Gothic Horror; The Chamber of Victor Frankenstein

This is simply an extract for the competition, with a total of 676 words. It takes us through the horror in which Victor Frankenstein must have had to go through to create his 'monster' - if you can call it that! (It's actually your own opinion!)


1. The Chamber of Frankenstein

    The Church Clock struck midnight, and was shortly followed by the resounding screech of an owl, bellowing into the empty depths of the bitter, murky darkness, witnessed by no-one, nothing. The haunting screech tremored the dusty paths I had once walked upon.

    Those very paths lead to an abandoned forest, where nature once thrived, even in the presence of me, and would everyday watch the Sun rise. But that was before. Before I found something ‘better’. Now I find that those paths mock me. They mock me because of how my life had changed. It now seems to me that they stalk the Sun while it warily ascends, which is why it always has to fall in the presence of that forest, as if to fear and run away in shame. As if to mourn that the time in which nature could harmonise with the Sun had passed. Forever. From a different perspective, I find that those olden paths, hidden in the past, seeming of a fantasy as if that time never existed, lead to nowhere; an unfinished path; an unfinished journey…

    I could barely notice, through the window, near the roof – dirt and grit entering from the outside – a fox’s endeavour to hunt its prey, it’s countenance ridden with abhorrence and malice. The smooth walls, reluctant to let any light in, resembled a mirror; it’s bright appearance, looking like the Sun but, despite not seeming so, simultaneously, being as dead as a carcass.

    Chains hung from the ceiling – if I could call it a ceiling – and convulsed subsequently to the shrill outcry of the owl. They shook furiously as if something was trying to escape. Something trapped there, without choice. It reminded me of my past. Society not believing in my revelations, society not supporting me. Society condemning me. They were my chains. Made of metal, hard to break; bound by gravity, a force you cannot defy, as stubborn as ever; joined together, only believing each other, believing in gossip. Believing in lies. They were my wretched chains.

    Adjacent to those walls, stood cluttered beakers and testing tubes overflowing with blood, boiling due to the blazing, red fire, burning and flickering angrily beneath to rid them of any bad bacteria.

    The lights flickered, as if choosing whether to be good or bad, soon filling the room with deathly darkness. Like a graveyard. It chose to be bad. The only thing – or, person – illuminated was the actual focus of my chamber, my project. But alas, that light, the only light in the chamber, was bound to die out. And soon, it did.

   And as a result, silence struck the room. The sound left a ghastly footprint in time. Have you ever wondered how something can be so silent yet so loud at the same time? How a force can be so delicate and yet so strong at the same time? It showed once again how society had condemned me. How alone I was. Was I a failure?

     Through the thick, dense smoke, I cognized a dark, shady figure on the walls. It’s demeanour was the very picture of my beloved creation, it had a dead but confused expression on it’s face; it’s empty, hollow eyes bore the resemblance of a bat – blind, but still partly aware of what was occurring; It’s hair was like a forest, messy but somewhere in that forest was a sense of artificiality; it wore diminutive, torn clothes, masked with stains of blood, as if it had just took something’s life. It had looked like it had worn those clothes for years on end – had it lost track of time? If so, how? That figure had a long stick in it’s hand, akin to that of an old tree branch, and blood-red fire blazed from the end of it. Angrily. Viciously. It was as if something was feeling wrathful about something else. And that was when the smoke cleared. It was angry at my creation. It actually was my creation; It was society’s creation;

    It was me...

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