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The Twisted Biography of the author

ANTON VON STEFAN

Part seven  - the malady expands 

The stark letters upon the life rings floated round ANTON VON STEFAN’s unbelieving orbs.  MV Needles, is what the letters unequivocally spelled.  How could that be?  What ungodly hand had sent his dreams off to the far side of the lake whilst the tempest roared overhead, pinning our intrepid author to the innards of his tent while thunder deafened his ears.  In the span of those few hours of troubled sleep, after the furry of that ill wind had somewhat abated, in the turmoil of his slumber, ANTON VON STEFAN had somehow become privy to the name of the vessel he now found himself on.  ‘Motor Vessel Needles’ burned in his disbelieving mind.

He waited not a moment longer on that cursed boat.  The instant the ramp had been lowered upon landing; the author put his vehicle in forward gear and tore off from the deck of the MV Needles.  He vaguely recalls passing a blur of automobiles waiting for the single car which had arrived from the west side to leave the ferry.  Once the sports car was off, it was their turn to board, but ANTON VON STEFAN’s mind lay elsewhere and those memories of departing are images one can only imagine were actually on the other side of the lake.  The words of the Horror Story were, by this time coming fast and furious, tumbling around in the traveller’s brain, demanding to be put to paper, the sooner the better.

The Triumph crested the hill at the top of the road’s embankment with caution, rounded one or two corners on the highway, and then the throttle was opened fully.  The road, with a pristine golf course visible in the distance, followed the long, straight coastline of the lake, and beckoned a driver forward.  Yet, a small shoal of land lay just ahead, between the lush greens of the private facility and the author’s position.  It was a tiny, sandy beach on the left, next to Arrow Lake, with ample parking and ease of access.  Without hesitation, ANTON VON STEFAN applied the foot brake, turned the wheel engaging the rack and pinion steering mechanism of the TR7, and pulled off the highway.  This led one onto a hard sand path which took the driver down to the very edge of the lake and away from the highway.

Before the purchase of the almost new Triumph, ANTON VON STEFAN owned a number of other British sports cars.  They had all been the venerable MG ‘B’ type roadsters, and the one thing they had in common with the Triumph was that the boot (know in Canada as the ‘Trunk’) was small in size.  Thus, over the years, our author had become well equipped with practical camping gear that could be carried in a very limited space.  This served him well on this particular occasion.  In seconds flat, after applying the hand brake, he had a collapsible chair and table in hand and had carefully waded into the lake, finding solid ground underfoot.  The chair had legs of sufficient height so that a person could comfortably sit in cool waters without having their seat suddenly dampened by a rouge wave while permitting the driver to cool his heels in any refreshing spot the traveller found.  The table he carried was of ample size and sturdiness to permit one to enjoy a repast with all utensils, condiments, glasses, candles and plates at hand without the constant need to leave the luxury of the inclined position of comfort.  Thus, on this particular summer morning, with a Gothic Horror Story, whose first pages had been hastily written at the campsite, flying around in the author’s mind, the practical gear being placed into the shallow waters became the improvised writing table ANTON VON STEFAN required for his work.  Pen, blank paper sheets, a dictionary, and a leather bound synonym finder, a well used hard cover book his mother had given the aspiring author years past, were bought forth from the vehicle and placed on the surface of the table.  Once assured that everything required, including the cooler onto which one could place their legs upon should one be so inclined, was within reach, the author took his chair and continued to pour out the words of the horror story, 'The Passing of Mr Needles'.

The hours of that bright sunny morning passed without the author being aware that they even existed.  In that space of time, additional pages were filled with handwritten lines, scrawled across each sheet, which was then placed under one of the books when full.  Each new page was attacked with the same energy as the last.  The Gothic Tale emerged much as he had earlier contemplated each sentence in his mind, its structure almost perfect.  Only the sudden disappearance of the warm rays of the sun, as the steep mountains to the west cut off the radiance of our star, an occurrence that comes on rapidly, but very early, in the narrow valley ANTON VON STEFAN found himself in, caused him to finally look up and become aware of his surrounding once more.  The time had come, when a sufficient part of the Horror Story had been expelled from his brain, that he was able to take a break from his writing, pack up, and move on.

