The transcript will be saved to the file. Type SCRIPT OFF to discontinue scripting. > about Under the Cognomen of Edgar Allan Poe was written for the 2024 Interactive Fiction Competition. It’s coded in TADS 3 using the adv3Lite library. As with most interactive fiction, I recommend paying attention to story details and examining the various elements of the story world. Places and people can change while you’re gone, so revisiting locations later may prove fruitful. This story features several non-player characters. Talking and interacting with them is vital. The NPC command will give you tips on how to work with them. If you’re stuck, HINTS are available. HINTS also offers non-spoiler tips on playing. SOURCES discusses the background material used to write this story (with some mild spoilers included). I especially want to thank the beta testers who patiently shook out so many of my bugs and offered much invaluable feedback: Rovarsson, Brett Witty, Amanda Walker, Victor Gijsbers, and Justin Kim. You can find me at the Interactive Fiction Community Forum and the Interactive Fiction Database. –Jim Nelson https://j- nelson.net > npc Here are a few of the commands you can use to interact with the other characters you meet: TALK TO [name] or simply HELLO will open a conversationOr, you can just start talking to them using any of the commands belowYou can ASK ABOUT, TALK ABOUT, or TELL ABOUT things, locations, and subjectsYou can request an item with ASK FORYou can SHOW and GIVE items to a characterASK WHO, ASK WHAT, and ASK WHERE questions may be posedTOPICS will list suggestions for subjects you might ask the character (although they might have other topics they can discuss too)SUGGEST ON / SUGGEST OFF will enable/disable auto- suggesting NPC topics during lulls in the conversationTo end a conversation, use BYE or simply walk away > help To read an author’s note about this game, type ABOUT. For help interacting with other characters, type NPC. Try HINT if you’re stuck, as well as for general spoiler-free tips on playing. Type MORE HELP for additional help topics. > i You are wearing a wristband. > x band It’s a blue plastic band they wrapped around your wrist as soon as you were gurneyed into the emergency room. > x me Considering what you’ve been through, you’re in remarkably good shape. The meds have left your head fuzzy, and your busted leg has left you with a limp. > x leg Your leg is pretty well busted up from the explosion. The doctor thinks you’ll always have a limp due to it. > x book This used paperback has been so thoroughly handled, it’s lost its cover and first few pages. The copyright page is the only indicator of the book’s title: Under the Cognomen of Edgar Allan Poe A tale of literary ambition by Theophilus Translated by Jim Nelson > * lover of God, huh? Comment recorded. > take book It’s going to be enough of a challenge getting around with a crutch for the first time. Best to leave the book where you found it. > read it No time to read the whole book—you need to move on. > take crutch With the crutch in hand, you prepare yourself for moving around on three legs. > l Discharged (on the hard chair) The emergency room you emerged from is just a few steps to the east. A corridor running north leads further into the hospital, while south should take you to the exit. A flimsy and worn paperback book sits beside the chair you’re seated in. > n [First getting off of the hard chair.] A nurse blocks your path. “This area is for medical personnel only,” he says, and ushers you back to the main corridor. Five or six doctors trot past murmuring to each other about a shortage of blood plasma, and disappear into the emergency room area. > e The doctor in the emergency room already discharged you. If you go back in, they’ll just send you away. The doctors have plenty of other patients to deal with. An orderly rushes an empty wheelchair toward the emergency room. > l Discharged The emergency room you emerged from is just a few steps to the east. A corridor running north leads further into the hospital, while south should take you to the exit. A flimsy and worn paperback book sits beside the chair. A woman holding a pressure bandage to her face walks past with one hand out for guidance. You direct her to the emergency room, and she heads away. > x corridor The corridor south should take you to the hospital exit. A nurse pushes a bleeding woman in a wheelchair past you and into another part of the hospital. > * oh the corridor is described as running north (though I'm sure there's another corridor south) Comment recorded. > * lotta incidental events Comment recorded. > s Carefully you make your way. The crutch creaks with every shuffling step. Empty gurneys Both walls of this main corridor are lined with empty gurneys, no doubt readied in anticipation of the casualties soon to arrive from the skyscraper. The corridor ends at a T-shaped intersection to the south, while the emergency area is to the north. What appears to be the morgue is east of here. “Dr. Hashimoto, you’re needed in anesthesiology,” comes over the intercom. > x walls west wall: You see nothing special about the west wall. east wall: You see nothing special about the east wall. south wall: You see nothing special about the south wall. north wall: You see nothing special about the north wall. An orderly and six cops head with determination for the emergency room. > x gurneys The gurneys line both sides of the corridor like parallel-parked cars. An ambulance driver and a cop wheels a gurney toward the emergency room yelling “Burn victim!” > x morgue The morgue is east of here. A nurse appears and wheels away one of the gurneys. > e One of the morgue technicians stops you before you make it too far. “We’re slammed today. You’ll need to make arrangements with law enforcement to ID a body.” And he directs you back to the corridor. Four or five nurses and doctors rush past talking frantically about another busload of victims arriving at the E.R. > w You can’t go that way. From here you could go north, east or south. Several cops and a nurse hurry past, with the nurse frantically trying to explain something about a bombing victim’s last words. They head off into the heart of the hospital and disappear. > * oh I thought this was the T-intersection ending at the south Comment recorded. > s Working carefully with the crutch, you move on. Lonely gurney A lonesome gurney has been shoved into the corner of the corridor. A lumpy sheet covers a body stretched out across it. Off to the west, you see the hospital’s busy reception area. East of here, the corridor gains wide windows looking out onto the parking lot. The emergency room and the morgue are back to the north. A few nurses in some kind of hurry breeze past you and disappear into the depths of the hospital. > x lot School and city buses pull into the parking lot filled with wounded from the skyscraper explosion. The bus doors open, and blood, scorched skin, and despair pour out onto the lot, to be collected by orderlies and nurses for triage. The intercom buzzes. “Dr. Martinez, there’s a code blue in radiology. That’s blue in radiology.” > x area The hospital reception is west of here. It’s packed with walking wounded seeking admittance. Four or five orderlies rush down the corridor, with one saying that another bus of casualties is arriving soon. > x gurney A stark white sheet covers the occupant of this gurney. A bluing foot pokes out from the under the sheet. A few doctors in lab coats rush past and into another part of the hospital. > x foot A bluish foot protrudes from under the sheet. A pair of ambulance drivers pushes a gurney past you calling out, “Coming through! Coming through!” One holds a saline bag, the other a bag of blood, both feeding into a burn victim’s arm. They dash off toward the emergency room. > x sheet The sheet is crisp and pristine, save for several black blotches hinting at what lays beneath. You dare yourself to pull it. “Code green, code green,” comes over the intercom. > pull sheet The sight of the burnt, lifeless body turns your stomach, and you nearly retch. Black encrusted burn marks cover the neck, chest, and half of the face. As your gaze lingers, the resemblance grows plain. Without a doubt, it’s your double lying across the gurney—your duplicate, inert and inanimate. The intercom announces: “Dr. Bouvier, please report to radiology.” > * oh weird Comment recorded. > x body He has your nose, chin, and cheeks. His lips have blued, his skin is charred, but it’s like peering down on your own corpse. Two or three orderlies hurry past and vanish in the maze of corridors. > touch body You cannot make yourself touch it. A few orderlies rush past, headed for the front of the hospital. > * are we a twin or is this in our head? Comment recorded. > i You are wearing a wristband, and carrying a crutch. The intercom pops and snaps. “Code red, west five, code red.” > replace sheet I don’t understand that command. > put sheet on body It’s disturbing to see yourself lying there. You push up the sheet and hide your scorched face staring back at you with a blank, stunned expression. The intercom cackles and spits: “Dr. Ricardo to admitting, Dr. Ricardo to admitting,” followed by a rude burst of static. > x me Considering what you’ve been through, you’re in remarkably good shape. The meds have left your head fuzzy, and your busted leg has left you with a limp. “Dr. Mackenzie, you’re needed on a green phone, please,” comes over the intercom in a single rude burst. > e Beyond the windows, school and city buses are arriving carrying wounded from the skyscraper. Orderlies unload them into the emergency room. Some can walk. Some are carted in on gurneys. Too many have sheets drawn over their faces. There’s no reason to go out there. You’ll only get underfoot. You were one of the lucky ones—a few surface scratches and a twisted knee. And, weirdly, you were the first one here. The intercom crackles. “Dr. Rodger, white phone please.” > w Moving is methodical and slow-going, but you manage. Reception Walking wounded throng the hospital reception. The front desk is mobbed. On the other side of the admitting area, Inspector Dennings sees you enter. He shifts a toothpick between the corners of his mouth as he approaches. “Let’s have that talk,” Dennings says to you. “There’s a lot of loose threads with the story you told me in the E.R.” [You could ask Inspector Dennings about the bombing; or tell Inspector Dennings about your double. Characters may respond to other topics as well. Type TOPICS to see this list whenever interacting with one.] > x dennings He’s dressed as though his wife shoveled his coat and trousers onto him that morning. A sour frown weighs down his jowls, while a toothpick remains gripped tight in the corner of his mouth. > greet dennings You are already talking to Inspector Dennings. [You could ask Inspector Dennings about the bombing; or tell Inspector Dennings about your double.] > x toothpick Dennings’ well-chewed toothpick rarely seems to leave the corner of his mouth. [You could ask Inspector Dennings about the bombing; or tell Inspector Dennings about your double.] > ask dennings about bombing “The explosion blew open the side of a skyscraper at the height of the morning rush,” he says. “It’s damn lucky the whole thing didn’t come down and kill everyone inside.” Dennings’ face blanches at some fresh memory he keeps to himself. “In my twenty-two years on the force, I’ve never witnessed more human suffering.” [You could ask Inspector Dennings about the suspects; or tell Inspector Dennings about your double.] > ask him about me “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of questions for you,” Dennings says. “Let’s take them one-by-one.” > ask him about myself “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of questions for you,” Dennings says. More wounded stumble into the reception area. > ask him about himself “I’m here to talk about you,” he says. > tell him about myself “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of questions for you,” Dennings says. > ask him about suspects “Suspects?” he says with a frustrated grin. “Everyone within half a mile of that skyscraper is a suspect.” He trains his gaze on you. “Yourself included.” His lips fidget with the toothpick. “What’s gnawing me the most is, you bought a one-way international ticket at the last possible minute. We found your six bags, all packed to maximum weight. It looks like you’re planning on living abroad, maybe for good. Why the change in venue? What were your travel plans?” [You could tell Inspector Dennings about your double; or talk about your travel plans.] > tell him about travel plans “It was a…big vacation. Spur of the moment thing.” The excuse sounds weak just hearing it aloud. Dennings fishes through his pockets. “A person with a plane ticket is a person who minds the time…” He produces a blackened pocket watch the size of a dinner clam. He offers it to you. “The emergency crews found this little dinger beside your limp body.” > x watch It’s a dull silver pocket watch with a short fob. Most of the outer shell is scorched black and battered. It appears it can be opened. “Go ahead,” Dennings says, offering you the timepiece. “Take it.” > take it You take the timepiece. “That’s an odd thing to be carrying around,” Dennings says. “In this day and age.” > tell him about double “A twin you say?” He shrugs. “Hey—in the city, lots of people look like lots of other people.” A man with blood running down his face starts yelling at a nurse behind the desk. As an orderly escorts him toward the corridor, he continues snapping at the nurse. > tell him about watch “The emergency crew found it beside you. It was,” he sniffs, “hardly banged up at all.” > x watch It’s a dull silver pocket watch with a short fob. Most of the outer shell is scorched black and battered. It appears it can be opened. Dennings talks on his cell phone for a moment, murmurs an affirmative, and puts it back in his pocket. “Where were we?” > open it Opening the strange timepiece reveals two opposing watch faces, each with its own set of hands. The seemingly dead watch springs to life. The pulse of its inner works beats into your palm. Somehow this little hunk of metal managed to survive a massive explosion that ripped the walls off a skyscraper and sent so many to the morgue. “I want to know more about this vacation abroad,” he says. “How long have you been planning it?” Oh…for about six years now… [Press any key to continue…] Baltimore, October 6th, 1849: Call Me Theophilus With alarm and dread I have studied the broadsheets for news of Edgar Allan Poe’s ordeal. The papers, so fond of the sensational and lurid, offered few details of real weight. My research determined the following: A week ago, Poe was traveling from Richmond to Philadelphia when he disappeared;This very morning, he was discovered in Baltimore bedraggled and in a senseless state;He is recovering at Washington College Hospital, in a condition of partial catatonia. The particulars of Poe’s dire situation possess the earmarks of a fate I am familiar with…one that may hold the key to relieving me of my own curse. Intoxication Ward The Intoxication Ward of Washington College Hospital is not the bedlam I anticipated. There’s a calm to this place that belies its unnerving qualities. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. > * nice melodramatic prose shift Comment recorded. > x me Call me Theophilus. While traveling through Baltimore, I learned of Edgar Allan Poe’s disappearance and subsequent discovery in a stuporous state. A chilling scream rips through the ward and sets me on edge: “Reynolds!” > i I am carrying a journal. > x journal As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. To date, I have recorded no clues pertaining to his circumstances. > read it As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. To date, I have recorded no clues pertaining to his circumstances. > l Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. > d There is no other place I need to be at the moment. My concerns are with Poe and the ordeal which landed him here. > e My interests are here, in the Intoxication Ward, and not elsewhere in the hospital. > s Ward hall The stench of human feces and urine grows as I move toward the ward’s rooms. The doctors’ cure for alcohol dependence is forced withdrawal, and the worst cases are not permitted the dignity of a lavatory. The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. > smell The ripe stench of feces and urine is eye-watering. A sudden scream pierces the hospital’s calm atmosphere before tapering off. > listen The calm in the hallways is unnerving. > x chalkboard Written in chalk on the board is “Poe, E. A.” > e That direction would take me away from the Intoxication Ward and Edgar Poe. > x door I see no door here. > x entrance I see no entrance here. > knock on door I see no door here. > * oh well, so much for politeness Comment recorded. > w Private room It is just as I have read: Edgar Allan Poe, world-famous author of story and poetry, lies on a ward bed in a pitiful state and bearing a wan expression. A doctor stands over Poe examining his health and general condition. “Hello.” The doctor offers a slight bow of his head. “I’m Dr. Moran.” “Call me Theophilus,” I say. “I happened to be visiting Baltimore on a personal inquiry when I learned of this horrendous turn of events. I’m an acquaintance of the writer, and came to check on his recovery.” This, of course, is a lie. I know Edgar Poe solely by his reputation and voluminous writings. “Well, he is unable to hold even the simplest of conversation. He will not recognize you, nor will he acknowledge your presence. Return later. When he recovers, there will be ample time to pay a visit.” “I prefer to stay. I will remain out of the way of you and your staff, of course.” “As you wish.” And he returns to his ministrations. > x poe It is difficult to see a human in such a state. Poe’s catatonia has left him mute and limp. > x doctor Dr. Moran is a tall man with hair flecked gray and an officious mien. He peers back at me impassively, a man adapt at expressing little—a useful talent in this cold world. > l Private room Edgar Allan Poe lies on a ward bed. He stares off, mute and catatonic, with wide eyes and a blank expression. Beside him is a hospital nightstand with a note atop it. Against the far wall is a broad table with an assortment of items scattered across it. Dr. Moran stands over Poe examining his health and general condition. The eastern exit will take me away from this sorrowful place. [I could ask Dr. Moran about Edgar Allan Poe.] > x nightstand Beside the bed is a compact nightstand. Atop it is a note. > x note The note reads: There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan’s 4th ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe, and who appears in great distress, & he says he is acquainted with you, and I assure you, he is in need of immediate assistance. The hastily scribbled note is signed by a Joseph Walker. > takenote I don’t understand that command. > take note I take the curious, but important, note. > x table A broad rectangular table stands against the far wall. Scattered across it are an iron handle, a suit of clothes, and a pledge card. > x handle It’s an odd iron handle, with a wide hollow barrel and a stub of a grip. It possibly could be a component of a larger machine of unknown purpose. > take it I take the iron handle. Poe bolts up with a start and writhes around on the bed. I now see he is in restraints. “Reynolds!” he screams. “Reynolds!” His rasped voice tapers off, his clenched muscles relax, and he sinks back into his catatonia. > x clothes Piled on the table are Poe’s clothes: A palm-leaf hat lacking a brim, a cheap gabardine coat torn at its seams, patched bombazine pants, and a crumpled and soiled shirt. The lot is a marked disparity from Poe’s standard attire of black suit and crisp white shirt, always pressed, and always accompanied with a vest and neck- cloth, neither of which are found here. It may be useful to examine each garment in turn. [I could ask Dr. Moran about Reynolds or Edgar Allan Poe; or show Dr. Moran the note.] > x hat The cheap straw Cuban hat is battered, its brim nearly torn away, and lacks its signature hatband. It’s very unlike the formal black attire that was Poe’s calling card. > x coat The gabardine coat is of particularly cheap manufacture, and lacks a tailor mark. It is not the fashion of a gentleman who has forged a career with quill in hand and inkpot at the ready. A pungent odor comes off the coat as I handle it. > smell coat The pungent odor of soot and fuel oil saturates the fabric of the coat, as though worn near an industrial fire. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > smell hat No notable aroma comes off the hat. > pants The pocketless bombazine pants are ragged, patched at the knees, and cheap in their cut. A sailor may have owned these at some point, or a dockworker bringing ashore bananas from Cuba or Honduras, but not Edgar Allan Poe. > smell pants There’s no distinguishable odor to be noted. [I could ask Dr. Moran about Reynolds or Edgar Allan Poe; or show Dr. Moran the note.] [Automatic suggestions of conversation topics is ending. To re-enable, please use the SUGGEST ON command. Or, use TOPICS to see them only when you need them.] > x shirt The shirt is poorly tailored and, by my estimation, too large for a diminutive man such as Poe. It is crumpled and stained about its waist and chest. > x waist I see no waist here. > x stains The stains are a pale red, such as that which would be made by wine. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > smell stains A sour odor comes off the stains, but I could not be more specific. Dr. Moran’s attention strays from me. He returns to attending to Poe. > x card According to the card, Poe pledged with the Sons of Temperance, Shockoe Hill Division, No. 54, on August the twenty-seventh of this year. That was a mere six weeks ago. On the rear of the card is a blessing for those strong in spirit and weak in flesh, followed by this admonition: Please share this card with any poor soul in need This card represents Poe’s vow to abstain from all drink, even one offered medicinally. There are whispers Poe is a drunkard. The pledge could represent a true changing of ways…or could be a sad and meager attempt to retain his slipping dignity. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > take card I pick up the pledge card, silently vowing to return it later. > ask doctor about poe “What can you tell me about his condition?” I ask. “Delirious at times, catatonic otherwise,” Dr. Moran says. “I read in the papers speculation he was assaulted before being discovered.” “He most certainly was put through an ordeal. Some on the staff have proposed he was the victim of ‘cooping.’ All I can say on that matter is, I’ve never examined a cooping victim yet who was not physically assaulted in some manner.” Poe fights his restraints, crying out “Reynolds! Reynolds!” Dr. Moran holds him down to the bed, to prevent Poe’s restraints from digging into his flesh. “It comes and goes,” Moran tells me wearily, and Poe’s mania fades. > ask doctor about cooping “As a visitor to your fine city, I admit I’m unfamiliar with this practice known as ‘cooping.’” “An unfortunate and ugly reality of Baltimore politics,” says Dr. Moran. “Each city hall boss has their own gang on the street. They’ll snatch an unsuspecting soul, drug him, and force him to vote multiple times at the election polls across the city.” He adds, “Today is Election Day, after all.” “And you think…?” “Do I think Poe was cooped? No. Coopers usually target the poor, or visitors from out-of-town. To coop a person as well-known in Baltimore as Poe would be foolhardy.” > ask him about reynolds “Who is this ‘Reynolds’ person he calls for?” I ask Moran. “The name means nothing to me,” he says. “Perhaps he latched onto a name plucked from his memory, as a drowning man might flail at a passing log.” > show pledge to doctor “Ah, yes, his pledge to the Sons of Temperance,” says Moran. “Could Poe’s current state indicate he has returned to his old ways?” “I can neither dispute nor confirm. However, I am unconvinced alcohol alone could have done so much damage to Mr. Poe’s mind in such a short course of time.” > ask doctor about himself “Well, I’ve been a doctor for about twenty years now,” says he. “I wish I could say Poe’s was an unusual case.” > ask doctor about handle “We discovered that in his pocket,” says the doctor. “None of us have the foggiest of its intended purpose.” > ask doctor about stains “What make you of the stains on his shirt?” I ask. “Could be any number of liquids.” “Wine?” “I will not speculate,” says he. > ask doctor about smell “You’ll need to ask someone else about that subject,” says Dr. Moran. > x journal As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. Clues I have observed to date: The coat Poe wore when found reeks of smoke and fuel oil. Poe’s shirt is stained with what appears to be wine. The Sons of Temperance pledge card Poe carried was signed six weeks ago, suggesting he’s not accepted a drink since. [You’ve uncovered three out of eighteen clues.] > ask doctor about smoke “I’m afraid I cannot assist you with that,” says the doctor. > tell doctor about odor “This coat has a distinctive smell,” I say to Moran. “We’ve not laundered any of his clothes,” Moran states in an officious tone. > x handle It’s an odd iron handle, with a wide hollow barrel and a stub of a grip. It possibly could be a component of a larger machine of unknown purpose. > l Private room Edgar Allan Poe lies on a ward bed. He stares off, mute and catatonic, with wide eyes and a blank expression. Beside him is a hospital nightstand. Against the far wall is a broad table with a suit of clothes on it. Dr. Moran stands over Poe examining his health and general condition. The eastern exit will take me away from this sorrowful place. > x nightstand Beside the bed is a compact nightstand. “If I may,” says Dr. Moran. “You seem actively interested in Poe’s well-being. This was found on his person.” Moran hands me a baggage claim ticket. “I mean to send for whatever effects Poe stored at Fell’s Point and have them brought here,” says he. “Unfortunately, time has slipped away and I’ve been unable to—” “Say no more. I am happy to assist.” He relays instructions for reaching the ferry terminal at Fell’s Point. “It’s south of the hospital, near the broadening of the Patapsco River.” The main stairs down from the Intoxication Ward will start my journey there. > x ticket It’s a baggage claim ticket for the Baltimore ferry service. Poe cries out in anguish, a mind enflamed in a private hell. Dr. Moran peers over at me with an expression of pity. “Even after years of service in this ward,” he says, “watching a man suffer so is most vexing.” > d I can’t go that way. From here I could go east. > e Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. > Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. > e That way leads away from the Intoxication Ward. My concerns do not lie in that direction. > n Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. > e The hall leads further into the depths of the hospital, and away from the Intoxication Ward where Poe is housed. > d Eagerly I bound down the stairs, ready to open my investigation into Poe’s cursed circumstances…and, God willing, to close the book on my own. [Press any key to continue…] January, 2018: Mr. Belyle You saw people making killings. Flipping homes. Selling short. Buying long. People shaving corners, so they could bask in the sun while everyone else ran footraces on treadmills. All you wanted was to publish a novel. Take it on tour. See your name on the bestseller lists. Was that so much to ask? You used to tell yourself, “At least I can look at myself in the mirror each morning.” And then one morning, you couldn’t. You board a bus, head downtown, and take the elevator to the office you find yourself standing in now… [Press any key to continue…] Office It’s a rather sparse affair, with a wide carpeted area acting as a kind of stage before an audience of one: A lanky man in a suit seated in a ratty swivel chair behind a desk. A nameplate on the desk reads, “Mr. Belyle.” The man behind the desk is hunched over a typewriter, hunting and pecking at the keys. He glances up from the typewriter. His eyes swim around behind the lenses of his eyeglasses. