Here’s one of the short stories that will be included in my next book, “The Looming Darkness: Vol 1”.

Virginia and the Quill

As he eyed the chipped glass in his hand, the last sip of whiskey in the bottom tilting with the glass, he contemplated going home. His house was cold and empty now that he was alone. Not that the Baltimore tavern was much warmer, at least as far as feelings go. The glow of the hearth might keep the temperature from dropping too low, but there was no friendliness in the faces around him. A writer in a rundown tavern full of laborers fit about as well as a weed among the cobblestones outside in the rundown street. They worked hard for their earnings, in the mills and warehouses, while he sat at a desk, parchment and ink well at hand, to earn his keep. Even his clothes separated him from the average customer, his suit finely tailored, and once upon a time would have made him appear to be a gentleman. Now with the fraying cuffs of his coat, the threadbare patches in his pants, and the stains on his shirt reflecting his carelessness, he looked out of place anywhere besides maybe an alley or gutter.

His unkempt mustache and hair made it clear he was beyond caring about his appearance. Draining the glass of the weak amber liquid, he set it down hard on the table, reaching for the bottle. Its heft was light, and he knew it was empty. Looking at it with gaunt, hollow eyes, he contemplated trying to get the tavern keeper to give him another. He studied the bottle, as if he could simply write it back to being full, when the barkeeper approached the table.

“You want another, Ed?” The barkeeper scowled at him, knowing this man already owed him for the last three glasses and would likely not have the coin to cover it for at least several days. “No…I think I should wait…for now…” Ed replied slowly, slurring his words, expecting the barkeeper to throw him out if he pushed his luck on asking for more credit. Rubbing his ink stained fingers together to warm them, he hoped to avoid the cold walk home for a bit longer. The winter chill crept up through the warped floorboards in the tavern already, indicating the outside was much, much colder. “Good,” the barkeeper scowled, “as your tab had better be paid before you think of asking for another drink.”

Waving off the barkeeper, Ed knew he was going to have to get some money coming in. It had been weeks since he had written anything, and the advance on his next two stories had almost run out. Every time he looked at the parchment, his mind would drift to his losses in life, his creativity swallowed up by his constant depressive state. Every time he would try to focus on his writing, his thoughts would drift to her. Her voice, that once lifted his mood every time he heard it. How her face would light up whenever she smiled…even as she lay on her deathbed, wracked with fever. He’d remember the last words she spoke, before she was gone. “Write for me, my love…” And ever since hearing those words, he would try to write for her, and nothing came. Now there was just a void, an emptiness in his soul, that swallowed up his happiness, his thoughts, his very will to live.

The barkeeper, squinting at Ed, collected the empty bottle and glass. “Well, don’t be hogging a table if paying customers come in.” Ed knew exactly what he meant. If he wasn’t spending money, he wasn’t welcome. Sighing, Ed rubbed his hands together, contemplating walking out into the frigid night and walking until he collapsed somewhere. He couldn’t stay at the tavern, and he really didn’t want to face the ghosts of his happiness back at his family’s home. At least if he let the cold take him, he could just let go of everything, let himself drift off in the cold, ending the cruel nightmare he endured.

It had been months since Ed had the desire to write anything. The loss of Virginia still fresh in his mind, his wife laying on her deathbed, coughing up blood, feverish. Without realizing it, she had been his motivation to write, to make her proud of his success. Now that she was gone, the writing stopped, and along with it, the money. The newspapers and magazines only paid for new stories, not for the drunken escape of a broken writer.

“Barkeeper…a bottle…and two glasses.” The strange voice stirred Ed’s interest, and he drunkenly looked up to see if it was some acquaintance he knew taking pity upon him. The tall, lean owner of the voice, with pale skin and long black hair, was nobody he knew. Thinking the stranger wanted the table, Ed reached for his thin, worn gloves, mumbling apologies. The stranger placed his hand on Ed’s shoulder, steadying him on the chair. “No, my friend…stay, have a drink with me.” Uncertain of the stranger’s intent, yet unwilling to turn down more of the watery whiskey the barkeeper would bring, Ed settled back in his chair, looking at the stranger.

