Hoping that this severe liability would dissipate over time, he joined the Virginia Players, appearing in a variety of minor rôles: as “Falliero” in Abaellinor, or The Great Bandit; “Allan-a-Dale” in Robin Hood; “Harry Thunder” in The Tale of Mystery; “Young Woodland” in Cheap Living; and more. By 1805, he had married another member of the troupe, the aforementioned Miss Arnold—my future mother. For the next several years, the couple performed together in countless productions. But—while his beautiful young wife gained increasing renown with each passing season—his own reputation underwent a corresponding decline, until he had become a virtual laughing-stock. The coup de grâce to his career had evidently been delivered on the fateful evening I had just read about; for, shortly thereafter, in July 1810, he vanished abruptly, leaving no clue as to his whereabouts.

These meagre facts were all I knew of the man. What had become of him—where he had gone, how he had supported himself, and indeed whether he was living or dead—were matters of the purest speculation. Now, more than two decades following my father’s disappearance, the spectre of this cruel, this deplorable being had intruded once more into my life.

That the bloody word “Nevermore” scrawled at the various murder sites was an allusion to that long-ago evening of mortification seemed incontrovertible. But if such were the case, then who was the perpetrator of these terrible crimes? Could it be the man himself, still living after so many years and returned to take vengeance on the surviving agents of his humiliation? Though such a circumstance was not wholly inconceivable (assuming that he were yet alive, my father would be fifty-seven years of age, still physically capable of working harm), this theory failed to account for the sinister female apparition I had confronted on numerous occasions.

With these and other conundrums preoccupying my mind, I was oblivious of the passage of time. All at once, from the opposite side of the wall that divided my study from the kitchen, I became cognizant of certain noises—muffled footsteps, creaking floorboards, the clattering of dishes. Glancing up at my dock, I saw that it was almost 6 A.M. The sounds from the kitchen were now fully explained, for I quickly deduced that my ever-devoted Muddy had already arisen and was embarked upon her early-morning chores.

Leaping from my chair, I hurried from my room and burst into the kitchen, the abruptness of my entrance causing Muddy—who was situated before the stove, attempting to ignite it—to emit a little yelp of surprise.

“Oh, Eddie!” she panted, one hand clutching her capacious bosom. “You nearly frightened me to death!” Pausing momentarily until her breathing had resumed its normal rhythm, she inquired: “How long have you been awake?”

“Yesterday’s events sent my soul into such turmoil,” I replied, “that—to paraphrase the Immortal Bard—Nature’s soft nurse would not weigh my eyelids down and steep my senses in forgetfulness.”