FRANKENSTEIN:
T H E L E G A C Y
FRANKENSTEIN:
THE LEGACY
A NOVEL BY
CHRISTOPHER SCHILDT
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
SARA JANE KARLOFF
POCKET BOOKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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FRANKENSTEIN:
T H E L E G A C Y
INTRODUCTION
BY
SARA JANE KARLOFF
My father, Boris Karloff, often said that he was one of the luckiest men on the face of the earth for being able to spend his life doing something that he passionately loved. The 1931 film version of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, directed by James Whale, was the pivotal point in my father’s career—after Frankenstein, Boris Karloff never stopped working, which was his life’s ambition. So I know that the difference Frankenstein made in his life was monumental, and he certainly was appreciative of it. The Frankenstein monster was a challenging role to play. The makeup took three to four hours to put on, and just about as long to remove. The film was shot in August, and it was extremely hot. The wardrobe was black and heavy. The boots he wore were very cumbersome. He lost twenty-five pounds during the filming of the first Frankenstein. Despite the physical discomfort, he was eternally grateful for the opportunity to test for that role. He was grateful to Jack Pierce for his brilliant contribution with the makeup, and he was appreciative of James Whale for the genius of his direction.
The Bride of Frankenstein, also directed by Whale in 1935, was one of the few sequels in cinema history that is considered by many to surpass the original. At first my father objected to giving speech to the monster. In the original film the creature was a mute—he had no capacity for speech. But it proved to be a wonderful film. It was irreverent. It was funny, and yet it was quite serious. There are some very warm scenes in the movie. It speaks of the genius of James Whale that he didn’t take it dead serious—if you’ll pardon the pun. By allowing humor in the movie, James Whale added to the breadth of the film. So, of the two sequels to follow Frankenstein, I think that my father would have probably preferred The Bride of Frankenstein. I think that he felt it was a better film.
By the time that my father had finished making Son of Frankenstein in 1939, he felt that the story line had gone as far as it could. He felt that the character of the monster in the movies had been developed as far as possible, without becoming the brunt of bad jokes. He was very protective of the more human character of Mary Shelley’s creature.
However, I know that my father would have felt that the plight of the creature was presented as he would have wished it to be in the story that you are about to read. I sincerely believe that the author of this novel, Christopher Schildt, is able to elicit from the reader a sense of sympathy, and probably a greater degree of understanding for the plight of the creature, than the original 1931 film version of Frankenstein did. My father would have appreciated the gentleness with which the creature’s story is told.
While there were many films to follow the 1931 motion picture version of Frankenstein, an actual sequel to Mary Shelley’s novel has never been published. It’s difficult to reinvent the wheel, and Mary Shelley’s manuscript was absolutely wonderful. However, I think that Christopher Schildt treats the work of Mary Shelley with the dignity that it deserves. I’m actually glad that no one has ever before published a sequel, because it would have fallen short of the story that you’re about to read.
For more than one hundred and eighty years, the tale of Frankenstein has continued to fascinate us. And considering the current issues in science, especially cloning, genetic engineering, and organ transplanting, the concept as set forth by Mary Shelley has become an important story to tell. The novel has stood the test of time through its beauty, structure, and relevance to modern society.
As for the 1931 version of Shelley’s Frankenstein, my father felt that a part of the lasting appeal to his film was that it left a lot up to the imagination of the audience. He knew that explicit violence is not true terror, but insults the viewers by treating them as if they were incapable of using their own minds to interpret scenes and story lines. The films of today are little more than competition of special effects between the various studios.
I find it difficult to understand how someone could regard graphic violence as a form of entertainment, whether it’s on the screen or on the street. It isn’t entertaining—it’s horrible! I think that what we’ve managed to do in our society is to immunize it from any reaction to violence, not only on the screen, but in the world around us, as well. Just look at our society . . . I believe that we fall short of the mark of reacting appropriately and taking the necessary steps to end violence in our lives. And if it weren’t for television or films, we would never actually see the victim of a murder, or a murder as it happens. Yet now that sort of violence is a part of our lives. But I don’t think that our lives are enhanced by such repulsive imagery, and I certainly don’t believe that the moral fiber of our society is enhanced by the use of graphic violence.
You’ll find no excessive violence in the story that you are about to read. So it can be done, and quite successfully, as you will soon discover. Oh, you may get frightened. You’ll certainly be gripped in suspense, as the plot unfolds. You may even be compelled to shed a tear for this sad but marvelous creature that you’re about to encounter . . . but that’s all right, it’s all a part of the adventure that you are about take.
