A Midsummers Night Visitor
I awoke to the sound of the shutter banging against the window. A cold wind blew in from the North, casting my papers all over the library floor. The slight damp of the evening mist covered the desk and window, creating an eerie opaque image of the moon outside. The wind howled slightly, adding a final touch of loneliness.
I arose from the Louis XIV chair to close the window and fasten the shutter when a noise from the door drew my attention. I turned to see what had broken the unholy atmosphere, and gasped!
At the door stood a man. A flash of lightening lit his features to reveal a deep gash in his forehead. A red mass scarred his face. His eyes were filled with fear. His clothes were ripped and soaked with the evening rain. I quickly closed the shutter, and urged him to sit down, Turning to stoke the almost dead fire, I told him to remove his jacket and damp clothes. He took the offered blanket, and sat down. I ran to the kitchen and retrieved a warm damp cloth and cleaned up his face. He stopped me.
"No. No, my friend. It is too late for me. Please listen to my story." He whispered, and beckoned me to sit down beside the now roaring fire.
"Would you care for a brandy?" I asked bewildered.
The man nodded.
"Yes please."
I poured out a large portion to soothe the mans body. He must be in deep pain I thought. I poured one for myself, and took a sip.
"What do you mean It's too late for me?" I asked.
The man looked at his glass, and took a deep sip, and began to speak.
"I was like you once Tom. Don't look surprised that I know your name. I have been watching you for years, long after I learned. But, my time is near and I must warn you." He started.
"About what?" I countered.
"The dangers of obsession, Tom." He replied.
"Obsession, with what?" I answered.
He swept his arm around the room, past the shelves of Whitmans, past the autographed pictures, lithographs, statues, stand ups, and finished with a flourish at the video/DVD collection.
"Oh" I said. "I get your point."
The man cackled softly, then stopped quickly.
"I was a collector once too. I loved toy trains. Lionel was my specialty. Diesel, coal, and electric were no strangers to my vault. My home became a virtual mausoleum to friends and family. Every waking hour was spent researching, building, re-building, trading and buying every related item. Nothing escaped me. I was Mr Lionel, not dad. I was Train Man, not dear or honey to my wife.
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