I did some more writing today to get a feel for an idea I have. This is the result. The work, of course, is from a forthcoming novel entitled, “Frankenstein VS. the Zombies.”
Dr. Ozymandias Blake stared blankly at the candle’s flame until he felt his eyes grow dry and tired. Then he merely blinked and continued his groundless observation of the constant flickering glow. He had reached an impasse in his studies which he sincerely doubted he could overcome. It was like a jigsaw with missing pieces. Without these he would be unable to continue, no matter how long he poured over the research of the late Dr. Frankenstein. The tattered documents lay scattered about the table before him. Some were illegible, no matter how closely he scrutinized the writing under different lights and with a magnifying glass. The ink had either been washed away by the rain, or else the page itself had been reduced to ash. Out of the original seven hundred page journal, only two hundred pages remained. It had taken him years, and a small fortune to collect what he had, and it was foolhardy to try and unveil more. There was nothing else to be had.
He noticed a blob of ink has dripped from his quill onto the journal he kept. It was a translation of the code Frankenstein had written his notes in. It was easy enough to decipher. It was English, written backwards. Being his native tongue, he had only to place a mirror up to the pages. It was enough to fool the illiterate villagers, who had torn apart the original script. They kept part, while giving the rest to their pastor to burn as the Devil’s work. A local book seller had realized he could turn the rest to his profit, and he had collected what he could from the townsfolk, who had similar ideas. He had made his money, for a time, but it cost him his life. Blake was not satisfied with his paltry assurances that he was being sold the complete collection. He employed a pair of ruffians to beat the whereabouts of the remaining pages from him, before silencing him forever. Now the book seller was on display in several specimen jars in his basement. The same went for the pastor. At least the pastor had been honest with him. Whatever had entered his hands he had cursed and burned. Dr. Blake spared him a similar fate, and put his remains to better use. He was collector of more than mere books. Twelve more pages were found amongst the villagers. They were more than ready to hand them over. He allowed them to live, if only to avoid drawing suspicion to himself. There were enough rumour floating around as it was, with a Englishman purchasing Burg Frankenstein a few kilometres south of the quiet village of Darmstadt. They were a superstitious lot without him giving them a valid reason to be suspicious.
That was why the disappearances were resolved without bringing undue attention. The book seller’s cart was found abandoned, and his horse and belongings were missing. He was assumed to have been robbed and murdered by bandits. The pastor was suspected of impregnating a lovely young prostitute and then murdering her in his shame before having to flee to avoid excommunication from the Church. In truth, it was Dr. Blake who had committed the fatal deed, but he intended to make amends for that.
Taking a pinch of sand, he sprinkled it carefully onto the page where he had spilt his ink before blowing it away. Unlike Dr. Frankenstein before him, he prided himself upon his penmanship. He used no cipher, but he used the Queen’s English. It was important to have everything in order before he could proceed. Once he completed his volume, he would combine it with the one that came before, the journal of Igor.
Many had laughed at Dr. Frankenstein when he proposed to reverse the effects of death itself., or at least those who did not decry him as a monster. When Dr. Blake came across his research , he took him seriously. So seriously in fact, that he had proposed to fund his mad experiments. It was the ends Dr. Blake proposed that made Dr. Frankenstein refused to be part of the means, however, and no monies ever exchanged hand between the two. Dr. Blake had miscalculated the strength of Dr. Frankenstein’s character. It mattered not, because Igor, a hunchback rejected by all save Dr. Frankenstein himself, had no such limitations. He would sell out his only friend by passing along notes made by the doctor by mail. In exchange, Dr. Blake promised the hunchback to reverse his deformity. An unlikelihood, if not an impossibility. He was gladden that the cretin had died terribly, so he would not have to Welsh on his promise.
Infuriatingly, however, Dr. Frankenstein kept most of his notes in a mental state. Despite a thick journal, he committed little to paper considering the scope of his ambition. Of these note, the diagrams were the most precious. Those, however, were the first chosen for the fire. Igor had sent him what he could, and in detail. Dr. Blake spent long hours editing the hideous scrawl that monster called writing. He had Dr. Frankenstein to thank for his literate state, and he thanked him with treachery. What he lacked in written skill, Igor made up with a surprising artistic quality. Most precious of his possessions was a sketch of what he called, “The Monster.”
Dr. Blake had confirmed the accuracy of the drawing by matching the descriptions of the elderly villagers. They still remembered Dr. Frankenstein, and what they had done to him. Dr. Blake took more lessons from Dr. Frankenstein than what he left in his notes. He made certain that the villagers could not revolt in a similar fashion by employing his ruffians to quiet them when applicable. Nothing too direct. A bar fight here, a burglary there, a fire over there. Soon, they were quiet as church mice.
