Frankenstein: The Legacy

by Christopher Schildt

  In an instant I was sober again. What had he done? “Nicole? What’s happened?”

  “A skating accident. She broke through the ice.”

  “But I told her to go home before I left—”

  “She must have stayed. Your father got a call from the hospital about eight-thirty this past evening. I’m to bring you to the hospital at once.”

  We drove off in his pickup truck. When we finally arrived at the hospital in New London—ironically, mere blocks from the tavern where I’d been tying one on all night—I found my father pacing the floor of the waiting room to the Intensive Care Unit. My father hugged me, then said that Nicole’s condition was critical, and she was suffering from hypothermia through exposure to those freezing waters of the pond.

  “A stranger pulled her out, Danny. He jumped into the water after Nicole, then brought your sister to the shore. He called out for help, but he left before the other skaters arrived.”

  Odd, I thought, that this samaritan should just leave. He would have certainly required medical attention as well. “Did Nicole say who this man was?”

  “She’s been unconscious,” he said. “And no one at the pond could give a description. The firefighters made a check of the woods and shoreline for him, but nothing. They even brought in dogs. He just simply vanished, or worse. He might have even drowned trying to cross back over the broken ice. It’s just terrible, Danny. A terrible thing to happen. That poor man . . .”

  We were interrupted by a physician who told us that Nicole had finally awakened and that we could see her for a few minutes.

  I stepped into the room, and Nicole looked up to me from her bed, looking so very weak, struggling to talk. “That man,” she finally said, her voice but a whisper. “He saved me, Daniel.”

  “Who was he, dear? Do you know him?”

  “It was too dark to see him clearly,” she said—struggling, “but he was a very big man. I was underwater. I couldn’t breathe . . . it was so cold. Then I felt his arms around my waist. He pulled me out of the water and carried me in his arms. He brought me to the edge of the pond, and he wrapped me in a blanket. His voice was so very gentle, Daniel. He told me not to worry, he said that I’d be all right.”

  “Did you see a blanket?” I asked the doctor.

  “It was more of a coat, I guess,” he answered but appeared bewildered. “It was kind of a strange thing, as if it was made out of an old potato sack.”

  I stared down at Nicole, trying not to look too anxious. “The face—did you see his face at all?”

  “I couldn’t get a good look, it was too dark.”

  “Please, Nicole, try and think! You must have seen something!”

  “Sir,” the doctor started, “I really don’t think—” I waved him off.

  Nicole slowly stared up to the ceiling. “Wait . . . Yes, now I remember. From the moonlight . . . there was something about his face.” She nodded. “Yes . . .”

  “Concentrate, Nicole! Describe his face, please! Try and think!”

  “Danny, what’re you—” my father started, but I waved him off, too.

  Nicole’s glance shifted to where I stood by her side, holding her hand. “It was the face of a good-hearted man,” she replied softly, and a slow smile appeared on her lips, which hurried a bit of color to her pale cheeks. “And his eyes told me not to fear him. Yes. This was the face I saw . . . I’m certain, Daniel.”

  Later, and after my father had gone home, I left the hospital. I had told my father that I would stay with Nicole. I hated to lie to them like that, but I needed them out of the way. Once they were gone, when I was sure that Nicole was asleep, I returned to the barn on foot. When I finally reached it, it was close to dawn, and there wasn’t a single light burning from inside. Still, I knew he was there. Where else would he be?

  I quietly stepped inside. From a corner I heard his voice rise up through a shroud of darkness. “Nicole is well?” He spoke in a voice that sounded uncharacteristically fragile.

  “Yes.” I lit his lantern, still suspended from the center of the room. “And you?”

  The burning wick showed me the spot where he sat on the floor—his back hunched over. He stared into that dark void surrounding him. “A fine job you did, Daniel. This body is strong, and I felt the cold of those waters below the pond not once.”

  “That was a very courageous deed you performed.”

  To this, he finally turned to look over his shoulder at me. “It was only a task performed by a servant for his master. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Tell me how can I repay you for this. Nicole—she would have certainly died had it not been—”

  “I wish to know about the other, the one before me whose actions you judge me by. Tell me about him, please.”

  My instinct was to deny that any such creature ever existed. But then, the image of Nicole lying safe in her bed reminded me of what he had done—and what I had done in prejudging him.

  “It was two centuries ago, longer than anyone alive today could possibly remember.” I took a seat on the floor next to him. It was as if we were back on the boulder, but this time I felt none of the apprehension I felt then. “You and he were very much alike, beyond that which can be seen by the eye. But that powerful body of his could not protect him from the worst affliction of all: loneliness. So he pleaded to his creator—a man by the name of Frankenstein—to make for him a mate. All he wanted was a woman to share his life with.”

  “And when he was denied this?”

  “He killed! He avenged himself against Frankenstein by murdering those closest to him—Victor’s brother, who was only a small child. Then last, the wife of his creator, whom Frankenstein loved beyond all others: Elizabeth.”

