berton, thanked him with warm courtesy for his hospitality,
and ventured into the evening.
Thank heaven, it did not rain. Poe was saddened by
storms. The wind had abated and the March sky was clear
save for a tiny fluff of scudding cloud and a banked dark
line at the horizon, while up rose a full moon the color of
frozen cream. Poe squinted from under his hat brim at the
shadow-pattern on the disk. Might he not write another
story of a lunar voyage—like the one about Hans Pfaal, but
dead serious this time? Musing thus, he walked along the
dusk-filling street until he came again opposite the ruined
garden, the creaky gate, and the house with the doorplate
marked: "Gauber.״
Hello, the grocery boy had been wrong. There was light
inside the front window, water-blue light—or was there?
Anyway, motion—yes, a figure stooped there, as if to peer
out at him.
Poe turned in at the gate, and knocked at the door once
again.
Four or five moments of silence; then he heard the old
lock grating. The door moved inward, slowly and noisily.
Poe fancied that he had been wrong about the blue light,
for he saw only darkness inside. A voice spoke:
"Well, sir?״
The two words came huskily but softly, as though the
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
g 1
door-opener scarcely breathed. Poe swept off his broad black
hat and made one of his graceful bows.
“If you will pardon me—״ He paused, not knowing
whether he addressed man or woman. “This is the Gauber
residence?״
“It is,״ was the reply, soft, hoarse, and sexless. “Your
business, sir?״
Poe spoke with official crispness; he had been a sergeant
major of artillery before he was twenty-one, and knew how
to inject the proper note. “I am here on public duty,״ he an-
nounced. “I am a journalist, tracing a strange report.״
“Journalist?״ repeated his interrogator. “Strange report?
Gome in, sir.״
Poe complied, and the door closed abruptly behind him,
with a rusty snick of the lock. He remembered being in jail
once, and how the door of his cell had slammed just so. It
was not a pleasant memory. But he saw more clearly, now
he was inside—his eyes got used to the tiny trickle of moon״
light.
He stood in a dark hallway, all paneled in wood, with no
furniture, drapes, or pictures. W ith him was a woman, in
full skirt and down-drawn lace cap, a woman as tall as he
and with intent eyes that glowed as from within. She
neither moved nor spoke, but waited for him to tell her
more of his errand.
Poe did so, giving his name and, stretching a point, claim-
ing to be a subeditor of the Dollar Newspaper, definitely
assigned to the interview. “And now, madam, concerning
this story that is rife concerning a premature burial—״
She had moved very close, but as his face turned toward
her she drew back. Poe fancied that his breath had blown
her away like a feather; then, remembering Pemberton’s
garlic sausage, he was chagrined. To confirm his new
thought, the woman was offering him wine—to sweeten his
breath.
“Would you take a glass of canary, Mr. Poe?״ she invited,
9 2
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
and opened a side door. He followed her into a room pa-
pered in pale blue. Moonglow, drenching it, reflected from
that paper and seemed an artificial light. That was what he
had seen from outside. From an undraped table his hostess
lifted a bottle, poured wine into a metal goblet, and offered
it.
Poe wanted that wine, but he had recently promised his
sick wife, solemnly and honestly, to abstain from even a sip
of the drink that so easily upset him. Through thirsty lips he
said: ״I thank you kindly, but I am a temperance man.”
“Oh,” and she smiled. Poe saw white teeth. Then: “I am
Elva Gauber—Mrs. John Gauber. The m atter of which you
buried, in the Eastman Lutheran Churchyard—”
“I had heard, Mrs. Gauber, that the burial concerned a
woman.”
“No, my husband. He had been ill. He felt cold and quiet.
A physician, a Dr. Mechem, pronounced him dead, and he
was interred beneath a marble slab in his family vault.” She
sounded weary, but her voice was calm. “This happened
shortly after the New Year. On Valentine’s Day, I brought
flowers. Beneath his slab he stirred and struggled. I had him
brought forth. And he fives—after a fashion—today.”
“Lives today?” repeated Poe. “In this house?”
“Would you care to see him? Interview him?”
Poe’s heart raced, his spine chilled. It was his peculiarity
that such sensations gave him pleasure. “I would like noth-
ing better,” he assured her, and she went to another door,
an inner one.
Opening it, she paused on the threshold, as though sum-
moning her resolution for a plunge into cold, swift water.
Then she started down a flight of steps.
Poe followed, unconsciously drawing the door shut be-
hind him.
The gloom of midnight, of prison—yes, of the tomb—fell
at once upon those stairs. He heard Elva Gauber gasp:
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
9 3
"No—the moonlight—let it in—״ And then she fell, heavily
and limply, rolling downstairs.
