i have started my first reading of Frankenstein now the i have finished rereading radio silence
the first letter seems like a great beginning though i was a bit confused at first by why we are seeing a letter from a sailor
it's important i believe to show the theme of stubbornence within the book, as he was persistent through his whole life about being a sailor, and worked very hard to achieve that
from what i know of the book this will reappear with Victor Frankenstein himself
You waked up in an unfamiliar place. A second ago, you'd been doing something completely mundane: working, relaxing, sleeping… anyway, finding yourself in the middle of nowhere wasn't exactly part of your plans.
Your head ached unpleasantly near temples, a familiar sensation from oversleeping, but unpleasant nonetheless. Attempts to look around yielded no results. You wanted to close your eyes, ignore such a realistic dream, and try to rest a little longer. Even if it was like throwing more wood on an already burning fire.
The beginning was disgusting.
"How are you feeling?" The voice, coming from somewhere else, should have been alarming, but the headache wasn't conducive to conscious decision-making. You merely closed your eyes against the intensifying discomfort. "A stupid question, I know."
Judging by the rustling of clothing, whoever it was had risen from their seat. It was hard to tell from the sounds, but it seemed he was taking something out of a cabinet or a drawer. Through the haze, you sensed a presence nearby, strong hands helping you sit up. You didn't want to stay, but fortunately, the stranger allowed you to lean on him and pressed a bottle into your hand.
"Painkiller," a quieter voice said in your ear. "Need help?"
You shook your head cautiously. Accepting strange substances from strangers was the stupidest decision imaginable. For a moment, you felt like the hero of a typical horror movie, where all the characters died one by one. However, in a scenario where the liquid would either help or kill, there was no choice. Being alone with the pain and trying to think was unbearable.
Finding the cap and carefully bringing the bottle to your lips, you took a small sip. It didn't bring any magical relief, but it made life easier. You sealed the container tightly and set it aside, fortunately no one insisted on the ' to the bottom' technique.
Continuing to play, only partly, you tried to gather your thoughts. The situation was clearly beyond of normal; your anxiety suggested the worst possible scenarios: kidnapping, slavery, something worse? Having more or less recovered, you realized that the bed was very comfortable. Fabric suspiciously pleasant to the touch. Perhaps silk, perhaps something equally expensive. Moreover, the man gently supported you, this unusual concern a stark contrast to common sense.
With effort, you tried to pull away and lean against the headboard to look at the stranger. He had no pupils; in the voids lay a bleached-out starry sky, or perhaps a glittering moonstone tinged with mother-of-pearl would be a better description. His hair had blue hue, like the fresh frost that the cold paints on windowpanes during the first snow. However, the beauty of his face was eclipsed by something dark behind his head, like a dark halo with golden eyes. For a second, you thought of biblical angels, but it didn't feel like heaven. He was dressed in a high-collared robe, and a blindingly white fur boa rested on his shoulders. It felt less like fur than a fluffy snowdrift, and touching it would chill you rather than warm.
It was time to stop reading novels before bed, otherwise you would dream all sorts of things, you decided. You tried to remember the rules and restrictions, what you shouldn't do in lucid dreams. Excessive attention to details should help you wake up; your brain won't be able to generate information so quickly.
"Thank you?" You should try to start a conversation; the more questions, the better. "Where am I? What is this place? Who are you?"
It was hard to look your interlocutor in the eyes—there were too many of them—but you tried to maintain at least a semblance of politeness. All while you resisted the urge to shiver; even looking at him was cold. His face remained calm, in contrast to your inner turmoil. The gold behind him stared into your very core, telling its owner all your deepest secrets.
Before the staring contest could completely turn into torture, he broke the silence,
"You're feeling better," not a question, but a statement of fact. Now you noticed how his voice sounded both nowhere and everywhere at once, echoing in your thoughts. A frightening sensation. "Teleportation is difficult for the human body. My apologies for not considering that."
"Okay.." He ignored all your questions, while simultaneously generating new ones. What did he mean as "human?" What was "teleportation"? "How may I address you?"
He paused for a moment and then blurted out the most classic line from fantasy novels, "You may give me a name"
You should definitely stop reading at night. It was wrong.
"Wrong or unusual?"
Your gaze grew skeptical. Had you said that last sentence out loud? The thought of your thoughts no longer being private weighed heavily on you. It was time to end this.
"Both options, if you don't have a nickname, I'll address you as 'Hey'," you continued, clasping your hands. "Why am I here?"
It was difficult to read his eyes, which were blank. Beautiful, yet chilling. "I'm tired of being kept silent."
