Count Valdemar

      I cannot say how long ago it was that I heard tale of Count Valdemar. I have been upon this great earth a mere twenty eight years, yet it seems that name has been dancing upon my brain for just as long. Since my childhood I have heard stories of a strange man who lives in alone in a castle on a hill in the small town of Usher. Some nights, it is told, he wanders though town in an overcoat and a dark hood and peers in upon families asleep. I've never been particularly anxious to meet this man. In fact, I've never thought anything of it. He seemed such a odd fellow. Some people are best left alone. I apologize if I am sounding as if the Count was a large part of my life, quite the opposite in fact. I would hear nothing of him for years at a time, but still he would remain in my mind. It was on the dark, lonely, stormy nights that my thoughts would drift to Count Valdemar. I would imagine myself next to him, streaking from home to home, our warm breath leaving a residual mist upon the dark windows. I imagined the Count and myself walking though the halls of his castle, joking about the poor shape of the veal provided by the locals, vowing vengeance. On those lonely nights, he was my hero, my savior.
         In the morning, all my idolizing would invariably turn to disgust. Disgust at him for his mere existence and disgust at myself. I lived like this for some time, loving the Count in the night and hating myself in the morn. In the years following the start of these nightly episodes, I decided to give up my studies and wander the world, living off the land and floating as free and unhindered as a leaf in a light wind. It was through these travels that I acquainted myself with much of the country. I met countless unique individuals, some of whom inspired changes in me that I could hardly have suspected possible at the commencement of my journey. I grew my hair and beard to near scandalous lengths. I took up a traveling companion, a small terrier I christened Duke. Together Duke and I treated the world like our backyard. Our long days were filled with exploring, playing and napping.
         Last night, the wind was tremendously strong. It whipped at my body and the rain was not falling from the sky so much as rising from the depths of hell to torment my face. My hood did nothing to protect me. To try and seek refuge from the harsh weather was our main objective, and we found it in a small inn, which was located in a town I'd never visited before. The inhabitants of this town, despite looking seemingly ordinary, acted rather oddly. They all moved into tight knit circles the moment I walked in the door, and they held their conversations in light whispers. I sat down at the bar and sampled from the bowl of peanuts that was generously left on the counter. Suddenly, a voice sounded from across the room.
         "Get out of our town you monster!" This was odd. In all my travels I had never come across such a hostile town before. In spite of the shout, I remained focused on my peanuts. Vagabonds typically don't have tremendous amounts of money to be spending on food, and if I turned around then someone could perhaps steal my peanuts. It was this reason, and this alone, that kept me from turning and facing the accosting voice. I kept my attention on the bowl until a new voice reached my ears.
         "Why must you haunt us? Just let us alone!" At this, I decided to forsake the peanuts and face these strange people and their equally strange accusations.
         "What the hell do you want from me," I asked, irritated, as I turn around and pulled my hood down to face the berating voices. All was silent then. No face would hold claim to the voices that had previously rang out. I turned back and continued my feast. Later, as I got up to leave, a man with a cleft chin and unnaturally bushy eyebrows approached my left and apologized.
         "I'm sorry for yelling those mean things at you sir. It's just that we all though you were someone else," he offered, with eyes cast downward.
         "Who would you ever jeer is such a way?" I asked.
         "We are generally nice people," the man explained, "we just tend to get a little raw when we see a sadistic monster that will likely torment us and our children till the day we die." I peered inquisitively at him and he continued with a start. "Oh not you sir, I didn't mean. . .I meant. . .well, you see sir, there's a man that lives on the hill above this town. A very strange man with a demented mind and a black heart. He comes into town to jeer at us in our homes, and frighten our children to the point that they don't wanna play outside anymore. We thought that you were him, and that's why we were heckling you like we were. We didn't mean you any harm at all sir.
         "A strange man on a hill, you say," I slowly spoke, as my mind drifted back to those lonely nights a lifetime ago.  Could it be the same man, I thought, that so provoked my imagination in ways I had never known? "Is this strange man that you speak of named Count Valdemar?" I asked of the man. The utterance of the name provoked a powerful reaction among the bar's inhabitants. Several women screamed, and the men dropped their mugs. I knew at once that it was he. A small smile crept across my lips as the man, stammering, gave me an answer in a hushed whisper.
         "Yes, sir. The man I speak of is known as the Count. No one goes near his castle, sir, no one dares. I would tell you to do the same. Do not inquire of the Count. No one lives to tell the tale sir."
         "Yes, of course," I respond in a mock terror, "I will stay away from his castle." I got up and collected Duke and walked outside the inn. Duke and I made our way though the town; I never took my eyes off the castle. I reached the bottom of the hill and found a drive that leads up to the door, and here I am.
         I whistle to Duke and start up the drive. The walk is rather easy. The drive has only a slight incline, making for a long walk up the tall hill. I am startled to see the grounds completely devoid of all life. The birds, even, have seemed to quiet their song. The lightning flashes every few seconds yet the sounds never come. Lightning without thunder is rare indeed. Along the way up the path, I munch on some peanuts that I managed to steal from the inn. They are quite salty and delicious, much tastier than a normal peanut, yet not quite a satisfying as peanut butter, how very strange. I reach the door just as I pop the last peanut into my mouth. I lick the excess salt of my lips as I stare at the large knocker on the door. It is the strangest knocker I have ever seen. It appears to be the face of a screaming baby etched into a granite knocker. At least it appears to be etched, it seems so lifelike. I lean it, half expecting the baby to start crying when the door juts open with a creak and a face floats into sight.
