The Halloween Project 2025 – Story 8: Henry and Edgar

”Let’s do this. You and I. A pact of a sort. It will send a message to our friends, and to our enemies. To the world.”

”Edgar, you’re mad, but with a madness that bears thoughtful consideration. How long have we known each other? But going on six months. I enjoy our letters and shared insights. Our occasional drink and a meal,” Henry motioned with a slight gesture to the almost empty establishment. ”But what good favor that we both ended up here on our respective jaunts, readings, and lectures. And of course, writing. Here in Baltimore, in October, the air fragrant with the dying leaves. The autumn upon us.“

Poe gestured to the barkeep, “Two more brandies with eggnog, my good man. Make it three. They go down fast.” The bartender nodded and placed three glasses on the bar.

”Do you think you might have had enough already, Edgar? We’ve been here for a good portion of the evening. Look, it’s past ten.”

”Ah, but the conversation has been sublime. I don’t want the evening to end. I never want the evening to end. And my room…it’s…cold. Small. Quiet. I try to find the voices, but…” he trailed off.

”Poe, you are a genius. I know that the literary establishment has not treated you fairly. But look at me! We’re cut from the same cloth. My writings have found almost no audience. But you have been published throughout the Eastern seaboard.”

”To no avail,” Poe replied, “I have virtually no money. My benefactors, publishers, and mentors have abandoned me. “And”, he barely gathered himself, “my wife is dead. These 18 months now. Consumption dragged her from me and she is lost to this world.”

”I know, my friend, I am so sorry. What a loss you’ve had to bear. It’s unconscionable,” Thoreau consoled.

”So come with me!” Poe came alive, “Take this journey into the unknown. This darkness beyond the pale. This world that calls to us every moment that we live. The mystery, the shadow, the darkness. Come with me! We will be partners!”

”Edgar, Edgar. Calm yourself. I am eight years older than you and have taken up my life to chronicle the inner world accompanied by nature. The thoughtful exploration of life and its cycles, in human nature and the natural world.”

”Exactly Henry! That’s quite right! And cycles, all of them, come to an end or return to a beginning. We just don’t know. Let us try to find out?”

Three fresh brandies with eggnog were placed before them. Poe took one, downed it, pushed one to Thoreau, then addressed the bartender, “Sir, if you please, The Green Fairy? Do you have the same?”

”Only for special customers,” the elderly man replied in a tired tone, “Can you pay?” Poe glanced across at Thoreau, “Can we pay?” he asked.

”Absinthe? On top of all this?” Thoreau questioned, then turned, “Yes, we can pay.” The bartender returned to his station, preparing the drink.

”What say you, Henry? The world will take notice. Everyone in the literary universe will be taken aback. They will read every word we’ve ever written. Looking for clues, Searching our minds. Imagine the attention! The notoriety!”

”The death,” Henry said, his head downcast, ‘Our own deaths, a double suicide? Think on it. What will people say? What will be our final legacy?”

”Henry, listen carefully. This act, this act of self-denial. An act of pure selflessness as a gesture to the world, this act is our legacy. And, if you are worried about legacy, remember that only the rich and powerful get to write that story.”

”I know you are just toying with me with this outrageous proposal. You’re testing another story idea, that’s what it is. Suicide. You’d never go through with it. You’re afraid of violence! And blood! It’s just not in you.”

”It is, I swear it is,” Poe replied

”No. It’s not. It’s beyond you, save for your affinity for macabre literature. I understand. I truly do. Life is hard, gets harder, and then spins out of control. And you’re gone. But therein lies its beauty. It is our responsibility to act in good conscience and good heart. I cannot join you in this hopeless endeavor. I am sorry Edgar.”

Poe leaned back in his chair, head to the ceiling. He gestured to the barkeep, who brought over the absinthe, lit the balanced spoon on fire, and stepped back. Poe’s face gleamed in the orange flickers. Eyes bright echoes. He smiled as warmly as a sad face allows.

”Thank you, Henry. Thank you for your time, your ideas, your strength of inner knowledge. You have always been a good friend,” and he raised his glass and nodded. Thoreau lifted his nog and returned both the nod and the smile.

”And Poe,” Thoreau began, “All of life is like a boat’s journey. Rough seas and winds attack us throughout the years from all directions. We do our best to make shore, to trim the sails, to find the best passage. But it is hard, I agree with you.” Thoreau raised his glass once again, “But what I’d like to say is ‘My hope for you is that now comes good sailing.’”

Poe mirrored Thoreau with his glass and said simply, “Lord, help my poor soul.”

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