by Will McIntosh

A nominee for both the Hugo and Nebula awards this year for his Asimov’s Readers’ Award winning short story “Bridesicle” (January 2009), Will McIntosh’s work has also appeared in Science Fiction: Best of the Year 2008 and 2009; Strange Horizons; Unplugged: The Year’s Best Online Fiction 2009; Interzone, and many other venues. A New Yorker transplanted to the rural south, Will is a psychology professor at Georgia Southern University, where he studies internet dating and how people’s TV, music, and movie choices are affected by recession and terrorist threat. Will is also the father of very young twins. The author’s latest story, which explores the complexities of human relationships and the repercussions of experiments that go beyond “what mankind was meant to know,” is a perfect tale for our slightly spooky October/November issue.

Waiting in the closed casket was the worst part. The prickly dread invoked by the dark box was far worse than the wide-eyed shrieks that would ensue when I emerged. Darby had assured me that I would grow accustomed to the casket, but I thought that unlikely. Darby had never been in one.

I was clutching my hands across my chest like a corpse positioned for viewing, and I repositioned them at my sides. I listened to Darby’s patter and to the noise of the crowd, trying to relax.

“Dear patrons, ladies, gentlemen.” Darby’s baritone vibrated the coffin. The railroad spike lodged in my head was pressed to the side of the coffin, and it picked up the vibrations and caused my skull to hum. “I can read it on your faces—some of you are skeptical, even amused. I don’t blame you. I can assure you that your amusement will be short-lived. I can also assure you that Doctor Victor Frankenstein was not just a character in a book, because he was my grandfather.” This brought scattered laughter from the crowd. “Go ahead, laugh! But Mary Shelley was not a purveyor of fictions with a tall imagination, but a biographer who lost her courage. The proof is in this box.” I was prepared for the rap on the coffin this time. It had startled me during the first few performances. “My grandfather retrieved the monster’s head from a railroad worker who suffered a terrible and fatal accident when a charge he was setting in stone exploded prematurely, driving a thirty-inch steel spike into his face just below the cheekbone . . .” I could picture Darby touching the spot below his cheek to show the audience where the spike had entered my head, “. . . and out the top of his head. It is lodged there still, as you shall see.”

Indeed, it was lodged there still. Our meal ticket.

“His limbs were gathered from amputees in exchange for the cost of their medical expenses. Poor souls. Victims of accidents, infection, gout. His heart is the heart of a black bear, his kidneys . . . well, that is enough detail, don’t you think? Grandfather was called a ghoul by those who misunderstood his work, and I remain sensitive about that portrayal.”

My anus began to itch. It was an unfortunate spot, because it would be no easier to slake the itch when I was out of the box and under a hundred stares than it was to reach the spot while still in the box. I tried to ignore it.

“So, enough of my oration, eh? Would you like to meet the Frankenstein monster?”

There were shouts of assent, whistles, scattered applause.

“All right, then,” Darby boomed. “I shall summon him.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Rise! Rise my creation, my demon spawn, my pride, my shame. Show yourself.”

I counted one, two, three, allowing the tension to rise. Then I pushed on the plush padded underside of the casket lid, allowing a crack of light to rush in. I gave my eyes a moment to adjust, then threw off the lid. It clattered to the wooden stage.

I rose to a sitting position, rotated stiffly to face the crowd.

Smiles froze, shrunk to tight rictus “Os.” Mouths snapped shut; others fell open.

Shrieks and shouts ensued, filling the tent. A woman in the front row lost the strength in her legs; the gentleman accompanying her was too sluggish in his attempt to catch her and she dropped to the straw-covered ground.

“Do not be alarmed,” Darby shouted over the din, waving his arms. “The monster will follow my commands. There is no danger as long as you do not approach him.” Yes, do not approach too closely, for while some of the long, jagged scars that swept across my torso were real, others were drawn in before each show, along with the lamp black under my eyes to make them appear more deep-set in my long face.

I pressed my palm against the edge of the casket and rose. It was important that I rise slowly, drawing myself up, up, as if I would never stop, the three inch boosters in my thick boots and the angle of the stage making me appear impossibly tall.

“My. Dear. God,” someone cried out.

“It can’t be. It just can’t be.”

“But it is,” Darby added. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Frankenstein’s monster.”

I pointed a hooked index finger at the audience and howled. We had worked hard on the howl—it was a most disconcerting sound. Half a dozen people turned and fled the tent; most of those who remained backed up a few paces.

“It’s a fake, it has to be,” a suspendered oaf said from the end of a row. His arms were folded tightly. “It’s two ends of the spike, stuck to him with something.”

“Come see for yourself.” Darby stepped off the stage, approached the skeptical rube. “Come.” He tugged the man’s elbow. The man allowed himself to be drawn onto the stage, his bravado melting as Darby turned him toward the sea of faces in the audience.

Darby commanded me to sit, then encouraged the skeptic to examine the spike. The lights dimmed (in case he took a closer look at my scars, though we’d found that the spike captivated most people’s full attention). Cautiously, the oaf stepped forward, leaned toward me to look at the spike.

“Touch it. Go ahead.” Darby said.

The oaf reached out, pushed at the spike jutting out of the top of my head. As he drew his trembling fingers away I let my head droop to an angle where he could see the spike disappearing into my skull.

He cried out and fled, running right out of the tent.

Darby cautioned me that when you lie, absorb as much truth into the lie as possible. It was true, then, that I acquired the spike in an accident while working for the railroad. As far as I can tell, it caused no damage to my mind. In fact most of my education had come since the accident, when I, weary of terrifying women and young children, sought sanctuary in a cabin in the wilderness of British Columbia. But do not imagine a bearded mountain man hunting for his supper and skinning it with a hunting knife. I ate mostly beans and potatoes. I lived off the largesse of my younger brother and spent my days reading.

I read Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s novel, but it was Darby, not I, who formulated the Frankenstein Plan as we sat drinking in a pub. Manual labor was beyond me because of my injuries, so when loneliness finally drove me back to the world, I had to rely on my intellect. And deceit.

