Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster (24 page)

The three ladies began to murmur like bees.

“Is it Charlie?” Miss Castleton asked with quavering voice.

“Yes,” Mrs. Fontaine said firmly. “He has something to say to you.” She touched the rose to her forehead. “Wait, it is coming. I almost have it. Yes, thank you, spirit. Charlie says that if he may be so bold as to tell you, he has always loved you.”

A cry of distress mixed with joy escaped Miss Castleton.

“He is waiting for you. True love does not fade with time. He brings this white rose because—thank you, spirit—he wanted to give you a bouquet of white roses on your wedding day. Yes, I understand,” Mrs. Fontaine said, face turned toward the invisible. “Death may have stopped your union on Earth, but you will be joined in holy matrimony in Heaven.”

Miss Castleton emitted a sob. Her sister extracted a handkerchief from her bosom and handed it to her. “Thank you, thank you,” she murmured, weeping into its lacy folds.

“Tell him what is in your heart before he leaves us,” Mrs. Fontaine instructed. “You must tell him now. His strength is fading.”

“Dear Charlie, I have never forgotten you! I count the days until we are together,” Miss Castleton cried out.

“He is leaving us,” Mrs. Fontaine said. “He says, farewell, my darling Lucy, farewell.”

Miss Castleton broke into fresh sobs, and tears glittered on the cheeks of her sisters.

“Take this rose, my dear. Take this rose as a keepsake and dry your tears. Few of us are lucky enough to find one who loves us so dearly.” Mrs. Fontaine handed the rose to Miss Castleton, who took it with trembling hands. I felt quite moved by the exchange, but Dupin and the professor remained inscrutable.

“Let us join hands again. There are more messages from the other side. I can feel it.”

We reformed our circle, and Mrs. Fontaine began to sing another obscure hymn that preached of everlasting life and the joys of Heaven, but she abruptly terminated the chorus.

“The energy is weak. I can feel the spirits but I cannot discern their words.” She dropped my hand and the serving girl's and stood up. Mrs. Fontaine pulled back her lace shawl, and I caught sight of that eye—that
human
eye—pinned to her breast. It stared at me most evilly, rendering me incapable of movement or speech until a clanging jarred me back into the world of the living. Mrs. Fontaine was ringing a hand bell, which was attached by a ribbon to her waist. She began to circle the table, ringing the bell continuously. “Please clasp hands,” she said. “I can feel . . . a woman.”

My heart leapt at this pronouncement.

“Yes, a woman. A very talented woman—most learned.” The hand bell clanged and clanged. “Speak to me, spirit!” Mrs. Fontaine stopped near the window and allowed the bell to fall back to her side. The moonlight seemed to gild her with a phosphorescent ice, transforming her into a creature from a fairytale. Again, she tilted her face to the heavens. “Yes, I hear you. He must stop. He is in danger. Yes, I hear. She says that the time has passed to take revenge upon the man who betrayed us. His task now is to redeem our name.”

A chill settled upon me, and for a moment the darkness
seemed to deepen into a velvety black, with only Mrs. Fontaine illumined by the spectral light. Was this the warning from my grandmother? If so, I was baffled by her message.

Mrs. Fontaine stood up very straight, her eyes directed toward us and as she began to speak, her voice took on a new inflection. Her accent seemed almost
French
.

“We who are falsely accused by the duplicitous—by those who are enemies to the truth and to the highest principles of man—we go to our deaths safe in the knowledge that we and we alone are upholding the very spirit of France: liberty, reason and equality. Our innocence will be confirmed in time and our enemies will finally be vanquished. I accept my murder with love for my homeland and all that she truly stands for, and I condemn those who seek to defeat her through treachery and dishonor.” A terrible gasp escaped Mrs. Fontaine and her hands fluttered to her throat before she sank to her knees and collapsed into a faint.

“Miss Rowena!” The serving girl jumped up and rushed to her mistress. She began to pat her cheeks gently. I arose from my chair to assist and noticed that Dupin was frozen, his face a mask of astonishment, and then he stormed from the room. I was torn between following him and going to Mrs. Fontaine's aid. The three ladies clucked like over-fed hens, but remained glued to their chairs, as did the professor, who seemed unmoved by Mrs. Fontaine's collapse—I was compelled to go to the stricken lady's assistance.

