Frankenstein Lives Again (The New Adventures of Frankenstein)

by Glut, Donald F.

  “There he is! And he’s headed for the woods!”

  * * *

  Stepping into the moonlit glade, the Frankenstein monster waited, casting his gaze behind him fearfully in the direction of the town, until he heard the rickety sound of wagons.

  The Asylum of Horrors, driven by Gort, slowed to a noisy halt as Professor Dartani looked down from the seat. “Did you –?” he started expectantly. Then he noticed the blood-stained trophy in the Monster’s clutch. Dartani smiled with pleasure. “Splendid. I’m glad he died with terror written on his face. I’d have been displeased had you brought back a smile.”

  It was then that Dartani heard the distant shouts emanating from the darkness of the forest.

  Torchlights flickered through the shadowed trees.

  “You fool!” shrieked Dartani. “You were discovered. Now there is a mob after you — and consequently, after us!”

  Gort, holding the reins and ready to crack them over the stallions’ backs, suggested, “We’d better get away from here, Professor — and fast.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Then let’s get moving, leave the Monster and –" he started, already lifting the reins.

  “No. I may have use for the Monster at some later date. He will go with us.”

  Dartani motioned for the Monster to come forward, always staring at him with the psychic power in his mesmeric eyes. The beast set the guillotine blade inside the wagon, then brought forth Krag’s head.

  “Get rid of that,” said Dartani contemptuously. “It’s served its purpose.”

  Then the Monster, helped in by Gort’s strong grip, climbed aboard, taking his place next to the dummy of a ghoul.

  The reins snapped. The horses whinnied. The wagons rolled along the bumpy trail.

  Looking out through the back of the wagon, the Monster saw the petrified scream of Krag looking up at him from the ground, then saw the flare of torchlight as the villagers stepped from the trees and into the clearing. He heard their dwindling curses and saw them vanish in the dark distance of the woods.

  Ahead, the trees, showing pale trunks in the moonlight, formed a natural tunnel, their uppermost branches bending toward each other and intertwining.

  The wagons rolled for a while through the gloomy woods, until Dartani, seeing something, ordered his burly driver to rein them to a stop.

  * * *

  “Gone!”

  Heinrich Franz stared into the darkness which had swallowed up Professor Dartani’s Asylum of Horrors. He looked back as someone removed his coat and covered up the head of the Mayor.

  “Where do we go now, Franz?” asked one of the group, holding high his torch. “The forest is a big place and they could hide from us all night without any trouble.”

  Franz waited before answering. “Take that... those remains back to town,” he told the man now holding the coat-covered bundle. “You’ll have nothing to fear of the Monster going back in that direction.”

  “But what do we do now?”

  “Yes, Heinrich. We cannot simply go chasing the Monster by torchlight. Our fire would signal him with every step we took. We might never get him, while he’d be waiting to strike at us from the shadows.”

  “At least we know that the Monster is associated with that old Professor and with the murder of Krag,” said Franz. “But I understand how you all feel. We all want revenge!”

  The crowd roared in agreement as if they were spectators at the Roman arena demanding the spilling of human blood. Franz could feel their tenseness, understand that they were not about to return home without some satisfaction.

  “I promise you that we’ll have our revenge tonight!” he shouted. “Even if we cannot find the Monster, we can have our vengeance on the madman who brought this horror down upon our heads. You know who he is!”

  “Aye!” yelled someone in the back of the group.

  “It’s Winslow we want!” shouted someone else.

  The crowd hollered in agreement, waving their torches.

  “Then follow me,” said Franz, again taking command and leading the way down a winding trail, “to Castle Frankenstein!”

  * * *

  Lynn was staring out an open bedroom window when she first saw the mob, their torches lighting the way through the woods like some grim religious procession. She saw them make their way onto the drawbridge and then assemble in the castle courtyard.

  “Burt,” she said, “come here. We’re in even deeper trouble.”

  In a few moments, she was joined by the American scientist.

