It was silent, silent as a morgue. Thick fog drifted through the bitter morning air, the morning of January 19, 1949. The raw chill ate at my flesh, even through the swirl of black fabric that cloaked my body.

I drew close to the grave, keeping my eyes on its ornate, white surface. Edgar Allan Poe, It read at the foot.

I bowed my head, partly to obscure my face from any unwanted onlookers, and partly out of reverence for the poet whose body lay below me in the frigid grasp of death.

I couldn’t begin to dream of all the literature that was buried with him. Not solid literature, nothing we could feel, but what had died along with Edgar, what was sealed in his mind. Poe’s mind, the mind of a genius, his greatest tool, and at the same time the malignant device that tore him from the human world. It took him to a nightmare fantasy derived from the madness that infested his being. In my belief, his world became nothing short of hell, images were twisted into gruesome murder scenes and simple words became death wishes.

And yet he seemed to thrive in his sick imagination, his greatest works came from none other then this place that he had retreated to.

He was in no way sane, he was in no way healthy, he was in no way safe, but I admire him.

Willing or unwilling he gave up what could have been a normal life, a good life, and dedicated it to his talent.

So I placed the three roses, the color of blood, and the half full bottle of cognac in honor of a raving lunatic, a demented madman, and the greatest artist that has every been known.

And in doing so I continued the memory of Edgar Allan Poe, and began the mystery of The Poe Toaster.