by Cindy Winget
Victor smiled wanly and nodded approvingly.
Henry took note of Victor’s emaciated frame and the dark circles under his eyes. Eyes that shone with the luster of pre-fever. There was a deep weariness to the set of Victor’s shoulders.
“Victor. You don’t look so well. Shall we retire to your apartment?”
“No!” Victor was quick to say.
“Why ever not?”
Victor was once again at a loss for what to say. How could he explain the primal fear he felt at going home and finding that…thing in his rooms? If the fiend was still there, what would it do upon Victor’s return? Would it attack with animal aggression or did it retain a higher cognitive brain function? Its grunting would suggest otherwise, but one never knew. This was unprecedented territory.
Coming up with no plausible explanation for his reticence, Victor at last agreed to travel back to his residence. He implored Henry to remain in the carriage as he searched his rooms. Victor knew his friend was baffled by his actions, but he agreed.
To Victor’s immense relief, the creature he had brought to life was nowhere to be found. He could only hope that that was the last time he would set eyes on it.
Victor returned to the carriage and entreated Henry to enter.
*****
The two friends talked long into the night, swapping stories from their time apart and reminiscing about childhood memories. Henry very much enjoyed himself, but he couldn’t help but notice a strange wildness to Victor’s eyes. He wondered at the way Victor continuously looked about, as though he expected someone else to enter the room. His loud, unrestrained laughter was unlike the Victor he had known back in Geneva.
“You know, I think I may have had a small infatuation with Elizabeth growing up,” Henry confessed.
“We all did!” Victor crowed.
“Yes, but you are the lucky dog who has been affianced to her since infancy! And if mine eyes don’t deceive me, you are the one who has won her heart.”
Victor smiled joyously and then slowly frowned, gazing off into the horizon through the eastern window.
“What is it?” Henry asked.
“What?”
“What is wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing is wrong. I couldn’t be more thrilled to see you.”
“I know that, but there is a strangeness to you, Victor. Have the years changed you so much that I cannot discern your mood? You are pensive and yet oddly boisterous. Your gaze wanders as though you are deep in thought. Something troubles you.”
“Nonsense. I am fine. Though I confess I did have a bad dream about Elizabeth the other night.” Victor went on to describe a horrific scene of Elizabeth dying in his arms and watching her beautiful flesh decay before his very eyes. Maybe that was it then, Henry thought. Maybe it was guilt that made Victor act so strangely. This dream could symbolize his longing for Elizabeth, but perhaps he feels unworthy of that love and so it is taken from him. Victor chuckled when Henry gave voice to these thoughts and accused him of being as bad as his friend Jack Seward.
“I am very glad to have met Jack. Jonathan as well. They are fine fellows.”
Victor was nodding, but not in a way that said he was listening. His eyelids were beginning to droop. Henry pulled out his pocket watch. “Victor, it is nearly three in the morning! We really ought to get some shut-eye.”
Victor went to stand up and stumbled. Henry caught him and realized how hot he felt. He placed a hand on his friend’s brow.
“Oh! Victor, you’re burning up!”
He helped him to bed and pulled the covers up to Victor’s chin. Henry went to the small kitchen and grabbed a glass of water and placed it on the nightstand next to Victor’s bed.
“Get some rest,” he said as he pulled the curtains of Victor’s four-poster bed shut and left the room to find his own room to sleep in.
Over the course of the next few weeks, Henry faithfully attended to his friend in his need and nursed him back to health. Victor, in his fevered state, continually made reference to an event that seemed to aggravate him or raved about a hellish fiend he had given life to. At first, Henry thought it was just part of the delirium brought on by the fever, but the frequency with which Victor spoke of it, and the detail in which he gave the event, seemed to prove otherwise. Henry didn’t know what to make of it. They sounded like the ramblings of a mad man.
Chapter Twelve
As Victor got better, he was grateful to Henry, not only for aiding him in getting back to full health, but also as a distraction. Victor had never liked to be idle, but could no longer endure studying natural philosophy, being disappointed and disgusted as he was with his own creation. Little by little he began to feel happier and tried to forget the horrible event that had led to his illness in the first place. He helped Henry with his own studies, though he was not officially enrolled anywhere as of yet, and told him that he should perhaps attend Cambridge or Oxford.
“England truly is a remarkable place. Full of many sights one should see at least once in a lifetime,” he told Henry.
Henry had planned to take Victor back home to Geneva for some much-needed rest and relaxation, but the winter snow came early and they were trapped until spring, when the snow would melt and make the road through the Carpathian Mountains and Borgo Pass traversable.
*****
Warmer weather had finally arrived. The snow melted and flowers began to spring up out of the spongy ground and carpet the world with their sweet-smelling fragrance. Victor loved the smell of freshness in the air after a recent rainstorm. Nature always had the ability to raise his spirits. He gazed out of the window for hours and tried to forget his troubles.
“Victor, you have mail.” Henry handed him a wax sealed folio from Elizabeth.
Victor opened it eagerly. He had written many letters home, but until recently the weather hadn’t permitted him to send them.
