Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) in conversation with Stan Rogal
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes! — it writhes! — with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
— from: The Conqueror Worm
The phone rang and I checked to see who might be calling. I didn’t recognize the number on the screen and decided to answer anyway. Probably a scam, but, who knows? Maybe someone to tell me that a hitherto unknown relative of mine had died in a Himalayan mountain retreat leaving me a substantial fortune. Or maybe a publisher having discovered a dusty manuscript of mine at the bottom of a long-forgotten pile, circa mid-1980’s, wondering, perhaps, if it was still available (yes, it is, along with…)? Or not. The voice — female, pressured — was, as well, unfamiliar, though heavily accented, clearly somewhere Southeast Asian in nature: Chinese, Vietnamese, Taiwanese, Filipino, of that ilk. I was unsure, precisely. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and I asked what she was calling about. She informed me that there was a ghost haunting the second floor of her business establishment, The Pour Boy, a pub on Manning Street, in the heart of Koreatown, just west of The Annex. When I inquired why she had contacted me about this issue, she said because the ghost had told her — when she had been brave enough to climb the stairs to seek answers — that his name was Edgar Allan Poe, and that a regular at the pub, himself a poet, informed her that I was familiar with such appearances and was even considered somewhat of an expert in communicating with said resurrected spirits, and that I may be able assist in some way, as the ghost had been causing great disturbance the past two nights among the staff and customers with his antics, not the least of which were lengthy episodes of mournful moaning and groaning, never mind his demand for bottles of cognac to be set outside his door on a recurring basis. I said that my specialty was interviews, not exorcisms, but I would be happy to see what I could do, if anything. As reassurance, I added that the intruder was likely just a street person seeking shelter, or, at worst, a further sad victim of the present mental illness crisis, and someone off their meds in a florid state of derangement. She thanked me for my insights, said that all sounded fine, but it really didn’t explain staff and customers witnessing bar lights flashing, glasses floating in the air, and chairs being pulled away as they tried to sit.
Point made, I said, and grabbed my backpack. I figured I’d walk the twenty minutes to the pub, for the exercise, and to gather my thoughts, which were many and diverse.
It was a cool, clear, October night. In fact — the coin suddenly dropped — it was October 7, 2024, precisely 175 years since the mysterious death of Edgar Allan Poe, whose ghost was believed to haunt the second floor of The Horse You Came In On Saloon in Baltimore, notably the last place he was seen before being discovered wandering the streets in a state of confused delirium. Now he’d perhaps reappeared at The Pour Boy pub, “Pour Boy” being a mere slant rhyme away from “Poe Boy.” Coincidence? I began to think maybe not.
The outside of the pub was covered with a garish painted mural containing two huge portraits of who, at a quick glance, may have been Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix, though the likenesses were less than accurate. I’d been to the pub once before, a laid-back sort of place with a funky summer patio and an inexpensive wide-ranging menu, culturally speaking — noodles to burgers to tacos — checking it out to see if the second floor would be a suitable venue for a fringe play or a poetry reading. For whatever reason, I never went back.
I approached the bar and introduced myself. The owner/manager was signalled and she greeted me enthusiastically, thanking me and explaining again the need to resolve her problem. She led me to the stairwell, handed me a bottle of cognac and two clean glasses, told me to go up, knock on the door, and talk sense to the man. Or the ghost. Whatever. He can’t stay here, she repeated, it can’t go on. She gently nudged me forward with a firm hand as she spoke. I nodded and made my way to the upper landing. As I raised my fist to knock, I was reminded of the opening lines of Poe’s famous poem, “The Raven.”
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I
pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door —
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door —
Only
this and nothing more.”
“Some visitor,” I thought. Right. And for what suspicious purpose had I come tapping? Too late to think about that, I decided, and knocked three times. A voice inside called out: Friend or foe? I replied: I have cognac. The voice said: Enter, friend. And so I did.