From the shore of Arrow Lake up to Naskusp, the Triumph’s motor hummed as our author tooled along the highway.  Next day, the car turned south, gained Slocan Lake; and, once it had passed New Denver, it turned east once more.  Each day, as ANTON VON STEFAN drove, the words and the sentences of the Gothic Horror Story emerged one by one; and, each afternoon, long before supper, he would write a few more pages, emptying his mind, never letting go of the bizarre dream he had woken from on the night of the lightening storm. 

With 'The Passing of Mr Needles' floating through his fevered head, our traveller made one small detour off the ever increasingly narrow and broken road, a route clearly marked as a highway on his old map.  Just before Three Forks, he took a six mile detour to visit the ghost town of Sandon.  A good part of that day was spent wandering through a silver mining town from the previous century.  Used as an internment camp for Japanese Canadians deemed as “untrustworthy” during the Second World War, its original, electrical generating plant still produced the power this long forgotten, and almost abandoned ghost town required.  As with many strange or remote towns and villages ANTON VON STEFAN has visited, parts of this excursion would become the altered scene of one of his future stories.

Before the sudden onslaught of twilight, the very short period of time between the sun falling behind some mountain or other, but before total darkness descended into these remote valleys and upon our traveller, his sports car crossed over the next steep mountain pass and into Kaslo.  The following morning the automobile trekked along the coast of Kootenay Lake.  Then, following another highway east and over the Purcell Mountain Range, the Triumph finally pulled into Kimberly, British Columbia, just before noon. 

The sun was unbending in pouring forth its summer rays as our sports car driver entered the small ‘Platzl’, the name of the local pedestrian zone.  This richly decorated area was filled with summer tourists, adults and children who were happily browsing or dancing along the open-aired mall where the theme is that of a German, Alpine Village.  A roving minstrel, with accordion slung over his shoulders and wearing a brilliant white, short sleeved shirt, suspenders and lederhosen, filled the air with polkas and traditional song.  It was indeed a beautiful day, but ANTON VON STEFAN walked among those elated, carefree people with the grim Gothic Tale still foremost in his head.  The story was almost complete, and he had only one thought pressing him forward through the crowded plaza.  He was looking for the right spot to plunk down his two hard cover books, his manuscript, and the blank paper he was carrying.  Shortly, as he rounded the main square, a large German restaurant, The Black Forest, caught his roving eye.  It was in the very centre of the next block and a bay window, open to let in the fresh alpine air, seemed to call out to him.  Thereto his determined step took him and; therein, a few short hours later, our author finished 'The Passing of Mr Needles', his very first Gothic Horror Story, and a new tradition was born. 

The instant the two words, “The End” hit the sheet of paper, ANTON VON STEFAN released a great sigh, sat back from the table, smiled at the world that had suddenly reappeared before him and hailed the young waitress.  Clad in a traditional German skirt know as a Dirndl, the pleasant young girl awaited the master’s will.  On that fateful day, in the valley between the Rocky Mountains and the Purcell Mountains, in the ‘German’ town of Kimberly, our author bought his first bottle of celebratory wine.  You see, although no vow of sobriety has ever been made, and although our intrepid author in known for his ability to become a most notable part of any party, often following one of his axioms, “if it is worth doing, do it to excess!”, without even being aware of it, not a single drop of alcohol, nor of beer, nor of wine passed by his lips throughout the entire time he was writing his first Gothic Horror Story.  When it was complete, however, it just seemed so very appropriate to ritualize this feat by sitting down and leisurely sipping a newly opened bottle of quality wine.  Thus, with over 39 Horror Tales complete, 39 equally as good bottles of wine have been uncorked in similar fashion; and, lest you think the tales you read are those of a drunken sot, not once in all of the thirty years of writing Gothic Horror has ANTON VON STEFAN ever had anything other than a true zest for writing Gothic Fiction in the veins that flow through his body.

Go to: Part 8 - The Curse of the Gothic Writer



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