swallowed by wild grasses, homogenous and desperate.
“Don’t start with me, you grumpy old badger,” Rose Black said. “We’re going to relax and enjoy ourselves.”
“I’m not grumpy, only tired. You kept me up late last night.”
Rose grinned. “I think it was the other way around. I was the one tired from our road trip, but you had other plans.”
Crowley smiled, slipped his arm around her waist, and gave her a squeeze. The pair had been through a hell of a lot in the past few weeks. Their search for Rose’s missing sister, Lily, had led them across the pond to the United States on the trail of a lost Egyptian artifact. They had also learned some unwelcome news about Lily and where her true loyalties lay. In the ensuing chase, Lily’s small plane had crashed. No bodies had been recovered from the wreckage as far as they knew. Surely no one could have survived a crash like that.
“I just hope agent Paul doesn’t learn we’re still in the country,” Crowley said. The FBI agent had instructed them to return to England and had provided airline tickets to help them along the way. They’d decided to extend their stay by rescheduling the flight from New York to London by two weeks, then taking their time leisurely road-tripping across the United States. Little had he known that middle America, especially Kansas, made for endless, mind-numbingly boring scenery.
“Technically, he didn’t order us to leave the country on any specific date,” Rose said. “We’re just stopping off for some sightseeing and to visit your Aunt Gertie.”
Crowley laughed. “Remember I’m the only one allowed to call her that.” Gertrude Fawcett, known as Trudy to everyone but Crowley, was his favorite aunt, and he was like a son to her. Hence the special dispensation for the juvenile nickname.
Rose’s attention had already returned to the Poe House. She scrolled on her phone, looking up details. “This is a reinterpretation of the original house where Poe once resided,” she said disdainfully. “He lived here only a little while anyway, from 1844 to 1845. Apparently, New York University demolished the historic structure when they built Furman Hall here. What a letdown! But we can have a look inside, and it’s the ghost that intrigues me anyway.”
“The ghost?” Crowley asked.
“Yeah, legends have it that Poe’s ghost is seen here often and no one really knows why, given it was such a short-lived residence, such a tiny part of his life really. It did coincide with some of the man’s first significant successes as a writer, so it has its relevance, but not really for haunting. There are several theories as to why he’s here so often, but none of them really make much sense.”
“It’s all a bit...” Crowley paused, searching for the right word.
“Lame?” Rose offered. She grinned. “It really is, huh? But this whole area has some cool ghost stories.” She turned and pointed across the street at a building of orange and yellow brick, four stories standing a little taller than the more modern structures either side. The second, third, and fourth floors each had three tall windows, but the first floor featured a large black, arch-topped door. Above it, gold letters on black proclaimed FIRE PATROL, a bold number 2 on each corner level with the sign. “That’s former Fire Patrol Station #2,” Rose said. “Now a private residence, some news anchor or other lives there, but it has a long history. Built by Ernest Flagg in 1906. It’s said to be haunted by the ghost of a firefighter by the name of Schwartz.”
“Why would he haunt there? Did he die fighting a fire? Surely he’d haunt that place, not his station.”
Rose shook her head. “It’s better than that. In 1930 he hanged himself from the rafters in there after he discovered his wife was cheating on him. Other firefighters, for a long time afterward, claimed to hear strange noises when no one was there. And some said they saw the shape of Schwartz suspended in mid-air.”
Crowley let out a small, uncomfortable laugh. “You really dig all the macabre stuff, huh?”
“I still need to educate you on the good horror movies! There are so many cool and creepy things you need to see. But right now, we can concentrate on what’s right in front of us.” Rose grabbed his hand and hauled him up the steps of the Poe house. “Come on, let’s see Edgar’s ghost!”
They went inside and now Crowley did laugh, a lot more mirthful this time. “Lamer and lamer,” he said in a low voice. No need to offend anyone who might work here.
“Holy crap,” Rose said, not as quietly. “What a bust!” She laughed too, the whole thing too absurd for words.
Before them lay a single room, closed off entirely from the rest of the building. Around three of the walls were a selection of glass-fronted cabinets containing a variety of items. Some black and white photos, a few early contracts signed by Poe, a couple of fountain pens he had allegedly used. One side of the small space held the largest cabinet and in that stood a writing desk, scratched and worn, with a few items haphazardly scattered across it.
Crowley slowly walked the perimeter of the space and shrugged. “Oh well. I’ve seen bigger bathrooms!” He squinted into one of the cabinets. “Mind you, it’s not entirely without interest. I mean, look at this here. It’s pretty cool to think that Poe actually held these pens, signed his name there with them. I can imagine every writer aims to have the kind of recognition someone like Poe enjoys. I imagine most writers would want that recognition while they were still alive to enjoy it.”
“I suppose so,” Rose said. “Of course most would like to live to see their success. Poe had a decent career, but so many scrape and scratch through life only to succeed after they’re dead. Take Lovecraft, for example. Can you imagine if he could see how much his work is still current and the amount of other work that has sprung from it.”
Crowley nodded. “Well, maybe he’s somewhere we can’t fathom, kicking back with the Elder Gods, laughing at his posthumous popularity.”
Rose laughed. “You’re not entirely uneducated then, Jake Crowley.”
“Not entirely, no. Hey, this is interesting.” Crowley pointed into another glass cabinet. “It’s new.”
“What do you mean by new?” Rose joined him, and together they looked down at a small, tatty leather-bound journal sitting on a clear plastic display stand.
“Fine, recent then. It was only put on display here last month,” Crowley said. He read from the small placard sitting in front of the old book. “Found during repairs to an older part of the foundations below this very room, bricked into a basement wall. New York University uncovered a metal lockbox containing several items, including this journal of Poe’s containing a variety of mostly indecipherable writings.”
Rose turned to him, frowning. “Indecipherable in what way?”
“Too messy to read, or too complicated to understand maybe? It doesn’t elaborate.”
“How weird. I wish they displayed it open, at least we’d see one page.”
Crowley shrugged. “Oh well. If an ineligible old notebook is the most interesting thing here, I think we’re done.”
“Yep,” Rose agreed. “Sometimes people really draw a long bow trying to make a place interesting.”
“It’s just as bad in England,” Crowley said. “King Henry the Eighth once spent a night in this Inn on his way somewhere else far more exciting!”
Rose laughed. “Queen Elizabeth the First once farted in this cottage!”
Both laughing now, they left the small room behind and walked back out onto Third Street.
“Come on,” Crowley said. “Let’s go and see the Statue of Liberty.”