         "Can I help you sir?" The vowel in sir seems to stretch on for an eternity.
         "I'm looking for Count Valdemar," I bravely dictate
         "Right this way sir," says the small man, who swings the door wide open to reveal a open foyer, with a chandelier hanging down and a spiral staircase that gropes it's way up to the second floor. Paintings of nameless faces cover every single inch of wall. The faces in the paintings seem to express every emotion in the human spectrum, yet each contains a hue of sadness, a touch of serene discomfort. The small man leads me up the staircase, frequently pausing to turn and examine me. Every other step finds his eyes once again scanning me up and down, as though desperately seeking some flaw either in my physical or emotional state. I guess that I pass the test because he finally exhales strongly and, with drooped shoulders and an exasperated gait, he leads me to a large set of oak doors with those same baby face knockers and pushes the door open. "The Count will see you now," he mutters as he pushes me though the doors and closes them with a clunk.
           The room is a large circular library, with spiraling stairs leading up to levels and levels of books. There are more books here than I have ever seen in my entire life. There are more paintings here too. These paintings, however, seem much happier. They are all smirking and chuckling. In the center of the circle, a ancient desk sits rather crookedly. Behind this old oak desk sits a older man wearing a beaten up suit and a crooked hat. The chair is in the form of an eagle and is rocked back as the old man has his feet propped up on the desk.  As I enter he turns to face me and stands up.
         "Welcome to my home fellow traveler. My name is Count Valdemar." He takes a deep bow and then returns to his full height.
         "Hello. I've come to meet you." I say as though in a trance.
         "I know," he says softly, creeping towards me, "you could never have avoided this meeting, although you never wanted to. I've changed your entire life, whether you realize it or not. This is destiny. This is your destiny."
         "I don't understand," I respond.
         "You've heard stories of me your entire life, and you think that it's a coincidence? There's a reason that your mother always kept me in your mind. There's a reason that you imagined yourself next to me, running around, causing mischief. There's a reason you quit school, it was because of me. It all makes sense, just think." He's creeping closer to me, his eyes dancing.
         "I quit school because I wanted to, not because you or anyone else made me." I shot back in defiance.
         "We'll see." he whispers softly.
         "This is awkward, Count Valdemar. I don't really feel like this meeting is progressing the way that I want it to. I feel that I've come in here, and I've done my part. I came all the way to your castle, which was out of my way, needless to say, and all you can do is ramble on with pedantic babble about how it's my destiny to be here and how it all fits. I'm rather sick of it already to be completely honest with you. I realize that I just met you and that I should give you a chance, but I feel that I have. Right now, I'm just getting a vibe that you're some kind of voodoo master and you want to add me to your shrunken head collection. Are we done here?"
         The Count lets out a deep sigh and slumps back into his eagle chair. "I'm very sorry for all the formalities," he starts, "but it's just that I've got a reputation around this town for being this creepy man who knows everything and terrorizes children. I just figured that I would keep up the attitude with you, for image purposes."
         "You don't have to keep up appearances with me. I'm a stranger that you've never met before. I think we just got started on the wrong foot." I hold out my hand to the Count and he takes it. "We don't have to keep up any appearances. We can just be two normal guys that want to hang out. If that small creepy guy wants to come, that's ok too."
         "Oh yeah," the Count says quickly, "I almost forgot." He grabs a whistle and blows hard. A loud screech sounds and moments later the creepy man is at the door.
         "Yes, master?" he says, stretching the vowels once more.
         "You can drop the creepiness Phil, this nice man doesn't care about the formalities." The Count says.
         "Oh, ok. I suppose I should go ahead and make sure that Tony doesn't put that dog in the oven right?" Phil replies.
         "That would be good thinking Phil." The Count responds, with an air of concern. I look at the Count quickly.
         "You were going to cook Duke?" I scream.
         "Formalities." The Count responds simply. I slump down into the nearest chair and moments later Duke runs into the room and jumps up onto my lap. Revived, I turn once more to the Count.
         "So what do you suppose we should do now?" I ask.
         "Well, we could play a game of freeze tag, or Chinese checkers, or regular checkers. I've also got this new version of Monopoly that looks pretty fun. The money is all on credit cards, pretty cool I think." The Count says.
         "Isn't there anything more interesting we could do. I mean, if you've got all these hoods and capes, maybe we could go for a walk. Maybe scare some children?" I ask hopefully.
          "That could be fun. I've heard that the Walker boy has a bad case of asthma. I think we could do quite a number on him." The Count replies enthusiastically.
         "Was there anything else that you were going to add into your creepy man routine? You weren't going to reveal yourself as my father were you, because I think that's overdone." I ask as we walk toward the door, hoods and capes in hand.
         "Well actually I am your father. I know, it's quite shocking. That's how I knew about the ‘mother telling you stories' thing. That's what I was leading up to with the creepy voice and the mysterious clues, but you might as well just know. Yep, I'm your dad. Also, I'm really sorry about that child support. The mailman just doesn't like to come up to the door so I think I've got 20 years of back child support crammed into the mailbox up front. Although I guess you won't be needing that now, so I'll just take it back. . . . ."