FRAULEIN FRANKENSTEIN for Only 99 Cents!

FRAULEIN FRANKENSTEIN, the thrilling Gothic novel by Stephen Woodworth, New York Times best-selling author of Through Violet Eyes, is on special for ONLY 99 CENTS!

Her fate has become lost in legends. Some say her creator destroyed her; others believe fearful villagers burned her alive. Now, the mate that Victor Frankenstein created for his monster reveals her true story, from her awakening on the slab in the scientist’s laboratory, through her tortured initiation into human society, to her desperate quest for a love of her own…even if she has to manufacture the lover she wants. Get the Kindle ebook of FRAULEIN FRANKENSTEIN  for ONLY 99 CENTS on this page at Amazon:

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But hurry! This offer is only good until July 11, 2017. Get your copy TODAY!

 

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ONE NIGHT AT THE VILLA DIODATI, PART 4: JOHN WILLIAM POLIDORI

Born in 1795, John Polidori displayed a precocious aptitude for the medical profession, graduating from the University of Edinburgh at the age of nineteen. However, he never seemed content with his promising career as a physician and nurtured literary ambitions that would remain largely unfulfilled, leading to a short and tragic life. Despite his failure to make a name for himself as a writer, Polidori rather unwittingly made an indelible contribution to the field of horror fiction by introducing modern readers to the folkloric figure of the vampire.

His attraction to the glamour of the literati led the young Dr. Polidori to wheedle his way into a position as Lord Byron’s personal physician, and he accompanied the poet on his trip to the Continent in 1816. Indeed, Polidori’s diary serves as one of the primary firsthand accounts of Byron’s meeting with the Shelleys and of the celebrated ghost story competition at the Villa Diodati. The physician doubtless also deserves credit for contributing his medical knowledge to the discussions that inspired Mary Shelley’s conception of the overreaching medical student Victor Frankenstein.

Unfortunately, the relationship between Byron and Polidori was strained from the beginning and deteriorated rapidly. Polidori had an obsessive, fan-like attraction to Byron and quickly became catty and jealous whenever his Lordship lavished attention on Percy Shelley or anyone else. Meanwhile, Byron evidently considered his traveling companion an ingratiating toady and irritating nuisance, “exactly the kind of person to whom, if he fell overboard, one would hold out a straw to know if the adage be true that drowning men catch at straws.” (Byron’s words, not mine.) He effectively sacked Polidori not long after their sojourn at the Villa Diodati, and Polidori’s life entered a downward spiral after the two men parted company. Depressed by gambling debts and failed careers and relationships, John Polidori committed suicide by ingesting a lethal dose of Prussic acid (better known as cyanide) in 1821, just shy of his 26th birthday.

According to Mary Shelley, Polidori’s original contribution to the ghost story challenge at the Villa Diodati centered around a skull-headed lady. At some later date, however, he composed a far more memorable tale. Evidently inspired by the enigmatic character of Augustus Darvell in the “Fragment of a Novel” that Byron produced for the competition—and, more likely, by the aloof and sardonic personality of Byron himself—Polidori wrote “The Vampyre,” featuring “Lord Ruthven,” the first fictional bloodsucking noble in modern English literature. Literary critics generally agree that Lord Ruthven served as a model to Bram Stoker when he created his more illustrious vampire nobleman, Count Dracula.

What follows is a narrative with almost the same title but a very different tale to tell.

 

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THE VAMP-PYRE

by

John William Polidori

(as channeled by Stephen Woodworth)

On my left, Warrick pitched the limp bulk of a pregnant woman onto the heap of corpses in front of us, while Lafontaine tossed a small boy atop the mound from the right.

“Think that’s the last of ’em,” Warrick declared. His shirt was slashed as if by a tiger’s claws, its front blotched and spattered with crimson. The blood was not his.

“We need to be certain,” I said. “We cannot allow even one to rise. Go search again, and make haste—we haven’t much time.” With a torch in one hand and a wooden stake in the other, Warrick headed back to the desolate village, and I turned to Lafontaine. “Philippe, help me scatter the kindling.”