“The skeptic tonight was perfect, don’t you think?” Darby asked. He sat at the tiny secretary by the window, counting the evening’s receipts.

“If he’d had a tail, it would have been tucked between his legs,” I answered.

Darby chuckled appreciatively. “By the time we arrive at the fair in Chicago, word will have preceded us. We’ll draw five hundred a show.”

There was a knock at the door. “Mr. Darby? May I speak with you?”

Darby went to the front room of the wagon and opened the door a crack. I heard a man introduce himself as Dexter Wilson—an inventor interested in animism, he said. He wanted to discuss technique. He was the sort of man we avoided—one who could tell the difference between scars caused by shale and wire driven across the skin by an explosion, and surgical scars resulting from the attachment of sundry limbs to a torso.

Darby kept the door nearly closed. “My grandfather was the genius, not I. I am neither a doctor nor a researcher, only nursemaid to a monster. I wasn’t even present when the monster was created.”

“Ah!” Wilson said, “But the monster was.” I heard the unmistakable rasp of currency being handled; it is a sound to which I have grown attuned in my new life. “If I could have just a few minutes’ audience with him—I assume he can speak?”

“Oh yes, he can speak,” Darby replied. He accepted the bills, then held up a finger. “There is one condition. You must keep a fair distance from him. He tires at night, and can become . . . disagreeable.”

“Of course, I understand,” Wilson said. The excitement in his tone was unmistakable.

I snuffed out the large lamp, leaving only a small one burning, and retreated to my bed, drawing the blanket to my chin. The door squealed open and Darby entered, followed by Wilson, who was clutching his hat at his waist, his eyes blazing. “This man would like to speak to you,” Darby said. “He means you no harm.”

I nodded understanding, breathing heavily through my nose to give my presence a beastly air. Darby left us alone, closing the door so that the room was thick with shadow. I did not offer him a seat, but only stared.

“Can you tell me what you remember from your first day?” he whispered. His demeanor bordered on reverent, like a man in a church who has glimpsed his god.

“My first day?” I replied, an octave lower than my voice would produce of its own accord.

“Yes. The day you were made.”

I grunted, feigning amusement. “I remember pain. Bandages.”

He took an eager step forward. “What was around you? Was there a storm outside?”

Ah. He had read Mrs. Shelley’s book, had probably worn the binding to threads. I rolled my eyes up, as if searching my memories.

“No,” I answered.

“No?” Wilson said. He swept oily hair out of his eyes. “Then what provided the spark of life?”

I had grown skilled at fabricating memories. The key was to stay in the vicinity of Shelley’s account, but to drift, thus suggesting I had information she did not. “I remember great wheels turning. The sound of rushing water. Blocks of black iron everywhere—”

“Magnets?” Wilson interrupted, breathless.

Magnets? If he liked, they could be magnets. “Yes. Magnets.”

“Good, good. What else?”

“Strange fluids. In my mouth, running through tubes into my heart.”

“Did the fluids have a color?”

“White,” I said. “Milky.”

Wilson looked around, lunged at the tiny desk Darby used to keep records. He flipped a sheet of paper covered in figures, reached for the pen and ink and scribbled furiously. He wrote as if he’d forgotten I was there. Finally he glanced at me. “Please pardon me. Things escape me if I don’t write them down.” He rose from the table, the chair scraping. “What else do you remember?”

Wasn’t that enough? “Nothing else. Wheels. Tubes. Bandages. A man standing over me.”

“Doctor Frankenstein. What was he like?” Wilson asked, breathless.

“His neck broke easily,” I growled, flexing my fingers. Another variation from Mrs. Shelley’s account, but I was here and she was not.

Wilson ducked at the waist and took a step toward the door. “Thank you. Thank you for indulging me.” He took another step backward, kicking the table leg and almost stumbling. “Your mere existence is all the encouragement I need.” With that he turned and rushed out.

I shook my head, chuckled. Magnets and white fluids. Yes, that should do it. Or was it dynamite and a railroad spike that made the monster?

* * * *

The wagon groaned to a halt. I slept well when the wagon was moving, but the pleasure of sleeping to the wagon’s rocking was always offset by the jolt and jarring silence that woke me.

I drew back the curtain a sliver and peered out the open window. We were settled in the weeds beside a stream. Darby chose a spot close to water whenever possible—streams and lakes cooled my nerves far better than any drugstore potion.

I reclined back onto my narrow bed, listening to the water, until I heard voices outside. It never took long for people from the town to notice our colorful enclosed wagon with its enticing images painted on the sides. The first to come were usually children; they would run and spread the word to their parents and soon we would have a curious crowd.

Soon I heard Darby out there doing his part, selling the spectacle of the Frankenstein monster. I rose, admired his skill from the window. He was gesticulating wildly toward our wagon, his eyes stretched wide as if to illustrate just how awe-stricken his audience would be if they paid to see the show tonight.

“Hold on a minute,” one of the townspeople said, cutting Darby off mid-gesticulation. “You’re saying Frankenstein’s monster is in that wagon?” He pointed in my direction; I ducked behind the curtain.

“I am indeed,” Darby said.

“Well that ain’t possible,” the man said. He shook his head almost mournfully.

“I realize it’s hard to believe, that the Frankenstein mon—”

The man cut Darby off. “It ain’t possible because the Frankenstein monster is already here. I paid a dime to see him last night, over at the fairgrounds.”

I was sure I must have misunderstood the man. Darby sputtered, lost for words.

“That’s right,” the man insisted. He tugged the brim of his hat to negotiate a better fit. “I don’t know who you got in that wagon, but last night I seen the Frankenstein monster with my own eyes.”

“He’s big as a house, scars all over himself,” a stooped old woman added, spreading her hands to illustrate the creature’s size.

A giggle escaped me. I clapped a palm over my mouth, muffling my laughter to soft snorts. Someone else was running the same ruse? Oh, what irony. Perhaps there were also several headless horsemen sharing a pint in the local pub.

