The Lost Lenore
"I can't believe how expensive housing has gotten in the city!" Kent Mulliner exclaimed as he thumbed through the real estate listings of the Sunday paper.
"Maybe we should look for a place in the suburbs," Shannon, his wife of two years, suggested.
"I'd rather not commute, if at all possible. Besides, when you take into account the cost of gas, tolls and wear and tear on the car, we wouldn't be saving that much money."
"Then let's talk to a realtor. Maybe we'll get lucky and find a good bargain."
The couple made an appointment with Hadley Croghan, whose agency was part of a well-known nationwide chain.
"Where are you folks from?" the agent asked after ushering the Mulliners into his office.
"Northeast Pennsylvania," Kent replied. "I'm getting transferred here, and my wife and I need to find a place to live."
"And what were you looking for? A condo? A single-family house? An apartment?"
"A house would be nice," Shannon answered. "We're hoping to start a family in another year or two."
"So, we're looking at three bedrooms, right?"
"Yes."
"And what's your budget?"
Hadley pursed his lips when Kent told him how much money they had to spend. There was very little in that price range except for fixer-uppers.
"There are a few places I can show you, but they all need work."
After seeing the last of the "handyman's specials," Shannon was discouraged. All the houses they had seen so far required major renovations, not simple cosmetic alterations. She did not feel comfortable about making an offer on any one of them.
"The Dutch colonial wasn't bad for the price," Kent said when they stopped at a diner for something to eat on the way back to their hotel.
"It needed a whole new heating system and who knows what else. I don't want to get stuck with a money pit."
Like many young couples embarking on their journey in life together, the Mulliners decided to start off small and hopefully trade up when their financial situation improved. They were considering a one-bedroom apartment when Hadley Croghan phoned to let them know of a house that had just come on the market.
"It's got three bedrooms, two baths, a full basement, off-street parking and, best of all, it's move-in ready."
When Kent learned the asking price was fifteen thousand below their budget, he was skeptical.
"What's the catch?"
"It's in the Maplewood neighborhood."
Despite its pleasant name, Maplewood was notorious. Even people from Pennsylvania had heard horror stories about the amount of crime in that area.
"No thanks. I don't want a meth dealer for a neighbor."
"It's not that bad anymore. During the past decade, there have been a lot of ongoing urban renewal projects. Developers have cleared out nearly all the undesirable elements and cleaned the place up. It's now one of the nicest neighborhoods in the city. Unfortunately, it has yet to shake its bad reputation."
"I don't know ...."
"Come take a look at the place. What have you got to lose?"
* * *
"This is not how I imagined Maplewood would look," Shannon said, taking note of the well-kept houses, shops and restaurants they passed along the way.
"This is the street," the realtor announced as he turned the corner onto a cul-de-sac. "And the house is the last one on the right."
"What's with all the trees up ahead?" Kent asked. "Is that a city park?"
"No," Hadley replied as he pulled into the driveway of a newly remodeled two-story Victorian. "It's a cemetery."
"A cemetery?" Shannon echoed with a look of distaste on her pretty face.
"Yes. That's another reason why the asking price is so low," the agent admitted.
"The house definitely has curb appeal," Kent observed.
"I'm sure you'll find the interior just as nice," the realtor said as he unlocked the front door.
Unlike the other houses they had visited, this one was empty. There was no furniture, no carpets on the floor and no curtains on the windows. As he led the Mulliners through each of the rooms, Croghan listed the recent improvements that had been made.
"The hardwood floors throughout have been refinished. Heating, plumbing and electrical systems have all been replaced within the last five years. The roof is only a year old. Both bathrooms and the kitchen were remodeled. By the way, the refrigerator and all other appliances you see come with the house as do the washer and dryer in the basement."
"That'll save us some money," Kent pointed out.
His wife, however, remained silent. She had not spoken a word since entering the house.
"I suppose you'll want to think it over," Hadley said when the tour came to an end. "But I wouldn't take too much time if I were you. At this low asking price, the place is going to get snapped up quickly."
"Just give us a minute, will you?" Kent asked and pulled his wife off to the side.
"This house is a steal! I think we should make an offer right now before anyone else sees it."