The charnel mountain had piled higher than my head, with more than a hundred livid cadavers sprawled on top of one another in disarray. Old and young, rich and poor, men, women, and children, all tangled together. For nearly a week, the strange contagion had ravaged the village. Every body bore the telltale puncture wounds—most on the neck, some on the wrist, and some…in far more intimate places. The stakes we’d used to despatch them still protruded from the chests of many of the bodies. We’d had to go from door to door, house to house, to get them all.

But one could not rely on the accuracy of the stake. If one missed the heart by even an inch, the accursed victim might still revive and wreak havoc. Immolation was the only sure solution.

I placed bundles of twigs around the heap in a ring, and Lafontaine followed after, using a pitchfork taken from one of the dead farmers to stuff dry straw in among the sticks. We then doused wood and flesh alike with whisky from jugs we’d found in the village’s abandoned tavern. Taking up the burning torches we’d stabbed handle-down into the soft soil, we stood to wait for Warrick.

The will-o’-the-wisp of Warrick’s torch bobbed through the benighted hamlet. The eyes of darkened windows glowed fretfully as he probed each thatched-roof cottage. At last, he returned, carrying no corpse.

“Empty as a drunkard’s purse,” he declared.

“Then let’s have done with it,” I said, and touched my torch to the liquor-soaked barrier of sticks and straw.

The fire caught quickly, the twigs popping and snapping, their evaporating sap spitting smoke redolent of willow and oak. Lafontaine and Warrick continued around the oval, thrusting their torches at the kindling until the entire mound of corpses was skirted by flame.

Then the bodies themselves began to smolder. The acrid stink of singed hair and woolen clothing tainted the air, followed soon by the oddly appetizing scent of fresh, roasting meat.

When it seemed that the fire had engulfed the mass of carrion without incident, I turned to the others. “Enough, lads! Let us rest—”

“Garde-toi!” Lafontaine exclaimed. “Behind you!”

I’d barely glanced back toward the bonfire when I felt a pair of vise-like hands seize the lapels of my frock-coat, dragging me toward the blaze. I found myself nose-to-nose with a face awash in flame, the visage shriveling to a death’s-head as if it were burning paper. The figure’s entire body was sheathed in fire but for its blackened, grasping hands, and I recognized it solely by its distended stomach: the pregnant woman was trying to claw her way out of our mass cremation. She let out a hideous banshee scream, her breath gusting in my face with the hot fury of a forge, and I feared she would set me afire.

Then her wail shrilled even louder as Lafontaine snatched up the pitchfork and drove its prongs into her chest. Still, she did not let go of me. I beat at her with the burning torch I still clutched, and her grip loosened as the fire consumed her limbs. Like the devil he was, Lafontaine used the pitchfork to thrust her back into the pyre.

Even then, the horror did not end. Bubbling with fried fat, the woman’s belly, like a well-cooked sheep’s bladder, burst open, and the unborn infant pawed blindly for freedom. Leeched of blood like its mother, it now shared her curse of abominable resurrection. Still leashed to her by its umbilicus, it scrabbled out of its charred womb only to dangle in the flames, mewling piteously.

“Over here!” Warrick yelled.

Lafontaine and I tore our gaze from the ghastly un-birth to see Warrick swinging his own torch at a tall, emaciated man who had erupted daemoniacally from the other side of the funereal mound. Before we could help Warrick stop him, the flaming figure had leapt onto the grass outside the bonfire’s oval. He began a frantic, staggering run, his scarecrow arms flailing and flaring against the black night sky. Warrick pursued him, and when the man stumbled and fell, Warrick batted at the man’s head with his torch until the burning skull broke from the quivering body and rolled away.

An ominous moaning drew our attention back to the pyre. We saw the dark heart of the fire pulsing, the mountain of corpses undulating as if alive. Flickering silhouettes appeared behind the curtain of flames as buried victims groped their way out of the carnage only to be immolated. They did a horrid dance of agony, screaming and screeching, as if already tormented by the furnace of Hades.

With pitchfork and torches, Lafontaine, Warrick, and I beat back all those who tried to escape the pyre. Penned within, they ultimately succumbed to the flames, their charred skeletons collapsing back into the fire like so much kindling. The heap of corpses diminished and lay still, its only sound the snap and sizzle of burning flesh.

At last, Lafontaine threw down his pitchfork. “C’est tout, mes amis!”

He grinned, his lips and chin still red with dried gore from our most recent feast. Warrick laughed, baring his own crimsoned fangs.

