The Raven Read online

  With any luck at all, Sarah will be back in Boston before the news breaks.

  Nothing to do now but wait.

  Wait for a vial of liquid to show up in the mail tomorrow.

  Wait for Sarah to wake up.

  Wait for another message from the Apostle.

  I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin.

  Sunday, July 17, 10:10 p.m.

  Just what the doctor ordered on a Sunday that seemed to go on forever! Sarah did it to me again. She went to the Bonnie and Clyde hideout before checking into the hotel last night and didn’t bother to tell me. After that, she slept until noon, then spent the next ten hours editing together a bunch of new stuff for me to look at. Holed up in a hotel room in Missouri with no distractions gave her a chance to really dig in and cut some nice footage. Here’s the note she sent me:

  These are amazing videos — the apostle gets close to spilling the beans about the author of the ghost book. Which begs the question … can there be an author of a book with no words? And seeing the ghost of Old Joe Bush one last time is kind of incredible. I’m with Sarah: If you ask me, this is one ghost that will never go completely out of existence.

  sarahfincher.com

  Password:

  spooksville

  Sunday, July 17, 11:04 p.m.

  I don’t know how Sarah keeps going. The road is a lonely and scary place, but somehow, she manages to make it look like she’s having a pretty good time out there. I admire that. If it were me, I’d be complaining endlessly.

  Another letter from the Apostle: P. So now we’ve got an A and a P — only one letter to go. I don’t see how one more letter is going to add up to anything, but hopefully the Apostle will tell us something more when we see him again. For now, we’ve got the Raven Puzzle filled in with another letter:

  And in the burlap sack? Another vial of liquid, only this time there’s no label on it.

  Sarah just sent me another email. I’ll let her describe what was in the vial.

  I can see a story here: vial of black goo crawls into unsuspecting girl’s ear, turns her into a zombie. This is getting bad. I have two vials filled with what? Poison? Some sort of alchemy concoction made by Dr. Watts? They could be filled with a lot of different things. Times like these, I wish I were a chemist with a laboratory in my basement.

  She’s sending me the vial tomorrow so it will arrive on Tuesday. By then Sarah should be all the way over to Monticello. The toughest part of her journey will be over.

  Somehow, I think the hardest part of mine will just be starting.

  Monday, July 18, 7:00 a.m.

  My mom just knocked on my door with a message from the mayor: I’m to appear at his office at 9:00 a.m. sharp for an in-depth interview with Albert Vern of the Washington Post …

  … and Gladys Morgan is going to join me.

  “He says the reporter is stopping in for the morning, then he’s on some assignment with the president. Can you believe that?”

  Wow, I guess Albert Vern is even more important than I thought.

  “It’s now or never,” my mom said.

  How about never?

  “Not a word about Henry,” my mom added. She grilled me about Sarah — wasn’t she on some road trip home from summer film school? I said I thought so, but that we really hadn’t talked much lately.

  My mom didn’t buy it, but neither did she seem overly concerned. If only she knew that Sarah had been standing over Henry when he kicked the bucket.

  I guess the interview won’t be that bad. I mean, at least Albert Vern is a fisherman. We stick together. And it will kill some time while I wait for the mail to show up so I can see this mysterious vial for myself and get it into Fitz’s hands.

  Seeing my mom and knowing about this interview makes me nervous. When the guy delivers the mail, he usually shows up between 10:00 a.m. and 11:00 a.m., which means he’s probably buzzing around town during that hour delivering all the mail-order stuff my neighbors buy. I can’t have my mom getting that package.

  Interview starts at 9:00 a.m. I’ll make it my goal to bolt by 10:00 a.m., just in case. Then I’ll wait on the porch for my package.

  Monday, July 18, 11:14 a.m.

  I am not a swearing man, but if I was, I’d be cursing up a storm right now. Dang that Gladys Morgan and Mayor Blake! Neither one of them would let me leave until we answered each and every question Mr. Vern had. I could have done the entire thing in twenty minutes flat, but oh no, Gladys had to go all hyper-detail on me. I’d give a thirty-second, twenty-word answer, and she’d follow up with ten minutes of drivel. It was excruciating!

  Here’s a real zinger: The missing Jefferson library was under your nose all along. What does that mean to a town like Skeleton Creek?

  My reply: We’re very proud. It’s awesome.

  Gladys Morgan’s reply: Add ten minutes of GRADE-A BORING to my perfectly crafted answer. Now, times that by twenty questions and you’ll understand why I had to run home only to arrive on the front steps of my house at 11:04 a.m.

  Luckily for me, Mom wasn’t home, so now I’m sitting on those same steps with a glass vial of supersecret liquid in my front pocket. The delivery guy left it by the front door in a shoe box wrapped in brown paper. Inside the shoe box, Sarah had wrapped the vial in the equivalent of a weeks’ worth of local newspapers.

  Now all I have to do is get this thing out to Fitz’s old trailer before noon, when my dad expects me to show up at the shop and work the rest of the day. No problem there — the trailer is on a dirt road outside of town — I can get there and back with time to spare.

