“Fifteen years! I have been reading and studying this woman for fifteen years”, Theo mused to himself, “and yet she’s still an enigma.” He leaned back then, sighed, and stared into the computer. The cursor on his word processor was blinking unrelentingly. Then, as he continued to stare into the light perched upon his desk, he reached his right hand up toward his face and pinched his lower lip, holding it there, tightening the pressure, narrowing his gaze, as if in a duel.
Yes, R.E. Howard had captured Theo’s mind and imagination since he was a child. He had read all her books, as well as her more obscure works, including those published under other pen names prior to her achievement of worldwide fame. It was Howard’s crowning achievement though, The Sanctuaries of the Unseen, all three volumes, that had truly nested within him as his image of the pinnacle of literary achievement within the last few decades, the highest that any person had risen during his lifetime. To him, it wasn’t the popularity of the novel, but his connection to it and the depths that he perceived as existing within it beyond the surface that appealed to the masses.
Most people discounted the significance of Howard’s work. They only saw it as young adult literature or as mere entertainment, escapist fantasy. There were deeper philosophical themes though, roots in ancient literature, a refined taste, and an undercurrent that he had always detected. Still, despite her massive commercial success, no one expected her to become the next Cervantes, Dostoevsky, Dickens, Shakespeare, one of the immortal authors, no one except Theo, that is. He could see it in her, the potential. It was a question of means, evolution, taking her literary gifts beyond the page; that was what he imagined, the future he could see in his mind’s eye. Thus, he questioned, “How might she become the greatest author and artist ever, not just to me, but the world for all eternity?”
Born Roshanak Entezami, she had only ever published The Sanctuaries of the Unseen under the name R.E. Howard. Presumably, and according to the few interviews that she had granted throughout the years, Howard chose the name so as not to be associated with her family that had fled Iran amid political turmoil while she was still a small child. Her other pen names throughout the years supported this assertion, including Mary Warner, R.E. Mont, and Roxanne Giordano. When asked about whether she sought to choose a name that would appeal to white mainstream audiences, she replied, “yes, that was clearly one of the multiple considerations. I was a woman, unknown, unemployed, unpublished, nonwhite, and unmarried. I wanted to publish and to sell books, a lot of them, and it was 1985. What would have you done? I blazed trails along with several other brave women.”
Theo had always admired her honesty and lamented how little she shared of herself beyond the few interviews that he had encountered. He had so many questions burning deep within him. Where the inspiration came from, how she managed to make the text feel like a vivid dream, more so than anything that he had ever read before, and why she had suddenly disappeared. Her stream of literary gifts to the world suddenly dried up one day and nothing had ever filled the void, not for him at least.
He had admired and identified with Howard since he was a teenager. He wanted to become just like her, not famous, but able to create a world that would impress him and others to the degree that she had astonished him. However, in terms of medium, he had gravitated toward the theatre as he came of age and became an artist himself. Additionally, in contrast to Howard, he rose quickly and encountered almost immediate success. Thus, in his late twenties, he displayed outward signs of independence, success, health, and creative vigor. Yet unknown to all but himself, he remained secretly dependent and constantly looking to R.E. Howard as his hidden idol and the raison d’etre underpinning his creative pursuits and his artwork itself.
Indeed, he often felt as if she was like a psychological mother that had abandoned him. Her books had been his touchstones while he was coming of age in foster homes. The protagonist of the novel, similarly a foster child, had always been his role model; “what would Eleusia Herrari do in this situation?”, he always found himself asking. Meanwhile, The Sanctuaries of the Unseen had also become his ideal prototype of the style, the mood and tone, that his work had to become. However, despite the intensity of his feelings throughout his life and their expression in respectful and intermittent fan mail, his letters to her had never been returned.
With every premier of one of his plays, he had always hoped that she would appear. Seeking to bring this about, he had also always included subtle references to her work, yet, despite these attempts to capture her attention, he always found himself disappointed and alone. Despite accolades and the attendance of dignitaries, the occasional compliment that his work reminded spectators of the art other masters, including the ultimate, “do I detect, perhaps, a hint of Howard?”, there was always an empty space within him in the wake of a successful run. The pangs of longing for Howard to acknowledge his work would often catch him off guard, but he always knew to take a step back and to recognize how unhealthy those feelings were. While he was creating though, in those moments of creative flow and atonement, he always felt passions stirring—an anger, a desire to know more, more deeply, more completely, a need to know that what he was creating would finally impress her. To the best of his knowledge, Howard had never even seen one of his plays, though he remained exceptionally hopeful. Additionally, he promised himself that his most recent work would finally bring about his desire.