“Thank you, good sir…” Ed looked closely at the stranger’s face through a drunken haze, still trying to figure out if he knew him. The stranger’s eyes watched him, a slight smile on his face, his manicured mustache curving up at the ends. “You’re very welcome. I can tell you are a man with a reason to drink, just as I am a man willing to supply it.” Ed wasn’t sure, but the stranger’s eyes seemed to have a glow to them, a fire burning inside not unlike the tavern’s hearth. The barkeeper returned with a fresh bottle and two glasses. “He still owes me for three drinks earlier” he muttered, hoping to squeeze as much coin out of this transaction as possible. The stranger handed him several coins, the barkeeper’s face lighting up. “I believe this should cover it” the stranger said to the barkeeper dismissively.

Ed watched anxiously as the stranger poured two glasses, gratefully accepting the one offered. Taking a large sip, he could feel the burning liquid flow down his throat, distracting his mind from the loss of his beloved. The stranger smiled as he watched the shell of this man as he drank the liquid amber fire, his eyes closed as if to escape the world. “Feeling better?” the stranger asked, as Ed finished his glass. Swaying in his seat, Ed looked at the stranger. “What is your name, good sir? So I know who to thank on my tombstone.” Ed laughed awkwardly, his dark joke falling flat in his drunken state.

The stranger smiled, his eyes lighting up. ”I’m Reynolds…Addicus Reynolds. And you are the famous author and poet I’ve read so often in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine, among others. That’s why I came to sit with you, as I am a fan of your work.” Smiling broadly, Reynolds offered to pour another drink, which Ed accepted gratefully. “So tell me, Ed, why have you stopped writing? I have seen nothing of your work since Mellonta Tauta. Has your passion died with your loss?”

Staring off into space, Ed nodded slowly. “After Virginia…I have found nothing to stir my creative juices, as if I have become nothing.” His face turning somber, Reynolds leaned in close. “I understand…and I might have a solution.” Reaching into his cloak, Reynolds produced a quill holder, its leather delicately carved in a series of helical spiral patterns. “Sometimes, all a writer needs to continue their work is a new pen.” He slid the quill out of its holster, the feathering dark with an iridescent sheen. The nib was in perfect shape, appearing to have never been used.

His gaze caught by the quill in his new friend’s hand, Ed was mesmerized. He reached for it, holding it delicately in his hand, and in his mind he remembered the words of his beloved. “Write for me…” Shaking his head in disbelief, Ed carefully handed the quill back to Reynolds. “That is a beautiful implement…I couldn’t afford such a fine instrument.” He looked at Reynolds, his eyes sad, and glanced longingly back at the quill.

Placing the quill back into its elaborately decorated holster, Reynolds pushed it slowly across the table to Ed. “No, my friend…it’s a gift. To help you continue your considerable work. Your writing has a way of creating fear and terror in your readers, and when they share your stories, then more people want to read your work. I would like to see you do more, so please, take this gift, and continue your work. If for nothing else, then for Virginia…”

Hearing her name, Ed shivered. The atmosphere of the tavern hadn’t exactly been pleasant before, but now the air hung like a smokey fog, clinging to his skin and clothes. He wanted to write again, for his beloved. He wanted to make her happy, see her smile at least once more, though he knew it wasn’t possible. He nodded slowly, as if in a trance, taking the quill holder gently, as if it was the embodiment of Virginia he held in his hands. “I will…for Virginia…” His voice trailed off, caught in his throat, as he held back the tears that welled up in his eyes. Wiping the moisture from his face with the back of his hand, he looked at Reynolds. “And you have no use for a pen?”

