Who Holds The Torch for Eddie? A Search for the Elusive Poe Toaster

By Lisa René Reynolds

The popularity of Edgar Allan Poe and his writings did not peak until long after his death. Many years passed with little interest in his strange and troubled life and the peculiar occurrences surrounding his death. By the time society had become captivated with his existence and distinctive demise, many of the people and details needed to fully explain the writer’s tragic experiences were long lost.

What would happen if someone tried to find out the identity of the elusive “Poe Toaster” and expose it to the world? In the process of discovering the identity of this clandestine grave visitor, might the searcher turn up other untold secrets? And maybe even information surrounding Poe’s mysterious last days?

Struggling writer, Benjamin Meeks, thinks he has what it takes to put a new and fresh twist on the coverage of the annual Poe Toaster visit. As he writes his first article--an open letter to the Poe Toaster himself--strange things start to happen. A chance encounter with a beggar with a warning, anonymous letters with clues woven into them and visits from various people who know something, but aren't telling, lead Ben to think there is much more to this Poe ritual than what others have reported.

Through frustrating dead-ends, unexpected revelations and his final conclusions, Ben has findings that could rock the world. But in the end, will he choose to share what he uncovered, or to continue to guard the secrets from the public? And knowing the strength of what he may have learned, could those who were hot on his trail afford to let him have that choice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa René Reynolds
• Release date: Oct 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466197640

Lisa René Reynolds

Lisa Rene Reynolds resides in Connecticut and enjoys writing, reading, running and spending time with her children.She holds both Master’s and PhD degrees in marital and family therapy. She is a family therapist specializing in couples’ treatment/marriage counseling. She also works with parents and children going through family changes.She teaches at several Connecticut colleges and universities where she is an adjunct instructor in the Psychology department. Additionally, she offers community workshops on a variety of topics.Lisa Rene Reynolds is the author of two print books:Coming Out and Covering Up: Catholic Priests Talk about Sex Scandal in the Church (Dead End Street)Parenting through Divorce: Helping Your Children Thrive During and After the Split (Skyhorse Publishing)

Book preview

FOREWORD

The popularity of Edgar Allan Poe and his writings did not peak until long after his death. Many years passed with little interest in his strange and troubled life and the peculiar occurrences surrounding his death. By the time society had become captivated with his existence and distinctive demise, many of the people and details needed to fully explain the writer’s tragic experiences were long lost.

What would happen if someone tried to find out the identity of the elusive Poe Toaster and expose it to the world? In the process of discovering the identity of this clandestine grave visitor, might the searcher turn up other untold secrets? And maybe even information surrounding Poe’s mysterious last days?

Struggling writer, Benjamin Meeks, thinks he has what it takes to put a new and fresh twist on the coverage of the annual Poe Toaster visit. As he writes his first article--an open letter to the Poe Toaster himself--strange things start to happen. A chance encounter with a beggar with a warning, anonymous letters with clues woven into them and visits from various people who know something, but aren't telling, lead Ben to think there is much more to this Poe ritual than what others have reported.

Through frustrating dead-ends, unexpected revelations and his final conclusions, Ben has findings that could rock the world. But in the end, will he choose to share what he uncovered, or continue to guard the secrets from the public? And knowing the strength of what he may have learned, could those who were hot on his trail afford to let him have that choice?

Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?

--Edgar Allan Poe

Dedicated to:

Jeff Jerome and all the others that work so tirelessly to keep the memory of Eddie alive.

PROLOGUE

Benjamin Meeks sat cross-legged in the center of a ratty maroon carpet. The young boy, still in sagging diapers, ran his stubby finger across the rug, drawing imaginary lines between the random flecks of salmon and blue accent fibers. What made for a fun game of connect-the-dots for the child was also what made his mother’s job much easier; the busy patterned surface served to hide the dirt and grime the motel guests tracked in. And Tawana Meeks was always there to make it disappear.

There were seven rooms at the Hitching Post Motel in Pottsville, Maryland. Hardly enough rooms to stay in business, it would seem, but somehow the place seemed to carry on just fine. Tawana always suspected the motel was really a front for some other seedy business, but she didn’t really care—it paid regularly, and she could keep her son fed and clothed. And best of all, Room 7 was hers and Ben’s to live in.

On this particular day, Tawana kept her son close, as always. Benjamin sat with an array of travel-sized toiletries on the rug beneath him, mindlessly stacking individually wrapped mini-bars of soap into precarious towers. He made sure to line up the cornerstones of his edifice with carefully chosen spots on the carpet while his mother toiled in the small connecting bathroom of Room 4.