Theo had been working on this particular play for three years now, primarily the research. He had been attempting to delve deeper into the mystery and beyond the surface of R.E. Howard, deeper than any person had previously managed to dive. She had become a recluse, years without contact, her whereabouts unknown to the world. Most believed that she lived somewhere on an unknown private island. Her multiple identified properties throughout the world had been left vacant. Theo knew this because he had been to each and every one of them in search of answers, never going so far as to trespass, but always monitoring for activity. “Perhaps it is all underground”, he began to question one day, but he determined that a private island was most likely. Additionally, the locals at each of the properties that he had investigated always reported similarly having seen no trace of her in years, if they were to be trusted.
Throughout his studies of the secondary sources, Art of Fiction interviews, recordings from publicity tours during the book launches, and the vast collection of speculative articles from tabloids, he found it hard to develop a coherent picture of who the woman might be. On the surface she appeared to be a normal author who closely guarded her privacy; yet, as one dove deeper, it became difficult to discern truth from fiction—aliens, the occult, membership and participation in an underground cannibalistic secret society, and rumors that R.E. Howard was merely a representative of the true author of The Sanctuaries of the Unseen. There was no authoritative and complete biography to which he could turn as a foundation of his study, no solid rock upon which to anchor his perception of the truth of R.E. Howard. It was a blessing and a curse though. He had always found biographies to be of little interest. However, he had essentially written one at this point; it was incomplete, he realized, but it was perhaps the only comprehensive one ever written about R.E. Howard.
The compiled biography wasn’t the point of his research though. R.E. Howard was an extraordinary woman and author. Hers had been a fascinating life prior to her disappearance, it probably still was, perhaps more than ever. However, Theo also felt a drive to go beyond the biography, a need to impress her with his own creation, to reach out artistically and to finally receive a response. Thus, after years of attempts, years delving deeper into what he had titled his “becoming”, the adoption of what he believed to be her professional habits to complement his prior emulation of her style, he believed that he had finally conceived his masterpiece, one that she could never ignore.
As a playwright, Theo’s plays had been successful throughout the years. He had shown in New York, London, Athens, Seoul, and all the finest theatres throughout the world. An American president had even attended one of his shows, The Lynchpin, but it was all a means to an end, building up to an imagined moment—the completion and debut of Theo’s play about the life of the author, which he titled R.E. Howard: Past, Present, and Imagined. You see, Theo wished to go beyond documentary, into her dreams, beyond the present, and into a fantastic and terrifying future, the likes of which would capture her attention, leave her in awe, and become his greatest masterpiece. It felt inevitable to him that he would realize his vision, yet there were moments of despair, moments during which it felt as if he were crying out into an abyss, an endless shroud of voices screaming from pits of ambition, misery, and longing.
There were few certain details about Howard’s life that one could locate beyond the sparse publicly available interviews that she had granted prior to her disappearance. However, Theo eventually had the fortune to tap into a network of individuals who were known associates. It happened by chance at first as he encountered one of her close friends, an Englishwoman who was staying at one of her properties in Greece. They originally met at a cafe ́, and she recognized him as “the man who has been prying.” Likewise, he realized that she was one of Howard’s closest associates who he had attempted to contact multiple times since beginning his research. “What luck!”, he thought to himself.
Apparently, he had developed a reputation within the city, a small coastal town near Argos. She assured him, however, that she had heard nothing about his “pryings” within the other towns around the world in which Howard’s other properties were situated. Indeed, the friend was extremely amused to learn that this was the fifth such adventure that he had taken in his attempts to locate Howard and the secrets that she concealed. As such, and much to Theo’s amazement, she indulged him and invited him to enter the property.
What followed was beyond his expectations. The friend announced that she had to travel right away, but that he was absolutely invited to stay. It was uncommon, she emphasized, but she knew who he was, recognized the name, and she felt herself to be an excellent judge of character. It was shocking to Theo, the sudden invitation to enter his fantasy. Thus, he was able to stay for three days alone and within the world he had always imagined. It wasn’t the villa on the edge of town, the tasteful decor and the verdant foliage, or the material sensation of being within the home of another that fascinated him. There were letters that the friend had received since Howard’s disappearance, each one detailing seemingly random contents of Howard’s dreams without ever mentioning where she was or what she had been doing. The visions sounded fantastic, but they provided no clues about how to locate her. Additionally, the most exciting discovery was that he was permitted to study journals that Howard had left, including a few from the period during which she had been writing the early drafts of The Sanctuaries.
