Welcome sign at Goldfield, NV

“The warm muggy breath, raucous chatter, and garish wallpaper hit Gabriel like a slap in the face as he lets himself into the Goldfield Hotel. Dark wood, gleaming glass behind the bar, a countertop of flattened telegraph keys under glass. Telegraph keys Awaken quicker than one might expect. The combined forces of human touch and electricity let the soul take hold...”

That’s an excerpt from my upcoming novella, Black Rose, a weird western horror set in the real-life towns of Goldfield, Beatty, and Rhyolite Nevada.

I set out to write Black Rose intent on weaving real places, history, and ambiance into a reimagined and darkly magical Old West where machines come to life and deadly silver lurks in the landscape. I wrote the first pass of the novel in my cozy writing nook (literally a floor chair) in the comfort of my cabin. I used a combination of Google images, maps, and historical articles to build the sets of the story and infuse them with speculative elements.

My absolute favorite examples of blending life with art came in the form of the Goldfield International Car Forest. In our world, it’s an art installation in the living ghost town of Goldfield. In the world of Black Rose, the partially buried vehicles are the corpses of animated machines. They pepper the landscape like heads on pikes and serve as warnings to other sentient machines. Do not come here, they say. It’s not safe for you. The Geist Wardens will hunt you down…

The International Car Forest in Goldfield, NV

After my first draft of the novella, I realized that the story felt flat. I’d never been to those parts of Nevada before and the places weren’t ‘real’ to me. And if they’re not real to me, how can I expect a reader to feel immersed? I needed the landscape to feel organic. I needed the world of monster hunter Gabriel Velasquez to feel like a real place, even if we don’t have to worry about centipede trains or demonic revolvers.

So, I planned a quick, two-night trip to the Nevada desert to explore towns, both living and dead.

The first thing I noticed was the stark, barren beauty of the setting. Unlike images on the internet, it stunned me.

“When they crest Goldfield Summit, Gabriel takes in the sweeping landscape of craggy mountains and sloping alluvial fans. Snow frosts the distant peaks of the Sierras. A glinting to the East draws Gabriel’s eye as well. The sun catches in the runoff troughs sloping down a mountain, cut by rain and silver. Judging by the metallic shimmer, the silver flooded not long ago.”

No matter how many photos I looked at, how many maps I traced, nothing prepared me for the dry, sweet smell of the buckbrush, the crunch of stones under my boots, or the pops of colors hiding in the landscape.

An image pf the hills outside of Beatty, NA

An image of me writing a sketch of the environment. I'm writing by hand, which is quite painful. I have since upgraded to a small tablet

I set up to write sketch scenes, a technique I often use. I visit locations that inspire my settings as often as I’m able. Then I sit and write what I see, feel, smell, hear, and experience.

I didn’t realize the desert was peppered by scarecrow-like Joshua trees and crumpled little cacti. Of all the surprises though, my favorite was the feral burros.

Me petting feral donkeys. They were so sweet and fluffy!

“The little burros nose around in his saddle bags, sniffing for food. When silver began gushing from the mines and the miners abandoned their claims, they left the donkeys behind. The descendants still roam the desserts, eking out lives in the crags of Death Valley and the desert east of the Sierras.”

We went to the ghost town of Rhyolite by day, then Goldfield to paint an image of Gabriel’s life there. And then we returned to Rhyolite at night. That’s when I got to imagine myself as Gabriel in his heavy black coat and the Wraith, wielder of the cursed revolver, the Black Rose.

Following are some unedited ‘sketches’ of the scene (please note, I do mean unedited. I’m transcribing them here raw and messy so you can see how I ‘sketch’ in a similar way to how an artist might sketch. But with words!)

The hills bubble from the landscape like melting ice cream in places and in others like rusted bones poking from a decaying carcass. Bands of pink and blue stripe the hills, corroded knucklebones of stone jutting, spines, frame pale, dusty mounds. The gullies are stagnant and dry, stained green blue from silver tarnish.

A locust whirrs.

A bluebelly scurries…perhaps fleeing the jingling of Gabriel’s spurs.

Evening falls, the landscape darkens. An ephemeral whiff of sage as the heat of the day fades.

The chill falls fast over the chapped dry night, a peach-orange glow smudges over the distant hills.

The crickets here have a high, musical sound, but the night presses close, unnervingly still. Jagged crumbling buildings cut into the sky. Not a single street light. Not a single soul. You can smell the warmth of the sun long set. The cold sneaks in until you find yourself shivering.

 The old bank building in Rhyolite, NV.

Happy Halloween Everybody!