“I would have you read it out loud, but it may be a love letter,” teased Henry, winking at him.
Victor, who was not paying any attention to Henry, frowned as he reached the second half of her letter.
“No! Dear God! Not that!”
“What is it?” asked an alarmed Henry.
Victor, who had begun to weep piteously, could not answer. He shoved the letter into Henry’s hands.
My Dearest Victor,
I cannot relay what relief I feel at receiving word from you. Your father is likewise relieved. We had received a letter from Henry that you were ill, and I am glad to know that it wasn’t anything serious. I am afraid that ever since your mother contracted scarlet fever, I have been overly cautious in this regard.
I long to give you only happy news from home, but alas not all is well here. I have most unhappy tidings to report. I wish it were otherwise! I don’t wish to bow you down with such sorrow when I cannot hold you in my arms to bring you comfort, but you must be told and I would hate to burden your father with such a task and at such a time as this.
Dear William is dead! His small body was found just around the corner from our home.
Your father, myself, and the two boys were out for a walk about the countryside. Ernest and William ran on ahead, playing and skipping as young boys are wont to do, and your father, being advanced in years, was in need of a respite so we sat upon a bench to wait for the boys. Only Ernest returned. We asked him where his brother was and he shrugged. He told us that they had been playing a game of hide and seek and he could not find William anywhere.
We searched for hours but could not find him. It was dark by this time, and I was quite distraught. I couldn’t leave our poor little William out all night in the cold and dark. He was afraid of the dark, and I feared that he would freeze to death if left out in the frigid air. We returned home and grabbed lanterns. The servants and townsfolk, who had heard of our plight, came and helped with the search.
At long last, at five o’clock in the morning, his sweet little body was found in a field near our home, with the mark of strangulation
upon his neck! It appears that our William was murdered! We wrapped him up in a blanket—I had brought it in case he was cold when we found him—and took him home.
When I first saw his dear little body laying there in the grass, I fainted dead away. You see, it is my fault that William is dead. He has long admired a little miniature I had painted of your darling mother. At his insistence, I allowed him to wear it that day, and upon stumbling upon his corpse, I saw that he was no longer wearing it. Surely this was the work of some thief who saw the necklace, wanted it for his own, and took it at the expense of your brother’s life.
We called for the doctor in order to certify the death, and he noticed marks of a different sort among the strangulation bruising on the neck. He found two small puncture wounds, white at the site and then angry red around it. Owing to the lack of lividity in the body, the doctor performed an autopsy and it was discovered that the body was completely drained of blood. We have no explanation for this strange anomaly.
I only wish that Williams’s death was the end of my sorrowful news, but alas there is more to come. It has been determined that our beloved Justine Mortitz is the murderess!
I myself refuse to believe it. How could Justine, who looked upon William as a mother would, place one harmful hand upon the child? I admit that the evidence against her is extensive. Even so, I shall not believe a word of it unless Justine herself confesses to the crime.
Her trial date is set and I implore you to come home, not only for the sake of your father and existing brother and to attend the funeral, but also to support me, for I plan to attend Justine’s trial as a character witness.
I hope this letter finds you well and I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad tidings.
Forever yours,
Elizabeth Lavenza
How could this be? How could such evil befall one as young, innocent, and cheerful as William? And Justine the killer! Not that dear girl who worshipped Victor’s mother and who had always been so polite and kind to Victor growing up. He was inclined to agree with Elizabeth, but at heart he was a realist and he had not as yet heard all the evidence.
Henry placed the letter down on the table as tears filled his own eyes. The following morning, after a long and sorrowful night, the two men packed their trunks and headed back home to Geneva.
*****
“Stop here,” Victor implored the driver.
“Ho there!” the man called to his horses, bringing the carriage to a stop. Victor looked out at the dewy field. For a time, he just stared out of the curtained window, not moving or saying anything.
“What is it, Victor?” asked Henry. “Why have we stopped?”
“This is where William’s body was found.” He felt sure of it. Pulling open the door to the carriage, he stepped down. He buttoned his coat against the chill morning air, looked back at Henry still sitting in the carriage and said, “I will meet you at home. I want to remain here for a time. I’ll walk home.”
“Is that a good idea?” The apprehension on Henry’s face made it clear that he was worried for the delicate feelings of his long-time friend.
“Yes. I am sure. Give my regards to Father and tell him I shan’t be long.”
Victor stepped away and the driver got the horses moving again just as Henry pulled the door closed. He waved and was soon out of sight.
A mental picture came unbidden to Victor’s mind. A young boy, all dimples and light curly hair. He was laughing angelically as he hid from his older brother. Then a man stepped out from the shadows, grabbing the boy by the neck. Dear William’s face was wiped clean of the angelic expression he had worn only moments ago, traded in for a look of terror.
Yes. A man. Victor could not envision Justine Mortitz having the gumption nor the cold heart it would take to perform such an act upon the child. And what of the draining of the blood? What could account for that?