Aghast, Poe quickly groped his way after her. She lay
against a door at the foot of the flight, wedged against the
panel. He touched her—she was cold and rigid, without
motion or elasticity of life. His thin hand groped for and
found the knob of the lower door, flung it open. More dim
reflected moonlight, and he made shift to drag the woman
into it.
Almost at once she sighed heavily, lifted her head, and
rose. “How stupid of me,” she apologized hoarsely.
“The fault was mine,” protested Poe. “Your nerves, your
health, have naturally suffered. The sudden dark—the close-
ness—overcame you.” He fumbled in his pocket for a tinder-
box. “Suffer me to strike a light.”
But she held out a hand to stop him. “No, no. The moon
is sufficient.” She walked to a small, oblong pane set in the
wall. Her hands, thin as Poe’s own, with long grubby nails,
hooked on the sill. Her face, bathed in the full light of the
moon, strengthened and grew calm. She breathed deeply,
almost voluptuously. “I am quite recovered,” she said. “Do
not fear for me. You need not stand so near, sir.”
He had forgotten that garlic odor, and drew back con-
tritely. She must be as sensitive to the smell as . . . as . . .
what was it that was sickened and driven away by garlic?
Poe could not remember, and took time to note that they
were in a basement, stone-walled and with a floor of dirt.
I
n one corner water seemed to drip, forming a dank pool of
mud. Close to this, set into the wall, showed a latched
trap door of planks, thick and wide, cleated crosswise, as
though to cover a window. But no window would be set so
low. Everything smelt earthy and close, as though fresh air
had been shut out for decades.
“Your husband is here?” he inquired.
“Yes.” She walked to the shutter like trap, unlatched it,
and drew it open.
9 4
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
The recess beyond was as black as ink, and from it came
a feeble mutter. Poe followed Elva Gauber, and strained
his eyes. In a little stone-flagged nook a bed had been made
up. Upon it lay a man, stripped almost naked. His skin was
as white as dead bone, and only his eyes, now opening, had
life. He gazed at Elva Gauber, and past her at Poe.
“Go away,״ he mumbled.
“Sir,״ ventured Poe formally, “I have come to hear of
how you came to life in the grave—״
“IPs a lie,״ broke in the man on the pallet. He writhed
halfway to a sitting posture, laboring upward as against a
crushing weight. The wash of moonlight showed how
wasted and fragile he was. His face stared and snarled bare-
toothed, like a skull. “A lie, I say!״ he cried, with a sudden
strength that might well have been his last. “Told by this
monster who is not—my wife—״
The shutter-trap slammed upon his cries. Elva Gauber
faced Poe, withdrawing a pace to avoid his garlic breath.
“You have seen my husband,״ she said. “Was it a pretty
sight, sir?״
He did not answer, and she moved across the dirt to the
stair doorway. “Will you go up first?״ she asked. “At the top,
hold the door open, that I may have—״ She said “life,״ or,
perhaps, “light.״ Poe could not be sure which.
Plainly she, who had almost welcomed his intrusion at
first, now sought to lead him away. Her eyes, compelling as
shouted commands, were fixed upon him. He felt their
power, and bowed to it.
Obediently he mounted the stairs, and stood with the
upper door wide. Elva Gauber came up after him. At the
top her eyes again seized his. Suddenly Poe knew more than
ever before about the mesmeric impulses he loved to write
about.
“I hope,״ she said measuredly, “that you have not found
your visit fruitless. I live here alone—seeing nobody, caring
for the poor thing that was once my husband, John Gauber.
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
9 5
My mind is not clear. Perhaps my manners are not good.
Forgive me, and good night.״
Poe found himself ushered from the house, and outside
the wind was howling once again. The front door closed
behind him, and the lock grated.
The fresh air, the whip of gale in his face, and the ab-
sence of Elva Gauber's impelling gaze suddenly brought
him back, as though from sleep, to a realization of what had
happened—or what had not happened.
He had come out, on this uncomfortable March evening,
to investigate the report of a premature burial. He had seen
a ghastly sick thing, which had called the gossip a He. Some-
how, then, he had been drawn abruptly away—stopped
from full study of what might be one of the strangest adven-
tures it was ever a w riters good fortune to know. Why was
he letting things drop at this stage?
He decided not to let them drop. That would be worse
than staying away altogether.
He made up his mind, formed quickly a plan. Leaving
the doorstep, he turned from the gate, slipped quickly
around the house. He knelt by the foundation at the side,
just where a small oblong pane was set flush with the
ground.