“Well, let me assure you,” Darby said, regaining his composure, “I am in the company of the Frankenstein monster; whoever this, this poseur is, he is not who he claims to be.” He stormed away in a huff, slamming the wagon door shut for good measure.

“This is not funny,” he said when he saw me laughing.

I opened my mouth and let my laughter wash over him. Let the townspeople hear it, what was one town? “Of course it is. I’ve never heard anything so funny.”

Darby pulled a skillet out of the cabinet, retrieved half a dozen eggs and the sack of ham from the pantry. “It’s embarrassing is what it is. And what if this other Frankenstein monster is heading south, and has already hit all of the towns between here and Chicago?” Darby froze, held up his hand. “What’s that?” Fresh shouts lit the air in the distance. We went outside to investigate.

A large enclosed wagon—larger than our own—lumbered toward us, leaving a plume of dust in its wake. Painted on the side of the wagon in ornate gold and black lettering was The Frankenstein Monster, and below, in smaller lettering: The Legend Lives and Breathes. Townspeople hurried alongside the wagon, their excited conversation drifting toward us in incoherent snippets.

“Oh, good lord,” Darby muttered.

“They didn’t waste any time, did they?” I folded my arms across my chest. “How do you want to play this?”

Darby glanced around, as if seeking someplace to hide. “Why don’t you duck into the wagon? If they see you now, they won’t pay to see you tonight.”

“I doubt they’re going to spend money to see a second Frankenstein monster when they’ve just seen one.”

Darby nodded. “You’re probably right. Let’s see what we’re dealing with. Likely their monster is a complete fix-up—wax fangs and papier-machédeformities. Unless they seem the sort who’ll get nasty, I’ll expose them, then let a few onlookers examine your spike to see that it’s real.”

Ah, my spike—the ultimate trump-card in any monster authenticity showdown. I gave a small nod of agreement. A small nod is all I can manage before the part of the spike jutting out beneath my chin presses into my chest.

The wagon rolled to a stop beside ours. The people trotting alongside it reacted to the sight of me; I kept my eyes on the wagon door. It swung open: a midget in a natty red suit stepped out and descended the wagon’s three steps with some effort.

When he looked up and caught sight of me, his face flushed; he stumbled on the uneven ground but recovered quickly. By the time he reached us, he appraised me with a calculating eye that belied little fear.

He looked me up and down theatrically and harrumphed. “You call this a monster?” He waved a dismissive hand at me. “I’ll show you a monster.” He turned and faced his wagon, raised his hands in the air. “Come out, my friend, and meet the man who claims to be you!”

We watched the door, waiting, our silence so deep I could hear the brook burbling down in the gully.

Finally, the door creaked open. The man who opened it had to turn sideways, and duck, to fit through. He didn’t need the stairs (his feet might not even fit on them); instead he stepped straight to the ground. His shirtless body was both beautiful and horrible: he bulged with slabs of muscle, but his flesh was rippled with waves of terrible scars, raised and pink at the seams. Bands of scars encircled his arms, one at each bicep and forearm. A ragged scar split his face right down the middle, and one of his eyes was missing. His remaining eye was deep-set beneath a brow like a cliff, his nose jagged like a mountain ridge.

He stormed forward, stopping a step closer than his diminutive keeper, and glared at me. I am a tall man, yet when this man faced me I was eye-level with his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, though I expected nothing more than a growl to come from that throat.

“I don’t recall seeing you the day Victor Frankenstein made me.” I flinched with surprise at the clear, deep baritone of his speech. “Maybe he cobbled you together from the leftovers, hm?” He folded his arms across his chest, his biceps flexing into cannonballs.

“Perhaps,” I answered, my heart pounding, “but if so, at least they were human scraps, not pieces of oxen and steer from his larder.” This brought scattered laughter from the onlookers.

He took a step forward, halving the distance between us. I tensed, expecting him to lunge, but he only stared down at me, one thick eyebrow raised. “Is that so? Yet I’m not the one who sports his very own meat hook.” The crowd roared with laughter; the giant reached out, grinning, and tried to grasp the spike. I jerked backward and he clutched only air. He surged forward, reaching for it again; I shoved him hard in the chest while bobbing my head from side to side to keep the spike out of his grasp. From the few times I had been careless enough to catch the spike in a doorway or strike it on a sturdy branch, I knew a strong blow to the spike could snap my neck. I shoved him a second time, then a third with all my might, and only managed to move him slightly.

Suddenly he stopped, and let his hands drop to his sides. Although I wanted nothing more than to flee into my wagon and latch the door, I stood my ground. The monster stared at me, silent except for the rush of air through his nose. His gaze was disconcerting, the empty eye socket like an open wound in his face.

“Perhaps we should settle this tonight,” the midget said, stepping forward. He turned to face the crowd. More people had arrived, and even more were hurrying across the field. “What do you think? Shall the monsters battle to decide who has the right to bear the name Frankenstein?”

The crowd roared approval. My plan was already formed: I would agree to fight him, and as soon as the crowd dispersed we would climb into the wagon and get far away from this town as fast as the horses could draw us.

“What do you say? Shall we settle this like men?” The monster said.

And then he winked.

I was almost certain it had been a wink—his expression had softened for a moment, and a look that bordered on camaraderie had lit his broad face. Now the look was gone, the grimace of anger returned.

He winked again—this one almost theatrical.

“Well?” he bellowed.

I tried to mask my astonishment and match his fierce expression. “All right.”

The crowd cheered, some tossed hats in the air. The midget raised his hands and shouted to be heard over the crowd. “The battle will take place at seven sharp at the fair grounds, admission only fifty cents—a bargain for such a spectacle!”

A wide grin spread across the monster’s face, filling his eye with a warmth and humanity that had been absent a moment before. He and his manager lingered while the townspeople hurried off to spread the word. I was still unsure what the monster had in mind, and was keeping my original plan to flee in reserve as Darby went to fetch chairs.

