whether I might come over and explain my request of the
previous night.
But it was her sister-in-law, not Rose, who answered my
ring.
Rose had gone out. “A gentleman called for her.״
“Did you know him?״ I asked.
“No, Mr. Phillips.״
“Did you hear his name?״
She had not heard it. She had, in fact, caught only a
glimpse of him as Rose hurried out to meet him, but, in an-
swer to my insistent probing, she admitted that Rose’s caller
had had a moustache.
Mr. Allan! I had no further need to inquire.
For a few moments after I had hung up, I did not know
what to do. Perhaps Rose and Mr. Allan were only walking
the length of Benefit Street. But perhaps they had gone to
that mysterious house. The very thought of it filled me
with such apprehension that I lost my head.
I rushed from the library and hurried home. It was ten
1 7 2
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
o’clock when I reached the house on Angell Street. For-
innately, my mother had retired; so I was able to procure my
fathers pistol without disturbing her. So armed, I hastened
once more into night-held Providence and ran, block upon
block, toward the shore of the Seekonk and the knoll upon
which stood Mr. Allan’s strange house, unaware in my in-
cautious haste of the spectacle I made for other nightwalkers
and uncaring, for perhaps Rose’s life was at stake—and be-
yond that, vaguely defined, loomed a far greater and hideous
evil.
When I reached the house into which Mr. Allan had
disappeared I was taken aback by its solitude and unfit
windows. Since I was winded, I hesitated to advance
upon it, and waited for a minute or so to catch my breath and
quiet my pulse. Then, keeping to the shadows, I moved
silently up to the house, looking for any sliver of fight.
I crept from the front of the house around to the back. Not
the slightest ray of fight could be seen. But a low humming
sound vibrated just inside the range of my hearing, like the
hum of a power line responding to the weather. I crossed to
the far side of the house—and there I saw the hint of fight—
not yellow fight, as from a lamp inside, but a pale lavender
radiance that seemed to glow faintly, ever so faintly, from
the wall itself.
I drew back, recalling only too sharply what I had seen in
that house.
But my role now could not be a passive one. I had to know
whether Rose was in that darkened house—perhaps in that
very room with the unknown machinery and the glass case
with the monster in the violet radiance.
I slipped back to the front of the house and mounted the
steps to the front door.
Once again, the door was not locked. It yielded to the
pressure of my hands. Pausing only long enough to take my
loaded weapon in hand, I pushed open the door and en
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
173
tered the vestibule. I stood for a moment to accustom my
eyes to that darkness; standing there, I was even more
aware of the humming sound I had heard—and of more—the
same kind of chant which had put me into that hypnotic
state in the course of which I had witnessed that disturb-
ing vision purporting to be that of life in another world.
I apprehended its meaning instantly, I thought. Rose must
be with Mr. Allan and his brothers, undergoing a similar
experience.
Would that it had been no more!
For when I pushed my way into that large room on the
far side of the house, I saw that which will be forever in-
delibly imprinted on my mind. Lit by the radiance from the
glass case, the room disclosed Mr. Allan and his identical
brothers all prone upon the floor around the twin cases,
making their chanting song. Beyond them, against the far
wall, lay the discarded life-size likeness of Poe I had seen
violet radiance. But it was not Mr. Allan and his brothers
that so profoundly shocked and repelled me—it was what
I saw in the glass cases!
For in the one that lit the room with its violently pul-
sating and agitated violet radiation lay Rose Dexter, fully
clothed, and certainly under hypnosis—and on top of her
lay, greatly elongated and with its tentacles flailing madly,
the rugose cone-like figure I had last seen shrunken on the
likeness of Poe. And in the connected case adjacent to it—
I can hardly bear to set it down even now—lay, identical in
every detail, a perfect duplicate of Rose!
W hat happened next is confused in my memory. I know
that I lost control, that I fired blindly at the glass cases, in-
tending to shatter them. Certainly I struck one or both of
them, for with the impact the radiance vanished, the room
was plunged into utter darkness, cries of fear and alarm rose
from Mr. Allan and his brothers, and, amid a succession of
1 7 4
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
explosive sounds from the machinery, I rushed forward and
picked up Rose Dexter.
Somehow I gained the street with Rose.
Looking back, I saw that flames were appearing at the
windows of that accursed house, and then, without warning,
the north wall of the house collapsed, and something—an
object I could not identify—burst from the now burning
house and vanished aloft. I fled still carrying Rose.
Regaining her senses, Rose was hysterical, but I succeeded
in calming her, and at last she fell silent and would say noth-
ing. And in silence I took her safely home, knowing how
frightening her experience must have been, and resolved to
say nothing until she had fully recovered.
