Frankenstein Lives Again (The New Adventures of Frankenstein)

by Glut, Donald F.

Pierre Dupré raised his wounded arm up slightly from its sling and attempted to wave. Winslow and Lamont smiled, then watched him take up one suitcase and walk out the door.

  “Now,” said Lamont, “shall we nail this box shut? I’ll feel much better when that’s done.”

  After the crate had been sealed, Lamont drove Winslow to the railroad depot, transporting the boxed-up Monster in the back of his truck. Both men carried rifles, not to be used against the creature, but as a precautionary measure against other possible attacks by the vengeful Eskimos. So far, there had been no more such violent incidents, but the scientist knew that he could not relax until he was far away from this snowbound land.

  After Winslow and Lamont had placed the crated Monster into the boxcar, the scientist climbed aboard and returned the rifle to its owner. “Thanks again, Mr. Lamont,” he said.

  A minute later Winslow was peering out the open door of the boxcar, watching the canvas-topped truck rumble back in the direction of Lamont’s transport company.

  Winslow turned away from the scene of snow-covered buildings as a railroad employee slid shut the freight car door. The scientist’s attention was now solely on the awesome angular container resting quietly in front of him. He stared at it, even as the train began to chug out of the station.

  How great it felt to be able to relax.

  * * *

  For the first time in days, Winslow slept. He had dozed off, confident that the rest of his journey would be uneventful. And the darkness of the boxcar was a welcome change from the extended daylight.

  His dreams consisted of vague snatches of the events that he had lived in the Arctic. There were glimpses of Lynn mingled in with those dreams, but mostly his unconscious visions centered about the Monster and the violence he had been thrust into while securing its remains. The dreams had no real opportunity to develop into full-fledged nightmares, for he was already being awakened by the sensation that something was tugging forcibly at his body.

  His eyes began to flutter.

  The Monster!, he thought.

  His vision was rapidly focusing on the reality of the railroad car and he was learning, to his consternation, that powerful arms were dragging him toward the open door. A quick flash of distant snows and white-coated trees streaked by before Winslow fully realized that he was no longer sleeping.

  Looking up, he saw that it was not the Monster, somehow revived, that was dragging him to an obviously intended death, but an Eskimo, one who must have been hiding in a dark corner of the car.

  Although exhausted and sick of violence, Winslow knew that his life and the outcome of his project depended on breaking free of his captor’s iron grip.

  “You will not take away our Ice God!” came the hate-filled voice of the man who held him.

  But Winslow was already whirling about, feet flying hard into his assailant’s jaw. He heard a crack, then saw the native slam against the floor, making an impression in the sawdust which was scattered there.

  In an instant, the doctor was on his feet, only to see a second Eskimo attacker stand up from behind the Monster’s crate brandishing an ice pick.

  Putting his college football training into practice, Winslow leaped and tackled the second native about the knees as the man moved toward him. Both of them dropped to the floor. Winslow slugged his opponent’s face, heard him groan, then blink in bewilderment.

  But the first attacker, still mumbling from his injured jaw was already up and on Winslow’s back, pulling the scientist off balance. Winslow struggled to break free, but was still weary. He could see the other Eskimo rising to his feet and stomping toward him with clenched fists and a snarl issuing from behind his white teeth.

  Somehow, Winslow managed to use the man holding him as a brace and kick the native approaching him, knocking him off balance and hearing a sickening thud as his heels made contact with the Eskimo’s jaw. The attacker grunted in pain, then sank to his knees.

  Startled to see his accomplice drop, the native holding Winslow carelessly relaxed his grip, which gave the scientist the opportunity he needed to spin around and batter him with his fists.

  There was a sudden flash of metal reflecting the sun’s rays.

  The ice pick!

  Winslow saw the Eskimo rushing at him with the needle-like weapon, the point aimed directly at his chest. Immediately the doctor’s hand shot beneath his coat and removed the .38 revolver that he had purchased from Morris Lamont. Winslow squeezed the trigger without another thought, a deadly spike of flame flaring in the darkness of the car.

