by Gafford, Sam
With the recent discovery of previously unknown letters and notes, found by Winslow’s only surviving heir, William Carson, we are afforded an unexpected glimpse into Winslow’s life and work. The cataloguing and indexing of this material is still in progress, but even at this early date many new facts are being discovered.
For years, scholars of weird literature have speculated on whether Sutter’s Corners had a real-life counterpart. Considering the huge contribution “The Dreamer in Fire” made to Winslow’s work, it is a valid question that has remained unanswered.
Previous speculation has ranged from viewpoints of “total fabrication” (Barlow 23) to “based on a combination of actual locations” (Jackson 10). The actual truth, as detailed in the letters and memos of the Carson collection, presents an amazing and unbelievable story. Not only was the town of Sutter’s Corners based on reality, but it came completely from the inspiration of one town: Northport, New York.
In December 1945, Winslow received a letter from a fan named Arthur Daily. In it, Daily expresses admiration for Winslow’s work (it is still unknown how Daily got Winslow’s address, as Winslow was notoriously private about such matters) and a desire to meet someday. Daily enclosed a snapshot of himself standing in front of his house at 53 Orms Drive in Northport. The picture shows a somewhat sad-faced individual wearing dull, worn clothes standing in front of a small converted farmhouse. The house itself had obviously seen better days and appeared barely able to stand upright. There is a faint shadow of mountains in the distance. The letter apparently intrigued Winslow for some reason, and he sent a response. This is consistent with Winslow’s frequent insecurity over his work and almost slavish devotion to anyone who praised his efforts. A return letter from Daily arrived almost immediately.
Dear Mr. Winslow:
I was delighted to receive your letter of 12/17 as I had never really expected to hear back from you. I know that you must be terribly busy with your writing, but I deeply appreciated the time you took to respond. In answer to your question, that was indeed a section of the Adirondack Mountain range behind me in the photo sent you. Northport is in a very secluded area of New York State and we’re pretty much in the wild up here. The mountains are Mt. Marcy and Mt. Pharoah and are an excellent place to hunt and fish. If you should ever be traveling through this area, I would be pleased to offer you a tour of the local scenery.
(Letter from Arthur Daily to Robert Winslow, 12/22/45, from the Carson Collection, University of Rhode Island Special Collections.)
Found in the Carson collection is a series of random jottings and notes that form a disjointed diary for Winslow from 1940 to 1948. In an entry dated 12/20/45, Winslow writes: “The picture haunts me still. The sad-faced youth standing alone before those mighty mountains which seem to be trying to overwhelm him. There is a quality there that continues to intrigue me. I must learn more about this fellow and his surroundings.” The next letter from Daily is dated 1/4/46 and contains more information designed to increase Winslow’s curiosity:
I have tried to decipher some of the remaining records regarding the early history of Northport but have had little luck so far. The few pages are disjointed and often make no sense. There is a record of the town charter, signed in 1709, and witnessed by some of the founding citizens like Jeremiah Bradley, Eziah Small, and John Stanley (all families that still survive in Northport), but there is little else. I have begun to think that Northport was never really settled, simply discovered in a state of perpetual being.
(Letter from Arthur Daily to Robert Winslow, Carson Collection.)
Equally interesting is Winslow’s diary entry for this period. Dated 1/7/46, he writes: “My fascination with this mystery increases! A town without a history! I simply must get Daily to take some photographs of the town and send them to me. I feel revitalized for the first time since writing ‘The Face Behind Mine.’ This may be just what I need to get myself writing again.”
