“About eight feet tall?” asked Winslow, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe taller, adding the big boots he was wearing,” said Fairfax. “But his size wasn’t the worst of him. You should’ve seen the demon’s face, ugh! if that’s what you want to call it. It was hideous, monstrous, horrible. I’ll never forget that face for as long as I live. It was the most revolting thing I have ever seen and I doubt that I’ll ever see anything worse.”
“Details please, Mr. Fairfax?” said an anxious Winslow.
The patient swallowed hard. Fairfax’s face distorted as he recalled his first-hand experience with the legendary deity. He shuddered as if the creature might be lurking behind him in the hospital room.
“It was utterly monstrous,” said Fairfax, wincing over his remembrance. “The arms looked too long for the body. They were withered ... like the stretched arms of a mummy I once saw in the British Museum. Those arms stuck out of the demon’s torn coat sleeves, which were ripped up to the elbows. And the hands... the hands were enormous, with deep gashes in the flesh. And there were these ugly stitches that seemed to be keeping those hands attached to the arms.”
Looking momentarily at Dupré, Winslow returned his attention to Fairfax. “What of the face?” He moved a step closer to the bed. “What can you tell me of that?”
“Yes, that was the worst of all,” said the patient.
As Fairfax spoke, Winslow whispered something to the Frenchman, then looked back at the bedridden man, reacting with a studious expression to his words.
“The flesh seemed to be yellow, very pale, like maybe a dead man’s,” said Fairfax. “The hair seemed kind of long, hanging down to its huge shoulders. And that hair was pitch black. And I’ll never forget those scars… and the stitches that held them shut. And there were these two little metal things sticking out of the demon’s temples. Reminded me of bolts of some kind. I saw those only for a few seconds. That’s when I passed out. Not too sure what happened after that, other than I heard dogs and shouting and all. And I’m not sure just what the hell that thing was I saw in the ice. But this I’ll bet money on — it was no god!”
Winslow’s face was already glowing like a torch. Turning again to Dupré, he exclaimed, “You see, Pierre, that’s got to be it! The description, the location, everything is too perfect to be mere coincidence. What else could it be?”
“Be what?” asked Fairfax, confused. He tried vainly to sit up in the bed. “What the hell are you babbling about? You seem to know more about this demon than the guy who saw it!”
There was a smile on Winslow’s face as he replied, “I won’t keep you in the dark any longer, Mr. Fairfax. After what you’ve been through and told us, you deserve to know everything. What we, Mr. Dupré, and I, believe you saw is…”
“Yes?”
“The remains of the Frankenstein monster!”
Fairfax stared incredulously at Winslow. “The Frankenstein monster?” he repeated with disbelief. He scratched his head. Surely, he thought, these two men were madder than the hospital doctors thought him to be. “But... I mean, there’s no such thing, is there? I mean, Frankenstein... or, the Frankenstein monster is just an imaginary character, isn’t it? An invention of the cinema and American comic books? Boris Karloff and all that?”
“Perhaps not, Mr. Fairfax.” Speaking rapidly, Winslow gave the patient a capsule briefing on his belief that the Mary Shelley novel was based upon fact. Then he said, “Now can you tell us just where it was that you encountered this block of ice?”
“Yes,” said Fairfax, “that should be simple enough. My plane, which is as big as life, is still out there in that embankment. I doubt anyone’s dragged that hulk away.” He laughed. “And you know, there’s only one open door in that crate. I may have been half stewed at the time, but I’m certain I walked relatively in a straight line away from the ship. You keep going in that same direction and you won’t be able to miss the ice block. It rises up from the snow like a white monolith, and the demon... or monster inside will appear, at first, as a dark area. Yes, just follow those directions and you’ll have your Ice God or your Frankenstein monster.”
“And the plane,” said Dupré. “How do we find that, Monsieur?”
