HOOO-boy, finally got this sucker written out.
A little bit of info: this ties in a little to an original universe of mine, where one of my characters is the son of Frankenstein's Monster. This is my re-imagining a bit of the monster we know and love. Freakenstein is like Frankenstein, but looks more like what you would get if you bred Trapjaw from He-Man with She-Hulk from Marvel, made him wear leather and stuck Doc Ock's tentacle into his back as an excuse for a tail. Creepshow is a hunter from the House of Usher who was nearly killed by his mother and siblings for having relations outside the family (inbreeding cult mentality) His brother Caskin later took Creep's boyfriend and tortured him to death because he was jealous that he could not "mate" with his brother while outside blood could.
Yuck. I just freaked myself out.
If you want pics of Freak, Creep and Stitch, lemme know because right now I'm having the hardest time drawing them (posing issues)
Edit: Added a huge intro to this thing. Now it should make a heap more sense as to what the hay is going on.
The house was desiccated and barren, ripped apart by the elements…and from the Hell it had seen in its lifetime. A single window remained, creaking slightly as a chilled wind knocked against it. Three figures approached the house, each of them alone scarier than the old building in front of them. Leading the small group was a huge hulking mockery of humanity; a creature stitched together, with pieces of flesh alternating between a deathly light blue, to a rotting pale green. His hair started at a huge widow’s peak adorned in a white vertical stripe, like a lightning bolt. It ended in a style similar to a crew-cut, if a crew-cut looked like it had been electrocuted. Large bat-like ears, stitched in the middle and edge to where it connected to a ghoulish skull-like face made the visage much more frightening. One black eye, the right one, was centered with a single pulsing red dot, while his left eye was a bulging bionic organ, sticking out of the socket it was attached to in a hideous way. A large stitch ran across the side of the face with the robotic addition. A steel lower jaw, wired into the green flesh, glinted, the ends sharp and with the appearance of wicked canines and fangs. Wires connected to the throat and a pair of neck bolts. The torso was buff, stitched together and scarred with a massive bio-hazard tattoo that ran from the base of the neck, to the top of the waist junction.
He flexed long black claws, long nails slightly curved and thick, like the talons of a predatory bird. A mechanical tail moved behind him, split into segment connected by wire. Each segment was either black or orange, arranged in an alternating pattern. A large blinking eye was in the center of the 6 spider-like claws at the tip, as the machinated appendage moved.
“Mister Freakenstein, sir, I do not attempt to sound like a mewling babe…but what the Hell are we doing here? This defecation of man and nature looks more like a kingdom of ants, than a chamber of secrets.”
Freakenstein smirked; his tail always thought of itself as a dapper gentleman, even speaking in a sensible English accent. Next to him, the smallest of the group, another stitched together creature sighed, his brow ridge falling in exasperation. He was less sutured than Freakenstein, but had different skin patches around his eyes going down vertically in teardrop shapes, making his appear like an undead jester. His hair was shaved on one side; the long hair remaining was shaped into a loose Mohawk colored white, while the shaved sized was black. Down his spine where electrodes, following the bony plates of the vertebrae all the way down to the nape of his waist.
“Ichor, please, we know WHY we are here. The old witch at the last house on the left told us that the answers we seek lie in the house abandoned by God. So far, this is the closest thing to Godless in this God-forsaken town. We came here to find answers, not riddles.”
The last of the trio, a more alive looking person, snorted at that remark.
His whole body was a sickly bluish white, including his messy hair. His eyes were red rimmed and shone with hate and slight lunacy. On his back he carried a blood painted sledgehammer, and his right arm was wrapped painfully tight in a thick bullwhip that connected to his wrist. His whip hand ended inn three metal claws jammed deep into the muscle, a painful memoir from his mother’s punishments on his as a child. To this day he remembered the heated metal shards being hammered into his young fingers, tearing into muscle and welding to his boney phalanges.
He scowled, his frown making him look eerily similar to the mask of the movie killer Michael Myers.
“‘We’ did not come here for riddles. ‘We’ are not looking for anything. YOU are looking for Satan knows what and dragging the rest of us through mud to get to it. The house is sh*t, big whoop. You’ve seen my digs; it makes this place look like the Hilton. All I see in there is probably a f*ck ton of roaches for dinner and a dead cat or two for dessert. If I was in charge, I’d have hauled ass by now-“
The youngest of the trio grabbed the whining psycho and hauled his high in the air, throttling the life from him. Freakenstein quickly grabbed them both, pulled them together, and bashed them hard together, knocking sense into them.
