In the Shadow of Frankenstein: Tales of the Modern Prometheus

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  They went down into the heart of the Institute. There were no guards here, but at the foot of an old staircase, the door was securely locked. Walton took out a thick key and undid the padlock, gesturing Staverton within. The latter went forward resignedly.

  The chamber was lit by a number of dangling bulbs. Almost empty now, devoid of the frightful creatures that had until recently inhabited it, it boasted a single occupant, stretched out on a slab, a mock-tomb. A white sheet covered the being from the neck down.

  Walton leaned over the face and its eyes flickered open. “Ah, we have chosen the perfect moment to come to you.”

  The being on the slab, huge, misshapen, skin like putty, hair matted and straggling, tried to sit up, but failed.

  “It will be a while yet before you are able to move,” said Walton. “But you will learn.”

  Staverton watched grimly: it was like seeing a child playing with a damaged spider.

  “I must congratulate you, Staverton,” said Walton. “Your workmanship is superb. Unique in fact. I am sure our friend would agree. Tell me, how was my first performance?”

  The eyes in the creature stared up at him, fear mingled with loathing.

  “Immaculate,” muttered Staverton. “None of them realized. None of them will ever know. You have become Robert Walton. You have his coldness, his cynicism, his lack of compassion. You have mastered that far more quickly than you have mastered your new body.”

  Walton looked down at the prone figure. “Yes, it won’t be easy to forget the constraints of that monstrous shape. But you, Robert Walton that was,” he added, leaning closer to the eyes that bored into his, “You have a lifetime to learn how to manipulate it. Many lifetimes. Yes, so many lifetimes. Eternity, no less. It is what you always desired.”

  DENNIS ETCHISON

  The Dead Line

  Dennis Etchison is a three-time winner of both the British Fantasy and World Fantasy Awards. Many of his short stories may be found in the collections The Dark Country, Red Dreams, The Blood Kiss, The Death Artist, Talking In the Dark, Fine Cuts and Got To Kill Them All & Other Stories.

  He is also the author of the novels Darkside, Shadowman, California Gothic, Double Edge, The Fog, Halloween II, Halloween III and Videodrome, and editor of the anthologies Cutting Edge, Masters of Darkness I–III, MetaHorror, The Museum of Horrors and (with Ramsey Campbell and Jack Dann) Gathering the Bones.

  Etchison has written extensively for film, television and radio, including scripts for John Carpenter, Dario Argento, The Twilight Zone Radio Dramas, Fangoria Magazine’s Dread Time Stories and Christopher Lee’s Mystery Theater. He is a former two-term president of the Horror Writers Association (HWA).

  His latest books are It Only Comes Out At Night and Other Stories, a career retrospective from Centipede Press, and A Little Black Book of Horror Stories from Borderlands Press.

  When it comes to the classic tale that follows, it is easy to understand Ramsey Campbell’s opinion that “Dennis Etchison is the finest writer of short stories now working in the field.” It also happens to be an opinion that I wholeheartedly agree with …

  I

  This morning I put ground glass in my wife’s eyes. She didn’t mind. She didn’t make a sound. She never does.

  I took an empty bottle from the table. I wrapped it in a towel and swung it, smashing it gently against the side of her bed. When the glass shattered it made a faint, very faint sound like wind chimes in a thick fog. No one noticed, of course, least of all Karen. Then I placed it under my shoe and stepped down hard, rocking my weight back and forth until I felt fine sand underfoot. I knelt and picked up a few sharp grains on the end of my finger, rose and dropped them onto her corneas. First one, then the other. She doesn’t blink, you know. It was easy.

  Then I had to leave. I saw the technicians coming. But already it was too late; the damage had been done. I don’t know if they found the mess under the bed. I suppose someone will. The janitors or the orderlies, perhaps. But it won’t matter to them, I’m sure.

  I slipped outside the glass observation wall as the techni­cians descended the lines, adjusting respirators, reading printouts and making notations on their pocket recorders. I remember that I thought then of clean, college-trained farmers combing rows of crops, checking the condition of the coming harvest, turning down a cover here, patting a loose mound there, touching the beds with a horticulturist’s fussiness, ready to prune wherever necessary for the demands of the mar­ketplace. They may not have seen me at all. And what if they had? What was I but a concerned husband come to pay his respects to a loved one? I might have been lectured about the risk of bringing unwanted germs into the area, though they must know how unlikely that is with the high-intensity UV lights and sonic purifiers and other sanitary precautions. I did make a point of passing near the Children’s Communicable Diseases Ward on my way there, however; one always hopes.

  Then, standing alone behind the windows, isolated and empty as an expectant father waiting for his flesh and blood to be delivered at last into his own hands, I had the sudden, unshakable feeling that I was being watched.

  By whom?

  The technicians were still intent on their readouts.

  Another visitor? It was unlikely; hardly anyone else bothers to observe. A guilty few still do stop by during the lonely hours, seeking silent expiation from a friend, relative or lover, or merely to satisfy some morbid curiosity; the most recently-acquired neomorts usually receive dutiful visitations at the be­ginning, but invariably the newly-grieved are so overwhelmed by the impersonalness of the procedure that they soon learn to stay away to preserve their own sanity.