  “I knew it would come to this sooner or later,” said Winslow somberly. “I can only imagine what the Monster might have already done tonight. Oh, if only you’d left when you had the chance, Lynn.”

  The leader of the group stood a few feet ahead of the others. He waved the torch, making streaks of light in the air, to get attention.

  “Winslow!” he shouted up at the two people watching him from the window. “Come on out here, or we’ll come in and drag you out!”

  “Wait here,” Winslow told Lynn, then left her at the window. He ran down the stone staircase, through the laboratory and to the damaged front door, pulling it open.

  “I am Dr. Winslow,” he said in perfect German, “as you must already know.”

  “And my name is Franz,” said the group leader, fearlessly taking another step toward Winslow.

  The American remained unmoved by the group.

  “You may be glad to know,” said Franz, stepping close enough for Winslow to smell the beer on his breath, “that your Monster has already slaughtered nine men tonight… maybe a few more we don’t know about, eh?”

  Winslow felt a sudden rush of nausea sweep over him and a great feeling of remorse. “Nine. Oh, my God, no,” he said quietly.

  “Nine!” repeated the mob leader. “And it might’ve been twenty if we hadn’t driven the creature out of town!”

  Winslow’s mind fought to find appropriate words, losing the battle dismally. “Please . .. listen to me. I cannot truly express to you how I feel,” he said, feeling the guilt of nine deaths upon his conscience.

  “Hah!” laughed Franz. “We already know how you feel. We know how you must have felt when you lied to us about your reasons for being here and how you must have delighted in bringing this curse back to us! You and your machines! You and your infernal science!”

  “Would-be Frankenstein!” someone shouted.

  “Killer!” screamed another.

  “Madman!”

  “Fiend!”

  There was nothing more to say. Winslow knew that whatever he said would not be believed.

  “Every one of those nine men were killed, even if only indirectly, by you!” exclaimed Franz in Winslow’s frowning face. The German clenched a fist then restrained himself from the scientist’s neck which still bore the dark marks of the Monster’s hands. “I pray that Satan has reserved a special place in Hell for you, Winslow — because that is where we are going to send you!”

  Again the mob roared and moved a few steps forward.

  “Wait!” shouted Winslow imploringly, raising and waving both hands. “You’ve got to listen to me before you do anything you may later regret. Please! Just listen for a minute. Then, if you don’t like what you hear, you can do with me whatever you see fit.”

  The crowd continued to murmur, then gradually went silent, their eyes all focused on the American.

  “This had better be good,” warned Franz. “I suppose even a man slated for execution deserves a final word. But talk fast – because we’re quite anxious to stretch out your worthless neck on one of those trees.”

  “Listen,” said Winslow, wasting no time, “it’s true that I brought the Monster back to life. It’s also true that I must be the one to destroy it. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. The Monster is a superhuman creature. Your guns would be useless against it. But I have more powerful weapons — the weapons of science.”

  “Science!” shouted Franz. “Bah!
It was your science that first brought back this horror!”

  “True,” said Winslow, “but it is also science that will remove that horror.” Then the American explained his plan to dismantle the Monster, to ensure its never walking again.

  “Well. . . ?”

  The crowd murmured.

  “All I ask is that you give me the opportunity to hunt the Monster down by myself. If you go storming after it, you might never find it. And if you do find it, you might not be able to kill it. But one who has the weapons of gas and drugs and a good sharp scalpel can triumph where you will fail.”

  Franz stroked his chin, then cocked up an eyebrow and bit his lower lip. “Your words make strange sense, Winslow,” he said. “And though I personally would prefer to simply do away with you and go after the Monster with my friends here, you just may be able to succeed where we cannot.” Franz looked toward his followers.

  They seemed to be awaiting a decision that was his to make.

  “We will give you some time,” he continued, looking sternly into Winslow’s face. “We will return to our homes and barricade our doors, but always keeping our torches and guns ready. If you cannot rid us of the Monster by that time, we will return... hunt you down like a rat… and kill you. Simple enough?”