"But it's next to a cemetery!" Shannon cried. "A huge one at that!"
"So?"
"I don't want to live next door to dead bodies."
"Why not? I hear the dead make good neighbors. They won't be having any loud parties, no arguments at two in the morning, no dogs barking, no kids."
"Very funny. I don't want to live next to a cemetery. I'd never be able to sleep at night."
"You're being ridiculous. The dead can't hurt you. It's the living we have to fear."
"I know I'm being foolish, but you know how I am about horror films, ghost stories and those Halloween haunted houses."
"Yeah, you're a chicken."
"Can you imagine what living next to a graveyard might do to me? All that has to happen is we have a thunderstorm and the power goes out. I'll be a basket case! And if you have to work late and leave me home alone at night ...."
"I get it," Kent said, his voice laden with disappointment. "I suppose we'll just have to settle for an apartment then."
Oddly enough, when he turned to the realtor to announce their decision not to buy the house, Shannon abruptly changed her mind.
"We'd like to make an offer," she declared, taking her husband by complete surprise.
"We would?" he asked, dumbfounded.
The following day the couple heard back from Hadley Croghan. The seller had accepted their offer; the house was theirs.
* * *
"That was the last of the boxes. Thank God!" Shannon exclaimed after unpacking her books and putting them on the shelf in the living room.
"We've only been here a week, and the place already feels like home," her husband said. "Now, admit it. Aren't you glad we bought the house?"
"Yes. I just wish I could sleep through the night without having those disturbing dreams."
"What exactly are they about?"
"Honestly? I don't know. I can't remember them once I wake up."
Now that everything was unpacked, Kent suggested they go out to celebrate.
"Can we afford it?" his wife asked. "We have a mortgage now, not to mention our credit cards are maxed after buying furniture."
"We're not going out for lobster or filet mignon. I'm talking about getting burgers at the luncheonette down the street."
"Sounds good to me. It'll save me having to cook."
While walking home after their meal, Kent had an idea that might help his wife sleep better at night. As they neared their house, he took her arm and led her past their walkway.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"We're going to take a walk through the cemetery. Hopefully, you'll find there's nothing frightening about it."
"Not in daylight, no. But at night, it's a different story."
"There's nothing there in the night that isn't there in the day."
Since the entrance to the cemetery was on the side opposite the cul-de-sac, the couple entered through a break in the iron railing.
"Can I help you folks?" a voice called out to them.
Kent turned and spotted an old man in dusty overalls.
"We just moved into the house next door, and we'd like to explore the cemetery," he answered. "Is that all right?"
"It's a public place, although few people come here anymore. My name is Milo. I'm the caretaker. Even though no one's been buried here in close to forty years, the city likes to maintain the grounds. I mow the grass, rake up the leaves, pick up the garbage and stop kids with spray paint cans from defacing the graves. If you'd like, I can show you around."
"Would you?" Kent asked. "We'd appreciate it."
As they strolled along the paved walkway, admiring the statuary, Milo filled the couple in on the cemetery's history. Opened in the 1850s, the necropolis consisted of fifty-five acres and now held eighty thousand graves.
"Over three hundred Civil War soldiers are buried here," the caretaker announced after they passed a row of dilapidated headstones. "There are also men who fought in the Spanish-American War, both world wars and even Vietnam. Every Memorial Day volunteers mark veterans' graves with flags."
"Why haven't there been any recent burials?" Kent wondered. "There seems to be quite a bit of room left."
"In the Sixties, this whole neighborhood suffered a terrible decline. I'm sure you've heard stories about the crime rate here."
"Who hasn't?"
"This cemetery was a haven for drug dealers, gang members and prostitutes."
"Hookers in the cemetery? Really?"
"I guess they thought they were safer here than on the street corners."
Shannon, who had not said a word since walking through the broken fence, was eager to leave. She never liked cemeteries, and this one, in particular, frightened her.
"See that building over there?" Milo asked, pointing to a tall steeple visible above the trees.
"The church?"
"That's not a church. It's the tower of the gatehouse. That's the main entrance to the cemetery. Of course, the gatehouse is boarded up. And you saw for yourself the condition of the iron fence."
"It seems a shame to let everything go to ruin."