“Graves Anderson.” The giant offered his hand.

“Phineas Gage.”

He clapped me on the shoulder. “We gave them quite a show, eh?”

I shook my head in bewilderment. “You had me fooled as well. I was close to fleeing for the safety of my wagon.”

“You? Never. You’ve the courage of a dragon—I can see it in your eyes.” He clapped me again, then turned to join the others. The midget tossed him a shirt; he caught it and pulled it on.

Darby had set out four cups as well as the chairs, and was already pouring a finger of whiskey for our other guest. The little man’s name was Yorkie Gunn. I asked after the origins of his unusual first name, and he replied that it originated from his mother’s bad taste, eliciting laughter all around.

We talked about life on the road, compared notes on how to draw crowds, shared stories of comical flights from towns on the few occasions when our ruses were exposed. Finally, we got down to the business at hand.

“It was a brilliant plan,” Darby said. “You’re quick thinkers, for certain. Everyone in town will pay to see this.”

“I can’t take any credit,” Yorkie said, pointing at Graves. “It was this man’s quick thinking. We had no idea what we’d find here. ‘There’s another fellow in town, claiming he has the real Frankenstein’s monster,’ they told us. I’ve never been so surprised.”

“What are the odds?” I said.

“Great minds think alike,” Graves offered, holding out his cup.

I tapped it with mine. “Indeed.” I took a gulp, enjoyed the candied burn of the whiskey. “So what exactly do you have in mind? We throw phantom punches, grapple in the dust?”

Graves grinned. “At fifty cents a head we’ll have to put on a better show than that, but that’s the general idea. I’ll pull my punches. I can’t promise you won’t come away bruised, but I’ll avoid blows to vulnerable spots, especially that spike.” He paused, frowning. “How on earth did that happen, if I may ask?”

It was refreshing to have someone ask directly, and I described how I had been using the tamping iron now lodged in my head to tamp down a mixture of gunpowder and sand when the volatile mixture exploded. I was grateful that he did not also ask why I wasn’t dead. How would I know? Doctors who had examined me speculated that somehow the spike had missed all of the important parts of my brain. When I was young my mother had always suggested that I didn’t use any of it; maybe that was the case.

“What about you?” I asked. The shirt he was wearing covered the terrible scars

He nodded grimly, allowing that he owed me his tale. “My wounds were not inflicted by accident. The brothers of my ex-wife inflicted them, rest their souls. They ambushed me in my barn with meat cleavers and chains, then set fire to the barn and left me for dead.”

I winced. “Why would they do that?” I asked.

Graves looked off into the woods. “I was unfaithful to their sister, in a manner of speaking,” he muttered.

As I puzzled over this reply, Darby retrieved the bottle and offered seconds. I held out my cup until he poured me a liberal glass. I rarely had more than one alcoholic drink at a time, but I found I was enjoying myself. I felt a kinship with this man Graves that I had felt with no one since the accident. I found his gravelly baritone comforting, enjoyed the rise and fall of his heavy brow as we conversed.

* * * *

Graves landed a blow to my chest, knocking me backward half a step. He followed with a well-telegraphed roundhouse punch at my head. I blocked it (my first instinct was to duck, but thankfully I suppressed it), then countered with a punch to his ribs. It was like punching a side of beef.

My heart was pounding, the hoots and howls of the crowd magnifying my fear and excitement. Graves lunged at me like a bull, arms raised and head down; I sidestepped and swiped at him with the back of my fist, catching his shoulder. He screamed with rage; I answered with my best howl as we closed again, circling.

He surged forward, landing punches to my arms, chest, and shoulders that sent me backpedalling. While my balance was off he caught me under the arms, lifted me, and slammed me to the ground. We had practiced this, ensuring I would land on my side or my ass. Still, it was terrifying; I had to make sure my head was positioned so there was no chance the bottom of the spike would impact the ground. Before I could regain my feet, Graves dove at me, allowing enough time for me to scurry out from under him. I jumped to my feet and kicked him in the thigh. The crowd roared approval as Graves lumbered to his feet.

I was gasping, unused to physical exertion, yet invigorated by the sweat and dust and strain. Graves growled, swiped at the air between us, then broke into a grin. I could see it was unintentional—the humorousness of our situation had suddenly struck him. He guffawed, his shoulders bouncing as I struggled to suppress a smile of my own. The crowd didn’t seem to notice, but I was concerned we might give ourselves away, so I ran at Graves, windmilling my arms. He lifted me off my feet and slammed me to the ground again. As soon as I landed I scrambled between his legs and tangled myself in them, toppling the big man face-down. As we’d planned, I scrambled on top of him and pressed his arm up behind his back.

Graves’ cries of pain were convincing as I made a show of yanking his arm up.

“Do you concede?” I shouted.

Graves was squirming beneath me, shouting in pain and outrage, until finally admitting that the pain was too much.

Earlier he had insisted the crowd would prefer to see David defeat Goliath, and from their reaction, he was correct.

As Graves regained his feet I extended my hand. He snarled and shoved me. We exchanged new punches, thumping each other with what looked to be all of our might.

Shouts rang out that the fight was over; a dozen men pulled us apart, their blood likely pumping with courage from the spectacle we’d put on. Graves and I allowed ourselves to be driven to different corners of the yard as cheers rose up. I nodded thanks, embarrassed by the earnestness of the crowd’s congratulations, and hurried away as soon as I could.

As I left I noticed our managers huddled, their heads together like close confidants. I smiled, pleased by the sight. It did not take much imagination to guess that they were negotiating a continued alliance.

* * * *

We passed a farmer standing at the side of the road, his arms wrapped around the neck of a mule, the mule struggling to free itself. When the farmer spotted us reclining atop the moving wagon, he froze. The mule pulled free and the farmer plopped to the muddy ground, staring dumbfounded at our retreating figures. Graves and I roared with laughter, pointing at the poor astonished farmer, waving at him like young hoodlums.

