She’s silent for a time, staring at the fire. I seem to have won this skirmish, but I have a pressing feeling that I am far from winning the war, not least because I don’t know what the war is. I am suddenly aware of the space of the house; the air it occupies and which occupies it, of the hanging weight of it, high up here at five thousand feet, and the empty night rising out of the ground as dusk arrives in the mountains, and down in the gorge, ringing chasms throat roaring water into fathomless depths, unseen by mortals and all but the bravest of beasts, while I sit and converse with a woman long dead.
“A slender, but beautifully written evocation of the travails of writing and the deep sources of horror.”
“A taut, menacing ghost story.”
“Ambitious and original.”
“Erudite and gripping… The thinking person’s spook-fest.”
Do monsters always stay in the book where they were born? Are they content to live out their lives on paper, and never step foot into the real world?
Published in 1818, Shelley’s Frankenstein is one of the most influential tales of all time. Two hundred years later, in a remote mountain house, high in the French Alps, an author broods on that creation. Reality and perception merge, fuelled by poisoned thoughts.
People make monsters, but who really creates who in the end?