Frankenstein: The Legacy

by Christopher Schildt

  But if William was correct, and there was no reason for me to suspect otherwise, my creation was equally repulsed by the very sight of beauty, this poison to our soul! And it thrilled me to think of him suffering. Such infinite pain. The endless misery. The amorous pleasure it gave me to envision him hiding within the crevices of the eternal night, condemned never to experience something so very wonderful again. Or, perhaps, to finally realize that we never really understood beauty to begin with.

  “It truly is magnificent,” I heard a man’s voice say from behind me, derailing my train of thought. I turned to look and found an old priest standing there, his eyes glancing up to the great ceiling. He had a gentle manner, almost timid. “I couldn’t help but see you smile. You must be enjoying your visit with us?”

  I didn’t remember smiling, but I must have. But if there was indeed a smile that played upon my expression, it had been created by the thought of his anguish. “I’m looking for the archives,” I finally answered.

  “Archives?”

  “Your records. A library, perhaps.”

  He looked back at me, strangely. “Maybe I can help you, my son. What is it you’re looking for?”

  “I’m interested in learning more about a certain church—the peasant church of Santo Domingo.”

  He suddenly fell silent. He appeared to be thinking, nodding his head as he thought. Then his eyes widened. He pointed a finger at me. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Then, this church really does exist.”

  “Not anymore, I’m afraid,” he answered regrettably. “An earthquake destroyed Santo Domingo some fifty years ago.”

  “I had heard a story about the church—”

  “Yes,” he politely interrupted. “A vision of our blessed Virgin Mary was reported to have been seen by parishioners of Santo Domingo.” He finished by giving his shoulders a quick shrug.

  “What was the vision—please?”

  “Are you writing a book about visions, maybe?” He smiled, but with a rather frail old smile.

  “No. I’m not a writer. But I am interested in that one particular church. What was the vision?”

  He cocked his head, looking down at the marble floor with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Lifting his eyebrows, he said, “The parishioners claimed to have seen our blessed Mary cry. They believed that she had cried for our sins.” He quickly glanced up, staring back at me through his clouded eyes. “But this vision was never confirmed. A church panel was unable to verify the report as an actual miracle.”

  “But what ever became of the church? The stones—surely they must have been reused if the locals thought that a miracle did take place there.”

  He smiled again but shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you. But I know of a priest here who served at Santo Domingo. I’ll take you to him. If he’s not in prayer, you could speak to him. I’m certain that he could answer your questions.”

  I followed him, stepping out of St. Peter’s and into a lovely courtyard. A circle of stone buildings looped around the courtyard like a bracelet. It appeared as if their very existence depended on the ominous presence of the massive, sacred cathedral, like the sun, giving warmth to the planets that surrounded it.

  Once across the open courtyard, this priest led me into one of the stone buildings, which served as a place of residence for the many attending priests. There I was introduced to a Father Santangelo.

  I say this with no disrespect to the Savior, but Father Santangelo was old enough to have known Jesus as a child. The bags under his eyes hung down to the tops of his cheekbones, which were barely covered by a thin white layer of skin. His head bobbed, almost as if the neck could no longer support the weight of his head. His hearing was bad, but his eyesight was even worse. He sat on his bed staring quite pleasantly at the door, long after we had taken a seat next to him.

  Father Santangelo finally told us that he did serve as a parish priest at the Santo Domingo. He was there during the earthquake that had reduced the church to rubble. Or, rather, he told my companion, as he only spoke Spanish, which my guide translated for me.

  We asked him about the stones, and this brought about the greatest reaction. He appeared to come to life, as much life as was possible for that old face. Father Santangelo hadn’t witnessed the vision, but reported that those who claimed to have seen the blessed Virgin Mary were good, honest people. Then he made the sign of the cross with his bony fingers in the air in front of him.

  Then he pointed to an old footlocker there in his room. He repeated the word piedras, which even I know is Spanish for “stone.” He made the sign of the cross again and murmured a prayer to the Virgin Mary as I went to the footlocker and removed a large, weathered piece of stonework.