Instead of answering, the man extended a gloved hand, the same color of silvery sparkling as his entire appearance, waiting for something. Frowning, you extended your hand, but only grasped one of his fingers with the tips. Surprisingly, it was quite warm.
"Eulalius," he said, catching your attention. Of course, of all the options, he chose this one. "You can call me that. I found you in the forest, among the snow and drifts, unconscious. A stranger, but belonging to this world like no one else."
Lies.
"You think this is a dream," another calm statement, as if the only one who doubted anything was you.
He was definitely lying. It couldn't be. Because… why? What were you doing before you woke up here?.. Well, it doesn't matter. You were just disoriented. You should try to wake up. What else did those internet posts you were reading at 3 a.m. said?
Fall!
Maybe you could try falling out of bed? Or from something higher up? What floor was this room on? If it was the first one, it would be perfect for an experiment. However, before you could do anything, the hand slipped from your "grip" and closed around your forearm. Meeting his eyes again, you tried to break free.
"Stop," you managed to free your hand. "Stop treating me like I'm an idiot. No, on the contrary, explain everything to me. Explain it in simple terms, so even a child could understand. I-…" you faltered. "I don't know a thing, and it irritates me a lot that I don't"
The man watched you with interest. For a second, you thought he was trying to learn from your reaction, but it sounded stupid.
"I want to go for a walk," you blurted out suddenly, completely changing the subject. Your gut instinct told you that man wouldn't answer your burning questions. At least, not as truthfully and completely as you'd like.
"It's colder outside than here," he finally said after a long pause. He adjusted his boa, which had slowly slipped off his shoulders due to the change in position, and his expression took on a bored look. As if he were disappointed that you'd retreated so quickly. "I won't stop you, though."
Before you could blink, he was gone. Literally vanished into thin air. Despite your better judgment, you couldn't help but pinch yourself a couple of times. It hurt, but the image before your eyes didn't change. Exhaling in frustration and trying to shake off the pent-up tension, you tossed the blanket aside and swung your feet off the bed and onto the floor. As soon as your bare heels touched the marble floor, you realized what the man meant. Either the adrenaline kicked in, or the fabric was a better conductor of heat, but the floor was cold and frosty, as if you'd stepped on ice.
Quickly spotting a fluffy rug near the extinguished fireplace, you tiptoed to your destination, exhaling with relief as you felt the soft pile beneath your feet. At the same time, you suddenly realized why you'd been abandoned so quickly. The owner of the house was certain you couldn't get far even if you tried. Just as you'd have no choice but to return if you escaped.
Stubbornness boiled in your veins, and you wanted to run anywhere, out of spite, but your brain silenced the urge and insisted on a long-term strategy. You needed to think ahead. Run, but where? If he really had found you in the forest, and this was a world different from the one you were used to, then taking risks was foolish. Of course, no one was going to give you a detailed map and floor plan of the mansion, but you could at least form some idea yourself.
Just as quickly, trying to ignore your freezing limbs, you headed for the door that looked like a walk-in closet. Luckily, that was exactly what it turned out to be, and thankfully, it contained warm winter clothes. At least the closet wasn't filled with colorful, lightweight rags that would freeze faster than the air from your lungs, congealing into white clouds. Pulling out the first fur coat you came across and finding some more or less suitable shoes among the abundance of heels, you quickly changed.
Weighing up the options of strolling around the house and trying to go outside, you chose the latter. In a few long strides, you covered the distance to the window and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains, mentally rejoicing. The room was indeed on the ground floor; at least luck was on your side. Without wasting a moment, you undid the metal bolt shaped like a small crow, its hooked beak clinging to the other side. As soon as the symbolic barrier between you and the street fell, a cold, unfettered air hit you in the face. Taking a short breath to calm your nerves, you lifted your foot, gripping the frame for support, and stepped onto the windowsill, stepping in an unknown direction.
*
*
*
At first, the garden didn't look unusual, in fact, typical to the eye of a fantasy novelist. Stone tiles paved the ground, forming whimsical paths that branched off in different directions. If the season had been more favorable, and the greenery had been more vibrant, you would have felt like Alice. The one who got lost and ended up in Wonderland.
A cold wind blew across your cheeks, and your breath instantly turned to white clouds. Despite this, you weren't about to give in and go inside. This was a good chance to take in the surroundings and get a glimpse of the world. Shivering, you wrapped yourself tighter in the fur coat you'd thoughtfully borrowed from the owner of the house and continued to explore.