“Creepshow! Stitchpunk! Knock it off! I know it’s been Hell, but we’re here for answers, not blood. Let’s get this bullcrap over with so as we can finally sleep soundly again.”
With that he dropped the two squabblers. Creepshow rubbed his albino neck gingerly, feeling marks around his throat. He growled at Stitchpunk, his hand twitching, dying to pull out his hammer and bash these freaks to Hell.
No.
That was his mother talking. His mother…the one who had Collan killed. The one who ripped normalcy from him and tried to have him raped by his own progeny.
The one whose shrill laughter rang as he held the lithe form of his boyfriend in his arms…the once beautiful blue eyes white and milky. Dead like the dolls of his family that haunted him throughout his life.
He lost his soul mate once to her evil. He would not succumb to her temptations now.
With sudden regret, he lowered his head instinctively, and followed the other two ahead into the house.
Ichor glanced around, reaching high into the exposed rafters as Freak lead the group deeper in.
“Oh dear. Oh dear dear dearest me. What a dreadful mess this place is. It needs a good wash and cleaning is what it needs.”
Suddenly, his eye picked up something glinting on the ground. With a slight whir, Ichor detached from the tail end and began crawling on the floor like a mechanical spider, two tiny metal tubes ending in small grasping fingers jutting out of a port near his orb of an eye. The glint was the broken handle of a trapdoor, one broken clean through and caked in crusted brown. Blood. Old human blood.
“Misters Freakenstein, Creepshow and Stitchpunk, I do believe I have found a clue. In the immortal words of Scooby Dooby Dum…DUM DUM DUM DAAAA!”
The trio went through the proverbial rabbit hole, landing painfully onto a thick concrete slab floor. Rubble and insect scattered around the place, running from the beaded lights jutting from Freakenstein’s robotic eye and limbs. Stitchpunk walked slowly ahead…he knew this room. He didn’t remember ever being in it…but his heart pulled in hidden nostalgia. Creepshow walked slowly behind the group, his stomach in knots. He had heard stories of what had happened here. Stories of triumph as The House of Usher claimed another life of a non-human to fuel their unholy crusade.
That is when he saw the skeletons.
They were aged yellow, all the flesh eaten or rotted away through time. The ragged remains of a suit and tie were on the biggest skeleton, its bone arms wrapped around the remains of two little girls dressed in matching dresses. A small adult skeleton, probably a female, lay on the other side, hold her arms locked in with the suited corpse. Both parents trying to shield their young from death.
A video cassette shone in the hands of the bigger skeleton, looking almost comical amongst the deathly remains. Creepshow came forward and slowly pulled out the cassette. Written in pen on the front it simply said…
My Name is Frankenstein.
Freak saw an old TV and it showed a thin red light; it functioned, but barely. Good enough to accomplish what they had planned. He placed the video in the slot, and turned on the play button. He turned to Stitch and Creep.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Stitch lifted his head proudly, yet fighting back shakes of emotion.
“I came here to find out where I came from. This is the closest I’ve gotten to see my family alive. If this video shows what happened, then so be it. For all I know, those skeletons can be my family.”
Creep nodded softly, his white hair masking his eyes as he seemingly dissolved into the shadows.
With a collective sigh, Freak pushed in the tape, and turned on the set.
The crackle of snow on a television frequency sounded, rainbow lines running up and down in rapid motion. Sudden a clicking sound occurred, and a series of numbers like a really antique bomb countdown was seen. As the number reached a crooked white one, the image reformed and focus into a blurry mess.
But then it grew clearer, despite being heavily pixelated and jagged in places where the tape from the VHS was peeling back from age.
The image showed, in mottled color and detail, a very dingy room, styled similar to an operating office. A series of empty tables, metallic and straight like those from a morgue, lined the back. Each of them was covered in rumpled white sheets, smeared in dark blood. Even from the grains of the TV screen, one could see thick chunks of tissue and coagulated red fluid stirred within the sheets, as if someone had had a massive internal rupture and gushed out all the blood at once, instead of a normal menstrual cycle.
Footsteps, heavy, thick and sharp, like metal lined boots, sounded off camera. Heavy breathing, like from a big dog panted, and a shadow passed on the edge. The camera was then moved, physically lifted and twisted around.
A scarred hand, sickly green with healed stitch marks between the knuckles pulled back, slightly elongated dark nails ending in wicked points, like semi-retracted cat claws, seemingly nailed inside the upturn, misshapen skin like a botched manicure. The hand moved aside, and the face of a creature was revealed.