The room was thick with smoke, along with the unmistakable skunky odour of marijuana. Through the haze I could spot the man stretched out on a worn sofa chair, his hands crossed over his chest, holding a glass, his feet resting on a milk crate, two other milk crates stacked beside him used as an end table upon which was perched an almost empty cognac bottle, an ashtray, a Bic lighter, rolling papers, a plastic bag of what I supposed must’ve been weed, and several rolled joints. He told me to pull up a chair. There were several of the foldable type scattered around the room. I grabbed the nearest and placed myself next to him. The air was stifling. I coughed, set the glasses on the crate, cracked the bottle’s seal, unscrewed the lid and poured. Poe squinted curiously and asked who I was and why I was here. I told him I was a reporter, heard he was in town, and hoped I could impose upon him for an interview. I have no objections, he replied, so long as you’re buying. Besides, he added, it’ll give me someone — a colleague, if you will, a compatriot, as I was once in the newspaper business myself — with whom to share some notions I’ve been struggling with.
I took out my recorder and placed it beside the ashtray. What’s that gadget, he asked? A machine that will record our voices, I answered, so I can listen again later to our conversation. He laughed, ha, what a world of wonders! I hit the button. He exchanged his empty glass for a full one. To your health, he said, and we drank.
Stan Rogal: So, what brings you to our fair city?
Edgar Allen Poe: Yes. (He took a sharp breath through his nose and clenched his lips). A rather curious and remarkable series of events, I must confess, the original intent having altered somewhat in the course of things. I hope you’ll bear with me. (His head twitched and he swept a hand across his face, as if to brush away a cobweb).
SR: You have my undivided attention. Go on.
EAP: Well, it happens that I was summoned from beyond the grave by an elderly couple who hoped I’d be able to assist them in solving a puzzle. That is, to decipher a cryptogram that once belonged to the pirate, Olivier Levasseur — nicknamed “The Buzzard” due to his violent and blood-thirsty acts — which purportedly would provide the location to his long-lost buried treasure. The couple, I should explain, had less interest in the actual treasure than in the puzzle itself, as it has remained a mystery since Levasseur’s execution in 1730. The original cryptogram was carved onto a necklace which he threw to the crowd from the gallows. It was later copied onto parchment, and so on, surviving through the ages.
SR: What sparked the couple’s interest, if it wasn’t the treasure?
EAP: Coincidence, really. The wife works as a librarian. Someone approached her for information on the subject, which she provided, after which she went home and related the encounter to her husband. Both were intrigued by the story, especially as the 17-line cryptogram code had already been successfully recognized by experts to be a simple pigpen cipher — frequently used by the Knights Templar and Freemasons — and deciphered, first into the original French, then translated into English. You’d think that would be enough, problem solved! Unfortunately, such was not the case, and there seemed to be another step or two that needed to be taken, as both translations made absolutely no grammatical sense and read as gibberish. (He abruptly tilted his head upward, gazed intently at the ceiling, then ducked his head, grimaced, moaned woefully, and clapped his hands to his ears, careful not to spill a drop of cognac. After a few seconds, he relaxed, smiled, and continued with his story). As a mere side note, the woman mentioned to her husband that someone recently claimed to have discovered an addendum to the cryptogram that, when deciphered, had been deemed grammatically correct, though still a riddle. This discovery has since been regarded as totally fraudulent for reasons you yourself may perceive. The note read: “A good drink in the Bishop’s Hostel in the Devil’s Seat 46 Degrees 6 minutes 2 times. For the person who will discover it, July 1730.”
SR: The words to that description do sound awfully familiar.
EAP: Aha, yes, and so they should! The husband thought so as well. He teaches early American literature at the university, including works by me, and was reminded of my story, “The Gold Bug,” wherein a cryptogram is employed, and once broken, directions to Captain Kidd’s treasure are contained in the passage: “A good glass in the bishop’s hostel in the devil’s seat — twenty-one degrees and thirteen minutes — northeast and by north — main branch seventh limb east side — shoot from the left eye of the death’s head.” He recognized the passage straightaway and also remembered that I had a talent for solving such puzzles.
SR: As I recall, after the success of your story, you even offered a reward in your newspaper if anyone could stump you with a cryptogram.
EAP: True. It was quite a popular contest. One which I never lost. (He wagged a finger at the cognac bottle and held out his glass). Don’t be shy with the pour. Yourself as well. (He grinned and drank). It turned out that the couple were also aficionados of all things occult, and decided to attempt to conjure me by means of an incantation, including lighted candles, burning incense, magic talismans, and so on. At any rate, and to make a long story short, they succeeded, and I appeared in their living room, much to their total surprise and delight. They poured me a cognac, aware that it was my drink of choice, ushered me outside to their heated veranda, lit up several — what they referred to as “home-grown” — marijuana cigarettes, and explained the situation to me, asking me to join them in their quest. I quickly agreed and asked to see what information they had so far gathered. Which wasn’t much, as I mentioned, the bulk of the work having already been completed by others over decades and having arrived at a dead end. I realized at once that I’d have to apply my powers of ratiocination if I wanted to progress further.