What troubled Dr. Blake at such a late hour was the holes left in his research. Pulling out his drawing of the Monster, he studied it carefully. Dr. Frankenstein had been successful in his endeavours. Instead of being hailed as a modern Prometheus, he was burned to death along with his creation. Nothing was left to be salvaged besides a few pieces of broken equipment and scorched documents.
Why was it then that rumours persisted of the Monster still roaming the countryside?
After all, once dead, what could kill the creature? Logically, he should expire like all other forms of life, as decay was the only constant in the universe, but he was not born of woman. He had been sewn together in a dank laboratory, and brought to life with lightning.
Which was where the research fell apart. If it was science, then science was repeatable. All of his experiments had been failures by his standards. Something else was happening, and he could not place it. If only he had the Monster, he could complete his research.
Sighing, to himself, Dr. Blake dipped his quill and tried to recall where he had left off.
That was when a knock came to his door.
“Enter!” was his immediate bellow. He had not patience to temper his mood for the servants.
“Sir?” a small voice called out through a crack in the door as it squeaked open. The hinge was rusty by intention. Dr. Blake needed to know the comings and going of those who wished audience with him without making it so obvious.
Dr. Blake waited briefly for more, but the servant took too long in his telling. “What is it?” he demanded, setting his quill down in it’s notch.
The servant, Hectar, made a surprised noise, then opened the door a little more, with a longer creak of the hinges. “Well sir, there’s a man to see you,” he explained.
“At this hour?” Dr. Blake thought to himself. He did not have to check his pocket watch to know it was after the midnight hour. “Who is it?”
“The sheriff, sir,” Hectar announced.
“Damnation,” Dr. Blake threw back his chair and picked up his cane. Hoisting it like a baton, he strode boldly towards the door. Hectar scarcely has enough time to scamper out of the way before Dr. Blake burst through. Blake was entering his later years, but he still cut and imposing figure. More threatening still were his eyes. His servant flatly refused to meet them.
Hectar scurried after him as Dr. Blake took broad strides down the hall towards the stairs. “He’s waiting for you at the door, sir. I didn’t know to let him in.”
“Of course let him in, he’s the bloody sheriff. You don’t leave him out in the cold. Where do you get your bloody manners from, boy?” he asked the servant, although they were of the same age. “No matter, go and make some tea for our guest.”
Dr. Blake could only imagine what the sheriff wanted with him, but he doubted it would bode well. No matter, he had no evidence of any wrong doing. It would be best to play along with whatever requests the man had to make before deciding his next move. At best, he would learn that one of his strong arms had found himself in a cell and was requesting his assistance for bail. If that were the case, let him rot in there. He had other matters to attend to besides playing nursemaid for a brainless thug.
Before placing his hand on the pull, Dr. Blake composed himself. Taking a deep breath, he threw the door open and bid the man a hearty German, “Welcome! What brings you here at this late hour?”
The sheriff was younger than one would expect, and hid this behind a bristly moustache that covered half his face. He ignored Dr. Blake for the moment as he strode in, observing the hall in full before returning his gaze to the doctor himself. “What took so long?” he asked.
“Blame it on my servant,” Dr. Blake insisted. “Good help is hard to find, as I’m sure you know. Is there anything I can help you with?” Dr. Blake briefly recalled that he was a doctor, and as such often called upon to assist with medical emergencies. He would set about these tasks with due diligence, as he was a professional. Few in the village called upon him, however, such was their distrust.
The sheriff considered the question, which admittedly had been offered in haste. “Yes, I do believe there is. Shall we talk?”
“Certainly,” Dr. Blake waved him on and shut out the cold. “This way,” he bade as he led him further into the hall to a sitting room. “Excuse the setting. I’m still waiting on a shipment of my furnishing from England,” he confessed as he offered the man a seat before placing himself in his own favourite chair for that room. A low fire was being kept to drive away the cold of the late fall.
“I would not have noticed,” the sheriff took in the lush setting worthy of high nobility. Dr. Blake was of blood, after all, but was known more for his entitlements than his title. It afforded him the finer things in life, and he enjoyed them to their fullest. “Tell me, doctor, do you know why I am here?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” Dr. Blake replied, “although given the timing of your arrival, I doubt that much good can be said of it. I was just about to retire.”
“Sorry to disturb you, then,” the sheriff said it with no trace of an apology. Dr. Blake scarcely knew the man and already he was beginning to despise him. “I shan’t be quick about my business, however. Tell me, good doctor, are you familiar with the legend of Frankenstein?”
“Hmm…?” Dr. Blake pressed his fingertips together and raised his brow. “I’m not certain what you’re referring to.”
“Let me put this another way,” the sheriff drummed his fingertips on his armrest. “You know the legend of Frankenstein. You would not have come to this castle without knowing it.”