  The stone felt warm to the touch. And for a moment I felt a sense of peace . . . a sensation that I hadn’t experienced for quite some time.

  “Did he tell you where the rest of the stones went?” I asked the priest, who then translated the question.

  “Un Americano vino . . .”

  “Father Santangelo said that an American came.”

  “El dio dinero para una iglesia nueva.”

  “He gave money for a new church.”

  “Pero el tomó las piedras a los Estados Unidos.”

  “But he takes the stones to America.”

  “Las piedras cargen en un barco.”

  “The stones are loaded on a ship.”

  “Veo las piedras nunca más.”

  “Father Sanangelo said he see them no more.”

  “But this man . . . Did he know him?” I asked the priest.

  “No sé este hombre.”

  “He said no. He don’t know this man. But he says that you should look more closely at the stone from his footlocker. He says It’s a miracle. Look . . . closer.”

  I did as he asked, before returning it to the footlocker. And it truly was a miracle. The stone was damp! Everything in the chest was as dry as a bone. The room was dry. The dilapidated wood of the chest was dry. But the stone was damp—with the tears of the Virgin Mary!

  SIX

  Daniel stared at Father Dawl intently from across the rectory. The fire had dimmed considerably in the time that Daniel had spent telling his story, and his tea had long since gone cold, but Father Dawl had barely noticed, so engrossed was he in the strange young man’s tale. Then, finally, Daniel spoke again, with an almost bitter smile. “I did find the stones of Santo Domingo—here in Salem at the Church of St. Michael.”

  “I had always felt a certain sense of peace in the chapel,” Father Dawl whispered, carefully holding the small crucifix that hung around his neck on a silver chain. He felt as if he had suddenly been somehow rewarded for his many years of faith—an unshakable faith. “The damp stones—I just thought it was the New England weather. I’ve searched for a miracle all my life, and it’s been here all along. I was wondering why you had come to me in particular with your story.”

  Suddenly his expression of delight dimmed. The small crucifix that he held slipped out of his fingers, but his hands froze in their grasp. He stared up at Daniel as a glassy, cold sense of shock spread over him. “Then that thing—”

  “Yes,” Daniel answered in a voice so low that it could barely be heard. His smile left him. His shoulders drooped. He appeared weak—and truly regretful. “I’m sorry, Father, but he is coming!”

  The old priest stood up. “No! I won’t allow you to turn this house of worship into a battlefield!”

  “It’s too late, I’m afraid,” Daniel replied regretfully. “He should be here any time now, so I’d suggest that you leave, quickly.”

  “There will be no fighting in this church! Do you understand me?”

  “I don’t think that you quite understand,” Daniel replied sharply. “If he’s not outside now—somewhere—then he’ll be here soon! And if you haven’t been paying close attention, I’ll remind you that we’re talking about a man with incredible strength, with whom no one can reason! He won’t stop until he�
��s avenged Linda’s death. You must go now, while you still have a chance to leave!”

  Daniel also stood up and put a hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Father, he won’t think twice about tearing you apart. Your being a priest means nothing to that evil bastard! And that crucifix of yours won’t save you. So for the last time—please, leave now!”

  “But how do you know he’s still alive?” asked the priest. “And if he is, that he’s nearby? He could be thousands of miles from here. You’d have no way of knowing for sure.”

  “Trust me, I know,” Daniel answered, grimly. “You forget that he and I are like Siamese twins, in a manner of speaking—joined at the soul. Whenever he’s far away, I feel as if a part of me is missing—divided. But now . . . No, you have to believe me. He’s out there, coming even closer by the minute.”

  “But how would you kill him? How can these stones, sacred as they may be, resolve such an enmity between yourself and God?”

  “Think back,” Daniel said urgently. “Do you remember me telling you about the day of my father’s funeral?”

  “When he approached you in the cemetery?”