So now, I would like to introduce you to my father’s best friend—the creature, Frankenstein’s monster. . . .
PRELUDE
A LETTER TO MRS. MARGARET SEVILLE, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER 2ND, 1794
My beloved sister,—I write to you, encompassed by peril, and ignorant whether I am ever to see dear England again, and the dearest friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice, which admit no escape, and threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of desolation.
The brave fellows whom I have persuaded to be my companions look toward me for aid, but I have none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me . . . but if we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.
And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and you will be visited by despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved sister, the sickening failure of your heartfelt expectations is, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband and lovely children; may you be happy: Heaven bless you, and make you so!
—R.W.
HMS ARCHANGEL
PART ONE
PROLOGUE
St. MICHAEL’S CH
URCH, SALEM,
MASSACHUSETTS
OCTOBER 28, 1972
The first time Father Dawl saw the stranger, he was standing in the graveyard. The figure, dressed all in black, stood stock-still, almost as if he were one of the statues placed atop a gravestone. When the priest went out to greet him, the man was as quiet as death itself among the windswept autumn leaves and the decaying headstones. It was as if one of the corpses crawled up from a grave and decided to take a stroll. Shivering in the New England fall, Father Dawl offered the young man sanctuary in his rectory. He wasn’t sure why, but he somehow sensed that the man needed help—and not the help of the usual vagrants who sometimes wandered into the cemetery or the church itself. Although the stranger was disheveled and unkempt, he had bathed recently, and his black clothes and topcoat were laundered, if rumpled. No, this man didn’t need a bowl of soup and some encouraging words about finding a job and a home—his troubles ran deeper than that. Father Dawl could see it in the haunted bloodshot eyes that stared out from beneath his unruly mop of brown hair.
The priest led the young man—who simply nodded at the offer of shelter—out of the cemetery with its cracked headstones and ivy-covered statues, and toward the rectory. The church itself was made of jagged fieldstone and weathered beams, with windows that formed a Gothic arch on the top. The structure turned a shade of purple as the sun slowly set in the foreground of brightly painted autumn leaves and the gray, cold skies of October. At nightfall the church looked more like a mausoleum—a dark, forbidding place with an atmosphere of dread.
Inside, the stranger silently took an offered mug of tea and then simply stared out the rectory window at the graveyard.
The first words he spoke were uttered in an almost singsong whisper: “A full moon shone into my bedroom. Shadows moved on the wall. Outside, the branches scraped and dragged like footsteps. Yes, I was afraid. Everything frightened me.”
The puzzled old priest gazed at him from where he sat by the fireplace. The rectory fell once again into silence but for the slow, steady tick of a grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “I’m not sure that I follow you,” the priest finally said, “Mr. . . . ?”
“Daniel,” the stranger replied, glancing over his shoulder. “My name is Daniel. And I am trying to describe a time without life, or light, or reason. To know that someone is out there, somewhere—watching—waiting. I was referring to hell, Father, and the devil himself.”
The priest took a pensive sip of his own tea, the bitter-yet-pleasant taste of Earl Grey on his tongue, and the warmth of the boiling water providing a palliative warmth against the cold. How much of that cold was the weather and how much came from Daniel’s palpable despair, Father Dawl couldn’t begin to guess. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, hoping to bring out what troubled this poor, haunted young man, “you should start from the beginning.”
“Of course.” Daniel turned away from the window. He slowly walked across the room, his tall figure draped by his black topcoat. He looked like a dark specter as he moved closer to the fieldstone fireplace, where the old priest sat in his brown leather chair.
Daniel took a seat opposite the priest in front of the crackling flames in the fireplace. Like Father Dawl, he cradled his mug of tea on his lap. He seemed a bit more relaxed than he had outside, or at least a bit more lifelike.
“I didn’t always look as I do now,” Daniel said, and a rather melancholy smile raised the corners of his lips. “I was once a respected physician. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“I see no reason for you to lie to me,” the priest said neutrally. “Now, perhaps you could tell me what has happened.”
Daniel’s smile faded. “Very well—from the beginning . . .”
ONE
In the beginning (Daniel said) there was a young man with a position on the faculty at Princeton University. A licensed physician, he had a family in Waterford, Connecticut, with whom he kept in semiregular touch, a few friends—mostly colleagues on campus and one or two old comrades from his time in the service—and a quiet, respectable life. A life that was turned on its ear on the eighteenth of June in 1971 when he was summoned to the naval shipyard in Anchorage.