Chuckling lightly, Reynolds took a sip from his glass. “I usually only write the occasional contract, maybe a letter here or there. I won’t use this nearly as much as you will. Your work has such promise, so much potential. It would be a waste to not help you continue.” Looking at the intricate designs on the quill holder, Ed paused for a moment before speaking. “Thank you. I will be leaving Baltimore tomorrow, heading back to my home in Fordham. There, I will put this quill to paper, and continue my work. I will make Virginia proud of me once again.” He looked back up at Reynolds, his eyes bleary with exhaustion and drink. “How can I repay you for such kindness?”

Tilting his head back to finish his glass, Reynolds poured them both another. “Just keep sharing and spreading the darkness in your heart. Give your readers what they want, the haunting horrors that make them afraid of every creak and groan as they lay in their bed at night. Society has become soft, fooling themselves with stories that are full of hope and promise. There is no fear to drive them, no horrors to push them to search for something better. Complacency is the destroyer of progress.” They toasted Ed’s continued work, continuing their talk and consumption into the night.

Several days later, sitting in his Fordham cottage, Ed sat at his writing desk, the quill holder resting on the wooden top. Looking at the paper in front of him, his inkwell at the ready, he tried to draw inspiration of where to begin. He needed to get something, anything written to get himself back into the flow of his passion, yet nothing came to him. He opened the quill holder and slowly pulled out the quill, inspecting it, as if it would start dragging itself across the paper on its own. “Write for me…” He heard Virginia’s words in his mind, almost as if she was whispering in his ear. “Write for me…” This time, it sounded almost as if she was in the room with him, and he imagined her smile, her eyes bright with excitement, waiting to see what he’d create. Closing his eyes, he cleared his mind, conjuring his next work, waiting to see what would spring forth from the darkness in his own heart.

After a few minutes, he opened his eyes, ready to start. He was startled when he saw there were several pages already filled. He looked over the script, and it was clear the writing was his own. While not the dark story he was planning, it still was something he could turn in for the advance he had received. The title, Landor’s Cottage, was simple yet direct. The short story was reminiscent of his beloved, tranquil and beautiful in its descriptiveness. As he read through the pages, a soft smile came to his face as he thought of what Virginia would say about it.

“One was an elm of fine size and exquisite form: it stood guard over the southern gate of the vale. Another was a hickory, much larger than the elm, and altogether a much finer tree, although both were exceedingly beautiful…” He could almost hear the words in her voice, her face enchanted with happiness as she read aloud about the beauty and serenity the words described.

Happy with the thought of his lost love’s approval, Ed realized this work was exactly what his publisher wanted. Quickly bundling the story together, as if it would fade into obscurity if he wasn’t fast enough, he hurried off to his publisher, hoping to maintain his reputation as a writer a bit longer.

After his publisher was happy to have received something from the advance he had paid, Ed’s mind was energized for the first time in months. He paid some of his debts, and made sure to have what he needed in his little cottage so he could focus on writing. That night, he dreamt of his beloved, and he caressed her cheek as she smiled. They walked slowly through the dreamworld of his latest work, enjoying the peaceful path, taking in the beauty. It was as if they shared the best day of their lives, sharing in the support and affection they shared for one another. When he woke, he felt a great happiness for the dream, tinged with a mild sadness that he had awoken.

After a few days of taking care of business, Ed sat down to write again. He sat at his writing desk, the iridescent quill between his fingers, but his mind was consumed by Rufus Griswold. He couldn’t get the words of his literary rival out of his mind, referring to his work as “the drunken ramblings of a depraved, drug-addled maniac”. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, trying to focus, yet all he could think of was angry, revenge filled ideas of how he wanted to make Griswold pay for his verbal and written attacks. Shaking his head, trying to focus on the task at hand, Ed was surprised to see how once again the papers in front of him were filled. He read through the pages, surprised to see that it was indeed his handwriting. Yet this story was more like his famous works, dark, filled with haunting descriptions and a sense of the macabre. Smiling, Ed admired how the quill seemed to take his innermost feelings and bring them to life in mere minutes, capturing the very emotions he harbored in his soul.

