Where the Summer Ends

Introduction:

Unthreatened by the Morning Light



Inevitably the question is asked of every writer: where do you get your ideas? Best to have some sort of answer written down on a little card, because you’re going to be asked this more than once. Obviously, there is no simple answer beyond the fact that writers find inspiration wherever they can as best they can. Because a story is much more than just an idea, a writer usually cannot pin down a precise source of inspiration. Sometimes it may be some bit of personal experience, sometimes a scrap of dream.

I keep a commonplace book, and I sometimes make notes of my dreams. I rarely experience dreamless sleep, nor do I sleep for more than an hour or so at one stretch. My dreams are vivid, usually have a loosely connected narrative flow, and are perceived in color. Often I feel physical pain when my viewpoint persona is injured. So much for “Pinch me; I must be dreaming.”

No pain without gain. At times a dream seems worth holding. Stumble out of bed and into my study, jot something down in my commonplace book.

Sure, there are many other sources of “ideas,” but three stories presented here are all born of dream.

“Endless Night” is virtually a succession of dream sequences. Its visions are directly from my dreams, and most of the segments are recurrent dreams. It’s rather an odd feeling to recognize specific locales within one’s dream, all the while being aware within the dream that this is a remembrance of previous dreams, and to retain that place memory upon awakening. I am left with permanent memories of places I have never been, never actually seen, but only return to in dream. The challenge to me was to weave a possible framework into which these recurrent dream patterns might be assembled. Since doing so, I have not revisited these places. “Endless Night” was written for The Architecture of Fear, edited by Kathryn Cramer and Peter D. Pautz. Cramer is currently editing a follow-up anthology, for which I am writing another story, “Cedar Lane,” similarly based upon recurrent dreams. I pray for a similar exorcism.

“Neither Brute Nor Human” concludes with a dream sequence which I recorded in my commonplace book during the early hours of February 25, 1982. The character, Trevor Nordgren, was a specific real-life author who appeared in my dream. I took pains to blur his identity and incorporate his imaginary career with bits from other authors’ experiences. To date, only one reader has correctly guessed the identity of the writer whom I saw in my dream.

The task here was to build a story to support the dream-envisioned concluding sequence. Here, real life filled in. Much of this novelette is anecdotal, recounting actual experiences—sometimes not as thinly veiled— of myself and several other writers. There is more than a little self-parody in the character Damon Harrington, and there is as much bitterness as there are in-jokes regarding the entire writing business. I assume readers are sufficiently familiar with the works of Edgar Allan Poe to recall the line which follows that excerpted for the story’s title. The novelette was written for the 1985 World Fantasy Convention program book—guaranteeing it novelty status. Nonetheless, “Neither Brute Nor Human” won the 1983 British Fantasy Award for Best Short Fiction.



“The River of Night’s Dreaming” presented an opposite challenge. This time the dream came to me as an almost complete narrative, becoming increasingly fragmented and disturbing as it progressed. The first quarter of the novella is virtually as I dreamed it; the remaining had to be worked into a narrative pattern from the fragments. My commonplace book notes this as a dream during the early morning hours of June 30, 1979—ten years ago almost to the day as I write this Introduction. Its memory remains as vivid as if I had actually been there. Perhaps...

I perceived the dream as if I were watching a story unfold, and as I dreamed it I thought that its title was “The Tapping at the Window.” Fans of The Rocky Horror Show will recognize the actual title as taken from my friend Richard O’Brien’s lyrics. There is obviously more than a touch of Freud and Giger here as well, but the most profound motif derives from the works of Robert W. Chambers, best remembered for his fin de siècle masterpiece, The King in Yellow. Chambers has been regarded as a writer who set up a deliberate barrier to final comprehension in his finest horror stories—and this is the stuff that nightmares are made of. “The River of Night’s Dreaming” was written for Charles L. Grant’s Shadows series, but was rejected by Grant as being too sexually explicit. Fearless editor Stuart David Schiff then accepted it for his rival Whispers series. The novella managed to edge in as one of the World Fantasy Award also-rans.

Of course, not every dream noted in my commonplace book evolves into a story. Some visions are too elusive by daylight, some ideas are just plain silly. I’m still puzzled by one enigmatic dream entry—a single word: nematodes.