It had been Graves’ idea to climb onto the roof and enjoy the crisp air and sunshine. The vibration was exquisite, like a brisk massage. Normally I didn’t like to be seen in public because of the stares and shrieks that resulted, but I found it far easier to be one of two passing spectacles, rather than the sole attraction. I sighed contentedly, watched a green, cow-dotted field drift by.

“I have to work on my falls.” Graves was examining a bruise on his elbow. “I instinctively brace myself with my elbows.”

“I do as well,” I said. Our fight the previous night (our fourth) had electrified the crowd. We were getting more confident in our movements, more comfortable working together. By the time we reached Chicago we would put on quite a show.

I chided myself—why should I feel proud of my growing ability to deceive? “Do you think it’s wrong, what we do? Taking people’s money on a false premise?” I asked Graves.

Graves laughed, clapped my knee and shook it, as if trying to shake sense into me. “We’re not fooling them. They know neither of us is the Frankenstein monster. They only want to be entertained, to be astounded.” He paused to wave at a trio of children pointing at us from a schoolyard. “What we give them is like a magician’s sleight of hand—they know we’re frauds, but want to be impressed by the skill with which we fool them.”

I sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Still, it haunts me to make a living this way. It’s the easiest work I’ve ever done, yet also the most difficult.”

Graves raised an eyebrow. “Really now? More difficult than setting explosives for the railroad?”

“Well, maybe not,” I allowed.

Graves rubbed at his good eye with the corner of his shirtsleeve. The dust kicked up by the wagon was an annoyance. “You said the accident didn’t knock you out. Did you realize what had happened right away?”

“No.” Images of the accident flooded my thoughts. Years had gone by, yet it was always as if it happened last week. “After the explosion I was counting my blessings that I hadn’t been hurt too badly. I didn’t occur to me to wonder where the spike had gone. Then I saw how the other workers were looking at me, and I knew something was terribly wrong.”

“Hm,” Graves grunted.

The wagon eased out of the road and slowed to a stop. Graves and I climbed down, I with a heavy heart, because I knew we were stopping so the two wagons could split. Graves and Yorkie would hold back while Darby and I rode into Chicago. For our ruse to work, we couldn’t be seen entering together.

Graves held out his hand. “See you in a few days, Phineas. I can’t remember when I’ve had a more enjoyable afternoon.”

I shook, feeling a rush of pleasure from the compliment. I was glad Graves had enjoyed my company—I was hoping we would continue our act together after our performance at the World’s Fair, but there had been no discussions of it yet.

* * * *

As we rumbled along the streets of Chicago, I stayed out of sight. I did not like cities; I found city people harder than country people, more apt to hurl insults at a passing stranger sporting a disfigurement.

“Look to your right,” Darby called into the wagon. “You can see the fair.”

I crossed the tiny room and looked out the other window. The sight left me breathless. Massive marble halls, amphitheaters, fountains roaring toward the sky, statues, a Viking ship on a blue channel. Further down, the Wheel, rotating slowly, its apex hundreds of feet in the air. Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen strolled the promenade, dwarfed by the attractions. I could hardly believe my eyes; this was not a fairground, it was a shining city dropped here from the future.

We continued past the main fairgrounds to the carnival midway, where clowns and barkers drew rubes to their shows and games of chance. This was where we belonged, where our contribution to the fair was fit to reside. I didn’t mind, though; to be part of this, even the darker, grittier part, filled me near to tears.

Our wagon rocked and bounced as Darby pulled down a lane into the dusty lot where workers on the midway slept. A grizzled man in overalls sitting by a smoky pot stood as we lumbered past in search of a spot among the maze of makeshift camps. He pointed at our wagon and shouted something I couldn’t make out.

There was precious little space, and we had to squeeze between two other wagons, leaving hardly room to open our door. Then there was nothing to do but wait for Graves and Yorkie. I drew a deck of cards from the desk and reclined on the tiny bed.

“You?” Graves boomed, eyeing me up and down for the gathering crowd. “You’re the one claiming to be me? Why, you’re nothing but a baby seal someone’s harpooned.” At each performance Graves came up with new and more creative insults to hurl at me.

“You two don’t look nothing like the other one,” a man with a thick mustache shouted from the crowd, sounding dubious.

“What?” Darby asked.

“The other one’s all twisted up. Its parts is all mismatched. They don’t look nothing like it.”

“What other one?” Darby looked dumbfounded. I imagine I did as well. The other one? Surely there wasn’t a third person masquerading as the monster.

“Haven’t you seen it?” a boy no older than twelve or thirteen asked, his eyes round. “It’s just horrible. I had bad dreams last night.”

Darby could not get a clear explanation of who this third monster was, only that it was housed in the Hall of Electricity. The wind taken out of our act, Graves and I hurled a few final halfhearted insults and retreated to our respective wagons.

Darby and I ate cold bacon and potatoes, and wondered at the possibility of a third Frankenstein act.

There was a rap at the door. Darby rose and pulled back the curtain. “Blast it all!” He shoved the curtain back into place. “It’s that loon from Galesburg. The one who paid to speak to you.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he wants to give away a few more dollars. I don’t mind.”

“I suppose.” Darby ran nervous fingers through his grey hair, then went to the door, pasting on his public smile just as the door swung open. “Hello, hello, good sir! So very good to see you again.”

“And you,” the man said. Wilson, I recalled his name was. “I was hoping I might see you here at the fair!” His voice hitched with excitement. “I have something to show you.” He gestured toward me. “Both of you.”

He would not tell us what, only beseeched us to follow, pulling us along like an impatient child.

The sky in the direction of the Fair was glowing. At first I thought it must be a fire, but it was not a red glow, but a yellow-white. We climbed great stone steps and suddenly the grounds were before us, and they were blazing with the light of a thousand lamps. No—ten thousand, a hundred thousand.

“It is a sight, isn’t it?” Wilson said, noting my astonishment. “It’s all powered by electricity, from Nikola Tesla’s Niagara power station. I know Tesla.”

