Frankenstein's Monster

by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe

  “A week’s passing is enough to turn me into a dream?”

  “Merely a week? I’ve been ill. I did not realize how little time had passed.”

  I took the lantern from her and held it up. She did not look ill; indeed, her color was high from running with the hounds. But there was sadness and resignation on her face.

  “Are you well now?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Pulling her cape tighter, she spoke in a frightened whisper: “How shall I describe it? A worm eats at me from the inside.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A parasite. It feasts on me.”

  “I’ve seen these things bleed life from even the strongest of men,” I said, greatly troubled by her words. “Did you send for a doctor?”

  “Should I be seen by a man, so that later he may boast of it? No, I went to see old Biddy Josephs. She gave me all manner of physic, but …” Lily shook her head. “Today my father at last saw I was sickly and called the doctor himself. The doctor was delicate for my sake and called it a mere illness. Then he closeted himself with my parents. I fear the words that will be spoken tomorrow.” Her eyes grew unfocused. “It is too late. My time is short and my life is no longer my own.”

  I had come to England to kill this woman. An illness might do the work for me. If it did, Gregory Winterbourne would be beyond sorrow.

  And what of me? What would I feel if I lost her?

  “Your words grieve me more than I can say.”

  “Can I have such power over you?” Her mood lightened and she laughed. “I must devise some test of this power to see if you speak true. Kneel before me, knave!”

  I knelt. She traced the scars on my face, softly at first, then with growing firmness. I submitted to the exploration, remembering she had tried to touch me the same way the night we met, before we ever spoke. For the sake of her beauty I allowed it, for the sake of her illness, for the sake of the sudden ruttish thoughts that had not crept into my mind since Mirabella.

  Apparently satisfied, Lily leaned close. I took her arms; her flesh was soft and yielding beneath the cape.

  “Speak the truth, Victor Hartmann,” she said. Breath like perfumed silk warmed me to desire. “What does it feel like to be dead?”

  I pushed her away. She clung to me, holding me down, as if she had the strength to do it.

  “We all die,” she said. “I will die. It is surely coming, but I cannot comprehend it. You have already been dead. You come from death. What does it feel like?”

  She asked the question not with fear but fervor. I finally saw in her the disease of which Winterbourne spoke; finally saw the emotional disease, just as I learned of the physical. She was being devoured in mind and in body.

  “What does it feel like?” she repeated.

  It felt like death to come from death. There is no faculty left untormented: for smell, there is the breath of mold; for sight, the opaque blackness of the grave; for sound, the gnaw of teeth on coffin wood; for touch, the jelly of corruption; for taste, the bitter rot of one’s own body. This was death. And she was eager to know it.

  She shook her head, impatient at my silence.

  “Answer me.”

  Bringing her face closer still, she shook her head again, this time slowly, letting her hair brush my cheek in exquisite torture. Seconds after her words had repelled me, I would be a man after all, full of denial and with a memory no longer than my last sensation.

  From behind us came a faint sound, like dry twigs whispering against each other.

  “Someone’s there,” she said and tried to pull away.

  “It’s the wind,” I said softly. I would not release her. She smelled of roses; her skin was as soft as their fallen petals.

  Again from behind us, this time closer: a faint sound, like dry scrub rustling.

  “Let me go. I tell you: someone’s there.”

  “You wanted to know what death feels like. Would you leave before I tell you?”

  Sadness and resignation returned to her face.

  “There are many ways to know death, Victor Hartmann. Many times, many places. We each find our own. We each are found.”

  Now, when she pulled away, I let her. As soon as she was free, she picked up the lantern and blew out the flame.

  November 14

  All day I brooded on Lily’s words: her time is short and she will die. Is her illness that serious? Her father will suffer so! And what of me?

  I decided I could not wait to wrest the truth from her; indeed, I may not succeed in doing so. Under evening’s first shadow I walked down the shore, climbed the cliff at another point, and, cloaked and hooded, entered Tarkenville.

  The town was nearly deserted, despite the early hour, and I saw no one who might tell me where Biddy Josephs lived. As I turned down another street, staying in the shadows I heard a thunderous voice come from the church: “When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.”

  I cautiously peered inside. Clothed in full vestments, Reverend Graham had just read a scripture verse to a nearly full church. After this forceful declamation, his voice unexpectedly dropped to a soft tone. His expression was one of loving adoration, which surprised me. From his manner at the Winterbourne party I might have expected harsh words on behalf of his harsh God. But his face was at peace. The gentility of his prayers, the murmured responses, the shuffle of feet as the people stood and kneeled and stood—all of these lulled me into a moment of quiet. I leaned against the wall beside the window and listened. It was not what they said, but how they said it that beguiled me. Too soon, it seemed, the prayers came to their end: “Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.”

  I left quickly before the church began to empty out.

  At last I came upon a man who told me that Biddy Josephs lived outside of town, deeper in the woods and far from other houses. I approached the lone cottage slowly. Both it and the large shed nearby were well lit, windows open to the night. Inside the shed, bundles of plants hung, leaves downward, from the rafters—some still fresh green, others a straw so brittle that a sharp glance might break it. Slices of long woody roots were threaded together and also hung to dry. Tables along the walls held more leaves spread in a single layer. A strange though not unpleasant mix of odors wafted out on the air.