The journals were carelessly strewn about her study, the one room in the otherwise immaculate property that had a lived-in atmosphere. There were papers with manic scribbles upon the desk, vines hanging in the soft light from the window, and, as he looked upon the journals, Theo felt as if he was standing amidst a mountain range, the peaks of which he was on the precipice of discovering. The journals contained musings, pages of discontent like his own writing on days of frustration, discourses about literary theory, aesthetics, philosophy, “What is the Dionysian to me?”, and early drafts of actual chapters from the books themselves. Prior to her departure, the friend mentioned that Howard had always thought of the journals as her casks within which her work fermented between conception and the final product. Thus, the wine stains scattered about the pages took on new meaning to him, each one reminding him that he was drinking the finest wine, the personal reserve of perhaps the finest literary vintner in the world.
The days passed quickly, and a singular frenzy possessed Theo; day and night, coffee and wine, he remained awake, little naps here and there, but he was constantly diving into and reflecting upon the journals. He felt as if he were closer to Howard than he had ever been before, as if in communion, and his own journal and notes about the script were growing and transforming rapidly. The letters were especially cryptic, and after two days of frenetic reading and writing, Theo’s theories about their meaning had taken on wildly diverse forms. Eventually, however, the friend returned from her brief trip to Athens and Theo was also able to pick her mind as well. She had known R.E. Howard since they were in their early twenties, since college. She was the one who had always pulled Howard away from her work when it became clearly unhealthy. Howard’s writing was her primary passion, her purpose in life. Apparently, however, it tended to get the best of her. The friend recounted a story about having to explain to Howard that their friendship, deepening it and spending more time together, really just Howard doing anything but writing all day every day as if her life depended on it, would actually be more productive in the long run.
She also spoke at length about the cycle of boom and bust that the friend had witnessed for years during the writing of Howard’s earlier publications and how it only deepened, frighteningly so, as she neared completion of the early drafts of her opus. According to the friend, Howard never even once came around to the idea of compartmentalizing and regulating her mind rather than constantly living in work mode. There were periods of manic frenzy and days where it was as if she were a hollow shell. That said, the friend did clarify that while their interactions were infrequent, the love and friendship were deep, even if there were days where she seemed almost catatonic, and the moments together had felt as if no time had passed.
It was only after the books were released that Howard’s attention and affection finally returned. It had been so lovely since then and Howard had seemed happy, overflowing with the joy and the same jubilant smile from when they first met in college. Their friendship had truly been more wonderful than ever during the years between publication and Howard’s disappearance. Together with other friends, they had travelled, and Howard had generously shared the fruit of her labor with them all until she suddenly and unexpectedly vanished.
The conversation changed subjects quickly after that. It seemed as if the topic brought her sadness, and she rapidly and eagerly began to question Theo about his work. She had seen his play The Necrophage(s) while it was in New York where she usually lived, and she had wanted to see The Lynchpin too, but she was here in Greece during its run in London. She had, however, read a copy of the script since its premiere and riddled him with questions about it. It was simply one of her favorites. However, when Theo asked whether R.E. Howard had attended any of his shows, the friend seemed uncertain, as if searching her memory. To the best of her knowledge, R.E. had never mentioned him or his shows, though the friend did mention that Howard was an avid spectator of theatre. The friend’s revelation deflated Theo like a pin pricking a massive balloon that had just been inflated for the past three days. The sensation of being on top of the world quickly dissipated and she could see it in his eyes.
“Oh, but I don’t know everything about her, what she does when I’m not around and sometimes we would spend months apart. She’s a private woman, so maybe she saw one and just never mentioned it to me”, the woman added delicately, concerned for the young man sitting before her. He appeared as if his teddy bear had just been ripped from his arms. Then the friend quickly changed subjects again after that. She was absolutely fascinated to know what he might be working on now, and she became even more so once he revealed that it was a retrospective of Howard’s life. He kept the full truth tight to his chest though, not sure whether it was safe yet to reveal that he was not only creating a biographical piece about Howard, but an entire fantastic work of imaginative theatre. He was conflicted at first, having just emerged from an emotional roller coaster. However, in an effort to ensure future access to information from the friend, getting into good graces, but without revealing the speculative nature of the actual piece that he was developing, he merely indicated that it was loosely biographical. Then he inquired more about what she had been like throughout the years prior to her disappearance.