SR: Ratiocination, yes, the process of exact thinking or reasoning, or a reasoned train of thought.
EAP: Precisely.
SR: You bestowed this attribute — along with thought reading, problem unraveling, and cryptography — to your character William Legrand in “The Gold Bug,” as well as to C. Auguste Dupin, from “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” fame, Dupin being a reclusive amateur crime solver and poet who smokes a meerschaum pipe — foreshadowing a later literary character, Sherlock Holmes — thus popularizing, if not creating, the detective story genre.
EAP: You’re too kind, but thank you. (He raised his eyes and began to flail at the air around his face with a hand).
SR: Is there a problem? (I did a casual study of the area and saw nothing out of the ordinary).
EAP: Bats. They won’t leave me in peace. (He took a final swat, then lit up a joint).
SR: (I decided to ignore his concern and chalk it up to his earlier delirium, around the time of his death). You mentioned that you were staying with this older couple. What happened? How did you arrive here? In this room?
EAP: (He sucked deeply, exhaled, took a shot of cognac). Patience, please. All will be explained. (He coughed and licked his lips). As I said, I knew that if I was to solve the puzzle, I’d need to approach the matter differently. I re-analyzed the evidence from the beginning and a thought gradually occurred to me. The cryptogram had been carved onto a necklace, likely crudely and compactly, then copied by someone else onto a parchment. This roughness of production and re-production may, of course, have accounted for some of the non-sensical grammar. But, there must be something else I was missing. The little grey cells were getting quite a workout, I can tell you. Then, aha, it struck me! The person copying the cryptogram would have done so regarding it straight on, whereas — since the necklace hung from the neck — if Levasseur wished to study the message himself, quickly, efficiently, he would have raised the necklace thus. (He used a hand to cup the imaginary necklace and lift it toward his eyes). Now the message is reversed, bottom and top, side to side. You understand? It remained a pigpen cipher, but a different group of letters were produced, letters that were still in need of identifying as individual words, since they all ran together, without spaces or punctuation. It was obvious that I had to further employ a template in order to frame and illuminate the final message. A template that surely would have been available to Levasseur at the time.
SR: And did you succeed?
EAP: Oh, yes, I did. It was one of a fairly common number of templates used to decipher such cryptograms.
SR: You deciphered the directions to the treasure?
EAP: Um, sadly, no. It appears that Levasseur has the last laugh. The message is not a treasure map, but a poem, a rondeau, in fact.
SR: A rondeau? You said that the cryptogram was a 17-line message. Doesn’t a rondeau consist of fifteen lines?
EAP: As a general rule, yes. And it is just so here. By using the template, I deduced that the first two lines are the title, followed by three stanzas: a quintet, a quatrain, and a sestet, each line composed of ten syllables.
SR: I gather that the poem has nothing to do with a treasure?
EAP: Hardly. That is, unless one’s idea of treasure is discovering three lusty milkmaids with large bosoms and little clothing, frolicking in the hayloft with the vicar’s young son. It’s a dirty poem. Filthy, in fact. Quite explicit and salacious. With lewd descriptions of body parts and how they might serve to provide base, sexual satisfaction. Meant as an amusement, I would guess, for Levasseur, nothing more. He may even have written it himself, I wouldn’t doubt, since the craftmanship was that flagrant and ham-fisted. (He took another hit and passed the joint to me. I obliged, allowing my imagination to ramble a bit within the hayloft scene).
SR: How did the old couple take it? When you told them? Were they disappointed, or did they have a good laugh? (I had the idea from Poe’s description that this couple was sort of well-heeled, well-educated, left-wing liberal, free-spirited, post-hippie or New Age pot heads who would probably get a kick out of his discovery and celebrate by cracking open a bottle of the good stuff).
EAP: As it happens, by the time I completed my analysis, the couple was fully fast asleep or past out on the couch; contented smiles on their faces. I thought to wake them, then decided against it, thinking there was one other puzzle I wished to pursue.
SR: That being?