  “As I loved Linda?”

  I winced. “Yes.”

  He glanced over at me, his honesty reflected by his expression. “I have never entertained such thoughts for you, Daniel. I want you to know this,” he said, and I believed him. “But tell me, who prevailed over the other?”

  “Neither, in truth, though Victor predeceased his creation. When Frankenstein died, his creation wept, then he, too, perished. They both died aboard a ship named the Archangel.”

  I gave him time to consider this, then put my hand on his shoulder as he stared regrettably down at the floor. Putting on my best physician voice, I said, “There’s no guarantee for success. The procedure could fail to restore Linda, or worse. I want you to understand this. Do you?”

  There was an instant spark of life in his eyes. I saw what I thought to be a smile on that face of his, now appearing far less hideous to me. “Bless you, my father! Many wonderful things to you!”

  He stood up, his height towering over me, then bowed his head. “I am your grateful servant to command.”

  FOUR

  She might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighborhood of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man. . . .

  —Victor Frankenstein, Geneva, 1792

  Nicole eventually recovered—a strong and resilient body is the gift of youth. And soon it was time to bring her home. Meanwhile, I supplied him with a list of those things that I would require to accomplish this task of awakening Linda from her sleep. . . . During these preparations for what he referred to as “the great day,” I had quickly developed a sense of close ties with him, giving me the opportunity to observe this creation of mine more closely even than I had during his formative weeks.

  I also realized, to my chagrin, that his health was slowly failing. He was dying!

  T
he wheezing sound he made when he spoke was an ominous warning of a failing respiratory system—a weakening heart, one that could not handle the strain of the mutations.

  I mentioned nothing of his failing health to him. Why should I have? What possible reason in the world would I have to increase his misery? He often spoke of his plans for a life with Linda. They would live somewhere in the wilderness of Canada, enjoying only the very basic gifts that nature could provide for them. It would have destroyed his hopes to tell him that death was imminent.

  I had destroyed enough.

  But I must confess that viewing Linda’s body for the first time was not an easy task, despite the fine job he did of keeping her preserved—packed in snow as she was. That beautiful face of hers, staring up at me, as I carefully pushed aside the snow that covered her, only served as a reminder of the tragic sequence of events that ultimately claimed her life. . . .

  Death was certainly no stranger to me after the years as a physician and in the Navy. Still, that white skin, those blue lips, and those frozen, empty eyes gazing up toward the night sky sent a chill of horror through my body. Quickly the image of that hypodermic needle piercing her once soft skin reminded me of those sins from my past.

  He must have noticed my reaction, as I felt his hand patting me with surprising gentleness on the shoulder. “Let me take her inside for you.”

  I remained frozen in that same spot, even after he had lifted her up into his arms—staring down at an empty outline from where she had been kept in the snow.

  “The time of mourning has passed,” he said. “There is a great deal of work to be done, Daniel.”

  He said nothing more as he carried her inside and laid her stiff body down on a crude wooden table fashioned from planks atop two sawhorses.

  The first step was to raise Linda’s body temperature, but carefully, so as not to damage the organs. So, for a long time she lay there uncovered, exposed to the room’s temperature of about sixty-two degrees. When her body began to thaw, when the skin regained its elasticity, we carefully cut away her clothes—the very same she wore on that night she died back at Princeton.

  I then covered Linda with one thin blanket after another, gradually increasing her body temperature to an acceptable sixty-eight degrees, allowing me to make my first examination.

  I discovered that the skin and muscles were in excellent condition. What a superb job he had done in protecting the body from decay! Then the blood was slowly drained from her using a mortician’s tool for such a task, and a liquid, much like formaldehyde and formulated by Victor from two centuries ago, was steadily pumped back in.

  All was well, except for the heart. After cutting through her thin white skin with a scalpel and opening the rib cage, I found that the heart had been damaged beyond repair, as were the kidneys, thanks to the poison that had taken her life.

  He saw all of this as he stood on the other side of this crude operating table. His eyes wandered up to mine, a grim smile raising the corner of his lips. He said, “We’ll just have to find replacements.”

  The scalpel slipped away from the tips of my fingers. I shook my head. “Her brain must have been equally damaged. . . .”

  “We’ll find a replacement for that as well.”

  I leaned over the table, supporting the weight of my body on my hands under the lights of three kerosene lanterns suspended from a beam overhead. “You don’t understand; if the brain is damaged, all that was truly Linda is lost forever. She’ll have no memory of either you or me. This person, if so resurrected, would only bear a physical resemblance to that woman whom—whom you once loved.”

  I almost slipped and said “whom I once loved.”

  He caught me off guard by laughing. “One step at a time,” he answered, reaching over the table and resting his twisted hand on my shoulder. “Cross only one bridge before another. We will replace these organs, all but the brain. Then, should it be damaged, we will consider what to do next.”

