In Flew the Raven

In Flew the Raven


Chapter Eighteen

I couldn’t help it. That night, as I sat with Marvie Saunders’ book of poetry in my hands, I couldn’t get Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven from intruding into my thoughts. It was not a pleasant feeling. Maybe it was because Patricia Simms had mentioned Marvie’s admiration for that troubled poet; maybe it was because the poems I had read of Marvie’s, although well-written, were dark and sinister. Surely, my reading until midnight and the fire in the fireplace casting shadows on the floor had nothing to do with feeling chilled and apprehensive.

Wind moaned around the windows. A log fell in the fireplace and my heart catapulted into my mouth. No ravens perched over the door, though, and that was a good sign.

     Penny lay asleep on her cushion in front of the hearth. Ulysses slept at my feet. Bare tree branches scraped against the window. I closed Marvie’s book and stretched.

     That’s when I heard it. The antique knocker on my front door rattled. It wasn’t a knock; it was stealthier than that. My scalp tightened. Was someone on my porch? Was the wind strong enough to move a brass clapper against its strike plate?

     With a low growl, Ulysses raised his head, then got to his feet. My heart thudding, I listened, but heard nothing more except the howl of the wind around the corner and the movement of branches rubbing against each other.

This is a work in progress, the fourth Ned McNeil moonlight book. You can find the first three here: Manos Mysteries

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