In the Shadow of Frankenstein: Tales of the Modern Prometheus

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  It was late afternoon and the shadows were lengthening on the ground before Joyce had finished her current projects in the garden and when she went back indoors to make herself a much-needed cup of coffee, there was no sign of Robert. She went through all the rooms in turn but he was not there. She made a quick, cautious call to Conrad confirming their next meeting, then returned to the garden, sitting on a teak bench in a small arbor to finish her coffee and biscuits. It was almost dark by this time and leaving the coffee tray on the bench she collected her spade, intending to take it back to the garden shed.

  She paused by the entrance to Robert’s private cinema. Strangely enough, he did not seem to be there. Or at least there was no sound of films being projected this evening. She bent to the door, listening intently. Unless he was showing silent films … She made up her mind. It was time they had a serious talk. They could not go on in this manner. She was inside the vestibule now. Robert had constructed a small lobby which featured glass cases containing film stills. Of very old films, of course; mainly from the twenties and thirties. There was an inner door leading to the cinema proper, with its archive material, constructed not only to muffle the sound when films were being projected, but to prevent light spill from the outside.

  Very quietly Joyce opened the inner door and glanced through. Yes, there was a film showing, but it appeared to be silent. Then she saw it was one of the Frankenstein series. Odd that there was no sound. Unless Robert had it switched off for some reason. She could not see him for the moment as she had not yet adjusted to the light intensity in here. Her eyes were again directed to the screen; she suddenly felt dizzy and her heart had begun to thump uncontrollably. Was she ill or had she over-exerted herself in her gardening activities today?

  Yes, it was the Bride. There was Elsa Lanchester in her incredible makeup as the Monster’s mate and the hysterical Colin Clive facing the sardonic Ernest Thesiger, both men in their white surgeon’s smocks. And here came Karloff himself, clumping clumsily into the laboratory. Or was it Karloff? The screen image seemed to be going out of focus, wavering and insubstantial as mist. Joyce’s breath caught in her throat and she stared incredulously at the burning rectangle before her. It was impossible, but there was Robert’s face up there on the screen with the other actors. Karloff’s massive body and Robert’s features! It was impossible but it was happening. And still the silent pantomime went on.

  She must be ill. This could not be happening. She pressed the sharp point of her shoe against her right instep. There was pain, certainly, so she was wide awake and not dreaming. Instead she was enmeshed in a nightmare. She looked around desperately for the light switch, could not find it. Then her eyes were caught by something else. The reflected light from the screen was strobing across the floor and winking on the masses of film tins. Robert could not have drawn the curtains across them tonight, as he usually did, to avoid the reflections from the projector beam. Then thunderous music began, startling her so much that she almost fell.

  The screen light was falling across Robert’s figure now, hunched in a canvas chair at the back of the projection room, apparently intent on the drama being played out before him. Joyce took one step forward, then froze. It was not Robert; someone much taller and more massive, wearing a thick sheepskin coat. She screamed then as the reflected light from the projector made vivid bars across the flat skull and horrific features of Karloff’s Monster. The light glinted on the neck bolts and the metal clip on the skull as the leering mouth was turned toward her. Joyce moved then, hardly realizing that scream after scream was still being wrenched from her throat. The paralysis left her. She still had the spade in her hand, having apparently carried it in, though she had not been conscious of having done so.

  She went forward rapidly, raining blow after blow on the hideous form in the chair. The music from the screen speakers dinned in her ears as the film came to its climax. Sick and trembling, she at last found the light switch as the final leader of the film ran thrashing off the end of the spool. The noise went on until she pulled out the plug. The silence was thunderous as she turned to the crumpled form of the thing that had been watching the film. Rivers of blood, scarlet splashes on the spade she held in her hand. The face was almost unrecognizable. Joyce fell to her knees as she recognized the shattered remnants of the man who had once been Robert. She must have fainted then because her wrist watch showed that more than two hours had passed when she finally became aware of her surroundings.

