Edgar Allan Poe.
The Tomahawk Man.
Progenitor of what some may deem as horror, the psychedelia and the
psychosis and the wherewithal of the human condition, writ upon the pages
of burgeoning, and troubling, times—whilst going through his own troubling
times, mind you: rifling through the waning cupboards of poverty,
circumstances orphaning, abandoning, coming to awful grips with the loss of
both his Wife and Mother at the early hands of tuberculosis, struggling the
throes of alcoholism, addiction, defamation. All drenched atop the
minuscule praises and recognitions he received, and the lack thereof. These
things for him compounded a depression, a life of traumatic events,
tragedies, resulting ultimately in an early, and quite befuddling death. A
mystery of mysteries. An unfinished horror story in its own right. A
haunting thing, really.
Poe was an apotheosis of the literary worlds, stretching out far across
the globe of genre. The man accredited with the namesake of a god: the
creator of detective fiction, as found within the confines of The Murders
in the Rue Morgue. The perpetuity of his inspiration and influence washes
deep, apparently beaconing out to workers and writers such as H.P.
Lovecraft, and Stephen King, and . . . and just about any avid fan or
writer or creative tucked dusty within the wheelhouse of horror. And
whether that be cosmical or societal or psychological or deeply, darkly
fantastical, Edgar Allan Poe understood truly its important, and
irreplaceable, nature within the wide of literature, within poetry—within
media. Utilizing the fragrances and tones of loss and trauma and grief and
isolation and hysteria, Poe weaved for us a twinkling scape of frightening
stars, ghastly, gravid constellations through which we can discern and
discuss and contemplate the incongruities of our own reality, of our place,
of our interpersonal relationships, and how we may navigate such twilit
vistas. He understood that horror was man’s truest name, and, that without
it, there’s not much beauty of life to see.
Our dearest, dearest Poe carved it up a stain across the plinth of
nighttime sky. Shoveling snows, beneath cloudy coverlets and fogs on
moonfull nights, you can hear it—you can feel it. It’s that warn against
the lightless corners of abandoned streets. It’s that name of yours called
distant in the hush. It’s that flush of instant fever writhing wretched
within your skins as the footsteps step ever closer and you freeze . . .
And so let us here, us doubly troubled souls at Dark Room Horror, take
you there for a moment or two, or three, to peek at the beneaths of those
gauntish, guilty floorboards, to discuss the whapping beats of those
hidden, telling hearts, and to unrest awhile uneasily, as we do delve into
the works of the Tomahawk Man. If only he could see us now, we wonder.
What a laughter that would be.