The friend stopped him right there though. A smirk—was it a smirk?—an expression that he couldn’t decipher at first was upon her face and he was terrified that she was going to ask him to leave. However, she suddenly stood up and announced, “this is too perfect!” Then she began milling about the room, searching for something while shouting over her shoulder, “You absolutely must prepare! We’re doing a dry run tomorrow in Athens; it can’t be here.” Soon she was sifting through papers on a counter, and added, “I’ll arrange a car, no, we should fly, and you will tell me everything, everything that you have prepared so far. It must be at dusk in the Theatre of Dionysus, and we will leave at dawn.” She didn’t even ask, she just asserted everything, and Theo felt agitated. His only options were to underwhelm or to reveal what was truly underway within him. However, as they parted ways for the afternoon and the friend dove into arranging the logistics of the affair, Theo realized that it was an opportunity to integrate everything that he had learned from the journals into the first act of the script. He also knew he obviously had to give the friend a significant role within. Thus, he began infusing everything from his recent visit as if he were blending his own wine with the world of the master.
At some point in the evening, he was writing on the balcony overlooking the street below when the friend emerged to join him, two clay chalices in hand. “It’s been lonely here”, she lamented while setting one of the chalices on a table alongside Theo. Then, after sitting on the other side of the balcony, she added, “I never imagined visiting here without R.E. and all this time without knowing where she is. The others haven’t come here in years either and we used to see each other so frequently.”
“Others?”, Theo asked excitedly, without remembering to express his sorrow for her loneliness.
“Oh, why yes, R.E. has many friends, friends everywhere”, she responded, perplexed by his confusion that there were others like her within the diaspora of Howard’s abandoned inner circle. “We used to gather every so often, here and there when R.E. was still around. It was always her friends from the industry and eccentrics that she befriended along her way to completing The Sanctuaries. They are an interesting bunch, and they mostly exclude me now. Some of the excesses of their gatherings were not quite to my taste. We haven’t spoken in years except for one of them that remains in touch.” Her eyes suddenly became calculating before stating, “She knows that I still receive letters from R.E. That’s probably the only reason, her prying just like you. We’re all trying to answer the same question”, she added flippantly while looking out upon the horizon and the setting sun.
That Howard had had friends was not a mystery to Theo, but their identities, her whole life, everything about her had been shrouded in obscurity. An unusual level of discretion and privacy had always characterized everything beyond the surface of her public façade. The surprise, however, was to learn that, from the sound of it, all her closest confidants were similarly in the dark about her whereabouts. Additionally, there were letters, perhaps together all comprising pieces of a puzzle with which one could locate Howard and determine what she had been doing all these years.
Thus, an anxiety grew within him. He realized that this was his opportunity to finally uncover more, to enter the trust of those who knew the woman most intimately and who he believed possessed all the answers that he was seeking. Yet, he couldn’t contain it; excitement overcame him as the words spilled out of him almost involuntarily, “could you put me in touch with these others?” It all happened so quickly, and he immediately grew concerned, worried that his request had been too soon and too pushy. Fortunately, however, the woman didn’t seem to be offended. She perked up and smiled, a brightness in her eyes. “Ah, yes, we’ll see about that tomorrow”, was her cunning reply. Then, as she rose from her chair to reenter the building, she looked toward the chalice she had placed alongside him and added, “sip that; it will get your creative juices flowing.”
He grabbed it right away and sipped what appeared to be red wine. It was thicker though, and when it struck his tongue, it was bitter. It tasted like wine with an infusion of herbs at first and then it began to burn as if it contained chiles. Tears began to well in his eyes and the fire in his throat swelled, yet he remained seated and watched as the last gleam of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon. Then he began to write feverishly amidst the twilight, the lingering sensation in his throat slowly dissipating as his mind became singularly focused. The intoxication came quickly though, a disorienting rush, yet he continued to write, his vision still focused upon the page, the feeling of the pen against his fingers more distinct than ever before, and the imagery within his mind became crisper, more vivid, as if he were upon the stage witnessing his creation.
