place—almost. You remembered the names—almost. You put
them into your stories and poems.”
His interest heightened. This girl might look like a fool—
except for those intense eyes—but she obviously had an
unusual imagination.
“Where, then, is Aarn? On the other side of the world? In
the garden of the Hesperides?”
“Quite near here, Mr. Poe. In space, that is. But not in
time. It is a long way in the future.”
“Then you . . . and I, you say . . . came from the future
to the present. My dear young lady, it is you who should
be writing tales of fantasy, not I!”
Her level gaze did not change. “You did write it. In the
tale of the Ragged Mountain. About the man who went back
through time for a little while.”
“Why,” said Poe, “so I did, now I think of it. I had forgot-
ten that clumsy effort. But that was just a freakish fancy.”
“Was it? Was it only chance that made you write of
traveling in time, a thing no one had ever seriously writ-
ten of before? Or was it a suppressed memory?”
“I wish it were so,” he said. “I assure you that I am not in
love with this nineteenth century. But, unfortunately, I can
remember my whole life quite clearly, and I have no mem-
ories of Aarn.”
“That is Mr. Poe speaking,” the girl said. “He remembers
only his own life. But you are not only Mr. Poe, you are
also Yann.”
He smiled. “Two people in one body? Tell me, Miss Don-
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
181
sel, have you read my 'William Wilson ? It tells of a man with
two personalities, an alter ego—״
"IVe read it,״ she said. "And I know that you wrote it
because you have two personalities, though one of them
cannot remember.״
She leaned forward, and he thought that her eyes were
more compelling than those of the mesmerists in whom he
had been so interested. Her voice was almost a whisper.
"I want to make you remember. I will make you remem-
ber. It s why I came after you. . . .״
"Speaking of that, how does one travel temporally?״ he
interrupted, trying to keep to lightness. "In a flying ma-
chine of some sort?״
Her face remained dead serious. "The body cannot move
in time. No physical, material object can. But the mind is
not material, it is a web of electric force locked into the
physical brain. If the mind can be unlocked from the brain,
it—being pure force—can be hurled back along the dimen-
sion of time and lock itself into the brain of a man of a
former age.״
"But to what purpose?״
"To the purpose of dominating that brain and body and
investigating the historical past through the eyes of a man
living in that past. It is not easy to do and there is danger in
it—the danger of selecting a host whose mind is so powerful
that it dominates its visitant. And that is what happened to
Yann, Mr. Poe—he is in your brain but dominated,
numbed, affecting only your subconscious and giving it
half-memories that you think are dreams and fancies.״
She added, "You must have a powerful mind indeed, Mr.
Poe, so to dominate Yann.״
‘T ve been called many things but not a dullard,״ he said,
and then, with an ironical wave of his hand around the
shabby office, “You see the heights to which my intellect
has brought me.״
"It has happened before,״ she murmured. "One of us was
1 8 2
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
trapped in the brain of a Roman poet named Lu-
cretius. . .
“Titus Lucretius Carus? Why, madam, IVe read his De
Rerum Natura, and its strange theories of an atomic
science.״
“Not theories,״ she insisted. “Half-memories. They so tor-
mented him that he killed himself. And there were others,
in other levels of time.״
tainly make a tale. . . .״
She interrupted. “I am speaking to you, Mr. Poe, but I
am trying to speak to Yann. To awaken him from his
numbed captivity in your brain, to make him remember
Aarn.״
She went on, rapidly, almost fiercely, and all the time
her eyes held his. And he listened in fascination as the names
and places and things of his tales came into her speech,
sometimes altered, sometimes unchanged, all woven into a
fabric by this girl’s impassioned imagination.
“There was—or I should say, here and now, that there
will be, an Age of Violence beyond anything the world
has known. And the climax of it will be a setting loose of
fiery forces that will wreak unprecedented destruction.”
Poe thought of his own tale in which mankind had
perished in a worldwide explosion of flame, and the girl
seemed to catch the thought from the half-smile on his
face.
“Oh, not all of humanity were—or will be—destroyed. But
many, many, and when the Age of Violence passed, there
were thousands where there had been millions. So our
world, of centuries from now, the world in which Aarn
lives, is not the crowded, bustling place that this one is.
“Yann, rememberl Remember our beautiful, clean, un-
crowded world! Remember the day that we drifted down
the Zair in your boat, all the way from the mountains. Down
the yellow waters with the great water lilies about us, and
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
1 8 3
the forest dark and somber beyond them, all the way until
above Aam we came to the Valley of Many-Colored Grass,
and walked there amid the silver trees and looked down
on the fliers skimming in the sunlight above the towers of
Aarn.
