by Cindy Winget
It was a small boon to Victor to be digging up a body that was guaranteed to be only bones—the tissues and sinews having rotted away long ago—rather than the fresh, and thereby much more gruesome, work that was his normal fare. He swore the stench would never properly be cleansed from his pores.
Hours later, Victor carefully packed away the bones of his ancestor, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket, and headed back to his laboratory. Exhausted, yet satisfied in his success, he fell into a deep sleep.
When morning came, he was anxious to immediately begin work on his newest endeavor. However, his stores of food were diminishing, and he was in need of more supplies. He, therefore, resisted the urge to work and made the trek into town.
At first, he was too absorbed in his own thoughts to take notice of those around him. Slowly, he began to notice the underlying buzz of conversation going on around him. It wasn’t like the normal chatter of the people at the market bazaar. This was something different. People spoke in hushed tones, as though afraid to be overheard, and crossed themselves to ward off the evil eye.
To his surprise and delight, he saw the older woman who had been so helpful before, hawking her wares of earthen jars and homemade goods on the edge of the marketplace. He stepped over with a grin.
“Why, bless my soul, if it isn’t that young researcher!” she said with evident pleasure. “So, what brings you to my humble table?”
“Alas, I have discovered that I am mortal and in need of daily nourishment to remain upon this earth,” he teased.
“Well, I have plenty to help with that.” She pointed to loaves of homemade breads, jars of jam, and crocks of butter.
“Hmmm…Looks delicious! How much?”
“For you, I give a free slice of bread. You are much too thin.”
“That is most generous. Thank you.”
Victor was not about to turn down free food, being currently unemployed in the name of science and invention, and his pocketbook was beginning to look pathetically thin. The money which his father had sent him was soon to run out, but he splurged a little and also bought some of her homemade baklava—a pastry made with nuts and honey. He had already purchased a bottle of milk, a container of lamb stew, some fresh vegetables, and mititei—grilled sausage seasoned with garlic.
As he ate the slice of bread, slathered in butter and jam, he asked, “I have noticed a strange energy among the populace. Has something happened?”
“Energy?” She did not comprehend his meaning.
“Yes. You know, people seem concerned or excited about something.”
“Ah!” She nodded. “This will interest you. You see, it has long been said in Romania that if the tomb of Vlad Dracula were ever to be disturbed, it would awaken a curse upon the land. Vlad the Impaler would arise as a Nosferatu.”
“Nosferatu? What is that?”
“An undead creature, ruled by the need for blood.”
This sounded like superstitious nonsense to Victor. How could anyone believe such a tale in this day and age of enlightenment? These people romanticized things to the point that they lost sight of what is reality and what is myth. Likely the Romanian people spread rumors of this curse in order to frighten their enemies away from defiling the grave of their beloved Prince.
“You see, the holy resting place of Vlad Dracula has been desecrated,” the woman continued. “His bones have been removed from Comana Monastery.”
On the verge of taking another bite of bread, Victor’s hand suddenly halted halfway there. He had thought only of the great cosmic joke of having an ancestor take part in his work. It was a strange way to stay connected to his deceased mother. He had not thought of how his actions would affect the local people of Romania. How short-sighted he was! This man was beloved by his people. He was their hero prince. No matter how careful he was to replace the stones, of course they would have noticed that his grave had been disturbed.
“Are you alright, my boy?”
“Oh, um…yes. I am quite well. Just thinking of the undead creature you spoke of,” he lied. “What did you call it? Nosferatu?”
She nodded. “A vampyr, in your native tongue. A creature of the night; a walking nightmare that can never be killed and whose need to feed on human blood will never be sated.”
He thanked her once more for the bread and baklava and went on his way, after assuring her that he was not overly frightened or concerned about what she had told him.
He returned to his lab and resumed his work, once again getting lost in his venture. Weeks passed as he toiled. He hardly stopped to sleep or eat, never leaving his lab except to procure the necessary organs and tissues from charnel houses and churchyards. He missed the dissecting rooms of England that made it much easier to procure limbs and organs for his work, but at least here the graves of the freshly buried weren’t guarded or as difficult to enter.
He ignored letters from family and friends, and the outside world in general, all in the name of this one pursuit. Weeks turned into months and he only made minimal contact with the outside world. Consumed as he was, he gave no more thought to vampyrs or the superstitious locals.
He realized now that trying to create a man of average height and weight was proving to be too taxing. Some of the work was quite meticulous and he worked with such small pieces at times—veins, nerves, and the like—that he found that it was much easier working with a man of exceptional height and girth. To this end, he gave his creation the gigantic stature of seven feet tall and proportionately large.
Finally, with great effort and abundant labor, and at the neglect of his own health, he discovered the best way to bestow animation upon lifeless matter. He had high hopes for the body now lying on his dissection table.
It was time.
He had set up a network of rubber tubing that led to great vats full of the freshest blood he could procure, and he now pumped it through to the body, letting it fill the arteries and veins of his creation.