The following morning, Theo woke anxiously from a dream in which R.E. Howard had appeared to him. They had walked amidst the ruins of a theatre, an unfamiliar one, and the sky had been dark. Meanwhile, the rows of the amphitheater had been teeming with shades in the shape of persons and hooded figures had danced about on the stage wearing porcelain masks. R.E. Howard had spoken little throughout the vision, and he couldn’t remember her words. She had glowed faintly amidst the dreamworld, though the light was only discernible in contrast to the shadows that surrounded them while he appeared to shine brighter. The masks of the figures whirling about had reflected the light that he and Howard emitted, and, for a moment, he saw his reflection in one of the masks. Yet, as with all dreams, it quickly faded into the recesses of his mind as he scrambled to get dressed and grabbed his luggage. He had never felt a dream so vivid though, one that lingered in his memory as if it had been true.
Meanwhile, the flight to Athens was an opportunity to ask about the letters that the friend had received, the references to her dreams and what it might have all meant to the friend. However, when he finally mustered the courage to broach the subject, her reply was curt, and she returned her gaze to the window. She was captivated, enraptured by the scenery of the countryside and then the Mediterranean surrounding them, and she appeared to be in silent meditation. Thus, they travelled in silence and the echoes of his own dream from the prior evening reverberated within his mind as he reviewed the presentation that he had prepared to share with the woman within the Theatre of Dionysus that evening. There were minor edits here and there, but he felt confident that he was prepared.
Upon their arrival, she disappeared to attend to her own affairs within the city and Theo secured a hotel where he sat to write and debrief his experience thus far. Their encounter had all been so sudden and overwhelming. Additionally, the evening’s stakes were high. He might stun her and secure access to the wider network or he might slip up, the project was still so nascent, and find himself right back where he started. He feared that he might find himself locked out forever from this secret world upon whose precipice he found himself tenuously on the edge of finally entering. Yet, after one more round of revisions, he determined that he was truly prepared, and he began to explore the city while awaiting the evening’s ordeal.
The arches of the theatre created stark shadows upon the stage as Theo entered the amphitheater. There were no other visitors though. It was after closing time and the friend had pulled strings to ensure a private viewing. Thus, only a moment after entering, he was able to quickly locate her seated a few rows from the top on the right-hand side, stage left. Then, upon joining her and sitting at her side, he smiled silently, and she smiled in return. The two gazed upon the theatre as the shadows of the structure danced in the waning sunlight. Theo had been here once before, imagining the works of Sophocles, Euripides, and Aeschylus, but it was actually a truly amazing experience to envision one of his own works within such a theatre.
Then as the sun inched closer to dusk, the friend finally spoke, “we should begin now. The night is growing nearer, and I am anxious to see how you will illuminate the stage.” The request felt uncanny to him given the dream of the prior evening, and the image of their bodies glowing amidst shadows flashed in his mind, but he quickly shook off his sense of confusion and almost reached for his notebook. “No”, he thought to himself, “I must do this from memory. I must impress her and make clear that this work of art is truly living within me.”
Then began the parodos, the chanting of the chorus as they entered, followed by the rising sun upon the stage as a young R.E. Howard, notebook and pen in hand, entered a classroom within which her alacrity and erudition shone through from the very beginning. As the play progressed, the titular character growing older, more deeply devoted to her craft, the friend appeared. Her descriptions of their interactions throughout the years were intertwined with imagined scenes of R.E. Howard’s creations, especially The Sanctuaries of the Unseen, taking form in relation to the unfolding of her life. Theo felt as if he could see it all unfolding before them, the actors having assumed ethereal form, and when he looked over to the friend, she was gazing into the stage and appeared to see it too, a fantasy brought to life within the endarkened theatre. Her expression was one of discernment, clearly assessing what she could hear and see. However, the friend became gleeful upon the description of her appearance. At one point though, she leaned forward, touching his leg for a moment, and her eyes focused upon him as if surprised by a detail. However, she quickly straightened her posture and nodded for him to continue, a strange look still lingering in her eyes. Then, as the past and present of the imagined finally concluded, she laughed and clapped gleefully.
