Winter nights in summer

A cosy-looking room, with a crackling hearth filling it up with warmth, was filled with books. Some of them lay open, as if someone was reading them, others were closed. In one particular spot, about a dozen books were piled up, forming a column that could easily be mistaken for a little stool. The only light came from the fireplace, giving the room an eerie atmosphere. Outside of the house, strong winds bashed the lake’s water to its shores and the incessant rainfall and cold made even the birds look for shelter. It was strange weather for a night in June.

Inside the cosy-looking room were not just the books. There were five people, friends, talking to each other, telling stories. They did it in a low and soft voice, as if they respected the magnificent forces of nature they could still softly hear from outside.

A lovely couple was sitting on a carpet near the fireplace. The woman was nineteen years old, the man was twenty-four. The heat from the fire warmed their backs, but not as much as their love for each other did. Mary and Percy weren’t married yet, but they had been travelling the European continent for about a month now, joined by Mary’s stepsister, Claire.

Claire was the youngest in the group, being only eighteen years old. She was ambitious and hungry for recognition. She was fluent in several languages, unlike her older companions. She was sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading ‘Julie, or the new Heloise’ from Rousseau.

A handsome young man, named John and aged twenty-one, was leaning on the pile of books. He had a most brilliant mind, proven by the fact that he had already graduated from the University of Edinburgh at his age. He could officially call himself a doctor of medicine, and practiced this profession even during this holiday.

Sitting next to John was the last member of the group: George. With his twenty-eight years he was also the oldest. Alongside with being the oldest, he was close to a celebrity back in London due to his relative success in the world of literature. He had had an affair with the youngest, Claire, a while ago. His noble heritage allowed him to afford a personal physician, a function gladly taken by his friend John.

George had just returned from lighting a few candles in the room. Odd, as it was only noon, but outside was a glooming darkness that felt most unnatural. Almost threatening. It seemed that summer had just forgotten about this year, 1816, and skipped it as if summers could do such a thing.

A knock on the door startled most everyone inside. “Who on…” Percy started “In this weather?”. John pulled himself up from his pile of books and went for the front door. He returned with a queer young boy, which seemed no older than eight years old. He was soaking wet, as if he had fallen in the lake, and he stood dripping in the hallway. Percy got up immediately and said “I’ll get some dry clothes, they’ll be too big, but they’ll at least be dry” George got up as well and poked the fire. Claire observed the boy, and noticed that even though he must have been out in the cold for a long time, he wasn’t shivering or showing any other signs of physical discomfort. Or emotional for that matter. A young boy without parents, knocking on a stranger’s door, should at least be anxious. But he wasn’t. He was calm as could be, which spooked Claire. John too, seemed alarmed, even if he couldn’t put a finger on the cause.

George stopped poking the fire and came closer to the boy. “are you here by yourself? Where are your parents?” He small child remained silent, but stared at George intensely with his large eyes. “What’s your name?” Mary tried, accompanied by a childish smile that must have been meant kind, but seemed horrifyingly creepy. John made a mental note that forced smiles were hardly ever effective. The boy didn’t seem upset by it though, and responded by simply saying “Edgar”.

Percy came back in with a set of dry clothes, the smallest he owned and Claire helped the boy undress and get into Percy’s clothes. Mary took a woollen blanket of a shelf and wrapped it tightly around the boy, close to the fireplace.

“I like fire” He said with a soft American accent. “It is nice and warm” Mary smiled at him again, this time less forced. “But it is also dangerous” he continued. Everyone was remarkably quiet. Edgar pulled his eyes away from the fire and scanned the room, noticing the many books on the ground. “Words…” he said “...words have no power to impress the mind.” George, known as lord Byron back in London, had made a living out of literature and poetry. His very existence was based on the power of words, and upon hearing the little child’s idea, he sniffed loudly. He opened his mouth, but John tapped his shoulder, ushering him tolerance for the young boy, whom then continued his sentence: “…not without the exquisite horror of their reality”.

Percy saw how Mary and John shuddered at those words. As if they suddenly made them understand a reality. 

“Who said that?” George asked with genuine curiosity. 

“I did” said the boy. 

“Yes, but I mean who is that from?” George said “I don’t seem to recall the author”. “Neither do I” said the boy.

“Maybe we can focus on where his parents are and what he’s doing here, rather than on his literary ideas?” John said. 

“My parents are at home” the boy said. He pulled his eyes back to the fire.

Not knowing what to do, the ladies tried to start conversations with him, while the gentlemen tried to make sense out of the situation. After several hours, both ceased their attempts and accepted that Edgar was now in their presence, and that nothing more could be done until the weather had calmed. Meanwhile, his own clothes had dried and Claire had helped him put them back on.

George was the first to try and make conversation again “earlier, you mentioned something about the power of words. What exactly did you mean by that?” The boy turned his head to lord Byron and smiled for the first time, he said “If I told you I’d seen a monster at the lake, you’d laugh with me. But if you’d see a monster at the lake yourself, you wouldn’t laugh anymore, you would see the horror of the reality that it represents.” The Lord was obviously awestruck by the little boys choice of words and insight into these things. He wasn’t alone, as the rest had gone quiet and listened.