“Mrs. Fontaine, can you hear me?” She was scarcley breathing. I looked to the serving girl. “Fetch her some water and a damp cloth.”

The girl gave me an unexpectedly poisonous look and leaned closer to her mistress.

“Miss Rowena,” she whispered. “Please wake up.”

Mrs. Fontaine's eyelids fluttered and then opened. “Oh, I feel
most . . . depleted. She was powerful. Terribly powerful. Please, help me up.”

“Would you like some water? A compress?”

“No, no. I am fine. But they are pressing upon me. I must . . . I must comply or they will torment me all night. Help me up. Please.”

The serving girl and I helped Mrs. Fontaine to her feet.

“Dear, you gave us quite a fright,” one of the sisters stuttered.

“Please sit,” said the other.

“Yes, please do,” added Miss Castleton.

“No, I cannot. We must . . . we must adjourn to the cellar. The spirits command it. They will torment me until we do as they ask. Please, help me down the stairs.” She grasped onto my arm and led me toward the opposite wall, where there was an open door I had not noticed before. Mrs. Fontaine clung to my arm to steady herself and the serving girl carried a candle, which did little to dispel the deep shadows below us as we descended into the musty cellar. The girl placed the taper into a candleholder that stood on a table and its beam jittered in the blackness, shivering with fear. A pile of stones was arranged on the table top, but I could see nothing else.

“Please, would everyone take several stones,” Mrs. Fontaine instructed. “We must raise the energy again. I can feel a presence, a
strong
presence, but I cannot discern what he or she is saying to me. Let us sing.” She launched into another hymn and the ladies immediately accompanied her, their countenances flaccid with fear. The professor began to hum, occasionally breaking into words: “I am but a sinner. Dear Lord, forgive me my sins.”

Mrs. Fontaine threw a pebble into the darkness that shrouded the other end of the cellar. The ladies followed suit, as did the professor and I. Still singing and humming, we all threw
another stone. Mrs. Fontaine sang more loudly and threw yet another. The room reverberated with song made unpalatable by the fear that tinged each note.

“Ouch!” Miss Castleton broke off from singing with a sharp cry. “My word, I have been hit!” A second pebble came flying back at us.

“They are here!” Mrs. Fontaine's voice contained joy whereas the chill of fear infected the rest of us. “Do you have a message for us?” Another stone flew through the air and hit my arm. “For Mr. Poe?” Again, another stone pattered against me and my heart sped up. “Speak through me, spirit, speak through me.” Mrs. Fontaine tilted her face upward. “Yes, I hear you.” Mrs. Fontaine's voice seemed to alter as she spoke, dropping in tone, taking on a peculiar accent. “I looked to those who were to protect my innocence, with confidence in impartiality. I believed that truth and innocence would triumph over falsehood, but I suffered from prejudice and truth did not prevail. I have tried to forgive, but is there justice when a lie convicts a man and sets the true perpetrator free? Is there justice when a child is condemned to prison before his birth? Surely, when there is no justice, we must make it ourselves?”

There was a loud crack against the cellar wall. And another. One of the ladies yelped as a pebble hit her, far more fiercely than before. And then another until it was clear that the hail of pebbles that flew at us far exceeded the number we had thrown.

“We have summoned a being from the lowest order!” Mrs. Fontaine cried out. “One who died after a life of vice upon this plane. Its intentions are evil. Run! Run upstairs, now!”

The sisters scurried upstairs and the serving girl scuttled after them, with the professor at her heels. Then the candle was extinguished, leaving utter darkness. It was then that my arms were grabbed by preternaturally strong hands, and I was dragged further into the cellar.

“Help!” I called out. “Someone help me!”

There was the sound of a door slamming shut, and I struggled against the malicious spirits that were determined to drag me to Hell. I thrashed and wriggled like a strung up fish, until I felt a heavy crack upon my head and succumbed to nothingness.

