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The Twisted Biography of the author

ANTON VON STEFAN

Part eight  - the curse of the gothic writer 

To think that each Gothic Tale germinated from the waking of our author, bathed in cold sweat, shaking and quivering, as a horrific dream tore the demented slumber asunder, thrusting the hapless individual into a consciousness we so often call reality, but to some could easily equate to hell upon earth, would be untrue.  Proliferating horror stories is not an ailment which inflicted some physical suffering upon the writer each time new ideas began to generate in the author’s mind.  Unlike the dawning of the Gothic Writer when the entire story of his first work introduced itself to ANTON VON STEFAN’s brain, mushrooming into a complete tale of terror in the seconds after his waking on that fateful night, each of the 39 stories now complete, and the five others the author is currently working on, has its own unique beginning.  Each was a joy to write, but there is a curse associated to this talent, this dementia.

Our author had joined the Pacific Ski Club some month’s after writing “The Passing of Mr. Needles” and was cycling home from beach volleyball when next the seed of a tale was planted.   He had no notion that he would ever write another ghastly tale, nor had he any idea that many more horror stories where about to spawn from the author’s mind.  He was content that he had actually written even one story of the genre and calibre of his mentor, Edgar Allan Poe.  Twilight had fallen some time ago, total darkness was not more than twenty minutes off, and he took a shortcut through the city’s largest graveyard. 

This burial ground is hallowed land but so vast in size that its acreage crosses numerous city streets, not all of which cut trough its outer boundary.  Yet, one main street does divide one large section from the other, and our writer had just crossed through the western part, enjoying the solitude of the green space as the area had been devoid of visitors as he passed.  Entering the road which meandered through the fields of stone on the eastern edge, row upon desolate row of grave markers spread out before him.  He was not in a hurry, as his final destination lay only a few short blocks on the far side of the graveyard, easily attainable before he would be unable to ride in the dark.  The first mist began to rise from the grass which spread out from the edges of the narrow paths that criss-crossed the fields and permitted access to each parcel of plots.  Only the stone epitaphs and brass nameplates poked out of the manicured field, each inscribed with solemn words or graphics that told of its tenant’s past.  No birds interrupted the silence of the early evening as the sun had fully set awhile ago.  No late visitors lay within the scope of the cyclist’s sight.  Only peace and the mellow beauty of nature presented its every darkening image upon the orbs of the man who rode through that graveyard in reserved silence.

Through this reclusive space of inner harmony and outer seclusion, soft words began to float over the moistened grass, mixed with the rising dew and were, for an unknown expanse of time, inaudible to the ears that must have made contact with those ungodly intonations.  Several times the exact same words emitted from somewhere beyond the road his bicycle travelled upon, each time that call went past deaf acoustic drums, organs incapable of capturing something from another dimension.  ANTON VON STEFAN will never be able to attest at which time, or after how many repetitions of his Christian name, he finally became aware that a voice was calling out to him. However, the instant that shroud of oblivion parted, the moment he became aware of that ghostly voice, in the flash of that recognition, he froze and his bicycle came to an immediate and complete halt, almost throwing the petrified rider to the macadam ground.  Someone nearby had unequivocally been calling his name, of this fact there could be no mistaking.  With his hair on ends, with his cycle at a standstill, there was no longer any sound being emitted which could be conjured to have produced this bizarre effect.  Incredibly, as he stood among the buried dead, he heard that soft, sweet, beckoning voice one more time, then only silence prevailed.  Hesitantly, ANTON VON STEFAN looked all around.  No one was even in the graveyard, let alone close to him.  He was alone.  He was completely alone surrounded only by the mist, an ever increasing shroud of rising dew.  In that breath of time, in that moment of realization, the words, “he looked around and noticed he was alone, utterly alone within the mist of a graveyard” came to the forefront of his bewildered mind.  'The Shrouding' had begun to spin its horrific tale, yet only those words, “he looked around and noticed he was alone, utterly alone” remained.  By the time our author had cycled through the remainder of the graveyard, in a much more rapid pace I might add, and travelled the few blocks to his urban residence, the story began to emerge, and he would write well into the night.

Sleep has never been a concern to our author in times when the pen seems red-hot and gothic tales pour forth from its tip.  Many a pen has spent its ink, cast aside as another fresh quill is taken up by the tireless hand.  Hours pass into days, blurred only by an interruption or two; by travel from one country to the adjoining land, from one hotel to another, from one chair or lounger to the next, yet the mind of the creator of the Gothic Tale is only focused upon the thoughts that come, unceasingly to the brain, urging the pen to cross the pages faster than before any pause which may have occurred.  This is the curse we speak of. 

During the years of writing fiction, he has been surrounded by snow, in the remote and unparalleled beauty of winter mountains, accompanied by ski club members or alone in a chalet, and a ghost story suddenly strikes him.  He has been with relatives in the wonder and magic of Disneyland, in Southern California, amidst shouts of joy and childlike play, and a tale of terror has found its way into his mind, cutting short his plans of idle leisure and placing him at the side of a hotel’s pool, unable to pry the pen from his hand.  He could be equally absorbed in well laid plans of a utile day at home as he could be travelling the world, when a Tale of Terror emerges from within the depths of his soul, ANOTN VON STEFAN must commit to the images that demand to be recorded.  That has been his curse, that has often been his untimely departure from his daily routine, yet that is also his joy, his blessing, his gift, his contribution to culture and the arts.  The author has always savoured each word as it is transcribed, each moment he is absorbed in his work, and he looks forward to sharing this pleasure with the public as his work is released to the unsuspecting world.

Go to:  The First Gothic Intonations are Released

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