  The door to the shed was kicked open from the inside and a woman emerged. Though white haired and very old, she was tall and solidly built and moved with a brisk step, carrying a large jar made of glass too dark for me to see its contents.

  “Shut the door, but don’t douse the fire. I have more work to do.”

  I waited for whomever she was addressing.

  “You there,” she said, half-turning. “In the shadows. Did you hear me? Or have you come to have your ears candled?” She walked to the cottage, banged on the door with her foot till it swung open, and entered. I shut the door to the shed and followed her to the threshold of the house.

  “I hope you didn’t come alone,” the old woman said, setting the jar down before shelves full of more jars. “Or have you not heard? There was murder done last night.”

  Murder.

  I froze. I was guilty before I had done the deed: the very word condemned me.

  “A young boy was beaten to death. Jonathan Ridley. Did you know him? That’s why I say you shouldn’t walk alone in the woods. As for me, there are few that would bother the witch woman.”

  “Biddy Josephs?” I asked.

  “A man. Your quiet step deceived me.” She began to rearrange the jars, not bothering to look toward me as she spoke. “What can I get for you this evening, sir? A nice mix of valerian and hops to help you sleep?” She opened one of the jars and sniffed it. “Or devil’s bind to loosen your bowels? Be careful there: too much and it does indeed bind you.”

  She
looked my way and though my face was hidden, I stepped back.

  “No, I think not devil’s bind after all,” she said slyly. “What brings a gentleman to Biddy Josephs in the shadows of dusk and keeps that man outside where I may not know him?” Turning back to her jars, her fingers paused lightly on several as she named them. “Coriander, fenugreek—these can be powerful aids for male potency. Hmm … The green shell of the walnut would be better.”

  “It is not for myself that I come.”

  “Your woman, then.”

  It was strange to hear Lily so named.

  “She is ill. She said she came to you already without finding relief.”

  “Who is she?”

  I hesitated.

  “Have no fear, sir,” Biddy Josephs said. “I tell no one who visits me.”

  “Lily Winterbourne.”

  “So beautiful. Yes, she was here.”

  “What did you treat her for?” I asked. Perhaps it was not as serious as Lily had intimated. Perhaps there was hope for her yet and solace for her father.

  “What did she tell you was her illness?”

  “She said she had a parasite, an evil worm.”

  “Indeed, it was wormwood I gave her. That and pennyroyal, hedge hyssop, shepherd’s purse. Some ergot would have been good, though I can work only with what the season and good friends bring me.”

  “She said it is with her still.”

  Biddy Josephs shook her head, her expression thoughtful as she stared into the shadow of my hood.

  “Your voice, sir. I’ve never heard your accent here, have I?”

  “I’ve been in Northumberland less than a month.”

  “So short a time, and already you are in love with Lily Winterbourne.”

  Love? I have never spoken the word, not even to Mirabella.

  The old woman’s brow creased more deeply.

  “There is nothing for you to do, sir. Go home and wait. Perhaps she may still recover. And if she doesn’t, you will have an opportunity to prove your love.”

  She had confirmed the worst.

  I returned to my cave. Earlier I had planned my supper to be a nice plump turnstone I had surprised when sunning itself. I have lost all appetite. Instead I have been writing until it is late enough to climb the cliff up to the estate.

  Will Lily be waiting?

  My foolishness cannot be measured.

  November 17

  Every night I have roamed the Winterbourne estate, hoping to find Lily.

  I feel her more in her absence than in her presence. Everything is black without her. And yet, with her? She is too dark in spirit to be the sun. Still, she shines. She is, thus, the moon—although now, in her illness, the moon waning.

  I come from death. She goes toward it.

  Tonight there was a letter from her, wedged between the branches of the tree where she had left my cloak.

  Dearest Victor,

  I am still not well. Please come to the house tomorrow night at eight. I wish to see you while I am yet able to. My mother knows that I feel for you some affection and that my father holds you in regard. Also, my father has explained to her your situation and how her brother has persecuted you for years. She does not agree with all that was said, but she has seen for herself that pursuing you has given her brother no peace.

  She knows you will be reluctant to come because of her behavior at the party, but asks for your forgiveness. She wants to hear whatever news of her brother you may have.

  Therefore, speak with her tomorrow night at eight. She will wait for you in her sitting room. Enter through the veranda doors, as you did before. And then, if I am feeling better, I will come downstairs afterward to see you.

  Do not fail me.

  Fondly,

  Lily

  Lily regards me with some affection? She addressed me as “dearest” and closed with “fondly”? Have I ever seen evidence of these feelings? Perhaps, in my inhumanity, I have simply not recognized them. Or perhaps, in her changeable mood, she has created another occasion for torment. I am fool enough to try to discover which.

  If she speaks the truth, what of Margaret’s more wondrous desire to speak with me? She says she wants to judge me on my own merit and not on lies. I hope Winterbourne will be at our interview to be my ally. It is his continued acceptance I seek more than hers.