"Most people don't want to see their tax dollars spent on repairing a boneyard," Milo laughed. "But I think the least they can do is replace the old pavement in front of the gatehouse."
"Why? Is it dangerous?"
"It's stained. I don't mean to sound overdramatic, but there's been so much blood spilled on that white pavement that it's turned red."
"What happened?"
"Like I said, this used to be a dangerous place. Right before the city closed the gates in the late Eighties, four gang members were hospitalized after a shoot-out beneath that steeple. Six months later a 22-year-old man was shot to death and left on the gatehouse doorstep. Shortly after that, a 43-year-old was found wrapped in cellophane, burned beyond recognition; and a 15-year-old high school student was shot to death. That same week another body, never identified, was found partially burned."
Kent realized the old man's stories were not having the desired effect on his wife. Rather than allaying her fears, he was making them worse.
"Well, we've certainly appreciated your little tour," he announced. "But we've got to get back home. My wife has been after me to hang our pictures up on the living room wall."
"Can you find your way back to the opening in the fence, or do you want me to show you?"
"I think I remember."
Somewhere along the way, however, the couple took a wrong turn.
"Nothing here looks familiar," Kent said when they came within sight of an elaborate mausoleum. "I think we should have stayed to the right at that last fork in the path."
Shannon smiled wanly and promptly turned around. Suddenly, a unique grave marker caught her attention. She left the paved walkway and crossed the grass. Her husband, seeing the unusual headstone, followed in her footsteps.
More than six feet in height, the limestone memorial was in the shape of a door complete with a nameplate, woodwork, marble doorknob and keyhole. Above the door was a sculpted head, and on top of that a statue of a bird.
"How odd!" Kent exclaimed. "A headstone shaped like a door is strange enough, but to put a head and a crow on top of it is more than strange. It's downright bizarre."
"It's not a crow," Shannon explained. "It's a raven. And it's not strange; it makes perfect sense. Haven't you ever read Poe's poem? 'Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, in there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; but, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ....'"
"You mean Edgar Allan Poe is buried here?"
"No. He's buried in Baltimore. But the person in this grave must have been quite a fan of Poe's. Look at the nameplate on the door, LENORE, and the one word written on the doorjamb, NEVERMORE. Both are references right out of 'The Raven.'"
The engraving on the nearly 150-year-old headstone had worn down, but after scraping away years of moss, Shannon could read the writing. The man buried beneath the stone door was identified as Ambrose Belliers, who died November 1, 1872, at the age of 28.
* * *
"I had the strangest dream last night," Shannon announced Sunday morning when she and her husband sat down to breakfast.
"I thought your nightmares stopped," Kent said.
"It wasn't actually a nightmare. It was just ... weird."
"What was it about?"
"That grave we saw in the cemetery last week, the one you thought belonged to Edgar Allan Poe. I dreamed I found a key, inserted it into the keyhole and opened it."
"How on earth did you open a door made of solid stone?"
"Dreams don't adhere to logic or scientific principles."
"What was on the other side when you opened it?"
"I don't know. I woke up as the door was opening."
Kent swallowed the last of his coffee and went to the stove to refill his cup.
"I'm surprised you didn't dream about the gatehouse," he laughed. "Blood-stained pavement. Burned bodies wrapped in cellophane. Now that's the stuff nightmares are made of."
However, it was the grave of Ambrose Belliers that captured Shannon's imagination. She was so fascinated by it, that once she finished her housekeeping chores, she took her laptop out of the bedroom closet and visited a site called Find A Grave (at findagrave.com). After typing in his name, date of death and the city where the cemetery was located, she found a listing for his burial plot. A one-paragraph biography of the deceased was included. Ambrose Belliers was a well-known artist of his day and a member of a wealthy and socially prominent family. She found it odd that the brief bio did not mention the cause of death, especially since he died at such a young age.
Shannon then googled his name and found thousands of websites devoted to his art. His early work consisted mostly of city street scenes. The people featured in his paintings always seemed happy, from the children at play to the smiling street vendors selling their wares and to the young couples walking hand-in-hand through the park. His later paintings, however, were much darker, not only in color but in atmosphere.