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” he says, and he returns to his typing. You look down at the invitation you’re holding and wonder if you’ve made a gigantic mistake. > i You are carrying an invitation. His furious typing peppers the air with clicks and clacks. > x me You’re an aspiring novelist, and you’re hopeful that this is the chance you’ve been waiting for. You are speaking to Mr. Belyle. The typing halts. He scratches his chin and mutters to himself. He snaps his fingers and begins typing again. > x invitation The invitation didn’t arrive in the mail. You found it on your table this morning. It’s what drew you to this office. It reads: You’re tired of the day-in, day-out. You’re tired of being overlooked and underappreciated. You deserve more. Take a chance. Let the world see what you’re capable of. Printed across the bottom is the address of this office. “Ho-kay,” he says with a heave. He looks up from the typewriter. “You look like you’re in dire need of my services. What can I do for you?” > x man He’s a lanky hollow-cheeked man fixed in place behind the desk. He sports a helmet of jet-black hair glistening with hair cream and tipped silvery-gray. “So…why are you here?” Mr. Belyle asks. [You could show Mr. Belyle the invitation.] > tell him about invitation He peers at the invitation from across the desk. “I didn’t send that card to you. Read it again, a little more closely this time. You’ll see what I mean.” > read invitation You’ve read it a dozen times, yet only now do you realize that the invitation is in your own handwriting. You’ve been tricked—only a magician could have made the switch. But how? “Now you see the fullness of your situation,” Mr. Belyle says with a puckish smile. “If you give it to me, I’ll, ah…see what I can do.” > give invitation to man He peers up from the invitation to look you in the eye. “You want to sell books, am I right?” “I’m a writer,” you hear yourself say. How does he know? “A ‘writer.’” He smirks. “Is that what you tell yourself to get to sleep at night?” Your objection catches in your throat. You’ve long dreamed of publishing a novel. You took some evening classes. You even once paid for a weekend writing retreat. You returned home with nothing to show for it. He flips over the invitation. On the reverse is a mess of fine script with Contract printed across its top. Again, it’s like magic—you swear the back of the card was blank when you handed it to him. “I’ll make you my Standard Offer,” he says. “I guarantee you a successful writing career for six full years.” He sets the contract on the desk. He lays a fountain pen beside it. “Sign and we’ll get started.” He points at the door marked Refuse. “Once you sign, that option will no longer be available.” > x refuse It’s the door you took into this office. Painted on the door is one word: Refuse. > x contract The agreement is printed on the back of the invitation, with Contract at the top in large Fraktur script. You scan the terms: • The condition the first is Temporality: You will achieve the success of your desires for exactly six years. At termination of said time span, the Standard Offer ends. • The condition the second is Balance: To fulfill these ends, you will be divided in two for the six-year span. At the end of the contract, two become one, and balance is restored. • The condition the third is Dissociation: You and your other self must not come in contact, otherwise you will experience mutual annihilation. • The condition the fourth is Penalty: Any attempt to extend the period beyond six years, or any attempt to avoid reintegration, will forfeit the contract and result in severe penalties. The dotted line at the bottom of the contract awaits your signature. [You could ask Mr. Belyle about the contract terms.] > ask him about balance “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The separation from your other is how I can bend the world in your favor—and give you the success you’re dreaming of. But that separation cannot be maintained indefinitely. The world was created with a single You; after six years, there can only be a single You remaining.” > ask him about temporality “‘What goes up must come down.’ People think that’s a lesson about gravity. It’s actually a lesson about time. My powers will enable you to enjoy six fruitful years of publishing success. But I cannot maintain those powers indefinitely. After six years, it’s incumbent upon you to either build upon your success, or return to your life of mediocrity.” > ask him about association “Let’s stick to business,” he says. > ask him about disassociation “I’m not really certain about that,” he says. > ask him about dissociation “Two things cannot be in the same place at the same time. Physical contact with your other leads to quantum entanglements, the energizing of chthonic forces, and other nasty business. Do not tempt this rule!” > ask him about penalty “Rules are made to be broken—but punishment for breaking the rules cannot be avoided.” He offers no specifics. > ask him about payment “I’m no expert,” he says. > ask him about cost “I’m not really certain about that,” he says. > l Office It’s a rather sparse affair, with a wide carpeted area acting as a kind of stage before an audience of one: A lanky man in a suit seated in a ratty swivel chair behind a desk. A nameplate on the desk reads, “Mr. Belyle.” The fountain pen and the contract await your attention atop the desk. Mr. Belyle sits behind his desk waiting for you to decide. To the north is the door you passed through to get here. “Once you’ve signed the contract, we may continue. Otherwise—” He motions to the door behind you marked Refuse. “You should walk away.” > x pen The fountain pen is a sleek, slim instrument, with a hard black tortoiseshell barrel and a flared brass nib. > save Saved. > out You can’t go that way. From here you could go north. > n “Go out that door, and you can never return to this place, and you’ll never hear from me again.” He makes a flippant, take-it-or-leave-it motion with his right hand. “Means nothing to me either way.” You step away from the door to reconsider. > n [First opening the door.] You walk out the door, bound down the stairs, and emerge into the bright light of morning in the city. Your impulse is to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the man behind the desk. You pass another person entering the office behind you—a woman with a desperate look on her face, most likely the same desperate face you wore when you first passed through that door. The next day, you discover in your room a strange timepiece with a fob, as though a parting gift from Mr. Belyle. Otherwise, your memories of that downtown office are shed like old hair, until it’s all but forgotten. You try planning your book, you try writing your book. You never get past chapter four. Six years later, you’re passing a downtown building. You’re en route to a business meeting. A blast rips through the air and sends you flying. You’re patched up; you answer the police’s questions; you recover the strange watch, which flew from your pocket in the explosion. At home you sit quietly, leg throbbing, and stare down at the ticking watch. You find yourself nursing an unnameable regret that’s gnawed at you since the day you left that office. You think back on that novel you promised you’d write. You can’t even recall the working title. *** You are filled with regret. *** Would you like to RESTART the story, UNDO the last move, see the CREDITS, RESTORE a saved position, list the CLUES you gathered, read about this game's SOURCES, see the author's BIBLIO (bibliography), or QUIT? >undo One turn undone: n Office It’s a rather sparse affair, with a wide carpeted area acting as a kind of stage before an audience of one: A lanky man in a suit seated in a ratty swivel chair behind a desk. A nameplate on the desk reads, “Mr. Belyle.” The fountain pen and the contract await your attention atop the desk. Mr. Belyle sits behind his desk waiting for you to decide. To the north is the door you passed through to get here. > x pen The fountain pen is a sleek, slim instrument, with a hard black tortoiseshell barrel and a flared brass nib. “Again, once you’ve signed the contract, we’ll continue.” He nods toward the door. “Otherwise, leave and our business here is concluded.” > sign What do you want to sign? > contract You neatly sign the contract. To your horror, the fountain pen’s ink is blood. The oily vermilion liquid congeals to a black crust across the dotted line. Mr. Belyle fluidly slides the contract into an inside pocket. “Well done.” From below the desk he produces two bound works. One is titled Famous, the other Literary. At the same moment, the door behind you bolts locked. “These are but synopses,” he tells you. “When the time comes, you will be given the genuine article.” He passes a hand over the first synopsis. “Select Famous, and you will become a bestselling writer, popular across the land, and richly rewarded for it.” He motions likewise over the other. “Select Literary, and you will become a respected author of note, and regarded for your craft and insight.” He faces you. “Careful now,” he says. “You may read and peruse each, but the moment you take one, your choice will be considered sealed.” He recedes, leaving you to your selection. > * lol Comment recorded. > read amous You see no amous here. > read famous The book’s title is Dead on Arrival. It’s a terse crime thriller told from the point of view of an ex-cop private detective who discovers a connection between a San Francisco serial killer and City Hall. Meanwhile, he learns his wife has contracted cancer and may have only a few months to live. The pace of the book is relentless. You step back from the extensive synopsis in awe. You sense it will be a polished work, with chapters alternating between the crime story and the pending personal loss. You doubt you could write anything as good, and yet Belyle is offering it to you. > read literary The actual title of the book is Blanking Out. From a scan through the lengthy synopsis, you see it’s a multigenerational family saga of an American farming family that produces three children. The two sons become doctors and move to the city, while the daughter establishes a veterinary practice near the farm. Stunned, you close the synopsis. You can tell it will be a beautiful work, far beyond your writing acumen, and yet it could be yours. > take literary With a swelling sense of promise, you take hold of the synopsis titled Literary. Mr. Belyle rises, shakes your hand, and gives you a pocket watch. “With my compliments,” he says. “May you find it of some use.” A portion of the far wall slides away to reveal a passageway leading into darkness. You step gingerly toward it to peer inside. A hazy light to the south is all you can make out. When you turn to ask Mr. Belyle what it means, you discover you’re alone—the office is empty and Mr. Belyle is gone. More remarkably, the synopsis you selected has transformed to a hardbound book. > x book It’s a hardcover first-edition of your debut novel, Blanking Out. It’s pretty much as the synopsis promised: In it, a farming family produces a brood of medical practitioners, as well as its share of secrets and infighting. You recognize the words—it feels like you wrote every phrase and paragraph—but they are not, in fact, yours at all. No matter. You’ve done it. You’re a published author. > i You are carrying a timepiece and Blanking Out. > x timepiece It’s a dull silver pocket watch with a short fob. The timepiece is snapped shut. Engraved on one side is a peacock with its plumage spread. On the other is engraved a beaver with a paddle tail. > open it Opening the strange timepiece reveals a surprising feature: Its interior has two opposing watch faces, each with its own set of hands. The faces aren’t marked for twelve-hour time, but rather indicate the time remaining over a six-year period. The hands on both faces of the watch are running. Both indicate six years remain. > x beaver The finely-detail of the beaver captures its industrious nature as it gnaws on a felled tree. > x peacock The image of the peacock is done in fine, minute lines, capturing a great amount of lifelike detail of the bird advertising its plumage. > l Office You’re in an empty office that was moments earlier occupied by a desk, a chair, and a rather alarming man named Belyle. A dark passageway south leads out. To the north is the door you passed through to get here. > n The door is closed and locked. > s As soon as you cross the threshold, the passage opening slams shut behind you… Literary Your eyes adjust to the dim passageway. The timepiece notes each passing second with a sharp tick. You sense a countdown has begun. A hint of light and the faint chatter of human voices emanates from the south. > listen From the south comes the faint noise of hundreds of people talking. The timepiece patiently ticks out the passing seconds. > s The path taken An entire wall along the passage is a mirror, from floor to ceiling, reflecting you and the passage you’re in. A blinding light and a clatter of voices comes from the south, hopefully the exit from this strange place. The passage dims to the north, from where you came. > listen From the light to the south comes the strong clatter of voices, tens of conversations ongoing at once. The timepiece patiently ticks out the passing seconds. > s As you go to leave, you catch out of the corner of your eye your reflection in the glass—but it’s not quite a perfect reflection of you. > x reflection In the glass, your reflection stares back at you. You wave, but it does not wave back, at least, not immediately. Gaping—and with your reflection gaping back—you come to realize the glass wall permits you to see into another passageway…the path you did not take. It’s your split double, the one who chose to be famous. Your double smiles at you with an odd, almost contrite, expression. He’s holding a silver timepiece as well, a duplicate of the one Belyle gave you, and a novel titled Dead on Arrival, the book you declined. He reaches his palm to the mirror, and you reflexively reach forward to meet him. A spark of white energy arcs between you. Alarmed, you both step away from the glass. It’s as the contract warned you—You and your other self must not come in contact. He issues a furtive wave goodbye, turns to the blinding light at the end of his path, and disappears into it. > s You press on, brimming with excitement, eager to become the writer—no, the author—Mr. Belyle has promised. You emerge from the white light to a university cafe, each table taken by college students and faculty, all waiting for you to approach the microphone and read from Blanking Out. Applause washes upon you— [Press any key to continue…] “Rise,” cries the raven, and so I rise to greet the next chapter of my fresh Hell— The wild man scoops mortar from a bucket with great verve. He slathers it across the floor for the wall he builds. He jams brick after brick into place… The raven cries “Sleep.” The drink makes me sleep, and so I drink… My soul, 'tis leaving me… [Press any key to continue…] Baltimore, October 6th, 1849 Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. The calmness here is a sobering contrast to the wracked mind upstairs in the hospital’s Intoxication Ward. Many blocks to the west stands a high column topped by a statue, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of a vibrant industrial district. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > x hospital The staid hospital rises to the east of here. > x trees Prim gardens, shade trees, birds in the air…it is quite an idyll compared to the horrors in the hospital’s Intoxication Ward. > x column The distant column is due west of here. All I can make out about the statue is that it is a person holding…some object. > x statue The distant column is due west of here. All I can make out about the statue is that it is a person holding…some object. > x district South, down the city’s incline, begins a rather busy industrial district. > x ticket It’s a baggage claim ticket for the Baltimore ferry service. > i I am carrying an iron handlea pledge carda claim ticketa notea journal > w Down quiet tree-lined avenues of regal mansions and soft green parks I stroll. Husbands walk with wives at their arm, children play evens-and-odds in the shade, and the bustle of the Baltimore street fades from my mind… Battle Monument Square A broad public square is hugged on two sides by multi-storied buildings of impressive granite and brick. In the center rises a thirty-foot tall monument to war dead. Returning east will take me to Washington Hill and Poe’s hospital. > x buildings The businesses here impart an impression of refinement, an unusual trait in the Republic. > x monument The monument central to this public square has a marble cenotaph at its base supporting a thick carved column topped by the statue of a young woman. > x statue The statue, known colloquially as Lady Baltimore, depicts a young woman bearing a wreath. This surprises me, as my first impression was that it depicted Liberty, an icon so omnipresent in this young and still-fragile Republic. > x wreath The statue, known colloquially as Lady Baltimore, depicts a young woman bearing a wreath. This surprises me, as my first impression was that it depicted Liberty, an icon so omnipresent in this young and still-fragile Republic. > e Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of a vibrant industrial district. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > s Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > x factoris I see no factoris here. > x factories Factories and their soot-spewing smokestacks rise all around me. > x carriages Raw materials and finished goods move through Jonestown to and from the nearby harbor. > x warehouses Countless red-brick warehouses and buildings populate this district. > x smokestacks Smokestacks rise like towers from the factories. > x river The Patapsco River widens south of here. > smell Soot from the smokestacks tinges the air with the odor of burnt char. > listen The clattering and clanking of the factories’ machinery makes Jonestown rumble. The clops of the horses drawing the carriages echoes off the red-brick buildings. > se There are many streets and alleys through the city. I do not know where that way will lead me, however. More promising would seem to be north, south or southwest. > s Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. The ferry building at Fell’s Point which Dr. Moran told you about is visible east of here. From its activity, it appears to be an energetic hub of travel and commerce. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > x river The river moves quietly and steadily toward the bay. > x docks A whitewashed light-house rises among the docks and boatyards to the southeast. > x light-house A whitewashed light-house rises among the docks and boatyards to the southeast. > w Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. My pace hastens as I travel through this seedy district of streetwalkers and urchins. The briny stench of the fishmongers’ stalls makes me wish I’d thought to purchase a boutonnière before setting out this morning. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. > smell The stench of rotting fish is unbearable. > x stalls The stalls of rotting catch blankets the air with a salty stench. > x urchins These dirt-caked scamps run about freely and unsupervised. > x streetwalkers In this section of the city, they ply their trade quite brazenly. > e Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. The ferry building at Fell’s Point which Dr. Moran told you about is visible east of here. From its activity, it appears to be an energetic hub of travel and commerce. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > x ferry The ferry building at Fell’s Point is east of here. > e Eagerly I pass through the doors of the ferry building, columned on both sides by the sails and smoke rising from the ferries gliding over the glassy Patapsco River… Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. Hanging beside the service counter is a wanted poster. The sketched face catches the eye. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. > x depot Past the service counter begins a baggage storage depot overflowing with cases and crates waiting for their owner to return and claim them. > x counter The service counter stands before a baggage depot brimming with cases, crates, and boxes. Mounted atop the counter is a simple brass bell, which may be pressed to call for service. > x bell A desk bell may be pressed to summon service. > smell I smell nothing out of the ordinary. > listen I hear nothing out of the ordinary. > x poster At the top of the poster is a crude sketch of a wild-haired man with a thin face and a wiry moustache. Below, it announces that he is Reynolds Grimm, an inmate who recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary with a batch of narcotics stolen from its dispensary. “DANGEROUS! Poss. ARMED!” it reads, and warns all to remain a safe distance from the man if encountered. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > take poster Carefully I remove the wanted poster from the wall. > ring bell A clear ringing sound cuts through the air. A moment later, a porter arrives. “Good day,” he says with a nod. “May I assist you?” > x porter The porter is a cheery enough fellow uniformed in a cap and vest. He’s youthful and ready. > ask porter about poe “Are you familiar with the poet Edgar Poe?” I ask him. He brightens up. “Indeed I am!” He does not strike me as the sort of man to read widely nor deeply, but Poe is known across the English-speaking world. “He is this town’s pride. You know, he stopped in here about a week ago—he arrived on the morning ferry from Richmond. The Pocahontas, as I recall.” “Did he travel alone?” “I could not say. A bearded man walked behind him as he approached this counter, though.” “Behind him? As though following Poe?” “Aye,” the porter says slowly, “and he remained at a distance, now that I consider it. Not as a manservant or a hired man would, but…at a distance.” Was Poe followed to Baltimore? With a throaty blast of steam from its stack, a ferry arrives at one of the terminal piers. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > ask porter about reynolds “What do you know of this?” I ask him, tapping the poster. “What, this ‘Reynolds Grimm’ chap? Struck up a bit of chit-chat with the officer from Maryland Penitentiary as he put it up.” His voice grows saucy. “Quite the violent inmate, I was told. Ranted how he was an accomplished writer, and how some other fellow who looked exactly like him was the fraud.” “Did this officer divulge whom Reynolds Grimm accused of fraud?” “Some world-famous author who has his name printed in all the slick magazines. Can you imagine?” (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > ask him about bearded man “Describe this bearded man,” I say. “A trim and brambly beard, it was. He was a bit on the shorter side, and stout. Not thin as a rail, as Mr. Poe is.” “And was it the man on the wanted poster?” “The inmate who escaped from prison?” He considers it for a moment. “I could not deny it outright. But the bearded man was refined and composed. Rather like the gentleman you are, sir.” (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > x me Call me Theophilus. While traveling through Baltimore, I learned of Edgar Allan Poe’s disappearance and subsequent discovery in a stuporous state. I am speaking to the porter. > i I am carrying a pledge carda claim ticketa wanted postera journalan iron handlea note > show handle to man “Must say, never seen anything quite like it,” he says of it. > ask him about handle “Must say, never seen anything quite like it,” he says of it. > ask him about journal “Not sure what I can say to you about that,” says the porter. > ask him about himself “That’s me, by jingo,” says the porter. > tell him about myself “I dunno what to say,” says the porter. “You seem the respectable type.” A ferry at a dock sounds its horn. It gradually drifts into the Patapsco River, bound for open waters. > ask him about ferry “We have a great number of ferries which come and go from Fell’s Point,” the porter says. > ask him about fell's point “Afraid I don’t know much about that,” says the porter. > ask him about baltimore “It’s a beautiful city,” he says with a beam. “Quite proud of what we’ve accomplished here, I tell you.” > ask him about hospital “Afraid I can’t help you with that,” says the porter. > ask him about claim “Very good, sir.” He takes the claim ticket and disappears into the baggage depot. He returns moments later with an oversized travel trunk on a hand cart. He deposits the trunk at my feet. “There you are, friend,” he says with a victorious smile. He lingers for a moment bearing a proud countenance, as though freshly returned from Xanadu bearing tales and treasure. “I’m afraid I lack funds and cannot offer a gratuity,” I tell him. “I grant you this pearl instead: ‘Give yourself the gift of the present moment, for it is fleeting and shall never offer itself to you again.’” Alas, the porter is not enriched. “If you leave, I’ll happily watch over the trunk for you,” he mutters. “Otherwise, please ring if you require further assistance.” And he disappears into the bowels of the baggage depot. > x trunk It’s an oversized wooden trunk covered in worn black leather and bound by straps. Its wear suggests it has seen much travel. I see nothing particularly special about it, but obviously its proper owner makes it a singular trunk. A keyhole is built into its front side. I think it would not be too intrusive if I were to look inside the trunk. > open trunk The black trunk is locked. > look through keyhole Peering into the keyhole does not reveal the contents of the trunk. > look in trunk The black trunk must be opened first. > x handle It’s an odd iron handle, with a wide hollow barrel and a stub of a grip. It possibly could be a component of a larger machine of unknown purpose. > put handle in trunk The black trunk must be opened first. A family hurries past on their way to catch a departing ferry. > put handle in keyhole The shaft of the strange iron handle fits the keyhole perfectly! With a sturdy twist and a creak of metal rubbing metal, the trunk is now unlocked. > open trunk Opening the black trunk reveals some papers, a literary review, and a letter. Curiously, no articles of clothing are to be seen. > * hmm I imagined the trunk much bigger! Comment recorded. > x papers An assortment of personal papers and false starts litter the bottom of the trunk. Some appear of interest; they may be worth reading. > search papers I see nothing interesting in the papers. > l Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. An oversized black trunk rests on the baggage claim floor. In the black trunk I see some papers, a literary review, and a letter. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. > read papers Drafts of poetics, notes on story ideas, scraps of descriptions…Most fascinating of all, there appears to be the promising start of a new Poe short story: The Light-House Jan 1–1796. This day—my first on the light-house—I make this entry in my Diary, as agreed on with De Grät. As regularly as I can 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 beginning to revive already, at the mere thought of being—for once in my life at least—thoroughly alone… A man who finds solace in solitude. It truly has the earmarks of a Poe tale. > read papers Drafts of poetics, notes on story ideas, scraps of descriptions…Most fascinating of all, there appears to be the promising start of a new Poe short story: The Light-House Jan 1–1796. This day—my first on the light-house—I make this entry in my Diary, as agreed on with De Grät. As regularly as I can 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 beginning to revive already, at the mere thought of being—for once in my life at least—thoroughly alone… A man who finds solace in solitude. It truly has the earmarks of a Poe tale. > take light-house I see no light-house here. > l Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. An oversized black trunk rests on the baggage claim floor. In the black trunk I see some papers, a literary review, and a letter. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. > take papers I see no reason to disturb them. They are Poe’s, not mine. > take paper I see no paper here. > x review This sheaf constitutes the rough draft of a literary review Poe plans to publish, with himself acting as editor-in-chief. It would be worth my time to read the work Poe has prepared for publication. > read review The manuscript constitutes a rough draft for the inaugural edition of The Stylus. Poe uses his soapbox as editor-in-chief to praise and damn American writers from all corners of the Republic. Most names are unfamiliar to me, as I tend to follow authors who share my European origins. Poe reserves his most caustic criticism for New York poet Rufus Griswold. Poe declaims Griswold as a tin-eared plagiarist, and reprints passages of Griswold’s prose beside the original work Poe claims he lifted. I can only imagine the fury such remarks would stoke in another writer. In the distance, a deckhand with a bullhorn marches through the terminal announcing the imminent departure of a ferry. > take review This is Poe’s property. Indeed, publishing represents his vocation. I will leave this in the trunk in anticipation of Poe’s recovery. > x letter The letter was postmarked in Baltimore, with no return address. It was delivered to Poe in Richmond, Virginia. The letter reads: YHXNW GYUF OB VQ PMMULYXFR TYZRF ICUDX ERHVQUV BUNNCO XDL VCRD QXQUCNWS NUGQBQ VVD, YWXPZQIJ Scratched in pencil below is the word WILMOT. It appears to have been added later, perhaps by Poe. Poe loved ciphers and codes. No doubt whoever posted this letter knew it would tickle his praeternatural curiosity. > take letter This seems worthy of holding onto. I will return it to Poe when he recovers. Eagerly I take the letter into my possession. > l Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. An oversized black trunk rests on the baggage claim floor. In the black trunk I see a literary review and some papers. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. > close trunk I close the trunk’s heavy lid. > lock lit The baggage claim isn’t lockable. > take handle I’m already holding the iron handle. > put handle in keyhole I lock the trunk. > l Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. An oversized black trunk rests on the baggage claim floor. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. A family hurries past on their way to catch a departing ferry. > w Before taking my leave, I ask the porter for one more favor. “Would you deliver the trunk to Mr. Poe at Washington College Hospital?” “My pleasure, sir. It’ll be there by the end of the day.” He takes the trunk’s key from me, and wheels the trunk into the depot. Before he disappears, he turns and tips his hat. “And please give Mr. Poe my best!” Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > n Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > w Perhaps I can explore that direction later. More promising would seem to be north, south or southwest. > n Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > w Battle Monument Square A broad public square is hugged on two sides by multi-storied buildings of impressive granite and brick. In the center rises a thirty-foot tall monument to war dead. Returning east will take me to Washington Hill and Poe’s hospital. > e Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > n I dare not travel too far afield yet, as I am still learning my way around Baltimore. More promising would seem to be east, south or west. > e Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. Poe’s moans carry down the hall. “I was to be married…” > s Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. Dr. Moran enters from the private room. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. > greet moran I am already talking to Dr. Moran. [I could show Dr. Moran the note.] > tell moran about reynolds “The prisoner who escaped from Maryland Penitentiary is named Reynolds Grimm,” I say. “And you believe this is the ‘Reynolds’ Poe now obsesses over?” He shakes his head with a skeptical frown. “Poe would need to interact with this deranged Grimm fellow at some point. That seems highly unlikely,” says he. > x note The note reads: There is a gentleman, rather the worse for wear, at Ryan’s 4th ward polls, who goes under the cognomen of Edgar A. Poe, and who appears in great distress, & he says he is acquainted with you, and I assure you, he is in need of immediate assistance. The hastily scribbled note is signed by a Joseph Walker. > show note to reynolds I see no to reynolds here. > show note to doctor “That’s the note Joseph Walker sent,” says Moran. “Our people gathered Poe at the Fourth Ward polls and brought him here.” > ask him about walker “I am not familiar with the gentleman,” Dr. Moran says. “To the best of my knowledge he is an acquaintance of Mr. Poe. He recognized Poe’s distress and sent word.” “Do you know where I may find this Mr. Walker?” “I do not,” Moran says. “He did not accompany Mr. Poe when the poet was brought here.” > i I am carrying a pledge carda wanted postera lettera notea journal > show poster to moran Dr. Moran studies the poster for nary a moment. “Never seen such a wild- looking man,” says he. “Not even as a patient in this ward.” > show letter to moran “What devilish writing,” he murmurs. “Random gibberish, I would say.” > ask doctor about poe “I’m uncertain of the cause of his condition,” the doctor says. > l Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. > w Private room Edgar Allan Poe lies on a ward bed. He stares off, mute and catatonic, with wide eyes and a blank expression. Beside him is a hospital nightstand. Against the far wall is a broad table with a suit of clothes on it. The eastern exit will take me away from this sorrowful place. > ask poe about reynolds Poe does not respond. > ask poe about letter Poe, in a stupor, does not respond. > show letter to poe Poe does not respond. > i I am carrying a pledge carda wanted postera lettera notea journal The bed shakes and rattles as Poe fights his restraints. > ask poe about wilmot Poe mutely stares off with eyes like pale tea saucers. > e Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. > ask moran about wilmot “I’ve never heard of him,” says Moran. “I’m not a reader of popular verse.” > n Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. > s Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. > e There seems little that direction of concern to me. > n Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. > e The hall leads further into the depths of the hospital, and away from the Intoxication Ward where Poe is housed. > d Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > i I am carrying a pledge carda wanted postera lettera notea journal > x letter The letter was postmarked in Baltimore, with no return address. It was delivered to Poe in Richmond, Virginia. The letter reads: YHXNW GYUF OB VQ PMMULYXFR TYZRF ICUDX ERHVQUV BUNNCO XDL VCRD QXQUCNWS NUGQBQ VVD, YWXPZQIJ Scratched in pencil below is the word WILMOT. It appears to have been added later, perhaps by Poe. Poe loved ciphers and codes. No doubt whoever posted this letter knew it would tickle his praeternatural curiosity. > s Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > s Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > w Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. > x fish The stalls of rotting catch blankets the air with a salty stench. > ne Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > s Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > e Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. > w Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > n Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > n Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > e Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. Poe screams from his room. > n I can’t go that way. From here I could go east, south or down. > e My interests are here, in the Intoxication Ward, and not elsewhere in the hospital. > s Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. > tell moran about baggage “We found the claim ticket on Poe when he was admitted,” Moran says. > tell moran about trunk “Poe’s baggage will be delivered later today,” I tell Moran. “Excellent!” is his reply, and he returns to his duties. > l Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. > x clipboard A sheaf of papers, presumably the doctor’s observations on his patients’ condition and recovery. > i I am carrying a pledge carda wanted postera lettera notea journal > tell moran about rufus “I’ve never heard of him,” says Moran. “I’m not a reader of popular verse.” > n Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. > s Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. > ask moran about asylum “I do not know much about that, I’m afraid,” says the doctor. From Poe’s room comes a plaintive cry—a man tormented in a private hell. > x poster At the top of the poster is a crude sketch of a wild-haired man with a thin face and a wiry moustache. Below, it announces that he is Reynolds Grimm, an inmate who recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary with a batch of narcotics stolen from its dispensary. “DANGEROUS! Poss. ARMED!” it reads, and warns all to remain a safe distance from the man if encountered. > ask moran about penitentiary When I ask Dr. Moran about the prison, he blanches. “You have no need to visit a place like that.” “You will not offer me directions?” “The prison is located in a sketchy part of Baltimore. It would be unwise for you to travel those streets alone.” > tell moran about bearded man “I’m afraid I cannot assist you with that,” says the doctor. > e That direction would take me away from the Intoxication Ward and Edgar Poe. > d I can’t go that way. From here I could go north, east or west. > n Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. > d Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > w Battle Monument Square A broad public square is hugged on two sides by multi-storied buildings of impressive granite and brick. In the center rises a thirty-foot tall monument to war dead. Returning east will take me to Washington Hill and Poe’s hospital. > x statue The statue, known colloquially as Lady Baltimore, depicts a young woman bearing a wreath. This surprises me, as my first impression was that it depicted Liberty, an icon so omnipresent in this young and still-fragile Republic. > x wreath The statue, known colloquially as Lady Baltimore, depicts a young woman bearing a wreath. This surprises me, as my first impression was that it depicted Liberty, an icon so omnipresent in this young and still-fragile Republic. > x monument The monument central to this public square has a marble cenotaph at its base supporting a thick carved column topped by the statue of a young woman. > x cenotaph This empty marble tomb commemorates America’s battle with the British some thirty-odd years ago. Names of the soldiers who died defending Baltimore are etched into the four sides of the cenotaph. > x names This empty marble tomb commemorates America’s battle with the British some thirty-odd years ago. Names of the soldiers who died defending Baltimore are etched into the four sides of the cenotaph. > x wilmot I see no wilmot here. > x names This empty marble tomb commemorates America’s battle with the British some thirty-odd years ago. Names of the soldiers who died defending Baltimore are etched into the four sides of the cenotaph. > read names There are too many names to list. > x sides I see no sides here. > i I am carrying a pledge carda wanted postera lettera notea journal > x letter The letter was postmarked in Baltimore, with no return address. It was delivered to Poe in Richmond, Virginia. The letter reads: YHXNW GYUF OB VQ PMMULYXFR TYZRF ICUDX ERHVQUV BUNNCO XDL VCRD QXQUCNWS NUGQBQ VVD, YWXPZQIJ Scratched in pencil below is the word WILMOT. It appears to have been added later, perhaps by Poe. Poe loved ciphers and codes. No doubt whoever posted this letter knew it would tickle his praeternatural curiosity. > e Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > s Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > s Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > e Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. > ring bell A clear ringing sound cuts through the air. The porter emerges from the baggage depot. “You’ve returned,” says the porter, bearing a less-than cheery disposition at my presence. > ask porter about wilmot “Can’t say I’ve heard of him,” the porter says. “He’s a poet, and a magazine editor.” “Only verse I’ve read is by Mr. Poe. This Griswold fellow…nah. Never heard of him.” > ask porter about griswordl “Afraid I don’t know much about that,” says the porter. > ask porter about grisworld “Not sure what I can say to you about that,” says the porter. > ask porter about griswold “Can’t say I’ve heard of him,” the porter says. “He’s a poet, and a magazine editor.” “Only verse I’ve read is by Mr. Poe. This Griswold fellow…nah. Never heard of him.” > * hmm why does asking about wilmot result in a response about griswold? Comment recorded. > w Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > x light-house A whitewashed light-house rises among the docks and boatyards to the southeast. > e Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. > ring bell A clear ringing sound cuts through the air. The porter emerges from the baggage depot. “You’ve returned,” says the porter, bearing a less-than cheery disposition at my presence. > ask porter about light-house “Baltimore has a lot of light-houses,” he says. > w Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > e Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. > w Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > w Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. > x letter The letter was postmarked in Baltimore, with no return address. It was delivered to Poe in Richmond, Virginia. The letter reads: YHXNW GYUF OB VQ PMMULYXFR TYZRF ICUDX ERHVQUV BUNNCO XDL VCRD QXQUCNWS NUGQBQ VVD, YWXPZQIJ Scratched in pencil below is the word WILMOT. It appears to have been added later, perhaps by Poe. Poe loved ciphers and codes. No doubt whoever posted this letter knew it would tickle his praeternatural curiosity. > * do I need to just solve this? Comment recorded. > hint Done. > n What interesting locale lies that direction, I do not know. More promising would seem to be east or northeast. > e Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > n Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > n Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > e Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. “No!” Poe cries from his room. “Not the other, but I!” > talk to moran I am already talking to Dr. Moran. [I could ask Dr. Moran about the Fourth Ward polls.] > * ah, didn't need hints I guess! Comment recorded. > ask about fourth ward “I am unfamiliar with Baltimore. What are the ‘Fourth Ward polls?’” “The Fourth Ward is where Mr. Poe was first found in his distress,” says Moran. “Today is Election Day, and the polls in the Fourth Ward are being cast at Gunner’s Hall. That is where he was discovered by Joseph Walker.” He relays intelligence for reaching Gunner’s Hall on my own. “It is to the west of the Inner Harbor.” The main stairs down from the Intoxication Ward will start my journey there. > d Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > s Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > w There are many streets and alleys through the city. I do not know where that way will lead me, however. More promising would seem to be north, south or southwest. > s Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > w Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where Dr. Moran told me the Fourth Ward polls may be found. > w Gingerly I navigate the Inner Harbor’s labyrinth of haggling stall keepers and putrid crab traps until I reach the Fourth Ward… Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > x hall Gunner’s Hall appears an establishment of low repute, with much frolic and merry-making. > x board A board outside the pub bears a telling advertisement written in chalk lettering: VOTE EARLY VOTE OFTEN 1st WHISKEY COMPLIMENTS OF MAYOR STANSBURY > n Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > x taps A long row of beer taps to the west provide a constant flow of refreshment for the patrons of this establishment. > x ladies A pair of winsome gals man the polls to the east. > x polls A pair of winsome gals man the polls to the east. > x men The men here appear to be dockworkers and longshoremen, understandable as the Inner Harbor is not far from this place. They drink their beer with abandon. It fuels their ribald tales and bitter complaints of their labor being exploited. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. > listen The noise of the rowdy drinking men in the front room chips away at the quiet here. > s Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > x woman I see no woman here. > x women I see no women here. > x ladies A pair of winsome gals man the polls to the east. > ask ladies about poe The young ladies are too far away. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The two ladies at the polling table are utterly swamped by rough tradesmen clamoring for a ballot, for a voucher, or for their sweet attention. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. > x tables The table permits voters to scratch an “X” on their ballot before depositing it in the lockbox atop the table. > ask ladies about poe The ladies at the polling table are busy dealing with the other men. Perhaps I should try to speak to them later. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. > l Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. > take What do you want to take? > s Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > ask men about poe They ignore me. I am dainty compared to these burly men of black grease, scarred hands, and missing fingers. > w Taps A long row of beer taps gets steady use from the barkeep, who shuffles up and down the bar serving thirsty working-class men roaring with tales of bravado and buffoonery. The pub’s entry is east of here, while a quieter back room lies to the north. > x barkeep A spry woman of Irish extraction with broad shoulders. Her hard glare and fixed jaw suggests to me she is neither to be trifled with nor condescended to. > talk to her The barkeep is all business. “What can I do for you?” she asks briskly. [I could ask the barkeep about Edgar Allan Poe; or ask the barkeep for a beer.] > ask her about poe “Oh, that poor man who stumbled in this morning,” says she. “Yes, they took him to the ward to dry out.” “Do you recall any more?” “Help was sent for. There was delay due to the fire at the light-house.” “Come again?” “At Lazaretto Point Light. D’you not hear? Last night the light-house burned. The man they took away—your Edgar Poe friend—he staggered in here around dawn.” Dawn was nearly ten hours ago. With that, she offers directions to reach the light-house on my own. “Southeast of here, at the end of the promontory,” says she. “Walking across the rocks of the promontory is tricky, so watch yourself,” and she details the quickest path to the light-house. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > ask her about light-house “Do you recall any more about the light-house?” “Only that Mr. Poe arrived here after the fire,” says she. And she reminds me that the light-house is southeast of here, at the end of the promontory. > show poster to her “Can’t say I’ve ever seen him,” says she after studying the poster for a brief moment. “He appears the sort of man who’d patronize this establishment, if you follow my meaning.” > ask her about polls “The Fourth Ward is a tough neighborhood. We like it that way.” She examines me up and down. “Not the sort of place I’d expect to find a gentleman like you, I will add.” > ask her about voting “It’s Election Day in Baltimore,” says she. “That means the pubs are doing crackerjack business.” I take that as a hint. > buy beer I don’t understand that command. > ask her for beer “A beer is a nickel,” says the barkeep. “Whiskey, two nickels.” I am a man with neither means nor specie, and I make it known to her. She shakes her head in disgust, eyes heavenward, wordlessly asking: Where do these wastrels come from? Why do they cast their shadow on my stoop? “Go vote.” She motions toward the polls on the other side of the room. “Let Mayor Stansbury buy you a drink.” > e Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. The two ladies at the polling table are utterly swamped by rough tradesmen clamoring for a ballot, for a voucher, or for their sweet attention. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. > vote The ladies at the polling table are busy dealing with the other men. Perhaps I should try to speak to them later. > w Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > w Taps A long row of beer taps gets steady use from the barkeep, who shuffles up and down the bar serving thirsty working-class men roaring with tales of bravado and buffoonery. The pub’s entry is east of here, while a quieter back room lies to the north. > e Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > s Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > e Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > e Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises a whitewashed light-house. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > se Canton The district referred to as Canton by the locals is sparsely developed compared to the northern districts. Dry docks and boatyards, one after another, line the broad river’s shoals. A narrow promontory along the river leads south toward the bay waters. At the distant tip of the promontory stands the light-house named Lazaretto Point Light. Central Baltimore lies to the northwest. > docks Docks in states of disrepair, and boatyards of less-than-seaworthy craft, give this neck of the solemn river an unfortunate air of neglect. > x yards Docks in states of disrepair, and boatyards of less-than-seaworthy craft, give this neck of the solemn river an unfortunate air of neglect. > s With the directions I’ve been given, I find a serviceable route along the rocky inlet to the tip of the promontory… Foot of light-house The waters from this vantage point are a painter’s landscape of gentle beauty, a panoply of tall-ships gliding over the calm Patapsco River. Lazaretto Point Light rises stoically before me, a stubby conical lighthouse about thirty feet tall and whitewashed from base to top. The whitewash is scorched up one side, evidence of a fire now doused. Otherwise, the only other evidence of the blaze is the lingering acrid smell of char and soot. Although burned-out, it does appear the light-house may be entered west of here. A compact cottage squats to the east. Traveling north along the promontory will return me to Baltimore proper. > x ships A veritable child’s collection of tall-ships festooned with sails and flags decorates the slow-moving Patapsco River. > x lighthouse The conical Lazaretto Point Light rises overhead like a giant whitewashed pin stabbed into a great map of Baltimore, marking HERE as a place where a matter of grave significance occurred. Black scorch marks and smoke stains rise up one side. > * inconsistency about light-house vs. lighthouse Comment recorded. > x stain I see no stain here. > smell The stench of soot, char, and burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. > x scorch Black scorch marks and smoke stains rise up one side of the light-house. > x cottage A cottage to the east appears to be a residence of some manner. > e Outside keeper’s cottage This is the light-house keeper’s cottage. The front door is barred shut, and the window is boarded up. A shingle mounted beside the entrance identifies the occupant of this cottage— the previous occupant, that is, as no one seems to reside here at the moment. Off to the side is a quaint garden plot, now bereft of vegetation or flora. The foot of the conical light-house is on the other edge of the promontory, west of here. > x shingle The shingle posted at the entrance reads, “M. Belyle, Keeper.” Belyle’s involvement is now confirmed. My suspicions about Poe’s ordeal have been justified. It sickens me to think Belyle may have played some part in Poe’s now-fragile condition. The sight of Belyle’s name takes me back to a memory from long ago, one I wish I could forget…to the continent, my European home… [Press any key to continue…] Baden-Durlach, December 10th, 1582 Death rides a pale horse. White death strangled the trees and suffocated the land. What is land for, but to bury the dead? Pallidus It was Reformation country. Lutheran Baden-Durlach lay behind me, to the east. Ahead, to the west, awaited Catholic Alsace. A brutal snowstorm sent knife- edged sleet across my cheeks and lips. I wore about my neck my only valued possession, a gold Nuremberg egg. Off to the side lay my steed Pallidus, dead. To the west, a wide bridge crossed the Rhine. > x egg A cursed device gifted to me six years earlier by a professor who referred to himself only as Belyle. The clock-watch—or Nuremberg egg, as the aristocracy referred to such trinkets—was a gold drum strung on a necklace of the same precious metal. Engraved into the drum’s side was the outline of a tusked elephant. Unlike other timepieces, this weird clock-watch counted the days remaining until the tenth of December, 1582. The watch face displayed that pivotal final date: “December 10th, 1582.” That particular day was of deadly importance to me. It drove me westward into the embrace of Catholic France. My time was up. > x me In 1582, I fled my home and situation in Baden-Durlach for the Catholic lands in France. > i I was wearing a Nuremberg egg. > x horse Pallidus had collapsed by the edge of the road. His glassy eyes were frozen wide, and his now-crystallized froth made his mouth hairy with ice. Only minutes earlier, Pallidus was galloping hard, his nostrils smoking in the cold air. I jammed my heels in his side crying, Faster, faster! I bowed to stroke Pallidus’ mane. I put my face in his neck. It was a futile exhibition. Plenty of time for grieving later. Reaching the Catholic lands was paramount. > x alsace Alsace was just beyond the bridge. I coughed up phlegma flecked with blood. I had to press on. My time was up. > l Pallidus It was Reformation country. Lutheran Baden-Durlach lay behind me, to the east. Ahead, to the west, awaited Catholic Alsace. I wore about my neck my only valued possession, a gold Nuremberg egg. Off to the side lay my steed Pallidus, dead. To the west, a wide bridge crossed the Rhine. > x bridge The bridge connected Baden-Durlach and Alsace. > x baden-durlach Baden-Durlach lay to the east. Going that direction meant certain death. > e I dared not return the way I traveled. Death lived to the east. > w As I crossed the bridge, leaving behind Germany and entering France, I tasted something akin to freedom. The snowstorm did not abate. Shelter had to be located, and soon… Alsace Past the bridge lay more acres of trees and snow. A chapel stood on the southern edge of the snowy road, which disappeared westward into the blizzard. > x trees This rugged country belonged to the trees, as Man had ony succeeded in carving the slenderest of paths between them. Snow choked the trees, and the wind sliced through them as a banshee might navigate a yard of gravestones, but the trees owned the land. > x snow There was so much of it on the ground and in the air, I was all but blinded. The brutal cold was working into my core. No doubt I would perish soon, if I did not procure shelter from this blizzard. > x shapel I saw no shapel there. > x chapel A modest chapel of coarse masoned stone stood on the southern edge of the path. A stone cross perched high loomed over the chapel’s sole door, where a bit of light shone out through its cracks. > x cross The stone cross peered down onto me much as a perched eagle might observe a limping hare. > s The chapel door must be opened first. > knock on door Due to my weakness, the hinges barely rattled. The blizzard surged through the trees. The light coming through the cracks told me someone must be inside. I stumbled and regained my balance. The wind buffeted me about. > open door I rattled the chapel door in vain. It was secured from within to keep out the squall. Could by chance a vicar or a keeper reside within? > knock on door I pounded on the door and shouted over the cry of the gale. There came the sliding of iron bolts. A vicar wearing a blanket as a cowl peered out. “Yes?” When he spied me and my beleaguered state, the door flung open. The vicar hastened me inside. Together we barricaded the door against the wind and sleet. He hurried me to the fireplace. “You chose an auspicious day for your travels,” he said. “A new era begins—” “The date, the date—what is the day, man?” “Why,” the vicar said, “the twentieth of December.” As the vicar effused over the Pope’s new calendar and its paschal benefits, I fumbled with the gold clock-watch. It confirmed the date was December 20th, 1582. I could not help but to burst into laughter. The moment I crossed the bridge into Catholic lands, I departed one day and leapt forward ten more. Truly, I have cheated Death… [Press any key to continue…] The memory leaves me with the taste of the vicar’s wine, the aroma of the votive candles, and the harsh burn of the frostbite which claimed four of my toes. 