  In a sudden single moment, I fear total betrayal of my plan for revenge and yet understand it as the best vengeance of all if Margaret someday writes:

  “Robert, we have met your monster at last … and happily call him friend.”

  November 21

  The night after I had received Lily’s letter, I approached the sitting room I had entered two weeks ago. Margaret Winterbourne was already there, wringing her bony hands, then pressing them to her chest as if her heart might burst with dread. Just a few candles were lit, throwing the room into shadow. In the dim light, my scars would look less fearsome—Winterbourne had probably suggested it—but she seemed terrified of the dark itself, startling at each anxious turn of step. Although her husband’s presence would have strengthened her, she was unaccompanied. Perhaps it was a test: her willingness to be alone with me as she heard me out. I was disappointed Lily was not there, even though the letter said she would see me afterward only if she felt well.

  I knocked on the glass door. Margaret jumped and held up a hand to ward me off.

  “Mr. Hartmann?” With her hand still half-raised, she lowered her head and averted her eyes to the left. She could not endure the sight of me. “Come in.”

  I took one step inside, frightening her so badly that she half-fell, backing away. Her breath came in gasps, and she edged toward the door leading to the rest of the house.

  I pulled up the hood and said, “I will come no closer. How is your daughter?”

  Margaret’s features passed through lightning changes, none of which I could read.

  “As you might expect,” she answered.

  “I expect nothing and fear the worst. She said only that she was ill.”

  “Did she? But where … where are my manners?” she said. She gestured toward a stout chair far from where she stood.

  “I will stay here. You are discomforted by my presence.”

  “I am.” Her eyes darted away from me again, but there were too many shadows to give her peace: behind the velvet settees, behind the tall embroidered panels, beneath every chair, and within every corner. The cold fireplace itself seemed a tunnel from which evil might slither.

  “Perhaps we should speak at another time.”

  “No! I won’t have the courage!” She steeled herself, clenching and unclenching her fists. When the steel at last entered her eyes, she said, “You have seen my brother more often than I. You!” She did not attempt to hide her outrage. “Tell me, when you last saw my brother, did you leave him well?”

  When I last saw Walton? How innocuous he appeared: his clothes shabby, his face dreamy, his eyes dazed. I might have felt pity did I not know that a second later he murdered Mirabella. Now I stood alone with his sister. My fingers burned to grab this woman’s skinny wattled neck and choke her.

  “Did you leave him well?” she repeated. “I know there is … unpleasantness between you.”

  “Unpleasantness?” I laughed bitterly. “He’s robbed me of ten years of life, trying to kill me, and then robbed me of even more. The last occasion I saw your brother is best left undiscussed.”

  “Is it?” Her thin voice grew shrill: “What will you discuss? Why you stole his letters from me? How long you’ve been in Tarkenville? Did you leave my brother well?”

  I stepped forward, wondering if I should call Winterbourne to calm her. At my movement she flattened herself against the wall, her eyes struck with horror. I backed up to the veranda door.

  “What of your daughter?” I asked from that distance, hoping a change in topic might distract her. “She said we might meet tonight.”

  My words provoked Margaret to turn her head aside with dis
gust.

  “You would see my daughter? Very well,” she said tightly. She tugged on the bellpull and waited. Moments later Lily appeared. She wore a loose dressing gown and was very pale, very thin. Her eyes burned with fever.

  Hand extended, I walked farther into the room to greet her.

  “Now! Seize him now!” Margaret shrieked.

  From the veranda, from behind the screens, from the door behind Lily, rushed brutish men. Two grabbed me; several pressed clubs at my head; one carried an axe. I could have thrown them off, but Gregory Winterbourne—the man who had made me believe that I might be a man—tore into the room, shielded his wife and daughter, and aimed a pistol at my heart.

  “There!” Lily crowed. “Did I not tell you he’d come at my word?”

  “You were a guest in my house!” Winterbourne waved the gun so wildly the men who held me flinched. “You listened to my confidences!”

  “And you spoke to me as one man to another. For that I am truly grateful.”

  “ ‘As one man to another’? You’re a monster!”

  “We talked of this. I am only what men have said I am.”

  “You’re a thing!” Margaret cried out with hatred. “My brother was right. He has always been right!” She turned angrily on her husband. “You thought Robert was mad. You ridiculed him. You sneered at me for believing. You’re a fool. You’ve always been a fool. You’ve—” What she could not say strangled her.

  “Lily, what does this mean?” I asked. Perhaps in her coldness she could explain to me what her father in his heat could not.

  “Don’t you dare address my daughter!” Winterbourne’s passion overwhelmed him; spittle appeared at his lips as his mouth worked over words that would not come. He gestured again with the gun and said, “I was kind to you!”

  “Was I not kind in return?”

  Kind? Because I had not murdered him? Blood rushed to my cheeks. I remembered Biddy Josephs: she spoke the language of men, whereas I did not, so I said, “Sir, I love your daughter.”

  “Love?”

  He would have thrown himself at me had his men not held him back. One of them said, “Leave him for the sheriff, sir.”