The entire trunk contained many old
books and several packets of papers, wrapped in twine. I picked up one of the books, opened it, and
looked at the title page: The History and
Present State of Electricity, by Joseph Priestly. The date was in Roman numerals, but I quickly
figured the year of publication: 1767.
The book I held in my hands was more than 200 years old—but the copy was
as fresh as if it had just been published.
But the smell of rot coming from the volume was almost more than I could
bear. So I placed it carefully back in
the trunk. There were other books, all
dealing with chemistry and electricity, all old, all appearing to be new, all
reeking with death.
I picked up another volume, a
large, leather-bound book that said only JOURNAL
on the cover. I slowly opened it and
saw, in tiny, cramped handwriting, descriptions and drawings of scientific
experiments. This occupied page after
page after page, all in the same, tiny handwriting. Almost all of it was in German, so reading it
was no problem for me. The experiments
seemed to have something to do with chemistry, something with electricity. The dates were all in the 1790s. Yet—like the first book I’d looked at—the
pages were clean and crisp … like new.
And—also like the first book—they were sour with the stink of death.
I picked up a packet of papers
wrapped in tightly-knotted twine. And
like the lock, the moment I touched the knots, they fell away, the strings
floating softly to the floor. The top
sheet was a title page to what was probably the entire manuscript I held in my
hand. It read: A History of the Family Frankenstein.
I wondered, Is this a novel? A book that was
never published?
I was excited. I’d made a discovery! Maybe the newspapers would be
interested. I turned the page. And nearly dropped the entire packet on the
floor. There were only three words on
this page, but no three words in the English language could have surprised me
more:
by Henry Stone
My father.
Had my father written a novel? Hidden it in the basement? But why?
Why would he bother to be so secretive?
Why hadn’t he ever told me about it?
I smiled as I thought of a possible answer: Maybe it contained things he
didn’t think I was “ready” for, things you might find in a book by Stephen King
or Anne Rice—violence, gore, bad language, sex.
I paged through it but found
nothing objectionable—in fact, much of what I glanced at was, well,
boring. Details about places in
Europe. Lists of names and dates.
But the final pages contained
something that absolutely riveted me. It
was a drawing of the family tree of the Frankensteins. The earliest ancestors were in the middle
ages—the thirteenth century!
With a finger, I traced my way down
through the diagram to Victor Frankenstein, where I knew the family must
end. In Mary Shelley’s story, he died in
the Arctic, aboard Robert Walton’s ship.
But no … the diagram showed that
Victor had a brother six years younger: Ernest Frankenstein. I’d forgotten about him in the book. Ernest, I
could see from the drawing, had numerous descendants. One branch of his family was named Wahl. Aunt
Claire’s name! What …? Is she related to the Frankensteins? An old photograph fell from the book. I bent to pick it up. It showed a young woman dressed in the
fashion of the eighteenth century. She
wore a smile, a smile I’d seen so many times in my own house. The woman in the picture looked exactly like Aunt
Claire.
I slipped the photograph back
between the pages of the manuscript and read on. I was about to experience another surprise,
this one coming when I looked at what appeared under Victor Frankenstein’s name.
The chart showed that he had married a woman named Margaret Saville in
London, England, in 1796. So he hadn’t
died in the Arctic? His new friend,
Robert Walton, had covered it all up?
Taken Victor back to England with him?
And Margaret Saville? Where had
I read that name before?
I shuddered when I remembered. In Frankenstein,
she was the married sister of Robert Walton, the one he wrote letters to, the
letters about Victor Frankenstein, about the creature. The chart showed that her husband had died in
1790. When Victor met her, she was a
widow.
The diagram continued, on through
the generations. The marriages. The children.
My father, Henry, was born in 1944.
And Henry, so the chart said, moved to America in 1962, where he met and
married Mary Waldman, who died in childbirth in 1984. They had only one child, Victoria.[i]
I felt my body tremble with the
cold when I read these last entries. It
was too strange, much too strange. These
most recent Frankensteins—real or not—had names just like those in my family! My father’s name is Henry, my mother’s Mary,
mine
Victoria. But I figured that my father had just used
familiar names for his story, if this was
a story. Maybe it was just out outline for a story he wanted to
write. Maybe he was just playing
around. Maybe—
I turned to the final page:
Victor
Frankenstein, of course, changed his name to Stone when he returned to
England. So all his descendants carried
the Stone family name. None of them knew
that their name had once been Frankenstein, one of the most hated and feared
names in history. But I found the family
papers. And so now I know. But I will hide them so that no one else will
ever see them. One day, perhaps, I will
find the courage to destroy them—I cannot seem to make myself do that, not
yet—and thereby destroy the horrible history of my family. My daughter, Victoria, must never discover
who she is!
“Vickie?”
Father’s
voice!
“Vickie, are you down in the basement? Vickie?
Where are you? Come upstairs—it’s
not safe down there.”
Quickly, I returned all the items
to the trunk—all except the
family history. I closed the lid and
replaced the lock, which closed with a click as soon as I put it in place. The glow was diminishing, so I picked up the
flashlight and slipped back out of the hidden room.
“Vickie?”
I could hear his voice, now at the head of the stairs. “Right now!”
“Yes, Father!” I cried. “I was just looking at my room. I’ll be right up.”
I went into my workshop and found
one of my book bags. I put the family
history in it. I had just closed my door
when I heard it, the serpent’s thoughts.
Victoria! Victoria! I felt a tone of warning in the “voice,” but
I ignored it.
I then went upstairs, into the
light, into the arms of my father.
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