This last comment ties in with the recent allegation by T. S. Craig that Winslow periodically suffered from bouts of depression and writer’s block (The Masters of Modern Horror, University of Texas Press, 1989, p. 382). What was unknown until now was the depth and length of the depression Winslow was experiencing at this time. He wrote the final draft of “The Face Behind Mine” in 1943, and notes in the Carson Collection point to the fact that he had written nothing since. The reason for this particular writer’s block is still unknown, but it is possible that Winslow may have been affected by the difficulty he encountered in getting “The Face Behind Mine” published and its poor reception afterwards. It is also possible that Winslow was suffering from one of his many bouts over his fear of being nothing more than an unsuccessful hack writer. This self-doubt had plagued him ever since he first began writing professionally in 1925 and would continue for the rest of his life. Another possibility is hinted in his note of 5/24/44: “Still nothing. Originality completely escapes me.” Winslow obviously felt burnt out in his writing and was looking for something to recharge his creative juices.
On January 16, 1946, Daily sent Winslow photographs of Northport. They appear to have been everything Winslow had been expecting. The Carson Collection contains fifteen black-and-white photographs that accompanied Daily’s letter. “Here are some of the photographs you asked me for. As I have said, Northport is a very quiet, forgotten town and the residents seem to appreciate that. My picture-taking was met with polite but hidden resentment. Of these seventeen pictures, the ones of the town square seem to be the best and appear to capture, in my opinion, the general feel of the town.”
The mention of seventeen photographs having been sent is definitive proof that the Carson Collection is missing two of them. Their current whereabouts are unknown. The remaining pictures show an extremely small town of the type that can only exist in very rural communities. There are few automobiles on the street, and the general outlook of the town is poor and worn. The town square is a small grassy area circled by an off-white church, several unidentifiable buildings, a hotel, a general store, and a town hall. In layout, they follow the buildings described in Winslow’s story exactly. The town hall appears to be the only center of local government in the town and probably, as in the story, contained all public offices as well as the sheriff’s office, jail, and library. In every picture, there is the vague shadow of mountains in the distance.
All the photos are worn and bear evidence of having been consulted many times.
If these pictures do indeed “capture the general feel of the town,” as Daily suggests, than it is a somber mood indeed. None of the people in the photographs appear to be smiling or laughing, and their actual figures (as opposed to the buildings) appear indistinct and undefined. Most unusual of all would seem to be the lack of children in the pictures. Farm machinery and rural living is evident in many cases, but nowhere is there one child to be seen.
Winslow marked the occasion of the photographs arrival with this note dated 1/19/46: “They are finally here and are everything that I’d hoped they would be! The town is exactly as I had pictured it from Daily’s letters, and I cannot wait to see it for myself. Already I feel myself brimming with the possibility of new ideas and plots. Who knows what this place could inspire in me? What new thoughts may occur, isolated from all reality in this comfortable cushion of forgotten society? Hideous versions of human cruelty? Bizarre rites of forgotten alien races? Or something far, far worse? I shall have to wait and see, but not for long. I will write Daily that I am coming.”
Daily’s response was immediate.
“To say that I am ecstatic over your coming visit would be to seriously understate my enthusiasm. I look forward to your arrival and hope that you will find Northport the peaceful haven that you have been searching for.”