Under Tawana’s watchful eye, little Benjamin was safe, and that was all that mattered to her. On that bright autumn morning, Tawana was warmed by the primal instinct of protecting one’s child. But she would soon find the tireless efforts she focused on Benjamin were not enough. Although she had managed to keep her son out of harm’s way for three years, she had no way to shield herself from the deadly intentions that waited for her outside the door of Room 4.

CHAPTER 1

The shock of the descending mass struck her, consequently, in that portion of her frame which was nearly under water, and the inevitable result was to hurl me, with irresistible violence, upon the rigging of the stranger.

--MS. Found in a Bottle

It was a drizzly gray evening in Howard County when Benjamin Meeks left the office. The bustle of the holidays was finally over and a new year had begun. Life had fallen back into its less-than-merry drudgery.

With a well-worn leather portfolio tucked under his arm, Ben exited the small building and headed for the parking lot across the street. He paused and scratched around in his jeans’ pocket for a dollar or some change to put in the coffee can that the corner beggar held out each day. The old Vietnamese guy sat there wearing the same nubby gray sweater, frayed trousers and work boots from dawn until dusk. The beggar leaned back against a filthy bedroll that looked as if it was twice the size of the man himself.

As he neared, Ben could see the beggar huddled under a building overhang a few steps ahead but as he reached out to toss a fistful of loose coins, he noticed the can was knocked over, the cash spread soggily on the damp pavement. The man was rocking in place, pointing skyward and mumbling something.

Hey, buddy. You alright? Ben squatted down, pulling his jacket up over the top of his head to shield it from the rainwater trickling down from the ledge above.

The beggar focused his eyes on Ben and with an expression of sheer terror, pointed at the sky again and shrieked. Ben looked upward and saw nothing but a bird flapping down across the top of a lamppost. He shrugged. What? The bird?

The beggar nodded feverishly. He appeared to be weeping. The man uttered the first words Ben could understand, interspersed between throaty moans: Crow bad luck. Very bad. All day he fly. Bird fly at you, danger is imminent. Death come soon. Come very soon.

Ben stood again. He knew the guy was a little off, but today, he seemed over the top. I wouldn’t worry about it, buddy. Birds fly around here all the time. He left a couple wrinkly ones and a little pile of change next to the beggar and as he turned away to resume his walk to the lot, the crow swooped downward at breakneck speed, nearly crashing into him. The word shit exploded from his lips as he stumbled out of the way. He could hear the beggar’s words clearly as he started towards the crosswalk:

Birds fly here, yes. Crows, no.

Far from concerned about what the beggar had perceived to be a bad omen, Ben headed out of the lot in his second-hand Honda Civic. His office building shrunk quickly behind him in the rearview mirror.

The little town Ben worked in was nestled between the crowded hubs of Baltimore and Washington. He was a staff writer at the Patuxent River Gazette. Writing for this tiny newspaper was originally intended to be a short term gig after he graduated from college. It was supposed to pay the bills while Ben played the role of struggling novelist and tried to write his first best-seller. Nine years later, with his 30th birthday looming and only thirty-two dog-eared pages of manuscript completed, Ben remained at the paper, sans the blockbuster hit that had been his dream. And today had given Ben good reason to wonder if his job with the paper was even secure.

During this particularly drab and soggy rush hour, Ben found himself taking a depressing inventory of his life. Almost thirty, a string of failed romantic relationships under his belt, no finished novel and newspaper skills that were mediocre at best. Truth be told, what Ben lacked in all these areas was passion. He hadn’t found anything or anyone who inspired him. But there, in the bleak endless sea that was his life, stood one tiny, bright white spinnaker sail; her name was Leah.

He was better off not having such thoughts. Ben had never felt so connected to anyone in his life, but Leah was thousands of miles away and would remain there for the better part of the next year. It had been her choice to leave. She said she needed space. So rather than taking off to join the proverbial circus, Leah chose the next best thing—the Peace Corps—and now she was residing in a tiny African village full of huge dangers; namely malaria and a multitude of strapping young natives. Ben had seen the pictures with his own eyes.

Leah said she wanted to explore her roots and delve into her heritage, but Ben had been in enough relationships to know that it wasn’t looking good if needing space meant on an entirely different continent. Too bad, he grunted to himself; he thought that he might have been actually falling in love with her. Fuck the bad omen. What the hell else can that stupid crow bring me for bad luck?

Ben rested his forehead on the edge of the steering wheel as he sat idling in deadlocked traffic on the road. It was probably some unseen accident up ahead. On second thought, without the sound of sirens, that scenario was unlikely. Maybe just a rain delay, Ben thought. The light drizzle had morphed into leaden sheets of rain slapping across the car’s windshield. Crow or no crow, Ben didn’t have the slightest inkling he was just moments away from the first in a chain of events that would change his life forever.

