“I have taken to cataloging the extraordinary events not only for posterity but for my own benefit. I have seen much in my travels and had many adventures, but none so strange as those that transpired on our expedition to the Arctic.
Mr. Hyde’s insistence that we must have the journal of one Victor Frankenstein did not immediately stir me to action. I find Mr Hyde most disagreeable on the best days and am not inclined to indulge him. But he was in all earnest that whatever strange, alchemical experiments Frankenstein had performed a century ago could be of use in facilitating a cure for our poor young Mr. Talbot.
Still, I had cast my vote against this venture. I was the only one. Odious as Mr. Hyde is, he was able to, through some inexplicable force of charisma, convince both Mr. Harker and Mr. Talbot that he had to have Frankenstein’s lost journal, buried with him in the Arctic by Captain Robert Walton in the year 1818.
Our party set forth with four of us: myself, Ms. Selma Morris, Mr. Quincey Harker, and Mr. Edward Hyde. Mr. Talbot, due to his condition, was left behind in London in the care of Ms. Theodora Kipp. On foot, we followed the path carved out by Robert Walton’s expedition more than a century prior. The landscape was as harsh and foreboding as we expected, but mercifully, we had chosen to set out in the later months of spring, when the coastal snows had melted away. To the south, a dark sea churned, and north, foreboding mountains loomed with their snow-capped peaks still white as bones. All traces of the expeditions that came before had been wiped away, buried by snow and the relentless passage of time.
It was difficult to keep our spirits up on our miserable trek. Even in spring, the cold bit us, and the wind threatened to rip our tents apart. We pressed on regardless. Much to my displeasure, the member of our crew who complained the loudest was Hyde. He moaned relentlessly about the cold and the damp. I don’t think the man has ever spent a night away from the city or without the comforts of modern amenities. Despite his rough mien, I am almost certain he must have a wealthy background; he takes poorly to canned food, canvas sleeping bags, and wet socks.
God willing, he will fall down a crevice while we are hiking, and we will be unable to retrieve him—”
Watson gave an angry cry as a tin of stew knocked his journal from his hand and splattered him with cold brown liquid and half-eaten potatoes.
“Why did you do that?!” he snarled, grabbing his walking stick and brandishing it at Edward Hyde, who snickered unpleasantly.
“It pleases me tae vex you, doctor. Yer constant scratching at that journal is making me itch. You hum when you write and ’tis takin’ all of my effort not to lay my fist upside yer head,” the fiend drawled as he sat on his cot and kicked his legs. The way his knuckles whitened as he gripped the edges beside his thighs told Watson that he should not take the bait. He kept his eyes glued to Edward as he bent to pick up his journal and wipe what he could of the stew off it.
Hyde watched him like a cat waiting for a mouse to turn its back. His unpleasant mouth twisted upward, exposing his jagged teeth. It was with more than a little satisfaction that Watson watched that smile shrink as he picked up the book without cowering or flinching.
“You can bully Mr. Harker all you want, but I won’t tolerate it!” he said sharply, shaking the dregs of a ruined dinner from the cover of the journal.
“Gonna stop me, are ye?” Hyde snickered; it was hollow—his fun had been ruined. Watson watched him fidget, shrink a little, and dart his eyes away.
A bully and a coward. That’s all Hyde is. I’ve dealt with worse, Watson thought.
The tent flap behind them opened, and Quincey Harker, red-faced and panting, gestured wildly. “Come quick! We’ve found something!”
“What is it, Mr. Harker?”
“A graveyard! A cemetery! Oh, come quick and see!” Quincey darted out. Hyde and Watson exchanged glances. Watson grabbed his revolver and Hyde his cane. The two men staggered out of the tent. Quincey waved them forward.
“Over those hills, a half-mile walk! Ms. Morris is waiting,” he said.
“Lead us on, Mr. Harker,” said Watson encouragingly.Quincey darted ahead and then rushed back in his good-naturedly impatient way when Watson lagged behind, not unlike a terrier dog urging its master to come and see a caught hare or pheasant. As they descended the hill, Watson and Hyde were greeted by Selma and a plot of at least thirty graves, all clearly marked with whalebone and wooden crosses. Some bore names, some were blank. None had dates. Around the cemetery were statues, some made of wood, some of stone, all clearly carved by a meticulous hand. Depictions of falling angels, dancing devils and unfortunate men caught between both formed a striking tableau.
“What on earth…” Watson tapped one structure with his walking stick,
“Perhaps it was the last survivor of some disastrous expedition? Some hermit, maybe?” Edward suggested.
Watson shook his head, “No, some of these graves are much older than others. Look here,” he gestured. “The wood on this cross is quite worn from time and weather and the grasses have over taken the grave but the one beside it is much more fresh and the earth is still bare.”
“That’s not all,” Quincey waved them over to a far corner and what Watson saw there chilled him.
There were four freshly dug, open graves. Exactly four lay side by side. Four crosses of wood bearing four names.
Harker, Watson, Morris, Hyde.
“Someone’s been watchin’ us,” Edward’s head swiveled sharply on his neck as if he might spot the offender.
“But who?” asked Watson, mirroring the gesture.
“Or what. Not everything with a man’s ability to reason is human. Even if it might look like one,” Selma pointed to an indentation on the ground. Large footprints. Larger than any Watson had ever seen circled the graves. “It ain’t a vampire, that’s for sure. The crosses are proof of that, but those are some mighty big feet,” she drummed the butt of her rifle. Edward subtly moved himself closer to her.
“Aside from the extraordinary size, it’s identical to a man’s foot,” Watson knelt and traced the arch of one print, “But the man who made it must have been quite heavy and tall,” he pressed his own boot down into the soft ground to make an impression. His own foot was barely half the size and made a much shallower indent.
“Left foot, right foot. The toes on the right foot were broken and healed improperly. The impression is more inwardly curved. This foot has no arch as well,” Watson studied the prints, “How very odd, if I didn’t know better, I’d say they were feet belonging to two different people…”
“Turn around ye bloody nitwit we’re no’ alone!” Hyde snapped grabbing the doctor by the shoulder.
Watson turned and there, watching them from the edge of the graveyard was a massive figure cloaked in fur and skins. From under a deep hood glowed two yellow eyes. The group of four went still as a giant hand reached up and lowered the hood revealing the terrible face underneath.
Watson didn't know what he was looking at. This was not the face of someone who was alive. Black, tangled hair framed a face covered in yellow skin riddled with lighting bolt scars and the traces of stitches. One thick seam cut through the creature's lip and twisted it upward in a permanent snarl. It spoke, a deep, harsh, labored rasp as if it hadn't spoken in a life time.
"What has brought you here?"
blakekathryn
janainaart
jacobvanloon
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
jbbartram-illu
vaporwave