  The man with the ice pick moaned as a crimson blotch spread across his chest, then tumbled out the door to become part of the passing scenery.

  While Winslow’s attention was still outside where the dead man had dropped, the other native grasped him from behind, crushing his throat in his powerful arms. The American knew that it wouldn’t be long before he heard his own neck crack unless he acted quickly. In a blur of action, Winslow threw up his arms and also seized his opponent around the neck. With a mighty heave, the doctor tossed the Eskimo forward and outside to join his friend.

  It was a full minute or more before Burt Winslow had regained enough breath and composure to feel even slightly comfortable once again. His neck still ached and he was growing rather weary — and bored — of being attacked by natives. Looking around, he saw that there were two other crates, both open in the car, and knew instantly just how the two Eskimos had managed to be smuggled inside to regain their stolen Ice God.

  Making certain that there were no other stowaways on board, and that the lid on the Monster’s crate had not been tampered with, Winslow slid the door shut. Then he let himself drop into a resting position beside the box, drumming his fingers a few times on the wooden lid.

  His eyes were heavy and began to close and his thoughts drifted away from the violence he had just experienced.

  This time Burt Winslow really slept, his dreams being anything but nightmares...

  * * *

  In Ingolstadt, Lynn Powell was too busy to sleep, even though it was approaching midnight.

  She had been keeping herself occupied in the castle of Frankenstein, while Winslow was off on his Arctic expedition. Using Winslow’s money, she had purchased a Volkswagen. More of the crates had arrived at the castle since she had moved in, but she would not concern herself with these until she and Burt were reunited.

  Miraculously, Lynn had managed to clean up a considerable amount of the filth that had settled on the castle’s interior throughout the centuries, crawling over its stone steps and creeping into its shadowed corners like some living fungus.

  She cast a rather proud glance about the laboratory, seeing that the cold walls were now free of the dust and cobwebs that had dominated the place during the many decades that had passed since Victor Frankenstein resided here. An appealing smile formed on her lips. Then she reacted to the sound of someone knocking on the castle door.

  “Just a moment,” she said, gracefully rushing out of the laboratory with long strides and doubting that her voice would carry outside to her visitor.

  Reluctant at first, at last she pulled open the door, which creaked as though it had not budged since the time of Victor Frankenstein himself.

  A stocky man with a long, sweeping mustache stood in the doorway. There was no sign of warmth or friendliness anywhere on his cherubic face. He made a polite bow at the waist, then looked up at the young woman.

  “I shall come to the point,” he said in an apparently offic; manner. “My name is Krag. And I am the Burgermeister that is to say, the Mayor of Ingolstadt.”

  Lynn almost expected the man to click his heels.

  “And to what do I owe this honor?” she asked courteously

  Mayor Krag coughed an artificial cough. “Harrrummphf. I am not here socially,” he said. “I wish to speak with Herr Doktor Winslow.”

  “Dr. Winslow is not here,” she answered. “He is still away but should be returning soon.”

 
“But I saw the lights in the castle for the past few nights,” he said, puzzled. “I assumed that he was here.”

  “I had the lights on,” Lynn informed him. “My name is Lynn Powell.”

  Krag suspiciously cocked an eyebrow. “Powell?” he said. “Then you are not… Frau Winslow?”

  She could feel her face suddenly flush, but then considered that this little town was probably moving into the more liberal modern world slower than her own country. Better to choose her words discreetly, she thought.

  “I am Dr. Winslow’s secretary and assistant,” she told him. “Dr. Winslow is still away on his trip and I’ve been asked by him to take care of his property while he’s gone. If you doubt me, or think I’m up to some kind of trouble here, I’ll show you Dr. Winslow’s letter authorizing me to be here. I’m sure you’re familiar with his signature on the deed to this place and —”

  “Er, nein, nein, that is quite all right… fraulein? Powell?” The Mayor made another polite bow, this one obviously prompted by his own embarrassment. “I believe you.”