Perhaps he was ill at that point in his career, she thought, and knew he didn't have long to live.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she came upon the artist's last painting. She immediately recognized the steepled gatehouse and the iron fencing as being the entrance to the cemetery that bordered her property. Ambrose Belliers had painted a funeral cortège, complete with a horse-drawn hearse, entering the graveyard through those gates.
Still, none of the websites she visited mentioned what killed the young man.
Back then, it could have been anything. From cancer to the common cold.
"Feel like taking a ride?" Kent asked, interrupting her reading.
"Where to?"
"I have to go to Lowe's to pick up an extension cord."
"I'll go. I'd like to get a spare key made for the front door. You know how often I locked myself out of the house back in Pennsylvania. I don't want to have to call you at work to come home and let me in."
It was roughly one hour later, when the Lowe's associate handed her the finished key, that Shannon Mulliner's life as she knew it came to an abrupt end. The moment her fingertips touched the nickel-plated brass Hillman key, she fell to the floor in a dead faint. Kent dropped his extension cord and ran to her side.
"Are you all right?" he asked as she came to a moment later.
"W-what h-happened?"
"You passed out."
"Should I call an ambulance?" the Lowe's associate asked.
"No. I'll be fine," Shannon answered, getting to her feet. "Oh, wait a second. I almost forgot my key."
She leaned forward to pick it up and felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her.
"I think maybe we should stop at one of those urgent care centers on the way home. I feel lightheaded."
"There's one on Third Street, about four blocks north of here," a young man in a blue Lowe's vest said.
After a brief examination, the physician at the care center could find nothing wrong. He suggested, however, that Shannon see a doctor in the area and have a complete physical.
"I hid your spare key in the planter next to the back door," Kent announced as he sat down to dinner that evening.
Throughout the meal, he kept a watchful eye on his wife, looking for any sign of illness.
"Stop staring at me," she said. "There's nothing wrong."
"I can't help it. I worry about you."
After putting the dinner plates in the dishwasher, Shannon joined her husband on the living room sofa.
"Anything good on?" she asked him, as he surfed through the channels on the television.
"No. Maybe we ought to splurge and get a subscription to Netflix."
They settled on watching a documentary on the Civil War being shown on PBS. It was followed by an episode of Antiques Roadshow.
"Wait! Don't turn that off," Shannon cried as her husband reached for the remote.
"Since when are you interested in antiques?"
Her sudden interest in the program stemmed from the fact that the particular episode was filmed at the Belliers mansion.
"Belliers. Isn't that the name on that gravestone we saw?" Kent asked.
"Yes."
"No wonder he had such an elaborate headstone. Judging from that house, his family must have been loaded."
* * *
The dream Shannon had that night reflected the events of the day. She was walking down a large, formal staircase in what appeared to be an elegant mansion. A handsome young man waited for her at the foot of the stairs.
"Don't forget the key," he said before vanishing into thin air.
She woke with a start, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. But why? It was not a nightmare. She felt no fear, only a sense of longing and loss.
"What are your plans for today?" Kent asked when she joined him for coffee the following morning.
"I've got a job interview."
"That's great! We could definitely use a second income. What kind of job are you hoping to get?"
Although Shannon was an educated woman, her degree in literature did not open many doors to high-paying jobs. She could not even apply for a teaching position since she did not have a license.
"It's a secretarial position. It doesn't pay much, but, hell, it's something."
Kent glanced at his watch and announced, "I gotta go. I don't want to be late. I have a meeting at nine."
At ten o'clock, Shannon was driving across town to her interview. While stopped at a red light—one of many along the route—she saw a sign with an arrow pointing the way to the Belliers mansion, a landmark now open to the public. Although she longed to turn right, she continued along the road. She was far too practical a person to skip a job interview. But as she answered the director of human resources' questions, she was distracted.
That didn't go well, she thought as she left the building. I don't imagine I'll be hearing back from them.
With nothing more to prevent her from visiting the Belliers mansion, Shannon followed the arrow to the house. The exterior was even more impressive in person than it appeared on Antiques Roadshow. The entry fee was cheap, only five dollars.
"The next tour starts in twenty minutes," the woman at the door announced as she handed over a printed ticket. "You can wait in the gift shop. The guide will meet you there."