* * *

Later, much later, an eerie jeweled light appeared in the sable darkness. I struggled to bring myself back to sentience, to breathe in the airless room. My body ached and as I tried to arise from my bed, the floor rushed away from my feet. Window—I needed to open a window—but I could not ascertain its location. Fear caught hold of me as I discerned movement—there! Near the dark velvet curtains! The jeweled light grew brighter and brighter, then transformed into a woman's eyes that glared like a cat's when they capture the light. As I watched, morbidly transfixed, a second pair of eyes appeared and then another and another! Until hundreds of eyes glowed from the shadows—unnatural and unblinking. A chill slowed my heart and moved through my body—death itself creeping through me, its slow, icy poison finishing me inch by inch. It came to me in a blinding flash of horror that I had swooned—how long ago I did not remember—and now I was trapped, utterly trapped, within my familial tomb, the spirits of my decaying ancestors drawing the life from me so they might rise again. And as these treacherous phantoms waited for sleep to reclaim me, I knew that if my eyes fell closed I would never come back from the darkness.

But my head throbbed and my body ached. I was lying on damp earth, my chin resting upon the floor of my prison, and when I put out my arm, discovered I was at the very brink of a pit, with only empty space in front of me. There was a smell, which increased as my senses cleared; it was the smell of rotting eggs—or the
sulfurous fumes of Hell! I could hear noises, faint but somehow disturbing,
creeping
noises moving toward me. As fear gripped me ever tighter, my senses became inhumanely acute. The sound of feet pattered ever closer, and eyes gleamed like a demon's in the blackness. And then, with a rushing, something scuttled past me—soft fur, sharp claws, and somewhere . . . teeth. I jerked back my body, arms thrashing. A soft body thudded against my hand and squealed as it connected with a harder surface. And another! As my panic increased, so did my memory. Pebbles . . . flying pebbles thrown by malicious spirits . . . and now, much more horribly, live things sneaking round me, hoping to taste warm flesh, their preternatural eyes accustomed to the darkness, unlike my own. I scrabbled to my feet like a tormented madman and flung myself toward the walls of my cell. They were of dank, musty soil, easily scraped and furrowed by my fingernails, yet most assuredly a prison. I felt my way along the unyielding walls, seeking the prison door, until my foot met with emptiness. A shriek escaped my lips as I grappled to steady myself and sank to my heels, determined not to plunge into the bowels of the earth.

How long I crouched on the floor I do not know. The intensity of the gloom was oppressive and stifling, and it was a struggle to breathe. I itched at the dusty ground around me, seeking a stone, a clod of dirt, anything to test the depth of the pit before me. At last, I found a pebble and threw it—down, down, down, it went, but there was no thud or splash, no sound of it connecting with the bottom. Most surely the house was situated atop the gateway of Hell itself! Horror conquered me, and then the darkness.

How much later did I awake? The darkness remained, but the terror had softened to fear. I had no sense of the size of the pit so moved forward cautiously, arms outstretched, my eyes straining from their sockets, searching for a faint ray of light.

“Mrs. Fontaine! Are you there? Mrs. Fontaine!”

But all I could hear was the breathing of the rats that lived in my cellar with me, the famished rats waiting to catch me unawares. The noise from their impatient feet and urgent teeth echoed diabolically How long before they formed a mob and threw themselves upon me, teeth and claws burrowing deep into my still-living flesh?

“Mrs. Fontaine!”

I do not know how many times I called out from my crypt. Had she been hurt? Was she also a prisoner? At last, I found a rectangle of wood lodged in the earthen wall that seemed to be my prison's door, but there was no latch to open it. I pounded heartily upon it.

“Help me, someone!” I repeated my pleas over and over until I collapsed into unconsciousness again.

* * *

It may have been hours or possibly days later that I heard a steady rapping. I could not tell if it came from within my prison or outside it. Then there was a sound of splintering wood and a loud crack! Daylight flared through broken planks.

“Poe! Are you there?”

My stuttering heart calmed. It was Dupin at last. “The pit! Heed the pit!” I croaked with the remnants of my voice.

“Poe, I am here. You are safe.” The gleam of a lantern showed him my location. “The devils,” he muttered, as he made his way toward me. “Grasp my arm. You must be weak. I am sorry it took me so long to find you.”

“The lantern. Shine the lantern. I must see it.”

Dupin held the lantern aloft and its feeble beams illuminated the damp walls.

“No, the pit. Show me the pit.”

Dupin held the lantern over it. “There is a hole, framed with wooden beams. I think perhaps it was once a trapdoor.”