The rose bushes to the right and left were the only color on the horizon, drawing attention with their petals as bright red as arterial blood. As if someone had walked past, spilling hot liquid onto the snow, wanting to leave a trace. It was amazing how the flowers could bloom in such frost, but either they were a resilient variety, or magic had intervened. Although that word still evoked skepticism. They formed a kind of labyrinth, trimmed to waist level. It was hard to get lost, but with the desire, anything is possible.
With difficulty, you tore your gaze away from the plants and noticed an ice statue of an owl in the distance. However, the closer you got, the more hideous the sight became. The statue turned out to be a gigantic bird with a significant chunk of its body missing, revealing a gaping hole with ribs protruding through the frozen flesh. Its internal organs were missing, and the bird itself seemed frozen forever in its death throes. If the beast that had ripped the owl's belly open was anywhere nearby, you weren't eager to meet it.
Looking closer, you noticed that the "statue" wasn't the only one in the pavilion. Every small island, in addition to the fountain in the very center of the garden, from which flowed a crystal—and no doubt scalding—water was frozen animal with a hole in its belly. Unwilling to observe the disgusting sight any longer, you quickened your pace, hoping the alley would soon end.
However, in this life, things rarely go according to plan, as the garden gradually turned into a labyrinth. The trimmed bushes grew imperceptibly, until the difference became as noticeable as the way back was lost. However, unlike the hero of the legends, you didn't have a magic ball of thread with you.
Walking, touching the wall—or, in your case, the bush—with one hand, proved futile after about half an hour. Of course, some might say that this way you can at least somehow control the situation and reduce the chance of getting lost, but they haven't been in your shoes. They didn't walk in a stupid garden in the middle of winter, with a piercing wind and barely feeling their feet that was sinking into the snow.
At some point, you cursed that moment, deciding that exploring the surroundings was better than staying indoors. Or the moment when you considered returning. Or the moment when you found yourself in this world, this… disgusting place that had every chance of becoming your grave. Your strength was waning and hands were growing numb. You could barely move your fingers, and fur coat was no help. Stopping was death, but a short break was necessary.
"Did you enjoy the walk?" You turned around abruptly, digging your nails into the hard, living wall. Of course, he had to appear at that exact moment. You wanted to snap back, say 'Yes', turn around, and keep walking… well, if you really wanted to stay in this maze forever. Choosing between pride and common sense was harder, even in a life-or-death situation.
The halo behind his head turned a dark gray, like an overcast sky about to burst into rain. Empty eye sockets stared at you, it only advantage was light color, preventing you from seeing your reflection. Watching at your pitiful and tired form at the moment was the last thing you wanted to do.
"Quite," you decided to be polite, at least for appearances' sake. "Why are you here?"
He tilted his head slightly, as if doubting your words, "You've been gone for a few hours. Nature here is harsh on strangers; you shouldn't wander aimlessly."
You had a goal, technically, but what caught your attention was something else. He said 'a few hours'? Hours? You could have sworn it hadn't been more than an hour. You would have frozen and turned into one of the ice statues much sooner if he was right.
Suddenly, your thoughts were interrupted by a stabbing pain, gripping the back of your head like an invisible hoop. Reflexively squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to comprehend what was happening. Thin branches dug into your palm, still clasped by the bush, scratching your skin. Your legs buckled, unable to support your weight, and before you completely lost consciousness, you heard a fragment of a phrase, "---ti-...e."
You waked up in an unfamiliar place. Your head ached unpleasantly near your temples, a familiar sensation from oversleeping. The beginning was disgusting.
The room was a typical fantasy castle interior. A bas-relief ceiling depicting mythological scenes unknown to you. White furniture and walls accented with gilded leafing visually expanded the room, making it seem even larger than it actually was. Above the bed was a canopy, gray-blue, like dirty snow, or better yet, a winter sky. Not the kind sung about in poetry, but one that any city dweller sees for three months straight.
A strange feeling of déjà vu, as if you were already here, but you quickly dismissed the thought. Perhaps you saw the picture on a news report or as an illustration in a book, but nothing more. It's likely your brain was just playing a trick and choosing this particular setting as the backdrop for your dreams.
Your headache was slowly fading, so you decided to take the chance and sat up slowly, rubbing your temples. Despite the general impression, it wasn't as cold as you thought. Perhaps it was because of the fireplace across the room, crackling with its logs. A warm-looking cape lay on a chair nearby. Unable to resist, you reached out and touched the fur trim, feeling its softness against your fingertips.
How convinient.
Wrapped in it, you approached the window. Unfortunately, the frame was tightly closed, but that didn't prevent you from seeing the garden. There were trees with dark green foliage, silvered with snow, under which bushes of red roses rested securely. It seemed vaguely familiar again.