—Karl Edward Wagner

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

July, 1989





In the Pines



There is an atmosphere of inutterable loneliness that haunts any ruin—a feeling particularly evident in those places once given over to the lighter emotions. Wander over the littered grounds of an abandoned amusement park and feel the overwhelming presence of desolation. Flimsy booths with awnings tattered in the wind, rotting heaps of sun-bleached papier mâché. Crumbling timbers of a roller coaster thrust upward through the jungle of weeds and debris—like ribs of some titanic unburied skeleton. The wind blows colder there; the sun seems dimmer. Ghosts of laughter, lost strains of raucous music can almost be heard. Speak, and your voice sounds strangely loud—and yet curiously smothered.

Or tour a neglected formal garden, with its termite-riddled arbors and gazebo. The lily pond is drained, choked with weeks and refuse. Only a few flowers and shrubs poke miserably through the rank undergrowth. Dense clots of weeds and vines overrun the paths and statuary. Here and there a shrub or rambling rose has grown into a wild, misshapen tangle. The flowers offer anemic blooms, where no hand gathers, no eye admires. No birds sing in that uncanny hush.

Such places are lairs of inconsolable gloom. After the brighter spirits have departed, shadows of despair and oppression assume their place. The area has been drained of its ability to support any further light emotion, and now, like weeds on eroded soil, only the darker sentiments can take root and flourish. These places are best left to the loneliness of their grief...



•I•

The road that climbed pine-hooded slopes was winding and narrow—treacherous with deep ruts and large stones. County work crews seldom came this far, and rains of many seasons had left the unpaved road with the contour of a dry stream bed.

In late afternoon sunlight the dusty Chevy bounced and rattled its cautious ascent of the pine-covered ridge. A rock outcropping struck its undercarriage and grated harshly. Janet caught her breath, but said nothing. Gerard Randall risked a quick glance from the wheel to note her tense fright. He scowled and concentrated on driving. Accustomed to wide, straight lanes of modern highway, Randall found this steep country road with its diabolical curves a nightmare. Rains had long since washed out whatever shoulder there was, and he watched in sick fascination as the road disappeared completely all too few inches from his jolting wheels.

“Can you see roads like this in Ohio?” he snorted, and wondered what would happen should two cars meet. With traffic almost nonexistent, that seemed unlikely. At any rate, he was barely crawling, as the light car wallowed over the rutted bed. Once again he felt a pang of regret for the Buick and its solid feel. But now life was strictly economy class.

The road made an impossible hairpin, so that Gerry had to stop the car to back and fill. He swore silently, keeping his anger to himself. What had this road been designed for, anyway—didn’t these Tennessee hillbillies drive cars? The long drive from Columbus had been difficult. From wide interstate highway, the roads had steadily retrogressed down the evolutionary ladder—until now he followed a trail Davy Crockett would have scorned.

Their silence had been awkward, but conversation was a greater strain. Instead, he turned up the radio and pretended not to notice Janet’s tight-faced nervousness. For miles now the radio had blared out twangy country music from the small-town stations along their route. When they left the paved road, it faded into static.

They were passing vacation cabins now, so he paid careful attention. “Help me find the place, Janet,” he said levelly. “If we miss it, I’ll never get turned around.”

One of the last ones on the road, the agent in Maryville had told them when they stopped for the key. On the left, a good coat of green paint, with red fuel oil and water tanks in front. The sign over the door would read “The Crow’s Nest” in red and white. Couldn’t be missed.

“I hope it’s... clean,” Janet offered hesitantly. “Some of these look so run-down.”

True enough, Gerry admitted. A few cabins were in good condition—fresh paint, aluminum screens, new car alongside. But most were half fallen apart—sagging wooden boxes perched on precarious stilts along the steep mountainside. A few had tumbled down the slope—pitiful heaps of crumpled and rotting timbers. Not encouraging. He voiced his annoyance: “So most of these places are fifty years old! What did you think seventy-five bucks a month would get you for a mountain cabin! In Gatlinburg we’d pay this much for a night!”

Her face drew tighter and her eyes looked damp. She was assuming her wounded-martyr expression. Gerry braced himself for the now-familiar crisis. Please God, not now, not here.

“There it is!” He pointed suddenly. “Let’s see if there’s room to pull off the road.” Cautiously, he edged the Chevy into a parking area beside the cabin.