I did not know who Tesla was, but Wilson seemed proud to know him, and if he had achieved the miracle before us perhaps pride was justified.

“Tesla found me space in the Hall of Electricity,” Wilson said, pointing at a particularly impressive building fronted with rows of towering columns. “I didn’t use electricity, but it seemed an appropriate venue.”

I could barely hear him over the crashing of water in a magnificent fountain that was set in the center. Eight riders on rearing horses surrounded a man (or perhaps a Greek god) standing on the deck of a ship, his arm raised triumphantly.

Wilson led us into the Hall of Electricity, which was so brightly lit inside that I threw my arm across my eyes to protect them, and could not help but think of Frankenstein’s monster cowering from the villagers’ torches. After a moment our eyes adjusted. It was magnificent—engines sat at every corner, wires raced above us from one pole to the next, connecting to buildings housed inside one enormous room. Everything seemed lit except the girdered ceiling towering high overhead.

“This way, follow me.” Wilson rushed us through, barely glancing at the hall’s interior. He led us into a wide hall, then turned onto a narrower hall and led us to a massive door at the end. He fished a key out of his trouser pocket.

There was a terrible sound coming from the room—a pitiful keening that made me want to cover my ears. Wilson threw open the door and led us in. The room was empty except for a raised bed boxed in by wooden pegs. On the mattress lay the thing making that sound, a thing so twisted and disfigured that I could not stand the sight of it.

“It is not nearly as perfect as you,” Wilson said to me. “I hope we will talk more so I can understand how Doctor Frankenstein formed you so perfectly. The attachment points, especially, were a challenge.”

The thing was crying. Quivers ran up and down its milky-pale skin.

“What happened to me?” The movement of its jaw was stiff, and its mouth opened at an impossible angle. It tried to shift itself, cried out in agony. “I hurt so much. I hurt.”

And no wonder. It did not seem to have bones in all of the places it should. There was no way it could possibly sit up, let alone stand or walk.

“Good lord,” Darby whispered.

“He frets much of the time, I’m afraid. And there is something wrong with his mind—he cannot hold memory for long. Every few minutes he must learn everything anew.” Wilson patted the thing as if it were a loyal pet. “But he is alive, and that is a start.”

There were stitches running all over it, black dashes that framed the long, raised, semi-healed places where things had been attached to one another.

“Where am I? There must have been an accident. Margaret?”

Wilson reached up and put a hand on my shoulder. He was beaming like a proud father. “I could not have accomplished this without your help.”

I recoiled, knocking his hand off of me. “Without my. . . ?” I sputtered, lost for words. Could this thing really be what Wilson claimed? It was inconceivable, yet what else could it possibly be? “I was lying,” I shouted into his face. “I made it up.”

Wilson frowned, as if he were having difficulty understanding my words.

“This is all an act, you idiot! I’m not Frankenstein’s monster, I’m a man with a God damned spike through his head. Frankenstein is fiction.” Only now it was not, and I was partly responsible.

While Wilson mulled this over, the thing on the mattress cried softly. “Please. Please help me,” it whispered.

Wilson inhaled sharply, turned to me. His eyes seemed to have doubled in size. “Then . . . I’m the first!”

I stormed from the room. Darby called after me and I broke into a run, fleeing the building and the twisted monstrosity it housed.

Outside, the buildings now seemed menacing. They loomed rather than towered, their glowing presence shouting “We are the future. It will be cold and wondrous. The dead will walk.” I put my head down and ran, not sure which direction led to the warmth and chaos of the midway.

I stumbled onto the lot and trotted through, seeking Graves’ wagon. I cried out when I spotted it on the edge of the field, beside a ditch.

Panting with exertion, I pounded on the door. Graves opened it, registered my expression and let me in.

“What is it?” he asked, his face full of concern.

“There is a real Frankenstein monster here—a living creature made from dead body parts, and I helped bring it about.”

Graves only nodded, waiting for me to explain. I told him of Wilson’s visit a few months back, and described the miserable thing he had birthed.

“You’re certain it’s not some clever hoax?” Graves asked when I had finished.

“I assure you, this one is no hoax.”

Graves put his face in his hands and sighed. “We both bear responsibility. I have been parading around the countryside, convincing people that such a thing is possible. Of course people would try to make their own monster. Of course.”

The door flew open. “Have you located the other monster act?” Yorkie asked. “We can stage three fights if his manager’s agreeable.”

“It is not an act,” I said. “There is a monster here.”

Yorkie barked laughter. “A monster act falling for another monster act. That spike must have done more damage than you let on.”

“I’ve seen it. I assure you, it is not an act.”

Yorkie smirked and shook his head. “If you insist. In any case, it complicates matters.”

He was still thinking about business. Business was the furthest thing from my mind, which was swimming in a stew of agony. Silently, I gestured to Graves that we should leave. He nodded and followed.

“Hey,” Yorkie called after us, “you can’t show yourselves together. It’ll ruin our act.”

“To hell with our act,” I shouted back at him.

“I want to see it,” Graves said as soon as we were outside.

I nodded. “I’ll show you. I wish I never had to lay eyes on it again, but I’ll show you.”

We skirted the edge of the lot, staying in the shadows of trees and brush, passing only one man relieving himself after too much drink. He stared at us in open distress, two monsters lurking, loose from their cages.

The main fairgrounds were by now closed for the night, so we climbed the fence in a dark spot. We crossed a bridge, passing a grand sloop moored in the canal. Graves gasped as the bulk of the fairgrounds came into view.

“Wait until you see the Hall of Electricity,” I said.

The great hall had been left unlocked, but not the room that housed Wilson’s monster. We could hear the cries of the monster within. Graves turned sideways and slammed the door with his shoulder; the door flew open in comically easy fashion, bouncing off the wall and swinging back to strike Graves. He paused to examine the splintered edge, shaking his head. “It looks like solid oak, but it’s nothing but cheap, hollow pine. I’ll bet this whole building is like that—made to look grand, but cheap and hollow under the surface.”