  Shaking uncontrollably, she dragged herself to her feet. No, it had not been a mirage, but terrible reality. Her brain was working again now. Somehow she forced herself to look at her handiwork. Could the whole ghastly error have been an optical illusion? That somehow the mirror at the back of the hall and the reflection off the hundreds of film cans might have transposed her husband’s image on to that of the screen? While the visage of Karloff had been superimposed on to her husband’s features? Impossible, surely. And yet the deed was done. Wild thoughts passed through her head. Her first impulse was to ring the police. But how could she explain? No one would believe her. It would mean years of prison at the least and the loss of all of her dreams of a shared future with Conrad. She forced herself into motion, her mind made up.

  The keys were on the side of the projection stand where they always were. She went out, her course of action clear. She switched off the light, locked the door, then washed the spade carefully under the garden tap. Cold water would remove all traces of blood, she had read somewhere. Not hot. That could be fatal. When the spade was absolutely clean she dried it thoroughly with a piece of sacking and then thrust it into the earth several times before replacing it in the garden shed. This she locked also. The garden was extremely secluded, with very high hedges and it was a bright moonlit night.

  Back in the house, she locked and bolted the front door and poured herself a stiff brandy in the dining room. Fortified, she returned to the garden, procured a big tarpaulin from the shed and then selected Robert’s spade, which was much bigger than her own, and more suitable for the night’s work. She had already locked the back door of the house and bolted the side gate so no one would disturb her and she had all night. The earth was very friable about eight feet from the hedge, in the spot she had chosen.

  She and Robert had always planned to have a York stone terrace there. She would need to be careful. Fortunately, Robert had no living relatives but there would be questions, of course, from friends and neighbors. And after several weeks she would have to report his disappearance to the police. There would be problems, naturally, but they were not insurmountable. And in the course of time, when people’s memories had faded, they would come to think that Robert had walked out after a row; or had found another woman. Both she and Conrad were still young and would be able to marry after the statutory period was over.

  She breathed deeply as she walked toward the most remote part of the garden. The moon shone on serenely as she began to dig like a madwoman.

  V

  It was a bright, sunny morning when Joyce went down the front path to check the car. She was meeting Conrad in an hour and they would spend the next fortnight in the Cotswolds. She had told him that Robert was away on business, which frequently happened, and he had asked no questions. She had already telephoned the contractors about the work on the new terrace. She and Robert had often discussed establishing it there, so there was nothing untoward in the request. Especially as the builders already knew of their intentions.

  The tarpaulin with its contents was a good eight feet down. Fortunately, the soil had been very easy to work, though it had taken her almost until dawn to accomplish the task. It would be several weeks before the earth would settle, but then the contractors would not arrive on the site until another month had passed, as they had a large number of commissions to fulfill. Joyce walked back to the house for a final check and then again toured the garden to see that everything was in order.

  She noticed as she passed the spot where Robert lay that t
here was a slight mound of earth over the place. She tamped it down with one elegantly shod foot.

  Her heart was light as she ran toward the front gate.

  “Better dead!” she said.

  NANCY KILPATRICK

  Creature Comforts

  Nancy Kilpatrick is the award-winning author of eighteen novels, more than two hundred short stories, six collections, one nonfiction book, and has edited thirteen anthologies. Her recent titles include the anthologies Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper, Expiration Date and nEvermore! Tales of Murder, Mystery & the Macabre, along with her collection of short fiction, Vampyric Variations.

  Her current work appears in Zombie Apoclaypse: Endgame!, Searchers After Horror, The Darke Phantastique, Blood Sisters: Vampire Stories by Women, The Madness of Cthulhu 2, Stone Skin Bestiary, Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror and Innsmouth Nightmares.

