Libby
Darkness shrouded the street. The streetlamps had for some reason extinguished, leaving the cobblestone road difficult to traverse. A storm was blowing in. Droplets of rain spit at Libby’s face, mocking her travail down the blustery street. Thunder rolled through the sky like a cannon building to its explosion. Her dress whipped around her ankles, and her cloak flapped behind her, twisting inside out as the wind caught it like a kite. Hair plastered across her face.
The revelations from her conversation with Paul made her mind spin. But one thing was certain. With Paul finally being honest, the pieces were falling in place—all of them except her own. She certainly wasn’t going to wait for death to visit her. Intent on taking her obituary to the police, Libby had implored Paul to go with her. There was no wisdom, no safety, in going alone. He had started to, but as they walked, Libby realized the man had been imbibing more than the brandy in the basement. The flask he’d lifted to his lips rather frequently was already rendering him useless. She’d left him perched on the steps of the corner drugstore. The remaining seven blocks to the police station was intimidating in the dark, let alone with thunder rumbling in the distance and rain now pelting her face. But the parsonage was on the way. Just knowing the Muellers were nearby gave her some small comfort.
Libby pushed on, her hand wrapped around her obituary held deep in her dress pocket. Her other hand perched over her eyes to shield them from the rain that continued to bluster.
“Libby!”
She froze, spinning around and squinting into the darkness and rain. The outline of a man hurried toward her. No one was out and about but her. No one was venturing to be brave against the oncoming storm.
“Libby, wait!”
Her obituary had been penned, her death prophesied by her killer. She needed to be in the safety of the police station. Turning her back to the figure, she pressed into the wind. The rain fell harder now. She pulled her cape around her like a blanket, shielding her dress from being saturated. Lightning flickered in the sky, illuminating the street. Libby looked over her shoulder. The figure was drawing closer. She could hear their footsteps slapping on the wet walkway.
Run!
Libby surged forward. Her breath came in snatches, stolen away by the downpour. Up ahead, she could make out the outline of the Muellers’ porch. She could take refuge there too, if need be. Perhaps Reverend Mueller would be home. Or Calvin. Someone to walk the remaining few blocks with her and keep her safe.
A hand clamped over her shoulder. Libby screamed. Her voice echoed down the empty street and was swallowed by the wind.
“Libby!”
“Reverend Mueller!” she shouted into the wind. “Oh, thank the Lord.”
“Libby, you mustn’t be out in this weather. You’ll catch your death!”
A strange twist of words. Libby shook her head, raising her voice above the wind. “I need to get to the police station.”
“No, no. I insist. Come inside first!” Reverend Mueller extended his arm toward their porch. The assaulting rain made it hard to see, and Libby stumbled over a crack in the walk.
“I really need to, Reverend!”
Reverend Mueller’s concern was etched into the parts of his face Libby could see. “Come with me. We can use the parsonage telephone to ring the authorities. You should not be out here.”
The rain beat on the walk, on the street. They were in front of the parsonage now. The reverend stepped onto the first step. “My housekeeper is home. She can make you tea. Calvin has chased after the Corbin brothers and their ruckus of today. Please! Do come in.”
She hurried up the porch stairs and into the humble but tidy entry of the parsonage. Gaslights lit the hallway. Reverend Mueller gave her a smile and shook his head as he removed his hat, water falling onto the wool carpet. “Gracious, child! You’re an obstinate one.”
Libby pushed back sopping wet hair from her face. She couldn’t explain, not to him.
“Let me take your wrap.” Reverend Mueller assisted her from her wrap after she unfastened it at her neck. He hung it on a hall tree, drips marring the wood floor beneath it. “Come.” He ushered her down the hallway into a small kitchen. Pulling out a chair, he waved her toward it. “Let me go find Mrs. Beaton. She’ll make you some tea.”
“Thank you.” Libby shivered from the cold and dampness.
Reverend Mueller moved to exit the room.
“The telephone?” Libby asked quickly. She had no desire to prolong going to the police. With Paul’s admission, the pieces of the puzzle finally making sense, she was certain the police would find her obituary legitimate and concerning. This time there would be no demeaning pat on the shoulder, no “We’re looking into it.”