"Don’t you remember? That was when you first told me
that you had been to the Temporal Laboratory at Tsalal,
and had volunteered for the going-back. You would go back
to a time not long before the Age of Violence, and would
see the world as it was before the great wars shattered it,
would see through the eyes of another man all the things
that had been lost to history in the devastation.
"Do you remember my tears? How I begged you not to
go, how I reminded you of those who had never come back,
how I clung to you? But your historical researches had so
obsessed you that you would not listen. And so you went.
And it was as I had feared, and you did not come back.
"Yann, this is Lalu speaking! Do you know what a torture
it can be to wait? Until finally I could bear it no longer
and won permission from the Temporal Laboratory to come
back to this time and search for you. And the weeks Iv e
been here, in another persons body, seeking in vain, until
at last I found the clue, found the names that we knew in
Aarn in tales that had become famous, and knew that only
the writer of them could be your host. Yann/”
Poe had listened,
half-dreaming, as the names from his
own fancied worlds had floated on the air. But that final
shrill cry of agonized appeal brought him to his feet.
"My dear Miss Donsel! I do greatly admire your imagin-
ings, but you must control yourself—”
Her eyes flamed. "Control myself? W hat have I been doing
all these weeks, in this ugly and terrible world, confined in
the body of this meaty girl?”
A cold shock stabbed through him at those words. No
woman, not even in jest, would think of herself or speak of
herself in that way. But then it must mean . . .
1 8 4
THE M AN W H 0 CALLED HIMSELF POE
The room, the angry face, everything, seemed to waver,
as though under water. He felt a strangeness rise in him, the
world seemed to fall away from him, and for a moment
his old dreams seemed to rise into reality around him,
changed but real.
“Yann?”
Was the girl smiling? Of course, the minx was succeed-
ing in hoodwinking the famous Mr. Poe with moonbeams
and nonsense, and would happily tell all her little friends
about it! The pride and arrogance that were deep in his
nature made him stiffen, and the strangeness ebbed.
"I regret,” he said, “that I cannot devote more time now
to your ingenious jeu desprit, Miss Donsel. I can only thank
you for the assiduousness with which you have studied my
little tales.”
He opened the door, and bowed to her. She stood up, and
her face was not smiling now, but stricken.
“No use,” she whispered, finally. “No use at all.”
She looked at him, and said in a low voice, “Goodbye,
Yann,” and closed her eyes.
Poe stepped toward her. “My dear young lady,
please . . .”
Her eyes opened again. He stopped short. All the intense
life and intelligence had gone out of those eyes, and she
stared at him with a stupid, goggling gaze.
“W hat?” she said. “Who . .
“My dear Miss Donsel . . .” he began again.
She uttered a squawking scream. She backed away from
him, and put her hands up to her face, and stared at him
as though he were the devil.
“W hat happened?” she cried. “I . . . everything went
away . . . I went asleep in the middle of the day . . . How
did I . . . ? W hat am I doing . . . here?”
So that was it, he thought. Of course! Having played the
part of the imaginary Lalu, she must now mime it out that
her visitant had left her.
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
1 8 5
He said, smiling acidly, “I congratulate you, not only on
your imagination but on your acting abilities.”
She paid no heed to him at all. She ran past him and
tore open the door. It was late, and his assistant had gone
home, and by the time Poe followed her into the other
office, Miss Donsel had run out into the street.
He hurried after her. The gas street lamps were on, but in
the passing traffic he could not at first see her. Then he
heard her shrill call, and saw her climbing into a public
cab that had pulled up. He started after her, and saw her
face, eyes round with terror, looking back at him the mo-
ment before she disappeared into the cab. The driver spoke
to his horses and the cab went on.
Poe, always short of temper, felt an angry impatience.
He had let himself be made a fool of, even to listen to
that chit and her clever beguilings. Probably by now she
was mirthfully triumphant.
And yet . . .
He walked back to the office. Thin flakes of snow were
drifting down in the sickly yellow of the lamps, and the
dust in the street was beginning to turn to greasy mud. The
raw wind brought the sound of brawling voices from fur-
ther along the street.
“This ugly and terrible world . . .” Well, it had often
seemed so to him, and tonight it grimaced more repellently
than ever. He supposed it was because of all the airy fan-
cies of the sunset towers of Aam that the girl had picked
from his own book and stuffed into his ears.
He went back into his office and sat down at the desk. As
his anger cooled a little, he wondered again if there was
not a tale in all that artful nonsense? But it so echoed all his
other stories that they would say he was repeating himself.
Yet still, the idea was intriguing—the man lost out of his
time . . .
