It seems the only days I end up working at the Providence Athenaeum, where Poe and Lovecraft wrote, are days which could be the start of one of their stories. There is rain skittering over the skylights, the leaves brushing the windowpanes are just turning color, the sky is darkening, and it’s a too cold for the light jacket I brought. It’s cozy, but with a coming chill I’m not quite ready for.