nEvermore! Tales of Murder Mystery and the Macabre: (Neo-Gothic fiction inspired by the imagination of Edgar Allan Poe) Page 2

  The vengeful feline in Bram Stoker’s “The Squaw” is quite obviously of the same ilk as Poe’s “The Black Cat”, while the giant rat in Stoker’s “The Judge’s House” and the red horse in Poe’s “Metzengerstein” share their malevolent influence on the two protagonists.

  Joseph Conrad always praised Poe’s authenticity of descriptions of the sea and spiked his own works with references to his writings, including his masterpiece Heart of Darkness. That Conrad’s 1913 short story “The Inn of the Two Witches” borrows directly from Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum” — as Jeffrey Meyers wrote in his Poe biography — is somewhat doubtful though. Conrad’s tale is more of a re-telling of Wilkie Collins’ 1852 story “A Terribly Strange Bed” — which in turn might well have been influenced by the moving walls in Poe’s yarn.

  That people could reenact events of the past, as in Poe’s “A Tale of the Ragged Mountains”, became quite a common plot device in the works of Henry Rider Haggard. Rudyard Kipling wrote that “My own personal debt to Poe is a heavy one,” most likely referring to his own supernatural tales and poetry.

  With his essay “The Poetic Principle” — praising art for art’s sake and denying that “every poem… should inculcate a moral,” — Poe opened the door to Oscar Wilde, who went on to phrase something similar, if more radical, in the preface to his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray: “There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” Dorian Gray, brilliantly written, is an offspring of Poe’s story “The Oval Portrait”, with a difference; while Poe’s artist puts so much of the life of his subject into his painting that the subject withers and dies the moment the portrait is finished, in Wilde’s novel the painting does not reabsorb the subject’s life force, but lives on the evil it commits. The finale brings us straight back to the end of Poe’s “William Wilson”.

  The Victorian writer who never stopped bowing to the memory of Poe was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. His story “The New Catacomb” is a variation of “The Cask of Amontillado”, and there are more than just traces of Poe in many of his stories. His main tribute, though, was the creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, taking the lead from where Poe left off Auguste Dupin and his nameless friend and making the genre Poe had invented — the detective story — completely his own. Doyle wrote in his book “Through the Magic Door”: “Poe is, to my mind, the supreme original short-story writer of all time.… If every man who receives a cheque for a story which owes its springs to Poe were to pay a tithe to a monument for the master, he would have a pyramid as big as that of Cheops.”

  Poe, the horror writer. Poe, the poet. Poe, the critic. Poe, the inventor of the detective story. A major force in the development of the science fiction genre. A master of the Gothics. The godfather of psychological thrills. The obstetrician of symbolism. A jester. A philosopher.

  Did Poe write in genres? No, he did not. He did not care to be slotted. He was a major force in his time, never afraid to cross a border on well-trimmed grounds or to explore unknown regions in literature. Poe shaped the future. He was adored by Thomas Mann. He left imprints in the work of James Joyce. He made Howard Phillips Lovecraft a high priest in his temple. His disciples are impossible to count, impossible to trace, but you find him in the morbidity of Hanns Heinz Ewers, in the dark world inside the head of Robert Bloch, and in the investigations of Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. He’s on the surface of Ray Bradbury’s Mars and hidden in the charms of Neil Gaiman’s poetic prose. One could almost say his offspring rule the world of literature. Today we can identify and acknowledge the presence of Edgar Allan Poe, who came like a thief in the night and to this day holds illimitable dominion over all.

  Poe, the genius. He probably would like that honorific. Let us build a pyramid to him, or two.

  * * * * *

  The Gold Bug Conundrum

  by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro says: “The second of two required English courses when I was in college was devoted to American literature; the professor earnestly believed that all fiction was based on some actuality that was either the writer’s personal experience, or something he had heard or read. From Hawthorne to Hemmingway, we spent the semester scrounging through biographies to find some justification for his theory. I did my semester paper on Poe, and it has returned to haunt me.”