Overall, he appeared human. But the resemblance was only fleeting. The face was slightly elongated and not symmetrical like a typical human face. One eye was wide, slightly high in the skull and had a glossy look, like faded contacts. It had no colored iris, but instead looked like a small dot, with slight movement as it tried to adjust to the bad lighting. Where there would be another eye was instead an exposed hole, the muscle inside dried out due to age and time. A thick scar ran from the bottom of the hole to the top of the upper lip, forcing the lip upwards in a slight sneering appearance. A large fang-like canine was exposed from the tilted upper lift, the dim light reflected in the room giving it a mangy color, like mossy yellowed bones. His black hair ended in a misshapen widow’s peak, cut up by a thick scar with metal clasps to his skull. Somehow, his one faded eye seemed…sad. The human-like creature began to cough roughly, dark veins in his pale green and blue neck slightly visible, as if his skin had the transparent nature of a leaf. Shakily, he pulled out from off-screen a ragged old handkerchief, and his coughs became erratic.
After a few minutes of intense coughing, the beast looked back to the camera, his twisted mouth eerie against the monotone of his only eye. And then, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, he spoke, his voice deep with a thick accent. Romanian perhaps? Or even German.
“If you are watching this now at this time…then that means that I am dead. And not just I. But everyone is dead.
I would say normally that it wasn’t supposed to end this way. But that is a lie. And unlike my father, I do not lie. Ever.
Hm. To think of it I used to be the one all feared. But now it’s been reversed. All those who should fear, fear none. But I who should instill fear…I am, for the first time in my life, genuinely afraid.
You must be confused. Pardon, immensely. It’s been a long time since I have tried to communicate to one…who is more biologically inclined than I am. The only way for you to understand is if I start where it all began.
To the day humanity ended. And I was born.
I was born in an old town now forever lost to history. Many times I wanted to return, to make things right. But it was vaporized, killed off by monsters in the form of humans. All those people. Those children, ones who I myself took care of. All gone.
The year was 1906. Much later than the books from the Mary darling. There’s a reason being for that. My father started his work many years before I was born. My brothers where all…defective. Their bodies degraded at a stupendous rate. Their brains abnormal, deformed. Wicked and rotten.
They where all killed, mere days after their birth.
I loathe their wickedness. But I also love them for it. Because they were me, as I could have been. But my father, after so many brothers died, finally got the formula and technique right. And I was the bloody fruit, born of the bodies of a hundred souls, and dozens of kin.
I do not remember what happened when I was born. I just recall flashes of movement and color. And pain. I felt something sharp, like a rake, dig into my eye, pulling out an organ I had yet to become acquainted with. I remember a man screaming, a monster roaring and then my own cries like the strangled wails of a newborn wolf pup. I awoke finally in the woods, a darkness that engulfed my adjusting body. All I had was my skin, and a ragged blanket made out of old fur that I must have grabbed on impulse as I escaped the Hell of my birthing quarters.
3 times the great orb passed me, its light warm, and also threatening. On the third day, I came across a small cottage deep inside the woods. Much like my eldest brother, I ventured inside, my legs shaking and cut to the bone by my birth and survival. But that’s where the similarities end.
A small family was in, a gypsy family if I recall. They merely smiled at my visage and welcomed me into their home, far from the repulsed cry that my brothers had suffered through. It was with this family that I stayed with for the next 30 years. I would always be there for the new generations, remaining behind to care for the young and old as the new adults would venture out. Some to form new families, others to see what the world would bring them.
My world was the family. And I stayed only with them.
That is, until 1942. Where monsters in human flesh proved their existence and the capacity for evil. The town I was born and raised in was destroyed seemingly overnight. The family I stayed with, the only link to the world I had, where rounded up like animals. Several managed to run, but where shortly shot to death. The others, especially the children, where stripped of possession and forced into large metal beasts.
I never saw my family again. I escaped into an alien world, and I hid. I hid as I saw the people in my village, of whom, on the rare occasions I had dared ventured from my cottage, where cordial and kind to me. They were butchered.
The slaughter ended, but I didn’t stay to see it end. I fled from my home, running to nowhere. I had no destination, no control. I was just a child stripped of a family that he had grown to worship for decades.
But now I do have something to live for. Right here and now. All those years running, I now have a family of my own. For what I am, I could not have children like a human. Nor can my love, for she is one like me. One made from flesh, not the unity of cells.
That is where I decided that I would not fold to an unrelenting drive to punish. I’d fight back. So God despises me for this, but I made my own children. Like my father made me.