  Krag cleared his throat and did his best to remain dignified. He shrugged his shoulders, then cast a suspicious glance about the place. Lynn wondered if he were expecting some ghost or demon or the Frankenstein monster himself stalking out from the shadows.

  “When will Dr. Winslow be returning to Ingolstadt?” he inquired, still looking about the place.

  “I’m not really sure,” she said. “Shortly, I hope.”

  “Then I will return here when the doktor comes back. The station master is a friend of mine and will inform me when that happens.” As he finished speaking, he turned his attention away from his surroundings and back to Lynn, never once moving from the spot where he stood.

  Krag turned his head toward the open front door through which he could see some of the boxes that had been sent to Winslow.

  “I’ll tell him you were here, Mayor Krag,” Lynn said pointedly, interrupting his concentration.

  “Were? Harrummphf! Ah, yes. But I must warn you that the villagers are already murmuring about those crates which have been delivered here. It makes me uneasy when the townspeople mumble like that. Mob violence is something I have never experienced and may be beyond my meager powers to control.”

  “And why,” said Lynn, “should some boxes lead to mob violence Mr. Mayor?”

  “My people are not dummkopfs!” he exclaimed, fighting to maintain his own control. “They — nor I —could not help but notice that the boxes have been sent by scientific supply houses… electrical equipment manufacturers.

  “But surely, Mayor Krag, your people are not against progress, against scientific advancement.”

  “Nein! But this is beyond progress, fraulein! To come to my point, Miss Powell, the villagers fear that your Dr. Winslow may be up to the old tricks of the scientist who lived in this very place some two centuries ago... a scientist who had a mad dream and carried it out. My people still believe in the old legends, still fear the terrible Monster that once roamed this castle’s dark corridors and our town’s streets. Tell me, fraulein, what else can they believe when they see all of those boxes being delivered to Castle Frankenstein…?”

  Lynn shuddered, anticipating what Krag was about to say.

  “... Except that your Dr. Winslow is but another Victor Frankenstein, who will unleash the Monster upon them once again! For all our sakes, especially yours and the doctor’s, I pray that those suspicions are unfounded!”

  Had Lynn been able to find the words to respond, she might have, even though Mayor Krag had already turned on his heel and was hurrying out the door.

  CHAPTER VIII:

  Traveling Terrors

  The long journey back to northern Europe was uneventful but proved to be anything but boring for Dr. Burt Winslow. His time was occupied for much of the trip in thought. He hardly ever left the great wooden box that contained the object of his long and costly quest. Oftentimes he had the feeling that he and the dormant Monster had been companions for so long, in the musty cargo holds of ships and in damp railroad cars, that he would become lonesome if the two of them parted company. A few times he even considered leaving the box alone and enjoying the comforts of a private cabin or compartment, but then always dispelled such notions in favor of constantly knowing the fate of his prize.

  With a bit of luck and a lot of money, Winslow managed to charter an old transport plane that condensed much of the time in journeying toward Germany. Before taking off, he had sent a wire to Lynn Powell, telling her his approximate time of arrival in Ingolstadt.

  Winslow was thinking more and more of Lynn the closer his trip came to its end. He even found his thoughts drifting to her warm and beautiful image even as he constantly re-read sections of the novel Frankenstein and passages he had copied in his own notebook from The Journal of Victor Frankenstein. Oftentimes Winslow would even set aside his reading or notes, stop jotting down the calculations which would figure into his upcoming experiment, just to fantasize that she was with him.

  The world was no longer just an expanse of whiteness.

  There were green hills and lush forests now to see.

  Winslow smiled, knowing that warmer lands and the most wonderful person he had ever known awaited him.

  * * *

  A creature had suddenly appeared in the hills near Ingolstadt, looking more like a corpse than a living being. His countenance was that of a dried-up mummy, with parched lips and sinister green eyes that stared from their dark sockets with almost demonic fire. There was something resembling a grin on his face, the few brownish teeth in his mouth showing in the sunlight like misshapen wooden pegs.