“I believe the name ‘Hop-Frog’ was not that given to the dwarf by his sponsors at baptism, but it was conferred upon him, by general consent of the several ministers, on account of his inability to walk as other men do. In fact, Hop-Frog could only get along by a sort of interjectional gait — something between a leap and a wriggle — a movement that afforded illimitable amusement, and of course consolation, to the king, for (notwithstanding the protuberance of his stomach and a constitutional swelling of the head) the king, by his whole court, was accounted a capital figure.” Reading through the work, Ed could feel a similarity between the dwarf in the story and himself, with Griswold being the king in the story. Reading through to the end, where the dwarf kills the king by burning him alive, he smiled with a dark sense of satisfaction, as if he had done the same to his literary rival.

“Write for me…” The words seemed to come from the quill this time, even though the voice was Virginia’s. Except it was…darker, somehow. “Write for me…” More of a demanding, insistent tone. Ed felt the darkness within him swirling, his anger, loss, frustrations, all boiling together. He dropped the quill onto his writing desk, almost throwing it, as if to cast it away from him. As soon as the quill left his grasp, the darkness calmed, sinking slowly in his soul.

Stepping back from the writing desk, Ed was confused, uncertain of what had happened. He wondered if he had simply imagined it, if he was simply overwhelmed at the moment. He left the pages of this story sitting on his writing desk, grabbing his coat and heading out the door. In his mind, he deserved a drink after making progress, and tried to ignore that he also wanted one to calm his nerves.

Hours later, the night dark and cold, Ed returned to the cottage, stumbling and staggering. He struck a match to light a candle, walking through the darkened rooms to the bedroom, the smells of the tavern carried in with him. He barely had taken off his coat and shoes before he passed out on his bed in a drunken stupor.

As he slept, Ed dreamed of Virgina, her eyes bright and her smile warm. She sat at the piano in the living room, looking at him. She started playing the piano softly, the notes filling the room, sunlight streaming in through the windows. He smiled, closing his eyes while he listened, feeling the warmth coming from both the summer day and the soft, beautiful melody played by his beloved.

He felt a shadow pass in front of him, sending a shiver through him. The music stopped, and he opened his eyes. The room was empty, the light turned grey, as if all of the color was drawn from the room. He looked around for his wife, panic starting to set in, when he heard a dreadful noise from the bedroom. It was the familiar cough, the one that always carried blood, the same cough that Virginia made for months before she died. Ed slowly turned his head towards the darkened bedroom, hearing the cough again.

“Ed…did you…write for me…?” Virginia’s voice, weakened from fever, faintly called out from the darkened interior of the doorway. Ed slowly stepped forward, not wanting to face the truth again, his face ashen with the thought of watching his beloved suffering. He reached the doorway, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dark interior, barely able to make out the bed. The figure on the bed reached up with a weak, feeble hand, stretching out to him, seeking comfort. He crept closer, apprehensive to touch the feverish limb, yet also not wanting to deny what was once his vibrant young wife. Reaching out tentatively, his eyes still adjusting to the gloom, he felt his fingers make contact. The figure bolted upright, its face contorted in fever, the skin slick with sweat, the once full lips stained with the blood from each cough. “Did you write for me?” It demanded an answer, the voice darker, deeper, no longer the happy, loving voice of his beloved. This voice demanded, insisted, almost with a note of anger and disappointment. This wasn’t the Virginia he remembered and loved. This was a distorted facade, preying upon his emotions for its own dark desires.

Ed gasped and sat up in his bed, sunlight barely making its way through the clouds, into his window. The grey overcast sky accurately reflected how Ed felt, as he stumbled, his head pounding, to the kitchen to fetch the kettle. He stoked the fire in the hearth, hanging the kettle above it, and sat in a chair, holding his aching head. He could barely recall the dream he had the previous night, and the aching thumping in his temples told him he had more than his share of drink at the tavern. Loosening his cravat, he leaned back in the chair to watch the flames in the hearth.