Janet’s face grew keen with interest. “It doesn’t look too bad.” she observed hopefully.

Gerry eyed the structure in quick appraisal. “No. No, it doesn’t,” he conceded. “At least, from the outside.”

The Crow’s Nest was a typical mountain cabin from the early twenties, days when this had been a major resort area. It clung to the steep slope with one end resting on the bank just below the road, while an arrangement of wooden posts supported the sections jutting out from the mountain. Its unlovely design was that of a stack of boxes anchored to the ridge. The top floor—on level with the road—was a large square; underneath was a rectangle about two-thirds the width of the first, and the bottom floor was an even narrower rectangle. Rusty screen enclosed porches running the length of each level on the side overlooking the valley.

“Well, we can’t complain about the view,” Gerry offered. “There’s three porches to choose from. Hope it’s not too drafty for you. Well, come on. You can explore while I unload stuff.”

Getting out, he gratefully stretched his long body, then reached in. “Make it okay?” he inquired solicitously. She pulled herself erect unsteadily, tugging hard on his arm and gripping the door with the other hand. Gerry unloaded her walker, then went to unlock the cabin while Janet hobbled painfully across the pine-needle carpet to the door.

Inside she smiled. “Oh, Gerry! It looks so cozy! I know we’ll be happy together here!”

“I hope so, darling!” He brightened.

The screen door slammed shut on squawling hinges.



Janet was exhausted and went to bed early. Gerry had not felt like sleep. The ordeal of driving had left his nerves on edge, and the strange surroundings made him restless. Instead he settled down in one of the huge rocking chairs, propped his feet on the edge of the porch screen and enjoyed the mountain night. Idly his fingers flicked the bottle caps nailed to the wide wooden armrests, while he thoughtfully nursed a Scotch and soda. He had brought several fifths down with him—the nearest liquor store would be Knoxville, and Tennessee liquor prices were terrible. He grimaced. Good Scotch was another luxury he could no longer afford.

The mountain breeze was cool and clean, and the night’s silence astonished him. Dimly he could hear the whine, see the flicker of light as an occasional car passed along the highway in the valley far below. The house uttered soft groans and squeaks in the darkness, and the rocker answered with a rhythmic creak. From outside came the sounds of creatures of the forest night. Crickets, tree frogs, shrill insect calls. Mice, flying squirrels made soft rustlings in the quiet. An owl called from the distance, and a whippoorwill. Overlying all was the whisper of the pines. Gerry had often heard the expression, but until now he had never understood that pines actually do whisper. Soft, soothing whisper in the night. But a sound so cold, so lonely.

Even bad Scotch gets better with each drink. Maybe not Chivas Regal, but it does the job. Gerry rocked softly, sipped slowly, glass after glass. The night was soothing. Tension slipped from overstrung nerves.

Half in dream he brooded over the turn his life had taken. God, it had all seemed so secure, settled. His wife, their son. A rising position with the firm. Good car, good house, good neighborhood. Country club, the right friends. Bright young man already halfway up the ladder to the top.

Then a woman’s inattention, a flaming crash. Only a split second to destroy everything. The funeral, weeks of visits to the hospital. The lawsuit and its cruel joke of an insurance executive whose own policy was inadequate.

All of it destroyed. A comfortable, well-ordered existence torn to twisted wreckage. He could never return to the old life. Despite the sincere best wishes of embarrassed friends, the concerned expressions of doctors who warned him about the emotional shock he had suffered.

Maybe it would have been best if he had been in the car, if he had died in the wreckage of his life.

No... that was a death wish. Part of the warnings of those concerned doctors after that scene in the hospital... Part of their reasons for urging this vacation upon him... “You both have scars that will have to heal...”

Gerry laughed softly at the memory of the psychiatrist’s attempt to talk with him. In the stillness of the dark cabin his laughter was ghastly. He checked the bottle and noted it was almost empty. Drunk, by God. He supposed he should start bawling in his glass. Yes, Doctor, worry about me. Lose a little sleep in your $300,000 home. God knows how I’ve waited for the nights to end since then.

Time for bed. Try out that musty old mattress. He drew in a deep lungful of the mountain air. Curious fragrance he had not noticed before. Probably some mountain flower. Something that smelled like jasmine.