PETER AND THE FRANKENSTEIN
By the way, WEREWOLVES was the last story in the second novel (and Dill's fate would have been a cliffhanger). We are now in the first story of the third novel, which explains why there is a recap/general explanation.
Aren't you glad you didn't have to wait 6-12 months to find out what happens to him?
Now he was about to walk through it for the very first time.
Four months ago, the day Peter first set foot in Duskerville, Grandfather had given him a tour of his new home. There were dozens of places in the giant, decrepit mansion that Peter wasn’t supposed to go – some for very good reasons. When Peter disobeyed and ventured into the garden patch behind the main property, he discovered that it was tended by a clan of dead men who had been burned to death over 200 years before. They were not kindly disposed towards trespassers, Peter soon found out.
As bad as that had been, what followed was worse: one of his classmates came back from the dead as a vampire. A giant, prehistoric monster from the town lake swallowed him alive. His sister was replaced (temporarily) by a creature from another dimension. Mannequins at the local mall came alive. He was assaulted by psycho trick-or-treaters. A carnival of evil freaks nearly pulled out his soul.
But Peter and his best friend Dill had always come out of it unscathed. Shaken, maybe, and definitely suffering nightmares – but always unhurt.
Until last night, when a werewolf bit Dill.
Now Peter stood in front of the forbidden door, side by side with his best friend, watching as Grandfather inserted a key into the lock.
“We’re goin’ down there?” Dill asked unhappily.
“Yes,” the old man said.
Dill shook his head. “Unh-unh.”
Grandfather turned around. “And why not?”
“I ain’t gonna let you pick me apart and peel my skin off my bones and do weird experiments like putting an alien probe up my butt. Unh-unh, I ain’t goin’ down there.”
“It’s just my private workshop, you little idjit.”
“Yeah, where you’re gonna rip me up into little pieces and pull the skin off my bones and – ”
“In exactly twenty minutes,” Grandfather interrupted as he checked his watch, “the moon is going to rise.”
Peter looked at the glass panels next to the front door of the house, just a few feet away. Beyond them, the front lawn was swallowed in darkness.
“At that point,” Grandfather continued, “you may well turn into a raving beast and try to slaughter my daughter and granddaughter, at which point I definitely will kill you. But, if you walk through that door, I might be able to help you. And I can promise you I will not kill you or hurt you in any way. If you don’t walk through it, I promise no such thing.”
“You’d kill me?!” Dill asked, horrified. He looked at Peter. “You think he’d really kill me?!”
Peter shrugged. “He usually wants to kill you when you’re just a regular kid. If you were a werewolf, he’d actually have a good reason to.”
“All right,” Dill grumbled. “Let’s go.”
Grandfather turned the key, opened the door, and led the way inside.
The passageway was dark and steep, a stairway that spiraled downwards, around and around. Unlike the rest of the house, the steps and walls here were made of stone, rough and cold to the touch. Small lights on brass fixtures sprouted from the walls and gave off a dim glow.
They walked down the twisting staircase for what seemed like forever. Peter started counting around the thirtieth or fortieth step, and lost track after 80 when he started to see occasional doors that sprouted off from the main passageway – coarse, wooden-planked behemoths with iron rings and giant hinges. They reminded Peter of castles in knight and wizard movies.
“Don’t touch that,” Grandfather commanded as he led them further down.
They must have been at least fifty feet underground when the stairs ended at a giant, iron door. It looked battered and worn…and there were some very unnerving claw marks gouged deep in its metal surface.
“I think I’m gonna go back up,” Dill said timidly.
Grandfather ignored him as he produced a skeleton key (just like knight and wizard movies, Peter couldn’t help thinking) and rattled it into a gaping lock. There was a CLICK, and the hinges shrieked and groaned as the door swung wide open.
Beyond the doorway lay what looked like a museum…or a castle dungeon…or maybe both combined. There were long wooden tables stacked with strange weapons and implements: grim reaper scythes, tongs for hot coals, pokers, sickles, spiked balls on chains, and dozens of other assorted oddities. Swords and axes and spears hung on the walls in artistic arrangements, but Peter got the feeling that they weren’t just there for looks.
On one side of the room was what looked like a jail cell, with closely-spaced metal bars that stretched from floor to ceiling. Cages of various sizes, from one fit for a mouse to one that could have held a grown man, sat on the ground or dangled from the ceiling on chains.
In the opposite corner of the room, there was a giant hole in the ceiling, as though it had been carved out of stone for heaven knew what reason.
Peter looked over to check on his friend. Dill seemed torn between awe at the wicked coolness all around him…and overwhelming fear that the evil props might just be meant for him.
Standing in the corner was a large contraption that looked like a seven-foot-tall mummy’s tomb. Carved into the metal was the body of a woman, her face impassive as it stared out into nothingness.
“What’s that?” Peter asked.
“An iron maiden,” Grandfather answered.
Dill immediately began playing air guitar. “Dude, I didn’t know you liked heavy metal! Woody listens to my dad’s old CDs!”
“No. No, no, no. Your…” Grandfather paused, then formed the words with distaste: “…rock band was named after this. It was a torture device favored by the Spanish Inquisition, a hollow chamber filled with spikes that would pierce the victim’s skull and vital organs, then drop them through a pit into the sewers below.”
Dill stopped playing air guitar.
“You’re not going to put me in there, are you?!”
“Not if you behave.”
Dill laughed once, twice. “Ha, ha. No, seriously.”
“No, of course not.”
“Why do you have it?” Peter asked fearfully.
“This particular one is supposed to be haunted. I’ve been trying to determine whether it is or not.”
Dill swiftly stepped away from the contraption.
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Copyright © 2009 Darren Pillsbury. All rights reserved.