  About the following story, the author explains: “It always seemed to me that Victor Frankenstein was so driven, he must have had several reasons for creating a monster. Also, the vampire has moved into the present, and I wanted to see how Frankenstein’s creation would fare now. The creature likely was in his twenties, around Victor’s age. He’s described as tall, pale and scarred. Sounds like rock-star material to me …”

  Only a year ago, plenty of club kids were calling the band Monster a bunch of British clones, cheap imitations of Nine Inch Nails. Until Monster flew the big ocean. Candy, though, had never seen them that way. She always knew Monster was brilliant, and Creature, their main man, a rock icon.

  Tonight, from Dead Zone’s small stage, the four bandboys pounded out heavy bass and garbled archaic lyrics from their latest CD. The sound that crunched through the amps and throbbed from the stack of oversized speakers said Monster was definitely headed for big time. Candy wasn’t really listening, although her foot tapped automatically to all music. She was watching. Especially the lead.

  Creature. Taller than tall. Lean. In his twenties. Long black hair, ear cuffs, trademark small-calibre bullet piercing his left ear lobe. Pasty skin, dead black lipstick, sexy eye makeup. Pale, wet-ice eyes that sliced right through you like chilled blades. Or at least that’s how Candy felt whenever he glanced her way.

  Fran leaned close, breathing hot, moist air into Candy’s ear, and screamed above the music, “He’s dangerously cooooool!”

  Candy nodded, barely glancing at her friend. She couldn’t take her eyes off Creature. She loved his scars.

  This close to the stage she could see every one. They streaked his forehead, jaw and cheeks like red sutures, wounds from a battle. Tonight he wore black snake-skin pants, tight as flesh, matching kick-ass boots, and an open chain-mail vest. Signature black-skull bandana wrapped around his head. Under the strobe, criss-crossing red marks flashed over most of his exposed body.

  Something about those warrior stripes turned her on. She wondered what it would be like to run the tip of her tongue slowly over them, up the pink mountains, and down into the redder valleys. Would the skin be hard and smooth like a regular scar? Would they open and bleed? They looked so fresh, it was like he’d had surgery yesterday—but the doctor wasn’t too good with a needle and thread.

  She’d followed the band for a year, since they’d arrived from London, through underground clubs, never missing a gig. And now that they had a home club, she was here every night. Those scars had been the first thing she’d noticed about Creature. And from that moment, she’d been hooked.

  Monster cranked it for the last song. At the end, the drummer slammed the cymbals and snares mercilessly, while his foot stomped the bass pedal to death. Creature and the two other axe players ran riffs that broke the sound barrier for sheer volume and speed. She was so close to the speakers, the low notes throbbed through her body, and the blast of sound ruffled her hair.

  They had never played so well. The room exploded. Candy’s eardrums vibrated, driving her to her feet, screaming and shoving with the rest. Man, if only she wasn’t so shy, she could meet him. Those scars made her sweat sex!

  But a dozen groupies clung to the band like mold. Even before Creature jumped down from the stage, adoring hands of both genders grabbed his legs, fondled his crotch. Reached for his scars.

  Taped music replaced live. “You have got to do it, and I mean now!” Fran yelled.

  Candy sighed. Fran was right, but that didn’t make it easy. Ground zero, nowhere to backstep to. If she didn’t go in there and meet him now, she’d be crawling after him forever. And it didn’t take a demon-brain to figure out that the competition was fierce.

  She jammed her bag onto the seat, opened it, and pulled out a couple of things. “Watch me,” she told Fran, then turned her back.

  The mosh-pit at the foot of the stage was packed with drinkers and dancers and she pushed between sweat-streaked bodies towards the corridor that led to the dressing rooms.

  She hurried down a dead-black hallway, another strobe flashing, stills from Night of the Living Dead glued to the walls. The taped music behind her became muted. The floor sloped downward. She felt hot; her black velvet dress buttoned from the throat to the ankles.

  Before she saw them, she heard them: the groupies clustered outside the dressing rooms, stage hands moving equipment, security controlling it all. She’d been back here once before, but lost her nerve. This time, she headed right for the door she’d avoided last time.

