In the Shadow of Frankenstein: Tales of the Modern Prometheus Read online

  This one is of course for Kim,

  in friendship and admiration.

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  NEIL GAIMAN

  Introduction: It’s Alive!

  STEPHEN JONES

  Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

  MARY W. SHELLEY

  A New Life

  RAMSEY CAMPBELL

  The Creator

  R. CHETWYND-HAYES

  Better Dead

  BASIL COPPER

  Creature Comforts

  NANCY KILPATRICK

  Mannikins of Horror

  ROBERT BLOCH

  El Sueño de la Razón

  DANIEL FOX

  Pithecanthropus Rejectus

  MANLY WADE WELLMAN

  Tantamount to Murder

  JOHN BRUNNER

  Last Train

  GUY N. SMITH

  The Hound of Frankenstein

  PETER TREMAYNE

  Mother of Invention

  GRAHAM MASTERTON

  The Frankenstein Legacy

  ADRIAN COLE

  The Dead Line

  DENNIS ETCHISON

  Poppi’s Monster

  LISA MORTON

  Undertow

  KARL EDWARD WAGNER

  A Complete Woman

  ROBERTA LANNES

  Last Call for the Sons of Shock

  DAVID J. SCHOW

  Chandira

  BRIAN MOONEY

  Celebrity Frankenstein

  STEPHEN VOLK

  Completist Heaven

  KIM NEWMAN

  The Temptation of Dr. Stein

  PAUL MCAULEY

  To Receive Is Better

  MICHAEL MARSHALL SMITH

  The Dead End

  DAVID CASE

  Frankenstein

  JO FLETCHER

  About the Editor

  Acknowledgments and Credits

  NEIL GAIMAN

  Foreword

  The cold, wet summer of 1816, a night of ghost stories and a challenge allowed a young woman to delineate the darkness, and give us a way of looking at the world.

  They were in a villa on the shores of Lake Geneva: Lord Byron—the bestselling poet, too dangerous for the drawing rooms of England and in exile; his doctor, John William Polidori; Percy Shelley, poet and atheist, and his soon-to-be wife, eighteen-year-old Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin. Ghost stories were read, and then Byron challenged the group to come up with a new ghost story.

  He started, but did not complete, a vampire story; Dr. Polidori completed a story about the first Byronesque vampire, “The Vampyre”; and young Mary, already the mother of a living child and a dead one, after several days of frustration, imagined a story about a man who fabricated a living creature, a monster, and brought it to life.

  The book she wrote over the following year, initially published anonymously, was Frankenstein or, The Modern Prometheus, and it slowly changed everything.

  Ideas happen when the time is right for them (“In steam engine time, people make steam engines,” as Charles Fort put it). The ground had been prepared.

  Gothic fiction had been all the rage for some time: dark, driven men had wandered the corridors of their ancestral homes, finding secret passages and dead relatives, magical, miserable, occasionally immortal; while the questing urge of science had discovered that frogs could twitch and spasm, after death, when current was applied. In an era of change, so much more was waiting to be discovered.

  Brian Aldiss points to Frankenstein as the first work of science fiction (which he defines as hubris clobbered by nemesis) and he may be right. It was the place that people learned we could bring life back from death—but a dark and dangerous and untamable form of life, one that would, in the end, turn on us and harm us.

  That idea, the crossbreeding of the Gothic and the scientific romance, was released from into the world, and would become a key metaphor for our times: the glittering promise of science, offering life and miracles, and the nameless creature in the shadows, monster and miracle all in one—back from the dead, needing knowledge and love but able, in the end, only to destroy.

  It was Mary Shelley’s gift to us, and we would be infinitely poorer without it.

  INTRODUCTION

  It’s Alive!

  Frankenstein … his very name conjures up images of plundered graves, secret laboratories, electrical experiments and reviving the dead. Within these pages, the maddest doctor of them all and his demented disciples once again delve into the Secrets of Life, as science fiction meets horror when the world’s most famous Monster lives again!

  Both maker and Monster were originally conceived in the imagination of Mary W. Shelley during the summer of 1816 in Switzerland. Along with her lover Percy Bysshe Shelley, Dr. John Polidori and Lord Byron, who were staying in neighboring households on the shores of Lake Geneva, the eighteen-year-old Mary decided to try her hand at writing a ghost story. Urged by Percy to develop the result into a booklength work, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus was published anonymously a year-and-a-half later.

  It was a huge success, and by 1823 at least five different adaptations were being staged in London. The story first reached the screen in 1910 when Charles Ogle portrayed the misshapen creation. At least two more versions were filmed before Universal cast the relatively unknown Boris Karloff in the role of the Monster for James Whale’s classic 1931 adaptation of Frankenstein. With his square-shaped skull, corpse-like pallor and distinctive neck bolts, it’s Karloff’s (and make-up maestro Jack Pierce’s) sympathetic interpretation of the creature which most people still remember.

  Karloff recreated his role through two sequels before tiring of the part, but Universal kept the series going for another five episodes. Lon Chaney, Jr., Bela Lugosi and Glenn Strange all donned the distinctive make-up, until finally Abbott and Costello met Frankenstein in 1948 and the series was brought to a satisfactory, if somewhat overdue conclusion.

  Boris Karloff went on to play the creator in Frankenstein 1970 (1958) and appeared as the Monster one last time on television’s Route 66 in the early 1960s. However, Mary Shelley’s immortal creation continued to live on in numerous low budget variations involving Frankenstein and his apparently limitless offspring and prodigies.