“Write for me…” The faint whisper could have passed for wind whistling, yet it still gave Ed pause. Sitting stock still, trying to avoid making any noise, he listed, his ears straining to hear the words again.

“Write for me…” The heavy, whispered words were louder this time, and more insistent. He looked around frantically, trying to find somebody in the small room, something to explain where he heard the voice come from. “Who’s there? Show yourself!” He cried out, jumping up from his chair, expecting to find someone or something hiding. He spun around, frantically searching the room, only to find he was alone.

“Write for me…” He would hear it clearly now, coming from his writing desk. The same voice from his nightmare, a deep, dark, almost growling timbre. Approaching the desk slowly, reaching out a tentative hand as if he would feel an invisible person, he touched the desk. His fingers trailed along the surface, feeling the smooth wood under them, until they rested upon the iridescent black quill.

“Write for me…” The words echoed through his head, demanding, insistent, and he jerked his hand back as if he’s been burned. Trembling with apprehension, he slowly reached for the quill, the fear on his face turning to horror as he touched it. The dark thoughts of his imagination flared, spinning his mind into a kaleidoscope of macabre images, stories he’d yet to put to paper. He resisted the thoughts, stuffing them back down, trying to maintain control. “No…I will not continue spinning this darkness out unto the world…there is more to life than the horrors we face or imagine.”

“Write for me…” The quill twitched in his fingers, as if threatening to take on a life of its own. Looking at the paper in front of him, Ed felt a draw, a compulsion, to let the quill do his work, no matter how he felt. He slowly brought the quill up to the inkwell, preparing for the script he felt he had to scribe. Bringing his hand slowly to the paper, his will weakening as the quill drew closer, he heard something else, something different from the whisper, that paused his shaking hand.

“Ed…write what is in your heart…write about love, loss, and beauty…” He looked up, the visage of his beloved Virginia standing at the piano. Tears began to stream from his eyes as he saw her smile, her eyes full of adoration. “You always supported me…believed in me…even when I didn’t believe in myself…” He sobbed, watching as she faded, her smile burning in his memory.

“Write for me…” The quill called to him, coaxing his will to its own, the whisper loud and seductively demanding, promising him wealth and fame in return for bringing the darkest of his work to life. The vision of Virginia fresh in his mind, her desire for him to bring beauty and life into the world with his craft, overwhelmed his feelings of self pity, causing Ed to reply to the dark voice pressuring him. “No…I will not write for you…I will write for her!” Resisting the call of the quill, ignoring its macabre demands, he focused on Virginia, writing what he would feel proud to have her read.

The days turned into weeks, then into months. The quill demanded work from Ed, to the point of constant distraction. Whenever he tried to write, even with a different quill, the voice would pester, becoming a constant fight to maintain control. It was months before Ed could finish anything of his own efforts, the quill imposing its desires upon him without remorse. On several occasions, he’d woken to find himself sitting at the writer’s desk, quill in hand, freshly scribed pages scattered about. These stories were much more than the simple macabre he’d written in the past. They were explicit, vile, so grotesque, that he was immediately compelled to dispatch the pages in the hearth.

It wasn’t long before Ed was afraid to sleep. His nightworld became a haunting infusion of a twisted remnant of his beloved and the most horrible forms of torture and death imaginable. He soon found the only way he could get any kind of rest was to drink until he couldn’t dream. This, along with the voice from the quill haunting his waking moments, began to take a severe toll on his health, and many people started questioning his health. As the months crawled on, he became more reclusive, rarely venturing from his Fordham cottage unless absolutely necessary.

By the following fall, even his publisher avoided him as much as possible, fearing the illness or madness Ed presented may be communicable. He gave Ed advances, telling him not to worry about bringing his work in until he had several at least, figuring it would buy him several months at least without having to face the hollow, haunted face of the broken writer.