Glancing at the flowers one last time, you took another quick look around the room. The bed was on the right, hidden behind airy-looking fabric, a small dressing table next to it, and the half-open door to the dressing room. A tightly closed wardrobe and a small island with a soft armchair and bookshelves. A fireplace with crackling logs and a table, apparently used for entertaining guest. On it sat a long vase filled with dried willow and eucalyptus branches.
Unable to think of anything better to do, you walked over to the island and began examining the books. They were old, but still expensive-looking. Some were lined with velvet, others were hugged in leather, and all in a language unknown to you. Much to your disappointment, there were no pictures, making it impossible to guess their contents. Guessing that there was nothing of interest, you were about to leave when you noticed of the corner of your eye a piece of paper sticking out in books.
You carefully pulled it out of the volumes, trying not to tear it. Someone had gone to great lengths to hide it and still make it visible. A tattered sheet, or rather a scrap, with blurry, barely legible words and drips of ink. You peered closer at the writing.
"…day six after lunch… I think it's sixth…
…he said his name was Ę̵͠u҈̢͠l҈̢̕a̸͜͞l҈̨̛i̵̢͠u҈͢͞s҉̕͜, but I can't remember-..
--..xit! ---d̶̡͞ơ̶̡ n̴̡̛o̶̡͝t҉̕͢ e҈̕͜x̸̧̛i҉̧͡s̵̛͜t̵̡̕--- found it!"
Your fingers tried to squeeze the paper, but you restrained yourself. Who and why left this note here? Turning the scrap of paper over, you continued reading.
"I didn't check here," you froze, hearing a voice behind you. Someone reached out and snatched the note from your trembling hands before you could even think to hide it.
Slowly turning your head, you saw a man with a gaping void in his eye sockets—a black, staring abyss. He no longer seemed the bright angel you'd seen before. Did you know him? You weren't sure of anything anymore. He was examining the scrap of paper with interest, as if it meant far more to him than to you. You would rather believe it contained a photograph of someone dear to him, not terrifyingly frightening text that made you skin crawl.
"Is this the last page?" he asked, but you couldn't answer. You stepped back but very soon you touched a bookshelf from behind. Despite better thinking you closed your eyes, wishing that all of this was just a dream.
You waked up in an unfamiliar place. Your head ached unpleasantly near your temples, a familiar sensation from oversleeping. The beginning was disgusting.
She Studies Other People’s Memories—Until Her Own Begin to Fracture.
Dr. Elianor Vale has built her life around listening carefully: to children, to silences, and to the details adults dismiss as imagination.
Then a nine-year-old girl remembers a house she has never visited.
The name Blackmere begins appearing where it should not—in photographs, clinical records, property archives, and the gaps inside Elianor’s own childhood. The deeper she follows the case, the harder it becomes to tell whether memory is evidence, inheritance, or something deliberately constructed.
The Blackmere Files is a gothic psychological thriller about erased mothers, unstable identities, and the terrifying cost of discovering that your past may have been arranged for you.
Follow Elianor Vale into the case that makes memory itself unreliable.
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Post by @jaykaydeskie · 1 link · UNDER DEAD MAN'S LAWS (PT.4)
(part three)
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · JayB1RDZ on DeviantArt · Hell
Chapter twenty (EPILOGUE)
A few weeks passed.
Callum sat at his kitchen counter with his laptop open. Instead of reading archived coroner ledgers or nineteenth-century poverty maps, he opened a travel booking site.
For the first time since his injury and his medical discharge, the soldier looked at flights to Genoa and Florence.
He wasn't booking a trip for a broken relationship or a ghost of a future anymore.
He was booking it entirely for himself.
By taking those steps across the continent, he was going to live out the exact, unrestricted freedom that a noble barrister and a skilled tailor had spent centuries longing for.
Callum's military vigilance didn't completely vanish, but it transformed.
Whenever the modern world felt too loud, too exposing, or too heavy, he never again reached for another bottle.
Instead, he remembered the absolute devotion that would drive a proud man to sit beside a nameless grave for eternity.
Callum closed his eyes, focused on his own steady, even heartbeat, and walked forward into the open world.
How Interview with the Vampire Turns Love and Grief into Horror
In *Interview with the Vampire*, Anne Rice uses Claudia to transform love, grief, and parenthood into something deeply unsettling. Through Louis and Lestat’s possessive devotion, Claudia becomes both a beloved daughter and a weapon in their fractured relationship. Her tragedy reveals one of horror’s darkest truths: love can be sincere and still become monstrous when it values possession over personhood....