“That too is a simple task,” said Fairfax. “Just head north, in the direction that anyone familiar with the old Ice God legend tells you the sacred tomb’s supposed to be, and you should spot it.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Fairfax,” said Winslow. He was lighting a cigarette as he turned. And as he exited the room, he left a trail of smoke in his wake.
“Say,” started Fairfax, calling after him, “wait just a minute.”
But Winslow, and the Frenchman who pursued him, either did not hear him or had no time to respond. They were already rushing through the hospital corridor and out into the street, planning the morning’s schedule, and anticipating the journey that would bring them face to unsightly face with what they hoped to be Victor Frankenstein’s immortal creation.
CHAPTER V:
Death In The Shadows
The clock said that it was evening. Yet, the afternoon sun still shown brightly in this icy land at the top of the world, where night and day each survived for six relentless months without the other.
Pierre Dupré wished it were really night. He had spent most of his years in his native France and had come to look forward to that most romantic time when the sky darkened and the moon ascended. But he had become accustomed to sleeping while the sun still beamed through the slits in his Venetian blinds.
The journey on the train had exhausted Pierre and he was glad to sleep again in a real bed. This was, in fact, his first opportunity to rest since he met Burt Winslow. Dupré set the alarm clock on his hotel room dresser to awaken him just a half hour before he and Winslow were scheduled to leave. The hotel, thus far at least, seemed to be a peaceful one, and the Frenchman felt assured that his sleep would not be disturbed.
On the other hand, Winslow, who was in a room down the hall, was too excited to sleep. He had taken advantage of his being fully awake to place a long-distance telephone call to the United States. If only she hadn’t already left their New York apartment…
As he waited for the call to be put through, he stared longingly at the photograph he had propped up in its frame atop his chest of drawers. The photograph was of Lynn, his favorite shot of the beautiful young woman, taken one bright summer’s day when the two of them had enjoyed a picnic in Chicago.
Lynn was wearing short cut-off jeans, and the pale smoothness of her thighs enticed him from the picture. She had her tight blouse tied-up in front, exposing her flat stomach, and stretched taut against her breasts.
Winslow sighed. He had snapped that photograph on one of their last few days together that had not been, somehow, tainted by the shadow of Frankenstein’s monster. In the past, he had been obsessed with Lynn, but now his obsession was shared by a being whose essence was entirely the opposite of the blonde-haired beauty in the photograph.
The American was still gazing longingly at the picture when he heard a familiar voice speak to him through the telephone.
“Yes, this is Miss Powell.”
“Lynn?” exclaimed Winslow. “Is that really you? This is Burt.”
“Burt!” Lynn said happily. “I didn’t expect to hear from you for a few days yet. I was just getting ready to leave for the airport. How are you, dear?”
“Fine, honey,” said Winslow, trying his best not to think of the reason he had come to the frozen North. “Glad I reached you. I was afraid you’d already taken off. I miss you... a lot.”
“You too,” said the telephone voice.
But even though he wished, at that moment, that he could take Lynn into his arms, Winslow could not help but blurt out, “Lynn, it’s all working out perfectly.” Unable to restrain himself, the floodgates burst open, with word after word relating his experiences with Fairfax and the expedition that was soon to take place. “And I’m certain that what Fairfax
saw was the Monster, Lynn! And if it is, we’ll know tomorrow.”
Lynn did not try to change the subject, as if she knew how futile an effort that might prove to be. “I’ve arranged everything just as you wanted me to, Burt,” she said. “I’ll be in Ingolstadt tomorrow when the boxes arrive. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
Winslow smiled though Lynn could not see him. “Great,” he replied. “I can always count on you when I need you. Lynn, darling, you’re the best, most efficient assistant a scientist could ever hope for.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, unless there’s some other business I forgot to take care of before I left —”
“That’s not what I mean,” she said with a distinct flutter in her voice, which Winslow thought, at first, to be in the telephone connection.
“What?” he asked, already realizing that he had said the words.
“I mean,” she continued, “I hope you haven’t entirely come to think of me only as your assistant.”
