“Are you certain, Mary?” Percy asked, his expression darkening.
“Yes, yes, I am. And the drawings look as if they were done right after the women died. Percy, I think he may have murdered these women.”
He put both hands on my shoulders, a stern expression in his eyes. “Certainly not. I’ve known John for years, but I’ll discuss it with him. Can you trust me to tend to this?”
I nodded, not sure what I had wanted. I was thinking we should turn John over to the local police, but I realized that could be an overreaction. I waited in the parlor for what felt like an hour. When Percy finally returned, he was with John and they had their arms around one another, chuckling.
I took a step further into the room, until I stood behind the settee.
They entered the room together, Percy carrying the very journal I spoke of in one hand.
“I’m very sorry that you went into my room and discovered my secret,” John began.
Percy watched with a gleam in his eye that I didn’t like.
“I only wish you had asked me first,” John continued. “I would have eagerly shared my journals and books with you. I’m happy to discuss my scientific endeavors with anyone who might be interested—”
“What is scientific about murdering women?” I asked, unable to contain myself any longer.
“You misunderstand. I’ve been working with the local London police to solve those murders. For years, I’ve been trying to understand the bridge between life and death, and all my research thus far seems to indicate that something unusual happens during a violent death—it’s as if the muscles themselves seem to remember and crave life.” His eyes took on a brilliant glow as he continued to speak, his voice both soothing and stern. The longer he talked the more his words began to make sense until the fight inside me subsided. My muscles loosened and I almost collapsed, for I had been tensed up for so long.
Percy came to my side and held me up. There was a great hidden strength in his narrow frame and I relied upon it then.
John continued to explain himself and I nodded as he spoke, even though a part of me still wasn’t sure.
At last, Percy turned toward me and asked, “Has he answered your questions satisfactorily?”
I nodded with reluctance.
After that, I saw John differently. He was driven by some hidden purpose, more than the average person to be sure. Supposedly, he was a private physician, here to make sure Byron’s episodes of melancholy didn’t flare up. But I now deduced he was here for another reason. Vials of pills and bottles of potions clinked inside the bag he carried with him wherever he went, though he never offered to help any of us when we suffered from headaches or toothaches or pulled muscles.
Something had called him here. I was certain of it. It was why he relentlessly poured over the books of local folklore, alternating them with his drawings of violent deaths.
There was an unspoken purpose in his heart and I didn’t trust him. Even though he had openly confessed his morbid desire to pursue that narrow bridge between life and death. And even though I, too, was now exploring that very same bridge.
Seven
Byron had been gone for four days—longer than he said. I should have been worried about him, should have wondered if he had made it safely into the mountains, but evening had come and, by Byron’s own curious decree, we were all forced to stay indoors. I was still nervous and shaken about the drawings I had discovered in John’s room earlier in the day and, as a result, dinner had been awkward, as if we all temporarily forgot how to speak to one another. Our conversation had been monosyllabic, with occasional requests for someone to pass the salt or the wine. After that, we retreated to the drawing room and all I could think about was the fact that Percy had just greedily slugged down the last drops of our bottle of wine.
John sat near the door to outside, scribbling notes in one of his many journals—I avoided glancing in his direction, so I had no idea if he was working on a story for our competition or drawing another sketch of some poor butchered wench. Claire sprawled across the settee, munching on cake left over from tea and twirling her hair about one finger, while I toyed with my most recent drawing.
As usual, a pack of wolves howled and snuffled about, although the wild dogs were much closer to the villa tonight. One was pawing and digging just outside the window. I was just about to ask one of the men to chase the beast away, when the wild dog yipped and squealed as if in sudden pain.
A moment later, its cries ended in a loud gut-wrenching yelp that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
“What was that?” Claire asked, eyes wide open.
“There’s probably just a bear outside,” John answered, trying to calm her.