In the week that followed, I came to see clearly what was
taking place in that house on the knoll. But the charge of
arson—lodged against me in lieu of a far more serious one
because of the pistol I abandoned in the burning house—
has blinded the police to anything but the most mundane
matters. I have tried to tell them, insisting that they see Rose
Dexter when she is well enough to talk—and willing to do
so. I cannot make them understand what I now understand
only too well. Yet the facts are there, inescapably.
They say the charred flesh found in that house is not
human, most of it. But could they have expected anything
else? Seven men in the likeness of Edgar Allan Poel Surely
they must understand that whatever it was in that house
came from another world, a dying world, and sought to in-
vade and ultimately take over Earth by reproducing them-
selves in the shape of men! Surely they must know that it must
have been only by coincidence that the model they first
chose was a likeness of Poe, chosen because they had no
knowledge that Poe did not represent the average among
men? Surely they must know, as I came to know, that
the rugose, tentacled cone in the violet radiance was the
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
175
source of their material selves, that the machinery and the
tubing—which they say was too much damaged by the fire
to identify, as if they could have identified its functions even
undamaged!—manufactured from the material simulating
flesh supplied by the cone in the violet light creatures in the
shape of men from the likeness of Poe!
“Mr. Allan” himself afforded me the key, though I did not
know it at the time, when I asked him why mankind was the
object of interplanetary scrutiny—“To make war on us? To
invade us?”—and he replied: “A more highly developed
form of life mould hardly need to use such primitive meth-
ods.” Could anything more plainly set forth the explanation
for the strange occupation of the house along the Seekonk?
Of course, it is evident now that what “Mr. Allan” and his
identical brothers afforded me in my own home was a
glimpse of life in the planet of the cubes and rugose cones,
which was their own.
And surely, finally, most damning of all—it must be evi-
dent to any unbiased observer why they wanted Rose. They
meant to reproduce their kind in the guise of men and
women, so that they could mingle with us, undetected, un-
suspected, and slowly, over decades—perhaps centuries—
while their world died, take over and prepare our Earth for
those who would come after.
God alone knows how many of them may be here, among
us, even now!
Later. I have been unable to see Rose until now, tonight,
and I am hesitant to call for her. For something unutterably
terrible has happened to me. I have fallen prey to horrible
doubts. While it did not occur to me during that frightful
experience in the shambles following my shots in that
violet-lit room, I have now begun to wonder, and my con-
cern has grown hour by hour until I find it now almost un-
bearable. How can I be sure that, in those frenzied minutes, I
rescued the real Rose Dexter? If I did, surely she will re
176
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
assure me tonight. If I did not—God knows w hat I may un-
wittingly have loosed upon Providence and the world!
From The Providence Journal—July 17
LOCAL GIRL SLAYS ATTACKER
Rose Dexter, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Elisha
Dexter of 127 Benevolent Street, last night fought off
and killed a young man she charged with attacking her.
Miss Dexter was apprehended in a hysterical condition
as she fled down Benefit Street in the vicinity of the
Cathedral of St. John, near the cemetery attached to
which the attack took place.
Her attacker was identified as an acquaintance, Ar-
thur Phillips. . . .
CASTAWAY
T h is story w as e sp ec ia lly w ritten for this b ook an d is p u b lish e d her
for th e first tim e. It d eals w ith th e p eriod o f P o e ’s life w h e n h e h a ׳
a c h ie v e d a lo n g -ch erish ed am b ition —th e ow n ersh ip o f his o w n jourm
—only to find th at m o n ey w as at least as im p ortan t as ed itorial bri'
lia n ce and literary g en iu s in su stain in g a p eriod ical. B eca u se Ec
m on d H am ilton has m a d e his prim ary rep u tation as a scien ce fictio
w riter, this ta le is o f th a t genre. H o w ev er, E d m o n d H am ilto n ackn ow
ed g es m u ch closer ties to E d gar A llan P oe.
A t a tim e w h en his im a g in a tiv e excursions o f th e Interstellar P a tn
ex cited th e im aginations o f th e teen -agers am on g readers o f W eir
Tales, he took th e id ea o f E dgar A llan P o e’s “T h e Prem ature Burial,
and c o m p le te ly in vertin g th e th em e, m a d e o f it a m em orab le st013־
T h a t tale, “T h e M an W h o R etu rn ed ” ( W eird Tales, F eb ru ary 1934]
lik e P o e’s, tells o f a m an w h o regains con sciou sn ess in a coffin. A b le t
force his w a y out, h e m akes his w a y h o m e, on ly to find th a t w h etln
d ea d or b e lie v e d d ead , an in d ivid u al, o n ce erased from th e rolls c
th e livin g, d oes n o t ea sily resum e his p la ce in their w orld .
