A Sad Mistake

by R. L. Stine

  I took a step back, trying to digest Victor’s words. And as I watched him begin to work, I saw a change come over his face. A calmness in his eyes I hadn’t seen. A steadiness in his hand. As if the doctor was replacing the man.

  Victor worked over the body, kneading and massaging, prodding certain muscles, murmuring to himself as he worked. He worked the body for nearly an hour, then disappeared into the tiny, cramped storage room in back.

  Outside the open doorway, the sun sank behind the farm fields. Blue shadows fell over the cabin. I left my place against the wall to light candles.

  In the flickering yellow light, I could see Borne still sitting so stiffly on the edge of the chair, tensely gripping his deformed hand. The candlelight played over his spectacles, but I couldn’t see his eyes behind the gleam. So much of him remained a mystery.

  Victor returned with bottles and vials, powders and unguents. He lowered himself to his knees again and calmly and deliberately returned to his work on the body. He rubbed thick ointments on the dead man’s chest, then began to massage the loose skin over the heart. He powdered the chest, dabbed ointments on the throat, prodded and massaged.

  Back in my place against the wall, my stomach growled. But I knew there would be no dinner tonight.

  Victor moved in and out of the light, vanishing like an apparition, then reappearing in a flickering, yellow vision. The scene began to take on an unreality, as if I were watching a dream that occurred outside my body, in front of my waking eyes.

  “You must live…You must live again…” Borne’s muttered words brought me back to the world. In his agony, the man seemed more shriveled than when he had arrived. His misshapen leg curled beneath him. His slender body shuddered despite the warmth of the room. He had taken a gamble by coming here. The odds favored grave disappointment.

  Of course, Victor was taking the biggest gamble. Failure for him would mean sinking back into his pit of sorrow and guilt.

  Another hour passed, an hour of shadows and flickering dream. Of muttered words and low grunts of concentration. Victor wrapped the arms and legs of the corpse with heavy cords and tied them securely to the table.

  I watched in silence. Victor disappeared once again into the back room.

  Flies buzzed in the darkness. A gust of wind made the candle flames bend. In a distant pasture, cows moaned. A cat cried. Life all around.

  When Victor stepped back into the light, he held a creature in front of him, clasped tightly in one hand. I couldn’t identify it until he raised it high and it rose into bright candlelight. A field mouse, its spindly legs kicking frantically.

  Victor raised his other hand to reveal a long syringe. My heart skipped in my chest. Why? Was I fearful for the mouse? No. I realized the ordeal was nearing its climax, for good or bad.

  The mouse let out a squeal as the needle sank deep into its belly.

  Borne gasped and leaped to his feet.

  The mouse’s cry faded. Its head sank. As Victor slid the syringe out, the creature died. Victor let it fall to the floor. He spun around—and with a groan, plunged the needle into the dead man’s chest.

  “Oh! Oh!” Borne staggered, gripped the chair arm to keep himself from collapsing.

  Victor kept the syringe in the corpse, pushing the fluid from the mouse deep into the swollen chest.

  I couldn’t move. I had to struggle for breath.

  Finally, Victor slid the syringe from the dead man’s chest.

  Silence.

  Silence. No one moved. A frozen tableau.

  Failure, I realized.

  The room spun in front of me. My thoughts were on the toll this disappointment would take on Victor’s mind. He won’t recover, I thought. This will sink him into the deepest morass.

  Then I uttered a cry of shock as one hand of the corpse twitched. I felt my heart skip when I saw the fingers clench.

  And then a hoarse groan. From somewhere deep inside the dead man. A groan that quickly rose into a wail. A long animal howl of pain.

  So horrifying, I covered my ears. But I couldn’t shut out the shrieks and cries. Scream after scream.

  Victor jumped to his feet. The dripping syringe fell from his hand and landed on the edge of the cot.

  My stomach heaved. If it hadn’t been empty, I would have been sick on the cabin floor. The yellow lights danced crazily in front of my eyes, like fiery stars against an unfamiliar sky. Where was I? I felt as if I were floating somewhere far away, perhaps a distant planet.

  Floating in a world of the impossible.

  And then I returned to earth as the corpse kicked and strained its hands against the cords that held him down. “Nooooooo! Noooooo!” He lifted his head off the table, repeating his moan. “Nooooo.” How quickly his pain turned to rage.

  He thrashed his body, twisting, twitching. His hands and feet strained against the cords until they snapped away. Then he stopped his cries and slowly…slowly…sat up. He shook his head, blinking groggily. He coughed. Coughed some more. Spit up something from deep in his throat.

  Even in the dim light, I could see the wild-eyed excitement on Victor’s face. I’d never seen him smile. Never seen him laugh. But he was laughing now, laughing in triumph, in his utter relief.

  At last. A moment to celebrate his brilliance.

  The corpse fiddled with his open shirt buttons. Scratched his head. Squinted into the dancing lights.

  “He’s alive! Alive as any man!” Victor cried.

  “Alive,” the corpse rasped.

  “Percy!” Borne cried. “Percy! Do you know me?”

  Percy squinted his broad face in confusion. He climbed off the cot. Stood unsteadily, gazing around the small room.

  “Percy, do you remember who I am?” Borne demanded.

  The huge man didn’t answer. He blinked. He took a heavy step toward his brother. One step then another, hands out at his sides as if walking a circus tightrope. When his eyes stopped on Borne, his mouth curled into a smile of recognition.

  “Percy—” Borne leaned on his crutch. “You’re alive, man! Alive!”

  “Alive,” Percy repeated one more time. The smile clung to his face.

