Gothic-Horror.com

The Twisted Biography of the author

ANTON VON STEFAN

Part nine  - the first gothic intonations are released 

The Oregon Coast has drawn mankind to its shores since the beginning of time.  It is said, through the legends of our Haida First Nation's People, that a playful Raven once pried open a shell wherefrom emerged the first man and woman.  Since that day long ago, seafarers, hardy pioneers, settlers and tourists have discovered this pristine coast.  Pounded by the untamed Pacific Ocean, whipped into shape by the brisk, westerly winds, shrouded by mist and morning fog, it is a place of unparalleled beauty wherein both youth and adult may easily loose their concentration and let their minds drift with the steady flow of the offshore air.  Here, one can easily let their imaginations take them back to their early, carefree, childhood days.  It is little wonder then that once our author visited Astoria and rounded the point where the Columbia River pushes its debris out into the sea, while being repelled in this effort by each incoming wave, depositing its silt in the delta and creating the ever-shifting bars of sand, ANTON VON STEFAN became captivated by the magic of this natural playground.

A rusting hulk of a hundred year old steamer, whose iron plates speak of the forces of nature, a power that rendered this vessel a hapless victim of those treacherous banks of sand, and whose steel girders looked much like the meatless, half buried ribs of some prehistoric monster, protruded from the hard sand.  Strong winds whipped the endless rows of breakers onto the surrounding shore in a deafening symphony of noise.  The beat ever-changing; rising and falling in intensity as each new wave struck the vast expanse of pristine sand, ending the surge's journey across the open sea.  This was the spectre whose image made it’s impression upon the author on the day he first visited these unique shores.

At Seaside, where history states Lewis and Clark ended their migration west, ANTON VON STEFAN was greeted by a local constable who happened to be passing along his route, on foot, flying a kit overhead.  Here was a scene the author had not envisioned in any dream.  Here was a town, kept at bay by the open sea, sand drifting with the wind and ever encroaching on the aged, stone walls of the broad walkway that followed the shoreline.  Here man’s inner peace was harmonious with his surroundings, permitting an officer the liberty of this extracurricular activity.  Here, at the round-about, where the road west ended, lay an almost forgotten part of America’s past, seemingly untouched by the corruption of civilization, idle and lazy on a mid-summer day, the sun radiating its warmth despite the breeze.  Here the tranquil concord of man lay in stark contrast with the unkempt, uncontrolled, unpredictable, ceaseless power of the stiff westerly wind and the wild Pacific Ocean.  It was here, but a few short miles south along the highway; that, at an aptly named place known as “Devil’s Lake”, our robust, travelling writer would conduct his first author’s reading.

'The Shrouding' had taken shape in the author’s mind on the night of his passing through the graveyard.  The Story had been finished in longhand, typed, and he had worked out most of its flaws by the time his MGB had pulled into Devil’s Lake, Oregon.   At the campsite located along its shore, one can walk the entire distance of America’s shortest river*, the D River, in less than two minutes and end up on the Pacific Coast.  The lake empties west, crosses Highway 101, and flows into the ocean just over a hundred feet from its origin.  ANTON VON STEFAN took this route, carrying his books, his chair, his towel, his newly purchased kite and sturdy line, his dark suntan oils, and his almost completed Gothic Horror story, several days in a row.  With the sun beating down on the author, he enjoyed the ambience of the white sand beach, walking his kite back and forth along the shore, mulling over various sections of his work as he went.  He was not alone at this simple joy.  By noon on any particular day, the sky is often filled with hundreds of kites, of different colours, shapes and styles, flying far over head, each pulling its keeper this way and that, as the line changed its direction with the wind.  Occasionally stopping to tie up his feisty kite to the nearest log as some correction came to mind, the author would rush back and jot that notation down on a page, then return to walk his wind-toy once more.  He spent almost the entire, bright daylight hours close to where his chair lay embedded in the sand, towel flapping in the breeze and threatening to fly off at a moment’s notice.  Yet, just prior to the sun falling into the sea, in the hour before twilight would strike, he would take to his chair and work through his corrections; nodding to the other tourists he may have met through the day as they passed by.

One such evening, just as the master writer had closed his leather synonym finder and darkness was upon him, an extremely beautiful young woman approached the author.  Introducing herself, it soon became known that this Aphrodite was a student at the University of Portland, and had been watching ANTON VON STEFAN over the past few days.  She inquired if he too was working on a post gradual thesis as he had been so intent upon his work.  She went on to state, with some irritation noticeable in her voice, that he had hardly noticed her, although she had chosen to take up a spot right next to him on this very day, something she was not accustomed to.  When he laughed and explained that he had just completed his second, English Gothic Horror story, this gorgeous being smiled and asked if he had ever read his first horror story out to the public.  The idea had not occurred to our writer, but the woman’s insistence that he should read one tonight, and the way her whole body language conveyed this message, was not to be denied.

As it turned out, beauty, and a very determined woman, is capable of swaying many a thing; and, on this very memorable occasion, the attractive young lady had taken the time to notify the manager and his good wife that a writer emulating Edgar Allan Poe was in their midst.  A reading of one of his Gothic works would take place that night before a roaring fire at his campsite.  Everyone, she had explained, was invited to this most fortunate occasion.  Thus, without any actual knowledge of the number of people who would attend this event, ANTON VON STEFAN, with a gorgeous, charming lady by his side, read the newly completed horror story, 'THE SHROUDING' to the American public.

 *Note: The D River is actually the world's shortest river.

Go to:  At the Roar of a Midnight Fire



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