Reverend Mueller nodded. “Yes. Let me find Mrs. Beaton so she can put on tea and then we can place the call.”
Libby appreciated his attention to decorum. He left her alone, and she heard his footsteps as he disappeared into the recesses of the house. She glanced around the kitchen. It wasn’t new to her. She’d spent many hours here with Calvin. Growing up together, they played simple games here in the house, games like marbles.
She eyed the doorway where Reverend Mueller had disappeared through. She needed to tell him. The truth of it hit her hard in the stomach, knotting it and increasing the sense of anxiety that already had increased her rain-soaked shivering. Calvin’s story—her story—was going to be revealed sooner than later. After all Reverend Mueller had been through, watching his strong teenage son turn into a boy who would never fully grow up, he had been the epitome of a devoted father. With a wife already passed away, Libby had caused the man so much pain, so much grief. Calvin was not the only victim of her selfishness, or cowardice, or whatever the reason had been that she didn’t help Calvin that night.
The cast-iron stove with its cream-colored enamel and bread-warming ovens sent off a dull, warm heat that made Libby shiver again. She stood and moved toward it, holding her hands over the stovetop as if it were an open flame. It was late spring, so a piping hot stove would be ridiculous, but even the small amount of warmth would be enough to heat tea.
Libby looked again toward the doorway leading into the hall. It seemed to be taking a long time for Reverend Mueller to find his housekeeper. She rubbed her hands together and shook out her skirts, water droplets landing on the floor. A dull sense of apprehension rose. The feeling that she wasn’t safe. Which was very odd. She was safe and in a very familiar place. Yet, something made her heart start pounding. It felt as if she’d walked into a lions’ den thinking it empty. But the lions lay in wait, ready to pounce.
She turned from the stove. A book left open on the countertop snagged her attention. The name E. A. Poe sent a chill down her spine.
Libby peered down at the book.
“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends and where the other begins?”
Though the print was small, the words stood stark on the page, mimicking Libby’s obituary. Poe’s “The Premature Burial” was typeset at the top of the horror-filled page. She flipped the page to the end. Her eyes skimmed the words.
“There are moments when, even to the sober eye of Reason, the world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell.”
Though Poe had penned these words over fifty years prior, Libby knew it was the voice of the obituary writer. He saw today, this existence, a place of doom and their sins—especially illuminated by the flamboyant call to repentance from Jacobus and his brother—something only paid for by the exclamation point of death.
Libby slammed the cover shut. She would never read Poe again—if she survived the night. She spun on her heel and yelped as she almost crashed into Reverend Mueller who’d come up behind her.
“I’m sorry, I—” Libby stopped.
His eyes drifted to the closed book and then back to her face. He shook his head, gray hair and side whiskers still damp from rain. “There are many suppositions as to how Edgar Allan Poe died, you know?”
Libby glanced at the book. She twisted material from her skirt and glanced at the hallway beyond the reverend.
“Did you know?” he insisted.
“No. No, I didn’t.” Libby’s voice quivered. She blinked, trying to comprehend the expression in the reverend’s eyes. Apprehension seeped into every ounce of her blood. That knowing of the truth, but the desperate desire to be wrong.
Reverend Mueller reached around her and picked up the book. His thumb traced the gold embossing of the title. “Some say he had rabies. But others say it was suicide by alcoholism. Still others surmise he may have met his death by the hand of another.”
“How sad,” Libby murmured. She eyed Reverend Mueller as he opened the book and stroked the pages as if they were the Bible itself. He raised his eyes. They were empty.
“He deserved to die, Poe did. His morbid tales of the grave, of being buried alive, it’s like sin. It suffocates one’s soul when gone unattended. I believe Poe’s went unattended, and many knew not the deeds he’d committed. Perhaps even murder itself.”
Libby took a step to the side.
“Where are you going?” Reverend Mueller tossed the book onto the countertop.
“H-home?” Libby hated the way her voice shook. Somehow, her saying the police seemed dangerous just now.
“Home?” Reverend Mueller cocked his head and smiled. This time his smile wasn’t kind, or gentle, or fatherly at all. “Didn’t you know? Didn’t you read? Tonight is your time to die.”