“You know I haven’t,” he answered. “It’s just that... well, I’ve got this thing inside me that’s pushing me on, making me find the truth.” He didn’t use the word but he guessed that it was already in her mind. It was a word he had come to despise. Obsession. If he could only erase it from the dictionary, he thought.
“But once I’ve proven my theory, worked this all out in the only way I know how, then the two of us can start living again. Really living, just as we used to before.”
There was a long silence.
“I hope so, Burt,” Lynn finally replied. “Take care and be good.”
“You too, honey.”
“And be careful with those Eskimo girls. I don’t want to hear somewhere that you were caught rubbing noses in an igloo with some North Pole princess.”
Winslow laughed quietly, then kissed the telephone mouthpiece so that Lynn could hear it and return a kiss. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m saving my nose, cold as it now is, for you.”
After they said their goodbyes and Winslow hung up the receiver, the scientist was still looking at Lynn Powell’s photograph. Then he plopped himself down onto the bed and, once again, tried to sleep. He knew that he would need some sleep if he were to survive tomorrow’s expedition.
He tossed for a while, contorting himself to get into a comfortable position and failing miserably. He was not in the least bit tired. Soon Winslow was on his feet again, pacing the floor, with thoughts of castles, graverobbing and mad experiments flooding his mind.
Sleep was impossible, he finally resolved, and his mind went back to planning the next day’s activities.
Winslow paced the length of the hotel room several times, then the width, and then the length again. His bare feet touched the floor silently and it was understandable that anyone outside the closed door of his room would assume him to be asleep...
The American was aware of the intruder from the moment he first heard the faint sound of metal striking metal in the lock of the door.
Cautiously, Winslow turned to face the door. He saw the doorknob turn slightly as someone from the other side seemed to be tampering with the lock. It must be some crude skeleton key, he thought, from the noise it made, then he saw the door opening slowly.
The scientist silently moved into the shadows, his back pressed against the wall, wishing that there were more darkness in the room than that created by his drawn blinds. At least he was — or, for a few moments, would be — out of the line of vision of whoever it was that was breaking into his room. Pantherlike, the intruder prowled into the room. Winslow could see that he was fairly stout and wore a handkerchief mask over his face. In his hand was clutched what appeared to be a surgical scalpel, its razor blade glinting as it caught a beam of light fighting its way through the Venetian blinds.
The scientist watched as the prowler made his way to the bed where the piled sheets and blankets suggested, in the meager illumination, a man sleeping. The intruder slowly raised the scalpel; but before bringing it down, the would-be killer realized that there was no human victim lying beneath him.
Fearing that he may have been seen, the intruder began to turn, finding that it was already too late.
Winslow had already leaped from the shadows, pouncing with his full one hundred eighty-three pound weight onto the assassin’s back.
In that moment, Winslow utilized every bit of speed and strength he had developed in his younger days. In a blur of motion he grabbed the scalpel from the intruder’s hand, the weapon dropping to the floor. Then, catching his opponent off guard, Winslow spun him around, only to feel two steel-like hands grip him about the throat, squeezing, prompting him to gag. Winslow could already feel the blood in his throat when he brought up his knee, crashing it inexorably against his attacker’s chest sending him reeling backwards.
Moaning, the assailant fell hard onto the bed. Immediately, Winslow leaped through space and onto the stunned and gasping masked man. The doctor’s frantic hands tore away the handkerchief that hid his features, exposing the hate-filled visage of an Eskimo. The native looked vaguely familiar. And when Winslow considered the scalpel he’d used as his intended murder weapon, his mind sparked a memory.
“You!” snarled Winslow. “I think I saw you at the hospital today! You were one of the orderlies — “
The Eskimo seemed oblivious to being identified. “You shall never reach the Ice God’s tomb!” he shouted fanatically. “You shall die first!”
In a flash, his hands were again encircling Winslow’s neck, thumbs pressing harder...
