But, it was during the long and lonely nights that I did the reading that excited my imagination the most--that which filled me with a deep and lingering terror that I both loved and feared. Often reading into the waning hours of the night, those pages of my book illuminated by the flickering glow of a single candle flame (I used a candle to read by at night for just a bit of melodramatic atmosphere--I felt it only fitting to read such books in as much of a sympathetic surrounding as possible), I would thus wander the decaying, deserted streets of Innsmouth, prowl the dreary hills and woods outside Arkham, seek after vampires and demons or visit ghoul haunted graveyards and moldering castles by the score. Often as not, after such a night of reading, I would awaken in the early morning hours, crying aloud from some unspeakable nightmare. Then, inevitably, my grandmother would appear, to sit on the edge of my bed and sooth me with quiet, comforting words and gentle strokes of my hair. She would always assure me that everything would be all right, that nothing could harm me while she was there to watch over me and would then sit with me until I fell into a peaceful sleep.

Throughout those early years, I read voraciously and by the time I was fifteen, I had all but exhausted the available literature by my favorite authors and to further amuse myself, I began to write my own stories of fantasy and horror. I invented my own magical realms and peopled them with strong, valiant heroes and beautiful, fair damsels, often as not beset by evil witches, vile demons or hideous monsters. I wrote of living corpses, of unseen creatures that would devour the minds and souls of men, of secret societies that worshipped long forgotten demons and who would then summon them from the abyss to roam the darkest nights. My now fertile imagination poured forth such stories by the score.

About this time, too, as my health permitted, I began to take long walks about the city and surrounding countryside, much as Poe and Lovecraft did in their own time. I would visit local cemeteries by the hour, often using the time spent therein to write out story lines or merely to daydream about the hundreds of silent souls lying in eternal repose within the earth. On other days, I might seek out old, abandoned and neglected houses in search of story material or merely to revel in the ancient, decaying atmosphere these forgotten structures embodied. Later on, I began to undertake trips of longer duration, always carrying with me my camera and notebook to capture and retain such thoughts and pictures that might eventually end up as material for a future story.

My dear grandmother not only indulged my fancies and hobbies, but faithfully supported and encouraged me, both in my writing endeavors and in my sightseeing and information gathering trips. Never once, in all those years did her love and affection lag or diminish.

It was therefore with deep shock that after fifteen years of unfailing love and support, this one person I truly cared for should die so suddenly from a devastating stroke. I was nearly prostrate with grief at this unexpected tragedy but, as I was her only living relative, the awesome task of the funeral preparations fell heavily upon my shoulders. For the next three days then, I had little or no rest, such did my grief and the exhausting burden of the burial arrangements tell on me. Though I loath to admit it, it was actually with something akin to relief when all was finally arranged and we took my dear grandmother to be entombed on the afternoon of February 1st.