I grew up in one of the poorer sections of Baltimore, Maryland. My family, who for most of my childhood toed the poverty line, valued a steady income above higher education. As there was no extra money for college, and no patience for scholarly pursuit, I was encouraged, to put it mildly, to turn full time employee out of high school. Though I secretly harbored a desire to peruse a more enlightened life, I was a devoted son, and so paid my familial dues through sweat and blood.
Through the years of manual labor, I steadfastly kept one hobby from my former studious days – reading. Whenever I had a free moment from the toils of the day, I immersed myself in works written by some of the greatest literary minds; Homer, Wilde, Emerson, Hugo, Melville, and the like. I absorbed the words as a hungry dog might devour a hunk of meat. So enmeshed could I become in these text, that I would often have trouble remembering where the fantasy ended and reality began.
Long years of work and monotony had begun to wear on my body and mind, and I found myself turning to more macabre authors. You may be surprised to learn that I had only encountered Edgar Allan Poe’s works in brevity up until this point, given our shared history with Baltimore; in my youth I had been more attracted to tales of adventure and beauty. In my cheerless state Mr. Poe became first my brethren in misery, and then later a patron to my more morbid thoughts.
Eager to engross myself in Poe’s world, I found myself researching his life path through the city. The internet revealed to me a number of interesting tidbits about the author, but one portion of the man’s life, or rather his afterlife, intrigued me the most. The moniker the Poe Toaster had been floating around the web for quite some time before I had stumbled across it. In fact the tradition itself, seemed to be around since the 1930s. Every year for close to 80 years, the Poe Toaster, a black clad figure with their face obscured, would visit Poe’s original grave, pour a glass of cognac, and toast the great poet.
This enigmatic figure became its own sort of obsession for me. It was almost unfathomable how devout an individual would have to be to repeat a tradition for such an extended period of time. My awe of this individual and tradition quickly turned sour as I discovered the original toaster had died some years ago. His brief “successor” was hardly worth a mention - having seemed to have disappeared as quickly as he emerged. The subsequent demise of the tradition left me bitter. For nearly the last decade the great Poe had gone untoasted, save for the sloppy words spouted by a young aficionado or the passing tourist.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I became, until at last I was convinced it was my duty as a student of Poe, to resurrect the tradition. And so I researched and learned all there was to know about the Poe Toaster. I ordered a bottle of Martell cognac, and constructed, based on photos of the original toaster, an outfit of black. And then I waited.
Early in the morning of January 19, I arrived at the Westminster Hall and Burying Ground. Three red roses, a bottle of cognac, and a glass in hand, I made my way in the darkness toward the stone that marked Poe’s original resting place.
The online accounts of the previous Toaster had alluded to the fact that only he and a select few knew of a handful of specific gestures to be made at the monument before the actual ritual could begin. Though I had no knowledge of these movements, I concluded that by following the rest of the toast’s traditions, I would be in the clear.
My very first toast as the self-appointed Poe Toaster went as planned. Though no one that I could see was there to witness my resurrection of the tradition, I felt triumphant. A brief article in the local paper the next day, noted with joy the return of the cognac and roses, and only added to my assertion that my actions had merit. My success put me in the mindset to repeat my actions the next year.
The following January 19, I made my way back to the old burying grounds. My wide-brimmed hat and scarf, both important pieces of the Toaster outfit, slightly obscured my vision as I made my way toward Poe’s marker. As I drew closer however, I noticed a figure already stood before the stone.
An imposter toaster dressed as I was, in clothes of black, clutched a bottle of Martell cognac and three red roses. My rage gathered as I took in the sight. How dare someone else make claim to the Toaster name, after I had gone through all the trouble of resurrecting the tradition! As he raised a cognac filled glass to complete the ritual, I grabbed for his shoulder and yanked him around to face me.
However, it was not the imposter who next received a fright, but myself, for the face that stared back at me through the darkness was not a stranger’s face, but my own. I stumbled back in fear as the doppelgänger’s lips widened in an obscene smile. His eyes held a mirth that seemed to say, I’ve been waiting for you. I am man enough to admit that I turned tail and ran all the way back to my apartment. I barricaded my door, and sat up with the lights blazing until the sun rose.
In the light of day I managed to convince myself, that the morning’s events had been nothing more than a bad dream. I went to work as usual, only occasionally flinching from shadows. By nightfall, a liberal amount of alcohol had put me at ease, and I had managed to relax enough to be able to put all thoughts of my sinister double behind me. I even began to plan next years toast to Mr. Poe.
Unfortunately, my ease was short lived as a knock sounded at my door. Expecting no visitors, but curious, I eased open the door to reveal a plain brown shipping box. Taking my discovery inside the apartment, I preceded to open the gift – for that is what I thought it must be having ordered nothing myself.