Bending his head, he found that he could see plainly
inside, by reason of the flood of moonlight—a phenomenon,
he realized, for generally an apartment was disclosed only
by light within. The open doorway to the stairs, the swamp
mess of mud in the comer, the out-flung trap door, were
discernible. And something stood or huddled at the exposed
niche—something that bent itself upon and above the frail
white body of John Gauber.
Full skirt, white cap—it was Elva Gauber. She bent her-
self down, her face was touching the face or shoulder of
her husband.
Poe's heart, never the healthiest of organs, began to drum
and race. He pressed closer to the pane, for a better glimpse
9 6
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
of what went on in the cellar. His shadow cut away some
of the light. Elva Gauber turned to look.
Her face was as pale as the moon itself. Like the moon, it
was shadowed in irregular patches. She came quickly, al-
most running, toward the pane where Poe crouched. He
saw her, plainly and at close hand.
Dark, wet, sticky stains lay upon her mouth and cheeks.
Her tongue roved out, licking at the stains—
Blood!
Poe sprang up and ran to the front of the house. He
forced his thin, trembling fingers to seize the knocker, to
swing it heavily again and again. When there was no an-
swer, he pushed heavily against the door itself—it did not
give. He moved to a window, rapped on it, pried at the
sill, lifted his fist to smash the glass.
A silhouette moved beyond the pane, and threw it up.
Something shot out at him like a pale snake striking—before
he could move back, fingers had twisted in the front of his
coat. Elva Gauber ,s eyes glared into his.
Her cap was off, her dark hair fallen in disorder. Blood
still smeared and dewed her mouth and jowls.
“You have pried too far,״ she said, in a voice as measured
and cold as the drip from icicles. “I was going to spare you,
because of the odor about you that repelled me—the garlic.
I showed you a little, enough to warn any wise person, and
let you go. Now—״
Poe struggled to free himself. Her grip was immovable,
like the clutch of a steel trap. She grimaced in triumph, yet
she could not quite face him—the garlic still clung to his
breath.
“Look in my eyes,” she bade him. “Look—you cannot re-
fuse, you cannot escape. You will die, with John—and the
two of you, dying, shall rise again like me. Til have two
fountains of fife while you remain—two companions after
you die.”
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
9 7
“W om an” said Poe, fighting against her stabbing gaze,
“you are mad.״
She snickered gustily. “I am sane, and so are you. We both
know that I speak the truth. We both know the futility of
your struggle.״ Her voice rose a little. “Through a chink in
the tomb, as I lay dead, a ray of moonlight streamed and
struck my eyes. I woke. I struggled. I was set free. Now at
night, when the moon shines— Ugh! Don’t breathe that herb
i
n my face I״
She turned her head away. At that instant it seemed to
Poe that a curtain of utter darkness fell, and with it sank
down the form of Elva Gauber.
He peered in the sudden gloom. She was collapsed across
the window sill, like a discarded puppet in its booth. Her
hand still twisted in the bosom of his coat, and he pried
himself loose from it, finger by steely, cold finger. Then he
turned to flee from this place of shadowed peril to body and
soul.
As he turned, he saw whence had come the dark. A cloud
had come up from its place on the horizon—the fat, sooty
bank he had noted there at sundown—and now it obscured
the moon. Poe paused, in mid-retreat, gazing.
His thoughtful eye gauged the speed and size of the
cloud. It curtained the moon, would continue to curtain it
for—well, ten minutes. And for that ten minutes Elva Gauber
would he motionless, lifeless. She had told the truth about
the moon giving her life. Hadn’t she fallen like one slain
on the stairs when they were darkened? Poe began grimly
to string the evidence together.
It was Elva Gauber, not her husband, who had died and
gone to the family vault. She had come back to life, or a
mockery of life, by touch of the moon’s rays. Such light was
an unpredictable force—it made dogs howl, it flogged mad-
men to violence, it brought fear, or black sorrow, or
ecstasy. Old legends said that it was the birth of fairies, the
transformation of werewolves, the motive power of broom
98
׳THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
riding witches. It was surely the source of the strength and
evil animating of what had been the corpse of Elva Gauber
—and he, Poe, must not stand there dreaming.
He summoned all the courage that was his, and scrambled
in at the window through which slumped the woman's form.
He groped across the room to the cellar door, opened it,
and went down the stairs, through the door at the bottom,
and into the stone-walled basement.
It was dark, moonless still. Poe paused only to bring forth
his tinderbox, strike a light, and kindle the end of a tightly
twisted linen rag. It gave a feeble steady light, and he found
his way to the shutter, opened it, and touched the naked,
wasted shoulder of John Gauber.
“Get up,” he said. “I've come to save you.”