After looking through a selection of books written about the founding of the Belliers dynasty, the history of their family and the architecture of the house, Shannon was disappointed at not finding what she was looking for.
"Can I help you?" the giftshop's salesclerk asked.
"Yes. I'm interested in learning more about Ambrose Belliers. Do you have any books about him?"
"I'm afraid not."
"That's odd. He was a famous artist in his day."
"True, but he was also, quite frankly, an embarrassment to the family."
Shannon was intrigued. Ever since seeing the Poe-inspired gravestone, she wanted to know more about the young man buried beneath it.
"Oh? Why? Did he live a scandalous life? Was it drugs? Alcohol? Women? Men?"
"None of those. He was a decent young man, and he was engaged to marry the daughter of one of the most respected families in the city."
"Then why was his family embarrassed by him?"
"Well, we don't like to talk about it here, but since you asked," the salesclerk said, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard by the woman selling tickets at the door, "it was his death that upset them. Suicide was cause for social stigma."
"Suicide?"
"Yes. He took his own life after his fiancée died. He was devoted to her, but she slowly wasted away from consumption."
Just like Poe's wife, Virginia, Shannon thought.
"What's your interest in Ambrose Belliers? Are you an admirer of his art?"
"No. I was walking through the cemetery next to my house, and I saw his grave."
"Ah, yes! Before he killed himself, he often walked around this house quoting Poe."
"Really? Is Ambrose's room on the tour?"
"Yes. It's on the second floor. There's a portrait of him above the fireplace. Oh, there's the guide now. Better hurry before the group leaves without you."
Shannon joined the eight senior citizens who followed the guide from room to room, gawking at the expensive décor and envying the Belliers' opulent lifestyle. She politely listened to the guide describe the eighteenth-century antique furnishings, the Aubusson carpets, the Tiffany glassware and the Ming vases. As they ascended the staircase to the second floor, she experienced a strong feeling of déjà vu.
This is the staircase in my dream, she realized. But I never saw it before.
The guide led the group through the master bedroom and two guest rooms before entering the last bedroom at the end of the hall. Although there was no mention of his name, Shannon knew from the collected works of Edgar Allen Poe on the bedside table that it was Ambrose's room. She turned around, and her eyes went to the portrait above the fireplace.
It's him! she thought.
Moments later she experienced a second fainting spell.
* * *
Upon receiving a call at work, Kent Mulliner raced to the hospital emergency room where his wife was taken.
"I understand this isn't the first such occurrence," the doctor said.
"No. She fainted yesterday, too. I took her to an emergency care center, but they didn't find anything wrong."
"I'd like to admit her and run some tests."
"Sure. Can I see her?"
"An orderly is taking her upstairs now. You'll find her in Room 306. Turn left when you get out of the elevator."
"Hey, are you all right?" he asked when he entered his wife's room.
"It was him," she answered.
"Him? Him who? Did someone hurt you?"
"I went to the Belliers mansion."
"I know. That's where the EMTs picked you up. Were you there for a job interview?"
"I wanted to know more about Ambrose Belliers, so I toured the house. He was there. I saw him."
"Honey, he's been dead for almost a hundred and fifty years."
"His portrait was above the fireplace. I knew it was him because I saw him in my dream."
Kent was at a loss for what to say. He was a level-headed man, an engineer, who paid no attention to dreams. Nor did his imagination conjure up images of dead men buried beneath unusual gravestones. It suddenly occurred to him that his wife's sickness might not be physical in nature. Perhaps these fainting spells of hers were brought on by an emotional disorder or mental illness.
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" Shannon asked, reading the expression on her husband's face.
"No, I just think you're a bit ... high-strung. Maybe all the stress of the move has taken a toll on you. Seeing that weird grave didn't help matters any."
Shannon wanted to jump to Ambrose's defense, to explain how the Poe-inspired headstone reflected the young artist's despondency over the loss of his fiancée. But she feared Kent would not understand. He would never kill himself in grief. Rather, he would soldier on through life's hardships and heartbreaks.
"How long are they going to keep me in the hospital?" she asked, changing the subject.
"The doctor told me a couple of days. He wants to run some tests on you."