  His withered, vulturelike face was peering through the bushes, staring intently at the raven-tressed beauty standing in the clearing of the forest, before the glistening pond.

  She was slipping out of her peasant’s dress with an appealing rustic grace, and her tanned, youthful nakedness was magnificent in the morning’s sunlight.

  The human vulture’s eyes widened, the heart beneath his bony chest increasing in its pace. How long had it been since his clawlike fingers had touched such a flawless female form as this? he wondered. How many years had it been since he had forsaken the pleasures enjoyed by most men to develop his own modicum of psychic skills? He couldn’t remember, but he knew that now, even in these twilight years of his life, those old desires were returning to him, blazing away and unable to be extinguished even by his own indomitable will.

  She was still lacing him, stepping away from the pile of clothing that had dropped to her bare feet. To the old man, she was like some Grecian goddess, sculpted by a master artist and gjven miraculous life. He watched with delight the way her long black hair tossed gently in the breeze, fluttering against firm modest breasts. In another moment, she would undoubtedly turn away from his gaze to enjoy a refreshing swim in the pond, unless...

  No, he silently swore, hers would be the young flesh that would rekindle his youth, and he knew just how to make her beauty his for the taking.

  With a speed belying his age, he rushed out of the bushes, taking the young woman by surprise.

  “Who...who are you?” she asked, simultaneously reacting with revulsion at the man’s appearance and grabbing up the discarded clothing. She pressed the crumpled peasant’s dress against her in a feeble attempt to cover her nakedness. “Wh-what do you want ?”

  But the old man did not reply, at least with his words. Rather, it was his eyes—those twin beacons of unearthly fire—that answered the girl, capturing her attention with all of the psychic force that he could muster.

  What… do you...?” But she never finished speaking. Already she was becoming lost in his eyes and unable to move. Her hands relaxed, her arms went limp and the bundle of clothing again dropped to the ground.

  The old man smiled triumphantly.

  She was simply standing there now, his Galatea, waiting for him to bestow upon her his lustful attention.

  But even as he approached
and raised both shaking hands to grasp her, the shout of a masculine voice, issuing from some-here amid the forest trees, not only distracted him, but also brought a flutter to the peasant’s staring eyes.

  “Anna!” came the voice. “Are you there, Anna?”

  “Damn!” the old man cursed.

  Her eyes blinked again, more rapidly, and she began to lower her head. “Johann...?”

  The old man could hear the sound of movement in the nearby underbrush and realized that he would be no match, in a physical confrontation, with any young man. He silently cursed age bemoaning the fact that he had ventured into this clearing without the company of Gort. Now, his only chance at escaping without violence was by first recapturing the girl’s attention with his mesmeric gaze.

  Again his eyes burned into hers.

  “Johann...?” she said, her blinking eyes suddenly snapping wide open again to lose themselves in the old man’s stare. “Yes? Wh-what… do you want?”

  He spoke rapidly, his words only slightly distorted by his lack of a full mouth of teeth. “You will not remember that I was here,” he rasped. “You will not remember me at all, even if you see me later elsewhere. Do you understand?”

  “I... will not remember...” she said, softly.

  “And when your lover Johann comes to you, you will act normal. You will smile and take him in your arms. And you will make him believe that nothing unusual has happened.”

  “Nothing....”

  “Anna? Are you there?”

  The old man turned his head in the direction of the voice, then skulked back into the bushes, hearing the sound of footsteps behind him. He stopped, turning back for a quick glimpse of a hardy-looking peasant in his mid-twenties as he rushed up to the woman, reacted with surprise at her obviously unexpected nudity, then let himself be wrapped in her arms.

  “Oh, dearest Johann,” she said, pressing her body against his.

  That was all that the old man’s heart could stand. He left the tableau behind him, uttering a few curses under his breath, and pressed on through the thick vegetation of the forest. His bony legs were already tired when he at last came upon the clearing where his two old circus wagons waited.