“I have reached these lands but newly, from an ultimate
1 8 6
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
dim Thule, from a wild, weird clime that lieth sublime, out
of Space, out of Time . . .
“Did I write those lines? Or . . . did Yann?”
For a moment Poes face yearned, haggard and haunted.
If it were true, if beyond tomorrow was a finer world, Thule,
Aam, Tsalal? If the phantom, lovely shape he could never
quite see, Ulalume, Lenore, Morelia, Ligeia, was a mem-
ory . . .
He wanted to believe, but he could not, he must not. He
was a man of reason and a thing like this if believed could
shatter reason, could kill a man.
It would not kill him.
It would not.
W ith a hand that trembled only slightly, he opened the
desk and reached in for the bottle.
FICTION BY POE (?)
THE LIGHTHOUSE
“T h e L ig h th o u se” is th e title g iv en a story o f w h ic h E dgar A llan P
w rote scarcely m ore than six h un d red w ord s b efo re his death . It
naturally in trigu in g to sp ecu la te on w h a t h e m ig h t h a v e h a d in mi!
if h e h a d liv e d lo n g en o u g h or h a d actu ally n o t sto p p ed at th e poi
w h ere th e m an u scrip t breaks. A true d e v o te e of E d g a r A llan Pc
R obert B loch , in 1 9 5 2 d e c id e d h e w o u ld take a w hirl at com pletii
th e story.
T h e finished w ork, u n d er th e title o f “T h e L ig h th o u se” appear
in th e January—F eb ru ary 1953 issu e of Fantastic as a collaboration 1
E d gar A llan P o e and R obert B loch . A t th e tim e, th o u g h it m ad e
striking cover scoop for th e m a g a zin e, th e im p a ct w as n o t gre
d e sp ite th e fa c t th at th e fragm en t w as k now n prim arily to sp ecializ
P o e researchers, b eca u se B lo ch w as still a stru gglin g p ulp ster, 1
gard ed as trading off th e rep u tation o f a great literary figure.
T im e has altered th e p ictu re slightly. R obert B lo ch , sin ce t
p u b lica tio n of that story, has b eco m e a w orld -ren ow n ed author. I
has g o n e on to do th e scripts for m an y striking m o v in g p ictu re sc
cesses. F e w d en y th at h e is o n e of th e m o st a d ep t m anipulators
literary terror alive tod ay. In this context, his assum ing th e job
co m p letin g a P o e story is rem o v ed from th e p resu m p tu ou s to t
lo g ica l, and w h a t h e d id w ith it b eco m es o f prim ary in terest to a
So as to p la y fair w ith th e reader, E d gar A llan P o e ’s last w ord
“ch alk”
u nd er th e January 3rd entry. R ob ert B lo ch b eg in s w i
January 4th .
The Lighthouse
By Edgar Allan Poe and Robert Bloch
Jan. 1—1796.
This day—my first on the lighthouse—I make this entry
my diary, as agreed on with DeGrát. As regularly as I ct
ig o
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
keep the journal, I will—but there is no telling what may
happen to a man all alone as I am—I may get sick or
worse. . . .
So far well! The cutter had a narrow escape—but why
dwell on that, since I am here, all safe? My spirits are begin-
ning to revive already, at the mere thought of being—for
once in my life at least—thoroughly alone; for, of course,
Neptune, large as he is, is not to be taken into consideration
as “society.” Would to heaven I had ever found in “society”
one half as much faith as in this poor dog; in such case I and
“society” might never have parted—even for a year. . . .
W hat most surprises me is the difficulty DeGrát had in
getting me the appointment—and I a noble of the realm! It
could not be that the Consistory had any doubt of my abil-
ity to manage the light. One man has attended it before
f
now—and got on quite as well as the three that are usually
put in. The duty is a mere nothing; and the printed instrue-
tions are as plain as possible. It would never have done to
let Orndoff accompany me. I should never have made any
way with my book as long as he was within reach of me,
with his intolerable gossip—not to mention that everlasting
meerschaum. Besides, I wish to be alone. . . .
It is strange that I never observed, until this moment, how
dreary a sound that word has—“alone”! I could half fancy
there was some peculiarity in the echo of these cylindrical
walls—but oh, no!—that is all nonsense. I do believe I am
going to get nervous about my insulation. That will never
do. I have not forgotten DeGrat's prophecy. Now for a
scramble to the lantern and a good look around to “see
what I can see.” . . . To see what I can see indeed!—not
very much. The swell is subsiding a little, I think—but the
cutter will have a rough passage home, nevertheless. She
will hardly get within sight of the Norland before noon to-