Nevermore (9 page)

used to be farmland owned by the Valentines, a Dutch family. They’re the ones the avenue’s named after. The Poe family rented the cottage, and they could barely afford it.”

“I saw that on the website,” Sam said, “and I thought it was kinda odd. I mean, Poe’s one of the most popu lar American writers. And he was broke?”

“Oh, definitely. I mean, yeah, he was popu lar, and still is. Aren’t too many writers that get football teams named after them, even if it’s one step removed.”

Sam frowned, then remembered that the Baltimore football franchise was named the Ravens. Poe died in Baltimore, and was buried there, and the team was named for Poe’s most popu lar poem.

“And none of his stories have ever gone out of print. But most of the money he made from his writing got sunk into magazine endeavors that failed. Anyhow,” Anthony led Sam into the next room, “we’ve re-created the atmosphere of the cottage as best we can. Obviously, most of the furniture isn’t available, but we’ve done our best to put the types of furnishings that would’ve been present, given the time and the Poes’ level of poverty.” 82 SUPERNATURAL

Sam followed Anthony into what had to be the largest room in the cottage, which included a fireplace—now closed, according to Anthony—a chair, a writing desk, and some framed pictures.

There was also a hanging bookcase on the wall, each shelf filled with old- fashioned leather- bound volumes in what Sam knew was a popu lar binding style in the mid-nineteenth century. “These hanging shelves were more common in those days, since the fl oors were almost never

even—as you can

see,” Anthony added with a grin.

Grinning back, Sam shifted his weight back and forth on the creaky wooden fl oors.

Anthony continued: “The wood warped when it got damp, too. A bookcase on the fl oor just wasn’t practical.” He pointed to the wall. “That’s an il-lustration of the cottage.”

Walking over to peer at it, Sam saw the exact cottage he was standing in, at the top of a steep hill that matched the contours of Briggs Avenue and East 194th Street when he had driven down and up those respective streets. The surrounding ground, though, was all grass and trees. It seemed idyllic.

“Poe’s wife Virginia was very sick—what they called consumption back then, which we now know as tuberculosis. He’d come to New York in 1844 to engage in those publishing endeavors that bankrupted him, and when Virginia got more sick Never

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in 1846, they moved up here, hoping the country air would do him some good.” Anthony smiled.

“Y’know, I still have trouble saying that with a straight face. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, but country air?”

Chuckling, Sam said, “Yeah, it is a little weird.

But different times, I guess.”

“
Oh
yeah. The Bronx was a bunch of farms in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, owned mostly by families like the Valentines, the Johnsons, and, of course, the first settler, Jonas Bronck—the peninsula used to be called ‘Bronck’s Land,’ and that’s where the name comes from. Anyhow, Poe set up a room just for Virginia when she got sicker.” Anthony led Sam into the next room, which was actually a hallway that included a door to a stair-way up, the cottage’s back door, and another, much smaller room, that included a bed, a nightstand, and little else. The bed wasn’t particularly large, had a solid wooden headboard and an uneven mattress.

“We’re pretty sure this is the actual bed that Virginia died in. We’ve modified it a bit—the original had hay in it, but that gets disgusting pretty quick, so we replaced it with those Styrofoam pop-corn things they put in packages.” Sam couldn’t help but bark a laugh at that.

“Really?”

“It’s not period, but it doesn’t stink up the joint, 84 SUPERNATURAL

either.” Growing serious again, Anthony talked a bit about how Poe’s mother-in-law Maria Clemm did most of the work around the house and took care of Virginia while Poe worked and took long walks, and a little about the upstairs and downstairs areas, which were converted for use by the Historical Society and not open to the public. Sam tuned much of it out, thinking more about what it meant that Virginia Poe died in this bed, in virtually this very spot.
Okay, moved across the street,
but could the spiritual energy from that night still
be present, even though it was a hundred fi fty
years ago?

When he was done talking about Virginia Poe, Anthony left the bedroom, pushed past Sam in the small confines of the back area, and pointed to a picture on the wall. Sam ignored him, instead taking advantage of Anthony having his back to him to pull out the EMF reader.

Unfortunately, it didn’t read a damn thing.
Well,
it was a long shot.

Anthony talked a bit more about the house, about Poe’s life, and about the plans to renovate the house and the surrounding area, including a visitor’s center, which was being held up by city bureaucracy.

Sam made some sympathetic noises, bought a couple of postcards—a picture of the house and a portrait of Poe himself—and then decided to go for broke.

“Hey, have you heard about those murders?” Never

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Up until now, Anthony had been pleasant and genial and friendly. As soon as Sam asked that question, though, it was like a cloud came over his dark features. “Okay, that’s it. Get out.” Feigning innocence, Sam asked, “I’m sorry?” Moving toward the door, as if to crowd Sam toward it—though not actually touching him—

Anthony said, “Look, it’s bad enough I have read this crap on the Internet, I ain’t about to—”

“Whoa!” Sam held up his hands and refused to be moved. Anthony, to his credit, stopped moving forward. “I just read something in the newspaper and it threw me, that’s all. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a coincidence,” Anthony said fi rmly. Sam suspected he’d gotten this question quite a bit since the Reyes murder. “That’s
all
.” Sam quickly took his leave and went back to the car. While there wasn’t any EMF reading, the death of a loved one was probably still a good focal point for a ritual.
The question is, what ritual?
When he got into the car, he pulled out a Bronx street map he’d picked up the previous day on their way to the zoo, and figured out the best way to the corner of Webb Avenue and West 195th Street, where the body had been bricked up.