Before I could answer, Graves was distracted by the monster’s awful sobs. He followed the sounds and stood over the thing on the cushion.

“Dear God.” Graves clutched two wooden pegs to steady himself. He took a few deep breaths.

“I am a sight, aren’t I?” the thing said. Its cheek, pressed to the cushion, was surrounded by a wet stain of tears. “Was it a carriage accident? Are you doctors?”

“Yes,” Graves said. “We’re doctors.”

I nodded agreement, although we were hardly dressed the part, and I had a tamping bar lodged in my head and Graves a scar splitting his face down the middle. Beyond the creature’s dais a few wooden dowels were leaned against the wall, leftovers from the makeshift prison that surrounded the creature. I retrieved one and crept up to stand behind the creature.

Graves’ eyes filled with tears. He nodded. I raised the dowel.

“Do I have a wife?” the creature said.

“You have a wife, and she loves you very much,” Graves said. A tear rolled down his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut.

I wanted to close my eyes as well. I raised and lowered the dowel twice, three times before letting it drop to my side. “I can’t do it,” I mouthed.

Graves nodded. He turned to the creature and smiled kindly. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to move you, sir. It will be painful, but I—I have to take you where I can treat your injuries.”

The creature’s expression made it clear that he did not relish the idea of being lifted. “If you must, you must.”

Graves leaned over the dowels and lifted him out. The creature screamed. I could not imagine the agony that could cause such a sound to form in a living throat. Arms outstretched to minimize the jarring the creature must endure, Graves carried him, walking swiftly but gingerly. I hurried after.

“Where are we going?” I hissed.

Graves turned his head to answer. “I don’t know.”

We rushed through the big front doors, glancing left and right. Where could we take him that would be better than where he had been? The problem was not that he was in the Hall of Electricity, the problem was what he was.

There was only one solution. If only I had mustered the courage to bring the dowel down on his poor misshapen head.

The roar of the fountain was no match for the creature’s screams—they lit the air, echoing off the buildings.

I paused, staring at the fountain.

“This way.” I waded into the fountain; the water was thigh-deep and tepid. Graves followed without a word.

“What is this place? Who are you?” the creature said. Its hands, which were clutching Graves’s arms, were completely different sizes; one appeared to be a woman’s.

“We are your doctors—you’ve been in a terrible accident,” I replied. “These are healing waters.” I held out my hands. Graves gently laid the thing in my arms and helped me lower it until it lay floating, its face just above the water. “I’m going to heal you now.”

I pushed its head under the water. Strands of black hair drifted up and wrapped around my fingers.

Graves knelt and pressed the creature’s chest, submerging it completely. He sobbed, turned his head to one side as bubbles roiled up to the surface. The thing thrashed its arms and legs weakly.

“Just another moment, just a moment,” I cooed. “It will be over in a moment.” My chest heaved and I let out a groan, or perhaps it was a laugh, and then I burst into tears.

“Shh. It’s almost done,” Graves said.

But it was not. It took an eternity for the thing to be still. I don’t know if it was more resistant to death because it came from death, or if time had slowed nearly to a stop inside my own head.

When the thing finally ceased thrashing and was still, I let go, then so did Graves. It floated up languidly until its face broke the surface, bobbing gently on tiny windswept waves.

“I’m not a monster. I don’t want to play one any longer,” Graves said, grimacing down at the half-submerged body, aglow from the electric light that filled the air.

“I feel like a monster,” I said. My legs were shaking so badly I wasn’t sure I could make it back to the wagon.

“I, too,” Graves said.

“What are you doing in there?” Wilson stood at the edge of the fountain, frowning.

His gaze dropped to the water, to the body. He cried out, leapt into the fountain, thrashed toward us. “What have you done?”

We ran. Wilson shouted at us to stop. I heard sharp footsteps on the pavement behind us, and cries for help, cries that there had been a murder. We raced over the footbridge, clambered over the fence and into the midway, weaving among shuttered stalls, Graves in the lead and me on his heels.

Other voices rose up behind us as Wilson mustered assistance. Shouts of “Monsters” and “Murder” rang out.

“This way,” Graves called, hopping off a raised railway platform and across two sets of tracks. A passenger train sat quiet and dark on the furthest track; Graves ducked under one of the cars and I followed.

A terrific jolt snapped my neck back; my vision was laced with electric pinwheels as my feet flew out and I slammed to the gravel. I lay semi-conscious; there was a hard ringing in my ears, and an agony behind my eyes like none I had ever felt or imagined. It felt as if my skull had been split with an axe.

The underside of the car appeared above me; Graves was dragging me under the car. A moment later his dark silhouette leaned over me; he slid a hand beneath my head and cradled it.

“Can you speak?” he whispered.

“I forgot about the spike.” Pain lanced through my head and neck.

“Shh, shh.” Graves touched my forehead, then his hand drifted up toward the spike. “Oh, lord.” His tone jarred me to full consciousness.

“What?”

“The spike is loose. It’s very loose.” He shifted position, bent to peer at the top of my head in the dim light. “Does this hurt?”

I felt the bottom of the spike move side to side, brushing my chest. My head hurt terribly, and there was a wetness on my neck that I assumed was blood, but the movement of the spike didn’t exacerbate it noticeably. “No.” Some of the shouts had grown closer; I hoped we were hidden well enough to evade the men hunting for us.

“I don’t know what to do,” Graves said. “Should I pull it out?”

“No!” A thrill of terror washed over me. The doctors said removing the spike would likely kill me, that the spike might be holding my brains in place.

“I think it will fall out in any case when you sit up.” He moved it again; the bottom of the spike moved in a wider arc than before. “It’s very loose. Wouldn’t it be better to slide it out carefully?”

I considered telling him to wrap his shirt around my head to secure it in place, but what good was that if it was loose to the point of falling out? And it would be wonderful to be free of it once and for all. Perhaps it was worth the risk of my brains spilling out onto the track, to be rid of it.

