Passing the Presbyterian burial yard on my way home late one afternoon, I decided to see the poet's resting place again. The old cemetery was a narrow block of graves on the corner of Fayette and Greene streets. The location of the grave was near the fine marker of General David Poe, a hero of the Revolutionary War and Edgar Poe's grandfather. But there was something disconcerting.

Poe's own spot was still unmarked. It looked as though it had never been prayed over.

Invisible Wo! I could not stop from thinking of the ravages of the "conqueror worm," as Poe had called our bodies' final attacker. And the angels sob at vermin fangs in human gore imbued.

With sudden purpose, I marched deeper into the burial ground. Peering around I saw steps leading down into one of the old underground vaults. Following these steps straight down, I found the sexton, Mr. Spence, reading a book in a low-arched granite crypt deep below the surface. There was a table, a bureau, a washstand, a medium-sized looking-glass. Even once a church was built on the burial ground a few years later, it was said that George Spence still preferred these vaults. But it rather astonished me then.

"You don't live down here, do you, Mr. Spence?" I asked.

He was troubled by my tone. "When it is too cold down here, I stay above. But I like it better here. It's more quiet and independent. This vault, in all events, was emptied out some years ago."

Several decades earlier, he explained, the family who owned this particular tomb had wanted to move the bodies of their ancestors to more spacious accommodations. But when the tomb was opened, it was discovered-by the previous sexton, Spence's father-that one of the bodies exhibited that rare occurrence: human petrifaction. The body, top to bottom, was entirely stone. Superstitions spread quickly. No member of the church since would agree to bury their dead in that particular vault.

"Devilish horror, coming upon a stone man when you are no more than a boy," the sexton said. He found a chair for me.

"Thank you, Mr. Spence. There is something wrong. The grave of Edgar Poe, buried last month, is still unmarked! The grave lies level with the ground."

He shrugged philosophically. "It is not my decision, but that of the party that had charge of burying him. Neilson Poe and Henry Herring, Poe's cousins."

"I passed here the day of the funeral, and could see it was small. Were there other relatives of Poe's besides them present?" I asked.

"There was one other. William Clemm, of the Caroline Street Methodist Church, performed the service and I believe he was a distant relation of the family. Reverend Clemm had prepared a lengthy discourse, but there were so few present for the funeral, it was decided he would not read it. There were only two mourners in addition to Neilson Poe and Mr. Herring. One was Z. Collins Lee, a classmate of Poe's. Peace be to his ashes!"

"Mr. Spence?"

"That is something I remember the minister said over Poe's grave. Peace be to his ashes. I was surprised to hear about Mr. Poe's death at first. He will always be a young man in my mind, not much older than you."

"You knew him, Mr. Spence?"

"When he lived in Baltimore, in Maria Clemm's little house," the sexton replied musingly. "It was years ago. You would have been hardly older than a boy. Baltimore was a quieter city then; one could keep track of names. I used to see Edgar Poe wander about the burial ground now and again."

He said Poe would stand before the graves of his grandfather and his older brother, William Henry Poe, both of whom he'd been separated from in childhood. Sometimes, said the sexton, Edgar A. Poe would examine names and dates on the tombs and quietly ask how this one was related to that one. When Spence would meet Poe out on the streets, the poet would sometimes say "good morning" or "good evening," and sometimes he would not.

"To think such a fine gentleman should look as he did at the end." Spence shook his head as he spoke.

"How do you mean, Mr. Spence?" I asked.

"I recall he always had a fastidiousness about his dress. But that suit he was wearing when he was found!" he said as though I should know perfectly well. I motioned for him to continue, so he did. "It was thin and ragged and did not fit him at all. It could not have been his. It was for a body perhaps two sizes larger! And a cheap palm-leaf hat one would not bother to pick up from the ground. A man from the hospital offered a better black suit to bury him in."

"But how did Poe come to be wearing ill-fitting clothes?"

"I cannot say."

"Do you not think it utterly strange?"

"I suppose I have not thought of it much since then, Mr. Clark."

Those clothes were not meant to be worn by Poe. Poe's death had not been meant for him, I thought, an irrational and abrupt notion. I thanked the sexton for his time and began rapidly to ascend the long stairs that rose from the vaults, as though once I'd secured the top there would be some immediate action to take. Suddenly seized by a momentary foreboding, I stopped in the middle of the stairs, tightening my grip on the handrail. The wind had grown worse outside, and as I reached the top I could barely direct myself to cross back into the upper world.

When I emerged, my eyes drifted to the spot of Poe's unmarked grave for one last look. I nearly jumped at what I saw. I blinked to make certain it was real.

It was a flower, a fragrant, blossoming flower lying incongruously atop the grass and dirt of Edgar Poe's plot. A flower that had not been there just a few minutes before.

I gasped for Mr. Spence, as though there was something to be done, or as though he could have seen something I hadn't while we were both sitting together below the earth in that tomb. Down in the vault the sexton could not hear me calling. Dropping to my knees, I inspected the flower, thinking perhaps it had blown from another grave. But no. Not only did the flower sit there, there, but also its stem broke firmly through the dirt on top.

Suddenly there was the noise of horses stepping and wheels clicking slowly to life. I peered around and could see a medium-sized carriage cloaked by the mist. I ran toward the gates to try and see who was there, but I was instantly blocked. A dog bounded into view. The dog barked voraciously at my ankles. I tried to steer around her, but the canine pounced to the side, growling and snarling from behind the gravestones.

The dog had clearly been trained to prevent Baltimore's "resurrection men" from attempted thefts of our corpses, and perceiving me run had identified me as one of those miscreants. Finding some ginger-nuts in my coat, I offered them up, and the mongrel soon befriended me. But by the time I could safely reach the street, the carriage had vanished into the distance.