For what cured me of living between despair and hope was the death of my wife. The solution became the problem.”
Poe leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “My only life died and let me tell you that the one I received in its stead I hurl back at God and curse him for giving it to me.”
He felt Rachel come up behind him and place her hands on his shoulders. “Eddy, it can be done.”
Poe turned to look at her.
“Eddy, it is possible for the dead to live again.”
He stared at her for long seconds, then said, “I was correct.”
The tone in his voice made her withdraw her hands.
Poe stood up to face her. He was correct. Oversensitive Poe, with his mind buried in tales of terror, revenge and murder, with his soul consumed by death, fantasy, mystery and ratiocination, Poe who never guessed but who analyzed carefully and accurately. Poe who was admired, derided, feared, scorned. Poe knew.
“Rachel?”
She backed away from him.
“Rachel, who has convinced you that your husband can be brought back to life?”
“I, I—” She folded her arms under the lavender shawl, a barrier against Poe. She aimed her chin at him. She feels anger and fear, he thought and so do I, for she is now in the hands of those who will harm her if they can.
He shook his head slowly. His southern voice was softer than usual. “And so they have you as well.”
She spun around, her back now to him.
Poe hurried around the sofa, a hand reaching out for her. He wanted to protect her. “Rachel, they are frauds!”
“They are not!”
“Rachel, these newfangled spiritualists are obscene frauds, please believe me. It is a new fad and will soon be exposed for the dangerous nonsense it is. Spiritualists claim they can evoke the dead. Rachel, they cannot. They claim to be able to speak to the dead. They cannot. They claim the dead speak through them and I tell you this is not so. Oh Rachel, do listen, I beg you!”
She covered her face with her hands and Poe took her in his arms, stroking her long hair. “Rachel, Rachel.”
Poe despised spiritualism because he pursued the truth in all things and this was lies, merely another affront to what little human intelligence could be found in this boorish nation. Money changed hands of course, for as Washington Irving had told him, the almighty dollar reigned in this democratic land.
In dark rooms and for large fees mediums throughout New York City were causing tables to turn and tilt, musical instruments to play through the touch of invisible hands, spirits to “write” on slates, bells to ring, bodies to levitate in darkness and even glasses of water to overturn.
And this trickery was growing ever popular in America. In New York spiritualism was an epidemic, a most lucrative one to be sure, with victims prepared to believe over logic and sanity. Spiritualism was on the rise because people like Rachel would do anything, pay anything to hear that the beloved still lived. These days, no one asks after your health, but how does your table turn. Good and how is yours, sir. Spiritualism was fraud for money, a rising fad and one which Poe wanted to see exposed.
She looked at him and he felt her pain.
“Eddy, I love him as much as you loved Virginia. I want him back.”
“You will never see him alive.”
“Eddy, get him back for me. Bring us together again. Please.” Her fingers dug into his arms. Her intensity and determination were unnerving.
“Rachel—”
“He is waiting for me to—”
Poe grabbed her shoulders and shook her, shouting at the top of his voice. “Not in this world, not in this world! You must understand this. You must! The dead have no place in this life, in this world, not your dead, not my dead, not—”
A fist banged on the door. “Missus, are you—”
Rachel shouted, “I am fine, Charles. There is no need for alarm. Please return to your duties and thank you.”
Poe lowered his voice. “Do not do this, please! Flee these people. They will only
Poe leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “My only life died and let me tell you that the one I received in its stead I hurl back at God and curse him for giving it to me.”
He felt Rachel come up behind him and place her hands on his shoulders. “Eddy, it can be done.”
Poe turned to look at her.
“Eddy, it is possible for the dead to live again.”
He stared at her for long seconds, then said, “I was correct.”
The tone in his voice made her withdraw her hands.
Poe stood up to face her. He was correct. Oversensitive Poe, with his mind buried in tales of terror, revenge and murder, with his soul consumed by death, fantasy, mystery and ratiocination, Poe who never guessed but who analyzed carefully and accurately. Poe who was admired, derided, feared, scorned. Poe knew.
“Rachel?”
She backed away from him.
“Rachel, who has convinced you that your husband can be brought back to life?”
“I, I—” She folded her arms under the lavender shawl, a barrier against Poe. She aimed her chin at him. She feels anger and fear, he thought and so do I, for she is now in the hands of those who will harm her if they can.
He shook his head slowly. His southern voice was softer than usual. “And so they have you as well.”
She spun around, her back now to him.
Poe hurried around the sofa, a hand reaching out for her. He wanted to protect her. “Rachel, they are frauds!”
“They are not!”
“Rachel, these newfangled spiritualists are obscene frauds, please believe me. It is a new fad and will soon be exposed for the dangerous nonsense it is. Spiritualists claim they can evoke the dead. Rachel, they cannot. They claim to be able to speak to the dead. They cannot. They claim the dead speak through them and I tell you this is not so. Oh Rachel, do listen, I beg you!”
She covered her face with her hands and Poe took her in his arms, stroking her long hair. “Rachel, Rachel.”
Poe despised spiritualism because he pursued the truth in all things and this was lies, merely another affront to what little human intelligence could be found in this boorish nation. Money changed hands of course, for as Washington Irving had told him, the almighty dollar reigned in this democratic land.
In dark rooms and for large fees mediums throughout New York City were causing tables to turn and tilt, musical instruments to play through the touch of invisible hands, spirits to “write” on slates, bells to ring, bodies to levitate in darkness and even glasses of water to overturn.
And this trickery was growing ever popular in America. In New York spiritualism was an epidemic, a most lucrative one to be sure, with victims prepared to believe over logic and sanity. Spiritualism was on the rise because people like Rachel would do anything, pay anything to hear that the beloved still lived. These days, no one asks after your health, but how does your table turn. Good and how is yours, sir. Spiritualism was fraud for money, a rising fad and one which Poe wanted to see exposed.
She looked at him and he felt her pain.
“Eddy, I love him as much as you loved Virginia. I want him back.”
“You will never see him alive.”
“Eddy, get him back for me. Bring us together again. Please.” Her fingers dug into his arms. Her intensity and determination were unnerving.
“Rachel—”
“He is waiting for me to—”
Poe grabbed her shoulders and shook her, shouting at the top of his voice. “Not in this world, not in this world! You must understand this. You must! The dead have no place in this life, in this world, not your dead, not my dead, not—”
A fist banged on the door. “Missus, are you—”
Rachel shouted, “I am fine, Charles. There is no need for alarm. Please return to your duties and thank you.”
Poe lowered his voice. “Do not do this, please! Flee these people. They will only
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