At first, all we could hear was the wind buffeting against the windows. Then, another wolf cried out, growling and snapping as if trying to fight something off. Its howls ended in a sharp yelp. Before any of us could react, that sequence of events happened again and again, so many times I lost count: first, guttural snarls and howls, and then at last, every one of the wolves that had been outside fell strangely quiet.
Only the wind moaned, soft and low.
Shivers of fear traced and retraced my spine.
Percy walked to the window, where he pulled back heavy velvet drapes to peer through shuttered glass.
“Can you see anything?” I asked.
“It’s too dark. But I think I see twisted shapes in the snow.”
“Are the wolves dead? Did something kill them?” Claire huddled further inside her blanket, as if it could protect her.
John remained sitting, head bowed, attention still focused on the sprawling letters he formed carefully in his journal. His jacket hung open, the cuffs worn and the elbows stained. Everything about him spoke of how many sacrifices he had made over the years to pursue his scientific discipline.
He appeared driven to discover some great mystery—no matter the cost—and it seemed that he had lost his heart in the process.
At that moment, I hated him.
So, I grabbed a fireplace poker and threw open the front door, immediately engulfed in a cold, blinding flurry of snow.
“Mary!”
It was Percy who cried out my name, though he never moved from the window.
“Don’t go out there.” A hand wrapped around my wrist and held me firm. It was John. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked up. Like a primitive instinct, his hand had just snapped out and grabbed me.
The wind blew, strong and fierce, clearing away the falling snow and giving me the ability to see. Dark shapes lay scattered about in growing drifts of snow—black fur, red blood, white snow. An entire pack of wild dogs had been slaughtered and dismembered, their legs ripped from their torsos, their paws trampled, their skulls crushed. Several beasts had been eviscerated, steam rising from organs that spilled from cracked ribcages. The sight caused my stomach to lurch. One of the wolves had been decapitated and its head rolled to a stop near the door, jaws open and tongue hanging out, as if someone or something was warning us to stay indoors.
A long, deep moan shuddered from my chest. I wanted to turn away, but was transfixed. A bear wouldn’t do this. No animal I could think of would do this. This was not the natural order of things.
Something evil was afoot.
“Mary, what is it?” Claire asked. She came toward me, blanket wrapped around her.
“No,” I warned. “Stay back.” I worried she could lose the babe inside her—that it could be stillborn. Death hung in the air, ripe and morbid as the night itself. It could easily claim her child; one image of the carnage outside could freeze in her mind and cause an early labor. I braced my arms against the doorframe, hoping to prevent her from getting past me. Percy sensed my apprehension and he stepped between us. With a stern hand, he led her from the door.
“Go to your room, Claire,” he told her.
She lifted her chin. “I will not!”
“He’s right. Claire, please. Retire to
your room,” I pleaded. I stared out at the rolling hills and wild forest, all of it leading to an open expanse of frozen lake. Some fifty-nine miles wide and a thousand feet deep, Lake Geneva stood less than a quarter mile from our doorstep. I heard Percy as he led Claire away, down the hallway toward the stairs, all the while speaking to her in muted tones. I wondered if he would follow my stepsister into her room and linger there, both of them sipping laudanum like brandy. Normally, there would be a desperate anger raging through my gut when I thought about how his addictions ruled him now. But, not tonight.
All I could do was squint in the descending snow; it caught in my eyelashes and clung to my cheeks. One large clump drifted down to settle on my lips, a frozen winter’s kiss, just as I sensed movement in the trees. Light from our villa spilled onto the hillside, yellow and warm, and, of its own accord, one of my feet moved forward, pressing into the thick new snow, a chill rising beneath my long skirts.
“Don’t go out there,” John said again. He watched me over wire-rimmed reading glasses, the lenses beginning to steam up. One of his hands still held my wrist, his fingers strong.
“But there’s someone...” I paused, leaning into the wind, my hair falling loose from its pins. “A lone figure. There.” I pointed with my right hand, my fist still clasping that fire poker.