Shit, Ben muttered. He was just remembering his story deadline at seven the next morning. Shit, shit, shit. And the fact that he had no clue how he’d find the motivation to complete the damn thing. He thumped his head against his tightly wound fists gripping the wheel. The pounding of the rain mirrored the cadenced words Ben had weathered from his boss as he was leaving the office earlier that evening. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the incident to go away and hide. But it was as if he had pushed some imaginary play button.

Jesus, Ben—what the hell is this? Andrew McPherson groaned as he forcefully smacked the Gazette down on his desk. For a 16-page publication, it made an impressive thud. Ben looked down, recognizing the heading of the tiny column hidden between a large livestock feed ad and a listing of the local bowling league scores.

C’mon, Andy, what? You don’t like it? Ben answered, but his jocular reply was a bit too playful for Andrew’s taste.

Knock it off, Ben. You know what I’m pissed off about. It’s not the article and you know it. Why do you constantly play these power struggle games with me? I’m tired of being tested, Ben. I’m your boss. Your editor. And I busted my ass for a long time to get here. You run this shit by me before it goes to press. Period. No more games. I see everything you submit before it’s run. Got it? No more of this special fucking treatment. Andrew ran both hands through his ginger hair, working his fingers in, then continued in a slightly more affectionate, almost paternal tone, You’re on shaky ground here, Ben. You know I’ve always been in your corner, trying to work with you, cutting you some slack, but...You’ve been here, what? Almost ten years? I’m not getting any younger and you’re wearing me thin.

Ben stood wordlessly before his mentor, taking in all he had said. He had shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, unsure of what to make of Andy’s monologue. Being singled out in this way created an infuriating mix of humiliation and resentment for him. Hell yeah, he felt defensive. He’d been a good employee, loyal to the paper. Not like the stream of beginners who came on board, got their experience, and then left to go on to bigger and better writing, blogging and hosting webinars. Wary of his own angry state of mind, Ben chose his response carefully: Thanks for your vote of confidence, Andy. I never asked for any fucking favors. Then he stood and headed swiftly for the door.

Andrew simply shrugged from defeat and said, And Ben—one more thing. He held out a thumb drive that Ben recognized as the one he had submitted that morning; the one about deformed toads showing up in the local ponds.

This story lacks enthusiasm. It’s flat. I want it redone by 7 a.m. tomorrow.

You’ve got to be kidding, Andy! The frigging frog story? I did a fair report. I gave it coverage. No one’s even following the blog on it. Who cares about a bunch of freak-show amphibians? He snatched the device from Andrew’s grip.

Andrew shook his head. You just don’t get it Benjamin. It’s your job to make people interested in the frogs. Rewrite it and make me give a shit about our two-headed friends. Tomorrow. 7 a.m. I have some good stock photos for you too. I'll send them over to you later.

Before Ben could respond, Andrew’s cell phone buzzed aloud with news of a new text. The sound succeeded in quickly diffusing the intensity in the room. Andrew glanced down at the message and muttered an unintelligible word before locking eyes with Ben and saying, I’ve got a serious problem here I need to contend with before this thing blows up on me. I’ve got to go. We’ll have to talk about this later.

Ben glared at Andrew, muttered an attitude-laden whatever and stormed out of the office. He knew he was acting like a defiant teenager, but he couldn’t help it. Andrew had a knack for making Ben feel like a child.

Now, sitting in his car, forced to rehash his boss’s words, Ben recognized that maybe Andrew had a point. But dammit, why did he just have a way with annoying the hell out of him?

Ben’s thoughts were interrupted by the impatient blare of a horn from the car behind him. Ben rolled his eyes and let out an unintentional hiss as he roved his car all of an inch or so forward so that it about to touch the rear bumper of the vehicle in front of him. He threw his hands up, wrenched the rearview mirror down and mouthed, Happy now? to the driver behind him.

In typical Ben style, he made a sudden change in plan and snaked his way between cars to make it over to the right breakdown lane. Ben sneaked off the road, putt-putting along, trying to maneuver an improvised detour. The rain was coming down fiercely now, and Ben could feel his tires slipping through the massive pools of water that were quickly appearing on the road.

It was a raging storm, made worse by the thickening fog and the growing darkness. It was almost eerie, really. Ben squinted, crawling along and leaning forward to make out the outlines of the small side road he’d just turned on. Then, through the water-blurred windshield, he saw a pair of headlights approaching, their cobalt blue shine stabbing through the murkiness. Ben was too surprised to react as the vehicle came barreling towards him. Blinded by the flash of the lights, he had time only to clutch the wheel and brace himself for impact.

CHAPTER 2

My friend, said Dupin, in a kind tone, You are alarming yourself unnecessarily—you are indeed.

--The Murders in the Rue Morgue

Hours later, Ben lay in a sickly green