Recently, Jack and I went to go explore the Edgar Allan Poe House on 7th and Spring Garden. When we got off the El at Spring Garden, the clouds loomed ominously over our heads on the walk to 7th street, almost as if they knew where we were going and were preparing the mood.
As we approached the house, the Raven statue outside seemed to be flapping its dark wings at us in the overcast sky, either welcoming or warning us; I'm not sure which. The big metal door-knock also helped set the mood – Jack picked it up and knocked it once. It let out a loud bang.
Inside, we watched the movie about Poe's life. He was such a successful writer; he had stories published all the time, and poetry, too! I was impressed. His death was very mysterious. I didn't know it was such a mystery, but I surmised that it was a fitting end for a writer whose life focused on the tragic and the gory. I asked Jack what really happened, as he usually knows much more about all things literary than I do, but he said he didn't know. I thought to myself that I should write a screenplay about it.
We then got into a discussion with one of the very friendly Park Rangers who service the house, and he lead us immediately into the basement. As "The Black Cat" was published while Poe lived there, we looked around the basement and the Park Ranger told us about how the description in the story matches nearly identically the basement we were all standing in. It was a little creepy. The rain started to fall in delicate splatters, and the sky was getting darker. It seemed to be a sign. Jack joked about bricking me up inside the false chimney.
The three of us went back upstairs and the Ranger gave us a guide for the house and Jack and I walked around. We toured the entire house, which was old and creaky and kind of eerie; we looked in all the closets at the various artifacts, letters, drawings, and pictures that were left to further explain the significance of each room. First was a very bare kitchen, with a crumbling wall and fireplace. We went upstairs into Poe's room, which was big and had some nice windows that must have provided a stunning view back in the time when Poe lived there. We watched the rain fall.
Up the stairs we went again, to the third floor. They creaked ominously. It wasn't thundering, but it felt like it should be. In Virginia's room, it was dark, and I told Jack not to touch anything or breathe in or he would get tuberculosis. Across the hall in Muddy's room, Jack stopped to admire something in the closet, and I took the liberty of locking him inside it. When I let him out (only a second later), he did not look entertained, but in the dark of the closet, his un-amused face looked even creepier and gorier than it normally does.
We followed the stairs back down and found ourselves outside in the rain, face to face with the Raven. Standing next to the statue, it was much bigger than it looked from the street. I took a picture of it. Jack and I stepped back inside to get out of the rain, and wandered back down into the basement again. I had an idea.
"Jack," I said, "take a picture of me in the little chimney, like you're going to brick me up."
"Don't tempt me," he said.
But I climbed into the false chimney anyway and he shot a picture with his camera phone.
It was, I thought, awfully difficult to smush myself inside the small false chimney. I pulled my legs in and twisted my arms up, trying to look as disfigured as possible.
Done with reenacting "The Black Cat" for our own pleasure, we headed back up the stairs when I realized there was still one more room we had yet to see – the den. This room was definitely my favorite, and Jack and I sat down on the surprisingly-comfortable couch and leafed through some of Poe's literary magazines and poetry. I wish they had copies of some of his literary magazines to buy, even if they were reconstructed, because they were really intricate and Gothic-looking, and their design definitely caught my eye. "It would be cool," I mused aloud, "if Maya looked like this." Jack quickly said he would construct a similar-looking front cover, and I was glad I let him out of Muddy's closet.
We meandered back into the main room and flipped through the various books of poetry and short stories, t-shirts and letters written by Poe, but nothing really caught our eye. We thanked the Park Ranger who had greeted us earlier, and as we opened the door to leave, discovered it was now pouring rain. The walk (or run) back to the El was a fitting end to the Poe visit. On the train platform, I shook the rain out of my hair and shivered. Between the creepy weather, the darkness of the house and the chimney experience, I was ready to write some moody poetry and contemplate Poe. All in all, I think I have a better understanding of his views on life, and on the time period in general, after sitting by the marble fireplaces and being walled up in the faux-chimney in the basement. And of course, my good friend Jack is my favorite literary companion, with his odd enthusiasm for all things macabre, which is suitable for being locked in a closet; but I'm glad he's not.
Ali Cahill is a senior at Drexel majoring in English. She is also the Managing Editor of ASK.