  I watched them, expecting a hug, a joyful embrace, a celebration of reunion. But Borne’s next words were a surprise.

  “Do your job!” he cried. He pulled a long-bladed knife from under his jacket and slapped it into Percy’s hand. “Do it! Now!”

  Did Victor see this? No. He had slumped onto the cot. Exhaustion had quickly replaced his ecstasy. His mouth hung open. His eyes were shut.

  With his good hand, Borne gave Percy a shove. “Now,” he repeated. “Do your job. I’ve paid you well. Do what I paid you to do.”

  “Yes. My job,” Percy murmured, wrinkling his broad forehead, thinking hard.

  “What are you talking about, Borne?” I demanded. “Are you not overjoyed to have your brother back?”

  The candlelight lit up his spectacles. I still couldn’t see his eyes But I could see the shrill look of distaste on his face. “He’s not my brother,” Borne said. He shoved Percy in the back again. “Kill Frankenstein. Kill him!”

  Percy staggered forward, the knife clenched in his big fist.

  I threw myself in front of him. “Are you mad? Dr. Frankenstein just gave you back your life!”

  “Step back,” Borne ordered. “I hired this man to assassinate Frankenstein. I paid him every cent I own. And now he shall perform.”

  On the cot, Victor raised his head and blinked. I could see his slender chest heaving up and down. But he made no attempt to rise.

  Borne gestured at his own weak, misshapen body. “Obviously, I couldn’t do the job. So I hired this assassin. And then the fool got himself beaten to death in a drunken fight.”

  He uttered a bitter laugh as he turned to Victor. “Congratulations, Dr. Frankenstein! You have revived your own murderer!”

  Victor uttered a weak cry. Then he managed to force out one word: “Why?”

  Percy took another heavy s
tep toward the cot. Borne stood silent for a moment, debating whether or not to answer Victor’s question. Finally, he said through gritted teeth, “Look at me!”

  The words seemed to hang in the thick cabin air.

  Borne held out his stub of a hand. “Do you think I was born like this, Dr. Frankenstein? Your creation—your monster—tore my hand off. He ripped my hand from my arm as I screamed for mercy.”

  Victor stared at him, as if not understanding.

  Borne’s chest heaved up and down. He began panting like an animal. The words came out in a breathless rush of anger. “Your monster…trod on my leg…so it’s useless to me now. Useless.”

  He waved the stub frantically in front of him. “Feast your eyes on your sins, Doctor. I’ll be the last person you see before you die!”

  Victor lowered his head and gripped the side of the cot with both hands. He made no attempt to escape. “Kill me,” he said softly. “Please. Kill me. You are right. I deserve to die.” His eyes watered over with tears.

  With a growl, the assassin dove at the cot.

  I wasn’t paralyzed by emotion. I moved quickly. I grabbed the syringe from the cot…raised it high…and jabbed it deep into Percy’s neck.

  He let out a high squeal, like a little girl falling in the schoolyard. Yes, he squealed like a little girl as I emptied the remaining liquid into his body.

  The squeal cut off sharply. I whipped the syringe out. Percy’s eyes rolled up in his head until I saw only the whites, and he dropped to his knees beside the cot.

  He stayed there on his knees, head slumped over his chest, hands dangling on the floor. He didn’t move, but I knew he was dead—for good this time.

  I didn’t take time to breathe. I spun away from the assassin and dove across the floor toward the startled Borne. He stood gripping the chair back with his one hand. I think he was waiting for Percy to stand up and finish his assignment.

  Borne was a helpless runt. I had no fear that he would cause a problem. I grabbed his crutch, held it by the tip, swung it with all my might, and smashed the handle into his face.

  It made a cracking sound, and blood spurted up in all directions. I swung the crutch again and saw the skin fly off his face. Yellow bone underneath, and his teeth were revealed from the roots. I smashed his face again. Again. Until my arm muscles ached, and my throat throbbed. I didn’t even realize I was screaming.

  Borne died an ugly death. His face reminded me of a peeled fruit left out in the sun for days.

  I tossed the bloodied crutch onto his body. Then, gasping for breath, I turned to Victor. Poor Victor, blinking at me as if he didn’t recognize me. He still hadn’t risen from the cot. His face showed no understanding, no recognition, of me or what I had done.

  I tucked Victor under the blanket on his cot. I soothed him, made him comfortable, and managed to lull him to sleep.

  He was in a state, his mind far away. I knew it would take time to bring him back. But I had time. Plenty of time.

  First there was work to do, some necessary but unpleasant tasks.

  I had deep holes to dig. Bodies to bury before morning.

  Then I could begin with Victor Frankenstein again. Begin all over again.

  I want him to be his brilliant self when I reveal that I loved Elizabeth, too. But I loved her, more than he ever could, more than anyone.

  Elizabeth…strangled on the night of her wedding to Victor. Murdered for his sins. Murdered for his arrogance and pride…for his defiance of Nature’s laws.

  Elizabeth taken from me forever.

  And so, I couldn’t let this intruder Borne have his way with Victor.

  Because I have my own plans for the good doctor.

  And plenty of time to carry out my plans.

  But there must be no intruders to trouble him. No intruders…and no witnesses.

  I am a patient man—and a careful man.

  No witnesses.

  I hurried outside to murder the horse.

  About the Author

  R.L. Stine is one of the bestselling children’s authors in history, with more than 400 million books sold to date. In 1989, Stine created the Fear Street series, one of the bestselling young adult book series in history, with 80 million copies sold worldwide. He is also the author of the bestselling children's series Goosebumps, which began in 1992 and has sold 300 million copies around the world.

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