Her reaction was a relief, but he had to quickly inquire what it had been, what had captured her attention so deeply during that one moment. Had it merely been touching, the depths of frustration that he imagined R.E. encountering during the darker moments of her writing and her triumphant overcoming in the wake of each challenge? As it turned out, it had been the description of R.E. always writing only amidst natural light. It was a detail that had seemed beautiful to Theo, but that he had thought was of his own design. However, as the friend explained, it was true that R.E. had only ever written with natural light. It was one of her secrets though. “How strange”, she questioned, “that you might have stumbled upon that. Even so few of her inner circle ever knew about how she illuminated the dark days of the creative process.” What was more, the friend explained the reason for it. Throughout the years, R.E. had experienced sharp migraines and dull headaches whenever writing with desk lamps or other electric utilities. It always had to be sunlight, candlelight, and occasionally the moon. The coincidence and revelation were shocking to Theo, but it certainly had to be a coincidence, he thought.
Meanwhile, the friend also had minor criticisms, suggestions really, mannerisms that could be included, etc. Theo noted them each down with care, wanting to ensure that the play would be as authentic as possible. The light had almost completely faded though and it had reached the point that he could barely see the pages of his notebook, yet he continued to feverishly jot down every detail. Eventually, however, the woman announced that she had to be leaving, but before rising, she made clear that she was impressed and that he absolutely had to meet the others. “They will simply adore you!”, she stated delightfully before providing him with the contact of the one who remained in touch with her. Thus, the gateway was opened for Theo to meet other members of the network, if he had written the number correctly, that is. It was a single phone number, and it was hard to tell what he had written in the darkness, but he also memorized it by heart at that very moment to ensure that it matched once he was within the light again.
They parted ways moments later after he had thanked her for inviting him into Howard’s home, for sharing her stories, and for the indulgent fantasy within the theatre. “It was all beyond my wildest dreams”, were his exact words. In truth, it had not completed his desire, but he was inching closer to his masterpiece and to his muse, R.E. Howard herself. Then, once within the light, he anxiously reviewed the number that he had recorded, and he discovered a discrepancy. The number that he could see and the one in his mind were not the same. He felt a sudden rush surge as his breath suddenly became shallow, and he grew lightheaded as his body grew limp. He might have almost fainted if there weren’t a wall to support himself against as he stood before the empty theatre. Then without thinking, still recovering from the shock, he violently scribbled over the original number and wrote in the one that he remembered, replacing a 1 with a 3, a 4 with a 5, a 0 with a 2, and wandered into the night, his mind still reeling, to find a bar within which to relax and debrief his experience.
Sadly, the friend had revealed that the network of close friends had similarly been in the dark for years, with only select members receiving a rare letter every six months or so. That news aside, Theo had been able to gather details about what it was like to be around her, who she was as a person beyond the masks that one could view in her public appearances, and to imagine what it would be like when he finally met her in the flesh. Additionally, the friend had given him the contact information for another member of the inner circle, one who lived in England where Theo happened to be travelling next. When he finally called, having changed the number impulsively to reflect his memory, he was relieved to discover that it was the correct one.
Thus, one interview became several as that first unexpected meeting with one friend snowballed into a series of encounters with a network of those who had once been intimately acquainted with the woman behind The Sanctuaries of the Unseen. Additionally, each new meeting revealed new letters and new clues about how one might interpret them if R.E. Howard wanted to be found. He couldn’t solve the puzzle, but he was developing theories, some of which resonated with those that had been developed by the network of individuals that he was meeting.
Thus, Theo incorporated the stories of the interviewees into his creation and further developed his theories about her whereabouts in tandem with the imagined fantastic future in his script. As time went on, he also realized that he had essentially compiled a biography. It was loosely arranged, the working documents underpinning his script, but it had become even more complete than the one that he had compiled prior to his chance encounter. It was now full of oral histories about people’s time with the woman as friends, lovers, rivals, and colleagues. If Theo were to have to published it, he imagined titling it Before Disappearance: R.E. Howard, Where Have You Gone? It would contain his speculation about the letters and her true whereabouts. However, he wanted to keep it all to himself. Additionally, the imagined within his work of theatre, the fantastic future he foresaw for her, remained his primary objective and, as luck would have it, R.E. Howard’s appearances within his dreams had intensified
Eventually, after months, years of devoted study and writing, she began to appear to him almost every night. At first, he would see scenes unfolding before him, her sitting and writing The Sanctuaries, pulling at her hair, and shrieking in frustration while seated in a tiny studio apartment like his own, even more dramatically than within the early drafts of his script. It was as if his play was unfolding before him and, eventually, she began to speak to him regularly too. It was as if they were coauthoring it, this vision within his dreams constantly providing guidance and inspiration.