I winced. I could not help but pity the pathetic creatures that I’d seen shrieking and withering in the conflagration, and could not keep from imagining the inferno that awaited us if we ever ended up in the Hell we so richly deserved.

I could still taste the salty, metallic tang of blood on my own tongue. We three had fed well since our arrival in the village, but now that we had exhausted the local prey, we needed to ensure that none of our victims became members of the un-dead themselves. Too many vampyres marauding the countryside would alert the natives to our existence and might endanger our capacity to hunt, and that would never do. Thus, we killed our prey twice—once by draining their blood, and then again by stake when they turned from human souls to creatures of hunger and darkness like ourselves. Afterward, we consigned the bodies to the flames to be certain there were no survivors.

We watched the fire burn late into the night. The mound crumbled into a pile of blackened bones and dimming embers. With dawn approaching, we sought shelter in one of the town’s vacant houses, drawing shades and closing shutters on the windows to keep the sun off our sleeping forms.

At fall of dusk, we shall rise again and journey out under cover of darkness to find another village and more souls to send into fiery perdition.

THE END

Copyright 2016 by Stephen Woodworth

Nothing like a roaring fire to ward off those winter chills, eh, fiends? Er, I mean, “friends.” If you liked this morsel of morbidity, please SHARE it with your own fiends–friends–and check out the terror tales from Percy Shelley, Mary Shelley, and Lord Byron.

And don’t forget: For a limited time, you can get a Kindle ebook of FRAULEIN FRANKENSTEIN for the INCREDIBLE BARGAIN PRICE of *ONLY 99 CENTS*! That’s a deal so good, it’s scary! But this deal won’t last long. Order yours NOW, and SHARE the deal with everyone on your holiday horror list! Click the link below to order:

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Thanks for reading. Until next we meet at the Villa Diodati…STAY GOTHIC!

ONE NIGHT AT THE VILLA DIODATI, PART 2: PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Born in 1792, Percy Shelley lived to just a month shy of his thirtieth birthday, yet during that short time, he managed to secure a reputation as one of the preeminent lyric poets of the Romantic era. Best known today for such classic verse as “Ozymandias” and “To a Skylark,” Shelley was quite the rebel and free-thinker for his time, espousing atheism and nonviolent civil disobedience and taking up with sixteen-year-old Mary Godwin while still technically married to his first wife Harriet. After Harriet conveniently drowned herself (in the Serpentine in Hyde Park, no less!), Percy wed Mary in 1816.

Despite having multiple premonitions of his own death and having never learned to swim, Percy had a perverse, almost pathological penchant for sailing in small, open boats. His pastime proved his undoing in 1822 when his craft evidently capsized during a storm and drowned him.

A quintessential Romantic, Percy Shelley possessed an appropriately morbid sensitivity. Indeed, the ghost story competition at the Villa Diodati in June of 1816 was inspired, in part, by one of Percy’s panic attacks. One stormy night, Lord Byron had been spooking his friends with a reading from “Christabel” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. According to John Polidori, who was present, “the whole took so strong a hold of Mr. Shelly’s [sic] mind, that he suddenly started up and ran out of the room. The physician and Lord Byron followed, and discovered him leaning against a mantle-piece, with cold drops of perspiration trickling down his face. After having given him something to refresh him, upon enquiring into the cause of his alarm, they found that his wild imagination having pictured to him the bosom of one of the ladies with eyes (which was reported of a lady in the neighborhood where he lived) he was obliged to leave the room in order to destroy the impression.”

With that image in mind, consider yourself warned about the content of the story that follows. NOTE: THIS STORY CONTAINS EXPLICIT AND DISTURBING IMAGERY! WE PROMISE!

 

Orbs of Erato

 

THE ORBS OF ERATO

by

Percy Bysshe Shelley

(as channeled by Stephen Woodworth)

 She enters the villa from the courtyard, through the doors I have left open for her.The night, once racked by tempest, has become utterly still and clear, the nimbus dissolving to unveil a brilliant moon. Its beams frost her nude form in spectral white, the limbs sinuous as animate marble. Though the air is bitterly cold, no gooseflesh stipples her polished skin. Hair as wispy and lustrous as spider silk floats about a face so fine as to be featureless, its eyes shut, and she moves with the slow deliberation of a somnambulist. I am reminded again of the figure of blind Justice, but know that she is neither blind nor just.