John rose from his chair, not making a sound. I held my breath, fear creeping in where only foolish boldness had been before. We stood side by side, gazing into the narrow pool of light cast by our open door, through the swirling tendrils of snow.
Something stood between two distant gnarled oaks, wearing the cloak of a man, though its posture was that of a beast. Back hunched, lips curled and teeth bared. Its eyes fixed upon mine and I found that I could not move.
Glowing eyes reflected our light. Like the eyes of a wildcat.
I pulled a short breath into my mouth, but couldn’t bring myself to take it in my lungs. The longer I held my breath, the more I realized spots and sparkles began to swirl about me, mixing with the glowing snowflakes. Still, I couldn’t catch my breath and I feared I was being enchanted. My right foot was already deep in a growing drift of snow when I slid my left foot beside it, the muscles in my calves and thighs flexing.
Without realizing it, I was preparing to run.
A heartbeat later, I lunged forward, ready to sprint across the front lawn toward the woods, and at the same moment John grabbed both of my arms. He dragged me back inside the villa, slammed the door closed and latched it.
Somehow he had anticipated what I was going to do.
The enchantment broke, like ice melting, and I shivered as I realized what had just happened.
I’d almost bolted and run right toward the beast that may have slain a pack of wolves at my doorstep.
“You are safe now,” John whispered in my ear.
I nodded, suddenly mute.
His hands were still on me, sliding from my arms to my shoulders, as if he feared that I would try to get outside. He didn’t release me for several minutes, both of us still facing the closed door until I shuddered from the cold and realized I was weeping.
“Are you all right, Mary?” he asked, his breath still close to my ear. He pulled a blanket from a nearby chair and wrapped it around me, rubbing my arms, bringing heat back into my body.
“Yes,” I answered, although I wasn’t sure. “What happened to me?”
“I don’t know,” John answered. “But I felt it too—it was almost like falling asleep. Or being caught in a whirlpool.”
“But what was that thing in the woods?”
He shook his head and shrugged.
I was numb from skin to soul, all the while remembering the fierce look in that creature’s eyes. And along with it, remembering that compelling feeling that I had needed to go to it. “I—I am in your debt, sir. You may have saved my life,” I told John at last.
“Never speak of it,” he said softly. “And I will do the same. Now, let me see you to your room.” With one hand on mine, he guided me up the stairs, waiting until I was safely inside my bedchamber and my fire was properly lit, before leaving me alone.
Eight
My drawings changed that night.
I continued to sketch the tortured, patchwork man. But at his side, I added a dark mysterious creature with glowing eyes. And I began to spend more time working on this second monster, perfecting the shape of its face and the angle of its head. I caught the perfect folds of its cape, draped over one shoulder and disappearing into midnight. I held my breath as I traced the beast’s fingers, which were more like long, curving claws, one hand nestled at its breast in the shape of a fist, the other outstretched.
As if forever reaching toward me.
I shivered in the dim lamplight and set my drawings aside. Weariness wanted me. It tugged at me, from my legs to my shoulders, trying to get me to lay upon my bed. But I refused.
I couldn’t forget the glowing eyes that had stared into mine or the enchantment that embraced me. Even now, hours later.
Instead of sleeping, I lingered at the window, gazing down at the soft slope of summer snow, a blanket about my shoulders. Moon above and glittering lake in the distance, the forest rose like a haze of black netting, branches swaying in the unending wind. From my vantage point, I could see the lifeless bodies of the wolves below. Black scars on white snow. At times, I imagined that one or another of them twitched, limbs stretching as if seeking its other missing members. But I knew it was only gnawing exhaustion playing with my mind.
I turned down my oil lamp until the wick sputtered and went out. Thin shadows gave way to absolute darkness. Then I returned to the window, my eyes adjusting to the moonlight. I searched the wood for some sign of the man-beast, as if it were still out there, calling to me. The wind continued to howl, wrapping about the villa and twisting through the forest. Sometimes I imagined that it was calling my name, Mary, Mary, Mary. But it was just the snow, caught in an updraft and beating mercilessly against the windowpanes.