Inside the package were three carefully wrapped roses – black, and dead as could be. A handwritten note lay on top. Written on the slip of paper were the words: “Self-appointment of a long standing station is not only frowned upon, but punishable by forces beyond your reckoning. Cast off your vanity or find peace nevermore.”
I scoffed to myself, confident I knew what forces were at work here. Another Poe devotee, an overzealous one at that, must have witnessed my first toast and was trying to usurp me in order to carry on the tradition themselves. The doppelgänger in the cemetery and this ridiculous package must have been part of their ploy. After all, I ascertained it wouldn’t have been hard to follow me home from the burying ground. I promptly threw out the package.
Months passed and I once again turned my focus to the toasting tradition. As I did so, a number of odd happenings began to take place. Firstly, my cat - my one true constant companion - went missing. As he was an indoor cat in an apartment building, this was particularly odd. I came to the conclusion that my landlord had come to repair my leaking faucet and had left the apartment door open, thus allowing my cat to make his way out into the rest of the apartment complex.
The next oddity came in the form of a series of local quakes; I refer to them as local, as no one but myself seemed to notice their occurrence. Though rather benign in nature, the shaking did manage to create a crack in ceiling of my apartment.
The most recent, and certainly the most frightening, event took the form of a personal health scare. I was at the mid-day point of my work day, when I suddenly and inexplicably collapsed. My co-workers alerted emergency services, who transported me to the hospital. The admitting physician was unable to find a pulse, a fact which was corroborated by several other hospital workers. Thirty minutes after arrival at the hospital I was declared dead. An hour later I awoke within a body bag in the morgue basement.
The morgue worker was nearly as frightened as I was, though not nearly as frightened as the hospital officials, after I threatened to sue for wrongful diagnosis. It was pointed out that I was lucky to have revived when I did, as the hospital morgue was preferable over the funeral parlor, or worse yet, the burial plot itself.
As the days progressed, my paranoia grew. I seldom left the apartment now, keeping myself occupied instead by re-reading the works of Poe. I managed to distract myself by preparing for the upcoming January toast. Still determined as ever to carry on the tradition, I ordered another bottle of Martell cognac yesterday evening.
I lay awake late last night thinking of my upcoming foray, when a slight scratching sound got my attention. I held my breath and listened closely, trying to pinpoint its origin. I tiptoed around my apartment, following the sound. It led me to a seldom used utility closet off the hallway. As I eased opened the closet’s door the sound halted. With baited breath I waited for the sound to return. When it failed to do so, I began to shut the door, but a glint from below stopped me.
Bending down I noticed what appeared to be a metal ID tag sticking out of the floor. I recognized the tag immediately, as it belonged on the collar of my cat. I attempted to pull the object free, but it seemed to be wedged within the floorboards.
Grabbing a long handle, flat-headed screwdriver from the closet shelf, I slowly pried up the closet floor boards. As the first board came free, a pungent odor began to fill the small space. I began gagging profusely, not from the smell, but rather from the sight that greeted me. My missing cat had been twisted in grotesque fashion to fit within the small space underneath the floor. Its neck was bent at an unnatural angle, and it eyes had been gouged from its face.
I’ve been up all night - ever since discovering the cat. I don’t know how it happened, but I think I know what it means now. You see after I retreated back to my room, I felt tremors began to shake my apartment again. Despite peering out the window to see the quake had no impact on the neighboring buildings or cars, the crack in my ceiling began to increase, almost to the point that I feared it would collapse. I rushed to the computer hoping that some news or confirmation of the quake would materialize - mostly to assure myself that what was happening wasn’t solely in my head - when I noticed an unopened email.
Unthinkingly, I opened it and was entreated to another ominous message; it simply read, “Nevermore”. I was sure that This time it wasn’t a warning, but rather a promise. I tried to calm myself, but found I could not still the rapid beating of my heart. To stave off panic, I blindly made my way to the bathroom for a splash cold water. After dowsing myself with the cool liquid, I raised my head only to come face to face with my original tormentor - the doppelgänger.
I know it wasn’t my reflection looking back at me, because the face before me wore that smirking grin and mischievous gaze. Just before I ran from the room, I swear the face winked at me.
I’ve been on my computer now for the last twenty minutes researching the last Poe Toaster - the one that had taken over from the original for a short period of time. I thought perhaps he might be able to help me somehow, that he perhaps had dealt with some similar phenomena himself. All I could find of his fate however, was a single forum post from a supposed friend of the last Toaster. According to this person, their friend had met with an untimely demise, as a highway sign had inexplicably fallen into his car while he was driving, cleaving him clean in two.
It was unfortunate, the poster said as his friend had wished to make amends the next January for having drunkenly spouted nonsense at the previous year’s toast, messing up the usually respectful ritual.
I doubt the previous Toaster’s accident had been a quark of fate. Just as I am sure my own demise is swiftly approaching. The quakes have begun again in earnest, but I dare not flee my apartment. I peered outside just a moment ago, and there in the tree outside the window was a large black raven staring intently back.