He turned on the large electrostatic machine, and a bit of fabric rubbed against the large glass bulb in order to create electricity through friction. He watched as the great sparks of electricity traveled down the copper and iron wires and connected with the electrodes imbedded in various parts of the body.
His creation began to twitch as it was galvanized. Victor slowly turned the knob on the electrostatic machine, increasing the voltage. After a minute or two Victor shut the machine off and waited. His heart was pumping and his palms were sweaty. This was it! This is what years of research and hard work had culminated in. This was his life’s work, about to bear fruit at last!
He frowned. Nothing happened. Apparently, this amount of voltage was not sufficient. He flipped the switch once more, slowly amping up to the maximum voltage allowed by the machine. Even though the limbs twitched and the eyelids fluttered, the heart did not begin to beat.
The wind was howling outside as a storm brewed overhead. Lightning flashed across the sky, dispelling the shadows of Victor’s laboratory and throwing his instruments into sharp relief.
Victor would use lightning!
From his room, Victor gathered the spinning machine his father had built for him as a child. As he worked, Victor inanely ruminated on the fact that it wasn’t until Benjamin Franklin’s famous kite experiment in 1752 that scientists proved that lightning and the electricity generated by spinning machines was of the same essence.
There was a kite attached to a wire that fed into the device. He detached this wire and connected it to his electrostatic machine, which was much more powerful than his father’s homemade spinning machine. He pushed the kite out of the window of his laboratory. He was afraid at first that it would be ripped to shreds by the strength of the wind, but to his immense relief it held out. He waited for a time until a bolt of lightning flashed again overhead and was conducted by the wire attached to the kite. Bright sparks and crackles of electricity traveled down the length of wire and into the electrostatic machine.
He turned the machine
back on and as the lightning plunged down the wire, he gave the body another hard zap of electricity from his machine at the same time, turning the voltage once again to its highest setting. The body upon the table writhed and convulsed. A scream of agony, and of fear or rage, tore from the dead lungs and pervaded the space.
Victor looked on in amazement. When the screaming stopped and the man lay still, Victor switched off the machine and waited once more with bated breath. The large chest heaved upwards as the body took its next independent breath, its lungs filling with life-giving air as its blood presumably circulated through its extremities from a now beating heart.
Victor gave a great cry of joy, his eyes welling with tears at the magnitude of his accomplishment, as he hurried to disconnect the body from the electrodes. He stitched and bandaged the resulting holes in its flesh.
He gazed with fatherly pride down at his Adam, presumably as God must have done, or Prometheus when he had formed man from clay eons ago.
But as Victor remained there, looking down at his creation, his joy began to fade. The skin was pale, devoid of the healthy pink hues normally associated with the living. The straight black lips did not lighten to an attractive pink or red, but remained the cold black lips of a corpse. Its black hair flopped onto its tall forehead in a matted wave, its face and body marred by multiple sewn incisions, which would presumably heal, but would leave large white scars in their stead.
Victor took an involuntary step backwards as the eyes of the creature before him fluttered and began to open. The eyelids lifted to reveal dull yellow eyes. The color seemed to have been leached from the irises, giving it an unnatural and unsettling stare.
Its mouth twitched as it struggled to speak, spewing forth rank breath as it did so. All that came out was gurgling and grunting.
The great brute rose to a sitting position and Victor was once again reminded of how tall it truly was. It turned its head abruptly in Victor’s direction and silently assessed him with dim eyes that showed not an ounce of intelligence. Its flat gaze filled Victor with horror and loathing, and he fled from the room.
Stumbling up to his room, Victor closed the door, slumped down onto his bed, and pulled the covers up over his head as a small child would, frightened of ghost stories or of things that go bump in the night. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and have a few moments of forgetfulness. Let the creature return to its lifeless form as he slept.
Please! he prayed. Have it return to the realm of the dead.
In time, he fell into a fitful sleep, full of nightmares.
Chapter Eleven
“Victor? Victor!”
Victor sat up in bed. He knew that voice! Could it really be her? Here in Transylvania? Her voice floated up once more through the window and into his willing eardrums, calling for him. Victor quickly threw the covers back and stumbled outside.
It was her! His dear Elizabeth!
He ran to her and swept her up in his arms, her auburn hair flying all around her head in a great halo. She was laughing joyously. When he finally placed her back on her feet, she spoke once again, only this time reproachfully.
“Victor, how is that I manage to write to you sheets and sheets and yet you can’t manage to send me even one sentence, letting me know you are all right?”
Victor shrugged with delight. The smile upon his face could not be wiped away by any feelings of guilt. Elizabeth was here!
“You knew this about me, my love,” he told her. “You said so yourself that I would be neglectful in my correspondence, and I know how you love to be right. I wouldn’t want to damage your female sensibilities.”
Elizabeth swatted at him playfully. “You brute!”
It was so easy to get a rise out of her. “What are you doing here?”
“Your father has been frantic with worry. We haven’t heard from you in nearly two years!”
Had it really been so long? He realized with a quick stab of remorse that it had indeed been that long. He had written to say that he had gone on a belated Grand Tour to Romania, and then had sent nothing after that, having been consumed with his work. With sudden shock he remembered the events of the night before.
