Edgar Allan Poe and I have long been kindred spirits.

Our relationship began in 1985 when we spent the summer inside my grandmother's walk-in closet, sharing tales of beating hearts and plague-filled parties. Twenty years later, we're still bonded by a passion for curious volumes of forgotten lore. In fact, the dream journal that waits impatiently within the bowels of my nightstand bears his visage. Every morning, its white pages inspire me to wipe the grains of golden sand from my eyes and define the meaning within my dreams.

I am not alone in my everlasting affection for the gothic master of the macabre. Each year, on the anniversary of Poe's death, people from all over the world travel to Baltimore to honor his presence in literary history. They gather on the grounds of Westminster Presbyterian Church, in frigid temperatures and snowy climes, to pay homage to the author and his most ardent fan.

Since Jan. 19, 1949, a solemn ritual has been performed. Sometime between midnight and dawn, a figure dressed in black walks past the rows of old tombstones, past the silent onlookers, past the veil of life and death itself, to visit Poe's grave.

The man ignores the audience as he kneels before the large white monument that marks the author's short life. He pays his respects by toasting Poe with a bit of French cognac. Just before he disappears, exiting the necropolis as silently as he arrived, the man in black leaves behind evidence of his yearly tribute.

On the base of the grave, he surrenders his bottle of spirits. Then he deposits three red roses -- one for Poe, one for his cousin/wife Virginia and one for Maria Clemm, his aunt/mother-in-law. (In my mind, the rose petals resemble bloody tears upon a face of pale granite.)

The identity of the "Poe Toaster" remains an enigma. However, in 1993, he left a note that said: "The torch will be passed." Another missive was found on the grave in 1998 that indicated the original lamenter had died, but had bequeathed the mourning rite to his sons.

Who is the mysterious fellow who kneels in front of Poe's grave? Is he a relative of the long-dead author? A member of a secret society? Or the spectre scribe himself, eager to size up the permanence of his memory.

No one can say for sure.

The last days of Poe's life are also shrouded in mystery. We know, from the few records still available, that he died on Oct. 7, 1849 in a Baltimore hospital.

The cause of death is still debated more than 150 years later. Modern historians have suggested everything from murder to rabies to alcohol poisoning.

Rufus Wilmot Griswold, an author and editor who hated Poe for writing a negative review of his work, anonymously published a scandalous obituary that ran in the local newspaper. He then printed a defamatory, 35-page biography of Poe that over time has been utterly discredited. For these actions, the E.A. Poe Society of Baltimore has labeled Griswold "Poe's literary executioner."

Maybe the "Poe Toaster" is a descendent of Griswold, someone trying to apologize for his ancestor's atrocious behavior? It would certainly be a proper way to make amends.

I have never wronged Edgar, but I do feel a need to thank my dark friend for the many hours of entertainment he's given me over the past two decades. And so, this time next year, I plan to make the pilgrimage to his grave. After spying the mysterious mourner's ritual, perhaps the truth of Poe's life, death and legacy will be revealed.