The Twisted Biography of the author
ANTON VON STEFAN
Part five - a night like few others
The night was incredibly dark, yet as brilliantly clear as any mountain air the author had ever seen. That serenity was about to end. Yet, as the weary traveller approached, there was no sign of the deluge which lay somewhere to the west of his present location. Lights began to come on from the inside of the house before him and brightened the relative gloom of the single lamp which had guided the author to its door. Knocking, ANTON VON STEFAN half expected Riff Raff and Magenta from The Rocky Horror Picture Show to open the door to this remote house in the lonely alpine meadow it was located in. Yet, a friendly-looking, young couple, who had just moved up from the West Coast, stood on the threshold. They had just opened the campsite; and, as the author was to be their first customer, they had not yet turned on the lights for the campers’ restroom facilities.
Told to put his tent anywhere he wished, the owner accompanied the author to a site near the distant building, carrying an oil burning lantern as he went. This same individual opened the shower and washroom building, a structure which had been visible on the author's approach. The exterior lights of this second building, which blended in with the light of a fully risen moon, were ample in providing the illumination needed to set up the small tent. Knowing that a storm was only a short way behind, ANTON VON STEFAN took great care in attaching an extra-wide, waterproof, green, canvas canopy which had always served well in the foggy morning air along the wild Oregon Coast, a region the author frequented. Once all was securely in place and fully spiked down, a quick shower in the new facilities seemed appropriate.
Although the ritual of washing was short in duration due to the fact that the hot water system had only been activated when the owner had opened the building, the first drops of rain greeted the author as he stepped out into the cool night air. Yet, even these initial drops were a harbinger of what was to follow. The size of these first droplets were nearly those of cherry pits; and, by the time ANTON VON STEFAN traversed the 40 or so paces to his tent, he was almost as wet as when he has exited the shower.
Peaceful slumber, in the first hours of the storm, was impossible. Distant thunder, along with the harsh impacts of rain on the tent’s outer canopy became an instant cacophony of loud drumming which rose to ear-shattering noise as the lightning came directly overhead. The inside of the tent’s walls flashed eerie shadows of the interiors outlines across the small space. Gusts of ever-increasing wind, air currents which had crested the mountain and were buffeting the temporary abode of our author, tested the sturdy pegs which he had driven well into the hard surface. The constant rattle of canvas and canopy and the threatening thuds as the air pressures frequently changed and put differing masses against the thin walls, as the power of nature unleashed its will upon the lone camper, were like silence in comparison to the blasts of intense sound that ensued each fresh flash of brilliant light from above. Within the first hours, well over fifty bolts of lightning tore apart the heavens as the electrical storm remained within the mountains’ peak. Then, mercifully, it slowly moved to the east, leaving only the heavy rain and wind to mix with the receding thunder to keep our author from sleep.
There are few things as wonderful and bedazzling as being in the direct path of a lightning storm. One really never contemplates actually being struck by a wayward bolt, but the adrenaline of being so close to something so fascinating and powerful kept the author awake for awhile longer. Then, some time after 10 o’clock that night, as the gusts of wind became a constant rustle against the fabric walls and the rhythmic sound of the continuing downpour resonated in the camper’s ears, he was finally lulled to sleep. This slumber, within the confines of the tent, was by no means one which could be called a peaceful rest. ANTON VON STEFAN was to be torn awake some five hours later, in the very dead of night, sitting bolt upright in his sleeping bag.
In that unforgettable moment, in that instant when our dreams fade and our conscious mind takes on the ebony surroundings the author found himself in, an entire Gothic Horror Tale had been retained by his brain. Actually fully aware of the nefarious images of his dream, and the passage his troubled soul had taken, this vision of a dark story, in incredible detail, was etched deep into the memory of the wakened being. No effort had ever been taken, no desire to ever write or to emulate the fiction of Edgar Allan Poe had ever crossed the highly active mind of the man who now sat deathly still in his makeshift bed. Yet, at precisely 3 o’clock on that fateful morning, after that incredible start to the night, ANTON VON STEFAN had the entire Gothic Tale, 'The Passing of Mr Needles' in the very forefront of his conscious mind.
The remarkable contrast between the furry of a violent electrical storm and the silence that ensues, once it has passed, was the very situation our author found himself in. The air was deathly still, the wind had unequivocally passed. The violent air may well have followed the storm cell over the next mountain range. The other possibility, our author mused as he flicked on the small, electric lamp he always travelled with and which now hung directly overhead in his tent, is that the tumultuous power of the storm was spent and that its amazing furry had simply passed on into history.
Equally as historical is the fact that ANTON VON STEFAN put any further thought of the night’s tempest out of his mind. He kept a clear path open to that Gothic vision in his freshly conscious mind, took pen and paper into hand, and began to write the first horror story of his career. His life as a Gothic Fiction Writer had indeed begun!
Go to: Mr Needles Comes to Mind
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