“What is troubling you, Victor?” Elizabeth asked in alarm at the look on his face.
He gave his head a little shake. “Nothing. Nothing that need concern you.” He forced a smile back onto his face. “So, only father was concerned for my well-being? No one else?”
Elizabeth grinned slyly back. “Well, I think Henry missed you quite a bit. And of course, your brothers.”
“Is that all?”
“Hmmm, perhaps the servants as well, but it’s hard to say when they stay so busy.”
Victor laughed. “I will write to Father as soon as possible and tell him that I am well. And even if you did not miss me, be assured that I have missed you. I didn’t realize how much until I saw you. I wish to never part from your presence again.”
“You promise?” she asked earnestly.
“I promise,” he said solemnly. She was so intensely beautiful! Had she always been this pretty? Her long, thick eyelashes slowly batted and framed her enormous hazel eyes as she gazed up at him. Her creamy skin was flawless save for an endearing, albeit childish, sprinkle of freckles across her nose. Her cheeks took on an attractive pinkness as she blushed at his scrutiny. He took a chance and leaned down, pressing his lips to hers.
They were soft and willing and he pulled her closer to him in an intimate embrace.
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear.
There was no reply. Had she heard him?
“Elizabeth?”
He pulled back from her, keeping his hands on her arms. Her eyes stared at him unblinkingly. There was no light or understanding in those beautiful eyes. The life had left them, making them appear flat and unresponsive.
“Elizabeth!?” He spoke louder. Harsher. How could this be? “Talk to me!” he shouted.
She did not respond. Her lifeless body slumped, held up only by Victor’s arms. She had gone deathly pale and her skin had grown cold. He laid her gently on the ground and glanced once more at her face. To his horror, it had changed. Her lips were dark and straight, her flawless skin puckered by scars. Her eyes were a dull yellow with muted irises. Her hair was no longer a vibrant auburn, but black as ebony.
A single white maggot wiggled its way out of the corner of her eye. He watched it with disgust. More maggots infested her face, squirming and writhing in her hair and out her ears and nose. Her mouth dropped open, the weakened tendons no longer able to keep it shut, and worms poured out as though she had been eating them. He pulled back with revulsion. Her body gave over to decay before his very eyes, the skin drying out and shriveling, her hair falling out. Her unnatural eyes stared back at him.
He opened his mouth to scream.
Victor sat up in bed, breathing heavily as sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes. The dim light filtering in through the small stone window of his room told him it was morning. He swiped his brow with the back of his hand and closed his eyes, relieved that it had only been a dream.
When he opened his eyes once more, he was met by a yellow-eyed gaze and a shock of black hair atop a tall forehead. It was the creature! The monster of Victor’s own making. It had pulled back one of curtains of his four-poster bed, and was peering at him through the slit. It reached toward him with a large scarred hand.
Victor leaped out of bed and fled out of the room, never so much as glancing back to see if the fiend pursued him.
He traveled on foot down the mountain and into town, arriving just as the sun was going back down. He wandered the streets until dawn, fearing to go back to his house. Was the creature still there? Or had it followed Victor? He felt this was unlikely, for with its largely muscled legs and long stride, it would have easily overtaken him if that had been its intent.
“Victor! Victor Frankenstein!”
Victor looked up and saw a man waving to him. At first, he didn’t r
ecognize the gentleman stepping out of the carriage at first. Then, with a start, he realized it was his childhood friend, Henry Clerval. Henry had lost the rounded cheeks of his youth and grown much taller and leaner during Victor’s absence. Henry was dressed impeccably in the wealthy clothes of an aristocrat. Business must be going well for his shy merchant friend.
“Henry!” Victor couldn’t contain the joy that leaped in his chest. In three long strides he was across the street embracing his friend. He patted him on the back as the hug ended. “What are you doing here?”
Henry glared at him severely, “I have been sent by your father and Elizabeth to inquire about your well-being, since you refuse to write any letters.”
Victor looked down. “I know I have been remiss. I have been busy with an enterprise that has taken up a great deal of my time and thoughts.”
“No doubt, you rascal! You were always single-minded, but that is no excuse to neglect former friendships, for I myself have not received any correspondence from you since you left Ingolstadt! If not for Elizabeth, I would still believe you to be in England!”
Victor didn’t know what to say. He felt suddenly ashamed as he realized what a poor friend—and relative—he had been. The years had flown by for him and he had scarcely allowed himself to miss their presence. Only now, upon seeing Henry again, did he recognize how far removed he had made himself from his family and home.
Henry saw his troubled look and thumped him on the back. “Cheer up, Victor. I am here now and ready and willing to rekindle our long-dormant friendship with some rabble-rousing and good spirits.” He winked. “Father has seen the error of his ways and has consented to let me begin studies at any university I like. I plan on continuing my studies in languages and mathematics. Father now recognizes more fully the way that these skills will, and already have, helped me in our business.” He gave a pose meant to show off his accoutrements as proof of his good fortune. “Though I also plan to enroll in some literature classes as well.”
