Moon Shadow: A Paranormal Mystery Novel (Vampire for Hire Book 11) by J.R. Rain

Author:J.R. Rain [Rain, J.R.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Rain Press
Published: 2016-01-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-eight

Kingsley’s tale:

As you know, Sam, I’m no spring chicken. And neither is Franklin. And neither is, I suspect, the thing that attacked you out at Lake Elsinore. Of course, Franklin would take exception to one of his brothers being called a thing, and, by extension, him as well.

What they are, Sam, has all the makings of a great horror novel, which Mary Shelley captured so eloquently and at such a young age, too. Did you know she wrote Frankenstein at age nineteen?

Right, sorry, a tangent. Truth is, I’m organizing my thoughts here. I haven’t told this story... ever, actually. This will be my first telling of my meeting with Franklin—and others of his ilk.

Yes, Sam, ilk is a word. And yes, old fogeys like me still use it today.

Anyway, Dr. Frankenstein was a real person. He was an instructor at a boarding school in Ramsgate, where Mary Shelley spent about six months of her time. This was as close to a formal education as Mary would ever receive. She benefited from being raised by a writer of high standing, surrounded with books and interesting people who took an active interest in her. Of course, at the age of eighteen, she would marry Percy Shelley, the great Romantic poet; indeed, he encouraged her writing and often edited it. It was while vacationing with friends on Lake Geneva one summer, Lord Byron—yes, another great Romantic poet and good friend of Percy’s—proposed that they all amuse themselves by creating ghost stories.

While the others concocted elaborate and, quite frankly, terrifying stories, Mary found herself unable to play along. In fact, she seemed distressed and disappointed in herself. What kind of young writer was she, if she couldn’t think up a simple ghost story? Percy and Byron came up with tale after tale, regaling their friends around fires, often telling their fictions late into the night. And after each night, Percy would ask his young bride if she finally had a story of her own, and, each night, with some shame, she would admit to not having one.

That is, until the fourth night.

It was then that Mary decided to not tell a ghost story; after all, no such stories were coming immediately to mind, and certainly not clever enough to compete with those of Percy and Byron, wordsmiths revered even to this day. No, she had a different tale in mind.

And it wasn’t so much a tale, as a secret. A secret she was finally ready to share.

You see, young Mary had been given a glimpse into a world of horrors—real experiments by a mad scientist she renamed Victor Frankenstein. The man was real, the name wasn’t. Indeed, she’d had the good decency to protect his privacy, even as she exposed his work.

After all, she was desperate; that is, desperate to tell a good tale. Perhaps, in hindsight, she shouldn’t have let the cat out of the bag. Or the Frankenstein monster off the operating table.

But in her need to save face, her very

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