  “Yes,” Daniel replied. “He collapsed! He could hardly breathe. Don’t you see? It was that rush of feelings over a loss that we both shared—his concerns for Linda, the love he felt for her. Feelings that in themselves constitute life! Like opposing ends of a magnet, this sensation of life acted like a poison to him. But in England—death only rejuvenated him, or, as William said, death gave him even more life. It made him stronger!”

  The old priest’s face suddenly shone with new understanding. Thoughtfully he pondered Daniel’s words. “God will not cast him away, but death calls to reclaim such a creation God never willed to live. Then, the more he feels—”

  “The weaker he becomes. Then I’ll strike him down! But he must die on the stones. The part of my soul that he shares will be taken from him. The sins of this blasphemy will be forgiven, and he will be returned to the land of the dead from where I took him—forever!”

  Father Dawl slowly dropped back down in his chair. “Then what happens to you?” he asked, his voice almost hoarse. “What will you do next?”

  Strangely, Daniel answered the priest with a wry laugh. Then he took a seat on the opposite side of the desk. “You know, I never gave it any thought,” he admitted, smiling—staring into the priest’s eyes. “Just what would I do? Everything that I’ve ever loved is gone,” he added solemnly. “My family—my work—all destroyed. There’s nothing! Far worse than loss by death is loss by regret—perhaps. What would you suggest?”

  Father Dawl considered for a moment before speaking. “The two of you represent the last survivors of Victor Frankenstein’s misguided dream. You’re all that remains of an event, a place, a people that no longer exist. Perhaps it’s time to make your peace with him. Maybe that’s the true miracle that Santo Domingo has to offer you.”

  “But he murdered my sister—”

  “And technically, you murdered the woman he loved. Regardless of the circumstances—right or wrong,” the priest replied. “Wouldn’t that make you even?”

  Daniel’s gaze slowly drifted away from Father Dawl, out across the quiet, dark rectory. His eyes were wide open as he nodded his head, as if to agree with the old priest. But then he felt a cold rush of anger. He slammed a fist against the wall of the mantelpiece. “Make peace with that evil bastard? Never!”

  “So you won’t make peace with yourself?” the priest replied calmly—quietly. “As you said before, you and he are one and the same.”

  A crashing sound came from the front of the chapel. They both heard the large oak doors creak open on their hinges. Daniel turned to look at the old priest. “It’s too late now. He’s here!”

  When the front doors flew open, they heard the grim sounds of laughter. The walls of the rectory echoed the laughter as if all hell had besieged them. The laughter quickly died away.

  Within moments the doorway to the rectory was smashed to splinters. The silhouette of a man stood in the doorway. The dim light from the fireplace captured a portion of a hideous face—twisted and terribly disfigured. Daniel’s descriptions had not done justice to the true horror of what he had created.

  His dull yellow eyes quietly studied the room and a pair of frightened faces until his gaze settled on Daniel. He smiled. “Through this misery that I have come to know so well,” he said, slowly tilting his head to stare across the dark room, “by the pain that I feel, I’ve sworn to track you down. And I’ve held good to my promise, that I would find you, eventually. So come to me, Daniel—step closer, for the eternal flames of hell await us.”

  “Yes,” Daniel replied, glaring back at him. “After you allow the priest to leave.”

  “I would agree. I see no reason to bother him any longer.”

  “Wait!” the old priest interrupted, holding up his hands. Desperately he spoke of murder as a sin, of the soul, and of eternal damnation.

  “Damnation?” the intruder repeated. He laughed again. He laughed wildly, pointing to his own face. “Take a good look at me, priest. How could you possibly speak of eternal damnation to a face such as this?”

  “But what about the light?” asked Father Dawl. “You spoke of it once, didn’t you? Think back—a light before you felt life, at the end of a dark tunnel. A place of warmth and love and tranquillity.”

  The intruder thought to himself for a moment, then slowly nodded his head. “Yes . . .” he started to say quietly, then held out an arm, pointing a finger toward what would have been the night’s sky, had it not been blocked by the roof of the church. “It was a wonderful place. Such peace . . .”

  He suddenly turned at the waist and toward Daniel. “I offered that man my friendship,” he said, words resounding with anger. “I held no ill feelings for what he had done, kidnapping me from my place of rest as he did!”

