Poe shadow by Matthew Pearl Read Free Book Online

thinking of the ravages of the “conqueror worm,” as Poe had called our bodies’ final attacker.
And the angels sob at vermin fangs in human gore imbued.
    With sudden purpose, I marched deeper into the burial ground. Peering around I saw steps leading down into one of the old underground vaults. Following these steps straight down, I found the sexton, Mr. Spence, reading a book in a low-arched granite crypt deep below the surface. There was a table, a bureau, a washstand, a medium-sized looking-glass. Even once a church was built on the burial ground a few years later, it was said that George Spence still preferred these vaults. But it rather astonished me then.
    “You don’t live down here, do you, Mr. Spence?” I asked.
    He was troubled by my tone. “When it is too cold down here, I stay above. But I like it better here. It’s more quiet and independent. This vault, in all events, was emptied out some years ago.”
    Several decades earlier, he explained, the family who owned this particular tomb had wanted to move the bodies of their ancestors to more spacious accommodations. But when the tomb was opened, it was discovered—by the previous sexton, Spence’s father—that one of the bodies exhibited that rare occurrence: human petrifaction. The body, top to bottom, was entirely stone. Superstitions spread quickly. No member of the church since would agree to bury their dead in that particular vault.
    “Devilish horror, coming upon a stone man when you are no more than a boy,” the sexton said. He found a chair for me.
    “Thank you, Mr. Spence. There is something wrong. The grave of Edgar Poe, buried last month, is still unmarked! The grave lies level with the ground.”
    He shrugged philosophically. “It is not my decision, but that of the party that had charge of burying him. Neilson Poe and Henry Herring, Poe’s cousins.”
    “I passed here the day of the funeral, and could see it was small. Were there other relatives of Poe’s besides them present?” I asked.
    “There was one other. William Clemm, of the Caroline Street Methodist Church, performed the service and I believe he was a distant relation of the family. Reverend Clemm had prepared a lengthy discourse, but there were so few present for the funeral, it was decided he would not read it. There were only two mourners in addition to Neilson Poe and Mr. Herring. One was Z. Collins Lee, a classmate of Poe’s. Peace be to his ashes!”
    “Mr. Spence?”
    “That is something I remember the minister said over Poe’s grave. Peace be to his ashes. I was surprised to hear about Mr. Poe’s death at first. He will always be a young man in my mind, not much older than you.”
    “You knew him, Mr. Spence?”
    “When he lived in Baltimore, in Maria Clemm’s little house,” the sexton replied musingly. “It was years ago. You would have been hardly older than a boy. Baltimore was a quieter city then; one could keep track of names. I used to see Edgar Poe wander about the burial ground now and again.”
    He said Poe would stand before the graves of his grandfather and his older brother, William Henry Poe, both of whom he’d been separated from in childhood. Sometimes, said the sexton, Edgar A. Poe would examine names and dates on the tombs and quietly ask how this one was related to that one. When Spence would meet Poe out on the streets, the poet would sometimes say “good morning” or “good evening,” and sometimes he would not.
    “To think such a fine gentleman should look
as he did
at the end.” Spence shook his head as he spoke.
    “How do you mean, Mr. Spence?” I asked.
    “I recall he always had a fastidiousness about his dress. But that suit he was wearing when he was found!” he said as though I should know perfectly well. I motioned for him to continue, so he did. “It was thin and ragged and did not fit him at all. It could not have been his. It was for a body perhaps two sizes larger! And a cheap palm-leaf hat one would not bother