If our Alice March sounds at all familiar then you’ve been reading too many of my stories – thank you for that! She made an appearance in 2018’s “Meeting Your Idols.” She’s still around…

The man stood in the cemetery. His unruly black hair blew in the frigid air of the cold Baltimore pre-dawn and his breath formed ice crystals in his neatly trimmed painter’s brush moustache. In the wan light of the streetlights his blue eyes beneath heavy brows darted nervously at every movement. Even in his heavy wool coat he shivered in the freezing pre-dawn.

“Excuse me, sir?” came a girl’s voice from behind him.

The man jumped in fright. “Good lord, girl, are you trying to frighten a man to death?!”

“Umm,” she said, “Sorry for pointing out the obvious but, uh… you’re already dead.”

“Yes, of course I am. But you shouldn’t go around trying to scare a ghost into a second death! I hear such a thing is possible.”

“Sir, are you…”

“Hush, child, hush!” the man whispered. “Someone’s coming!” The man and the girl stayed quiet and peeked out from the wall of the cemetery. There both could see a man in several layers of heavy coats pushing a shopping cart down the sidewalk. “Oh, curses, it’s just that homeless fellow again.”

“Again?” The girl asked. “How long have you been waiting here?”

The man took an ornate silver pocket watch out of his coat pocket. “Almost two hours.”

“They haven’t showed?” the girl asked.

The man frowned. “No. Not yet. Not last year, nor the year before that… not any year since 2009.” He grumbled, turned, and walked deeper into the cemetery, taking a seat on a headstone with his back to the monument bearing his name and staring to the right of the grave marker bearing a raven and the engraved words “Original Burial Place of Edgar Allan Poe”.

“I heard they were toasting you again on your birthday,” the girl said.

“Eh,” Poe sneered. “It’s that historical society. They have someone dressed up like the toaster who comes and performs the ritual. But it’s all flash and ceremony. It lacks the gravitas, the unknown, the, the… mystery!”

“I guess so,” the girl said. “But the person who originally brought you roses and cognac… did you know them?”

Poe looked at her sidelong. “Of course not, I’d been dead for a hundred years.”

“Then how is this ceremony any different?”

Poe started to answer, stopped, then looked hard at the girl, “Who are you?”

“My name is Alice March.”

“Okay, Ms. March. Why are you here?”

“Because I figured you’d be here and I wanted to get your autograph,” she brandished a small book.

“My… autograph? This is a thing ghosts do nowadays?”

Alice shrugged. “I don’t know. When I died a few years ago it seemed like a good idea to see if I could meet some of the famous people I liked when I was alive.”

Poe eyed her suspiciously but took the book and opened it. “…Sarah Winchester… Steve Jobs… Georgia O’Keefe…”

“She was hard to find. I figured she’d be at her ranch in New Mexico – appropriately called ‘Ghost Ranch.’ But it’s a big area. So pretty, though…”

“I see…” Poe eyed her. “Not a lot of names in here. How long did you say you’ve been dead?”

“Not long. I died in 2018.”

“Where?”

“Saratoga, California.”

“You’re a long way from home, Ms. March,” Poe said. “How did you die?”

“Leukemia.”

“Leukemia?”

“Like blood cancer.”

“Sounds dreadful,” Poe said.

“It is. But it’s done. How did you die? There’s some questions about it still.”

Poe let out a long breath. “Honestly, Ms. March, I don’t know myself. The last days of my life were a blur even to me.”

Alice thought he looked sadder than when he realized the real toaster wasn’t coming this year as he stared at the patch of unmarked dirt.

“What are you staring at?” she asked.

“Oh, this is where I was originally buried.”

“Not there?” she pointed to the grave marker a few feet to the left that indicated his original burial site.

“Alas, my final resting place turned into as much of a mystery as my death. I was originally buried here,” he stood and pointed to the unmarked patch, “until some people dug me up and put me over there,” he turned and pointed to the enormous monument by the front gate. “But others didn’t want to forget my original spot, so they put that a headstone here,” he pointed to a patch of ground to the left of the headstone with the raven, “Which wasn’t right, so they moved it to where you see it now… only that’s still not right. Not that it matters, really…” He stood silently in thought.

“Georgia O’Keefe was cremated and scattered outside her ranch.”

“Was she?” Poe asked.

Alice nodded. “Her body isn’t in any specific place. But you only have to visit anywhere to feel she’s there.”

Poe nodded. “I see what you’re getting at, Ms. March. Perhaps my fixation on the toaster, on my burial sites… perhaps I’ve lost sight of where I’m really at.”

“Your influence is really enormous,” she said. “You should get out of here and go see.”

“Perhaps,” Poe said in thought. “Perhaps…” He tapped the closed autograph book then opened it. “Uh, do you have a pen?”

Alice handed him a pen.

“How do you…” she took the cap off the extra fine point Sharpie for him. “Oh! Clever!” He turned to a page and started writing a message. He finished, smiled at Alice, then finished his note with his autograph in a flourish. He put the cap back on the pen and handed it back to Alice with her autograph book.

“Thank you, Mr. Poe,” she said smiling broadly.

“Edgar, please, Ms. March.”

“Thank you, Edgar!”

“You’re quite welcome. Tell me, where are you off to now?”

“Elmira, New York. Mark Twain is buried there.”

“Ah, Mark Twain. He wasn’t too far after me. I’ve heard about him. Would you mind terribly if I tagged along?”

“Not at all!” she beamed.

“Shall we?” he said, bending his arm up inviting hers.

“Sounds wonderful!” she said, sliding her arm through his. They started out the front gate of the cemetery as the historical society, led by a man all in black with a wide brimmed hat started into the cemetery.

“Imposter!” Poe yelled over his shoulder as they started down West Fayette Street.