  “Brake, babe! Nobody drives into the Lab.” In front of her loomed a big guy with tattooed biceps, things with wings that flapped when his muscles flexed. His bulk blocked a door with a clean star mark in the center where that symbol had been ripped off. Over it, in blood red, “The Laboratory” had been scrawled.

  Man, what could she say? She wanted Creature’s autograph? Lame. How the hell could she get past this guy? But being this close made her brave. Stick to the plan, she told herself. “I’m, like, here to interview Creature.” She held up the notebook and pencil she’d brought along and waved them in his face. Stupid. Really stupid. He wouldn’t fall for it.

  “Right. And I’m here to fuck Madonna. Got any ID?”

  She handed over the fake press pass Fran had created at the copy shop where she worked. Above her name, and next to the photo, it identified her as a writer with Chaos, one of the local entertainment mags.

  “Creature don’t do interviews. He don’t talk to people.”

  “He’ll talk to me,” she said boldly. “Tell him I’m here.”

  He flicked the pass with his finger and gave her a hostile once-over. “Stay, baby sister.” He rapped his knuckles on the door three times, then slipped inside.

  What am I doing? Candy asked herself. Now’s the time to run, before he gets back and bars me from the club. But she couldn’t move, or maybe didn’t want to. She might not get to meet Creature, but she just had to try.

  The muscle came back without her press pass. She expected the worst and was boggled when he said, “Yeah, okay.”

  He stepped aside and held the door open about an inch. This guy’s dumb, she thought, relieved. It made her braver. A little, anyway.

  Heart jack-hammering, she pushed the door open.

  It was like staring into night space. The room stank of wet rot. The air felt dry electric. She touched the brass knob and got a shock.

  In seconds her eyes adjusted. Two black candles had been wedged between the wall and the makeup mirror like torches. Ahead, shuffling in his seat, a dim shape. Remember, nowhere to step back to, she reminded herself. Candy picked up her Doc Martens and moved into the dressing room.

  Silence pierced as bad as the music that had so recently punched her eardrums.

  “Sit.” A raspy voice. No mistaking it. Creature.

  Nervous, excited, she looked around. It was hard to see. A kind of cot in the corner, and the chair he sat on. She perched on the edge of the hard cot, facing him.

  She’d never been this close to Creature. He sat at the makeup table with the candles b
ehind him, the back of his head reflected in the glass, his front in shadow. Even sitting, he was bigger than she’d realized.

  “I, uh …” she began, afraid to keep up the lie, but too scared to rely on the truth. “I know you don’t do many interviews, but … You guys are great. You’re great.”

  A kind of wheeze came out of him. He held up the press pass. “You are Elizabeth.” His English accent was sexy.

  “Candy.” That sounded inane. “I mean, my real name’s Elizabeth. Everybody calls me Candy.”

  Another sound. Maybe the word, “Appropriate”?

  More nervous than ever, she fumbled with the pencil and notebook she’d brought with her, trying to look official, hoping to hell he wouldn’t ask about the magazine she supposedly wrote for.

  She tried to cover it by taking the initiative. “So, how long have you played music?”

  “I began with the flute. Nearly two centuries ago.”

  “Right!” Candy giggled, but she was the only one laughing, so she stopped. “So, you’re like, the real Frankenstein or something?” She’d heard this, the rumor in the clubs. What he’d said on MTV recently. His first interview. Great promo.

  “No!”

  The volume of his voice sliced down her backbone as if it were a scalpel cutting her open. Instinctively, she jumped to her feet.

  “Sit. Elizabeth, please.” His voice had dimmed to that fine rasp she found so appealing.

  She sat, but glanced at the door.

  “Victor Frankenstein was the man. I am his creation. Do you not recall his confession, as relayed to Robert Walton and recorded by Mary Shelley?”

  What the hell was he talking about? “You mean the book? Frankenstein?”

  Another snort.

  “Well, we read it in school,” she said hesitantly. Half true. The class read it. She’d skimmed the abridged version. “I saw the movie,” she said hopefully.