As you may have guessed, Father, I speak of myself. It seemed innocent enough. I had served for six years in the U.S. Navy, primarily working in research and development, and someone there remembered me and my work enough to request that I be detached to the USS Granger for an expedition to the Arctic. No details were forthcoming, only that I had been highly recommended by Admiral LaManna, my former CO. Having frankly had my fill of the quiet, respectable life I’d lived post-Navy, I decided to accept. I saw it as an adventure.
Upon arrival in Alaska, I was handed a manila envelope. It was sealed, and stamped DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE. There were approximately fifteen photographs inside that were taken from space by the Apollo command module, with images that resembled a frozen alien world. A place without life, but not without a certain degree of beauty.
What concerned the government was a black dot that appeared on each picture—an anomaly that no one could explain, not even NASA. Someone suggested that it might be a downed aircraft the size of a Boeing 747, though no such planes had been reported as missing. The government must have considered that a biological hazard caused the anomaly, which would explain a great many things, including my being asked to join their expedition. Anyway, that was the Granger’s assignment and the reason for assembling our research team. We were to investigate the object, then report our findings to the Department of Defense.
The thought occurred to me, of course, that it could have been a Soviet plane—they would hardly tell us if they were missing a plane, naturally—but that was, no doubt, why the Granger was going in the first place. It was a fully armed submarine. But they wanted to be prepared for all possibilities, hence the bringing along of three scientists.
Admiral LaManna introduced me to the other two: Dr. Linda Kauffman, a physicist attached to the DOD, and a NASA man named Dr. Andrew Novelli.
I swear, Father, that until the day I die I will never forget meeting Linda for the first time. She had large, serious blue eyes and long, straight blond hair that she kept neatly tied up in a bun. The same height as me, she had long fingers on an elegant hand, marred only by bitten fingernails—the true sign of a scientist! I had to admit to being surprised at seeing a woman physicist, much less one who had gained any kind of respect with the DOD, especially at so young an age. She was only twenty-eight years old. Obviously, she was quite an impressive woman.
But what I remember most is her smile. It seemed to brighten the entire room like a Christmas tree.
As for Novelli, he created almost no impression whatsoever. A short, stocky fellow with dark hair and darker eyes, the only thing I recall specifically from meeting him was the odor of cigarettes that seemed to hover around him like a rain cloud. He barely uttered two words.
The base had barracks for each of us, and I spent the night going over what little information was in the file. The next morning at dawn we met at the dock and were introduced to Captain Henry McKernin, in charge of the boat, and Lieutenant Thomas Chelsea, who would be leading the expedition once we reached the coordinates of the strange black dot.
I still remember looking out on the sea that morning. There were mountains in the background, with snow-covered ridges by a shoreline unaffected by the thoughtless touch of man. A single bird in flight could be seen from a distance, its lonely cry heard from miles away. It was the very sight of something much greater than ourselves, and certainly much greater than we could ever hope to be. Then, nearly lost amidst a vast, dark ocean, was a boat tied to a weathered dock . . . the Granger.
I used to complain about how small my apartment in New Brunswick was, but that was before I boarded the Granger. To say that it was cramped does little justice to it. Not only that, but special arrangements had to be made for Linda, since she was the only woman on board. She was given the first officer’s bunk, with the first
and second mates sharing a space that I would’ve thought too small for one.
I shared with Novelli, who continued to say nothing in my presence—or in anyone else’s. He simply stared at people, unblinking, until they were forced to look away. Any attempt at conversation was met with grunts or the lighting of a cigarette. He rolled his own cigarettes, and they were unbearably foul, made worse by the stale air of the submarine.
I quickly learned my lesson and did not look at him, nor speak with him. And I tried to breathe through my mouth in our quarters.
Soon enough, the sound of thrashing propellers vibrated through the steel hull of the Granger. We were underway.
Slowly we began to draw ahead, plowing our way in the swell. The white foam hissed from her bow, the flag of the United States flapping to a wind that none of us could feel, except for those on the conning tower.
The second day of the journey Dr. Novelli actually spoke to me. He was lying on his bunk while quietly drawing a breath from a cigarette he held between the tips of his fingers, and he called my name.
I asked him what he wanted, but he said nothing in reply at first. He just lay there. I only knew he was still awake from the thick cloud of smoke he blew into the air.
My mouth was terribly dry, and my eyes were burning from that damned cigarette smoke. I rubbed my eyes, then coughed pointedly to let him know that I didn’t care too much for the smell of cigarettes. But he just continued to lay there in silence. I had tried to complain to the captain about the smoking, but since McKernin was a three-pack-a-day man, my protests fell on deaf ears.
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