'Tis bittersweet. I gifted the gold Nuremberg egg to the vicar’s coffers as thanks for his shelter and hospitality. The boarded-up cottage tells me Belyle has left the scene. My hopes of confronting him are dashed. For Poe’s sake, I must carry on… Outside keeper’s cottage This is the light-house keeper’s cottage. The front door is barred shut, and the window is boarded up. A shingle mounted beside the entrance identifies the occupant of this cottage— the previous occupant, that is, as no one seems to reside here at the moment. Off to the side is a quaint garden plot, now bereft of vegetation or flora. The foot of the conical light-house is on the other edge of the promontory, west of here. > x plot The rectangular plot of turned soil was no doubt once a garden for the light- house keeper to grow vegetables, but it’s long absent of any growth. An irregular-shaped block of granite squats in the center of the plot, perhaps placed there for some long-forgotten aesthetic effect. > search plot I make some effort to search and dig around the garden plot, and find nothing but dirt. > x block The salt-and-pepper granite block squats in the center of the untended garden. Just as I am about to turn away and put the block out of my mind, I notice a crevice at the base of block, a hole dug under it in the soil. > lift block I don’t understand that command. > look under block The block is far too stout to budge. > search block The salt-and-pepper granite block squats in the center of the untended garden. A crevice at the base of the block forms a shallow hole in the soil. > x crevice Peering into the crevice, I spy a tunic. > x tunic Gray and grimy, made of cheap linen, and obviously issued by an institution. > take it As I pick up the tunic, I see printed up the right sleeve “Maryland Penitentiary.” A tobacco leaf is in the tunic’s front pocket. > x leaf The curling dried tobacco leaf was apparently once used to roll a cigar. Its back side is lightly charred. Written near the top is the word TINCTURE. An inked message in dark smudged lettering runs down the rest of the leaf: CIOXUOKF HIRMUUC ZQNC UERZ NF LCGQQXF YUGEI GCQLI CNHPX QO MBXVQXU CUFW JQ EQEM HG BBBDIIK FPX GUMXBAIG NIRFEHH > take it I eagerly take the curling tobacco leaf. > l Outside keeper’s cottage This is the light-house keeper’s cottage. The front door is barred shut, and the window is boarded up. A shingle mounted beside the entrance identifies the occupant of this cottage— the previous occupant, that is, as no one seems to reside here at the moment. Off to the side is a quaint garden plot, now bereft of vegetation or flora. The foot of the conical light-house is on the other edge of the promontory, west of here. > x tunic Gray and grimy, made of cheap linen, and obviously issued by an institution. Printed up the right sleeve is “Maryland Penitentiary.” The tunic’s front pocket is empty. > take it I’m already holding the tunic. > wear it It’s foul and soiled. I will not put it on. > l Outside keeper’s cottage This is the light-house keeper’s cottage. The front door is barred shut, and the window is boarded up. A shingle mounted beside the entrance identifies the occupant of this cottage— the previous occupant, that is, as no one seems to reside here at the moment. Off to the side is a quaint garden plot, now bereft of vegetation or flora. The foot of the conical light-house is on the other edge of the promontory, west of here. > smell it It’s wretched. > smell tobacco The bitter aroma of cheap tobacco comes off the leaf. > l Outside keeper’s cottage This is the light-house keeper’s cottage. The front door is barred shut, and the window is boarded up. A shingle mounted beside the entrance identifies the occupant of this cottage— the previous occupant, that is, as no one seems to reside here at the moment. Off to the side is a quaint garden plot, now bereft of vegetation or flora. The foot of the conical light-house is on the other edge of the promontory, west of here. > x shingle The shingle posted at the entrance reads, “M. Belyle, Keeper.” > open door The front door is barred shut. > x window The cottage window is boarded up, and prevents me from seeing the cottage interior. > knock on door I know thrice on the front door. No one answers. > w Foot of light-house Lazaretto Point Light rises stoically before me, a stubby conical lighthouse about thirty feet tall and whitewashed from base to top. The whitewash is scorched up one side, evidence of a fire now doused. Otherwise, the only other evidence of the blaze is the lingering acrid smell of char and soot. Although burned-out, it does appear the light-house may be entered west of here. The keeper’s house stands to the east. Traveling north along the promontory will return me to Baltimore proper. > w Light-house Within the narrow light-house, the foul, hellish odor of burnt wood and oil is overwhelming. From the scorch marks, the fire apparently originated from below. The mighty light-house rises around me, and, for a moment, I feel puny… A spiraling staircase leads up to the light-house’s lantern. An exit east will return me to the promontory. > smell The stench of soot, char, and burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. > u Lantern A great Fresnel-lensed lantern squats on a mechanized platform at the center of this glass-enclosed room. The wind blowing over the harbor whistles through. The circular room continues southwest to the other side of the lantern. Stairs will take me down to the ground floor. > x lantern The great rotund lantern in the middle of the room is dark and stained with soot. Once the light-house is repaired, I would think it could shine its light a great distance across the bay waters. > x platform The great rotund lantern in the middle of the room is dark and stained with soot. Once the light-house is repaired, I would think it could shine its light a great distance across the bay waters. > sw Rear of lantern At the south side of the glass-enclosed lantern room, I discover a formidable iron hatch built into the platform the Fresnel lens rotates upon. A crushed gibus sits on the floor near the hatch. Going northwest will circle to the front of the lantern. > x gibus This black felt gibus, once a fine piece of apparel, is now crushed and singed, and steeped with the smell of smoke. Unlike the ratty Cuban hat Poe was found wearing, it is nearer to his formal mode. If this indeed belonged to Poe, then it might be concluded that he was besieged in the lantern room, and not elsewhere in Baltimore. An acquaintance may be able to verify. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > take gibus I pick up the singed gibus. > clues I don’t understand that command. > x journal As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. Clues I have observed to date: The coat Poe wore when found reeks of smoke and fuel oil. Poe’s shirt is stained with what appears to be wine. The Sons of Temperance pledge card Poe carried was signed six weeks ago, suggesting he’s not accepted a drink since. An inmate named Reynolds Grimm recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary. Upon Poe’s arrival in Baltimore via ferry, he was being followed by a bearded man. The escaped prisoner claimed he was the double of a famous writer, a “man who has his name printed in all the slick magazines.” The bearded man following Poe was refined and composed…a gentleman. Poe arrived at Gunner’s Hall several hours after the fire at Lazaretto Point Light. The discovery of a gibus in the lantern room, much as one Poe would have worn, may indicate he was attacked at Lazaretto Point Light. [You’ve uncovered nine out of eighteen clues.] Locations in Baltimore I’ve learned about: The ferry terminal at Fell’s Point is located south of the hospital at the broadening of the Patapsco River. Gunner’s Hall is in the Fourth Ward of Baltimore, in the southwest of the central district near the Inner Harbor. The light-house named Lazaretto Point Light stands far to the southeast at the end of the promontory. > l Rear of lantern At the south side of the glass-enclosed lantern room, I discover a formidable iron hatch built into the platform the Fresnel lens rotates upon. Going northwest will circle to the front of the lantern. > x hatch A formidable iron hatch is built into the platform the lantern stands upon. A lever on the right-hand side of the hatch offers a means of opening it. > open hatch The hatch refuses to open. > pull lever The hatch refuses to open. > push lever The hatch isn’t open. > x lever The hatch’s lever may be turned left or right, and pulled to open the hatch. > turn lever The lever must be turned left or right. > turn lever left I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever left. Within the hatch comes a grinding of gears. > pull leer I see no leer here. > pull lever The hatch refuses to open. Within the iron hatch’s hull, springs and gears briefly churn, as though an internal mechanism is resetting itself. > pull lever left I see no lever left here. > turn lever left I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever left. Within the hatch comes the sound of gears turning. > turn lever left I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever left. Within the hatch comes a mechanism spinning. > pull lever The hatch refuses to open. Within the iron hatch’s hull, springs and gears briefly churn, as though an internal mechanism is resetting itself. > turn lever right I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever right. Within the hatch comes a clicking. > pull lever The hatch refuses to open. Within the iron hatch’s hull, springs and gears briefly churn, as though an internal mechanism is resetting itself. > x hatch A formidable iron hatch is built into the platform the lantern stands upon. A lever on the right-hand side of the hatch offers a means of opening it. > d I can’t go that way. From here I could go northwest. > nw Lantern A great Fresnel-lensed lantern squats on a mechanized platform at the center of this glass-enclosed room. The wind blowing over the harbor whistles through. The circular room continues southwest to the other side of the lantern. Stairs will take me down to the ground floor. > d Light-house Within the narrow light-house, the foul, hellish odor of burnt wood and oil is overwhelming. From the scorch marks, the fire apparently originated from below. A spiraling staircase leads up to the light-house’s lantern. An exit east will return me to the promontory. > d I can’t go that way. From here I could go east or up. > d I can’t go that way. From here I could go east or up. > e Foot of light-house Lazaretto Point Light rises stoically before me, a stubby conical lighthouse about thirty feet tall and whitewashed from base to top. The whitewash is scorched up one side, evidence of a fire now doused. Otherwise, the only other evidence of the blaze is the lingering acrid smell of char and soot. Although burned-out, it does appear the light-house may be entered west of here. The keeper’s house stands to the east. Traveling north along the promontory will return me to Baltimore proper. > n Canton The district referred to as Canton by the locals is sparsely developed compared to the northern districts. Dry docks and boatyards, one after another, line the broad river’s shoals. A narrow promontory along the river leads south toward the bay waters. At the distant tip of the promontory stands Lazaretto Point Light. Central Baltimore lies to the northwest. > nw Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises Lazaretto Point Light. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > e Baggage claim This quiet corner of the bustling ferry terminal offers a slim view of a baggage depot beyond. It brims with cases and crates waiting for their proper owners to claim them. Entry to the depot is gated by a service counter with a worn brass desk bell mounted atop it. An exit west leads out to Baltimore. > ring bell A clear ringing sound cuts through the air. The porter emerges from the baggage depot. “You’ve returned,” says the porter, bearing a less-than cheery disposition at my presence. > show gibus to porter “Ah, yes,” says the porter. “This is the spittin’ image of the gibus I saw Mr. Poe wearing when he left the trunk here.” > i I am carrying a tunic (with an empty pocket)a lettera tobacco leafa singed gibusa journala wanted postera notea pledge card > show card to porter “I take a nip now and then,” says the porter. “But never on the Sabbath, mind you. And I admire any who can curb themselves of spirits altogether.” > topics I have nothing pressing to discuss with the porter just now. (There may be topics worth discussing, however.) > w Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises Lazaretto Point Light. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > w Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > w Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > n Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. A heavyset patron utilizes the bar’s back room. I do not believe he was here earlier. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The two ladies at the polling table are utterly swamped by rough tradesmen clamoring for a ballot, for a voucher, or for their sweet attention. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. A heavyset patron utilizes the bar’s back room. I do not believe he was here earlier. > vote The ladies at the polling table are busy dealing with the other men. Perhaps I should try to speak to them later. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. “Good day,” the toper says with a drunk’s flourish. “You appear to be new to this establishment. I am, as you may gather, a Poet.” > x man A rather inebriated fellow, what with his cankered nose and cheeks like sour cherries ready for plucking. > hello I am already talking to the toper. [I could ask the toper about Edgar Allan Poe; or tell the toper about the pledge card.] > ask him about poe As dubious as I am of learning anything of value from the besotted man before me, I make a go of it. “Were you here when they took Mr. Edgar Allan Poe away?” “As brilliant a writer as any,” says he. “I am particularly a fan of his works of detection and ratiocination, and his tales of ciphers and secret writing.” “And the man who entered the pub near dawn?” “The writer was deeply confused and in disarray,” says the toper. “He was dressed in a manner most unlike his mode.” I broach a possibility: “Is it possible he was another man? A man who only looked like Poe?” “Absolutely not,” the toper says. “I have seen Poe many times in and around Baltimore. The man who stumbled in here at dawn most certainly was Edgar Allan Poe.” (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > show him hat “Yes!” cries the toper. “When Edgar Poe walks around Baltimore, this is the sort of refined clothing he is seen wearing.” > ask him about felt “Yes!” cries the toper. “When Edgar Poe walks around Baltimore, this is the sort of refined clothing he is seen wearing.” > ask him about letter His eyes sparkle when I present him the encoded letter. “Ah—a tricky cipher!” “What do you make of the word ‘Wilmot’ penciled below the code?” He squints at it; he is in need of spectacles. “Well, Wilmot is Griswold’s middle name,” he says. “Rufus Wilmot Griswold.” (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > * ah, spoiled on that Comment recorded. > ask him about leaf “Riddles and puzzles, puzzles and riddles,” says the toper. “Most interesting!” “How so?” “I recall a tale about a wife smuggling messages to her imprisoned husband. She would dismantle a cigar, write her communication on the inside of the leaf wrapper, and roll it back up again. She sent the cigar to him as a gift, which, of course, the guards mistook as a harmless luxury for their prisoner.” Using the nail of his smallest finger, he indicates the dark, smudged writing on the leaf. “The color of the writing, and the char on the back of the leaf, tells me that this was invisible ink made legible by holding it over a flame.” “Most interesting, indeed,” I say. “How did you come by such powers of analysis?” The toper shrugs and wipes his nose. “Reading all I can of Edgar Poe’s works, I imagine.” (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > ask him about cipher His eyes sparkle when I present him the encoded letter. “Ah—a tricky cipher!” “What do you make of the word ‘Wilmot’ penciled below the code?” He squints at it; he is in need of spectacles. “Well, Wilmot is Griswold’s middle name,” he says. “Rufus Wilmot Griswold.” > l Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. The toper raises a finger. “Sir, I am reminded. A small brass compass fell from Mr. Poe’s pocket when he was carried from here.” “A compass? What came of the instrument?” “The barkeep is holding it,” says he. “You should ask her for it.” > ask him about himself “I’m a poet myself,” the toper says. “Like most poets, I find my inspiration in the many pools of human suffering and misery, which abound in Baltimore.” > ask him about wilmot “Griswold is a mediocre poet,” he grumbles. “Now, if I had some of my poetry handy, I could…you would see…” His voice fades off. After a moment, he says, “I know this: For all of Griswold’s success, and for all the magazines he’s edited and books he’s published, he knows full well he doesn’t hold a spark to Mr. Edgar Poe’s genius. Poe will always be the greater talent, for he works at his writing daily, and brings to it a vigor and passion unequaled.” > ask him about lighthouse “There was a fire at the light-house last night,” says the toper. “I sometimes sleep it off in the belly, where the engine rumbles and throbs. At night-time, the promontory offers a harbor vista most elegant.” He sizes me up. “You seem to be a man of some means,” he says. “Perhaps we can arrange an exchange of information about the light-house.” He peers off toward the beer taps in the other room. > s “Good day, my curious friend,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > vote There’s no voting here. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. The two ladies at the polling table are utterly swamped by rough tradesmen clamoring for a ballot, for a voucher, or for their sweet attention. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > vote The ladies at the polling table are busy dealing with the other men. Perhaps I should try to speak to them later. > x voucher I see no voucher here. > x vouchers I see no vouchers here. > w Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > w Taps A long row of beer taps gets steady use from the barkeep, who shuffles up and down the bar serving thirsty working-class men roaring with tales of bravado and buffoonery. The pub’s entry is east of here, while a quieter back room lies to the north. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. “You have returned,” the toper says to me. Seeing the toper reminds me I need to ask the barkeep for the compass. > s “I hope we shall speak again soon,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > w Taps A long row of beer taps gets steady use from the barkeep, who shuffles up and down the bar serving thirsty working-class men roaring with tales of bravado and buffoonery. The pub’s entry is east of here, while a quieter back room lies to the north. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > x barkeep A spry woman of Irish extraction with broad shoulders. Her hard glare and fixed jaw suggests to me she is neither to be trifled with nor condescended to. > ask her about compass “Yes, that is correct,” says the elfin barkeep. “A brass hand compass fell from Mr. Poe’s clothes when he was taken away from this place. I am holding it until he or one of his kin come to fetch it.” “I am in contact with his physician. I will deliver the instrument to him.” She eyes me with an appraising glare. “Madam—please.” Reluctantly, she acquiesces. She produces from her apron a mechanism of rather odd appearance, a compact brass dial. “Quite peculiar, 'tis,” she says as she hands it to me. It is a fortunate addition to my inventory—this brass dial is a cipher wheel! > x compass I see no compass here. > i I am carrying a tunic (with an empty pocket)a lettera tobacco leafa singed gibusa cipher wheela journala wanted postera notea pledge card > x dial The cipher wheel is about the size of a hand-held compass, with two brass disks rotating on a center pin, one disk larger than the other. The letters of the English alphabet are engraved around the circumference of each. The arrangement is such that the inner letters may be rotated to correspond with a different letter on the outer disk. The brass wheel’s movement is not as precise or fluid as the craftsmanship of my Europe’s clockmakers, but it remains an impressive piece of work. Fortunately, I am familiar with the operation of these devices. Given the proper keyword, I’m able to decipher any message encoded with a similar wheel. [Use DECIPHER to decipher a message.] > decipher letter [with the cipher wheel] Which keyword shall I attempt (press Enter to stop trying)? wilmot With some anticipation, I manipulate the dial to see if “WILMOT” will bear fruit. I come to see the key is the correct one, and I eagerly complete the decipherment: EDGAR MEET ME AT LAZARETTO POINT LIGHT LOCATED PATRON FOR YOUR LITERARY REVIEW YRS, GRISWOLD [To view the decipherment again, use DECIPHER THE LETTER.] The barkeep steps away to serve another man down the bar. > decipher leaf [with the cipher wheel] Which keyword shall I attempt (press Enter to stop trying)? tincture Hopeful that “TINCTURE” will crack the code, I work through the cipher a letter at a time. Alas, the cipher does not break, and I must conclude the key is not the correct one. Which keyword shall I attempt (press Enter to stop trying)? wilmot Quickly my fingers rotate the dial using “WILMOT” as the key. I break off soon enough, however, when it becomes apparent it is not the proper key. Which keyword shall I attempt (press Enter to stop trying)? opium The cipher wheel cannot rotate fast enough as I work through the cipher using “OPIUM” as the key. However, the cipher does not yield. It must not be the correct key. Which keyword shall I attempt (press Enter to stop trying)? I cease my attempt at decipherment. > e Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The two ladies at the polling table are utterly swamped by rough tradesmen clamoring for a ballot, for a voucher, or for their sweet attention. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > vote The ladies at the polling table are busy dealing with the other men. Perhaps I should try to speak to them later. > w Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > s Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > e Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > ne Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > n Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > e Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. “Mr. Theophilus, I thought you should know.” Dr. Moran appears pleased to see me. “A visitor called on Poe while you were out. She left a gift at the author’s bedside.” Interesting. “Is this gift there now?” “It is. See for yourself.” > i I am carrying a tunic (with an empty pocket)a lettera tobacco leafa singed gibusa cipher wheela journala wanted postera notea pledge card “Reynolds!” comes a shriek from Poe’s room. “Reynolds!” > show gibus to man “This gibus is the manner of hat I would expect to see Poe wearing,” Moran says. > show leaf to man “What devilish writing,” he murmurs. “Random gibberish, I would say.” > show tunic to man “This appears to be the standard issue for an inmate confined at Maryland Penitentiary,” says the doctor. > tell man about wilmot “I’ve never heard of him,” says Moran. “I’m not a reader of popular verse.” > ask him about tincture “There are many types of tinctures in medicine,” says Moran. “I don’t have the time to speak about the field in general.” I will need to be more specific. > ask him about tincture of opium “You’ll need to ask someone else about that subject,” says Dr. Moran. > ask him about laudanum “Laudanum is used for a variety of sound medicinal purposes,” says he. “Alas, laudanum abuse is prevalent in Baltimore.” > w Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > decipher leaf [with the cipher wheel] Which keyword shall I attempt (press Enter to stop trying)? laudanum Hopeful that “LAUDANUM” will crack the code, I work through the cipher a letter at a time. I come to see the key is the correct one, and I eagerly complete the decipherment: REYNOLDS WELCOME HOME WAIT AT KEEPERS HOUSE SEIZE EDGAR IN LANTERN ROOM HE WILL BE UNARMED AND UNAWARES HLUDWIG Of course—my native tongue comes to me in a flash. The Old German for “Ludwig” is Hludwig. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > e Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. > n I can’t go that way. From here I could go east, south or down. > s Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. > w Private room Edgar Allan Poe lies on a ward bed. He stares off, mute and catatonic, with wide eyes and a blank expression. Beside him is a hospital nightstand with a rose in a vase atop it. Against the far wall is a broad table with a suit of clothes on it. The eastern exit will take me away from this sorrowful place. > xvase I don’t understand that command. > x vase A single long-stemmed rose in an elegant porcelain vase stands vigil, awaiting Poe’s recovery. The rose was not here when I first visited Poe. On a loop around the vase is a message of sympathy. > x journal As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. Clues I have observed to date: The coat Poe wore when found reeks of smoke and fuel oil. Poe’s shirt is stained with what appears to be wine. The Sons of Temperance pledge card Poe carried was signed six weeks ago, suggesting he’s not accepted a drink since. An inmate named Reynolds Grimm recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary. Upon Poe’s arrival in Baltimore via ferry, he was being followed by a bearded man. The escaped prisoner claimed he was the double of a famous writer, a “man who has his name printed in all the slick magazines.” The bearded man following Poe was refined and composed…a gentleman. Poe arrived at Gunner’s Hall several hours after the fire at Lazaretto Point Light. The discovery of a gibus in the lantern room, much as one Poe would have worn, may indicate he was attacked at Lazaretto Point Light. The toper at Gunner’s Hall says the man taken to the hospital was Edgar Allan Poe, and not a look-alike or double. “Wilmot” is the middle name of Rufus Griswold. The leaf may have been smuggled to a prisoner or an inmate. The writing on the tobacco leaf appears to be an invisible ink made legible by holding it to a flame. “Hludwig” is Old German for “Ludwig.” [You’ve uncovered thirteen out of eighteen clues.] Locations in Baltimore I’ve learned about: The ferry terminal at Fell’s Point is located south of the hospital at the broadening of the Patapsco River. Gunner’s Hall is in the Fourth Ward of Baltimore, in the southwest of the central district near the Inner Harbor. The light-house named Lazaretto Point Light stands far to the southeast at the end of the promontory. > l Private room Edgar Allan Poe lies on a ward bed. He stares off, mute and catatonic, with wide eyes and a blank expression. Beside him is a hospital nightstand with a rose in a vase atop it. Against the far wall is a broad table with a suit of clothes on it. The eastern exit will take me away from this sorrowful place. Poe seizes up. He fights the restraints holding him to the bed. He sinks back into his bed and goes limp. > x rose A single long-stemmed rose in an elegant porcelain vase stands vigil, awaiting Poe’s recovery. On a loop around the vase is a message of sympathy. > take it I shall leave the rose where it is, as it may brighten Poe’s spirits when he recovers. Dr. Moran enters from the ward hall. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. > x message The message is from Sarah Elmira Shelton, written on stationery bearing the letterhead of Barnum’s City Hotel. The brief note expresses her fondness for “my dear Edgar,” and her wish for his prompt recovery. > ask moran about shelton “I believe she is a childhood friend of the author,” says Moran. “She was quite upset upon witnessing Poe’s condition. She could not bear the sight of him for more than a few minutes.” > ask moran about hotel “Barnum’s City Hotel is in Monument Square,” says he. “You can find it due west of the hospital. It rivals the finest European accomodations.” It is impudent of me to express this aloud, but: I will be the judge of that. > e Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. > s I can’t go that way. From here I could go north, east or west. > n Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. “No!” Poe cries from his room. “Not the other, but I!” > d Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > w Battle Monument Square A broad public square is hugged on two sides by multi-storied buildings of impressive granite and brick. In the center rises a thirty-foot tall monument to war dead. Barnum’s City Hotel stands on the north side of the plaza, just as I was told. Returning east will take me to Washington Hill and Poe’s hospital. > e Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > s Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > w I dare not travel too far afield yet, as I am still learning my way around Baltimore. More promising would seem to be north, south or southwest. > sw Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > w Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > n Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. The two ladies at the polling table are utterly swamped by rough tradesmen clamoring for a ballot, for a voucher, or for their sweet attention. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. “You have returned,” the toper says to me. > s “Au revoir,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. “You have returned,” the toper says to me. > topics I could tell the toper about the pledge card. > tell him about crd He shakes his head and shrugs. “I’m not a man who knows much of anything worth knowing,” he says, “unless it pertains to literature.” > tell him about card “I have no interest in joining the Washingtonians,” says the toper. “If Poe’s current condition is in any way related to a relapse of his alcohol- lust, it could augur your fate.” He murmurs and shakes his head. “I do not hold a candle to Poe’s genius.” > i I am carrying a tunic (with an empty pocket)a lettera tobacco leafa singed gibusa cipher wheela journala wanted postera notea pledge card > tell him about leaf “The dark color of the writing, and the char on the back of the leaf, tells me that this was invisible ink made legible by holding it over a flame,” he tells me. > s “Til we meet again,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > s Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > e Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > n What interesting locale lies that direction, I do not know. More promising would seem to be east, west or northeast. > ne Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > w Perhaps I can explore that direction later. More promising would seem to be north, south or southwest. > n Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > w Battle Monument Square A broad public square is hugged on two sides by multi-storied buildings of impressive granite and brick. In the center rises a thirty-foot tall monument to war dead. Barnum’s City Hotel stands on the north side of the plaza, just as I was told. Returning east will take me to Washington Hill and Poe’s hospital. > x hotel Now that I know to look for it, I see that Barnum’s City Hotel comprises the northern building on the edge of the plaza. > n After conferring with the front desk clerk, I hurry upstairs… Suite 1221 The stately opulence of the hotel takes me aback. Indeed, this establishment does rival the hotels in the grandest capitals of my native Europe. This suite is especially magnificent. From a closed door to the east comes the sound of sobbing and crying. The maid greets me. I tell her, “Theophilus calling upon Sarah Elmira Shelton.” “Madam Shelton is indisposed,” the maid says. “Her fiancé Mr. Poe has suffered a grievous ordeal.” Fiancé? “I have traveled a distance,” I say. “As have we. Madam took an express ferry from Richmond, and went straight to Mr. Poe’s bedside after we secured arrangements in Baltimore.” “May I wait until she is ready to entertain my questions?” The maid reluctantly acquiesces. > l Suite 1221 A stunning chandelier of cut glass hangs high overhead. Its dimmed gaslights cast across the plush room and velvet walls a fractured interplay of shadow and light. An elegant cherry wood writing table is placed against one wall. Atop it I see a couple of items. A French-style window overlooks Monument Square; however, the window’s drapes are closed. From a closed door to the east comes the sound of sobbing and crying. Off to the side, the maid stands at attention. An arched entry south will lead me away from this sorrowful place and to Baltimore’s streets far below. > listen The distinct sound of wet sobs on the other side of the door land on my ears. > x window Peeking through the drapes, Monument Square and its towering statue of Lady Baltimore resembles a Roman piazza. Baltimore’s citizens, Lilliputian from my perspective, wander and jostle among themselves. Marketplaces—luncheonettes—offices—home. They seem unaware that their most famous son lies in an intoxication ward raving one moment, catatonic the next. > x drapes Heavy damson drapes cover the French-style window and blot out all sunlight from the world beyond. > open drapes The maid intervenes. “Madam requests the drapes remain closed, sir.” “Does Madam Shelton object to me looking through the drapes?” She retracts. “No, sir.” The playing of a piano in the other room begins. > look through drapes Peeking through the drapes, Monument Square and its towering statue of Lady Baltimore resembles a Roman piazza. Baltimore’s citizens, Lilliputian from my perspective, wander and jostle among themselves. Marketplaces—luncheonettes—offices—home. They seem unaware that their most famous son lies in an intoxication ward raving one moment, catatonic the next. > listen The distinct sound of piano notes on the other side of the door land on my ears. > l Suite 1221 A stunning chandelier of cut glass hangs high overhead. Its dimmed gaslights cast across the plush room and velvet walls a fractured interplay of shadow and light. An elegant cherry wood writing table is placed against one wall. Atop it I see a couple of items. A French-style window overlooks Monument Square; however, the window’s drapes are closed. From a closed door to the east comes the notes of a piano being played. Off to the side, the maid stands at attention. An arched entry south will lead me away from this sorrowful place and to Baltimore’s streets far below. > x chandelier Beams of light and shadows dance across the room as the cut glass chandelier refracts the gaslight. > x table As with all the furnishings in the hotel, the writing table is stately and elegant. On the writing table I see a poem and a magazine. A gentle weeping from behind the door starts again. > x poem Most remarkable—it is a copy of Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee”, written in the master’s hand, and dedicated to Sarah Elmira Shelton, the woman behind the door! It is certainly worth taking the time to read Poe’s masterpiece. > read poem “Annabel Lee.” It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. And on, a dirge of rhyme and meter, to the final lines: And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea. Poe signed the work and dedicated it to Sarah Elmira Shelton. > take poem The maid steps forward. “That is a personal treasure of Madam’s,” she says. “Of course it is,” and I return the poem to where I found it. The maid tidies up around the room. > x magazine It’s a recent copy of International Monthly Magazine, a slick periodical of poetry and criticism. I do not know much about it. A quick read could tell me more. > read it Perusing the magazine reveals its focus is contemporary American literature, much of which I find merely passable compared to the work of authors from the European continent. Two salient aspects of International Monthly Magazine grip me: First, there’s the illustration of the editor-in-chief. His scolding stare and unkempt beard make for a somber portrait. His name is Rufus Griswold, a poet of some repute from New York…but not nearly the stature of Edgar Poe, whose reputation extends across the world. Second, the magazine contains a surprising amount of biting criticism by a critic calling himself “L.” He takes as his prerogative to tear down the reputations of other poets and writers. This includes Griswold, whose output L. shreds as refined but pandering. The main subject of L.’s ire is Edgar Allan Poe, “a bumbler of the English language,” and “our nation’s foremost penner of jingles and nursery rhymes.” It may be useful to know the identity of this person named “L.,” especially if they are an acquaintance of Edgar Poe. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > x maid The maid in her uniform stands at attention. My presence is awkward, I imagine. She perhaps anticipated their trip to Baltimore to only involve visiting Poe in the hospital, and not being burdened by unannounced guests such as myself. The playing of a piano in the other room begins. > ask maid about poe “Last I saw Mr. Poe, he was visiting Madam in Richmond,” says the maid. “He received a letter with the evening post. After we supped, he excused himself for a night stroll. In the morning, we discovered he had departed with his trunk.” “Departing for Baltimore, yes?” “But we did not know this!” My questions are flustering her. “We believed he was traveling to New York by way of Philadelphia. News of him in Baltimore was shocking enough, but to find him here, beaten and hysteric…it was crushing!” “Did he mention any plans to meet someone in Richmond, or elsewhere?” “Mr. Poe sought capital for his latest venture, a literary review,” she says. “He was to meet potential patrons in New York City. That is all I know.” > ask maid about madam “Madam is a generous employer,” says the maid with head bowed. “And through her, I have met many important figures, including Mr. Edgar Poe.” > ask maid about trunk “I don’t know much about that,” the maid says. “Considering Madam Shelton’s state, it’s perhaps best if you make your visit short, sir.” > ask maid about piano “Madam was deeply distraught by the sight of Mr. Poe in the ward,” says the maid. “I believe she will be unavailable for the remainder of the day.” > tell her about card “Mr. Poe had changed his way,” says the maid. “He signed his pledge with the Sons of Temperance and put his days of drink behind him.” “Are you certain?” “Madam Shelton swears Mr. Poe has abstained from alcohol since his vow,” says she. “She made it a requirement of him if they were to continue their relationship. And, with my own eyes, I witnessed Mr. Poe in Richmond being offered a glass of wine. He politely refused, and quite cheerfully, I should add.” > i I am carrying a tunic (with an empty pocket)a lettera tobacco leafa singed gibusa cipher wheela journala wanted postera notea pledge card A gentle weeping from behind the door starts again. > tell her about letter “Mr. Poe loved his diversions,” says she. “For such a message to arrive by mail would have sparked his intellectual curiosity.” “Do you recognize this letter?” “Yes. I believe he received this with the evening post in Richmond.” > tell her about poster “Have you seen this man?” I ask her, tapping the wild-eyed face on the poster. She recoils at the sight. “I should say not!” “Is there any possibility? Even in passing?” “Certainly not,” says she. She scrutinzes the drawing. “He perhaps bears a faint resemblance to one of Madam’s callers. I cannot put my finger on it…but surely there is no chance she would be in the company of such a ruffian.” > tell her about gibus “What make you of this?” I ask, showing her the gibus. She is alarmed when I thrust it at her, but recognition betters her. “I could not be certain, but I believe that is Mr. Poe’s hat,” she says. “He wore one like it in Richmond before he departed. He is a very fashionable man.” > tell her about leaf “I don’t know much about that,” the maid says. “Perhaps you could ask another person?” The maid peers worriedly at the closed door. > knock on door “Madam Shelton,” I call through the door, “a moment of your precious time is all I ask!” “Go away!” returns a wet voice, most suffering and in distress. “I will see no one until my dear Edgar is healthy and on his feet again.” I retract, sensing she will not be swayed by my entreaties. The sound coming from behind the door halts. > bye “If you need anything more, please ask,” she says. > Suite 1221 A stunning chandelier of cut glass hangs high overhead. Its dimmed gaslights cast across the plush room and velvet walls a fractured interplay of shadow and light. An elegant cherry wood writing table is placed against one wall. Atop it I see a couple of items. A French-style window overlooks Monument Square; however, the window’s drapes are closed. A door stands closed to the east. Off to the side, the maid stands at attention. An arched entry south will lead me away from this sorrowful place and to Baltimore’s streets far below. > s “Mr. Theophilus—” The maid catches me before I leave. “Whatever you may hear of Mr. Poe, he was always kind and generous. I assure you, he was lucid when we saw him last in Richmond. I cannot believe he traveled to Baltimore for a drunken spree, nor is he some opium fiend, as the newspapers suggest. He is a gentle soul with the purest affinity for literature and the arts.” I thank her for her candor, and I am off. As I trudge down the hotel stairs, I inventory my discoveries so far. My progress is steady… [Press any key to continue…] January 19th, 2024 Six years you’ve put off the inevitable—for six years, you lived in denial. Now you have sixteen hours to go. Your bags are packed and waiting. Your airplane ticket will carry you across the international date line and to the other side of the planet. When it’s time for your appointment, you can take the elevator, pick up your visa at the consulate, and head off to the airport … and get as far away from Belyle as possible. This cramped bookstore on the ground floor of the building serves as good a place as any to whittle away a little time. Bookstore Aside from the marked-up toiletries, candies, and magazines, a single shelf of books stands here offering a meager selection to choose from. Going north will take you to the elevator lobby. > i You are carrying a timepiece and an airplane ticket. > x timepiece It’s a dull silver pocket watch with a short fob. The timepiece is snapped shut. Engraved on one side is a peacock with its plumage spread. On the other is engraved a beaver with a paddle tail. > x me You’re a respected novelist whose debut novel Blanking Out won several literary awards and a great deal of critical acclaim. > open timepiece Opening the strange timepiece reveals two opposing watch faces, each with its own set of hands. The faces aren’t marked for twelve-hour time, but rather indicate the time remaining over a six-year period. The hands on both faces of the watch are running. Both indicate sixteen hours remain. > x ticket It’s a ticket for a one-way non-stop super-saver coach seat to Siem Reap. Once you pick up your visa at the consulate, you’re heading straight for the airport. > l Bookstore Aside from the marked-up toiletries, candies, and magazines, a single shelf of books stands here offering a meager selection to choose from. Going north will take you to the elevator lobby. > x toiletries It’s the usual lot of impulse buys one expects to find in a downtown bookstore. > x candies It’s the usual lot of impulse buys one expects to find in a downtown bookstore. > x magazines It’s the usual lot of impulse buys one expects to find in a downtown bookstore. > x shelf You can’t help but notice two books incongruously shelved together. One is your book, Blanking Out. Beside it is your double’s book, Dead on Arrival. At the other end, among the self-improvement guides and books on maximizing one’s business potential, you spot a well-worn Under the Cognomen of Edgar Allan Poe. > x blanking out Printed in solemn lettering across the cover is: blanking out a novel Your book cover has a muted design, as the university press couldn’t afford a professional designer, but you feel they did a good job in the end. Although you know your own book through-and-through, you always experience that visceral chill of excitement seeing it in print. No one’s looking; you could use this as a chance to read a few pages before you go upstairs to get your visa. > read it Paging through it invites back fond memories of being the writer-in-residence at three—no, four—writing retreats in the Pacific Northwest and Wisconsin. The talks at the universities, and the college bookstores…those opportunities faded off, though. How long has it been? > x dead Emblazoned across the cover in catchy ominous lettering: DEAD ON ARRIVAL Your other’s book has a commercialized, almost cartoonish, cover, the kind designed to move bulk units in grocery store check-out aisles and financial district bookstores…kind of like the bookstore you find yourself in now. Although you can’t stand how your other debased himself to choose this, you’re tempted to read a little of it, just to see how bad it really is. > read it You flip through a few pages, slam the book shut, and set it back on the shelf. Pandering drivel—movie-of-the-week crap, written in prose that stylometrically ranks at an eighth-grade level. This is the pap that fattens the New York Times bestseller list. > x under The opening chapters detail how the author, “an unprepossessing lad, born and raised in a merchant-class family,” came to make an unusual pact with a university professor in sixteenth-century Bremen. Out of this pact he became Theophilus. He was granted complete knowledge of metaphysics, which served him well as a rising scholar in the church. “I believed my expanded acuity would bestow upon me the immortality of a timeless reputation,” he writes. The professor also created a double of Theophilus—a doppelgänger named Deciphilus—as a balancing opposite. He was a skillful manipulator who used his acumen to accumulate wealth. The professor offered them six years to capitalize on their endowments before he would deprive one of them of their life, “necessary to restore balance to the cosmos, or so the professor claimed.” In 1582, Deciphilus bequeathed his entire fortune to the professor, which was a death sentence for Theophilus. Theophilus managed to cheat the professor and survive, but his punishment was actual bodily immortality, “a woeful curse,” he writes. After six thick chapters of this implausible tale, Theophilus launches into his account of Poe’s death in Baltimore, 1849. It’s all too unsettling to continue. Worse—it’s maddening that Theophilus doesn’t explain how he cheated this professor, who certainly sounds like Mr. Belyle. It appears fleeing the country really is your only option. > take it Your bags are packed to the gills. You’ll have to buy a copy when you reach your destination. > buy under I don’t understand that command. > l Bookstore Aside from the marked-up toiletries, candies, and magazines, a single shelf of books stands here offering a meager selection to choose from. Going north will take you to the elevator lobby. > n Elevator lobby The elevator here will take you up to the sixth floor, where you can pick up your visa at the consulate. A button beside the elevator will call the car. A small bookstore is just south of here, while the building exit is due east. It’s about time for your scheduled appointment at the consulate. You should finish any reading you want to do, then make your way up to the sixth floor. > e You don’t want to leave quite yet. You first need to get your visa from the consulate on the sixth floor, then it’s off to the airport. > push button After a moment, the elevator doors part. > x elevator This elevator will take you up the building to the consulate. A call button is mounted beside the doors. > in The door sweeps closed. You prepare yourself for an ascent to the consulate. And you do ascend, rapidly, rushing to greet the vicious darkness overhead— [Press any key to continue…] My captor eyes me with a deep green jealousy. He whispers that soon he will be the most famous writer in the Republic… He struts about in polished boots and a fine black coat most familiar. “You are me, I am you,” and he dances a merry jig… He throws a fresh bottle of wine through the confining bars. “Drink,” cries the raven, and my soul splits further, a moon eclipsed… [Press any key to continue…] Baltimore, October 6th, 1849 Battle Monument Square A broad public square is hugged on two sides by multi-storied buildings of impressive granite and brick. In the center rises a thirty-foot tall monument to war dead. Barnum’s City Hotel stands on the north side of the plaza. Returning east will take me to Washington Hill and Poe’s hospital. > e Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > s Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > sw Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > w Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > n Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. The two ladies at the polling table are utterly swamped by rough tradesmen clamoring for a ballot, for a voucher, or for their sweet attention. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > vote The ladies at the polling table are busy dealing with the other men. Perhaps I should try to speak to them later. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. “You have returned,” the toper says to me. > ask man about l I say to the toper, “In the pages of International magazine there’s an acid wit who writes under the initial ‘L.’” “Oh, my, yes,” he replies. “A most biting and bitter tongue. The critic’s full pseudonym is ‘Ludwig.’” He speaks the name with a sparkle. “None are spared his gimlet eye.” (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > x journal As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. Clues I have observed to date: The coat Poe wore when found reeks of smoke and fuel oil. Poe’s shirt is stained with what appears to be wine. The Sons of Temperance pledge card Poe carried was signed six weeks ago, suggesting he’s not accepted a drink since. An inmate named Reynolds Grimm recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary. Upon Poe’s arrival in Baltimore via ferry, he was being followed by a bearded man. The escaped prisoner claimed he was the double of a famous writer, a “man who has his name printed in all the slick magazines.” The bearded man following Poe was refined and composed…a gentleman. Poe arrived at Gunner’s Hall several hours after the fire at Lazaretto Point Light. The discovery of a gibus in the lantern room, much as one Poe would have worn, may indicate he was attacked at Lazaretto Point Light. The toper at Gunner’s Hall says the man taken to the hospital was Edgar Allan Poe, and not a look-alike or double. “Wilmot” is the middle name of Rufus Griswold. The leaf may have been smuggled to a prisoner or an inmate. The writing on the tobacco leaf appears to be an invisible ink made legible by holding it to a flame. “Hludwig” is Old German for “Ludwig.” A critic writing under the pseudonym “L.” devastates the character of several American writers, Poe and Griswold included. Knowing the identity of this critic may assist in my investigation. “L.” is short for “Ludwig.” [You’ve uncovered fifteen out of eighteen clues.] Locations in Baltimore I’ve learned about: The ferry terminal at Fell’s Point is located south of the hospital at the broadening of the Patapsco River. Gunner’s Hall is in the Fourth Ward of Baltimore, in the southwest of the central district near the Inner Harbor. The light-house named Lazaretto Point Light stands far to the southeast at the end of the promontory. Barnum’s City Hotel stands at Battle Monument Square in the northwest of Baltimore’s central district. > save Saved. > l Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. > ask him about lighthouse “There was a fire at the light-house last night,” says the toper. “I sometimes sleep it off in the belly, where the engine rumbles and throbs. At night-time, the promontory offers a harbor vista most elegant.” He sizes me up. “You seem to be a man of some means,” he says. “Perhaps we can arrange an exchange of information about the light-house.” He peers off toward the beer taps in the other room. > ask him about beer “Every man has his vice,” he slurs. “I have three: Wine, women, and song. But mostly wine, or any inebriant on hand.” > s “Au revoir,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Meanwhile, there appears to be a lull at the polling table, as the ladies are calling to the room for more votes. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > x ladies A pair of winsome gals man the polls to the east. > talk to ladies The young ladies are too far away. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. Two young ladies staff the polling table, dealing with the ballots and the unruly men. There is a lull in activity at the table, and they call out Come- one, come-all! to solicit votes. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > talk to ladies I am already talking to the ladies. [I could ask the ladies about a whiskey voucher or Edgar Allan Poe; or ask the ladies for a ballot.] > ask them about poe “Baltimore’s most famous son,” says one of the ladies. “Do you recall seeing him in here earlier?” “Oh, no,” says the other young lady. “We’ve been busy all day getting out the vote.” > ask them about vote “Make way!” the ladies cry out. “Another vote is being cast!” I lean in to better hear them over the din of the hall. “Remember, to vote you must be a citizen of Baltimore,” one tells me. “You must promise such before you cast your ballot.” “When you vote, we’ll give you a voucher for one free whiskey at the taps,” the other says. “Courtesy Mayor Stansbury, the finest mayor ever to lead Baltimore.” I am not a citizen of the city of Baltimore—not even a citizen of this republic. It would be a commission of voting fraud if I continue. However…a free glass of whiskey is not to be overlooked. It might even be useful in my research of Poe’s situation. Shall I vote (y/n)? yes “Very good, my sir!” the ladies tell me. One of the ladies produces a ballot. She marks a neat “X” beside Mayor Stansbury’s name, folds the ballot in half, and hands it to the other young lady, who drops it into the lockbox. “Thank you for voting!” they say with warm smiles. “And here’s your free whiskey,” the one nearest me says. She presses a voucher into my hands. And so concludes my introduction to American Democracy. > w Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > w Taps A long row of beer taps gets steady use from the barkeep, who shuffles up and down the bar serving thirsty working-class men roaring with tales of bravado and buffoonery. The pub’s entry is east of here, while a quieter back room lies to the north. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > give voucher to barkeep It’s for the best that I abstain from drink until the matter of Poe’s condition is resolved. In addition…I do not think this establishment’s liquor to be of very high quality. There is another who will appreciate the value of this voucher. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. “You have returned,” the toper says to me. The toper eyes the voucher I’m carrying. “If you do not plan on redeeming your vote voucher, I assure you I could make good use of it.” “Perhaps I should not feed your habit.” “My habit is fed, fattened, and cooked. If you entertain my vices, I have valuable intelligence to offer you in return.” Whilst that may be true, I have to believe there is another way to pry this intelligence from him without nourishing his habit. However, if there truly is no other way, I can give the voucher to him. > i I am carrying a tobacco leafa tunic (with an empty pocket)a singed gibusa cipher wheela whiskey vouchera notea journala lettera pledge carda wanted poster As I move about the room, the toper’s eyes track the whiskey voucher I hold on me. > give wheel to man “No need,” says he, brushing me away. > give cardtoman I see no cardtoman here. > give card to man “I am uninterested in these abstinence schemes.” He pushes the pledge card away. I do not have to relent so easily. But if I push too hard, he may clam up. Worse, he may leave this place in search of more comfortable company. > give card to man “This is Poe’s personal pledge,” I tell him. “No doubt it would bolster his frail spirits if his pledge led another poet to the light of sobriety.” “Mr. Poe’s pledge…it led him to the light?” “It took, and I have been told that he’s not agreed to a drink of liquor since. Why, the newfound clarity has even led to him beginning a new story, which I anticipate reading.” With the hesitation of a proud man admitting defeat, the toper takes the card and, slumped over, studies its words. “Your intelligence,” I gently remind him. “Of course. It is this: When Poe stumbled into this establishment, he was distinctly soused with the stench of charred wood and fuel oil. He had come from a fire, there is no mistaking it.” “This is not the tremendous intelligence you made it out to be.” “Well, I happen to know where the fuel oil is stored at Lazaretto Point Light. In the lantern room, there is an iron hatch. Opening it will lead you down to the belly of the engine. I sleep it off down there on occasion—only when it is late and too chilly to reach my dwellings, mind you. It’s a snap to open the hatch—just turn the lever right, right, and left, and then pull.” It is tremendous intelligence after all. The toper studies the pledge card in earnest. “I will ponder abstinence,” he says. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > s “I hope we shall speak again soon,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. Two young ladies staff the polling table, dealing with the ballots and the unruly men. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > e I can’t go that way. From here I could go north or west. > s I can’t go that way. From here I could go north or west. > w Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > s Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > e Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > e Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises Lazaretto Point Light. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > se Canton The district referred to as Canton by the locals is sparsely developed compared to the northern districts. Dry docks and boatyards, one after another, line the broad river’s shoals. A narrow promontory along the river leads south toward the bay waters. At the distant tip of the promontory stands Lazaretto Point Light. Central Baltimore lies to the northwest. > s Foot of light-house Lazaretto Point Light rises stoically before me, a stubby conical lighthouse about thirty feet tall and whitewashed from base to top. The whitewash is scorched up one side, evidence of a fire now doused. Otherwise, the only other evidence of the blaze is the lingering acrid smell of char and soot. Although burned-out, it does appear the light-house may be entered west of here. The keeper’s house stands to the east. Traveling north along the promontory will return me to Baltimore proper. > w Light-house Within the narrow light-house, the foul, hellish odor of burnt wood and oil is overwhelming. From the scorch marks, the fire apparently originated from below. A spiraling staircase leads up to the light-house’s lantern. An exit east will return me to the promontory. > u Lantern A great Fresnel-lensed lantern squats on a mechanized platform at the center of this glass-enclosed room. The wind blowing over the harbor whistles through. The circular room continues southwest to the other side of the lantern. Stairs will take me down to the ground floor. > sw Rear of lantern At the south side of the glass-enclosed lantern room, I discover a formidable iron hatch built into the platform the Fresnel lens rotates upon. Going northwest will circle to the front of the lantern. > turn lever right I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever right. Within the hatch comes a whirring. > turn lever right I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever right. Within the hatch comes a clicking. > turn lever left I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever left. Within the hatch comes a long schiiick of metal being withdrawn. > pull lever The shaft below exhales the sharp smell of spent fuel oil. An iron ladder leads down into the darkness. > open hatch The hatch is already open. > x ladder An iron ladder attached to the wall of the shaft leads down to the depths of the light-house. > d With trepidation I descend into the darkness… [Press any key to continue…] January 19th, 2024: Sixth Floor You awaken in the elevator, confused. How much time has passed? Elevator You’ve reached the sixth floor of the skyscraper. The doors remain open, permitting you to step outside. > x me You’re a respected novelist whose debut novel Blanking Out won several literary awards and a great deal of critical acclaim. > i You are carrying an airplane ticket and a timepiece. > out Skyscraper The dingy, poorly-lit sixth floor of the skyscraper is as spacious as a hangar, but packed with old equipment, discarded furniture, and what can only be described as junk. The temporary walls once here have been pulled down, leaving a labyrinth of debris mounds. An east-west path meanders through the catacomb of garbage and stacked office furniture. A button on the wall is mounted beside the elevator doors. Behind you, the doors creak and rattle as they close, until they shut with a bang. You rush back to try and catch the elevator—no chance. The elevator car rattles as it descends, and is gone. > x debris Trash stacked like sepulchers is scattered throughout the area. > x button There’s an elevator call button beside the doors. “Who’s there?” A voice in the dark carries from the dark reaches…a voice you recognize. “It’s me,” you reply. “So you’re here too.” It’s your voice—it’s your double, far off on the other side of this dim floor of the skyscraper. “I think Belyle laid a trap. He wants to trick us into making contact. It’ll annihilate us both.” “Then we should remain far apart,” you say. “And get out of here before we bump into each other in the dark.” “To do that, we need find a way out,” your other says. > x debris Trash stacked like sepulchers is scattered throughout the area. > search it It’s worthless. You can’t climb over it, and nothing here looks like it could be used as a weapon. Just leave it where you found it. > push button There’s no indication it’s having any effect. > l Skyscraper An east-west path meanders through the catacomb of garbage and stacked office furniture. A button on the wall is mounted beside the elevator doors. “Looks like Belyle packed up and moved on,” your other says. “The electricity is out.” You peer around the darkness, wondering if you might catch sight of your double. “I forgot Belyle’s office was in this building,” you call out. “I was just trying to get to the airport.” “Well, we’re not going to get out of here wandering around in the dark,” your other says. “If we can find a circuit box, we have a chance of getting the lights back on. If you could look around too, that would help.” > e Skyscraper The path through this corner of the sixth floor runs north and west. You hear moving around northwest of here. > n Skyscraper The path through the junk and equipment winds north to south, with a branch heading off to the west. In the dim light, you catch a glint of gray steel. A panel is set in the wall. > x panel A flat gray steel panel is set in the wall—the door to a circuit box. “I found it,” you call out. “Good,” comes the reply from the darkness. “Try to get the electricity flowing.” > open panel You open the wall panel. Behind it is an industrial-sized circuit breaker, essentially a big insulated lever, and an indicator bulb. > x bulb The indicator bulb is dark. You hear movement north of here. > x lever The insulated lever is as big as a car’s handbrake and marked with electrical hazard stickers. The circuit breaker tripped at some point, causing the lever to stick straight out. This is probably the reason the basement is so dark, even if its gloom is not so easily explained. > pulllever I don’t understand that command. > pull lever The breaker lever doesn’t stay pulled in place, and flops back to the center position. Right on cue, your other calls out, “If it’s anything like a breaker at home, you gotta push it first, then pull it.” > push lever With a grunt and a little elbow grease, you manage to push the breaker into position. It makes a satisfying click as its sets. “Pushed it into place,” you call out. “Give it a pull to reset the circuit,” your other calls back. You make out the sound of shuffling about northwest of here. > pull lever The breaker offers some mechanical resistance, but you succeed in resetting the circuit. The indicator bulb warms to a bright orange color. “Electricity should be flowing now!” you call out. “Good,” your other calls back. “Now, let’s start looking for a light switch so we can find a way out of here.” > l Skyscraper The path through the junk and equipment winds north to south, with a branch heading off to the west. Set into the wall is a steel panel, open, revealing a large insulated circuit breaker and a glowing indicator bulb. > close panel You close the gray circuit panel. > w Skyscraper A path snaking its way through the junk and debris runs east to west. “Your book got glowing reviews,” your other says. “The critics sure liked Blanking Out.” “Wish I could have sold a few more copies,” you say. “That was six years ago. Where was—” “The follow-up? The sequel?” You did try to write one. You sat before your computer and waited. Nothing happened. Nothing fades like success, you think. Some shuffling about comes from northeast of here. > w Skyscraper A great pot-bellied boiler monopolizes the space here between the discarded furniture and monuments of piled junk. Paths through the debris runs north and south, and leads off to the east. Your other calls out, “For me, the most difficult thing to accept was—” “That there was always someone more famous or respected,” you say. “Like Jonathan Franzen—” “Stephen King—” your other says at the same time. “Every day for six years, I chewed myself up wishing for a few more book sales, or another book review—” “Time wasted that could’ve been spent writing my next book,” your other says. > x boiler The enormous water boiler squats like a giant iron pot-bellied god in the center of this area. From all the cast-iron pipes lying about, you gather it’s not operational. > open it There’s no obvious opening or door on the boiler. > s Skyscraper You’ve reached a dark corner. The path through the mounds of garbage and stacked abandoned office equipment runs north and east. “What was I missing?” your other asks. “What the hell was eluding me from writing another bestseller?” “We didn’t write the first ones,” you say. “Would it have killed Belyle to give us another book?” your other calls out. You spit out bitter words. “Haven’t you learned? It’s not about wishing hard and getting a book for nothing.” Are you talking to your other or to yourself? “It’s about doing the work, and cultivating a vision. Nurturing your dream with sweat and passion.” > e Skyscraper An east-west path meanders through the catacomb of garbage and stacked office furniture. A button on the wall is mounted beside the elevator doors. “I found a row of light switches,” your other calls out. “Let me see what they do.” A single measly fluorescent light flickers and warms to the north. “It’s better than nothing,” your other calls out. “Go see what you find in that area. It might be a way for us to leave this trap.” Movements are heard northeast of here. > w Skyscraper You’ve reached a dark corner. The path through the mounds of garbage and stacked abandoned office equipment runs north and east. > n Skyscraper A great pot-bellied boiler monopolizes the space here between the discarded furniture and monuments of piled junk. Paths through the debris runs north and south, and leads off to the east. > n Skyscraper The path through the junk and discarded office equipment cuts east and south. The area to the east is well-lit by the fluorescent tube overhead. Some noise comes from the southeast. > e Skyscraper A single fluorescent light high above illuminates this area. The debris and garbage is particularly thick here. The path through it winds east and west. Apparently workers are performing construction. Steel valved tanks are stacked high around the perimeters of the junk. They’ll all labeled with bright yellow warning stickers. Against the north wall, a utility door is shut—an exit out of here, and freedom from this gloomy place. “There’s a way out,” you call out to your other. “We can leave this way.” “That’s great. You go first.” “Why me—” “You go first,” your other insists, sounding out-of-breath. “I think you’re in better shape.” > e Skyscraper The path through the discarded furniture and piled trash runs south to west. The area to the west is well-lit by the fluorescent tube overhead. “Why don’t you look into that door?” your other suggests. > w Skyscraper A single fluorescent light high above illuminates this area. The debris and garbage is particularly thick here. The path through it winds east and west. Apparently workers are performing construction. Steel valved tanks are stacked high around the perimeters of the junk. They’ll all labeled with bright yellow warning stickers. Against the north wall, a utility door is shut—an exit out of here, and freedom from this gloomy place. The sound of movement comes from south of here. > x tanks The steel tanks, piled into pyramids, contain acetylene. The tanks are festooned with warnings and markings about explosive substances. > x stickers They warn the tanks should not be stored near open flame, or words to that effect. > xdoor I don’t understand that command. > x door This utility door would seem to lead out to safety. > open door You pull the door open. “Wait,” you hear from the shadows. “What’s that in the corner?” Your eyes come to rest on a fresh hardbound book lying off to the side. Out of Whack is printed across its cover. Your timepiece, ticking softly this entire time, begins to chime. It’s the sharp, insistent ringing of a miniature bell, as crisp and defined as the Arctic air. From elsewhere in the cavernous area, your double’s timepiece chimes in unison. [Press any key to continue…] Baltimore, October 6th, 1849 Engine room I emerge from the dank narrow shaft and into the light-house’s underground engine room. This rotund basement is scorched black. The thick musk of burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. A great iron pot-bellied engine sits mounted into one wall, with a webwork of contraption and gears sprouting from its head. Blackened metal scraps lie about it like curled patisserie chocolate. A forboding and cramped tunnel runs westward into the earth, partially blocked by a Spanish latticework gate hanging from its hinges. Rows of brick in dried mortar form a line before the opening. A fire-blackened iron ladder leads up the shaft of the light-house to the lantern room. > smell The stench of soot, char, and burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. > x engine This pot-bellied behemoth fills half of the engine room, squatting like the great iron Fire Gods of the eastern lands. When fired and churning, no doubt this place would swelter. As of this moment, the engine is as quiet and this underground chamber is cold. A mass of gears and contraptions spring from the engine’s head and wind up through the ceiling. Scattered about the engine are blackened metal scraps. > x gears The gearwork emanating from the head of the pot-bellied engine snake up through the ceiling. They most likely power the light-house’s drive and rotate the mighty lantern in its crown. > xscraps I don’t understand that command. > x scraps Blackened metal scraps lie in curls about the pot-bellied engine. On closer examination, they appear to be the remains of oil canisters, the fuel dumped into this iron beast that drove the machinery. From the blast marks about the room, my powers of perception tell me this is the locus of the fire—it originated here. > l Engine room This rotund basement is scorched black. The thick musk of burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. A great iron pot-bellied engine sits mounted into one wall, with a webwork of contraption and gears sprouting from its head. Blackened metal scraps lie about it like curled patisserie chocolate. A forboding and cramped tunnel runs westward into the earth, partially blocked by a Spanish latticework gate hanging from its hinges. Rows of brick in dried mortar form a line before the opening. A fire-blackened iron ladder leads up the shaft of the light-house to the lantern room. > x tunnel The dim tunnel vanishes westward into the earth. > xgate I don’t understand that command. > x gate The gate was closed and pad-locked when the fire raged. Now, the half-melted and arthritic latticework hangs limply from its hinges, useless in function and twisted in form. It’s sufficiently open for me to pass through. > open ggate I see no ggate here. > open gate The fire softened and warped the wrought-iron, and cooling hardened it into its current deformed shape. It refuses to move. > x brick Four-and-one-half rows of mortared brick across the floor indicate someone had started to close off the tunnel to the west. The mortar work is sloppy and unfinished. > w I contort myself to squeeze through the opening in the latticework gate, and make my way down the tunnel stooped over… Cellar Although this cramped area undoubtedly once served as the light-house keeper’s wine cellar, such purpose has long since passed. Rags and bedding scattered about indicate someone was using this place for sleep. The ceiling rises here, and a grille window is visible overhead. A raven peers down at me from behind the grille. A message in white chalk has been scratched across one wall. At the foot of a rack rests a wine bottle, tipped on its side. East will return me to the engine room. > x window An iron grille set in the wall high above allows inside a slender amount of light, and permits an exchange of air. > x ravel I see no ravel here. > x raven The raven high above has an oily iridescent sheen across its feathers. > talk to raven High above me, the raven cocks its head. > say nevermore I’m not talking to anyone. > ask raven about nevermore From the high grille, the raven peers down upon me imperiously. The raven tracks my movements with its onyx eyes. > x rags The rags and dingy bedding piled in heaps make for a rancid place to dwell. > x bedding The rags and dingy bedding piled in heaps make for a rancid place to dwell. > smell rags I will leave them where they lie. I will not deign to touch any of the foul mess. > liste I don’t understand that command. > listen The raven uses its beak to tap on the grille in the window high above me. The raven emits three hoarse caws at me from the high grille in the wall. > x grille An iron grille set in the wall high above allows inside a slender amount of light, and permits an exchange of air. > x bottle The wine bottle, made of dark red glass, bears a regal label around its waist. There’s a faint sour aroma coming off of it. > smell bottle A sour aroma wafts up from the neck of the bottle—the tell-tale residue of a medicinal I cannot name. Something other than wine was in this bottle. > x label The label on the bottle’s waist proclaims in a staid script, “Amontillado Napoleon, Jerez, España.” > take bottle I pick up the wine bottle, immediately sensing it is empty. A clicking noise comes from above. It’s the raven tapping on the iron grille with its beak. > smell bottle A sour aroma wafts up from the neck of the bottle—the tell-tale residue of a medicinal I cannot name. Something other than wine was in this bottle. > throw bottle at raven The raven merely ignores me. > l Cellar Although this cramped area undoubtedly once served as the light-house keeper’s wine cellar, such purpose has long since passed. Rags and bedding scattered about indicate someone was using this place for sleep. The ceiling rises here, and a grille window is visible overhead. A raven peers down at me from behind the grille. A message in white chalk has been scratched across one wall. East will return me to the engine room. > x chalk The chalked message reads: KVMFN ZJYTFWY XL GQGA DUXY P HKNE FMR BXU ELNC XGLDUJFDJK “What is my NAME?” is written in chalk beside the cipher. I’ve learned so much. I must believe that deciphering this message will confirm what has only been suggested so far. The raven ruffles its wings and trills a burrrr with its throat. > decipher message [with the cipher wheel] Which keyword shall I attempt (press Enter to stop trying)? ludwig The cipher wheel cannot rotate fast enough as I work through the cipher using “LUDWIG” as the key. The decipherment produces only random letters in nonsensical fashion, and I discontinue my efforts. Which keyword shall I attempt (press Enter to stop trying)? hludwig Quickly my fingers rotate the dial using “HLUDWIG” as the key. I come to see the key is the correct one, and I eagerly complete the decipherment: EDGAR WELCOME TO YOUR HELL I BURY YOU AND YOUR REPUTATION [Press any key to continue…] “The children love their game of evens-and-odds, do they not?” It cannot be— “Questions, I see.” An amused Griswold the First grins viciously through the bars of my cell. “Answers, not for thee.” [Press any key to continue…] Griswold the First is clean and dandified—the bearded city-poet I know too well. Griswold the Second—imperious, ill-shaven, dirt about the neck and face. The Second has thieved my suit. Its hems are caked with the mortar he slops about to seal me in. “Odd and Grimm, my twin Reynolds here is.” Griswold the First presses his face against the bars. “Even is Rufus Griswold. Hear that, dear Edgar? Griswold is so very, very even.” [Press any key to continue…] Over the shrieks of the raven, Griswold the First shovels my criticism back at me— “O! Rufus Griswold, the Republic’s penciler of gossamer poesy! The Poetaster Laureate of New York! The plagiarist’s plagiarist!” Reynolds throws a trowel-full of wet mortar onto my face. “Poe will poetry no more. With Poe gone, Grimm & Griswold together shall reach…literary immortality.” Brick by brick, his work continues. My mind halves as the gibbous moon… [Press any key to continue…] The raven cries me awake at dawn. More rations of their wine. My beloved Sarah, lost. Griswold the Second dances about in my coat and trousers. “Look-see at me! Now Reynolds Grimm is the most famous poet in America!” A crash of the Davy lamp at his feet…the smoldering of rags piled before the pot-bellied god…a flame erupts! “Reynolds!” the raven shrieks. “Reynolds!” it cries. “Reynolds!” [Press any key to continue…] I sit awhile to ponder and grieve over what I’ve seen and heard. Through the grille, the radiance of the day cools to moonlight, and it is time to go. Cellar The raven has flown off. Beyond the grille window, the pale yellow moon hangs in the sky. A message in white chalk has been scratched across one wall. East will return me to the engine room. > x journal As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. Clues I have observed to date: The coat Poe wore when found reeks of smoke and fuel oil. Poe’s shirt is stained with what appears to be wine. The Sons of Temperance pledge card Poe carried was signed six weeks ago, suggesting he’s not accepted a drink since. An inmate named Reynolds Grimm recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary. Upon Poe’s arrival in Baltimore via ferry, he was being followed by a bearded man. The escaped prisoner claimed he was the double of a famous writer, a “man who has his name printed in all the slick magazines.” The bearded man following Poe was refined and composed…a gentleman. Poe arrived at Gunner’s Hall several hours after the fire at Lazaretto Point Light. The discovery of a gibus in the lantern room, much as one Poe would have worn, may indicate he was attacked at Lazaretto Point Light. The toper at Gunner’s Hall says the man taken to the hospital was Edgar Allan Poe, and not a look-alike or double. “Wilmot” is the middle name of Rufus Griswold. The leaf may have been smuggled to a prisoner or an inmate. The writing on the tobacco leaf appears to be an invisible ink made legible by holding it to a flame. “Hludwig” is Old German for “Ludwig.” A critic writing under the pseudonym “L.” devastates the character of several American writers, Poe and Griswold included. Knowing the identity of this critic may assist in my investigation. “L.” is short for “Ludwig.” To open the iron hatch in the lantern room at Lazaretto Point Light, turn the lever right, right, and left, and then pull. [You’ve uncovered sixteen out of eighteen clues.] Locations in Baltimore I’ve learned about: The ferry terminal at Fell’s Point is located south of the hospital at the broadening of the Patapsco River. Gunner’s Hall is in the Fourth Ward of Baltimore, in the southwest of the central district near the Inner Harbor. The light-house named Lazaretto Point Light stands far to the southeast at the end of the promontory. Barnum’s City Hotel stands at Battle Monument Square in the northwest of Baltimore’s central district. > e Hunched over, I make my way down the tunnel to the engine room… Engine room This rotund basement is scorched black. The thick musk of burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. A great iron pot-bellied engine sits mounted into one wall, with a webwork of contraption and gears sprouting from its head. Blackened metal scraps lie about it like curled patisserie chocolate. A forboding and cramped tunnel runs westward into the earth, partially blocked by a Spanish latticework gate hanging from its hinges. Rows of brick in dried mortar form a line before the opening. A fire-blackened iron ladder leads up the shaft of the light-house to the lantern room. > u I hurry across the lantern room and rush down the staircase. Out of the light- house I emerge to stumble across the rocky promontory, now bathed in moonlight… Promontory The calm Patapsco River carries a fog through the nighttime air that shrouds the gibbous moon. It’s a quiet night on the Patapsco, and the solitude carries with it a weighty loneliness. The wind blows a crumpled sheet of newsprint to my feet. North will lead me away from this foul place. > x sheet An obituary for Edgar Allan Poe consumes most of the page. It opens: EDGAR ALLAN POE is dead. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it. Followed by this falsehood: He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayers, (never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned)…with a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms; and all night, with drenched garments and arms wildly beating the winds and rains, he would speak as if to spirits… And this: He was little better than a carping grammarian. The obituary is signed “Ludwig.” Griswold has done it. This obituary will be reprinted across the English- speaking world. It will bury Poe’s reputation, just as Griswold said he would. > take sheet I take the page of newsprint. > e I have no desire to remain in this godforsaken place any longer. North will take me away from this evil, evil place. > n With palpable dread in the back of my throat, I make for Poe’s room at the hospital. I find the good doctor seated at the foot of the bed, a drink in hand. Poe’s mouth hangs open. His head lolls to one side. “His final moments were peaceful,” Moran says. Two fresh roses accompany the now-wilting one. An uncorked cognac stands beside the bouquet. A clean medicinal glass waits beside the bottle. “A unique mind has left this world.” The doctor flicks his glass of cognac with a finger, making it ring out. “I will mourn this loss as I deem proper, hospital regulations be damned.” I pour myself a grim cognac. We gaze upon a body now bereft of the vibrant imagination which once animated it, and animated the world. “You told me you came to Baltimore on a personal inquiry,” the doctor says. “Have you resolved that matter?” Indeed, I have, and yet, I have not… [Press any key to continue…] January 19th, 2024: Sixth Floor Both timepieces are chiming… “What’s the book say?” You peer down at the cover. “It’s titled Out of Whack.” This book represents renewed respect—new invitations to speak—new chances to be interviewed by journals like The Paris Review and Ploughshares. Mostly, it represents the cultural capital that comes with publication, the name recognition and prestige, the social media followers and the attention that comes with them. “Remember what Belyle’s contract said about Balance,” your other says. “Only one of us will remain when the time is up.” Walking out the door is to return to a life of mediocrity—a life of settling for less. Or, it might mean losing your life so your other may achieve new heights with this book. Taking the book, then, could mean a return to fame and success…or, it could mean your existence is cancelled out when your other bolts for the door. “Tough decision, isn’t it?” your other says, interrupting your train of thought. > l Skyscraper Steel valved tanks festooned with warning stickers are stacked high. In the furthest reaches of the shadows lies a fresh hardbound book. It’s titled Out of Whack. Against the north wall, a utility door is open—an exit out of here, and freedom from this gloomy place. “Will you try to stop me if I take the book?” you ask. The timepieces continue to chime in unison. “What choice do I have?” your other says. “I want that book too.” “Then, will you try to stop me if I leave first?” “And leave me here to die, to ‘rebalance the cosmos’? I don’t know about that either.” > save Saved. > x book The only design detail on the oxblood cover is the embossed title, Out of Whack. The author is merely listed as “By ____________?” The chimes of the timepieces echo across the dark expanse. > x double You can’t see your double. “Take the book, or leave without it,” your other says. “Quit waffling.” > ask double about himself “We’re out of time. You need to make a choice,” your other says. “Why me?” “Because you’re closest to both of them,” your other says. “And depending on what you choose, one of us is going to cease to exist.” > take book A devilish thought flashes through your mind: You have his face. You have his fingerprints. You have his signature. You can be Literary and Famous. The insistent chimes of both timepieces continue to sound off. You scramble for Out of Whack. Your other scrambles for the book as well—he’s intent on grabbing it first. Of course he makes the same choice. You finish each other’s sentences, you have the same cravings, you face the same dread. He is you. In the bustle, your bodies touch, sending electrical sparks all directions around you both. From behind you comes a white flash—a feathery cushion of scalding wind lifts you off your feet and carries you through the door and down the hallway. You are propelled as a hummingbird demon might glide over a field… [Press any key to continue…] I always saw myself as an honest person. Do unto others, and all that. I used to think, “At least I can look at myself in the mirror each morning.” And then one morning, I couldn’t. Reception Walking wounded throng the hospital reception. The front desk is mobbed. The hospital’s main entrance is north, leading outside to fresh air and sunlight. The arterial corridors into the hospital begin to the east. Inspector Dennings stands before you. He snaps his fingers under your nose. “You alright? Looks like the medication is kicking in.” “I…spaced off.” “The question is about your travel plans,” he says carefully. “The way you packed doesn’t look like a ‘spur of the moment’ urge to travel abroad.” You could tell him about Mr. Belyle, or your double. Or even try to explain what happened… > tell him about double Your attempts to direct Dennings’ attention to the burnt corpse in the hall only solidifies his skepticism. “We know that dead body outside was at the skyscraper,” he says. “The question is, what were you doing there?” A baby starts crying somewhere in the admitting area, and is quieted with some shushing. > tell him about belyle After you rapidly tell Dennings the story, from the first meeting with Mr. Belyle to your rushed attempt at an exit plan, a palpable weight is released. The burden of a six-year secret was far more intense than you realized. Dennings, though, is unimpressed. “Belyle was your agent?” “Not exactly. More like a—” “You expect me to believe all of this…carnage was the work of one man?” He slaps the notepad against his palm. “If you know something about what went down at that skyscraper today, you better come clean.” > topics You could talk about the skyscraper. > tell him about the skyscraper You start to tell him about what went down at the skyscraper—trying to think of some detail to sound helpful—but you realize there’s nothing you can tell him to change his mind. > topic I don’t understand that command. > topics You have nothing pressing to discuss with Inspector Dennings just now. (There may be topics worth discussing, however.) > l Reception Walking wounded throng the hospital reception. The front desk is mobbed. The hospital’s main entrance is north, leading outside to fresh air and sunlight. The arterial corridors into the hospital begin to the east. Dennings continues to study his notepad while waiting for you to speak. Inspector Dennings’ cell phone rings. He answers it with, “That was quick.” He repeats “Uh-huh…uh-huh…” into it for the better part of a minute before hanging up. “It was an acetylene accident,” he says. “Workers didn’t properly store the stuff.” He nods toward the north exit. “We don’t need to keep you any longer. You’re free to go.” “That’s it?” “For now. We’ll need you to answer more questions later.” Dennings stops you before you get far. “There is one more thing.” He sheepishly produces a paperback from his coat pocket. “Would you mind signing this?” Drained, you glare down on it—it’s a copy of Dead on Arrival, your other’s book. You didn’t think you could feel any more empty today. > n Dennings appears a touch disappointed you failed to sign his book. He tucks it away and melts back into the crowd of wounded to take statements. You’re getting used to the crutch now. Slow and steady. You wade against the tide of wounded flowing into the hospital… On the taxi ride home, a report comes over the radio: “This morning in Baltimore, the mysterious figure known as the ‘Poe Toaster’ left his annual memorial for Edgar Allan Poe, who was born this day in 1809. For nearly a century, the Poe Toaster has placed a bottle of cognac and three roses on the famed writer’s grave before dawn. The identities of the gift- givers have never been revealed, but notes accompanying the gifts are usually signed ‘Theophilus.’ In money news, markets were rocked this morning by reports of an explosion in the Financial District of downtown…” [Press any key to continue…] Writing Home at last. Waiting for you at your front door is a package delivery. Inside is the book from the skyscraper, Out of Whack. It followed you home like an abandoned puppy. You set it on your writing desk and collapse in your chair. You stare at the new book. Is it the next bestseller? The next literary masterpiece? > i You are wearing a wristband, and carrying a timepiece. > x book The only design detail on the closed book is the embossed title, Out of Whack. The book is thick with pages. > remove wristband You can’t remove it. The nurse snapped it on tight, and it won’t tear off. > red book I don’t understand that command. > read book It can’t be—all the pages are blank. Hundreds of pages of college-ruled lines, ready to receive whatever you wish to write between them. The easy bestseller you thought was yours turned out to be an empty promise pressed between two stiff covers. Okay, then. You’ll write. You find a pen. The words are supposed to come naturally, as though by shortwave, like an old-time psychic transcribing messages from the dead. It’s inconceivable—you’ve been through a horrific, deadly day. Any writer worth their salt could spin your inside knowledge of these events into gold. Yet, you fail to fabricate a measly sentence or trite phrase to open with. What did Belyle get out of all of this? He got you to stir the pot, and he collected a morgue full of dead bodies as trophies. The curse of mediocrity has returned. It’s like it was before that fateful day in Belyle’s office, when you desperately craved to write a novel. No, you desperately craved publication—to be lauded and praised. The writing was always a means to an end. Pen in hand, you stop waiting and start thinking. An idea peeks its nose up. One by one, you wrestle out the opening words of what might become a novel… *** * *** Would you like to RESTART the story, UNDO the last move, see the CREDITS, RESTORE a saved position, list the CLUES you gathered, read about this game's SOURCES, see the author's BIBLIO (bibliography), or QUIT? >clues You’ve uncovered sixteen out of eighteen clues. The coat Poe wore when found reeks of smoke and fuel oil. Poe’s shirt is stained with what appears to be wine. The Sons of Temperance pledge card Poe carried was signed six weeks ago, suggesting he’s not accepted a drink since. An inmate named Reynolds Grimm recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary. Upon Poe’s arrival in Baltimore via ferry, he was being followed by a bearded man. The escaped prisoner claimed he was the double of a famous writer, a “man who has his name printed in all the slick magazines.” The bearded man following Poe was refined and composed…a gentleman. Poe arrived at Gunner’s Hall several hours after the fire at Lazaretto Point Light. The discovery of a gibus in the lantern room, much as one Poe would have worn, may indicate he was attacked at Lazaretto Point Light. The toper at Gunner’s Hall says the man taken to the hospital was Edgar Allan Poe, and not a look-alike or double. “Wilmot” is the middle name of Rufus Griswold. The leaf may have been smuggled to a prisoner or an inmate. The writing on the tobacco leaf appears to be an invisible ink made legible by holding it to a flame. “Hludwig” is Old German for “Ludwig.” A critic writing under the pseudonym “L.” devastates the character of several American writers, Poe and Griswold included. Knowing the identity of this critic may assist in my investigation. “L.” is short for “Ludwig.” To open the iron hatch in the lantern room at Lazaretto Point Light, turn the lever right, right, and left, and then pull. Would you like to RESTART the story, UNDO the last move, see the CREDITS, RESTORE a saved position, list the CLUES you gathered, read about this game's SOURCES, see the author's BIBLIO (bibliography), or QUIT? >sources “There are some secrets that do not permit themselves to be told.” –Edgar Allan Poe, “The Man of the Crowd,” 1840 Much has been made over Edgar Allan Poe, creator of the modern detective story, suffering an unsolved and potentially criminal death. Embellishments and exaggerations about his final days have only contributed to its mysteriousness. Under the Cognomen of Edgar Allan Poe is, obviously, a fictional account. When caught between the historical record and dramatic need, sometimes I chose the latter. Time has been compressed, for example, and uncorroborated but well- circulated details have been used. I owe a great deal to The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore and The Poe Museum, whose online resources were veins of gold in my research. A Defense of Edgar Allan Poe by John J. Moran, M.D. was an important, if flawed, primary source for this work. The Enigma of Poe (edited by Ober, Burtness, and Seat, Jr.) provided critical correspondence between Poe and his acquaintances, including Rufus Griswold. The Home Life of Poe by Susan Archer Weiss offered a more intimate perspective on Poe, Sarah Elmira Shelton, and the writer’s final days. The 1988 neo-noir D.O.A. provided creative stimulus as well. Of course, Poe’s literary output was the most important source for this title. –Jim Nelson Would you like to RESTART the story, UNDO the last move, see the CREDITS, RESTORE a saved position, list the CLUES you gathered, read about this game's SOURCES, see the author's BIBLIO (bibliography), or QUIT? >biblio INTERACTIVE FICTION Under the Cognomen of Edgar Allan Poe According to Cain Past Present BOOKS The Bridge Daughter Cycle: Bridge DaughterHagar’s MotherStranger Son A Man Named Baskerville In My Memory Locked Man in the Middle Edward Teller Dreams of Barbecuing People A Concordance of One’s Life (stories) For more information, visit https://j-nelson.net. Would you like to RESTART the story, UNDO the last move, see the CREDITS, RESTORE a saved position, list the CLUES you gathered, read about this game's SOURCES, see the author's BIBLIO (bibliography), or QUIT? >undo One turn undone: read book Writing (on the chair) You stare at the new book. Is it the next bestseller? The next literary masterpiece? > hint Done. > retore I don’t understand that command. > restore Restored. Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. > give card to toper “I am uninterested in these abstinence schemes.” He pushes the pledge card away. > give card to toper “I am uninterested in these abstinence schemes.” He pushes the pledge card away. > give card to toper “I am uninterested in these abstinence schemes.” He pushes the pledge card away. > show card to toper “I have no interest in joining the Washingtonians,” says the toper. > tell toper about card “I have no interest in joining the Washingtonians,” says the toper. > i I am carrying a tunic (with an empty pocket)a lettera tobacco leafa singed gibusa cipher wheela journala wanted postera notea pledge card > s “Good day, my curious friend,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Meanwhile, there appears to be a lull at the polling table, as the ladies are calling to the room for more votes. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > vote There’s no voting here. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. Two young ladies staff the polling table, dealing with the ballots and the unruly men. There is a lull in activity at the table, and they call out Come- one, come-all! to solicit votes. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > vote “Make way!” the ladies cry out. “Another vote is being cast!” I lean in to better hear them over the din of the hall. “Remember, to vote you must be a citizen of Baltimore,” one tells me. “You must promise such before you cast your ballot.” “When you vote, we’ll give you a voucher for one free whiskey at the taps,” the other says. “Courtesy Mayor Stansbury, the finest mayor ever to lead Baltimore.” I am not a citizen of the city of Baltimore—not even a citizen of this republic. It would be a commission of voting fraud if I continue. However…a free glass of whiskey is not to be overlooked. It might even be useful in my research of Poe’s situation. Shall I vote (y/n)? yes “Very good, my sir!” the ladies tell me. One of the ladies produces a ballot. She marks a neat “X” beside Mayor Stansbury’s name, folds the ballot in half, and hands it to the other young lady, who drops it into the lockbox. “Thank you for voting!” they say with warm smiles. “And here’s your free whiskey,” the one nearest me says. She presses a voucher into my hands. And so concludes my introduction to American Democracy. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. “You have returned,” the toper says to me. The toper eyes the voucher I’m carrying. “If you do not plan on redeeming your vote voucher, I assure you I could make good use of it.” “Perhaps I should not feed your habit.” “My habit is fed, fattened, and cooked. If you entertain my vices, I have valuable intelligence to offer you in return.” Whilst that may be true, I have to believe there is another way to pry this intelligence from him without nourishing his habit. However, if there truly is no other way, I can give the voucher to him. > show card to toper “I have no interest in joining the Washingtonians,” says the toper. I sense I may reach this man via means other than plying him with drink. Giving him the pledge card might be the first step in a long journey. The toper’s blurry eyes momentarily come to focus upon the whiskey voucher I carry. > show card to toper “I have no interest in joining the Washingtonians,” says the toper. I sense I may reach this man via means other than plying him with drink. Giving him the pledge card might be the first step in a long journey. > show card to toper “I have no interest in joining the Washingtonians,” says the toper. I sense I may reach this man via means other than plying him with drink. Giving him the pledge card might be the first step in a long journey. > show card to toper “I have no interest in joining the Washingtonians,” says the toper. I sense I may reach this man via means other than plying him with drink. Giving him the pledge card might be the first step in a long journey. > give card to toper “I am uninterested in these abstinence schemes.” He pushes the pledge card away. I do not have to relent so easily. But if I push too hard, he may clam up. Worse, he may leave this place in search of more comfortable company. As I move about the room, the toper’s eyes track the whiskey voucher I hold on me. > give card to toper “This is Poe’s personal pledge,” I tell him. “No doubt it would bolster his frail spirits if his pledge led another poet to the light of sobriety.” “Mr. Poe’s pledge…it led him to the light?” “It took, and I have been told that he’s not agreed to a drink of liquor since. Why, the newfound clarity has even led to him beginning a new story, which I anticipate reading.” With the hesitation of a proud man admitting defeat, the toper takes the card and, slumped over, studies its words. “Your intelligence,” I gently remind him. “Of course. It is this: When Poe stumbled into this establishment, he was distinctly soused with the stench of charred wood and fuel oil. He had come from a fire, there is no mistaking it.” “This is not the tremendous intelligence you made it out to be.” “Well, I happen to know where the fuel oil is stored at Lazaretto Point Light. In the lantern room, there is an iron hatch. Opening it will lead you down to the belly of the engine. I sleep it off down there on occasion—only when it is late and too chilly to reach my dwellings, mind you. It’s a snap to open the hatch—just turn the lever right, right, and left, and then pull.” It is tremendous intelligence after all. The toper studies the pledge card in earnest. “I will ponder abstinence,” he says. (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > ask toper about l “A most biting and bitter tongue. The critic’s full pseudonym is ‘Ludwig.’” > ask him about lighthouse “There was a fire at the light-house last night,” says the toper. “I sometimes sleep it off in the belly, where the engine rumbles and throbs. At night-time, the promontory offers a harbor vista most elegant.” > clues I don’t understand that command. > x journal As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. Clues I have observed to date: The coat Poe wore when found reeks of smoke and fuel oil. Poe’s shirt is stained with what appears to be wine. The Sons of Temperance pledge card Poe carried was signed six weeks ago, suggesting he’s not accepted a drink since. An inmate named Reynolds Grimm recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary. Upon Poe’s arrival in Baltimore via ferry, he was being followed by a bearded man. The escaped prisoner claimed he was the double of a famous writer, a “man who has his name printed in all the slick magazines.” The bearded man following Poe was refined and composed…a gentleman. Poe arrived at Gunner’s Hall several hours after the fire at Lazaretto Point Light. The discovery of a gibus in the lantern room, much as one Poe would have worn, may indicate he was attacked at Lazaretto Point Light. The toper at Gunner’s Hall says the man taken to the hospital was Edgar Allan Poe, and not a look-alike or double. “Wilmot” is the middle name of Rufus Griswold. The leaf may have been smuggled to a prisoner or an inmate. The writing on the tobacco leaf appears to be an invisible ink made legible by holding it to a flame. “Hludwig” is Old German for “Ludwig.” A critic writing under the pseudonym “L.” devastates the character of several American writers, Poe and Griswold included. Knowing the identity of this critic may assist in my investigation. “L.” is short for “Ludwig.” To open the iron hatch in the lantern room at Lazaretto Point Light, turn the lever right, right, and left, and then pull. [You’ve uncovered sixteen out of eighteen clues.] Locations in Baltimore I’ve learned about: The ferry terminal at Fell’s Point is located south of the hospital at the broadening of the Patapsco River. Gunner’s Hall is in the Fourth Ward of Baltimore, in the southwest of the central district near the Inner Harbor. The light-house named Lazaretto Point Light stands far to the southeast at the end of the promontory. Barnum’s City Hotel stands at Battle Monument Square in the northwest of Baltimore’s central district. > e I can’t go that way. From here I could go south. > s “Au revoir,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. Two young ladies staff the polling table, dealing with the ballots and the unruly men. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > e I can’t go that way. From here I could go north or west. > s I can’t go that way. From here I could go north or west. > w Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > s Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > e Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > e Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises Lazaretto Point Light. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > se Canton The district referred to as Canton by the locals is sparsely developed compared to the northern districts. Dry docks and boatyards, one after another, line the broad river’s shoals. A narrow promontory along the river leads south toward the bay waters. At the distant tip of the promontory stands Lazaretto Point Light. Central Baltimore lies to the northwest. > s Foot of light-house Lazaretto Point Light rises stoically before me, a stubby conical lighthouse about thirty feet tall and whitewashed from base to top. The whitewash is scorched up one side, evidence of a fire now doused. Otherwise, the only other evidence of the blaze is the lingering acrid smell of char and soot. Although burned-out, it does appear the light-house may be entered west of here. The keeper’s house stands to the east. Traveling north along the promontory will return me to Baltimore proper. > s I can’t go that way. From here I could go north, east or west. > w Light-house Within the narrow light-house, the foul, hellish odor of burnt wood and oil is overwhelming. From the scorch marks, the fire apparently originated from below. A spiraling staircase leads up to the light-house’s lantern. An exit east will return me to the promontory. > u Lantern A great Fresnel-lensed lantern squats on a mechanized platform at the center of this glass-enclosed room. The wind blowing over the harbor whistles through. The circular room continues southwest to the other side of the lantern. Stairs will take me down to the ground floor. > x hatch I see no hatch here. > sw Rear of lantern At the south side of the glass-enclosed lantern room, I discover a formidable iron hatch built into the platform the Fresnel lens rotates upon. Going northwest will circle to the front of the lantern. > x htch I see no htch here. > x hatch A formidable iron hatch is built into the platform the lantern stands upon. A lever on the right-hand side of the hatch offers a means of opening it. > x journal As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. Clues I have observed to date: The coat Poe wore when found reeks of smoke and fuel oil. Poe’s shirt is stained with what appears to be wine. The Sons of Temperance pledge card Poe carried was signed six weeks ago, suggesting he’s not accepted a drink since. An inmate named Reynolds Grimm recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary. Upon Poe’s arrival in Baltimore via ferry, he was being followed by a bearded man. The escaped prisoner claimed he was the double of a famous writer, a “man who has his name printed in all the slick magazines.” The bearded man following Poe was refined and composed…a gentleman. Poe arrived at Gunner’s Hall several hours after the fire at Lazaretto Point Light. The discovery of a gibus in the lantern room, much as one Poe would have worn, may indicate he was attacked at Lazaretto Point Light. The toper at Gunner’s Hall says the man taken to the hospital was Edgar Allan Poe, and not a look-alike or double. “Wilmot” is the middle name of Rufus Griswold. The leaf may have been smuggled to a prisoner or an inmate. The writing on the tobacco leaf appears to be an invisible ink made legible by holding it to a flame. “Hludwig” is Old German for “Ludwig.” A critic writing under the pseudonym “L.” devastates the character of several American writers, Poe and Griswold included. Knowing the identity of this critic may assist in my investigation. “L.” is short for “Ludwig.” To open the iron hatch in the lantern room at Lazaretto Point Light, turn the lever right, right, and left, and then pull. [You’ve uncovered sixteen out of eighteen clues.] Locations in Baltimore I’ve learned about: The ferry terminal at Fell’s Point is located south of the hospital at the broadening of the Patapsco River. Gunner’s Hall is in the Fourth Ward of Baltimore, in the southwest of the central district near the Inner Harbor. The light-house named Lazaretto Point Light stands far to the southeast at the end of the promontory. Barnum’s City Hotel stands at Battle Monument Square in the northwest of Baltimore’s central district. > n I can’t go that way. From here I could go northwest. > turn lever left I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever left. Within the hatch comes a whirring. > turn lever left I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever left. Within the hatch comes the sound of gears turning. > turn lever right I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever right. Within the hatch comes a mechanism spinning. > pull lever The hatch refuses to open. Within the iron hatch’s hull, springs and gears briefly churn, as though an internal mechanism is resetting itself. > turn lever right I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever right. Within the hatch comes a grinding of gears. > turn lever right I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever right. Within the hatch comes a whirring. > turn lever left I turn the hatch’s spring-loaded lever left. Within the hatch comes a long schiiick of metal being withdrawn. > pull lever The shaft below exhales the sharp smell of spent fuel oil. An iron ladder leads down into the darkness. > in I can’t go that way. From here I could go northwest or down. > d With trepidation I descend into the darkness… [Press any key to continue…] January 19th, 2024: Sixth Floor You awaken in the elevator, confused. How much time has passed? Elevator You’ve reached the sixth floor of the skyscraper. The doors remain open, permitting you to step outside. > n Skyscraper The dingy, poorly-lit sixth floor of the skyscraper is as spacious as a hangar, but packed with old equipment, discarded furniture, and what can only be described as junk. The temporary walls once here have been pulled down, leaving a labyrinth of debris mounds. An east-west path meanders through the catacomb of garbage and stacked office furniture. A button on the wall is mounted beside the elevator doors. Behind you, the doors creak and rattle as they close, until they shut with a bang. You rush back to try and catch the elevator—no chance. The elevator car rattles as it descends, and is gone. > n Piles of garbage and stacked office furniture blocks your way. From here you could go east, south or west. > e Skyscraper The path through this corner of the sixth floor runs north and west. “Who’s there?” A voice in the dark carries from the dark reaches…a voice you recognize. “It’s me,” you reply. “So you’re here too.” It’s your voice—it’s your double, far off on the other side of this dim floor of the skyscraper. “I think Belyle laid a trap. He wants to trick us into making contact. It’ll annihilate us both.” “Then we should remain far apart,” you say. “And get out of here before we bump into each other in the dark.” “To do that, we need find a way out,” your other says. > n Skyscraper The path through the junk and equipment winds north to south, with a branch heading off to the west. > e Piles of garbage and stacked office furniture blocks your way. From here you could go north, south or west. > n Skyscraper The path through the discarded furniture and piled trash runs south to west. The area to the west is completely dark. “Looks like Belyle packed up and moved on,” your other says. “The electricity is out.” You peer around the darkness, wondering if you might catch sight of your double. “I forgot Belyle’s office was in this building,” you call out. “I was just trying to get to the airport.” “Well, we’re not going to get out of here wandering around in the dark,” your other says. “If we can find a circuit box, we have a chance of getting the lights back on. If you could look around too, that would help.” Your duplicate is faintly visible across the dim floor. He slips among the shadows, and disappears. > n Piles of garbage and stacked office furniture blocks your way. From here you could go south or west. Some shuffling about comes from south of here. > s Skyscraper The path through the junk and equipment winds north to south, with a branch heading off to the west. In the dim light, you catch a glint of gray steel. A panel is set in the wall. > s Skyscraper The path through this corner of the sixth floor runs north and west. Your duplicate is faintly visible across the dim floor. “Let’s keep our distance, so we don’t destroy each another.” He slips among the shadows, and disappears. > n Skyscraper The path through the junk and equipment winds north to south, with a branch heading off to the west. A panel is set in the wall. “We need to find that circuit breaker, and fast,” your other says. You hear movement south of here. > open panel You open the wall panel. Behind it is an industrial-sized circuit breaker, essentially a big insulated lever, and an indicator bulb. “I found it,” you call out. “Good,” comes the reply from the darkness. “Try to get the electricity flowing.” > push lever With a grunt and a little elbow grease, you manage to push the breaker into position. It makes a satisfying click as its sets. “Pushed it into place,” you call out. “Give it a pull to reset the circuit,” your other calls back. > pull it The breaker offers some mechanical resistance, but you succeed in resetting the circuit. The indicator bulb warms to a bright orange color. “Electricity should be flowing now!” you call out. “Good,” your other calls back. “Now, let’s start looking for a light switch so we can find a way out of here.” The sound of movement comes from southwest of here. > n Skyscraper The path through the discarded furniture and piled trash runs south to west. The area to the west is completely dark. “Your book got glowing reviews,” your other says. “The critics sure liked Blanking Out.” “Wish I could have sold a few more copies,” you say. “That was six years ago. Where was—” “The follow-up? The sequel?” You did try to write one. You sat before your computer and waited. Nothing happened. Nothing fades like success, you think. > w While the rest of the sixth floor is merely dim, here it’s thoroughly dark. “Don’t go fumbling around in that area to the north!” your double calls out. “You’ll hurt yourself.” “And we wouldn’t want to run into each other,” you call back. You retreat the direction you came. Your other calls out, “For me, the most difficult thing to accept was—” “That there was always someone more famous or respected,” you say. “Like Jonathan Franzen—” “Stephen King—” your other says at the same time. “Every day for six years, I chewed myself up wishing for a few more book sales, or another book review—” “Time wasted that could’ve been spent writing my next book,” your other says. > n Piles of garbage and stacked office furniture blocks your way. From here you could go south or west. You hear moving around south of here. > w While the rest of the sixth floor is merely dim, here it’s thoroughly dark. You do not want to run into your double here. It would annihilate both of you. You retreat the direction you came. “What was I missing?” your other asks. “What the hell was eluding me from writing another bestseller?” “We didn’t write the first ones,” you say. “Would it have killed Belyle to give us another book?” your other calls out. You spit out bitter words. “Haven’t you learned? It’s not about wishing hard and getting a book for nothing.” Are you talking to your other or to yourself? “It’s about doing the work, and cultivating a vision. Nurturing your dream with sweat and passion.” > s Skyscraper The path through the junk and equipment winds north to south, with a branch heading off to the west. Set into the wall is a steel panel, open, revealing a large insulated circuit breaker and a glowing indicator bulb. “I found a row of light switches,” your other calls out. “Let me see what they do.” A single measly fluorescent light flickers and warms to the northwest. “It’s better than nothing,” your other calls out. “Go see what you find in that area. It might be a way for us to leave this trap.” > w Skyscraper A path snaking its way through the junk and debris runs east to west. > w Skyscraper A great pot-bellied boiler monopolizes the space here between the discarded furniture and monuments of piled junk. Paths through the debris runs north and south, and leads off to the east. Some noise comes from the southeast. > n Skyscraper The path through the junk and discarded office equipment cuts east and south. The area to the east is well-lit by the fluorescent tube overhead. > e Skyscraper A single fluorescent light high above illuminates this area. The debris and garbage is particularly thick here. The path through it winds east and west. Apparently workers are performing construction. Steel valved tanks are stacked high around the perimeters of the junk. They’ll all labeled with bright yellow warning stickers. Against the north wall, a utility door is shut—an exit out of here, and freedom from this gloomy place. “There’s a way out,” you call out to your other. “We can leave this way.” “That’s great. You go first.” “Why me—” “You go first,” your other insists, sounding out-of-breath. “I think you’re in better shape.” > n You need to open the door first. “Why don’t you look into that door?” your other suggests. > open door You pull the door open. “Wait,” you hear from the shadows. “What’s that in the corner?” Your eyes come to rest on a fresh hardbound book lying off to the side. Out of Whack is printed across its cover. Your timepiece, ticking softly this entire time, begins to chime. It’s the sharp, insistent ringing of a miniature bell, as crisp and defined as the Arctic air. From elsewhere in the cavernous area, your double’s timepiece chimes in unison. [Press any key to continue…] Baltimore, October 6th, 1849 Engine room I emerge from the dank narrow shaft and into the light-house’s underground engine room. This rotund basement is scorched black. The thick musk of burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. A great iron pot-bellied engine sits mounted into one wall, with a webwork of contraption and gears sprouting from its head. Blackened metal scraps lie about it like curled patisserie chocolate. A forboding and cramped tunnel runs westward into the earth, partially blocked by a Spanish latticework gate hanging from its hinges. Rows of brick in dried mortar form a line before the opening. A fire-blackened iron ladder leads up the shaft of the light-house to the lantern room. > w I contort myself to squeeze through the opening in the latticework gate, and make my way down the tunnel stooped over… Cellar Although this cramped area undoubtedly once served as the light-house keeper’s wine cellar, such purpose has long since passed. Rags and bedding scattered about indicate someone was using this place for sleep. The ceiling rises here, and a grille window is visible overhead. A raven peers down at me from behind the grille. A message in white chalk has been scratched across one wall. At the foot of a rack rests a wine bottle, tipped on its side. East will return me to the engine room. > take bottle I pick up the wine bottle, immediately sensing it is empty. > e Hunched over, I make my way down the tunnel to the engine room… Engine room This rotund basement is scorched black. The thick musk of burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. A great iron pot-bellied engine sits mounted into one wall, with a webwork of contraption and gears sprouting from its head. Blackened metal scraps lie about it like curled patisserie chocolate. A forboding and cramped tunnel runs westward into the earth, partially blocked by a Spanish latticework gate hanging from its hinges. Rows of brick in dried mortar form a line before the opening. A fire-blackened iron ladder leads up the shaft of the light-house to the lantern room. > u Rear of lantern At the south side of the glass-enclosed lantern room, I discover a formidable iron hatch built into the platform the Fresnel lens rotates upon. The open hatch reveals a ladder descending into darkness. Going northwest will circle to the front of the lantern. > n I can’t go that way. From here I could go northwest or down. > s I can’t go that way. From here I could go northwest or down. > nw Lantern A great Fresnel-lensed lantern squats on a mechanized platform at the center of this glass-enclosed room. The wind blowing over the harbor whistles through. The circular room continues southwest to the other side of the lantern. Stairs will take me down to the ground floor. > d Light-house Within the narrow light-house, the foul, hellish odor of burnt wood and oil is overwhelming. From the scorch marks, the fire apparently originated from below. A spiraling staircase leads up to the light-house’s lantern. An exit east will return me to the promontory. > n I can’t go that way. From here I could go east or up. > e Foot of light-house Lazaretto Point Light rises stoically before me, a stubby conical lighthouse about thirty feet tall and whitewashed from base to top. The whitewash is scorched up one side, evidence of a fire now doused. Otherwise, the only other evidence of the blaze is the lingering acrid smell of char and soot. Although burned-out, it does appear the light-house may be entered west of here. The keeper’s house stands to the east. Traveling north along the promontory will return me to Baltimore proper. > n Canton The district referred to as Canton by the locals is sparsely developed compared to the northern districts. Dry docks and boatyards, one after another, line the broad river’s shoals. A narrow promontory along the river leads south toward the bay waters. At the distant tip of the promontory stands Lazaretto Point Light. Central Baltimore lies to the northwest. > n There are many streets and alleys through the city. I do not know where that way will lead me, however. More promising would seem to be south or northwest. > w Perhaps I can explore that direction later. More promising would seem to be south or northwest. > nw Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises Lazaretto Point Light. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > w Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > w Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > n Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. He quietly studies the temperance pledge card he is holding. “You have returned,” the toper says to me. > show poster to toper “Have you seen this man? An escaped inmate by the name of Grimm?” I ask. The toper scratches his stubble and lets the name roll around in his brain. “The man was a playwright back in the day,” says the toper. “Quite a success on the Baltimore stage, until he failed to mount a production due to its promotion of vice and debauchery. As I recall, Edgar Poe wrote a scathing review of his next effort, a pasquinade mocking our President, and Grimm’s reputation was wrecked. A drunken knife fight down at the harbor finally landed him in prison.” He taps the poster thoughtfully, and continues. “This playwright and prisoner certainly resembles Rufus Griswold…the resemblance is breathtaking.” (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > s “I hope we shall speak again soon,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Men drink, and inflate the pub’s atmosphere with their laughter, boasts, and tall tales. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > e Polls One of the pub’s well-worn tables has been recruited for the purposes of polling. Voters come and go, never leaving without their vote being deposited in a lockbox atop the table and collecting a voucher from one of the young ladies behind the table. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. Two young ladies staff the polling table, dealing with the ballots and the unruly men. To the north is a quiet back room, while the pub entrance lies west. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > n Back room The back room of Gunner’s Hall is oddly quiet and devoid of roisterous patrons. It’s a welcome respite from the chaos and clatter to the south. An inebriated man is the sole occupant of this solemn space—a toper, and by his appearance, he has darkened this establishment’s stoop many times. He quietly studies the temperance pledge card he is holding. “You have returned,” the toper says to me. > n I can’t go that way. From here I could go south. > s “Til we meet again,” he says with a friendly tip of one hand. Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. Noisy carousing men pack the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > w Taps A long row of beer taps gets steady use from the barkeep, who shuffles up and down the bar serving thirsty working-class men roaring with tales of bravado and buffoonery. The pub’s entry is east of here, while a quieter back room lies to the north. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. > s I can’t go that way. From here I could go north or east. > e Gunner’s Hall A rather boisterous place, Gunner’s Hall is made even more boisterous by the long row of beer taps to the west and the fine young ladies manning the Election Day polls to the east. A back room to the north appears a touch quieter. A hash of noisy drunken tradesmen crowd the pub. The toper I saw earlier is in the bar’s back room. Otherwise, the only exit from Gunner’s Hall is out to the street to the south. > s Fourth Ward At the end of a narrow cobbled alley I find myself before Gunner’s Hall, a public house of less-than-sturdy construction. From the noise pouring out onto the street, it appears it’s quite a frolicsome establishment. A sandwich board before the pub bears a welcoming message. My options here are limited: Enter the pub to the north, or travel east down the alley and return to the bustling stalls of the Inner Harbor. > e Inner Harbor Baltimore grows distinctly disreputable in its Inner Harbor. The briny stench of dead fish warming in the sunlight makes me blanch. The harbor’s cobblestone streets snake up the hill and disappear between the factories of Jonestown to the northeast. Further east, the wide and languid Patapsco River empties into the bay. The harbor tapers off to the west, where the Fourth Ward polls are to be found. > n I dare not travel too far afield yet, as I am still learning my way around Baltimore. More promising would seem to be east, west or northeast. > ne Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > n Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > n What interesting locale lies that direction, I do not know. More promising would seem to be east, south or west. > e Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. “Reynolds!” comes a shriek from Poe’s room. “Reynolds!” > n I can’t go that way. From here I could go east, south or down. > s Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. Dr. Moran enters from the private room. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. > show bottle to moran I offer the bottle to Dr. Moran for his inspection. “I found this at the light-house on the point.” He studies it with a dubious expression which dissipates when he smells its neck. “Laudanum,” he declares. “You seem certain.” “Laudanum is used for a variety of sound medicinal purposes,” says he. “It is a tincture of opium mixed with alcohol. Alas, its addictive properties makes consumption among those of weak character all too common here in Baltimore.” “My understanding is that it can induce hallucinations—” “If administered at high enough concentrations, and for a sustained amount of time, it can even lead to psychosis.” (I’ve added to my journal a note regarding this new information.) > in Private room Edgar Allan Poe lies on a ward bed. He stares off, mute and catatonic, with wide eyes and a blank expression. Beside him is a hospital nightstand with a rose in a vase atop it. Against the far wall is a broad table with a suit of clothes on it. The eastern exit will take me away from this sorrowful place. > x rose A single long-stemmed rose in an elegant porcelain vase stands vigil, awaiting Poe’s recovery. On a loop around the vase is a message of sympathy. > e Ward hall The hall pauses at a patient room west of here, before curving east. The Intoxication Ward’s stairwell is north of here. Beside the room entrance is a small chalkboard, where the residing patient’s name is written. Dr. Moran stands aside looking over his clipboard. Moran merely acknowledges my presence with a curt nod. > n Intoxication Ward The stillness of the Intoxication Ward is unnerving. A quiet hall east leads deeper into the hospital, while a southern hall will take me to the occupants of this ward. Stairs down permit me to leave the hospital and travel across Baltimore itself. > x journal As I investigate Poe’s ordeal, I will use this journal to record what I learn. Clues I have observed to date: The coat Poe wore when found reeks of smoke and fuel oil. Poe’s shirt is stained with what appears to be wine. The Sons of Temperance pledge card Poe carried was signed six weeks ago, suggesting he’s not accepted a drink since. An inmate named Reynolds Grimm recently escaped from Maryland Penitentiary. Upon Poe’s arrival in Baltimore via ferry, he was being followed by a bearded man. The escaped prisoner claimed he was the double of a famous writer, a “man who has his name printed in all the slick magazines.” The bearded man following Poe was refined and composed…a gentleman. Poe arrived at Gunner’s Hall several hours after the fire at Lazaretto Point Light. The discovery of a gibus in the lantern room, much as one Poe would have worn, may indicate he was attacked at Lazaretto Point Light. The toper at Gunner’s Hall says the man taken to the hospital was Edgar Allan Poe, and not a look-alike or double. “Wilmot” is the middle name of Rufus Griswold. The leaf may have been smuggled to a prisoner or an inmate. The writing on the tobacco leaf appears to be an invisible ink made legible by holding it to a flame. “Hludwig” is Old German for “Ludwig.” A critic writing under the pseudonym “L.” devastates the character of several American writers, Poe and Griswold included. Knowing the identity of this critic may assist in my investigation. “L.” is short for “Ludwig.” To open the iron hatch in the lantern room at Lazaretto Point Light, turn the lever right, right, and left, and then pull. The escaped inmate bears a strong resemblance to Rufus Griswold. The empty bottle found in the light- house celler smells of wine laced with laudanum, a tincture of opium which induces hallucinations. [You’ve uncovered eighteen out of eighteen clues.] Locations in Baltimore I’ve learned about: The ferry terminal at Fell’s Point is located south of the hospital at the broadening of the Patapsco River. Gunner’s Hall is in the Fourth Ward of Baltimore, in the southwest of the central district near the Inner Harbor. The light-house named Lazaretto Point Light stands far to the southeast at the end of the promontory. Barnum’s City Hotel stands at Battle Monument Square in the northwest of Baltimore’s central district. > n I can’t go that way. From here I could go east, south or down. > d Washington Hill The district surrounding Washington College Hospital is one of prim colorful gardens and shade trees. Many blocks to the west stands the monument to Lady Liberty in Battle Monument Square, while south of here, down the incline, are the first signs of the industrious Jonestown. Towering above it all, atop a hill to the east, is Washington College Hospital, where Poe recuperates. > s Jonestown The area referred to as Jonestown by the city’s inhabitants is a lively mix of clamorous factories, drawn carriages of raw material delivered down cobblestone roads, and red-brick warehouses. Smokestacks spit up their rancorous soot, which is carried downwind toward the Patapsco River to the south. Traveling north will return me Washington Hill, while cobbled roads winding southwest lead to the harbor. > s Patapsco River The lethargic Patapsco River flows southeast, bordered on one side by a thin promontory of dry docks and boatyards. Far in that direction rises Lazaretto Point Light. To the east stands the ferry building at Fell’s Point. The harbor continues westward, while Jonestown and its factories are to the north. > se Canton The district referred to as Canton by the locals is sparsely developed compared to the northern districts. Dry docks and boatyards, one after another, line the broad river’s shoals. A narrow promontory along the river leads south toward the bay waters. At the distant tip of the promontory stands Lazaretto Point Light. Central Baltimore lies to the northwest. > s Foot of light-house Lazaretto Point Light rises stoically before me, a stubby conical lighthouse about thirty feet tall and whitewashed from base to top. The whitewash is scorched up one side, evidence of a fire now doused. Otherwise, the only other evidence of the blaze is the lingering acrid smell of char and soot. Although burned-out, it does appear the light-house may be entered west of here. The keeper’s house stands to the east. Traveling north along the promontory will return me to Baltimore proper. > w Light-house Within the narrow light-house, the foul, hellish odor of burnt wood and oil is overwhelming. From the scorch marks, the fire apparently originated from below. A spiraling staircase leads up to the light-house’s lantern. An exit east will return me to the promontory. > u Lantern A great Fresnel-lensed lantern squats on a mechanized platform at the center of this glass-enclosed room. The wind blowing over the harbor whistles through. The circular room continues southwest to the other side of the lantern. Stairs will take me down to the ground floor. > d Light-house Within the narrow light-house, the foul, hellish odor of burnt wood and oil is overwhelming. From the scorch marks, the fire apparently originated from below. A spiraling staircase leads up to the light-house’s lantern. An exit east will return me to the promontory. > w I can’t go that way. From here I could go east or up. > u Lantern A great Fresnel-lensed lantern squats on a mechanized platform at the center of this glass-enclosed room. The wind blowing over the harbor whistles through. The circular room continues southwest to the other side of the lantern. Stairs will take me down to the ground floor. > sw Rear of lantern At the south side of the glass-enclosed lantern room, I discover a formidable iron hatch built into the platform the Fresnel lens rotates upon. The open hatch reveals a ladder descending into darkness. Going northwest will circle to the front of the lantern. > d Engine room This rotund basement is scorched black. The thick musk of burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. A great iron pot-bellied engine sits mounted into one wall, with a webwork of contraption and gears sprouting from its head. Blackened metal scraps lie about it like curled patisserie chocolate. A forboding and cramped tunnel runs westward into the earth, partially blocked by a Spanish latticework gate hanging from its hinges. Rows of brick in dried mortar form a line before the opening. A fire-blackened iron ladder leads up the shaft of the light-house to the lantern room. > w I contort myself to squeeze through the opening in the latticework gate, and make my way down the tunnel stooped over… Cellar Although this cramped area undoubtedly once served as the light-house keeper’s wine cellar, such purpose has long since passed. Rags and bedding scattered about indicate someone was using this place for sleep. The ceiling rises here, and a grille window is visible overhead. A raven peers down at me from behind the grille. A message in white chalk has been scratched across one wall. East will return me to the engine room. > decipher message [with the cipher wheel] Which keyword shall I attempt (press Enter to stop trying)? hludwig The cipher wheel cannot rotate fast enough as I work through the cipher using “HLUDWIG” as the key. I come to see the key is the correct one, and I eagerly complete the decipherment: EDGAR WELCOME TO YOUR HELL I BURY YOU AND YOUR REPUTATION [Press any key to continue…] “The children love their game of evens-and-odds, do they not?” It cannot be— “Questions, I see.” An amused Griswold the First grins viciously through the bars of my cell. “Answers, not for thee.” [Press any key to continue…] Griswold the First is clean and dandified—the bearded city-poet I know too well. Griswold the Second—imperious, ill-shaven, dirt about the neck and face. The Second has thieved my suit. Its hems are caked with the mortar he slops about to seal me in. “Odd and Grimm, my twin Reynolds here is.” Griswold the First presses his face against the bars. “Even is Rufus Griswold. Hear that, dear Edgar? Griswold is so very, very even.” [Press any key to continue…] Over the shrieks of the raven, Griswold the First shovels my criticism back at me— “O! Rufus Griswold, the Republic’s penciler of gossamer poesy! The Poetaster Laureate of New York! The plagiarist’s plagiarist!” Reynolds throws a trowel-full of wet mortar onto my face. “Poe will poetry no more. With Poe gone, Grimm & Griswold together shall reach…literary immortality.” Brick by brick, his work continues. My mind halves as the gibbous moon… [Press any key to continue…] The raven cries me awake at dawn. More rations of their wine. My beloved Sarah, lost. Griswold the Second dances about in my coat and trousers. “Look-see at me! Now Reynolds Grimm is the most famous poet in America!” A crash of the Davy lamp at his feet…the smoldering of rags piled before the pot-bellied god…a flame erupts! “Reynolds!” the raven shrieks. “Reynolds!” it cries. “Reynolds!” [Press any key to continue…] I sit awhile to ponder and grieve over what I’ve seen and heard. Through the grille, the radiance of the day cools to moonlight, and it is time to go. Cellar The raven has flown off. Beyond the grille window, the pale yellow moon hangs in the sky. A message in white chalk has been scratched across one wall. East will return me to the engine room. > i I am carrying a singed gibusa tobacco leafa cipher wheela whiskey vouchera wine bottlea notea journala tunic (with an empty pocket)a wanted postera letter > e Hunched over, I make my way down the tunnel to the engine room… Engine room This rotund basement is scorched black. The thick musk of burnt fuel oil hangs in the air. A great iron pot-bellied engine sits mounted into one wall, with a webwork of contraption and gears sprouting from its head. Blackened metal scraps lie about it like curled patisserie chocolate. A forboding and cramped tunnel runs westward into the earth, partially blocked by a Spanish latticework gate hanging from its hinges. Rows of brick in dried mortar form a line before the opening. A fire-blackened iron ladder leads up the shaft of the light-house to the lantern room. > u I hurry across the lantern room and rush down the staircase. Out of the light- house I emerge to stumble across the rocky promontory, now bathed in moonlight… Promontory The calm Patapsco River carries a fog through the nighttime air that shrouds the gibbous moon. It’s a quiet night on the Patapsco, and the solitude carries with it a weighty loneliness. The wind blows a crumpled sheet of newsprint to my feet. North will lead me away from this foul place. > x sheet An obituary for Edgar Allan Poe consumes most of the page. It opens: EDGAR ALLAN POE is dead. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it. Followed by this falsehood: He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayers, (never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned)…with a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms; and all night, with drenched garments and arms wildly beating the winds and rains, he would speak as if to spirits… And this: He was little better than a carping grammarian. The obituary is signed “Ludwig.” Griswold has done it. This obituary will be reprinted across the English- speaking world. It will bury Poe’s reputation, just as Griswold said he would. > n With palpable dread in the back of my throat, I make for Poe’s room at the hospital. I find the good doctor seated at the foot of the bed, a drink in hand. Poe’s mouth hangs open. His head lolls to one side. “His final moments were peaceful,” Moran says. Two fresh roses accompany the now-wilting one. An uncorked cognac stands beside the bouquet. A clean medicinal glass waits beside the bottle. “A unique mind has left this world.” The doctor flicks his glass of cognac with a finger, making it ring out. “I will mourn this loss as I deem proper, hospital regulations be damned.” I pour myself a grim cognac. We gaze upon a body now bereft of the vibrant imagination which once animated it, and animated the world. “You told me you came to Baltimore on a personal inquiry,” the doctor says. “Have you resolved that matter?” Indeed, I have, and yet, I have not… [Press any key to continue…] January 19th, 2024: Sixth Floor Both timepieces are chiming… “What’s the book say?” You peer down at the cover. “It’s titled Out of Whack.” This book represents renewed respect—new invitations to speak—new chances to be interviewed by journals like The Paris Review and Ploughshares. Mostly, it represents the cultural capital that comes with publication, the name recognition and prestige, the social media followers and the attention that comes with them. “Remember what Belyle’s contract said about Balance,” your other says. “Only one of us will remain when the time is up.” Walking out the door is to return to a life of mediocrity—a life of settling for less. Or, it might mean losing your life so your other may achieve new heights with this book. Taking the book, then, could mean a return to fame and success…or, it could mean your existence is cancelled out when your other bolts for the door. “Tough decision, isn’t it?” your other says, interrupting your train of thought. > n A devilish thought flashes through your mind: It’s the first out the door that survives. Balance will be restored, but only you will live to write about it. You can be Literary and Famous. The insistent chimes of both timepieces continue to sound off. You rush for the exit. Your other rushes for it too—he’s intent on being the first out the door. Of course he makes the same choice. You finish each other’s sentences, you have the same cravings, you face the same dread. He is you. In the bustle, your bodies touch, sending electrical sparks all directions around you both. From behind you comes a white flash—a feathery cushion of scalding wind lifts you off your feet and carries you through the door and down the hallway. You are propelled as a hummingbird demon might glide over a field… [Press any key to continue…] I always saw myself as an honest person. Do unto others, and all that. I used to think, “At least I can look at myself in the mirror each morning.” And then one morning, I couldn’t. Reception Walking wounded throng the hospital reception. The front desk is mobbed. The hospital’s main entrance is north, leading outside to fresh air and sunlight. The arterial corridors into the hospital begin to the east. Inspector Dennings stands before you. He snaps his fingers under your nose. “You alright? Looks like the medication is kicking in.” “I…spaced off.” “The question is about your travel plans,” he says carefully. “The way you packed doesn’t look like a ‘spur of the moment’ urge to travel abroad.” You could tell him about Mr. Belyle, or your double. Or even try to explain what happened… > explain After you rapidly tell Dennings the story, from the first meeting with Mr. Belyle to your rushed attempt at an exit plan, a palpable weight is released. The burden of a six-year secret was far more intense than you realized. Dennings, though, is unimpressed. “Belyle was your agent?” “Not exactly. More like a—” “You expect me to believe all of this…carnage was the work of one man?” He slaps the notepad against his palm. “If you know something about what went down at that skyscraper today, you better come clean.” A baby starts crying somewhere in the admitting area, and is quieted with some shushing. > tell him about skyscraper You start to tell him about what went down at the skyscraper—trying to think of some detail to sound helpful—but you realize there’s nothing you can tell him to change his mind. > z Time passes. > i You are wearing a wristband, and carrying a timepiece and a crutch. Inspector Dennings’ cell phone rings. He answers it with, “That was quick.” He repeats “Uh-huh…uh-huh…” into it for the better part of a minute before hanging up. “It was an acetylene accident,” he says. “Workers didn’t properly store the stuff.” He nods toward the north exit. “We don’t need to keep you any longer. You’re free to go.” “That’s it?” “For now. We’ll need you to answer more questions later.” Dennings stops you before you get far. “There is one more thing.” He sheepishly produces a paperback from his coat pocket. “Would you mind signing this?” Drained, you glare down on it—it’s a copy of Dead on Arrival, your other’s book. You didn’t think you could feel any more empty today. > yes You feel vaguely dirty signing your other’s book, cowardly claiming someone else’s compromises as your own. Dennings nods a sour thanks, apparently mustering all his energies to produce this meager note of gratitude. He leaves you and returns to taking statements from the wounded lined up at the front desk. > n You’re getting used to the crutch now. Slow and steady. You wade against the tide of wounded flowing into the hospital… On the taxi ride home, a report comes over the radio: “This morning in Baltimore, the mysterious figure known as the ‘Poe Toaster’ left his annual memorial for Edgar Allan Poe, who was born this day in 1809. For nearly a century, the Poe Toaster has placed a bottle of cognac and three roses on the famed writer’s grave before dawn. The identities of the gift- givers have never been revealed, but notes accompanying the gifts are usually signed ‘Theophilus.’ In money news, markets were rocked this morning by reports of an explosion in the Financial District of downtown…” [Press any key to continue…] Writing Home at last. You set aside your crutch and hunker down into the chair before your computer. It’s time to write. That’s what you do, after all. You’re a novelist. You stare at the computer waiting to type…a story? A poem? Your next great novel? > x computer Mr. Belyle sent you this computer six years ago, the day after you made that decision in his office. “With compliments,” the gift tag read. “To a fruitful career in the letters!” The computer is on and running. The keyboard beckons. > write What do you want to write? > novel I don’t understand that command. > write novel You set your fingers on the keyboard’s home row. The words are supposed to come naturally, as though by shortwave, like an old-time psychic transcribing messages from the dead. It’s inconceivable—you’ve been through a horrific, deadly day. Any writer worth their salt could spin your inside knowledge of these events into gold. Yet, you fail to fabricate a measly sentence or trite phrase to open with. What did Belyle get out of all of this? He got you to stir the pot, and he collected a morgue full of dead bodies as trophies. The curse of mediocrity has returned. It’s like it was before that fateful day in Belyle’s office, when you desperately craved to write a novel. No, you desperately craved publication—to be lauded and praised. The writing was always a means to an end. Hands on the keys, you stop waiting and start thinking. An idea peeks its nose up. One by one, you wrestle out the opening words of what might become a novel… *** * *** Would you like to RESTART the story, UNDO the last move, see the CREDITS, RESTORE a saved position, list the CLUES you gathered, read about this game's SOURCES, see the author's BIBLIO (bibliography), or QUIT? > Thanks for playing Under the Cognomen of Edgar Allan Poe.