Mary picked in and asked “well then, have you seen a monster at the lake?” The boy looked at her with a face that washed of her smile in an instant. “No…” he said “…not this lake”. Claire put her Rousseau down and said: “but you have seen… a monster?”. The child slowly nodded, everyone was silent.

“How did it look like?” Mary asked, without a smile this time. “Huge and horrifying...” he said “...as if someone had made it using parts of different dead humans”. John, being a doctor, recalled surgery rooms and recently deceased human beings. The boy couldn’t have crafted a better image for him, as his words had made him imagine a horrifying creature that could only really be identified as a monster. Mary turned pale at this account, she had never seen what dead people looked like, but somehow she seemed to get the picture as well. John worried where this eight-year-old might have seen a corpse, let alone a monster made of several.

Most seemed stunned at the description, but Lord Byron simply frowned. “Do you see monsters like that more often?” 

The boy slowly looked at him “don’t you?” he said. George and Edgar were discussing further, when Percy and Mary left the room and entered the hallway. John was intrigued and followed.

“What is it?” Mary said. 

“a monster from parts of different dead humans?” Percy hissed. “What have you and Claire put into this boy’s brain?” 

“What? You think we say things like that to a child?” She defended. 

“Then how…” Percy started, but John interrupted: “I think we should believe Mary, why would she, or Claire say something like that?" he remained silent for long enough for either to interrupt, if they wanted to. Neither did. "...That leaves the question where this kid got those ideas from.”

John seemed to be waiting for a response, both were thinking. Percy about his question, but Mary interrupted his thoughts. “Would it be possible?” she said. 

“Would what be possible?” John asked. 

“You know, use different body parts from different corpses, put them together and create a living thing? You’re a doctor, what do you think?” Percy’s jaw dropped. 

“I’d say…” John said “…that that would be a freak of nature, a most unnatural thing to do. If God hasn’t made it impossible, then he should have. Although…” 

“Yes?” asked Mary. 

“I know of someone, Luigi, I think, Luigi Galvani. He was mentioned during my studies. He was experimenting with something he called electricity. He uses metal wires and chemical components and he has used them to make dead muscle tissue move. He made a dead frog jump in one of his experiments. But bringing a creature like that to life… that would require more electricity than we could ever produce… so no, it is not possible” 

The three were startled as the hallway lighted up in a blaze of lightning. 

“Would that do the trick?” Percy asked. John didn’t answer to that question, which was aswer enough for both John and Mary. As the three re-entered the room with Edgar, George and Claire, they could all clearly hear the roaring thunder.

George and Edgar were still debating about monsters. “So you claim you have seen, with your own eyes, a man transforming into a wolf?” 

“No” said the boy. 

“But you just said…” 

“I know what I said, I said I saw someone transforming into a wolf, but not a man. Men don’t transform, men don’t have eyes red as fire and men die when their time has come.” George became silent. Claire picked in “Well, I’d say no creature in the world ever does, or else I have never heard of it.”

“I have” Lord Byron said. 

Everyone was silent again, waiting for what he’d say. “In my travels to the east, people talk of a creature just like that. Not to be killed by mortal means, strength of a hundred men, the ability to change his appearance, red eyes,… In the east of Europe they are called Nosferatu, in Greece they’re called Vrykolakas, in English… it’s called a vampire.”

Percy was the first to break the silence “So you think this eight year old boy has seen a… what did you call it? Vampire? And lived to tell the tale?” Byron looked at Percy and said “I don’t know what he has seen or heard or done, all I know is that he just gave a perfect description of a legend I have only heard on one of my travels in Turkish territory, how he knows is beyond me!”

Another roaring thunder startled everyone in the room, apart from Edgar, who was curiously observing Percy Shelley and Lord Byron. “That must be some demon!” Claire said “Surely no such thing can exist without us knowing about it.” Said John. Lord Byron had grown pale and taken a seat, obviously thinking about possible explanations for the current events. “What more monsters have you seen?” Asked Claire 

“More than I can name” he said. 

“But where have you seen these? This Vampire and this other Monster you speak of?”

The boy turned away from the fire, facing not just Claire, but everyone present. “I see them at night, when I’m asleep. I see how all forests and towns in the world are burned down so the fires can battle the everlasting darkness. I see how monsters chase me…”

Mary looked like she just woke up from an interesting dream, “So you’re saying you’ve only dreamed about all of that? None of it was real?” 

John answered: “Mary Wollstonecraft, just because you’ve seen something in your dream doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. I’ve studied dreams and sleepwalking, it was my thesis in university, remember? A lot of dreams can be caused by very real experiences in the world.”

Percy continued: “Isn’t that the idea of romanticism? The idea of all this poetry that Lord Byron has written, that we have all written? Isn’t that the idea of all these books scattered about? That imagination is often equally or even more important than factual truth? In fact, I believe little Edgar somehow knows more about literature than all of us combined!”

“I should return home” The boy said. “Of course you should” Claire said with a creepy smile to rival her stepsister’s. “But where is your home? Where are your parents?” The little boy slowly pointed out the window, the afternoon darkness was briefly interrupted by two consecutive bolts of lightning, revealing a man and a woman at the lake’s shore, each dangling from their own ropes attached to the same branch of the same tree.