  I kept careful track of the progress of the white coats on the other side of the windows, ready to move on at the first sign of undue concern over my wife’s bed.

  And it was then that I saw her face shining behind my own in the pane. She was alert and standing for the first time since the stroke, nearly eighteen months ago. I gripped the handrail until my nails were white, staring in disbelief at Karen’s transparent reflection.

  I turned. And shrank back against the wall. The cold sweat must have been on my face, because she reached out shakily and pressed my hand.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Her hair was beautiful again, not the stringy, matted mass I had come to know. Her makeup was freshly applied, her lips dark at the edges and parted just so, opening on a warm, pink interior, her teeth no longer discolored but once more a lumi­nous bone-white. And her eyes. They were perfect.

  I lunged for her.

  She sidestepped gracefully and supported my arm. I looked closely at her face as I allowed her to hold me a moment longer. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  She was so much like Karen I had to stop the backs of my fingers from stroking the soft, wispy down at her temple, as they had done so many, many times. She had always liked that. And so, I remembered, had I; it was so long ago I had almost forgotten.

  “Sorry,” I managed. I adjusted my clothing, smoothing my hair down from the laminar airflow around the beds. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “I understand.”

  Did she?

  “My name is Emily Richterhausen,” she said.

  I straightened and introduced myself. If she had seen me inside the restricted area she said nothing. But she couldn’t have been here that long. I would have noticed her.

  “A relative?” she asked.

  “My wife.”

  “Has … has she been here long?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” She moved in front of me. “I could get you a cup of coffee, you know, from the ma­chines. We could both have one. Or some water.”

  It was obvious that she wanted to talk. She needed it. Per­haps I did, too. I realized that I needed to explain myself, to pass off my presence before she could guess my plan.

  “Do you
come here often, Emily?” It was a foolish ques­tion. I knew I hadn’t seen her before.

  “It’s my husband,” she said.

  “I see.”

  “Oh, he’s not one of … them. Not yet. He’s in Intensive Care.” The lovely face began to change. “A coma. It’s been weeks. They say he may regain consciousness. One of the doctors said that. How long can it go on, do you know?”

  I walked with her to a bench in the waiting area.

  “An accident?” I said.

  “A heart attack. He was driving to work. The car crossed the divider. It was awful.” She fumbled for a handkerchief. I gave her mine. “They say it was a miracle he survived at all. You should have seen the car. No, you shouldn’t have. No one should have. A miracle.”

  “Well,” I told her, trying to sound comforting, “as I under­stand it, there is no ‘usual’ in comatose cases. It can go on indefinitely, as long as brain death hasn’t occurred. Until then there’s always hope. I saw a news item the other day about a young man who woke up after four years. He asked if he had missed his homework assignment. You’ve probably heard—”

  “Brain death,” she repeated, mouthing the words uneasily. I saw her shudder.

  “That’s the latest Supreme Court ruling. Even then,” I went on quickly, “there’s still hope. You remember that girl in New Jersey? She’s still alive. She may pull out of it at any time,” I lied. “And there are others like her. A great many, in fact. Why—”

  “There is hope, isn’t there?”

  “I’m sure of it,” I said, as kindly as possible.

  “But then,” she said, “supposing … What is it that actu­ally happens, afterwards? How does it work? Oh, I know about the Maintenance and Cultivation Act. The doctor explained everything at the beginning, just in case.” She glanced back toward the Neomort Ward and took a deep, uncertain breath. She didn’t really want to know, not now. “It looks so nice and clean, doesn’t it? They can still be of great service to society. The kidneys, the eyes, even the heart. It’s a wonderful thing. Isn’t it?”

  “It’s remarkable,” I agreed. “Your husband, had he signed the papers?”

  “No. He kept putting it off. William never liked to dwell on such matters. He didn’t believe in courting disaster. Now I only wish I had forced him to talk about it, while there was still time.”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that,” I said immediately. I couldn’t bear the sight of her crying. “You’ll see. The odds are very much on your side.”

  We sat side by side in silence as an orderly wheeled a stainless-steel cleaning cart off the elevator and headed past us to the observation area. I could not help but notice the special scent of her skin. Spring flowers. It was so unlike the hospital, the antisepticised cloud that hangs over everything until it has settled into the very pores of the skin. I studied her discreetly: the tiny, exquisite whorls of her ear, the blood pulsing rapidly and naturally beneath her healthy skin. Somewhere an elec­tronic air ionizer was whirring, and a muffled bell began to chime in a distant hallway.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t have gone on like that. But tell me about your wife.” She faced me. “Isn’t it strange?” We were inches apart. “It’s so reassuring to talk to someone else who understands. I don’t think the doctors really know how it is for us, for those who wait.”

  “They can’t,” I said.

  “I’m a good listener, really I am. William always said that.”

  “My—my wife signed the Universal Donor Release two years ago,” I began reluctantly, “the last time she renewed her driver’s license.” Good until her next birthday, I thought. As simple as that. Too simple. Karen, how could you have known? How could I? I should have. I should have found out. I should have stopped your hand. “She’s here now. She’s been here since last year. Her electroencephalogram was certified almost immediately.”