I had almost decided to retreat to my bed, when I saw movement on the rise below. A black figure, hunched over and head bowed, moved from one bloodstained carcass to the next. It bent over each, examining them, prodding them with a stick, then lifting them into a wheelbarrow.
My eyes narrowed as I realized it was John. At first, I thought he was cleaning up the carnage, so Claire wouldn’t see it in the morning or so it wouldn’t attract other scavengers. I expected him to wheel the cart toward the edge of the property and bury the mutilated beasts there. Then I noticed that he had left bits and pieces of the wild dogs behind.
And instead of taking the cart toward the road, where refuse was burned or buried, he pushed the wheelbarrow around the side of the house, out of sight.
Curiosity burned within me. If I had reasoned everything through, surely I would have stayed indoors. But I wasn’t being reasonable. I quickly pulled on my riding boots and grabbed my cloak, then raced, quietly as I could, out of my room and down the stairs. Once I was in the drawing room, I took up that iron fireplace poker again before slipping out the front door. Some small bit of logic remained within me, reminding me that I should not go outdoors unarmed.
In an instant, the moon revealed John’s footprints, tracking through muddy drifts stained with blood, mingled with the trail of the barrow. So, I followed, step by cautious step, one eye ever fixed upon the distant wood.
The memory of the creature that had captivated me earlier terrified me now that I was out in the open.
My heart beat against my ribcage, hard and fast and frantic, my mouth open and my lungs filling with frozen air. At once, I feared two things: that I would lose John in the darkness behind the villa or that the man-beast was still in the woods, waiting to enchant me again.
I forced myself to cross the snowy lawn, until I reached the side of the villa. There I peered into half-darkness, where only partial moonlight sifted down through the snow. I couldn’t see John’s footsteps anymore, but I tripped across
the ruts left by the cart, so I followed those.
I pushed forward, darkness growing thicker, thorns nipping at my skirts like wild foxes. I stumbled once and caught myself by grabbing hold of the villa wall.
Then I heard him, somewhere ahead of me, humming a song.
It was a macabre melody that made the skin on my back turn to gooseflesh.
Was some part of him enjoying this?
A light went on in one of the servant’s rooms upstairs, golden light pouring down. I nearly cried out, for I was exposed. I crouched behind a bush, peering through the branches toward the backyard.
There, John cursed, as fully exposed as I had been. I could see the contents of his wheelbarrow now, legs and paws and bloody organs, black tufts of fur swirling about him, mixing with the ever-falling snow. His back hunched, he began to hurry, his movements clumsy. Several items fell out of the cart, but he didn’t notice. I strained my eyes, but couldn’t see where he was going. My mind raced, all of me trembling from the cold, as I tried to figure out where he was headed. At last, I remembered the gardener’s cottage and a shed, both of which stood behind the villa.
A morbid fascination drove me to continue following him, away from my hiding place and the pool of golden light toward a land of unending shadow. Hands before me, I groped black air, while my feet tested the ground cautiously. Off to my right, I heard a loud grunt and the creak of the cart. Then I heard a door swinging open, rusty hinges protesting. Within a moment, the barrow wheels went from crunching over snow to scraping over stone. With a soft thud, the door swung shut.
John must have gone inside the cottage.
I was outside, all alone, shivering, my teeth chattering, my feet frozen and skirts soaked to my knees, and that was when I came to my senses. At that moment, I thought about turning and running back inside the villa.
But I ignored the warnings of my inner conscience.
Instead, I waited until he built a fire. It took him so long I almost wanted to follow him inside and start it for him—men were so awkward when it came to lighting fires.
Shade: A Re-Imagining of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (The Frankenstein Saga Book 1) Page 3