Winslow’s notes detail his optimism over the coming trip. “I am all nervous with anticipation. What shall I find there? What is waiting there for me to find?” (1/25/46). “Confirmation came from Daily today. He will pick me up at the b
us station in Lake George on January 31 in his aged auto, and I shall stay with him in his house for two weeks. At that time, I will judge whether a longer stay is necessary” (1/26/46). “Daily is certainly a strange chap. He apparently has plenty of time on his hands and speaks of no particular occupation. I do not believe him to be a farmer, and the remote town of Northport seems a strange place to find a wealthy man. Then there is the matter of his age. He is only in his twenties (he will not admit his exact age), but that first picture still haunts me. His face is so sullen and deflated that I can only wonder what he was thinking of when that picture was taken. For that matter, who was holding the camera? . . . I have straightened my affairs in town and impressed the need upon my uncle to keep an eye on the house and pick up my mail. He is used to my strange ways and habits of taking off at a moment’s notice. I feel sure that he will gather my mail for me, after what happened last time! I only hope that this trip accomplishes its purpose. Otherwise, I may give up writing for good and turn my hands to more mundane and practical tasks” (1/27/46). “Strange dreams last night which I can only attribute to nervousness over my pending trip. I seemed to be drifting through an immense area of trees with mouths that sang my name over and over again. I could feel a strange pull upon me from the ground below, and I saw a small settlement of buildings in a clearing nearby. For some strange reason, the sight of these places filled me with an overpowering dread, although I cannot remember why. They were not modern buildings, nor did they belong to any historical period of architecture that I could place. They seemed to be a strange mixture of brick, stone, and wood that pulled me toward them. As I got closer, I became more and more afraid as I felt some force beginning to push in upon my brain. Someone (or something) else was trying to force their thoughts into my mind. As I fell closer, I began to feel myself thinning, growing more and more indistinct. I began to fight the urge to go lower but was losing the battle. Then I seemed to move toward something in the center of the buildings, and it filled me with such repulsion and horror that I awoke suddenly. It has been a very long time since I’ve had any dreams this vivid, and I don’t know what to make of this. As always, I’ve written it down here for future use, but I don’t know what I can do with such a vague, undefined concept. I have no time for such things anyway. I have to try and start working on some new writing. But I find myself still blocked. I cannot produce one single word of note. So I shall placate myself with jotting down plot ideas in the hope that Northport will inspire me with the ability to do them justice” (1/28/46). A short list of possible story ideas follows which Winslow, apparently, never used.
There is no entry for January 29, but his entry for January 30 is significant.
More unsettling dreams last night, but I shall not let them bother me! I am off on the great journey tomorrow and nothing shall stand in my way. As I look around my small apartment, checking that I have packed everything that I could possibly need, I feel at once both elated and depressed. But I am unsure why. Even if my stay is slightly longer than two weeks. I know I will return home eventually, so why this strange feeling of finality? Perhaps it is just my sense of this damned writer’s block finally coming to an end.
On January 31, Winslow caught the bus out of Boston and began his long trip. A hastily scribbled note (on a diner napkin) was the only notation he made of the event. “On the way at last! It will take over ten hours to reach Lake George, but I have just purchased ample reading material and am ready for the long ordeal ahead. My fellow passengers appear to be the worst that I could possibly have feared, ranging from mere ugliness to horribly ignorant. I shall keep to my own seat at all times and will NOT use the common bathroom.”
The trip was apparently accomplished without any mishaps. Winslow arrived safely in Lake George and Daily was there to meet him. Although the bus arrived several hours late, Daily had waited for his guest. Winslow did not make any more entries for that day except the one line: “I am here!”
The following days were apparently very busy as Daily showed Winslow around the town and surrounding areas. Although we have no entries for 2/1 or 2/2, they did exist at one point. Winslow’s entry for 2/3 clearly makes reference to them, and this is especially disappointing as they obviously contain Winslow’s account of his first meeting with Daily. While, at first, they appear to have been quite amicable, Winslow begins to show some doubts about his host.
Daily is still a mystery to me and I fear that I shall never understand him. Today, I asked him point blank how he came to be here and what his particular story was. He had been annoyingly vague and noncommittal the last few days, dropping subtle hints about a recently deceased relative and having been injured in a factory accident, but nothing definite. He was taken a bit aback by the directness of my question but answered politely enough, yet I still feel that there was a slight hint of resentment behind his manners. He stated that his grandfather, who had lived in Northport all his life (was born in the house, so it seems), died recently after a long illness of an undisclosed nature. The grandfather had no other surviving heirs and had left the house and a sizeable amount of money to Daily. This all seems very improbable to me, but I suppose it must happen to some people sometime. Of his accident, he spoke very little. It happened in a garment factory in New York when a belt on one of the large machines broke and slashed his face quite severely. He has a long, whitish scar running along his face and down his neck (it supposedly goes even lower, but I declined his offer for a full viewing), which perhaps accounts for his taciturn manner. He claims to have come here to live out the rest of his life in quiet contemplation, but is one of the most dull-witted men I have ever met. Then again, there is one disturbing fact: since I have been here, I have yet to see the man smile.