  The hand that he used to point a finger quickly made a fist. His anger bordered on a fit of rage. “Come to me now, damn you!” he yelled with a power to his words equaling his size and great strength. “It’s all over!”

  Daniel smiled. He started to walk toward him with a look of sinister determination, like a man condemned to death, who would not give his executioners the pleasure of showing them his fear.

  “Then I would consider you no better than Daniel,” the priest interrupted.

  That hideous face of his shifted to the right, and he looked down to Father Dawl. The old priest could sense his outrage. “How could you say that?” he answered in a voice so low that it could barely be heard. “Oh, the unholy crimes this man has committed . . . But enough!” He reached over to grab Daniel by his coat, pulling him closer. “Come along, Daniel. We have business to attend to.”

  They started to walk toward the doorway, when the old priest suddenly called out Linda’s name, and this caused the intruder to stop dead in his tracks. Those dull yellow eyes turned to look over his hunched shoulder. “What did you say?” he asked the priest, and the tone of his voice expressed his extreme displeasure at hearing her name.

  “Linda,” Father Dawl repeated. “I wonder what that poor woman would think if she could see you now?”

  He released his grip on Daniel and pushed him down to the floor. “Sacrilege! How dare you mention her name to me!” he demanded, turning his entire body to face the old priest.

  “Yes—Linda. Try and think back.”

  He answered the priest by raising his fist, and he started toward him. But Father Dawl showed him no fear. He asked him if he recalled their time together, “Well, do you? Do you truly remember the sound of her voice—her kindness—her smile? Can you still feel the touch of her soft hand?”

  The fist that he held out in anger slowly dropped to his sides from the weight of her memory. “Linda . . .” he whispered. His head rotated to the right. His attention was captured by the flames in the fireplace. It looked as if he were held in a trance, and he softly repeated her name again. “Linda . . .”

>   “Yes, Linda.” The old priest stepped closer to him. He rested a hand on his tall shoulder. His smile was both warm and genuine.

  The intruder took in a deep breath. His expression was that of a connoisseur, presented with something extremely pleasing to the senses. A smile raised his spirits as he nodded his head, then said her name for a third time.

  But suddenly his smile disappeared. That look of pleasure gradually faded and was replaced by an expression of tragedy. Yet, this hypnotic stare, deep into the flames of the fireplace, was never distracted—not by either a show of pleasure or of pain. The fire pulled him even closer, his left foot scraping the floor as he moved.

  When he was close enough to feel the full strength of the fire, where any other normal individual might find the heat unbearable, he threw his hands up to his face. He wept. He cried like a child, and the priest carefully approached him from behind. “Then you haven’t forgotten her,” Father Dawl said, and there was a look of sympathy in his eyes.

  “She was there when I opened these accursed eyes of mine for the first time.”

  “And you were frightened when you awoke, weren’t you?”

  He answered the priest at first by nodding his head. Then he slowly lowered his hands. “The strange sounds I heard were deafening. Too much sound. And the fluorescent lights, they blinded me. It was on the day of my birth, or rebirth, I suppose. But she was there. I felt her warm hand against the side of my face. Linda spoke to me. I didn’t understand what she was saying, but I knew that I shouldn’t be afraid. Such a kind voice. And Linda stayed by my side.”

  “It was her job to look after you!” Daniel yelled from behind them. He raised himself up from the floor, pointing a finger that trembled with anger. “You thought that she loved you, but Linda was only doing her job, damn it! Just as it was my responsibility to keep you healthy and alive.”

  “And what a marvelous job you did,” he answered, holding up his misshapen hands to that terribly disfigured face. “A fine job, indeed!” He turned angrily back to the priest. “He is the sort of man who knows no boundaries to what others might consider decent, moral behavior. He only holds reverent those ideas that would manifest his own aspirations. A parasite to nature! He defiles the dead. He is the source of a child’s nightmare, the true monster that lurks under a bed. And I am more than justified to end his miserable life!”