Again, Edgar Allan Poe own his name and works. The Poe toaster also owns his own name.
Through many painstaking endeavors in genealogy, I was able to discover more about my literary ancestry. I found that I was descended from Richard Herald Poe, brother of David Poe, Jr., who was the sire of the literary master whom I so admired. Though he was raised by John Allan from his early boyhood, he was never able to adopt the name of his paternal figure. Instead, he took as his second name as a sign of his love and devotion to his adopted family.
Upon reading all of these facts I contemplated and, at length, decided to call the eccentric writer my 13th cousin. (The number 13 having nothing to do with actual descent, it did, however, summon cretin superstitial phobias among all who heard it.) Despite questioning the questioning of those around me, I became, and am to this vey day, proud of the heritage passed down through the ages to me by my exceedingly talented cousin.
Of all the mysteries that surrounded my estranged relation, the mystery of his death is the one that aroused me the most. I had great trouble in accepting the commonplace rumors of alcohol poisoning. In short, I had to believe that someone who wrote such beautifully eloquently eloquent works knew his limits in worldly poisons. Though admittedly, he did partake of alcohol. I did not believe this to be the cause of his untimely end. Thus, my own investigation was begun into the causes of his death.
In vein, my efforts were spent among books, the biology lab, and in the dorm in which he had spent his years in the University. One by one I tested theories and one by one they were all, at lest to my satisfaction, disproven. Yet my quest into the unknown continued. It became not just a burden of proof to myself, but a need to prove to the world that my great ancestor was not driven into an alcohol induced death.
It seemed my searching would lead me nowhere but deeper into the darkness of ignorance until at last there came light. It came in the form of an article written in a local newspaper. It read thus:
Baltimore- The legend of Edgar Allan Poe, one of the greatest mystery writers of all time, lives on even hundreds of years after his death. Perhaps one of the greatest mysteries of all time was not written by Poe, but one he left behind. His death remains to this day unsolved.
Every year on the anniversary of his birth, the grave of the poet is decorated with three roses and a bottle of cognac. The bottle is always found to be opened and a single glass missing. It is said that the missing shot is used as a "toast" to Poe. In recent years, messages have been found, always making references to Poe's most famous works.
Numerous scientific tests have been performed on the items left by the so called "Poe Toaster." None of them have ever yielded any physical evidence or any clue as to the identity of the mysterious figure. For now, it remains one of the many mysteries left behind by a man considered one of the father's of the modern mystery novel.
Upon reading the article, my mind was set that I had to venture to the sepulcher of my cousin. The calendar in my office noted that it was 16th day of January. I had three days in which to prepare myself into the unknown world of the deceased. Though I was not frightened, an uneasy feeling came over my fancy that would not cease. It plagued as the plan formed itself in my ever-curious mind to unravel at least one of the mysteries I had attempted so feverishly to solve.