  “We’ll need a compatible donor.”

  He limped from around the table to where I stood. He gave me no reply as he bent down to pick up the scalpel that I had dropped. I could hear the sound of his fingers rubbing against that cold steel surgical instrument held in his hand. He appeared to be immersed in thought—his eyes slowly shifting from right to left—staring out across that dimly lit barn.

  “A proper donor, of course.” He nodded his head. “This is a task best left for me to perform.”

  “Without harm to anyone!”

  For a second time he slipped into silence, then made his way for the door, carrying in his hand that scalpel.

  “Committing a cruel deed is a right reserved by an elite club that I hold no membership to—mankind!” he finally said. “No one shall be harmed. On this you have my word, Daniel.”

  Then he stepped through the doorway and into the night, where, under a waning moon, I could see his dark figure moving through the snow and the cold wind that rustled the branches of the trees overhead.

  The strain of nearly losing Nicole to that accident at Jordan’s Pond was more than a poor heart condition could bear—my father passed away. . . . It was a kind death, if death could be considered kind at all. He was asleep when his time came to pass. In the morning’s first light we found him as he was—peaceful, with an expression of deep affection that he had taken with him into that eternal night, far separated from those we hold so dear to us.

  How tragically ironic did I consider these circumstances. For I, the man who possessed the secret of healing that most incurable of plagues—death—should stand there so helplessly by his graveside.

  And yet, even my own creation had a failing heart. . . .

  So, with the last word spoken—the closing prayers made, the mourners who had gathered there with our family left, leaving behind a lonely snow-covered cemetery and flowers carefully set into place where my father was laid to rest—I remained behind. I kept a silent vigil over his grave, alone, a single figure wearing black in a sea of white. I don’t recall ever having moved from that very same spot during the service. And it seemed to be the right thing to do, this last courtesy offered by a son to his father, not wishing to leave him there without the company of one who loved him and who cherished his memory.

  An hour had passed in silence, until I heard the sound of footsteps breaking the crust of the frozen snow from behind me. A voice said to me, “How can I even begin to relay my sorrow for this loss of yours?”

  It was the creature, who was there for the services, but at a distance safe from those eyes that would consider him grotesque. He continued to approach me until he stood at my side, appearing to share in this pain that I felt.

  “Cruel, this thing called death,” he said. “A terrible trick played on us, to be deprived of the company of those that our souls hold most dear. But fear not, Daniel, for I should remind you that I am a creature born from this seemingly dark void that would ultimately consume us. A child born of death. And while I cannot give any particulars, as my memory can recount no specific images, I can say that I remember a feeling of warmth—a place that embraced this wretched body that you see before you, where there is no scale to measure the extent of one’s wealth, or physical beauty, or place among society. And to these reflections that I can recount with certainty, may I suggest that your father is now well cared for, with this darkness you fear for him somewhat illuminated.

  “Come away from this place, Daniel. There’s nothing left to be done here. It’s Nicole who needs you now the most.”

  So we left that small cemetery together. He said that we should admire this beautiful world around us while this moment was ours to have and share. Yes, we walked together, taking a path through the woods that led from this lonely cemetery to the home of my family. And we did as he suggested—we marveled over those things so easily taken for granted: the distant snow-covered vista of a small New England town, that blue sky overhead, and the ice that covered the branches to the trees, stripped bare of t
heir leaves that glistened from the setting sun before us.

  When we finally reached my family’s home, or close enough to see the lights from within, he turned to look at me, appearing somewhat regretful.

  “I must make a confession about this task that some four days ago I volunteered to perform. But understand, Daniel, that I truly am filled with disappointment over my actions. It was through poor judgment that I decided to acquire at a school for medicine here in Connecticut those things needed to give life.”

  “Someone was harmed?”

  “In a matter of speaking—yes, I suppose. I found that building where such organs are stored and bided my time until all had left the building, shortly after sunset. Then I carefully crept through an unlocked window and quietly made my search until these things were found. But as I was making my exit, I was requested to halt by the voice of a rather young lad—a student, perhaps, who demanded that I step into the area where he stood and identify myself. He warned that he was armed with something called a baseball bat. However, I have never before heard of that particular type of nocturnal flying mammal. Perhaps he intended to have this creature bite me? I feared rabies. In any event I complied with this order and stepped into the light of that adjoining room. Well, upon seeing me, he turned a shade of white that looked like the snow we stand on, and he dropped to the floor. He appeared to be sound asleep. I nudged him, but he gave me no response. But there was no such mammal . . . he lied to me, the little brat. For there in his hand was only a wooden stick.”

  I laughed. He made me laugh on that day of my father’s funeral. And how very good it felt to have this short reprieve from such sorrow.

  “How is it,” I asked him, “that a man so very foolish, so very ignorant as I could have given life to a creature such as yourself? How can this be?”