HIGH STRANGENESS-Tales of the Macabre by Billie Sue Mosiman Page B
Authors: Billie Sue Mosiman
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this incredible being; my life was not a squandering of my precious time on the ridiculous notion that the monster still lived and walked on the same earth I did. I took a delusion — I know you thought me delusional!--and proved it to be reality.
He is here. Somewhere he is in this vicinity, roaming outside these ice-laden walls, hunting for food or scouring the snow for something to burn at his fires. There is evidence all over that he was here within the last forty-eight hours. The coals from his last fire lie just as he left them. His bed of dried limbs where he lays his head is a long dark rectangle behind me, and hi s ax made from materials at hand (wood and stone and what appears to be strips of rabbit skin) leans against the freezing wall. He had even carved wooden bowls and utensils for his food. This is such a sight to see and I wish you were here with me to witne s s it.
I cannot tell you of my exuberance, how this makes me feel to be in the abode of the man I met that once and who ever after ruled my thoughts. It is like happening upon a casket of jewels when you are destitute. Or having been adrift at sea on a badl y made raft for forty days and forty nights and finally making landfall upon a paradisaical shore. I feel as grand and full of passion as I am sure Frankenstein felt when first his creature moved and drew the first breath of life.
My men are in a dreadful mood and though I've sought to reassure them I have found a lost friend, I can see them even now at the mouth of the cave, their backs to me, and by observation of their agitated movements I know they are plotting to flee upon the slightest provocation. Margaret, dear, we have progressed with our science and philosophical knowledge a long way from the days of idle witchcraft, spells, potions, and fear of the dark unknown, but these men are but a minute step from hysterical outright mutiny. I have seen it before when on my ship in the sea that brought me into the north, and it consists of an unmistakable aura, a miasma of anxiety and trepidation that first seeps and then overwhelms men when they face a rip in the veil of natural even t s.
My joy is tempered by my own fear of how the men will react upon encountering “ my long lost friend.” I expect a wailing and a cringing, for this being who has been in the studio of my mind for twenty years still causes me to shiver when memory takes me too close to the surface of his true person. You know I have been at a loss to describe him except to tell you there is an instinctive drawing back from him, though his beauty is astounding. I know Frankenstein felt he had pieced together a freakish baske t of limbs and body parts to create a terrible looking being, but to me he always seemed to be a masterful thing of creation. He does inspire that dread all men harbor of the grave; he rankles the perceptions of what a man should be, and it is his “ new lif e ” that Frankenstein gave to him that causes us lesser mortals to quake and to turn away to evade seeing what God, in His mercy, dared not create out of dead parts. Still..to me....he has always been the most impressive of all men. He is the ultimate man. T he man we all might be if only we had our own dear Dr. Frankenstein to fix us...to correct us. If only my legs were so long, my arms so extended, my chest so wide, my head so ample. If only my torso was so muscled and my stomach so flat, my eyes so far-se e ing!
I grow sleepy, dear, or I would write more. The warmth from the fire, after my long day in the fierce biting cold, causes my head to droop on my shoulders. I have eaten heartily of potatoes cooked to a mush and chewy jerky of that fine venison I broug ht from the last outpost. I am too happy. I feel a consuming content invading my body from my toes to my graying hair; I am satiated as a man can be who once — no, many times!--thought he was mad to follow after a nightmare, just to wrestle it from the dung e on into the full luminous glare
He is here. Somewhere he is in this vicinity, roaming outside these ice-laden walls, hunting for food or scouring the snow for something to burn at his fires. There is evidence all over that he was here within the last forty-eight hours. The coals from his last fire lie just as he left them. His bed of dried limbs where he lays his head is a long dark rectangle behind me, and hi s ax made from materials at hand (wood and stone and what appears to be strips of rabbit skin) leans against the freezing wall. He had even carved wooden bowls and utensils for his food. This is such a sight to see and I wish you were here with me to witne s s it.
I cannot tell you of my exuberance, how this makes me feel to be in the abode of the man I met that once and who ever after ruled my thoughts. It is like happening upon a casket of jewels when you are destitute. Or having been adrift at sea on a badl y made raft for forty days and forty nights and finally making landfall upon a paradisaical shore. I feel as grand and full of passion as I am sure Frankenstein felt when first his creature moved and drew the first breath of life.
My men are in a dreadful mood and though I've sought to reassure them I have found a lost friend, I can see them even now at the mouth of the cave, their backs to me, and by observation of their agitated movements I know they are plotting to flee upon the slightest provocation. Margaret, dear, we have progressed with our science and philosophical knowledge a long way from the days of idle witchcraft, spells, potions, and fear of the dark unknown, but these men are but a minute step from hysterical outright mutiny. I have seen it before when on my ship in the sea that brought me into the north, and it consists of an unmistakable aura, a miasma of anxiety and trepidation that first seeps and then overwhelms men when they face a rip in the veil of natural even t s.
My joy is tempered by my own fear of how the men will react upon encountering “ my long lost friend.” I expect a wailing and a cringing, for this being who has been in the studio of my mind for twenty years still causes me to shiver when memory takes me too close to the surface of his true person. You know I have been at a loss to describe him except to tell you there is an instinctive drawing back from him, though his beauty is astounding. I know Frankenstein felt he had pieced together a freakish baske t of limbs and body parts to create a terrible looking being, but to me he always seemed to be a masterful thing of creation. He does inspire that dread all men harbor of the grave; he rankles the perceptions of what a man should be, and it is his “ new lif e ” that Frankenstein gave to him that causes us lesser mortals to quake and to turn away to evade seeing what God, in His mercy, dared not create out of dead parts. Still..to me....he has always been the most impressive of all men. He is the ultimate man. T he man we all might be if only we had our own dear Dr. Frankenstein to fix us...to correct us. If only my legs were so long, my arms so extended, my chest so wide, my head so ample. If only my torso was so muscled and my stomach so flat, my eyes so far-se e ing!
I grow sleepy, dear, or I would write more. The warmth from the fire, after my long day in the fierce biting cold, causes my head to droop on my shoulders. I have eaten heartily of potatoes cooked to a mush and chewy jerky of that fine venison I broug ht from the last outpost. I am too happy. I feel a consuming content invading my body from my toes to my graying hair; I am satiated as a man can be who once — no, many times!--thought he was mad to follow after a nightmare, just to wrestle it from the dung e on into the full luminous glare
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