Once again the scientist struggled to free himself before he was choked to death. Winslow tugged, yanking himself and his attacker off the bed and onto the floor. In the conflict, Winslow managed to slip out of the native’s strangle-grip and spring to his feet. He saw the Eskimo make a sudden effort to retrieve his lost scalpel, but slammed a stone-hard fist into the orderly’s face, just as the sound of footsteps came into the room.
His jaw bruised red, the Eskimo took advantage of the confusion and sprang to his feet, as Winslow turned his head to see Dupré and the irate hotel manager standing in the room gawking at him. With a streak of movement, the assailant was again reaching for his weapon.
“No, you don’t!” shouted Winslow, bashing the orderly’s face with his fist. He hit him a second time in the stomach, then let fly another blow to the jaw.
The native dropped unconscious to the floor, as Dupré called out, “Burt!”
“What the hell’s going on in here?” the angry manager demanded. “Are you trying to wreck my hotel?”
“No,” answered Winslow bitterly, “but someone was trying to wreck me. If there’s any damage in here, I’ll pay for it.” He looked about the room, not seeing anything that was broken except, perhaps, his attacker’s jaw. He removed from his bureau drawer a roll of five dollar bills, which he tossed to the manager
Grinning, the manager trotted out of the room, counting his newly acquired fortune and not turning back to look for signs of damage.
Alone now with Dupré and the unconscious orderly, Winslow said, “Pierre, I think we’d better call the local police.” He rubbed his sore neck which still bore the marks of his opponent’s powerful hand. “We’re dealing with fanatics... who don’t want us to complete our mission. This guy apparently overheard us talking about the Monster at the medical center. And you can see that the old superstitious ways took hold of even an educated man like this. Better we sign a complaint fast and get this one locked away, before he tells any of his friends what we’re about to do — if he hasn’t already.”
Shocked by what he had seen, Pierre Dupré had to agree.
It was the Frenchman who made the call, Winslow still finding it slightly painful to speak. He had already resolved himself to the very possible reality that more trouble would greet them in the morning.
CHAPTER VI:
The Ice God
The structure that had come to be known as Castle Frankenstein rested li
ke some monstrous stone gargoyle atop the hill, sharply silhouetted against Ingolstadt’s blue sky. A pervading silence had settled over the ancient building, the only sound being made by a few birds that had dared to make their nests in an opening in one of the castle’s towers.
On this day, however, there was also the sound of wagon wheels carrying the creaking conveyance they were rolling toward the foreboding building. The wagon was driven by a haggard looking German who fiercely cracked his whip over the nag that drew both him and his passenger over the old drawbridge, crossing the watery moat that connected with the mountain streams which eventually intersected with the Rhine.
“You sure this is where you want me to let you off, Fraulein?” the man asked in a gruff voice that betrayed his fear of the place they were approaching. He squinted as he gazed up at the castle. “You know what place this is? You know what demon was born in this place?” As he spoke, he turned his head to see the young woman seated next to him.
“I know,” she replied.
The man drew in his reins, bringing his wagon to a noisy halt at the end of the drawbridge. “If I might warn you but one more time — " he began.
“There’s no need for anymore of that,” she answered, recalling his many attempts at trying to dissuade her from this journey ever since she had stepped aboard his wagon back in the town. Briefly she thought of her many failed attempts at securing an automobile ride to Castle Frankenstein, the many refusals on the parts of superstitious drivers, and her final offering of enough of Burt Winslow’s money to purchase at least this uncomfortable method of transportation.
Lynn Powell handed the driver the agreed upon amount of money with a little extra added. The money had the intended effect. The driver kept his opinions to himself, at least while in her presence.
The man scratched his curly hair, then, after tucking the small fortune inside his shirt, jumped down from the wagon. Still, he could not justify the presence of such an American beauty out here, on the unhallowed grounds of Castle Frankenstein which was feared and shunned by even the more courageous members of the town’s population.
Frankenstein Lives Again (The New Adventures of Frankenstein) Page 5