  There came a drone of agreeing voices from the crowd.

  Winslow was almost afraid to ask, “How long do I have?”

  Franz paused, then grinned. “You have but one full day, ‘Frankenstein’ Winslow. Twenty-four hours, perhaps, to live.”

  CHAPTER XIII:

  Dartani's Secret

  A thundering lightning bolt streaked across the twilight sky, creating a jagged yellow electrical flash across the gray clouds. The storm had come suddenly and was drenching the old dirt roads that twisted through the dense woodland that separated Castle Frankenstein from the town.

  Cutting its way through the torrent was a blue Volkswagen, its windshield splashing aside the pounding rain. The car’s wheels fought to maintain their grip on the wet roadway. If the rain continued to drop at this rate, the small vehicle might soon be stuck in some muddy ditch.

  Burt Winslow was driving as fast as the poor conditions allowed. He had been driving for more hours than he could recall, investigating every glade and path in these woods and hills, beginning his search by following the way that Heinrich Franz had said the circus wagons, with the Monster on board, had gone. Still, however, he had found no signs of his quarry and was now exploring other avenues.

  He saw another great bolt of celestial power split the sky, his mind recalling a passage from his favorite novel. Mary Shelley had written of that dreary November night, with rain beating against Victor Frankenstein’s window, when an over zealous creator infused life into his hellish creation. It was lightning like this, thought Winslow, that Frankenstein had harnessed to bring alive the Monster almost two centuries ago.

  Then Winslow’s thoughts returned to Heinrich Franz again. He could still hear the man’s threatening words. He hoped that he could find the Asylum of Horrors wagons before his time limit ended and before the storm stranded him somewhere in the wilderness.

  The scientist’s face contorted as he pressed the car accelerator to the floor. The car, splashing mud against its sides, sped along its course. Lightning continued to explode overhead and rain continued to crash down hard against the vehicle. Somehow Winslow managed to keep the automobile moving on its way.

  The road ended in an open field, surrounded on all sides by trees.

  Through his water-drenched windshield, Winslow could see what appeared to be the ruins of an old farm. An ancient, rundown barn, its walls slanting at impossible angles, seemed to be making its last attempt to remain upright, with the downpour of rain making such a feat ever the more difficult. He was still wondering whether or not the barn would survive the storm when he spotted something next to the swaying structure that made him abruptly brake his car to a stop.

  Parked behind the barn, but showing enough for Winslow to read at least a few of the letters painted on its side, was what appeared to be a circus wagon.

  Winslow hoped that the thunder had drowned out the sound of his Volkswagen. Apparently unnoticed, the American slipped out of the car and ran through the falling rain, feeling its splash against his face and soak through his clothes. As he made his way around the barn and saw both wagons along with its team of black horses, he cautiously withdrew his revolver from under his jacket.

  He hoped that he would not be thrust into another bloody exchange of fire like the one on the Arctic ice fields.

  Another cloudburst vomited an ocean of rain as Winslow moved closer to the barn, his shoes sinking tenaciously into the mud. Stopping outside a window that was no more than a few jagged pieces of glass, he gazed inside the old building. There were two strange figures inside the barn. The first, though he had never seen him before, was ancient, withered and perfectly fitting the description given by Franz. Next to him, standing still and attentive as if awaiting commands from the smaller figure, was the Frankenstein monster.

  Anxiously, Dr. Winslow crept to the warped door of the barn and threw it open.

  Instantly, Professor Dartani’s eyes snapped in Winslow’s direction, their green gaze staring at the gun in his hand.

  Winslow, stepping into the room, expected the Monster to react to his presence, but the beast did not even seem to notice him. Hypnotized! thought Winslow. Or perhaps something even more powerful than hypnosis.