Winslow spent the next few pages talking about the effect Northport had on him. Surprisingly, it was not what he expected.
Northport is, in itself, an enigma but one that seemed more interesting from a distance. The actual town is a dirty, scrungy affair with people who seem to have completely lost their sense of humor or good nature. I suppose part of that may have to do with the fact that they are barely living in the twentieth century and have a bare minimum of life’s luxuries. And a life of constant toil may have something to do with it. Their entire demeanor reminds me of the pictures I used to see in the papers of striking coal miners who had been rousted by the owner’s gang. Their life is leaking out of them. Even Daily, a relatively recent immigrant to the locale, cannot escape this affliction. The town is small and consists of but a few buildings. There are some farms a short distance away, but there do not appear to be very many people around here. The buildings are surprisingly new, perhaps no more than twenty years old, but look far older. Their paint is peeling and they appear to be little more than ceremonial shells. Instead of being inspired, I am becoming even more depressed. I have begun to wonder if my face is growing as grim as theirs.
The cure that Winslow was hoping for was still eluding him. Instead of feeling his energy revitalized, he was beginning to feel more and more drained. Winslow had brought his beloved portable Smith-Corona with him but found himself unable to write anything worthwhile. He was still missing that essential ingredient which would enable him to escape his depression and make that final leap into creativity. He found his first clue when Daily took him to the local library.
The most amazing thing about the place is the fact that it is in the same building as the jail. I suppose this helps if prisoners get a sudden craving for Shakespeare in the middle of the night. The library is woefully inadequate. Northport has no local paper and very little local activity of any kind, and the library only carries a small group of outside newspapers and magazines. I notice that Weird Tales is not one of them, not surprisingly, but the general store does not carry it either. This makes me wonder again if Daily did in fact see my story, “The Face Behind Mine,” in that issue. I don’t see how he could have found it in this place. Which, of course, leads me back to wondering how he found me. Anywa
y, the library serves as a sort of combination library/historical society, with the exception that the historical papers are few and far between. Daily was correct when he said that the early records were indecipherable. The only things I can make out on several of them are the names. Small and Bradley appear quite frequently. The librarian, Mrs. Sarah Bradley, is a direct descendent of both lines but can add little to the official records. The actual incorporation of the town is also interesting. The articles of incorporation are not the same as they usually are for other colonial towns. Rather, they give the impression that the town was already here when Bradley and Small showed up, but there is no indication of who or what was living here. It was most probably one of the many Indian tribes that inhabited the Adirondacks, but I cannot tell which one. I am not familiar with Indian languages, so cannot tell if this writing is foreign or simply worn. I also cannot recall if these local tribes even had a written language. I never did pay much attention to such things, unfortunately. I will probably have to check with the Adirondack Historical Society and see if they have any information on the local tribes that might help. Due to the lack of a local paper, there is absolutely no way to tell what has happened in the town for the last two hundred years or even last week! History seems to be handed down verbally within the families, but I have been unable to get them to tell me anything. Daily says that they still consider him an outsider despite the fact that his grandfather was a lifelong resident. Otherwise I would have to accept the notion that nothing has ever happened to anyone in Northport ever! I cannot even find any records of local boys sent to fight in either the Revolutionary War or the Civil War. As for the World Wars, the townsfolk appear incredibly indifferent and uninterested. Wilson’s isolationist policies would have done well here! There is a box with some old papers and diaries in the basement of the library which I shall try to decipher. They appear to be quite old and may shed some light on this curious matter. I am still incensed, however, at the terribly slipshod and lazy manner in which this library is run. Documents this old should be cared for, not shoved away into a corner somewhere.
