Once Upon a Midnight Eerie: Book #2 (Misadventures of Edgar/Allan) by Gordon McAlpine Page A
Authors: Gordon McAlpine
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overheard lamb bleats, donkey brays, dog barks, and elephant trumpeting. But a mere five minutes after getting his desk set up to his liking, Mr. Poe was visited by, of all things, a pair of human beings.
Specifically, a gracious husband and wife.
Their apparel suggested they’d died in the first decades of Poe’s own nineteenth century. Then he recognized them from his nephews’ recent cemetery adventure.
“May we have a moment of your time?” the gentleman asked.
Mr. Poe stood and extended his hand. “Monsieur and Madame Du Valier, I presume?”
Clarence bowed; Genevieve curtseyed.
“We came to commend your excellent nephews, who represent your family so honorably down on earth,” Genevieve said.
“We wouldn’t be here without them,” Clarence added.
“Here?” Mr. Poe asked, confused. “In the Animal Languages Division?”
“Oh, no,” Clarence said, chuckling. “We’re not writers . . . or, um, animals. No, we’re going to be running the inn a million or so floors upstairs. Good food and spirits.”
“And in honor of your family, we’re going to rename our split pea soup,” Genevieve said.
Mr. Poe narrowed his eyes questioningly.
“Split Poe.” Clarence beamed.
“Isn’t it remarkable how changing just one letter can make such a difference?” Genevieve observed.
“Yeah, great,” Mr. Poe murmured, recalling the many times that one changed letter had scrambled the meaning of communiqués he’d smuggled down to his great-great-great-great grandnephews. “But thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Poe fell asleep with his head on his desk, having despaired of ever finding a way to communicate with his grandnephews using only the grunts of pigs or the clicking of dolphins.
In a dream, he found himself in a book-lined chamber, the setting of his most famous poem, “The Raven.” He heard a tapping at the moonlit window. When he opened the shutters, a raven flew inside, perching on a sculpture of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Oddly, the dreaming Mr. Poe did not associate any of this with his poem but with real life. So when he asked the raven if he would ever find a way to help his grandnephews, and the raven replied, “Nevermore,” it disturbed Mr. Poe so much that he woke up in a sweat.
Opening his eyes, he looked around his cubicle.
That’s when he saw a real raven perched on the cubicle divider.
He couldn’t stop himself from asking the same question that had tortured him in the dream. “Can I still be of help to my grandnephews?”
“Evermore!” the raven replied, before flying off to the other side of the Animal Languages Division.
Mr. Poe sighed in relief.
He had hope yet of warning Edgar and Allan that they were still not out of danger.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, my thanks to those who generously shared their talents with Edgar, Allan, and me. First, to my whip-smart editor, Sharyn November and my ever-insightful agent, Kelly Sonnack—you both went above and beyond the call of duty to help me find this story. To Sam Zuppardi and Eileen Savage, whose lively art and design infuse the book with delights. And much gratitude to Arte Johnson for literally giving voice to my words.
Also, thanks to my teachers, from elementary school through university, particularly Marie Dannenbring, Thomas Halleen, Anthony Corradino, Joseph Bell, Oakley Hall, Don Heiney, and Tom Massey—you are all in these pages (even if some of you have moved on to the celestial skyscraper to hang out with Mr. Poe).
Finally, thanks to my inspiring sons, Jonathan, Shane, and Harlan. And to my wife, Julie, whose love makes fictional flights of fancy seem ordinary by comparison. —G.M.
Thanks firstly to Gordon, for writing all the words, and to my fantastic agent, Kelly, for having had the bright idea to match my pictures with them. To Sharyn, Nancy, Eileen, and the whole team at Viking, who brought everything together so brilliantly—and sent me transatlantic cookies!
To my
Specifically, a gracious husband and wife.
Their apparel suggested they’d died in the first decades of Poe’s own nineteenth century. Then he recognized them from his nephews’ recent cemetery adventure.
“May we have a moment of your time?” the gentleman asked.
Mr. Poe stood and extended his hand. “Monsieur and Madame Du Valier, I presume?”
Clarence bowed; Genevieve curtseyed.
“We came to commend your excellent nephews, who represent your family so honorably down on earth,” Genevieve said.
“We wouldn’t be here without them,” Clarence added.
“Here?” Mr. Poe asked, confused. “In the Animal Languages Division?”
“Oh, no,” Clarence said, chuckling. “We’re not writers . . . or, um, animals. No, we’re going to be running the inn a million or so floors upstairs. Good food and spirits.”
“And in honor of your family, we’re going to rename our split pea soup,” Genevieve said.
Mr. Poe narrowed his eyes questioningly.
“Split Poe.” Clarence beamed.
“Isn’t it remarkable how changing just one letter can make such a difference?” Genevieve observed.
“Yeah, great,” Mr. Poe murmured, recalling the many times that one changed letter had scrambled the meaning of communiqués he’d smuggled down to his great-great-great-great grandnephews. “But thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Poe fell asleep with his head on his desk, having despaired of ever finding a way to communicate with his grandnephews using only the grunts of pigs or the clicking of dolphins.
In a dream, he found himself in a book-lined chamber, the setting of his most famous poem, “The Raven.” He heard a tapping at the moonlit window. When he opened the shutters, a raven flew inside, perching on a sculpture of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. Oddly, the dreaming Mr. Poe did not associate any of this with his poem but with real life. So when he asked the raven if he would ever find a way to help his grandnephews, and the raven replied, “Nevermore,” it disturbed Mr. Poe so much that he woke up in a sweat.
Opening his eyes, he looked around his cubicle.
That’s when he saw a real raven perched on the cubicle divider.
He couldn’t stop himself from asking the same question that had tortured him in the dream. “Can I still be of help to my grandnephews?”
“Evermore!” the raven replied, before flying off to the other side of the Animal Languages Division.
Mr. Poe sighed in relief.
He had hope yet of warning Edgar and Allan that they were still not out of danger.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, my thanks to those who generously shared their talents with Edgar, Allan, and me. First, to my whip-smart editor, Sharyn November and my ever-insightful agent, Kelly Sonnack—you both went above and beyond the call of duty to help me find this story. To Sam Zuppardi and Eileen Savage, whose lively art and design infuse the book with delights. And much gratitude to Arte Johnson for literally giving voice to my words.
Also, thanks to my teachers, from elementary school through university, particularly Marie Dannenbring, Thomas Halleen, Anthony Corradino, Joseph Bell, Oakley Hall, Don Heiney, and Tom Massey—you are all in these pages (even if some of you have moved on to the celestial skyscraper to hang out with Mr. Poe).
Finally, thanks to my inspiring sons, Jonathan, Shane, and Harlan. And to my wife, Julie, whose love makes fictional flights of fancy seem ordinary by comparison. —G.M.
Thanks firstly to Gordon, for writing all the words, and to my fantastic agent, Kelly, for having had the bright idea to match my pictures with them. To Sharyn, Nancy, Eileen, and the whole team at Viking, who brought everything together so brilliantly—and sent me transatlantic cookies!
To my
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