“Yes, I am aware of it, if that’s what y6u’re driving at. I know practically everything there is to know about it. I’m a collector of curiosities, sir. What could be more curious than a modern legend such as this?” he held up his hands.
“We never used to see visitors around these parts,” the sheriff explained slowly. “Then thirteen odd years past, it began. I’ve seen what they’ve written about us in foreign papers. If you’re as you say you are, ‘a collector,’ then this must be your crowning jewel. The very castle in which is all occurred.”
“Of course,” Dr. Blake laughed. “What else would attract me here? Certainly not the weather. To be honest, this place makes me the envy of my fellow nobles. We pride ourselves on our eccentricities.”
“As did Caligula,” the sheriff smiled. “Do those eccentricities include the exhumation of the dead?”
Dr. Blake’s false smile faltered. “Whatever do you mean? I’m no criminal, sir. Merely a man with a keen interest in your local folk legends.”
“Well someone shares your passion, sir,” the sheriff told him. “Do you know a Mrs. Levine August?”
“The name rings no bells,” he shook his head.
“Well she was found dead this morning,” the sheriff replied.
Dr. Blake gave no reaction. “How awful.”
“Indeed,” the sheriff continued. “The thing is, she was also found dead two months prior to today as well. Someone dug her up. Her remains were found in the woods several miles East of the graveyard where she was supposedly buried. What do you think of that?”
“I think something ghastly is afoot, but I don’t understand what it would have to do with me? Perhaps it’s the work of some practical joker with a disturbed sense of humour.”
“Well if it is, I doubt that her family is laughing very much. You see, when I returned to the gravesite where she was supposed to have been buried, I found it undisturbed. So I had my men dig it up. There, we found a coffin, with nothing inside but rocks. Imagine that.”
Dr. Blake looked confused. “You’re saying someone replaced her body, and then left it in the woods? Why go to such effort only to discard the body in such a clumsy matter? Why indeed would they want the body at all?”
“Well, you should know that. You’re the one living in Frankenstein Castle,” he smiled.
“Sir, if you’re suggesting…”
“I’m not suggesting anything at this point. It only seems to me that it would take someone interested in Frankenstein’s legacy to do something so diabolical, no matter what their reasoning. You know…” he paused, “it occurs to me at this point that I omitted one minor detail. When we found the body, it wasn’t dressed in the same dress it was supposed to have been buried in. Someone had changed it’s clothes. They we all muddied, too, which is to be expected. It looked to me, though, like something a serving girl might wear. Odd, don’t you think?”
“Yes, quite odd,” Dr. Blake swallowed hard. The sheriff was watching him too closely for comfort.
“And there were fresh marks on it. I would swear that if I hadn’t known better, the girl could be said to have died that very day. Quite strange indeed, but I prattle on,” the sheriff rose from his chair. “I only came to warn you that there’s a grave robber in the vicinity. I dare say you picked a bad time to move to this village. Perhaps you’d be better served by returning to England?” he suggested pointedly before making his way out the door.
Dr. Blake sat there for a long while. Eventually, a rattle of cups announced the arrival of Hectar with tea. “Sir, what became of our guest?” he asked.
In a rage, Dr. Blake used his cane to knock the tray out of the servant’s hands. The cups shattered on the carpet and the tea stained the ancestral tapestries on the wall. Slowly, he ascended the stairs back to his study, where he waited for three hours. Once he was satisfied, he made his way back down to the cellar. Guided only by the light of candle, he made his way behind the dusty racks of wine to a solitary hatch covered by straw. Brushing this aside, he pulled up the rope handle and went down the ladder into the cold, dark depths.
Here was his true home, among the remains of Dr. Frankenstein’s equipment. Lighting a torch by the side of the wall, he cast the light over the chamber.
Already, he could hear them. Their low groaning. He shuffled his way towards the cage, where his experiment were kept. Cold, dead eyes stared back at him as they shrank away from the light. He ignored them, for the time being, and went further in to his laboratory. His shelves of specimen jars were still in place. Nothing had been disturbed. Nor had his sterile tools been moved from their trays. Furrowing his brow, he continued his investigation.
It as the table where he found the source of his consternation. The straps that had restrained his current subject had been broken, and a vat used for collecting fluids had been knocked over beside it. The table now stood empty. Below the operating table was a pool of blood which would not dry. This was a result of the chemicals he used in his experiments. Yet, this had been unsettled. A footprint not his own was found stepping from the pool. It was small and feminine. It lead towards the shaft through which his subjects were drawn in. The hatch at the end was blown open, and he quickly shut it. Few would notice it, however, as it looked little more than a fox hole in the side of a hill to the untrained eye. He was careful about such appearances.
“Damnation,” he swore under his breath as he quickly returned. “Levine, you bitch.”
He began to worry. How dead was she when they found her?
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