Skip to main content

Vardøger


Vardøger, the title of my story published in Danse Macabre XLVI, Morgenblätter (May 2011), is based on an actual phenomenon.  The word itself is Norwegian for that experience of hearing someone arrive before they actually do.  It is common, and bizarre.

There was an alley between our house and the next, through which we had to drive to park our car.  Since the alley was shared by the neighbors, we quickly learned the signature sound of each make of car.  You could tell who was home based on which car trundled up between the buildings.

When my wife shopped for groceries, I helped carry them inside.  Naturally, on the days she went to the store, I kept an ear out for our car in the alley.  More than once I’ve dashed to the door after hearing her pull in, only to find no car there.  The sound seemed real enough; I’d never thought to try to record it since it is a daily sound.  Every once in a while, however, it was Vardøger.

Folk tradition—a rich source for fiction ideas, I find—suggests that Vardøger is a person’s spirit arriving before they do.  The tradition predates automobiles, and goes back to that aural experience of hearing someone enter the door only to find yourself still alone in the house.  In cases where driving right up to the door wasn’t routine, I had experienced this as well.  The arrival of a loved one before they arrive.

The idea is naturally spooky, but in real life it seems benign.  As if part of our lives may be running on a continuous loop.  Sometimes the tape is out of sync with the physical action.  In my story, the Vardøger is somewhat more sinister.

The house in the story is based on a house we once lived in.  Although often unuttered, the best fiction is drawn from real life.  Strange events make for good stories.  No satisfactory scientific explanation is given for Vardøger; the best we can hope to get is that it is an auditory hallucination.  The writer knows, however, that personal experience suggests otherwise.  That is the difference between fiction and fact.  Fiction is truer to experience.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Dusty

  My, this thing is dusty.   My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic.   No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third.   With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give.   Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out.   I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again.   I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut?   My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago.   Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction.   Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up.   I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best.   When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

Too Much Writing?

  Has this ever happened to you?   Have you written a story that you’ve completely forgot?   Not only completely forgotten, but made unfindable?   I play games with my stories and sometimes the joke’s on me. Okay, I suffer from graphomania.   I write constantly.   I do try to keep organized—I use a spreadsheet that has all my submissions on it.   It has rejection/acceptance dates (mostly rejection).   Lots of information. I decided to list on it every story, whether finished or in process.   There are far too many (mostly in process).   When I finish a story I often submit it.   If I get burned, I’m shy about resubmitting.   I often rewrite at this stage.   Then, when I feel brave enough, I try again. The spreadsheet is color-coded.   There, in the color that indicates finished and ready to submit is a story cryptically titled “The Password.”   I don’t remember this story.   I can’t recall what it was about or why I thought it was ready to publish. Looking through my electronic files,

The Same Old Story

After a story is rejected from a literary magazine—a rather frequent occurrence—I always revise it.  For stories rejected half a dozen or more times—a rather frequent occurrence—the stories can shift substantially.   In a version of the old saw that “this is the axe used by George Washington to chop down the cherry tree; it has had five new handles and three new heads,” I wonder if the story is the same after such revision.  I write in the flush of inspiration.  The story comes to me roughly complete. The literati say “no,” and I assume the fault must be my own.  I knuckle down and start trying to revise to their liking.  The action changes.  The ending changes.  The characters change.  Is it the same story? Is the fault that my addled brain seems to have trouble telling a story someone wants to read?  Is it the curse of an internet that makes writers of anyone with fingers to type?  I started writing fiction four decades ago.  If I’d tried to start publishing then, perhap