Griswold was more than happy to take advantage of Ed’s state, writing numerous pieces against him. The long time literary rival even began to make up fanciful notions as to what led to Ed’s decline, from being one to not turn down the ladies of the night, to discovering a desire for any new form of deprecation he could find. Griswold didn’t care about what was true, only about tearing down one of the greatest writers he had seen. His own efforts paled in comparison to the notoriety Ed’s work had claimed.

None of this was barely noticed by Ed. His world had become so much more insufferable after receiving the quill, yet he wouldn’t yield to its call. Everytime his thoughts turned to giving up, letting the quill have its way, Virginia came to mind. She was always there, in his heart, supporting him with words of kindness, to do what he knew to be right. Because of this, Ed’s determination grew, just as his physical and mental health declined.

The winter chill blew through Baltimore early that year. The tavern was fairly busy as always, the sour smell of sweat and spilled beer the same as it had been for years. The barkeeper was rinsing the glasses when Ed stumbled through the door, looking sickly and unkempt. He watched as Ed stumbled through the tavern, looking frantically through the faces of the many workers imbibing. Several men became irritated that this pathetic little fancy man was interrupting their conversations, thinking he was going to beg for their drinks. As they stood up menacingly, the barkeeper rushed around to the table, roughly grabbing Ed by the shoulder and pulling him away.

“I don’t want no trouble here tonight!” The barkeeper loudly proclaimed, dragging Ed backwards towards the bar. Flailing his arms helplessly, Ed stumbled backwards, slamming into the bar and knocking over a stool. He turned to face the barkeeper, his face a mixture of confusion and frantic energy.

“Do you remember me? I was in here about a year ago, drinking at that table right over there.” Ed points to one of the tables, emphasizing his gesture wildly. “Another man joined me, and he paid for a bottle. Do you remember him? Have you seen him?”

The barkeeper, annoyed, leaned in close, speaking low yet menacingly. “No, I don’t, and I don’t want you going around bugging my customers. So if you’re drinking, you can order a drink and stay, as long as you stay quiet. But if you’re going to cause trouble, I’ll be throwing you out of here quick and fast, you got that?”

Nodding quietly, Ed settled onto a stool, ordering a whiskey. His eyes were bloodshot, sunken into the pallor of his face. He sipped his whiskey, nervously looking around, as if he was expecting someone. The barkeeper snorted derisively, returning to his busy work of keeping customer’s glasses filled.

As the night grew late, the number of patrons began to reduce, until there were only Ed and a few others. Disheartened, Ed decided to finish his current glass of the watery amber liquor. As he rose from the stool, scanning the nearly empty tavern one last time, his eyes caught a familiar face in the corner. Slowly, unsteadily, Ed walked over, uncertain if he was really seeing Reynolds, sitting in the dark corner, holding his own glass. Ed approached tentatively, taking a seat across from him without asking.

Ed slowly removed the intricately carved leather quill holder from his pocket, placing it on the table in front of his. “Take it back…give me back what this has taken from me.” He slid the black leather case across the table to the man who gave it to him in the first place. Reaching forward, his black leather gloved hand resting on the case, Reynolds slowly picked it up, looking it over.

“Did it not serve you? Did it fail to bring your stories to life?” Reynolds asked, knowing full and well exactly what the quill had done. “You see, it wasn’t a problem with the quill not giving you what you asked for. You didn’t give the quill what it asked for…Mr. Poe. Had you simply done what it wanted, you would have been rich and famous now, instead of struggling to sell your work and sitting there so…weak and sickly.”

Looking at the man across from him with manic confusion, Ed leaned forward. “No…I..I..I couldn’t give it what it wanted…I couldn’t betray my beloved, my own soul, to feed the darkness it craved. I just want my life back.” Ed stood up, realizing this conversation would be pointless, and made his way to the tavern door. He looked back one last time at the very place he had sought to escape his life in a bottle so many times. He shook his head, pulled his coat tight around him, and stepped out into the dark, cold night.