  In 1957 Britain’s Hammer Films revived the characters, this time in color, with The Curse of Frankenstein; but instead of following the exploits of the Creature, the series of six loosely-connected films concentrated instead on Peter Cushing’s pitiless Baron and his failed experiments.

  There have been numerous screen and television adaptations since. From Peter Boyle’s tap-dancing Monster in Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein (1974), through Robert De Niro’s dignified creature in Kenneth Branagh’s Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1994), to Aaron Eckhart’s vampire-killing anti-hero in Stuart Beattie’s I, Frankenstein (2014), film-makers have continued to expand and develop the original story and characters in often unusual and unexpected ways.

  Paul McGuigan’s Victor Frankenstein (2015), which explores the relationship between the young scientist (James McAvoy) and his troubled assistant Igor (Daniel Radcliffe), is unlikely to be the final interpretation.

  There have also been many literary succesors to Mary Shelley’s novel, from Donald F. Glut’s pulp series “The New Adventures of Frankenstein” to Brian Aldiss’ Frankenstein Unbound (filmed in 1990), in which Mary and her literary creations co-exist in the same alternate world.

  More recently, Dean R. Koontz created a series of contemporary Frankenstein novels (which were also the basis for a failed TV pilo
t), and there have been illustrated versions of the story by everyone from Bernie Wrightson to Gris Grimly.

  For many people, the name of Shelley’s scientist and his Monster have become synonymous over the years (and there is an argument to be made that they are two representations of the same man).

  Director Danny Boyle explored this duality between the creator and his creation in 2011 in the Royal National Theatre production of Frankenstein, in which Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller alternated the roles on stage in award-winning performances.

  Now this revised and updated edition of The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein collects together one poem and twenty-four electrifying tales of cursed creation that are guaranteed to spark the interest of any reader—classics from the pulp magazines by Robert Bloch and Manly Wade Wellman, modern masterpieces from Ramsey Campbell, Dennis Etchison, Karl Edward Wagner, Stephen Volk, David J. Schow and R. Chetwynd-Hayes, and original contributions by Graham Masterton, Basil Copper, John Brunner, Guy N. Smith, Kim Newman, Paul McAuley, Roberta Lannes, Michael Marshall Smith, Daniel Fox, Adrian Cole, Nancy Kilpatrick, Brian Mooney and Lisa Morton.

  Also included are three short novels: The Hound of Frankenstein by Peter Tremayne, The Dead End by David Case and, as a special bonus, the full and unabridged text of Mary Shelley’s original masterpiece, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, while a new Foreword by Neil Gaiman discusses the enduring influence of Shelley’s monstrous creation.

  So, as an electrical storm rages overhead, the generators are charged up, and under the sheet a cold form awaits its miraculous rebirth. Now it’s time to throw that switch and discover all that Man Was Never Meant to Know …

  —STEPHEN JONES,

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  MARY W. SHELLEY

  Frankenstein; or,

  The Modern Prometheus

  Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (1797–1851) was born in London, the only child of novelist and political philosopher William Godwin and the early female emancipator Mary Wollstonecraft, who died ten days after the birth of her daughter. While still a teenager, Mary eloped to Europe with the English poet Percy Bysshe Shelley in 1814, finally marrying him in December 1816—the same year she wrote the original version of the novel which follows.

  Although she never repeated the success of Frankenstein, her later novels included Valperga (1823); The Last Man (1826), about the only survivor of a future plague which wipes out the world’s population; The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck (1830); Lodore (1835); and Falkner (1837). She also published Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1844, which was well received. Richard Garnett collected most of her short fiction in the posthumous collection Tales and Stories (1891), while another tale, “The Heir of Mondolfo,” did not see print until 1877.

  In her introduction to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein, Mary Shelley recalls how the story first came to her: “When I placed my head on my pillow I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw—with shut eyes, but acute mental vision—I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavor to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world …”

  After almost 190 years, the novel which follows still remains a classic of science fiction and horror …

  PREFACE

  The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed as according the remotest degree of serious faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The event on which the interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of the situations which it develops; and, however impossible as a physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of human passions more comprehensive and commanding than any which the ordinary relations of existing events can yield.

  I have thus endeavored to preserve the truth of the elementary principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to innovate upon their combinations. The Iliad, the tragic poetry of Greece—Shakspeare, in the Tempest and Midsummer Night’s Dream—and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive amusement from his labors, may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a license, or rather a rule, from the adoption of which so many exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the highest specimens of poetry.

  The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in casual conversation. It was commenced partly as a source of amusement, and partly as an expedient for exercising any untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled with these as the work proceeded. I am by no means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist in the sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader; yet my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the avoiding the enervating effects of the novels of the present day and to the exhibition of the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from the character and situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived as existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference justly to be drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philosophical doctrine of whatever kind.

  It is a subject also of additional interest to the author that this story was begun in the majestic region where the scene is principally laid, and in society which cannot cease to be regretted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva. The season was cold and rainy, and in the evenings we crowded around a blazing wood fire, and occasionally amused ourselves with some German stories of ghosts, which happened to fall into our hands. These tales excited in us a playful desire of imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of whom would be far more acceptable to the public than anything I can ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write each a story founded on some supernatural occurrence.

  The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my two friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in the magnificent scenes which they present, all memory of their ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which has been completed.

  MARLOW, September 1817.

  LETTER I

  To Mrs. Saville, England

  PETERSBURGH, Dec. 11th, 17—.

  You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

  I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has traveled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my day dreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible; its broad disk just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual splendor. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions a
nd features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

  These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquilize the mind as a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favorite dream of my early years. I have read with ardor the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good uncle Thomas’s library. My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.