“Quiet,” Graves warned. I heard footsteps and low voices; the orange glow of torchlight grew bright and then waned. Graves let out his breath. “We must get away from here.”

“Pull it out,” I said, my heart pounding.

Graves put a hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure?”

I grasped his wrist. “If it kills me, don’t linger, my friend. Get somewhere safe.”

I couldn’t see his eye, but somehow I knew it had filled with tears. “After I remove this oversized three-penny nail, you’ll have to find a new line of work for certain.” With that he grasped the hilt of the spike beneath my neck and gently drew it down.

The space between his fist on the spike and my chin increased in tiny, jerking increments. “It’s coming,” he said. I could not believe my eyes. Two inches of spike that had been above my head were now below it. Then three, four, six.

The spike stalled.

Graves grunted softly, straining. “It’s stuck.”

It was almost out. I wasn’t sure, but I imagined the tip of it was no longer above my head but inside it. My stomach lurched at the thought. “Yank the damned thing out,” I hissed. Suddenly it felt like a living thing, a giant steel cockroach inside me.

Graves shifted position. He cradled my head between his thigh and forearm, then grasped the spike below my chin. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the moment.

I heard Graves grunt; my chin whiplashed toward my chest and back up. Fresh pinwheels erupted behind my eyes. Far away someone screamed.

It was I who had screamed, I realized as I drifted away from my body, from Graves and the train and all of my concerns.

I was vaguely aware of being lifted, but could not lift my head to look around.

“Here! They’re here!” someone shouted. Not someone; I knew who he was, but I could not think of his name. “What have you done? You—”

Wilson. His name was Wilson.

“I thought the two of you were in cahoots, but that’s not it, is it?” Wilson said to Graves. “You wanted to be the only monster, eh? So you killed them both.” A roaring of heat and searing light passed by my face. “Don’t move or I’ll burn you alive!” Then he shouted again, “Here! I need help!”

“Get out of my way,” Graves said.

“You were going to drown him in the fountain, too, weren’t you?” Wilson said. “Until I happened along.”

There was a pattering on the ground. Blood—my blood, leaking from the now-open wound in the top of my head. The ground rose up, or rather, I dropped down as Graves squatted to retrieve something and then stood again to his full height. Shouts of discovery rose up close by.

“Move aside or I’ll kill you as well,” Graves threatened. He was clutching the spike. The center portion of it was caked with pieces from inside my head, and discolored from years hidden from the sun.

Wilson waved his torch again. “Stay where you are, monster.” Did he still believe Graves was truly a monster, or did he mean it in the more pedestrian sense?

Graves lunged and hit Wilson in the head with the spike. Wilson crumpled to the gravel, his torch falling nearby, spitting sparks. An instant later I was bobbing wildly, clutched in Graves’ arms as he fled.

Blurred images passed by, canted at an angle that was nearly upside-down. Graves said something, but I couldn’t make out what, and didn’t have the strength to ask him to repeat it. His footsteps took on a hollower sound and we rose up, over a wooden bridge and back down the other side. We flew through the lot, past cooking fires that left orange afterimages dancing in my vision, then up a few steps and through a doorway.

“My God.” It was Darby. He helped lower me to a soft bunk; a pillow was set under my throbbing head, the wounds wrapped in a towel.

“What happened?” Darby asked.

“There’s no time,” Graves answered. “We must flee.”

Darby knelt beside me. “I’ll get you to a doctor, quick as I can.”

Yorkie burst into the wagon. His eyes grew wide when he saw me. “What happened? He’s alive? Will he be all right?”

“There’s no saying,” Graves said, drawing back the curtain slightly and peering out the window. “Let’s get away from here and find a doctor.”

“I’m out of the Frankenstein business,” I said to Darby, my voice a dry whisper. “I’m through. No more.”

Darby chuckled sadly, patted my shoulder. “Whether you want out or not, you’re not much of a monster without that spike.”

Graves turned to Yorkie. “I’m out as well.”

Yorkie shook his head, denying the proclamation. “Tell me what happened.”

Graves sketched the events as Darby hitched the horses.

Moments later Darby poked his head inside to warn us that we would be moving shortly.

“I don’t see why you’re quitting,” Yorkie said to Graves. “None of this is your doing.”

Graves stared flatly, offering no reply.

“Fine then, leave me with no meal ticket.” Yorkie drummed his fingers on his chin, thinking. “There are always other attractions.”

The wheels groaned to a start. Yorkie shouted to Darby to stop. “I’m not losing my wagon.” Without another word, he hopped out the door.

Graves sat beside me. He examined my eyes, one after another, then smiled and nodded his satisfaction as the horses built up speed.

“Is Wilson dead?” I asked.

“I don’t know. He may be.” He looked away, closed his eyes. “He left me no choice.”

“I hope he’s dead,” I said. “Better he die, and take his knowledge with him.”

Darby wound up the switchback road that had brought us to the lot, then along the smoother road along the city’s edge. Graves watched through the window as we rattled and bounced, speeding along. Each stone and rut caused my head to split again, but I knew Darby couldn’t slow.

“We’re passing the main grounds,” Graves said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to see more of it.”

“Mmm,” I agreed. It hurt to speak.

Graves yanked the curtain wide. “Oh, you stinking bastard!” He pressed his nose to the window, peering intently.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

Graves pounded the carriage wall. “That bastard Yorkie. He’s pulling the monster out of the fountain.”

It took me a moment to grasp. “Your replacement?”

“He’ll have it pickled and show it in a tank.”

I groaned. Graves cursed under his breath as we rolled on past the great fair.

“The Frankenstein monster lives on,” I suggested.

Graves pounded the wall a second time. Clearly he didn’t realize how much it hurt my head when he did that. “Yes, it does. But if I ever find Yorkie I’ll pull his monster apart, as it belongs.”

As it belongs, yes. “Or better yet, we bury the poor thing where no one can ever find it.”

“Yes,” Graves said, letting the curtain drop. “Better yet.”