Summary: In which Edgar Allan Poe receives some mail and inadvertently terrorizes his mail carrier.

Disclaimer: Most readers will recognize at least a few of the names mentioned in this story. I own none of them. Also, I am neither American nor a mail carrier, so please forgive any inaccuracies in either regard.

Author's Note: This story was written as a submission for Shipwrecked Comedy's #PoeParty Fanfiction Contest. Check out their remarkable Kickstarter Campaign to fund "Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Invite Only Casual Dinner Party / Gala for Friends Potluck" - seriously, it's going to be ah-mazing.

The other mail carriers had warned Mary Ellen about the house on the corner. It's haunted, they'd said. There are body parts hidden in the floorboards and a ghost in the attic.

Mary Ellen scoffed at their admonitions. She didn't believe in ghosts in the first place. And secondly she was fairly certain that this was some kind of joke; an initiation for her first day on the job. So Mary Ellen just shrugged off her new co-workers' warnings, rolling her eyes to show that she wasn't about to be intimidated by their measly attempts to frighten her. Besides, she had enough on her mind this morning - what with collecting her bins of mail and parcels, loading her truck, mapping out her route, and completing her vehicle safety checklist. Mary Ellen was determined that her supervisor would be unable to fault her performance, on this, her first day as a real mail carrier.

The morning was going smoothly; Mary Ellen had only gotten lost twice, and had been able to navigate back to her route both times with a quick check of her map. It was an unusually warm day for this time of year, and she had happily shed her jacket an hour ago. The (supposedly) haunted house hadn't even crossed Mary Ellen's mind since she'd left the post office that morning. But that all changed when she turned the next corner.

There, in clear view, was the most dismal, dilapidated, and depressing house Mary Ellen had ever seen. She pulled over and parked her truck, leaning forward to take it all in. Every stereotypical feature of a haunted house was present, and Mary Ellen mentally itemized each aspect. Old, ill-kept house? Check. Dark, shuttered windows? Check. Overgrown bushes beyond a heavy iron gate? Check. It even had one of those third story towers that looked impossibly precarious.

This place was creepy, no doubt about it. Mary Ellen shuddered, then grimaced at her own foolishness. "There's no such thing as ghosts," she said aloud. A squirrel on the sidewalk paused, startled by Mary Ellen's announcement. "There's no such thing as ghosts", she repeated, louder this time, ostensibly for the squirrel's benefit. "And no such thing as haunted houses, either." The squirrel peered at Mary Ellen, unimpressed, then turned and bounded across the boulevard.

Alone once again, Mary Ellen returned her attention to the house before her, and noted with some relief that the mailbox, a heavy looking and ornate metal contraption, was on the nearest fencepost, right beside the gate. She wouldn't even have to leave the sidewalk. Not that she was afraid or anything, of course. But even if this place wasn't actually haunted, it was still, well, creepy. Undeniably so. And Mary Ellen would be glad to be done with it as soon as possible.

Her consolation was short-lived, however, when she turned to retrieve the mail for this address, and saw that there was nothing but a package in the bin. There would be no mailbox drop now. Packages required a signature.

Mary Ellen briefly considered marking the parcel as "Undeliverable" and returning it to the depot at the end of her route. But what reason would she record on the delivery notice? House is too weird? Front yard is too creepy? She didn't think either option would make a very good impression on her supervisor. Anyways, she'd just have to attempt delivery again tomorrow.

No, better to get it done and over with, as she always told her boys. If it's worth doing, then it's worth doing right.

Mary Ellen grabbed the package and her handheld terminal, locked her truck, and approached the gate. She had to apply a considerable amount of force until, with an atrocious creak, it reluctantly opened and Mary Ellen walked through. It shut behind her with a loud and sudden clang, startling Mary Ellen, who instinctively clutched the package closer. "Don't be silly", she scolded herself. "It''s just a house."

Still, she moved more cautiously up the unkempt pathway, her shoes crunching heavily on the gravel underneath, pushing past the brambles of bushes that threatened to overtake the walkway completely. Mary Ellen shivered, suddenly feeling chilly, and wishing she hadn't left her jacket in the truck. She approached the wooden steps to the porch and ascended, careful to avoid the second step which had rotten completely through. Straightening her shoulders, she reached to lift the mottled knocker on the heavy wooden door, as there was no doorbell to be seen. In fact, Mary Ellen couldn't recall seeing any power lines coming in to the house. Weird.

The sound of her knock echoed deep inside the house. The better part of a minute passed, and Mary Ellen knocked again. She had just convinced herself that she would be able to write No Answer as the reason for unsuccessful delivery when the door groaned open a few inches, and a pale, suspicious face peered through the narrow opening. A damp, chill air curled out from inside the house and Mary Ellen shivered again.

Taking a step back and clearing her throat, she said, "Uh, good morning. I have a package here for a ... " She bent her head to read the label on the box. "... A Mr. E. Poe."