It actually looked to be a fairly easy drive, as that intersection was just two blocks north of Kingsbridge Road. Unfortunately, when he got there he realized that he couldn’t make the right 86 SUPERNATURAL

he wanted to onto Webb Avenue, as it was one-way the wrong way. So he made a right onto Sedgwick, figuring to make a right onto 195th—

which was also one-way the wrong way. Finding himself coming around to Dean’s animus toward driving in this city, Sam drove up another block to 197th—
and what the hell happened to
196th?
—made a right, drove a block to Webb, and made another right.

His concerns about fi nding the right house were unwarranted. For one thing, that corner only had two houses on it, the rest of the buildings being apartments. For another, the

house he wanted

stood out by virtue of being brown stucco as opposed to the red brick that every other surrounding building was made of. It was also the only one with crime-scene tape, not to mention a sign that read for sale.

Deciding it would be better to come back at night, and with Dean for backup, he drove off.

Besides, he couldn’t find a single parking spot in the area—maybe that would be easier at night.

As he drove off, he saw a battered old Honda Civic double-parking in front of the house, and a short mousy-looking guy with a big nose get out.

He normally wouldn’t have given the guy a second thought, but he was parked right in front of the house where the murder took place—and he also Never

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looked irritatingly familiar, though Sam couldn’t fi gure out why.

Shrugging, he drove down Webb back to Kingsbridge, intending to head over to Cambreleng Avenue where the two kids had died.

SEVEN

The Afi ri house

The Bronx, New York

Friday 17 November 2006

Sam could hear Pink Floyd’s “The Great Gig in the Sky” from Manfred’s house before he even parked the Impala—this time finding a spot between two driveways across the street from the house—and he wondered if the same neighbors who objected to Scottso rehearsing in the house would object to Dean blaring the stereo.

Inside, Sam thought he’d be deafened by the music, and was grateful that he came home when Dean was playing the more low-key strains of Floyd rather than, say, Metallica or AC/DC or Deep Purple.

Turning left as he came in, he saw Dean in the easy chair—it was a recliner, which he knew be-Never

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cause Dean had reclined it all the way back, his feet up—air-drumming with his right hand while fl ipping pages of Dad’s journal with his left. Albums were strewn all over the floor. Sam’s laptop was on the coffee table, precariously balanced on some old newspapers and magazines. Wincing, Sam walked in and moved it to the couch—an action that also yanked the power cord out, which went some way toward explaining why Dean had been so careless with the laptop.

Only now noticing Sam’s arrival, Dean grabbed a remote off the floor next to him and turned the volume down. “Sorry about that, Sammy, but the battery was running low, and the only free plug was over there.” He pointed at the now slack power cord, which snaked around to a plug by the living room doorway.

“Whatever. Find anything?”

“Actually, I did.” Dean reached down and pushed the brown lever on the side of the easy chair, which brought it back upright and the footrest down with a solid thunk. “And it isn’t exactly what you’d call great news.”

Not liking the sound of that, Sam said, “Hold that thought. I need some more of that coffee.” Dean grinned and grabbed a mug that was on the coffee table. “Just made a fresh pot ten minutes ago. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

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Sam went into the kitchen, fished out a mug that had a shamrock and the words kiss me, i’m irish—

which struck him as odd, since Manfred Afi ri didn’t seem to be a particularly Irish name—and poured himself some more coffee. He dumped sugar in, but decided not to bother with the milk, since what he’d had this morning tasted like it was on the brink of going bad. Besides, this stuff was actually drinkable.

He had never liked the taste of coffee all that much, but life both as a hunter and as a college student had made him appreciate the virtues of caffeine regardless of its taste. He tended toward what Dean called

“froofy” coffees mainly because the extra fl avors and the whipped cream and whatnot hid the fact that the beverage itself tasted like drinking hot sulfur. And for Sam, that wasn’t just a cute simile, as he’d drunk hot sulfur once, by accident during a job, and he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

Returning to the living room, he saw Dean removing
Dark Side of the Moon
from the turntable and flipping it over. “So whadja fi nd?” Dean gently placed the needle on the edge of the record. A moment later “Money” started playing.

Sam patiently waited for the look of rapture to pass from Dean’s features and his head to stop bopping back and forth in time with the cash register noises.

Then his patience ran out. “If you’re not too busy . . .”

Shaking his head, Dean said, “Uh, yeah, sorry.

Never

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Anyhow, I found the ritual in Dad’s notebook, but it wasn’t where I fi gured it would be.” Dean sat back down in the easy chair and hefted the cracked leather- bound notebook. Overstuffed with papers, clippings, and other paraphernalia, every inch of every page was covered in Dad’s unique handwriting—military neatness swimming upstream against the speed with which Dad was taking many of these notes, resulting in letters that were carefully penned for clarity but words that swerved and curved and were compressed for space and twisted around other notes. Sam had always thought that a handwriting analyst could retire on Dad.

When the demon who’d killed Mom became active again, Dad went off the grid, leaving the notebook to Dean (and by extension to Sam) to keep and use while continuing Dad’s work of hunting.

That notebook was all they had left of Dad.

Long-term, Sam wanted to convert the notebook into electronic form so they could index it and cross-reference things and generally find items in it in a manner more suited to the twenty-first century than fl ipping through ink-filled pages, yellowed newspaper clippings, and hastily drawn charts, none of which was sorted in any meaningful way beyond

“when it occurred to Dad to write it down.” Unfortunately, their life didn’t lend itself to long-term thinking, and Sam had only barely begun the 92 SUPERNATURAL

process of converting the notebook. Realistically, it would take months of uninterrupted effort, and one could argue that his life was pretty much one big interruption these days.