Sometimes he succumbed to the illusion for days, making significant progress on the manuscript, her voice echoing in his ears even during waking life, memories of their evening conversations, her critiques of the plot, still reverberating in his mind. He knew that it was just his own imagination, the exact criticisms that he would make, though there were some that stood out to him. Sometimes her apparition would make claims, “that’s not how that actually happened” and she would start muttering about one of the friends, but there was no way to test them, not once the purported friends’ accounts became suspect.
It was as if he had brought this spectre of R.E. Howard into being within him, his unhealthy daily meditations on her and his intense investment into his depiction of her life and future having given birth to a psychosomatic manifestation merely informed by the depth of his knowledge about her. Yet, one day as he had finally put the finishing touches upon what he felt was the first complete draft, she suddenly appeared to have transformed. Rather than providing clarity, the R.E. Howard within him began to heckle him, to shout that entire rewrites were necessary, and, during a particularly angry episode, proclaimed that he failed to understand anything about her and that he was unworthy. Thus, he began to feel as if he were floating in a pool of doubt that was growing deeper and wider as he delved further into the revisions of the script. Rather than send it out and finally begin the preparations for an actual production, he kept it private as he sought to find a way to quell the angry spirit that R.E. Howard had become.
He had always been an introverted person, preferring books and a few close friendships to the gregarious lives of some of the people that he met during college. He had made professional ties throughout the years, but they were all distant, disparate, and accustomed to his creating within solitude and remaining mostly behind the scenes of his productions. As such, few noticed the changes in his behavior during his final days preparing the manuscript.
He was alone on an island in upstate New England where he had regularly retreated throughout the years while completing his scripts. The locals within the town knew him, but even they were used to him appearing strange, introverted, his head always in a book, reading, writing, and ignoring them. Thus, nobody thought twice when he disappeared for several days despite his vehicle still being parked in front of the cottage that he had rented. It was not until his body washed up on shore five days later, bloated, decaying, picked at by sea creatures, and with pale blue skin from the frigid water, that anyone even realized that there had been signs that he had been behaving more abnormally than his usual self.
No one knew what had happened, but a boat washed up on shore and investigators initially determined that he must have had an accident while at sea. However, the inspection of his journals and writing from his final days were concerning. He came to believe that his body was under control, that spirits and phantoms were eating his mind, possessing the people around him, and that he had become truly alone, an island within the world. Yet, in his final writing, which provided no indication as to why he took a boat or went out to sea, he wrote that, “in the end, despite the madness, at least I have these books to share with the world beyond my island, the complete biography and my greatest work of theatre.” Thus, the final conclusion was murky, suspect, but the case was closed as an accident at sea.
Six months later, the dust having settled, the play premiered in several theatres around the world simultaneously, together with a celebration of the playwright’s life and career. The world was shocked, however, that R.E. Howard remained in hiding, though many speculated that she might have attended in disguise. Meanwhile, the biography, R.E. Howard: After Disappearance, was also published within months of Theo’s death, compiled and edited by the friend that he had met in Greece, and including speculation about her actual whereabouts as derived from the letters. Her words during the publicity events were truly moving, “It’s such an utter tragedy, but I was so fortunate to have met this spectacular and uniquely gifted young man. It has been a true privilege to bring his and my greatest friend’s work to life.”
Thus, life went on around the world as the play continued to show within theatres and it was gradually replaced until only a few theatres still lingered with it upon their stages. It was months later within one of these smaller productions that a teenage boy sat and awaited the opening of the curtains. He had never read the books, but one of his brothers had always talked about them. He felt as if he knew about as much as he needed to know to watch the show that he was being forced to attend.
Yet, as he sat there awaiting the beginning of the play, a strange woman with sleek black hair in a dark black silk shawl walked toward him and sat in the chair at his side. Her skin was pale and glowed in the dim light of the theatre. As he looked over toward the woman, he felt that she was eerily familiar, as if he had seen her in the dreamworld. Then, others came and joined her, sinister looking men in brown and golden vests, and another woman similarly in black who inspired the first woman to rise and embrace her. They made him feel uncomfortable, but he couldn’t look away. Then the second woman perked up and looked at him over the shoulder of the other, whispering to her friend and appearing to be shocked. Her gaze quickly darted out of view though and the strangers all took their seats as if nothing had happened.