  “All right, don’t move,” said Winslow to the old man. “You, I take it, are Dartani.” As he spoke, his free hand went to his breast to touch the bulging syringe and ampule of sedative which he prepared to render the Monster at least temporarily unconscious. “I’ve come here for the Monster. I really don’t give a damn about you, Dartani. But if you try to stop me from taking that horror, I’ll kill you.”

  The Professor seemed not at all bothered by Winslow’s threat or his weapon.

  “I am flattered that you know my name,” mocked Dartani, “but I’m afraid the Monster is now dedicated to my service.”

  “What did you use to get it there? Some sort of psychic power?”

  “Something like that,” the Professor replied, grinning. “But the truth of the matter is that the Monster stays with me and that your revolver, as far as I am concerned, is useless.”

  Winslow realized what Dartani meant when he felt a sudden jab against his back. The scientist slowly raised his hands. He knew what the barrel of a gun felt like.

  “Now don’t make any sudden moves,” warned a gruff voice from behind. “Drop the gun… real careful.”

  Winslow did as he was instructed, letting his loaded weapon thump against the damp floor of the barn.

  “It’s a good thing I saw your car pull up,” said the voice, “and then hid behind the door. Wouldn’t have heard it in all this thunder. But I’ve got good eyes.”

  “Gort,” said the Professor, his lined face beaming, “your efficiency always amazes me.”

  “Maybe this time you’ll reward me, huh, Professor? I mean, I’d really like to have some fun. Maybe kill this guy, real nice and slow.”

  Without thought, Dartani replied. “All right. Be my guest.”

  Slowly, expectantly, Gort moved in front of Winslow, keeping his revolver trained at the scientist’s head. Winslow could see an almost apelike smile on the brute’s face. Gort’s laughter was enough to tell the scientist that this oaf could make his dying last for an excruciatingly long time.

  For a few seconds, Winslow looked at the Monster, seeing that the yellow eyes were glassy and staring straight ahead.

  Then he saw the box – the remains of an old orange crate – lying with rusted nails protruding from the wood amid soggy bits of straw on the floor.

  In a blinding streak of action, Winslow’s superbly trained body dove for the box. Even Gort was confused by the sudden movement and he was unprepared for the maneuver that followed. Winslow’s hands scooped up the crate a
nd sent it soaring into Gort’s face.

  Gort yelled as the nails in the box tore at his flesh, the pain startling him into dropping his gun.

  “Fool!” Dartani snarled at his servant. “Kill him!”

  But Winslow, too fast for the brute who was pulling the box away from his bleeding face, was already leaping upon his enemy. A moment later his fists were pounding away at his torn jaw.

  Dartani’s head turned to the silently waiting Monster. “Gort is failing me,” he said. “Then you kill him!”

  Movement returned to the Monster. His long limbs jerked. He lumbered stiffly toward the two men.

  Gort had already retaliated and was engaged in a close quarters fight with Winslow.

  “Kill him!” hissed Dartani over the sounds of fists and feet making impact with flesh. “Not Gort! The other one!”

  Pausing, the Monster glared at his intended victim. His actions controlled by his master, the giant raised his massive hands, fingers spreading like yellow spiders seeking out the throat of the struggling scientist. But then Winslow’s features seemed to register in the Monster’s eyes and possibly his brain.

  The Monster growled.

  The great hands lowered awkwardly.

  “What is the matter with you?” screeched Dartani, his green eyes afire. “I commanded you to slay the man! Now do it!”

  By now it was apparent that the Monster recognized the man and something in that recognition was more powerful than even Dartani’s psychic control. He shook his head, the uneven black bangs flopping about his forehead, and turned away from the fist fight. A negative snarl came from the creature’s scowling mouth.

  “So, something prevents you from taking his life?” But the Professor had no time to reprimand the Monster, his attention being suddenly diverted by the two fighting men. As Winslow and Gort battered one another, their struggling bodies crashed against the walls of the barn, each such blow shaking the rotting timbers. Immediately Dartani had a vision of being crushed beneath the collapsing barn, should the force of the two opponents’ impacting bodies further weaken the walls.