  I texted Sarah to let her know I got the package and she fired one right back:

  On the road to Savannah. Can hardly wait! Always wanted to go there. Parents are good. They’re happy I’m close to home. I’ll let you know when I settle into room 204. BOO!

  Love the BOO.

  I hadn’t been paying close attention to how far away Sarah was getting. In a few hours, she’ll be about as distant as she can be without leaving the United States.

  Bummer.

  Monday, July 18, 11:50 a.m.

  Got the vial in place so Fitz can find it. I glanced through the dusty windows thinking maybe I could find a picture of the Raven or some other clue. It crossed my mind to break in and look around, but man, that place gives me the creeps big-time. Plus, it would be a disaster if I got caught or questioned about a break-in at the old trailer. Drawing attention to myself right about now feels like a bad idea.

  I’m tempted to ask my dad if he ever crossed paths with Fitz’s dad, but I know what the answer will be. Fitz already told me his dad was reclusive, and when he shopped he always went to the Safeway in Baker City, down the road.

  “He’s either in the trailer, in the woods, or doing something secret I don’t know about,” Fitz once told me. No matter. Even if he did come into town, he wouldn’t have a black hood on, looking like an executioner. What good’s it going to do if I know what his dad looks like?

  By the time I get off work at 6:00 p.m., Sarah should be in Savannah, Georgia, dealing with the ghost of a girl who dove into pavement. Ouch.

  Monday, July 18, 1:12 p.m.

  Albert Vern just stopped into the fly shop to say good-bye and ask me if I was sure there wasn’t anything else I’d like to say on the record. Dad looked at me from across the counter and I thought for a second he was going to spill the beans about Henry. But he stayed quiet and so did I. I’d said all I was going to say about the dredge, the gold, the Jefferson library — all of it.

  “Wish I had time to hook a few more trout,” Vern said when he reached the door. “Keep finding buried treasure and maybe I’ll be back.”

  And then it happened. I freaked out. I slipped. My mind went blank and I just blurted it out.

  “You can count on it. Probably by tomorrow.”

  Albert Vern was eyeing me as I said it, and there was something in his expression that made me nervous. He was a reporter at the top of his game at on
e of the most prestigious papers in the world. He smelled something more than a kid boasting about what he thought he could do. It looked as if he’d caught the thread of a bigger story.

  As the door closed behind Albert Vern, I wondered if he really was leaving town. More likely, I’d just alerted a reporter with a shovel to start digging for information.

  What could he get access to? Could he get into my phone records if he wanted to? Could he get into Sarah’s? What if he found all the videos? What if he figured out everything and beat Fitz to the vial?

  A lot of what-ifs, all because I opened my big mouth.

  Lesson learned, hopefully not too late.

  Monday, July 18, 6:29 p.m.

  Sarah should be pulling into Savannah, Georgia, before dark. She better, or her parents are going to flip. I know she says they’re not keeping close tabs on her, but she’s been riding the razor’s edge of the rules for days. I’d hate to see her parents drive down the coast and meet her somewhere. That would complicate things right as we’re coming to the end.

  P.S. You couldn’t pay me enough money to stay in room 204 at the 17 Hundred 90 building. It’s totally haunted.

  Monday, July 18, 10:40 p.m.

  Sarah arrived in Savannah and checked into the room. It didn’t take her any time at all to find what she was looking for and send me an email.

  Oh, great. Now I’m going to have to stay up practically all night in case she calls. Who am I kidding? I can’t stay up all night to save my life. I just texted her to at least send me the letter the Apostle left in his message. I’m dying to know what it is.

  Text me the letter. It will give me something to do. Here if you need me!

  A few minutes later:

  Working on that. Someone just jiggled the handle from the outside. When I opened the door, no one was there. Eek!

  Is she making that up or is someone actually following her? It’s times like these I feel like running down the hall to my parents’ room and confessing the whole crazy mess.

  Why is it the closer we get to solving a big mystery the more dangerous things seem to feel? Every day feels like one day closer to the edge of an abyss that threatens to devour both of us. Staying clear of that edge feels harder and harder, like it’s got some kind of gravitational pull and it’s drawing us near.

  I set up my camera to record overnight, just in case, while I wait for Sarah to message me back. Then I sat at my desk and looked at the Raven Puzzle and the three letters we’d use once Sarah got to Monticello: an A, a P, and whatever letter the Apostle gave us in room 204.

  Message from Sarah:

  Hold your horses, cowboy. It takes time to set up the old projector and feed the reel in. Give me five.

  Five minutes, which probably meant ten, and I’d have the last letter of the puzzle. Not that having it would solve anything. I’d gone through the entire alphabet and it didn’t matter what letter I used, the three letters didn’t make a bit of sense. I waited, kept staring at the Raven puzzle, pondered.

  Three letters that have something to do with Thomas Jefferson’s old estate. The solution totally eludes me.

  Message from Sarah:

  E. That’s the letter the Apostle showed. Have fun figuring it out. Looks to me like we’re dealing with an APE. I’m going to start recording to video. So tired.

  As I suspected, the third letter is only slightly helpful. I was hoping for something else, like a symbol or an entire word that would bring this whole thing together.