It is a sim p le sta tem en t o f fa c t th at w h e n h e w ork ed and p o lish e
his w ork, E d gar A llan P o e ranked as o n e o f th e m o st superb stylis
o f all tim e, p ro d u cin g a m em orab le effect w ith o u t th e u se o f a supe:
fluous w ord. H o w ev e r, it is th e m ark o f his gen iu s th at e v e n his flaw e
an d h astily con trived p ie c e s are so su p erb ly correct as to metho
th at th e y h a v e served as th e inspiration o f scores o f w riters w h o h a
fo llo w e d .
Castaway
By Edmond Hamilton
It seemed to him that Broadway had never looked so d<
pressing as in this early winter twilight, with the gas lamj
yet unlit and the remnants of the old poplars stirring slu!
178
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
gishly in a cold wind. Hoofs and wheels slapped over the
cracked paving, and a tentative flake of snow drifted down.
He thought that any place would be better than this, Rich-
mond, Charleston, even Philadelphia. But they had really
been no better, he had wearied of them all. He always
wearied of places, even of most people. Perhaps it was just
today's disappointment, after all the other disappointments,
that made him feel this way.
He reached and entered the shabby little two-room office,
and the faded little man writing at a desk looked up quickly,
with a dim hope.
“No. Nothing.״
The hope—there had not been much—left the face of the
other. He muttered, “We c a n t keep going much longer.״
Then he said, “There's a young lady to see you. She's wait-
ing in your office.״
“I am in no mood to write in young ladies' autograph
albums.”
“But—but she is quite a wealthy-looking young lady. . . .״
Poe smiled his white, twisted, sarcastic smile. “I see. And
wealthy young ladies have wealthy papas, who might be
induced to invest in a dying literary magazine.”
But when he went into the inner office, he was all the
courteous Virginian as he bowed to the seated girl.
“I am most honored, Miss . . .”
She did not raise her eyes as she murmured, “Ellen
Donsel.”
She was expensively dressed, from her fur-lined cloak to
her blue rohan bonnet. Her face was plump, pink, and stupid-
looking. Then she looked up at him, and Poe felt surprise.
The eyes in that round face were blazing, vibrant with life
and intelligence.
“I suppose,” he said, “that you wish me to read my poems
at some gathering, a thing which I have not the time to do.
Or perhaps it’s a copy of ‘The Raven' in my own hand-
writing—"
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
179
“No,” she said. “I have a message for you.”
Poe looked p
olite inquiry. “Yes?”
“A message from . . . Aam.”
The word seemed to hang in the air, echoing like a dis-
tant bell, and for a moment neither spoke and he could
hear the clip-clop of traffic out in the street.
“Aarn,” he repeated, finally. “Now, that is a fine, sonorous
name. Whose is it?”
“IPs not a person,” said Miss Donsel. “I ts a place.”
“Ah,” said Poe. “And where may this place be?”
Her gaze stabbed him. “Don’t you remember?”
He began to feel a little uneasy. Because he had writ-
ten stories of the fantastic, cranks and mentally unbalanced
people tended to seek him out. This girl looked normal,
even commonplace. Yet the intensity of her eyes . . .
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have not heard the name before.”
“Have you heard the name Lalu?” she said. “It’s my
name. Or the name Yann? It’s your name. And we came
from Aarn, though you came long before I did.”
Poe smiled guardedly. “This fancy of yours is a rare one,
madam. Tell me . . . what is it like, this place we came
from?”
“It lies in the great bay of the purple mountains.” Her
eyes never left his. “And the river Zair flows down through
the mountains, and the towers of Aam loom above it in the
sunset . . .”
He suddenly interrupted her with a bursting laugh. Then
he declaimed, “. . . glittering in the red sunlight with a
hundred oriels, minarets, and pinnacles; and seeming the
phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the sylphs, of the fairies,
of the genii, and of the gnomes.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. “That is the con-
elusion of my tale of "The Domain of Arnheim.’ Of course
. . . Aam . . . Arnheim. And you got the name Lalu from
my Ulalume, and Yann from my Yaanek . . . why, madam,
I must congratulate you on your cleverness.”
1 8 0
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
״No,” slie said. And again, “No. It was quite the other
way around, Mr. Poe. You got your names from those I
have just spoken.”
He regarded the girl with interest. He had not had an
experience quite like this one before, and was intrigued.
“So I came from Aarn, did I? Then why don’t I remember
it?”
“You do, a little,” she murmured. “You remembered the