Where Monsters Dwell by Jørgen Brekke Read Free Book Online

in terrible shape, and Dr. Joseph E. Snodgrass was summoned. He knew Poe and noticed that his clothes were not the right size. Taken to Washington College Hospital in Baltimore, Poe was delirious. He wasn’t clearheaded and alert long enough for him to give the slightest hint of what had happened to him. On his fourth night at the hospital he began shouting in a shrill voice for someone named Mr. Reynolds. Were these screams nothing more than the final convulsions of a feverish mind? Or was this person the key to understanding Poe’s condition? No one ever found out who Mr. Reynolds was. The police officer in Felicia Stone was convinced that he didn’t exist, but the poetry lover in her wasn’t so sure.
    Early in the morning of the seventh of October Dr. Snodgrass heard Poe’s last prayer: “May the Lord have mercy on my miserable soul.” On the death certificate Dr. Snodgrass listed the cause of death as inflammation of the brain. Edgar Allan Poe, the father of the crime novel, was buried two days later without an autopsy.
    *   *   *
    In 1921, seventy years after Poe’s death, a small group of the author’s growing number of fans met in Richmond. The meeting took place in a garden behind the old Stone House, one of the city’s oldest buildings, though it had no direct connection to Poe. They named the garden The Enchanted Garden and dedicated a memorial to the author there.
    When Felicia Stone entered this enchanted garden at 7:30 A.M. for the first time in a professional capacity, it had existed for eighty-nine years. The garden belonged to what was now the Poe Museum, and it wouldn’t open for another hour and a half.
    She had been here before in her free time and vividly remembered her last visit. Was it three years ago now? She was working in Narcotics back then. A girlfriend from her school days, Holly LeVold, had rented the garden for her wedding. Felicia could even remember what it said on the wedding invitation: “Everyone goes to the altar with a little anxiety in the pit of their stomach. We choose to make use of it! The master of the burlesque and macabre is the host for our wedding.” That was Holly’s sort of humor; nothing was sacred.
    It had been a lovely wedding. The garden was in full bloom and the pastor had read Poe’s poem “To One in Paradise.” Felicia remembered that she had had to pee, so she hadn’t managed to concentrate on the words of the poem. From her English class in high school she remembered that Poe preferred short poems, because he thought literature should be taken in without being interrupted by impressions from the reader’s surroundings. But nature’s call takes precedence over art, doesn’t it? Before the reading was over she had run off to the bathroom. But the rest of the ceremony was beautiful, and she had almost—but only almost—felt like getting married herself. Still, she had known the way it would end for her friend. Holly was divorced after two years.
    Felicia Stone said hello to Patterson. He was a big man, six foot four and as wide as a truck. She was surprised at how tired he looked, since he had described the killing to her less than an hour before. Her thoughts went back to Poe. The master of the burlesque and macabre strikes again, she thought grimly.
    She asked Patterson, “Who’s here?”
    “Morris is in charge. He was inside, but went back to the station,” Patterson replied. “Then there’s Reynolds; he went back with Morris. Laubach is here and has started work.”
    “Laubach. That’s good to hear. We might need a technician of his caliber if it’s as bad as you said.”
    “Come and see for yourself,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
    They walked in silence to the end of the Enchanted Garden. Most of Felicia Stone’s colleagues had seen far more dead bodies than she had, but even though she’d spent seven years on active duty and two brief years as a homicide inspector, she had seen her share. However, the corpse that was tied