  “It must be a comfort to you,” she said, “to know that she didn’t suffer.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, this is the first time I’ve been on this particular floor. What is it they call it?” She was rattling on, perhaps to distract herself.

  “The Bioemporium.”

  “Yes, that’s it. I guess I wanted to see what it would be like, just in case. For my William.” She tried bravely to smile. “Do you visit her often?”

  “As often as possible.”

  “I’m sure that must mean a great deal.”

  To whom? I thought, but let it pass.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Your husband will recover. He’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  Our legs were touching. It had been so long since I had felt contact with sentient flesh. I thought of asking her for that cup of coffee now, or something more, in the cafeteria. Or a drink.

  “I try to believe that,” she said. “It’s the only thing that keeps me going. None of this seems real, does it?”

  She forced the delicate corners of her mouth up into a full smile.

  “I really should be going now. I could get something for him, couldn’t I? You know, in the gift shop downstairs? I’m told they have a very lovely store right here in the building. And then I’ll be able to give it to him during visiting hours. When he wakes up.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said.

  She said decisively, “I don’t think I’ll be coming to this floor again.”

  “Good luck,” I told her. “But first, if you’d like, Emily, I thought—”

  “What was … what is your wife’s name? If you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Karen,” I said. Karen. What was I thinking? Can you forgive me? You can do that, can’t you, sweetheart?

  “That’s such a pretty name,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  She stood. I did not try to delay her. There are some things that must be set to rest first, before one can go on. You helped remind me of that, didn’t you, Karen? I nearly forgot. But you wouldn’t let me.

  “I suppose we won’t be running into each other again,” she said. Her eyes were almost cheerful.

  “No.”

  “Would you … could you do me one small favor?”

  I looked at her.

  “What do you think I should get him? He has so many nice things. But you’re a man. What would you like to have, if you were in the hospital? God forbid,” she added, smiling warmly.

  I sat there. I couldn’t speak. I should have told her the truth then. But I couldn’t. It would have seemed cruel, and that is not part of my nature.

  What do you get, I wondered, for a man who has nothing?

  II

  I awaken.

  The phone is silent.

  I go to the medicine cabinet, swallow another fistful of L-tryptophan tablets and settle back down restlessly, hoping for a long and mercifully dreamless nap.

  Soon, all too soon and not soon enough, I fall into a deep and troubled sleep.

  I awaken to find myself trapped in an airtight box.

  I pound on the lid, kicking until my toes are broken and my elbows are torn and bleeding. I reach into my pocket for my lighter, an antique Zippo, thumb the flint. In the sudden flare I am able to read an engraved plate set into the satin. Twenty-five-year guarantee, it says in fancy script. I scream. My throat tears. The lighter catches the white folds and tongues of flame lick my face, spreading rapidly down my squirming body. I inhale fire.

  The lid swings open.

  Two attendants in white are bending over me, squirting out the flames with a water hose. One of them chuckles.

  Wonder how that happened? he says.

  Spontaneous combustion? says his partner.

  That would make our job a hell of a lot easier, says the other. He coils the hose and I see through burned-away eyelids that it is attached to a sink at the head of a stainless-steel table. The table has grooves running along the sides and a drainage hole at one end.

  I scream again, but no sound comes out.

  They turn away. />
  I struggle up out of the coffin. There is no pain. How can that be? I claw at my clothing, baring my seared flesh.

  See? I cry. I’m alive!

  They do not hear.

  I rip at my chest with smoldering hands, the peeled skin rolling up under my fingernails. See the blood in my veins? I shout. I’m not one of them!

  Do we have to do this one over? asks the attendant. It’s only a cremation. Who’ll know?

  I see the eviscerated remains of others glistening in the sink, in the jars and plastic bags. I grab a scalpel. I slash at my arm. I cut through the smoking cloth of my shirt, laying open fresh incisions with white lips, slicing deeper into muscle and bone.

  See? Do I not bleed?

  They won’t listen.

  I stagger from the embalming chamber, gouging my sides as I bump other caskets which topple, spilling their pale contents onto the mortuary floor.

  My body is steaming as I stumble out into the cold, grey dawn.

  Where can I go? What is left for me? There must be a place. There must be—

  A bell chimes, and I awaken.

  Frantically I locate the telephone.

  A woman. Her voice is relieved but shaking as she calls my name.

  “Thank God you’re home,” she says. “I know it’s late. But I didn’t know who else to call. I’m terribly sorry to bother you. Do you remember me?”

  No luck this time. When? I wonder. How much longer?

  “You can hear me,” I say to her.

  “What?” She makes an effort to mask her hysteria, but I hear her cover the mouthpiece and sob. “We must have a bad connection. I’ll hang up.”

  “No. Please.” I sit forward, rubbing invisible cobwebs from my face. “Of course I remember you. Hello, Mrs. Richterhausen.” What time is it? I wonder. “I’m glad you called. How did you know the number?”

  “I asked Directory Information. I couldn’t forget your name. You were so kind. I have to talk to someone first, before I go back to the hospital.”