Chapter 1 — The Stranger at the Window

It was on a night when the moon appeared to have been nailed to the sky that Mary Shelley first received the letter.

The wind had been worrying the shutters of the house since sunset. Rain crawled down the windows like pale fingers, and somewhere beyond the garden wall a dog had been howling with the monotonous persistence of something that had seen what it wished it had not.

Mary sat alone beside the fire.

Her husband, Percy, was away visiting friends, leaving her with a manuscript, three candles, and the increasingly uncomfortable sensation that someone was watching her.

She had just dipped her pen into the ink when there came a knock.

Not at the door.

At the window.

Mary looked up.

Another knock.

Three slow taps.

She rose.

“Who is there?”

Silence.

Then a voice whispered from the darkness.

“Someone who has read your book.”

Mary’s heart stopped.

She approached the window.

Beyond the glass stood a tall man dressed entirely in black. His face was pale, almost bloodless, and his eyes possessed the peculiar brilliance of a creature who had not slept in several centuries.

Mary opened the window.

The stranger bowed.

“Count Dracula.”

Mary stared.

“Are you not rather far from Transylvania?”

“I have always travelled well.”

“I see.”

“And,” he continued, smiling, “I have come because I found your novel fascinating.”

“Frankenstein?”

“Yes.”

Dracula glanced at the manuscript on the desk.

“A creature made from the dead. Reanimated flesh. Forbidden science. Loneliness. Revenge.”

He sighed.

“Romantic.”

Mary closed the window.

Dracula remained outside.

“Miss Shelley.”

“Yes?”

“I should like to take you to dinner.”

Mary frowned.

“You have climbed through my window in the middle of the night.”

“I thought it more dramatic than knocking.”

“You are a vampire.”

“Also true.”

“And you expect me to go to dinner with you?”

“I have excellent manners.”

At that precise moment, there came a second knock.

This one came from the front door.

Mary opened it cautiously.

Standing upon the doorstep was a figure of enormous height.

He was broad-shouldered, scarred, and so pale that the lightning seemed to illuminate him from within. His black hair was wild, his clothes were soaked with rain, and two unmistakable bolts protruded from the side of his neck.

Mary stared.

The creature stared back.

Then he held out a bouquet.

Unfortunately, the flowers were dead.

“I brought these for you,” he said.

Mary looked from the creature to Dracula, who was still standing outside the window.

Dracula looked at the creature.

The creature looked at Dracula.

Neither spoke.

Finally Dracula broke the silence.

“Who are you?”

The creature’s brow furrowed.

“I am the monster.”

Dracula smiled.

“No, my friend. I am the monster.”

The creature stepped forward.

“I was made from dead men.”

“I drink the blood of the living.”

“I have murdered men.”

“So have I.”

“I have been rejected by humanity.”

“I have been rejected by several empires.”

The creature raised an eyebrow.

“I can climb walls.”

Dracula paused.

“So can I.”

“I have immense physical strength.”

“So do I.”

“I am capable of terrifying entire villages.”

Dracula smiled.

“I own a castle.”

The creature looked at Mary.

“Do you see what I must endure?”

Mary closed her eyes.

She already had a terrible feeling that her evening had become considerably more complicated.

Dracula stepped into the room.

“Perhaps,” he said, “we should settle this like gentlemen.”

The creature nodded.

“Very well.”

Mary sighed.

“Please don’t fight.”

They both turned toward her.

“We weren’t going to,” Dracula said.

“Of course not,” said the creature.

A chair exploded.

Mary stared at the wreckage.

“That was not reassuring.”

Dracula adjusted his coat.

“Mary, I believe you and I have much in common.”

“We have only just met.”

“You write about monsters.”

“Yes.”

“And I am one.”

The creature stepped forward.

“I am also one.”

Mary looked at them both.

Then, to her own astonishment, she laughed.

Perhaps it was exhaustion.

Perhaps madness.

Perhaps the whole affair was simply too ridiculous to take seriously.

But Dracula smiled.

The creature smiled.

And somewhere outside, the howling dog suddenly stopped.

For Mary Shelley had just acquired two suitors.

And neither of them was entirely alive.