EAP: As part of my discussion with the couple, the topic of my demise was broached, whereupon I learned that the cause of my death — as well as the events leading up to it — are, even to this day, shrouded in mystery. I mean, look at me, you must have noticed. (He threw his arms out to his sides, joint in one hand, cognac in the other, offering the full reveal. In truth, I had noticed, how could I not? Plus, I was aware of photos and descriptions from my earlier studies of the man. In place of his usual well-tailored suit of black wool, he was clad in a thin and sleazy sack-cloth coat, ripped more or less at several of its seams, faded and soiled; a pair of badly worn, badly fitting gabardine pants; a pair of worn-out, unpolished shoes; an ill-fitting shirt, crumpled and soiled, and a tattered and ribbonless straw hat. He bore a close resemblance to the scarecrow out of “The Wizard of Oz.”). I decided I wanted to solve my own murder, if indeed, I was murdered, which seems most plausible.
SR: (I thought, well, this is certainly a plot within the realm — and worthy of — an Edgar Allan Poe story). Intriguing. And so?
EAP: And so, I left a note of explanation for the couple, availed myself of their promise of hospitality by packing up a bag of marijuana along with the necessary papers and lighter, and stole out into the street until I came across this establishment, where I thought I might find reasonable lodgings within which to apply myself to the task at hand. Unhappily, I’m unable to remember much of what transpired in my last days alive. Perhaps, if you were to share with me your familiarity with the theories surrounding, it might trigger something.
SR: Uh-huh. Okay. What do you remember?
EAP: I was on my way by train to New York in order to raise money for my magazine venture. Somehow, I got on the wrong train somewhere along the route and returned to Baltimore. I remember being unwell at the time, and writing to my mother to let her know. After that, things are foggy, or worse, a blank.
SR: That’s it, then? Nothing more? (I gazed at him and rocked my head side to side). Okay. One theory is that you were suffering from cholera.
EAP: Yes, that’s true. I contracted it in Philadelphia several weeks prior. I was prescribed opium to help with the dysentery. (He swatted madly at the air, shook his head, and lit up another joint). The couple’s marijuana is a fortuitous replacement. (He washed the smoke down with a large sip of cognac).
SR: Uh-huh. The cholera and the opium may explain your delirium. (Poe removed his hat and used it to thrash at the empty air. He let out a moan). It was also thought that you might have been suffering from rabies.
EAP: (He clutched the hat to his shoulder). That’s entirely possible, as I had been bitten by a bat, which caused me several weeks of pain and discomfort, including fever and nightmares. (He returned the hat to his head). And the beasts don’t appear done with me yet.
SR: Right. It’s also said that you’d been drinking and reeked of alcohol when you were found. Also that you were spotted drinking with some men at The Horse You Came In On Saloon the night before you were found wandering the streets.
EAP: That doesn’t seem possible. As part of my pre-nuptial agreement with my fiancé, Elmira Shelton, I agreed to stop drinking. I even joined the Sons of Temperance.
SR: But you kept smoking opium?
EAP: (He cocked his head and smiled broadly). Medicine. Doctor’s orders.
SR: I see. Well, it may be that you were already confused and wandered into the bar by accident. Or, perhaps dragged there. Elmira’s brothers had issues with you, is that correct? They were against a marriage between you and her. Even threatened you if you came near her?
EAP: Yes, a pair of ignorant no-necked uncouth louts. I mean, if brains were gunpowder the pair wouldn’t have enough to blow their nose.
SR: Uh-huh. Perhaps it was them in the bar with you, feeding you drinks and later beating you up in an alleyway.
EAP: But why would they dress me in these ill-fitting clothes? (He took short rapid puffs of the fat joint).
SR: (I shrugged). To put you in your place, maybe? To embarrass you? Or maybe you were robbed by someone else after they abandoned you, and the thieves stole your clothes and dressed you in rags. Maybe. Then there’s the popular notion that you were cooped — the practice of abducting, beating, and drugging a stranger in order to drag them from one polling place to the next to vote multiple times — yes?
EAP: Hm, yes. There was an election going on at the time. And the saloon was used as a polling station, where I was familiar to the staff and would be recognized if I was wearing my own clothes. It makes some sense. (Again, he scrunched his face, hunched his head between his shoulders, covered his ears, and moaned. I took the joint from between his fingers, took a hit, and squashed the butt in the ashtray. He shook his head and relaxed).
