E.A.P.

As the wind whipped across the sand, stirring up bits and pieces of broken seashells, the waves crashed against the rocks in the distance. But there was another sound – a strange sound. It wasn’t necessarily strange, but it was strange for my location. It was a sound I’d heard before, but not on a remote Massachusetts beach. It was the sound of pages turning very rapidly in a book. Almost as if someone was looking for something in it. 

It was early. The sun was barely starting to peak over the water’s edge. I knew I was likely the only person on the beach. I looked around and saw no one. Where was the sound coming from? 

The wind slowed but the sound maintained its strength. It sounded like it was coming from a cluster of rocks ahead of me. The rocks were on the blurred line where the sand met the grass, a distance away from the water. 

“How would a book have gotten there,” I wondered out loud. I reached the rocks and there was a makeshift book trapped in the middle of the cluster. The wind could barely seep through the cracks between the rocks, but the pages continued to flutter. It was as if the book was calling me to find it. 

I pulled the “book” from its hiding spot. It was older than I thought. The pages were brown and torn around the edges. It was held together with what looked like twine or string going down the “spine” of the book. The words were faded but handwritten in beautiful cursive. The top page had no title, just the letters “E.A.P.” signed across the middle of the page.  

Trees a few feet away from me started to dance in the increasing wind. I glanced at the sky and saw the clouds hurrying above me. “Time to start heading back,” I thought. I tucked the book under my arm and began the trek through the sand back home. 

Safe inside my screened-in porch, I set the book on the coffee table and went inside to get something to drink. As I was pouring myself a glass of water, I heard the pages begin to flip again. A sudden chill ran through my body. Something was off, but I didn’t know what. The wind had once again picked up, but where I set the book was out of any direct wind path. My screened-in porch did a decent job of protecting me from the cut of the wind. My hands were shaky as I picked up the glass of water and tentatively went back to the porch. 

The pages had flipped about a quarter of the way through the book. The writing on the page looked hurried like the writer was desperate to get their words on paper and out of their mind. I read the first couple of lines and was immediately drawn into the thoughts of this mystery writer. He believed he was being haunted. Not by a ghost, or a spirit, but by himself. He was hearing voices when there was no one around and sounds where there shouldn’t be any. The chill ran through me again; my mind rushed back to the sounds of the pages on the beach wildly turning when there wasn’t enough wind to make it so. Is the book haunted? Is the author haunting the pages of his story? Am I now haunted by bringing this book into my home? I felt an immediate sense of panic; at the same time, I felt a strange calm. It was an odd combination of feelings, almost as if my common sense was being pulled in two opposite directions. 

I turned the page. This page was radically different from the page before. This page wasn’t covered in scribbles. These sentences seemed well-formed and were very legible. The author wrote about “a calm” he’d been feeling that day.  

“The voices have not been bothering me today. The thumping beneath the floor is quiet. The raven that flies through the gables is not there. The gunfire that rings in my ears has ceased.” 

Thumping beneath the floor? A raven? These references sounded very familiar. E.A.P.? Could this be the writing of Edgar Allan Poe? I wasn’t familiar with any work he had done that involved gunshots. I stood quickly and ran to my office. A quick search on the internet informed me that he had served in the United States Army. I ran back to the book, scooped it up, and went back to my office. I continued to flip through the pages comparing clues from the book from information Google was feeding me. 

I was almost certain at this point I had discovered a journal or manuscript of the famous author. I had to be sure; I had to find someone who could confirm this for me. I searched the internet for hours attempting to find someone or someplace qualified to decide the authenticity of this book. Finally, I found the website of a bookstore owner who claimed to have excessive knowledge regarding Edgar Allan Poe. The bookstore was over 300 miles away in Canada. I sat back in my chair and looked away from my computer. It was almost dark; I had been sitting there all day. The bookstore had long since closed for the day. I leaned my head back, shutting my eyes and rubbing my temples. I felt defeated. There was an itch in my brain, and I knew it wasn’t going to quit until I had the answer.

I didn’t sleep much that night. The itch in my brain would not stop. Questions flew through my head like sheep wanting to be counted. Around 4 a.m. I gave up trying to sleep. I went back to my office and searched for a place to stay in the town of Fairmont Le Château Frontenac. I found a cute little bed and breakfast within walking distance of the bookstore, got dressed, packed a bag, and began the drive north with the book in the front seat.  