  * * * * *

  It was an old house, a relic of the Gilded Age, abandoned almost forty years ago after a sixth powerful hurricane had plowed right through the area, pulling off huge sections of the old roof, shattering windows, demolishing most of the central chimneys, spilling bricks in all directions, and stripping the east side of the structure of shingles and 1880s gingerbread. Since it was ravaged, trees and lower-growing plants had made inroads on their reclamation of what remained of the place, repossessing it for the island; an odor of decomposing wood, plants, mortar, and excrement hung over it in an all-but-visible haze.

  For the last half hour of their drive to the enormous house, Jeff Milton and Peregrine Rudolph had been discussing Moby Dick, and the historical incident upon which it was based. “Melville didn’t need to have an actual event to tell the story,” Milton had declared for the third time as they rounded a particularly steep curve in the poorly graded road.

  “But he knew about it. People talked about it,” Rudolph had insisted, clinging to the steering wheel. “He used that to add credibility to his work.”

  “That’s likely, yes. But the book’s not reportage— it’s a novel: you know, a made-up story,” Milton had responded adamantly.

  “Yes, it is, but it’s rooted in fact. Melville didn’t imagine it, not completely. He used a real situation to build on.”

  “God, Rudi, why is it you can’t stand that it’s fiction? Why does every good story have to be based on something before you’ll accept it?”

  “No, of course not,” said Rudolph. “But it happens more often than you think that actualities contribute to stories, and that increases the believability of the story. And you know it.”

  “You may be right, but I still wouldn’t discount the imagination. You use your games all the time.” Milton had been more annoyed than he wanted to admit; Rudolph often had that effect on him.

  “But based on reality,” Rudolph maintained.

  “Does that include your Enemy Stars game? All those peculiar beings you came up with. It’s pretty out there, even for a science fiction game, or don’t you think so?”

  When Rudolph had not answered, Milton had fallen silent, and waited to arrive at the old, so-called summer cottage — fifteen bedrooms, two dining rooms, a breakfast room, a parlor, a sitting room, a ballroom, a library, and all the other necessities required by the seriously wealthy — that had been built well over a century ago.

  “We’re here,” Rudolph said, turning toward his brother-in-law as he pulled in to the sand-scoured expanse of what had long ago been one of three tennis courts, about one hundred feet from the battered front door that was partially visible through a heavy screen of tropical plants.

  Milton had been uneasy for most of their hour journey along the dusty, graveled road, becoming more and more apprehensive the farther they got from Sainte Gertrude, the nearest town, and now that they had arrived, he asked, “Rudi, whatever possessed you to buy this God-awful place?”

  Peregrine Rudolph chuckled as he unfastened his seatbelt. “Location, location, location,” said as he opened the door and stepped out onto the littered swath of sand, grinning like a ten-year-old rather than the nearly forty he was. He gestured toward the gentle slope that led down to the wide swath of beach and the outrageously blue Caribbean. “Look at this spot, Jeff. Just look at it. It’s beautiful— or don’t you agree?”

  “Oh, the view is nice, I’ll give you that,” said Milton, then turned to regard the disintegrating structure behind them. “But the house, Rudi. It’s horrible.”

  “It can be fixed,” Rudolph said blithely.

  “But why? It’s a ruin,” Milton declared. “That house is only standing because the trees are holding it up. Rudi, think about it, please.”

  “Yeah, okay, it’s pretty far gone. But consider the potential. Once this estate is restored, the view alone will spur business, don’t you think?”

  “You still want to make it a spa resort? Now that you’re actually here, don’t you see how impossible that is?” Milton asked, incredulity making his voice high and quarrelsome.

  “Certainly I want to make the resort. Expensive, exclusive, and luxurious: world-class chefs, grand dining, celebrity entertainers, two swimming pools, hot tubs, the tennis courts, jogging trails, saunas, maybe a small casino, the whole experience,” said Rudolph, his smile widening. “If we put in the cabins as we have them in the initial designs, we can accommodate up to two hundred guests, and a staff of three hundred.”