Meanwhile, the boy looked over toward his mother, but she was engrossed within the playbill. She had read the books. They were sitting on the bookshelves in the living room, and she had been thrusting them upon him, but he was much too busy and preferred to prepare for his college studies in psychology. That was his ticket to freedom, the way he would not just become independent, but would thrive in the world. There was no time for fiction.
There was no time for theatre either, but he did not have a choice in this matter. His mother had forcefully insisted upon his attendance and throughout the years he had learned that one must always choose one’s battles carefully. Thus, he found himself in the theatre between his mother and the eerie woman seated on his right as the lights grew dimmer and the voices grew more hushed. His mother looked up for a moment and toward him with excited raised eyebrows before returning to the playbill once more.
It was then, as he looked over toward the strangers whose arrival had felt so curious, that her eyes caught his. They were green just like his, like jade figurines, and they flashed vividly at first. He felt frozen, afraid to have been caught staring, but her cold gaze became a warm smile as she spoke softly, “You must be excited to see the play, the life and a work of a true artist”, she questioned slyly. He merely nodded in return, feeling as if he couldn’t speak, and she leaned forward, whispering, “I always say that plays like this one are some of the finest wines, but you wouldn’t know what that tastes like yet, now would you?”, she questioned with a raised eyebrow. In truth, he did not, not yet, and the comparison struck him as strange and he struggled to find his words. His mind was still processing the thought, the wine, the death of the artist, and the play about to unfold before them. Then suddenly the lights went out and the woman made one final statement. “I know, it’s tragic, but as you will learn, every truly great work of art requires a great sacrifice”, she said coolly while appearing as if illuminated, and brightly so, for an ever so brief moment. Thus, the words echoed within him like the ripples upon a placid body of water.
However, in an instant, the curtains opened, applause filled the room, and the strange woman nodded a single quick nod and keen eyes before looking toward the stage. Music suddenly erupted within the theatre too and the actors emerged as the spectacle unfolded before them. At the very least, he found it fascinating at certain points, yet it was later, during the third act, that the play felt eerily familiar to him. The world of dreams was depicted as if it were all merely an illusion, but it felt as if it referred to another world he had seen in his own dreams. It was then that he remembered the strange spectator seated alongside him and her familiarity became more apparent. She was the spitting image of the woman portrayed on the stage.
He knew though that the whole point of the charade was that the woman behind it all had disappeared. She was not going to just turn up for any old showing of a play about her life, not after months of them without her appearing even once. It had to be one of those people that dress up like characters. That was the only way to make sense of it all, everything except the other woman’s strange stare during that moment and the way that he had felt when the woman spoke. He had felt trapped, a pressure upon his body, tightening his muscles as he felt his mind trying to move, unable to think coherently or to speak, but he had assumed that it was merely the nervousness of having unexpectedly locked eyes with her.
Then, as the play approached its conclusion, he felt it again. He found himself distracted, looking over toward the strangers whose gaze appeared to have remained transfixed upon the stage. Yet, this time he felt a foreboding sensation and his skin crawled as he looked over toward the woman seated alongside him. It felt as if something was calling to him, draining his attention, and suddenly he could see her in his mind’s eye, and it was as if he were slipping into the dreamworld while still there in the theatre. He had never felt anything like this before and the world was soon engulfed in shadows. It felt as if everything was spinning, and he wanted to scream.
However, a roaring applause suddenly began, and his mind felt immediately at ease again as the shadows disappeared. He was once more safely within the theatre and his mother also began to shake him a few seconds later, a look of excitement upon her face. She was urging him to clap along with the others, and he obliged performatively. However, seconds later, he looked to his right where R.E. Howard in the flesh gazed upon him as her companions tugged at her shawl, urging her to leave with them amidst the distracting cover and din of the audience.
His and Howard’s eyes were locked though, and, in that moment, he could distinctly recall having encountered her once before, years ago within a very dark dream, and as she continued to gaze into him, he swore that he heard her voice inside his own mind. Then, as the applause continued thundering, she rose swiftly and in a blur. Yet as she did so, she turned to stare back at him with a disquieting smile. She only lingered for a moment though, and then she vanished into the shadows of the audience.
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