By the time I arrived in the town, the anxiety and anticipation had taken a toll on me. I was struggling to keep my eyes open. I pulled in front of the bookstore, and the strange calm I had felt the day before swept over me again, giving me a burst of energy.  

Once again, I tucked the book under my arm and made my way into the bookstore. It was small but felt like home when I walked through the door. It smelled of wood and peace; an older woman came walking from the back of the store. She was wearing a long, flowing skirt, a cardigan, and a pair of large round glasses; she had her long grey hair pulled up into a French twist. She looked like a character you would see in a movie as the lonesome bookkeeper filled with infinite knowledge. 

“Hello,” she smiled as she walked behind the counter at the front of the store. “How can I help you?” 

I took a deep breath and tried to prepare my words so I didn’t sound completely delusional. “I am hoping you can help me determine what this book I found is.” I set the pages on the counter, and her eyes widened. 

She tentatively ran her fingers over the spine of the book and turned it toward her. “Where did you find this?” She had her hands softly resting on the top of the pages; her eyes were closed like she was trying to feel something from the book. 

I told her the events from the day before, and she didn’t open her eyes the entire time. She was inhaling deeply, calmly, but her hands were shaking a bit. When I was finished, she let out a long breath, and said something under that breath that sounded like, “I can’t believe it exists.” 

“I’m sorry?” The chill was coming over me again. 

She slowly opened her eyes, a smile creeping into the corners of her mouth. “You have no idea what you have found, do you, my dear?” I slowly shook my head; she also shook her head, but in a way of disbelief. “Edgar Allan Poe is one of the most recognized writers in history. He was celebrated long after his death; he should have been when he was alive, but the madness that took over him...” Her voice trailed off as she started to carefully flip through the pages of the book.  

I stood there mesmerized by her words. She felt a connection to that book; you could tell by the tone in her voice and the way she moved her fingers through the pages. I was desperate to know what that connection was but couldn’t muster any words from my mouth. 

She looked up at me and closed the book. There was a light in her eyes. “He was my great-great uncle. I have spent my entire life trying to find this book. My mother told me about it, and everything about him, when I was a child. I had given up hope it truly existed. Some families have stories passed down for generations with no truth to them. I had started to believe this was one of them.” She sat in the chair behind the counter, setting the book carefully in her lap. She looked as if the whole world had been lifted off her shoulders. 

I finally found my voice. “Are you okay?” 

“I opened this bookstore 40 years ago, buying and selling books. I hoped someone would give me a clue as to where this book was, or even its existence. A page, a picture of it, anything. You have brought me the missing piece of my family story. My lifelong search is complete.”  

We read excerpts from the book, wondering what torment he was going through during those writing sessions. We talked for hours; long past closing time, and long into the night. No one else walked through the bookstore's front door.  

When I awoke the next morning, after only a couple of hours of sleep, I was excited to head back to the store and hear more stories. I threw all my belongings into my bag and went to the front desk to check out. I set my room key on the counter and impatiently taped my fingers while the woman was finalizing my paperwork. When she handed my credit card back to me, I hurriedly grabbed my things and said, “Thank you!” 

“Ma’am? Wait a second.” I spun around, confused. “Someone left something for you this morning.” 

“For me? Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t know anyone around here.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” she said and handed me a manila envelope with the letters “E.A.P.” written on the front of it. 

Using all the restraint in my body to rip it open right there, I hurried to my car. I carefully and nervously opened the envelope and tipped it over. A set of keys fell into my lap. A letter fell on top of them.  

“My dearest new friend, 

I cannot thank you enough for bringing this book into my life and allowing me to share my stories with you. In all my years, last night was the most wonderful night I have had. My life is now complete thanks to you and your persistence for answers. Never giving up is what led me to you, and you to me. For that, I will be eternally grateful. I don’t know how to thank you, other than this small token of my appreciation. I’m sure you have the set of keys in your hand and are wondering what they open. These keys open my beloved bookstore. It is now yours. Your passion will do you well here. I hope you find the missing piece in your life one day as well. 

With all the best, 

Mary Rosalie Poe” 

It felt as though my heart had stopped. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. “This cannot be real,” I thought. “I just met this woman. There’s no way she would leave me her bookstore.” 

I made my way down the street, my eyes frantically searching for her. She had to be at the bookstore. “She’s probably there waiting for me," I rationed.  

My hands were shaking as I tested the doorknob. It was locked. It took more than one try to get the door opened. I walked in and gently closed the door behind me. My heart started again, and my breath returned to normal. The calm was back, and I realized I was home.