Victor closed his eyes against the scene playing out in his head, tears coursing down his face and dripping onto the already wet grass. How could anyone wish to harm William? A boy so kind-hearted and innocent? He regretted the loss of years he could have shared with his brother while he had been at school. William had been scarcely more than a babe in arms when he left, and he had missed out on seeing him grow up. Missed the chance to see his personality develop more fully, to discover the sort of person he was becoming. He was only nine! Much too young to have his life so cruelly taken.
Victor was startled by a movement in the trees. A man lurked in the shadows of a large elm. Victor squinted his eyes, trying to make out the man’s features. He was tall. Much taller than anyone Victor knew from the village. The man stepped partially into the soft morning sun, and Victor caught a glimpse of black hair and a face marred by scars.
It was the fiend!
How had he gotten here? It was true that Victor had been away for over a year, ill with fever, content to spend his days helping Henry with his studies, and then snowed in until spring. It wasn’t utterly inconceivable to think that the creature he had given life to could have made it here, but surely no driver would have given such a grotesque monster a ride in his carriage, even if the monster could have had enough intelligence or utterance to make such a thing happen. How could he have paid for it?
No. He must have come here on foot. After all, Victor had made him using only the finest materials and his large stature and thick skin would have helped ward off the cold, but how did he know where to find Victor? How did he know to come to Geneva?
As the two men stood still and stared at one another, Victor noticed that the expression upon the visage of his creation had changed since the first time he had laid eyes on it. The planes of its face were hard and the eyes cruel, yet intelligent. It carried itself with a sophistication missing in the lumbering brute of Victor’s memory. It was no longer wearing the rags it was dressed in when the spark of life had animated its frame, but instead wore a tailored waistcoat and jacket atop pinstriped trousers, with an artfully tied cravat at his throat. It held a cane in its right hand, as had become the custom of the wealthy. With a start, Victor realized that the lips of the monster were no longer black. They had turned a deep ruby red and more color had also come to its pallid cheeks.
The wretch gave a smug smile of satisfaction, apparently enjoying the misery of its creator, and showing as it did so, its unusually long eyeteeth. Victor could sense its immense hatred for him, and he found that the sentiment was mutual.
He contemplated what the woman at the market back in Transylvania had said concerning the desecration of Vlad Tepes’s grave. That Vlad would arise from the tomb as an undead vampyr and feast upon the blood of the living. Could it possibly be true? Could this being standing before him truly be a living embodiment of the curse said to plague the enemies of Vlad the Impaler?
It was then that the truth dawned on him. All of his questions became secondary concerns as Victor realized that this was the entity who had murdered dear William. The doctor had told Elizabeth and his father that William’s body had been drained of blood. It had made little sense at the time, but as Victor gazed at the sharp teeth of this monster, he knew he was looking at the responsible party. He felt it to his very core. He knew it as assuredly as he knew that Justine couldn’t have done it.
This was no Adam. This was a demon! A dragon, better known as Dracula. This creature was not of God nor man, but of the very Devil himself. A murderer that Victor had unwittingly set free into the unsuspecting world, bent only on destruction and the misery of others. This abomination that stood before him would forever be a walking reminder of Victor’s guilt and crimes against humanity. Victor longed to run forth and snuff out that life that he had so thoughtlessly bestowed, but found himself rooted to the ground.
Without a word, Dracula—for that is forever how Victor would think of him—melted back into the shadows and was gone.
Victor stood there for some time, grieving the death of his brother and fearing the actions of his creation on other unsuspecting v
ictims. He tried to come to terms with his own guilt, reflecting on poor Justine and how she had come into their lives.
She had been the third of four children and her father’s favorite. Her early life was quite happy. Yet her mother had always been jealous of the affection and attention heaped upon Justine by her husband. Upon her father’s death, Justine’s widowed mother grew hateful and would often abuse the poor girl.
One day at market, Victor’s mother, upon seeing the depraved manner with which this shrew of a woman treated her daughter, persuaded her to let Justine stay with them as a servant when she was but twelve-years-old. The woman had agreed, and Justine moved in the following day.
Justine quickly became a favorite at the Frankenstein residence. She worshiped the ground Elena Frankenstein walked on for saving her from her painful life and educating her as to the ways of the world. She and Elizabeth became fast friends and she doted on dear little William quite as much as her father had on her.
She was the only person, other than Elizabeth and Henry, who could make Victor feel better when he was sad or discouraged. She always had a ready smile and when Victor was disciplined for wrongdoing, it was Justine who would sneak up to his room and hand him sweets and help dry his tears.
When Justine’s siblings began to pass away one-by-one, her devout Roman Catholic mother felt these deaths were a judgment upon herself for treating her daughter so abominably. She called Justine home in order to take care of her and, thereby, repent of her sins. The Frankenstein’s were all devastated to see Justine go, but had no legal right to keep her. Justine wept quite appallingly at the news. However, it soon became apparent to Elena Frankenstein—who often checked in on Justine—that although sometimes her mother acted contrite and sorry, she blamed Justine for the death of her siblings. When Justine’s mother passed away, she mercifully returned to the Frankenstein residence, to the great relief of Elena and Elizabeth. Justine and Elizabeth resumed their friendship, becoming even closer in the event of Elena Frankenstein’s death.