  “You plan to have people come through Sainte Gertrude, or will you bring them in from Esplanade?” Milton asked, his question verging on complaint; the central city of the island was little more than a slightly larger versions of Sainte Gertrude.

  “I’ve submitted a proposal for building a new road from Sainte Gertrude; the harbor can accommodate cruise ships if we enlarge the waterfront and dredge out a channel.”

  “That will cost a fortune,” Milton exclaimed.

  “Then it’s lucky that I have a fortune,” Rudolph said. “We should be able to come up with a route from the docks to this place that won’t disrupt the town too much, and won’t upset the arriving guests.” Rudolph took a long breath. “That’s assuming that we have the right approach to the potential patrons. We need to be thinking about its sno
b appeal.”

  “That’s a lot of supposition,” Milton said. “And now I understand why you’ve played your cards so close to the vest with Caroline. You made it sound like the house was largely undamaged, and that there were cabins in place already, didn’t you? Did you think she wouldn’t figure it out? She’ll have a fit when she sees this.” Milton got out of the Land Rover, and frowned as his hiking boots sank a short way into the matted vegetable detritus underfoot.

  “I gather you’re planning to tell her,” said Rudolph, some of his geniality fading.

  “I’ll have to,” said Milton, doing all he could to sound reasonable. “She’s my sister, and she depends on me, especially in regards to you. She’ll pester me with questions, and you know it. To repeat: whatever possessed you?”

  “I can afford it, if that’s what’s troubling you. This is a good project for me; you said so when I broached it with you. So did she,” said Rudolph at his most placating. “Look, I appreciate my wife’s concerns, which is why I asked her to come along with us, but she decided not to. She sent you in her stead: I understand that. But I’m glad to have you along, Jeff, no matter how sour your mood.”

  “She was afraid of what she’d find here. And looking around, I can’t say I blame her. Jesus!” Milton made an abrupt gesture toward what little remained of the roof of the house. “What a wreck. I can’t believe you know what you’re getting into.”

  “Shit, Jeff, this is her idea as much as mine. I’ve got to spend my money on something, and I’m already giving to nine charities, endowing chairs at three universities, supporting twelve third-world schools, and a symphony orchestra. It’s not that I’m not proud of my philanthropy, but I need some other kind of activity. This is just for me. It’s a great opportunity.” He came around the front of the Land Rover, stretching his arms over his head; the mid-afternoon sun was warm but not oppressive, the breeze carrying the aroma of blooming flowers as well as the smell of decay. “Caroline always complains that I spend too much time in my head, developing more computer games, tied to my computer room, and not paying any attention to the rest of the world— she’s right. I have let myself get obsessive about more game development. So now I’m taking her advice, and finding something new to obsess about— her words.”

  “To put it differently, she thinks you need a hobby,” said Milton. “Why this massive house restoration? It’s overwhelming, and it could be more trouble than anything you can imagine, and that’s crediting your imagination for being as vivid as it is. Why not do something in New England or Santa Cruz or Santa Fe — you have offices near those places — instead of the Caribbean? Why open a resort? Particularly in this… place? Wouldn’t taking up fishing be better? Or sailing? Or bowling, for that matter? You’re supposed to relax.”

  “They’re boring, not relaxing. This won’t be. Caroline knows how easily bored I can be.” Rudolph took his rucksack out of the car and slung it over his shoulder. “And she’s right about that, as well, of course. I can’t think of anything more unlike designing computer games than restoring this old house. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I have some basic figures on costs.”

  “Don’t tell me yet, Rudi; I’m not sitting down,” said Milton.

  Rudolph smiled. “It’s expensive to do it, but I’ve got it covered— I’ve told you, Jeff. And you agreed that I have a lot of disposable income.”

  “You do— but this looks like it could take all you have, and more.”

  “And when The Outer Reaches is released next year, I’ll have more. If the HBO deal goes as well as we all expect, a lot more. The first opinion groups are very enthusiastic. Every teen-age geek in the world will want to see the series, and to buy the game after the movie’s released.”

