Where Monsters Dwell Read Online Free PDF

folded it up and put it in his pants pocket. Then he leaned back in his chair, extended his legs, and fell asleep, his body stretched out full length.
    *   *   *
    Much later than usual, he went downstairs to get his bag lunch. He’d expected to find the main building deserted. The library’s closing time, 1:00 P.M. on Saturdays, had long since passed. So he was a bit surprised to find that the lights were still on in the office wing; both surprised and a little hopeful, perhaps. Was she still there?
    First he went into his office and again read through his note about Poe. Then he checked the control panel on the wall next to the desk to make sure that the alarms had been activated the way they were supposed to be after the library closed. He ran his fingers through his hair to straighten it. Although he was pushing forty, his hair was thick and luxuriant. Curly. A bit disheveled.
    The person he encountered was not the one he had anticipated or hoped to meet. Gunn Brita Dahle was still at work for some reason, standing in the middle of her office looking a bit bewildered. She was holding a bottle of wine, not the cheapest to be had at the state liquor store, but not the most expensive either. He recognized it as one of three farewell gifts she’d received at lunch the day before.
    “Hi, Jon,” she said as he entered the room. “I’m just packing up the last of my things.” Then she looked around and sighed, with a melancholy smile that was half feigned, half genuine. “It’s harder to leave than I thought. I’ve been sitting here for hours reading through old papers, emptying drawers, and looking at old photos. It’s enough to make a person downright sentimental.”
    “We’re going to miss you,” Vatten said, and he meant it. He’d always felt comfortable with her somewhat strident feminism. At least she was honest. And they were the same age.
    “So how’d you like to sample this before I go?” she said. “Jens is at the cabin with the kids, and I don’t see any point in sitting at home on a Saturday night and drinking alone.”
    “I think it’ll keep,” Vatten said dryly.
    “That’s true. You don’t drink, do you?”
    “Very seldom.”
    “So you’re not a complete teetotaler then?”
    “I’m neither Christian nor of the dry persuasion, if that’s what you mean.”
    Now she laughed. He realized that they had seldom stood around just talking as they were doing now, and that she really had a nice laugh. Maybe it was the laugh that made him open up a bit.
    “But I actually have a problem with alcohol.”
    “You do?”
    “I’m hypersensitive to it. One glass is enough to get me roaring drunk.”
    “Is that so?”
    “I’m not making it up. As a matter of fact, I was just reading that Edgar Allan Poe might have had the same problem,” he said, pleased that he was able to make use of what he’d read.
    “So, the master of the macabre didn’t drink as much as all the rumors say? He just got drunk fast?” she asked.
    Vatten looked at her with interest.
    “Do you know Poe well?” he asked.
    “I’ve actually been to the Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Richmond,” she replied. “I was there last spring.”
    Vatten was astonished. He vaguely recalled that Gunn Brita had taken a trip to the States, but he had no idea that she’d been to Virginia, or that she had visited the Edgar Allan Poe Museum. It struck him how little they had talked to each other about personal things. Damn, he’d been in the States last summer himself. The first vacation since that happened, and he hadn’t even asked her for a single tip for his trip.
    “Then you must know as much about Poe as I do. The main source for the claim that Poe was an alcoholic was one of his worst foes, a certain Rufus Griswold.”
    “Rufus Griswold?”
    “Yeah, I know. It sounds like a made-up name. But Rufus Griswold was real enough, unfortunately for Poe’s later reputation. He worked as an editor and literary agent in the