"Hopefully, I can get some rest while I'm here. You're right about one thing, the stress of the move has gotten to me. I could sleep for a week."
Three days later she was released from the hospital with a clean bill of health.
* * *
The sky was dark, as rainclouds threatened to unleash their fury and strong winds rattled the windows. It was not a day to go outside. With Kent at work, Shannon was alone in the house. As the first drops of rain fell, she poured herself a cup of coffee and opened her laptop. By the time Windows was up and running, the storm intensified into a downpour.
She revisited the websites dedicated to Ambrose Belliers' artwork and examined the illustrations more closely. Knowing what she now did about his life and death, she had a new appreciation for his art. The mood of his paintings clearly reflected his emotional state at the time he created them. The joy of young love could be seen in his earlier works just as the hopelessness and despair of watching a loved one waste away was evident in the later ones.
Since Ambrose died at such an early age, he managed to create fewer than thirty paintings. Thus, most of the websites repeated images found on the others. Shannon was about to shut down her computer when she saw a link to an art museum in her Google results. She clicked on it and found a page dedicated to the artist. The painting above the fireplace in the Belliers mansion, which was identified as a self-portrait, appeared at the top of the page. Beneath it was a short summary of his life and career.
When she scrolled down, she found another image. The caption identified it as a portrait of Eleanor Deschaine, the artist's fiancée, whom he called "Lenore." Upon seeing the painting, Shannon once again fainted, causing the computer to fall off her lap and onto the floor. The face of the woman in the portrait was her own!
In the dream that followed—was it a dream if she was not asleep but passed out?—she was again descending the staircase in the Belliers mansion. She smiled when she saw Ambrose at the bottom, looking up at her.
"Lenore," he said, his voice seeming to caress the name as he spoke it.
With only the bottom two steps separating them, she reached out her hand to him. He stepped back to avoid her touch, and a look of sadness enveloped his handsome face.
"You need to get the key," he said and vanished.
"Key? What key?" she cried, her voice echoing in the empty room.
"What's this about a key?" Kent said, folding up his umbrella and putting it in the stand beside the door.
Her husband's voice brought her back to reality, and she bent and picked up her laptop.
"You said something about a key."
"I must have been talking in my sleep. There was nothing on TV, so I decided to take a nap," Shannon lied. "I didn't realize it was so late, I'd better go and start dinner."
"We can call up and order a pizza if you're tired," Kent suggested, concerned with his wife's wellbeing.
"Why waste the money? We've got DiGiorno in the freezer. I'll just toss it in the oven."
As she waited for the oven to preheat, she made a salad to serve with the frozen pizza. She was amazed that she could perform such mundane tasks while her brain was trying to come to terms with her recent discovery.
I'm Eleanor Deschaine, or at least I was in a past life.
As Shannon was preparing dinner, Kent went through the stack of mail, some of which had gotten wet when he took it out of their mailbox.
"Anything good?" she asked.
"The electric bill," he laughed. "And here's another bank offering to give us a credit card. A catalog from that place where you bought your shoes. What's this? Someone stuck an envelope in our mailbox with no address or stamp, just a first name written across it."
"Is it for you or me?"
"Neither. It's addressed to someone named Eleanor."
"Let me see it," she said, trying not to appear too eager.
"Why? You're not Eleanor," he teased.
She took the envelope from his hand and tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, on which someone wrote YOU NEED TO GET THE KEY.
"What's it say?" Kent asked.
She was spared having to lie again when the oven buzzer went off.
"I've got to put the pizza in."
* * *
Kent lay beside her, softly snoring. She, however, was unable to sleep. The same question replayed in her brain over and over again like a mantra: What key? Despite getting barely an hour's sleep, she woke early the next morning.
"What are you doing up?" Kent asked with surprise when he found her in the kitchen.
"I thought I'd have breakfast with my husband. I'll make us some French toast while you're in the shower."
Could the key be here in this house? she wondered as she added milk and cinnamon to the eggs and beat them. No, what would it be doing here? Surely neither Eleanor nor Ambrose was ever here.
Shannon heard the shower turn off as she dipped the bread slices into the egg mixture.
Where could it be? Maybe the Belliers mansion. But the owners would never let me search the place.
