Page 62 of Beneath the Poet's House

He wipes her cheek, then her brow, and Saoirse waits for the accusation. But none comes. He kisses her, squeezes her shoulder, then lowers himself to the blanket, pushing her down along with him.

“Your mother sent you a text,” he says, and it hits Saoirse only now that Emmit has her phone. That she told him, once upon a time, how most of her communication with her parents consists of brief check-ins via text. That he knows her transcendentalist friends don’t carry cell phones. And that Saoirse rarely—if ever—posts on social media. Shards of dread crystallize in her stomach like stalagmites.

“She’s sent you a lot of texts, actually,” Emmit clarifies.

“What did you say to her?”

“I pretended I was you, of course, and that I was fine. Still seeing the new boyfriend. Still writing. She sounded happy for you. She sounds like a very nice woman. I’d like to meet her someday.”

“About that,” Saoirse starts, knowing she must choose her next words very carefully. “You’re smart, Emmit. And you’re not delusional. You must know you can’t keep me down here forever. The texts will only appease my family for so long. My mom, my friends, the landlord when my rent’s past due ... someone will come looking for me.”

He waves a hand. “I’ll pay your rent.”

She holds his gaze, careful to avoid staring at the lantern, not wanting to compromise her vision for even a second. “That’s not the point. You know this arrangement can’t go on forever.” Emmit looks thoughtful, and Saoirse takes this as a sign to push forward. “And what if the new novel is everything your editor hoped for in a follow-up toVulture Eyes?Are you going to risk losing that momentum by leaving me to die down here? Or is your plan to bring me back up into the world as if nothing happened and continue our relationship there?

“And if thatisthe case,” Saoirse says, unable to stop now, her voice rising in volume, “why wait? Why not go back to the way things were right now? I’ll stay at 88 Benefit Street. You could even move in with me.” She forces a smile as she rattles off one lie after another. She needs him to believe her. She needs to get out of this tomb. Then, she can call the police. Run screaming down the street. Get as far away from Emmit as possible.

Emmit is studying her. “To be honest,” he says, “I don’t know what I’m going to do long term. But I don’t think it will matter.”

The air in Saoirse’s lungs disappears. “What do you mean?”

“The exact number is debated, but it took Poe somewhere around one hundred and fifty works to achieve literary greatness. Sixty-five poems, nine essays, a single novel, a handful of novellas, one play, and seventy short stories. I figure I can keep you here long enough to create a similar body of work.”

Saoirse’s brain stutters.He aims to keep me down here until he’s written enough fiction to support an entire career?Her breath threatens to choke her, and she starts inhaling in little gasps. Her fear is so all-consuming, she feels sick, the adrenaline pumping through her muscles so heightened that she is nauseated. Her mouth fills with saliva. White dots of light fall at the edges of her vision.

But despite the fear and the nausea, the wild panic at needing to run but having nowhere to go, one emotion rises above everything, one blazing, undeniable reality that turns the adrenaline into fire and her spotty vision into clarity. Anger. Anger so pure and all-consuming, Saoirse could smash every inch of time-hardened dirt in this catacomb to powder.

Careful,Jonathan warns.Getting angry with me only made me resent you.

A bubble of laughter escapes Saoirse’s throat.God forbid we upset the man who plans to kill me.

Emmit’s eyes narrow. “What’s so funny?” His tone is inquisitive, as if they’re back in the lounge the night of the rainstorm, sharing secrets.

Last chance to keep your mouth shut,Jonathan warns.

Saoirse cocks her head at Emmit. “You know it doesn’t work like that, right?”

“Doesn’t work like what?”

“Life. Literature. The world. You can’t churn out fiction similar to Poe’s in size, theme, subject matter, whatever, and expect to achieve a similar reception. It’s madness.” Something occurs to her, and she stares harder at Emmit, amazed. “You haven’t just been trying to churn out work like Poe’s, have you? You’ve triedto become him. That’s what Mia was hinting at. Your MFA student. Josephine Martin. She knew you were Willem Thomas. You changed your name. You took on Poe’s bio as your own.”

Emmit’s eyes flash with something dangerous. She shouldn’t have mentioned Josephine. But, in her rage, she wants to hurt him. Even if it’s just the smallest fraction of the amount he’s hurt her.

“As for the work, it’s not just that we live in a different world from the one in which Poe sold ‘The Raven’ to theEvening Mirror, andnevermorewas on the lips of every man, woman, and child in the country. Not just that anyone with a cell phone and a self-published novel can become a sensation via BookTok. It’s that, when it comes right down to it, you’re not as talented as Edgar Allan Poe.” She can’t be sure, not in the lantern light, but she thinks Emmit’s face has gone pale.

“You may have won a Pulitzer, but in a few years, no one will remember your name or your work. You’ll be nothing.” She laughs at the irony of what she’s about to say. “Emmit Powell, nevermore.”

She steels herself for his rage, maybe even his violence. What she does not expect is the look of appreciation, almost fascination, on his face.

“This is why I love you,” he says, and Saoirse feels herself deflate. “This is why I need you. It’s not your imprisonment in a catacomb that’s interesting; it’s how you react to it, how you are dealing with the trauma. Your view of the world is unparalleled.”

Emmit’s mouth tics, jumping into a half smile once, twice, three times. “Youare all I need to write great things. If I cannot derive inspiration from your connection to Sarah, from our residual haunting across the centuries, I will find it in other ways. If I can’t have your love, I will take your fear.”

Saoirse’s body goes cold. She wills herself not to cry. “I won’t give you that either,” she says. But inside, her body pulses with terror as thick as sludge.

Emmit throws his head back and laughs. “Of course you will. Poe’s work is timeless not because of its subject matter—dead girls, plagues, and evil cats are a dime a dozen in horror fiction—but because ofthe wayhe writes about these things. His exploration of death, its physical signs, the effects of decomposition, premature burial, the reanimation of the dead, mourning lost love ... I can explore these things too.With you.You will be my muse, whether you like it or not. And down here, no one can hear you scream.”

Emmit reaches out and caresses her cheek. “Oh, saintly soul that should have been thy bride, you have death upon your eyes.” Saoirse jerks away, and he laughs again. “The death of a beautiful woman really is the most poetical topic in the world.” He shakes his head. “I wish I could say you’ll enjoy what’s in store.”

---