I do not remember falling asleep, and yet the sudden, awful cessation of thunder has awakened me. I rise from my chair in the parlor and shamble toward the open doors, and I hear nothing in the smothering silence—not a footfall, no, nor even my own labored breath or beating heart.

She steps across the threshold into shadow, and I can see only her silhouette haloed in moonlight. Yet I can feel her nether gaze upon me as she waits with imperious bearing. I extend my hand to her in helpless invitation, and she, the guest, leads me to the bedchamber, as though I were the sightless one.

A single candle sits in a holder on the night table, and its wavering flame makes the rumpled sheets of the four-post bed appear to pitch and roll like an uneasy sea. She reclines on the down mattress, her eyelids still shut as if already in slumber. And that is when I see them—those other eyes that have no lids and never shut. One on each breast of her exposed bosom, the white of the eye like an aureole, a cornea in place of a nipple. The pupils contract in the candlelight, and the limpid orbs peer at me in languid expectation.

Under their stare, I grow faint, sickened, my head numb as the blood drains from it. When she raises her arms to summon me, however, I cannot refuse, nor tear my gaze from that of her nether eyes. Wearing only my nightshirt, I crawl forward like an infant, over the foot of the bed and onto her supine form. Despite my revulsion, I kiss and caress her stone-smooth bosom with insatiable ardor as the eyes follow the ministrations of my mouth. The pigment of their irises appears to shade from one hue to another, now green, now blue, now gray.

She grips me with the longing of a lamia, but she has come to nourish, not devour. As I touch my lips to her throat, to her jaw, to her cheek, the eyelids beneath her fine brows peel apart. Out of each opened eye peeks the iris of a reddish-brown aureole, its pupil a puckering nipple. I feel the flutter of lashes on my tongue as I lap at an exposed teat.

She lifts her breasts with her hands so that the nether eyes may continue to watch me. My mouth probes deeper into the hollow of her open eye until I suckle at the teat in desperate hunger. A taste sweeter than honeydew tingles my tongue, heady and dreadful and delicious, and it feels as if the milk flows not from her body but from the mind and soul behind that exquisite, implacable face. My brain dizzies with an intoxication of lurid visions and strange music, and I succumb to a drowsy numbness.

When I recover my senses, I am alone in the bed. The taper on the night table has melted into a frozen fountain of wax, its wick extinguished, and a haze of wan daylight shafts through the bedchamber window.

Far from lassitude, I feel an irresistible agitation. My skull is bursting, words leaking from its fissures. I jump from the bed and rush to my writing desk in my dressing gown. Verse gushes forth faster than I can capture it with ink and quill. The precious, elusive words threaten to skitter away, and I scribble madly to imprison them on the page. I write until eyes and arm and head are sore and still fail to catch all the fleeing rhymes.

Then the rapture dissipates like a vanishing dream, an ode half-finished on the paper in front of me. I am left with only a ghastly emptiness, a hunger that claws at me as if my stomach were full of rats.

I must see her again.

Night after night, I leave the doors open wide, but she comes no more. My mind is as blank as the sheets of foolscap that litter my writing-desk. Has she found another lover, one more worthy to nurse?

The thought is unbearable. I curl upon my bed and teethe my thumb, bawling, a babe bereft.

THE END

 Copyright 2016 by Stephen Woodworth

 

If you enjoyed this story, just wait until you see what “Mary Shelley,” “John Polidori,” and “Lord Byron” have in store for you! Stay tuned to this blog for more EXCLUSIVE, CHILLING, NEVER-BEFORE-PUBLISHED STORIES in the Gothic tradition, including a SPECIAL CELEBRITY GUEST APPEARANCE by PETER ATKINS, screenwriter of Hellbound: Hellraiser 2 and author of Morningstar and many other classic works of horror fiction! Don’t miss a single post!!! And please COMMENT, LIKE, and SHARE this terror with your friends!

While you’re waiting, if you need more monsters NOW, why not check out FRAULEIN FRANKENSTEIN? Your ticket to terror is just a click away!:

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Until we return to the Villa Diodati…STAY GOTHIC!