Elys-Anna my eldest. Frankleena my youngest. And their mother Evera and I their father. Our appearance…frightened most to say the least. So we hid in the dark, trying not to harm or annoy anyone. Sadly my girls never knew the love of friendship, and I tried desperately to keep them happy with the odd re-animated dog or cat.
But we knew that for our family to truly thrive, one more was to be born. And in my father’s ambition to create one…I doomed us all to a certain death.
(A tear forms in the eye of the creature and he bows his head in remorse and guilt. Suddenly a small hand, a spring green against his rotted looking exterior, pulled at the sleeve of his jacket. A little girl, near perfection outside of the odd small stitch and unusual skin color, whimpered, holding a patchwork teddy bear in her small grip. Her father held he gently, like a porcelain doll, comforting his scared daughter.)
My drive will and has led to our deaths. Of that I am certain. But to who is watching this, I only ask for you to listen carefully.
(Footsteps start sounding above the camera, and dust filters down. The room is in a locked basement, and angry, insane voices can be heard above. A chortled laughter, disconnected like a hyena’s giggle, rose sharply above the murmurs.)
No…they have reached our home!
(Turns to the camera.)
This must go to the one person I know will make it out. My son, you who are not yet alive will live on after us. Someday you will be sparked to life. You are complete, only sleeping. I pray that I could see you awaken that first time, but I cannot. My mistakes will lead to our ruin, but hopefully you can pass on our name.
(The trapdoor above is discovered, the above voices growing louder and more frantic. The bolts begin to give as seemingly a dozen feet start stomping at the door at once, busting it open slowly.)
You are your sisters' brother, your mother and I’s son. You are a Frankenstein, like us. Your name is Adam Victor Frankenstein the 2. Remember this for it’ll be both a blessing and a curse. But for us, you must live on. You must!”
(The door caves in and immediately a swarm of men and blades come flying in, laughing and giggling at the prospect of the hunt. The camera is toppled as the creatures move; super-humanly fast in a blur motion. The screams of the girls was the loudest noise in the cacophony, followed by the swish of a knife and the visible spurting of blood on the camera glass. The father’s face could only be glimpsed at an angle, but his jaws where stretched out, revealing huge saber tooth canines, his sharp claws slashing at the intruders as he desperately tried to save his children. A hiss was heard, and an anorexic woman, her skin a pale blue and her black hair streaked in white, leaped onto one of the men, before being pulled aside by another. A large blade was raised, and a hot spurt of blood and tissue exploded out of the attacker’s stomach as the father defended his mate by gutting the would-be killer.
He looked fleetingly at the camera, his fangs dripping in blood as gore leaked out of his blasted eye-socket. Pain was seen thick in his single eye. A message to the child he would never see awaken and live.)
“I’m so sorry my son.”
The footage cut to black; the image ended, although screams and roars could be heard a few seconds later, as well as hacking sounds and loud spurts.
Stitchpunk sat bug-eyed in his rickety chair, tears gushing out of his eyes. Freakenstein, towering over the young critter, desperately wanted to hug him, to console him. But he knew that the consoling was only up to Stitchpunk. Freak lowered his huge head, his metal lower jaw clicking against his cheek bone as his bionic eye swiveled in an impossible direction to look at the younger monster.
“I’m so sorry Stitch. It’s the only thing I can tell you. I hate that I can’t say more. But I lived with my family before they were bombed. You never had a family to go to.”
Stitchpunk slowly turned and looked at his surrogate brother.
“He’s gone. My dad is gone. My mom is gone. Sisters, home. Everything. All I ever wanted was to see them. Just once. And..and…”
Tears billowed out of his eyes and he threw his gangly arms around Freakenstein, crushing him in a bear hug of pain. Freak hugged the young Frankenstein back, his mechanical tail wrapping around both of them in added security.
The two monsters hugged, one the product of a father wanting to pass on the future. Another to return to the past by way of murdering the present. In the shadows though, stood the other. The mysterious Creepshow remained hidden. Ichor, the robotic spider, stood next to him, his huge bionic eye betraying the rudimentary levels of emotion his AI allowed him to experience.
Creepshow knew Stitch’s pain. He knew all too well. A family of killers, his own boyfriend murdered in a bizarre initiation by a jealous member of his family. The memory of his love drenched his brain, and he turned to the wall, placing his scarred hand, one with metal spikes nailed deep under the cuticles by his mother, onto the thick brick and mortar. Then in silence, his pain an island of isolation, he wept.
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