SR: Other speculations about the cause of death include delirium tremens, epilepsy, syphilis, meningeal inflammation, carbon monoxide poisoning, mercury poisoning, tuberculosis — highly possible, since your wife died of the disease a year earlier, you were exposed to it — and heart disease, any of which can be due to, or exacerbated by, excessive drug and alcohol use, or the sudden withdrawal of said products, other infections, physical abuse, acute depression — which you were known to be suffering from for years — and so on.
EAP: So… what you’re suggesting as a viable possibility, is some combination of any, or all of the above, which is interesting, but not actually helpful in determining the exact circumstances of my death. Anything else?
SR: (I made a face, not even sure I wanted to add this to the already large mix). You were reported to repeat the name “Reynolds” during your stay in the hospital.
EAP: Reynolds? Reynolds? I don’t recall knowing anyone named Reynolds. Not even remotely. It gets curiouser and curiouser, rather than clearer. It’s obvious I’ll need to give the matter more clinical thought. (I poured more cognac and we drank in silence).
SR: About that…
EAP: Yes? What?
SR: The owner of the pub is concerned, frightened, even, over your recent antics, and behaviours. And even your presence here.
EAP: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
SR: Downstairs, customers and staff have noticed lights flashing, glasses floating in the air, chairs moving on their own.
EAP: And they believe it’s me causing these phenomena?
SR: It started when you arrived. Tell me, do you suffer from blackouts?
EAP: I believe so, yes.
SR: It may be that during these blackouts that you somehow cause these events to happen. And as for the loud moaning? Well, I’ve witnessed that myself, here, emanating from you. Then, of course, there’s the demand for cognac, which is a big expense to endure for a small business.
EAP: It’s true, as a visitor, I’ve behaved shamefully. If I’m to stay, I need to earn my keep, it’s only fair. I know, perhaps I could arrange with the management to perform a number of poetry readings wherein I charge an admission fee. These were quite popular and successful for me when I was alive.
SR: Yes, well, times have changed somewhat, I’m afraid, and the likelihood of anyone willing to attend, never mind pay to attend, a poetry reading, is little to none, even when given by the ghost of Edgar Allan Poe.
EAP: Ah, I see. Well, then… (He contracted his body, covered his ears, squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth in order not to let out a moan).
SR: What is it? (I leaned in to him). What are you hearing?
EAP: The bells, the bells. Can’t you hear them? They haunt me with their incessant clanging. You must be able to hear them. I can’t think when they ring like this. And I need to think. (He took a breath, then another, then leaned back into the sofa). They’ve stopped. (He twisted his head and gave me a solemn look). I need to rest, I think, and consider my next steps. (He lit another joint).
SR: I understand. (I stopped the recorder and slipped it into my backpack. For a split second, I wondered what I was going to tell the owner downstairs, then I noticed that Poe was, quite literally, fading. In fact, I could see the smoke swirling in his lungs. I raised my glass to him, finished the contents, set the glass on the crate). Good-bye. And good luck. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help.
He gave me a small wave and I left him there, tangled within his own infamous ratiocinations. By the time I reached the door and gave a final glance over my shoulder, he was nothing but the faintest outline. A shame, I thought, that not only couldn’t he solve the riddle of his initial death, but he’d also be unaware of slipping away into this one. Though maybe it was for the best. As Poe himself put it in “The Premature Burial”: “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”
Who, indeed?
Meanwhile, Poe had left me with an earworm that I couldn’t shake loose. It was his poem, “The Bells”: “Yet the ear it fully knows, / By the twanging, / And the clanging, / How the danger ebbs and flows; / Yet the ear distinctly tells, / In the jangling, / And the wrangling. / How the danger sinks and swells, / By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — / Of the bells — / Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, / Bells, bells, bells / In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!”
The poem in itself, I judged, was capable of driving any sane person mad.
I stopped downstairs to relay the news. In appreciation, the owner offered me a glass of wine at the bar. As I raised the glass to my lips. A shudder ran up my spine as the pub lights suddenly flickered off. Everyone held their breath, then gave an uncomfortable laugh as the lights came back on. One last hurrah.
Salut, Poe, I thought to myself. Salut, and so long.
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist
partner Jacquie Jacobs. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous
magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of
chapbooks, a 13th poetry collection was published in March 2025 with ecw press.
Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub
Reading Series.