While Kent was getting dressed for work, the toast cooked on the skillet. Shannon placed the butter and syrup on the table and poured two cups of coffee. She was using a spatula to transfer the finished toast to the plates just as her husband walked into the kitchen.
"Perfect timing," she declared, putting the dishes on the table.
As she took her seat, an idea came to her.
"The cemetery!"
"Did you say something, sweetheart?"
"No," she replied, cautioning herself to keep quiet.
But where in the cemetery could it be? Was it hidden somewhere on or near the Poe-inspired headstone?
"Have you heard back from any of those jobs you applied for?" Kent asked, in an attempt to make conversation.
"No, not yet," she answered, wishing her husband would eat and stop talking.
"Well, don't get too discouraged. I'm sure you'll find something."
What I want to find is this mysterious key, but I don't know where it is or what it looks like. Hell, I don't even know what I'm supposed to do with it if I find it!
Somehow, she managed to make it through breakfast without her husband noticing how distracted she was. Once he was out the door, she ran to the bedroom and got dressed. Leaving the dirty breakfast dishes on the table, she walked to the end of the cul-de-sac and entered the cemetery through the damaged fence. Despite the immense size of the property, she had no difficulty locating Ambrose's grave. It was as though an inner GPS were directing her feet.
Shannon knelt in the grass and ran her fingers over the limestone monument. There was no hidden compartment, no nook in which to hide a key. Except for the raven sitting upon the bust of Pallas, the grave marker was a solid piece of stone.
"Where is it?" she cried.
Her eyes were suddenly drawn to the doorknob on the headstone and then to the keyhole beneath it.
"That's what I'm supposed to find. The key to this door."
There was a time when logic would have told her that no key would pierce the limestone lock. However, since seeing the portrait of Eleanor Deschaine, she abandoned all reason in favor of unquestioning faith in her dreams.
"Where do I find the key?" she asked herself once again. "I can't just go to Lowe's and ...."
A chill ran down her spine as though someone laid icy hands on her shoulders.
"The spare key beneath the planter!"
As she ran back toward the opening in the fence, she passed Milo, the cemetery's elderly caretaker. He called out to her, but she paid no attention to him. She was a woman on a mission, and she would let nothing or no one interfere.
"Back again?" the old man asked ten minutes later when he saw Shannon headed in the opposite direction; but again, she ignored him.
There's something odd about that one, he thought and returned to his chores.
For the second time that morning, Shannon fell to her knees in front of the Poe-inspired headstone.
"Here goes nothing," she said and forced the nickel-plated brass Hillman key into the limestone keyhole.
To her amazement, the metal easily penetrated the stone. There was no need to turn it. Once the key was placed in the keyhole, the door began to slowly slide open. There was no grinding or grating sound as the limestone door separated from the frame. In Poe's words, "the silence was unbroken."
Shannon held her breath as the opening slowly grew wider and revealed what was on the other side.
"Lenore! My love. You're here at last."
* * *
Despite a thorough search by the police, Shannon Mulliner was never found. Milo came forward and informed the authorities that he had seen her in the cemetery the day she went missing. Given the history of the place, most people assumed she was a victim of foul play. Nevertheless, Kent, members of law enforcement and civilian volunteers scoured the area, hoping to find her alive.
Although more than two dozen people, including the frantic husband, passed by Ambrose Belliers' grave, no one noticed the subtle changes in the headstone. For one thing, there was a nickel-plated brass Hillman key embedded in the limestone keyhole. For another, the writing on the limestone memorial had changed. The word on the doorjamb no longer read NEVERMORE. The "N" had mysteriously been removed, and it now read EVERMORE.
It was a fitting epitaph to commemorate the long-awaited reunion of Ambrose Belliers and Eleanor Deschaine, "a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
This story was inspired by the grave of Truman F. Betts, MD, in Trenton, New Jersey. Although the raven and the bust of Pallas are now missing, the headstone is as I described it in the story. The cemetery here is patterned after Woodland Cemetery in Newark, New Jersey. The only liberty I took in describing it was to place the crimes back in the '80s. In fact, they are much more recent.
Sorry, Raven. That's not a bust of Pallas you're perching on. It's only Salem.