  A-P-E. Ape.

  Ape on Jefferson’s house.

  Ape on a building.

  King Kong?

  Oh, brother.

  I feel like Charlie Brown. Total failure.

  Monday, July 19, 1:09 a.m.

  I just had one of the scariest moments of my life, and I’ve had some huge scares, so that’s saying something. The moment provided me with the answer I’ve been looking for, though, so I guess it was worth it. I might have lost a year of my life due to stress overload, but at least I know what the APE means.

  Here’s how it went down.

  I fell asleep at my desk (predictable, I know). Then I started dreaming, or at least I thought I did. Sometimes I can’t tell where the nightmares end and my life picks up. I was dreaming that a raven was tap-tap-tapping on my windowsill.

  The Raven. Tapping with the edge of an ax blade, about to bash the glass out and climb inside my house.

  The sound kept coming as the poem unwound like a clock spinning backward in my brain.

  Once upon a midnight dreary,

  While I pondered, weak and weary

  Tap tap tap. The Raven outside my window, cloaked in black, watching me sleep.

  In my dream — or had I awoken? — I stood and backed up to the door, reaching for the handle.

  And then the Raven spoke, first in a whisper, then loud enough for me to hear him through my window.

  Ryan. Ryan! Ryan! It’s me! Open the window!

  After that I was fully awake, walking to the window, because it wasn’t the Raven after all. It was Fitz, come to pay me a visit on his way back to the cave.

  “You scared me so badly I feel like I should slap you,” I said when I opened the window. “How’d you get up here?”

  “It’s easy,” he replied. Fitz was dressed all in black with a hood over his head, so it was easy to see how I could have gotten him confused with someone else. “Climbed up on the porch rail and onto the eave.”

  I asked him if he’d gotten the vial, and he told me he had.

  “I think it’s for the clause,” I said.

  “I do, too.”

  So we agreed. He hadn’t brought it with him, which he felt stupid for just then, so we couldn’t know if spreading what was in the vial on the clause would reveal some hidden message or not. We both hoped it would.

  “How are you doing up there? In the cave, I mean.”

  Fitz shrugged meaningfully, as if it hadn’t been going very well and he wished he could get away. He looked off toward the street below, trying to hide the sadness in his eyes. But I could see.

  “Dad’s not all bad. He’s confused, mostly, is what I think,” Fitz said, his big shoulders leaning in on the windowsill like slabs of concrete. I’d forgotten what a big guy he was. “The Crossbones is killing him.”

  I hadn’t ever thought of it that way before. I was simply afraid of an ax-wielding man in black who appeared to have it out for me. Henry, the Apostle, even the Raven — maybe they were all prisoners of the Crossbones. Maybe the Crossbones made them do the things they did.

  “I gotta get back before he wakes up,” Fitz told me. “Long walk in the dark and all.”

  I wished I could go with him, but there was no way. I’d done that walk a thousand times, but rarely in the dark by myself. It would be lonely and scary.

  “Sorry I can’t go with you. I would if I could.”

  “I know you would.”

  Fitz smiled at me, and I thought to myself, well, at least the Crossbones won’t carry on past Fitz’s dad. Fitz is way too nice a guy to go that route.

  A few seconds later, he was gone, promising to let me know if the vial was of any use or not.

  I closed my window, locked it, lay down on the bed. Checking my phone, I saw that Sarah hadn’t tried to contact me again. Maybe she, too, had conked out. She’d sounded tired in her messages, like she was on the verge of exhaustion. Hopefully, she can sleep without being bothered by whatever haunted things go on in that place.

  And that’s when it happened. It was while I was lying there on the bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering about my two closest friends. Both of them were out in the cold of the world alone right then. Sarah in a haunted hotel room, braving the night almost a thousand miles from home. Fitz walking a dark river path to a wooded clearing, and then to a cave darker still.

  A-P-E, I whispered.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  A-P-E. Tap Tap Tap.

  Not A-P-E. That’s not right at all. It’s not
about a giant monkey. It’s something darker, like the darkness of the cave in the deep wood.

  E-A-P. That’s the order of the letters. Tap tap tap goes the Raven on my windowsill. And we all know who wrote the poem I’m getting at.

  Edgar Allan Poe. E-A-P.

  I got out of bed and went to my desk and started writing this journal entry, my hand shaking so badly I had to stop and take three or four deep breaths. Soon, I had the Raven Puzzle before me, and the whole thing felt suddenly drenched with meaning. The gothic madness of Edgar Allan Poe was smeared all over it.

  I understood. There would be no need to visit Thomas Jefferson’s old home at Monticello. I’d figured that out, too. The drawing said to put the letters in the middle, but if you took the middle out of the house on the back of a nickel, it wasn’t a building at all.

  It was a tombstone.

  That part of the puzzle was meant as a clue, not as a place to visit where something might be found. No, where we would find what we were looking for is a hundred and sixty miles away in Baltimore, Maryland.

  Edgar Allan Poe’s tombstone.

  It’s where we’re going to find the very end.

  Tuesday, July 19, 8:02 a.m.

  Email from Sarah, sent three hours ago.