  “If you happen to develop a game about restoring old buildings, you can just plow the profits into this house, as well,” said Milton with a hint of disapproval.

  “I won’t have to do that, but my accountants might recommend it, so I’m working out a Plan B. This ain’t gonna be cheap, getting this estate in shape, but it’s nothing I can’t handle, unless the computer game industry collapses, and the way they’ve figured it, I’ll have a healthy tax write-off on the restoration, and making the resort into its own profitable venture. I’ve already got some basic bids on the job— all US companies with branches in these islands.” He grinned at Milton. “I researched the original plans, and all the information I could find about Gold Bug.”

  Milton groaned. “That’s it, isn’t it? Location be damned— it’s the name. You and your Poe fixation. I still don’t understand how a technophile like you can be hung up on Poe.”

  Rudolph was used to wrangling with Milton, and so he resisted the urge to snap. “That’s part of the attraction here; it’s what got me started thinking about this place; you’ve got to admit that the name is provocative— the builder let it be known that he financed it through treasure he found on this very site, and that intrigued me,” he allowed, and started toward the front door, taking a flashlight from the capacious lower pocket in his jacket. “I don’t know what we might find inside. You ought to be prepared.”

  “Squatters, probably, or rats and snakes,” said Milton, reluctantly following Rudolph toward the wide covered porch that fronted the door, all partially concealed by encroaching undergrowth. “You’ll have a real job protecting the site.”

  “I don’t think so— most of the people hereabouts avoid the place. The people in Sainte Gertrude say that dangerous spirits guard it.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Milton. “You are going to turn all that into another game, aren’t you? With malign ghosts and every kind of nasty critter you can think of.”

  “Okay— the basic script has crossed my mind, but that happens often, and only about a third of those scripts turn into games. But this place is tempting in its own right. Might as well get a little extra for my efforts, right? An exclusive resort that has more potential than just a haunted house for a setting. It could have possibilities to open up a new sub-genre. We’ll see how I feel when the job here is finished.” Rudolph pushed aside a huge fan of tropical leaves and went to the stairs up to the wide, covered porch, taking care to test each step before actually putting his full weight on it; the planks groaned as Rudolph walked. He reached the broad veranda, and made his way gingerly toward the door, which was incongruously closed although only a few fragments of colored glass were left in the large, oval window set in its center.

  “Pirates, too?” Milton waved away a flotilla of small, flying insects that had appeared around his head like a buzzing halo. “Your pirate game was your first big success. I can see you using pirates again.”

  “Or monsters,” Rudolph answered, peering into the interior of the house. “There’s more variety in monsters.”

  “Poe-monsters?” Milton asked, sounding worn out; he was growing tired of Rudolph’s obsession with Poe.

  “Lovecraft, more likely.” Rudolph made an effort to remove the bits of glass without cutting himself. “You know, tentacled horrors shambling out of the sea, eldritch gods, that sort of thing.”

  “So you’ve started on it already?” Milton shook his head in dismay.

  “Not started, Jeff, just trying out some ideas.” He sighed. “As I’ve told you, I’ll get this place restored before I turn my attention to a new game, no matter what that game is, if there is a game,” Rudolph said, and focused his gaze on the entry hall. “It’s a mess in there.”

  “Is it locked?” Milton asked, not quite sarcastically. “I’m not going to climb through that medallion window in the door.”

  “I doubt you’ll have to; I have the keys to the house, just in case; I got them from the mayor of Sainte Gertrude.” Rudolph reached for the door-latch, but drew back as a large spider made its way down the doorframe toward the pitted brass. Slowly Rudolph shrugged the rucksack off his shoulder and donned one of the canvas gloves he kept in the left-side bellows-pocket on his jacket. “We’ll probably have more of these creepy-crawlies inside the house. I’ve been told there’re bats in the upper floors.” He sounded calm, but the high pitch of his voice revealed his nervousness.