At this, the door groaned again as it was pulled open a few more inches. Mary Ellen could now see more clearly the man who stood behind it. The first thing she noticed was the almost comical moustache that dominated his face, the kind that looked like it had lived a previous life as broom bristles. But in stark contrast to the laughable facial hair was this man's outfit. He looked like he was dressed for a funeral. Probably for someone who had been dead for two hundred years, based on the stiffly knotted necktie and the heavy wool suit he was wearing. And he was pale. Really pale. Like, maybe he should be taking iron pills pale.

He cleared his throat, interrupting Mary Ellen's silent assessment. "'Tis I, Poe."

"Sorry?"

The man shifted uncomfortably, hastily meeting Mary Ellen's eyes. "'Tis I, Edgar Allan Poe."

"Oh, right. This is for you", Mary Ellen replied, thrusting the package into his hands. The man, or Mr. Poe, as Mary Ellen now knew, squinted at the shipping label on the package. Mary Ellen tried to see past him into the gloomy house, her curiosity temporarily squashing the rising unease she felt about the whole situation, but to no advantage. All she could see was dingy darkness. No wonder he was so pale.

"They are candles", Mr. Poe said, mistaking Mary Ellen's craning neck for curiosity about the box in his hands. "Very hard to find long-burning candles these days."

"Hm? Oh, um, sure, of course." The terminal in Mary Ellen's hand pinged, reminding her that a signature was required. She held out the device towards Mr. Poe, who was forced to set the box down on a small table just inside the doorway before taking the device from her. It's going to take a lot more than just a box of candles to brighten this place up.

Just then, a flash of movement by her foot caused Mary Ellen to look down. She yelped with surprise, as a large, black bird pecked at her shoe. "Ah! What is that?"

"That is a raven", Mr. Poe replied blandly, completely unconcerned that the bird in question was attempting to abscond with Mary Ellen's shoelaces. To her great surprise, instead of shooing the offending creature away, he bent over towards the bird, who, after one final jab at Mary Ellen's foot, turned and hopped onto the man's outstretched arm.

"They are particularly restless today, it would seem." Mr. Poe spoke to Mary Ellen, but his attention was solely on the bird, who was now preening.

"Wait, "they"?" Mary Ellen questioned. "There's more than one raven?" As if to confirm her fears, a cacophony of cawing erupted from the nearest oak tree. And as Mary Ellen turned to trace the source of the sound, she was suddenly aware of dozens of the horrifyingly large birds dispersed across the property - perched on the railings, and window boxes, tree branches and fence-posts. How could she have missed the ravens? They were everywhere.

She gulped, attempting to quash the dread creeping up her throat. They didn't cover this in mail carrier training. Barking dogs? Yes. Traffic detours? Yes. A creepy old house inundated with beady-eyed birds? Not so much.

Mr. Poe continued as if the sight of a hundred ravens on his front lawn was nothing unusual. "I believe they are disturbed by Lenore's presence. She has not... endeared herself to them as of yet. Which is ... unfortunate, as she will have to co-operate with them if we are to succeed in dispatching our invitations."

Mary Ellen couldn't help herself. "Invitations?"

"Yes", Mr. Poe replied, his eyes still on the preening bird perched on his arm. "Lenore and I are hosting a Murder Mystery Invite Only Casual Dinner Party slash Gala for Friends Potluck ."

Mary Ellen began to reply, but Mr. Poe continued. "We have drawn up a guest list of the highest caliber. Annabel Lee has already confirmed her attendance, not that she's the reason for the party, or ... anything." He cleared his throat, and shifted uncomfortably. "We will also be inviting Ernest Hemingway and Charlotte Brontë, as well as Emily Dickinson, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Oscar Wilde. Perhaps some others, as well. And there will be soup. Extravagant soup."

Mary Ellen just gaped. This guy couldn't be serious, could he? He had just named some of the most famous authors in English literature, who were all, it should be noted, dead. Very dead. So either he was crazy, or he honestly believed that a bunch of deceased authors were going to come to a potluck. To eat soup.

This was all too much. "Look," Mary Ellen said. "I don't know what you and your wife are thinking..."

"Oh, Lenore is not my wife", Poe interrupted, a look of disgust crossing his face. "I would never... No, Lenore is my lady ghost."

That was the final straw for Mary Ellen. She wasn't about to stick around long enough to discover what else might be hiding in the recesses of the abysmal house, or if the ghosts outnumbered the ravens. Joke or no joke, this had gone too far. She grabbed the handheld device out of the startled Mr Poe's hands, and took the porch steps two at a time, desperate to put as much space as possible between herself and the creepy Mr. Poe.

The last thing Mary Ellen heard as she pushed through the brambles was Mr. Poe's voice calling, "Wait! Wait! I haven't even told you about the murder mystery game we will be playing!"