Frankenstein Follies: A Monster at Jeopardy

 Here's another tale of Frankenstein's Monster, as viewed through the humorous lense of Dick Briefer's take on the character during the mid-1940s.

A Monster at Jeopardy

Dr. Victor Frankenstein had been many things in his life—brilliant, obsessive, arguably insane—but "television producer" was not among them. His creation, however, had evolved far beyond the doctor's wildest expectations.

The being known to most as "The Monster," though he preferred to go by Frank, sat in his modest apartment, adjusting his bow tie in the mirror. Eight feet tall with sallow, yellowish skin stretched over working muscles and a face that only a mad scientist could love, he nevertheless cut a striking figure in his custom-tailored suit.

"Epistemology, $800," he practiced, his deep voice rumbling through the small space. "What is the categorical imperative? Who is Søren Kierkegaard? What are the primary critiques of utilitarian ethics?"

Frank had spent the two centuries since his creation devouring knowledge with the same ferocity with which he had once pursued his maker across the Arctic. Philosophy, literature, mathematics, history—all had been consumed by his prodigious intellect. After decades of self-imposed isolation, he had gradually integrated into society as humanity became more accepting of differences—or at least more distracted by their phones.

Some nights, surrounded by his thousands of books but no companions, Frank would stare at his reflection—a patchwork face staring back at him—and wonder if knowledge alone could fill the void left by rejection. The Ph.D.s and academic accolades couldn't keep him warm on cold nights when the memory of torches and pitchforks still burned bright in his mind. Perhaps public recognition, just once, might ease that ancient ache.

Now, he wanted to test himself on the grandest intellectual stage available to the average person: "Jeopardy!"

***

"Next up for audition number 47291," called the bored casting assistant. "Mister... just 'The Monster'? Is that right?"

The massive figure ducked through the doorway, his frame barely clearing the entrance. "I actually go by Frank, though my full identifier would be Frankenstein's Monster. I've considered adopting 'Shelley' as a surname, given the circumstances."

The three producers at the table visibly recoiled. The head producer, Marcia, recovered first.

"Well... welcome to the Jeopardy auditions, Mr... Frank. I'm Marcia, and these are my colleagues, Tom and Devin."

"A pleasure," Frank said, extending a hand the size of a dinner plate. "I've been an avid viewer since the Fleming era. Trebek was the pinnacle, naturally."

Tom, a balding man with a permanent expression of mild indigestion, leaned toward Marcia. "Is this some kind of publicity stunt?"

Frank's acute hearing picked up the whisper. "I assure you, sir, I'm quite real. Just a being with an unnatural thirst for knowledge seeking worthy opponents."

Devin, the youngest producer, was frantically typing on his phone. He glanced at Frank, then returned his attention to his phone and asked, "You just got done with a bunch of botched plastic surgeries?"

Frank sighed, a sound like wind through a mausoleum. "No. Dr. Frankenstein assembled me from cadavers in 1795."

Marcia cleared her throat. "Right. Well, let's proceed with the audition. We'll start with the personal anecdote portion. Do you have an interesting story you might share with the host if selected?"

The Monster considered this. "Perhaps the time I learned to read by observing a family through a hole in their wall? Or my decades-long pursuit of my creator across the frozen wasteland of the Arctic? Or maybe something more relatable—I once had a delightful conversation with Lord Byron about poetry before he fled in terror."

Tom's eye twitched. "Maybe something more... contemporary?"

"Ah," the Monster nodded. "I recently completed my fourteenth Ph.D.—this one in quantum computing. My dissertation on quantum entanglement as a metaphor for the creator-creation relationship won several awards, though I suspect the committee was too frightened to deny me."

Devin had stopped typing and was now staring openly. "Fourteen Ph.D.s?"

"Yes. One becomes quite productive when one doesn't require sleep. Though I do enjoy it occasionally—purely for the dreams."

Marcia, ever the professional, pressed on. "Let's move to the sample questions. I'll give you clues from different categories, and you respond in the form of a question."

"Of course," the Monster said, folding his massive hands in his lap. "I am familiar with the format."

"For $200: This 'Father of Modern Philosophy' famously stated 'I think, therefore I am.'"

"Who is René Descartes?" the Monster responded instantly. "Though I've always found his mind-body dualism problematic. If he had experienced consciousness in a body assembled from multiple sources as I have, perhaps his philosophical framework would have been more nuanced."

Marcia blinked. "Correct. For $400: This element, with atomic number 79, is one of the least reactive metals."

"What is gold? An interesting element—I once consumed some during a particularly dark period in the 1800s, thinking it might end my torment. It did not, though it made for some rather spectacular waste elimination."

Tom looked faintly ill.

"For $600," Marcia continued, her voice slightly higher, "This Shakespeare play features the line 'What a piece of work is man.'"

"What is Hamlet?" The Monster's eyes grew distant. "A play that resonated deeply with me. 'How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty... the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals.' Yet Hamlet fails to recognize the monstrosity within himself, while I am forced to wear mine externally. The irony is not lost on me."

Devin was now recording the audition on his phone, all pretense of professionalism abandoned.

"Final question," Marcia said. "For $1000: This Mary Shelley novel, published in 1818, tells the story of a scientist who creates a sapient creature."

The Monster's face, normally frozen in a rictus of stitched features, somehow managed to convey annoyance.

"What is Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus?" He sighed. "Though I must point out the numerous inaccuracies in that account. Ms. Shelley took considerable creative liberties. I am far more articulate than portrayed, and the ending is pure fabrication. I never disappeared into the Arctic darkness to die. Obviously."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

"Well," Marcia finally said, "that was certainly... unique. We'll be in touch if you're selected for the show."

Frank stood, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. "I understand your hesitation. My appearance is often a barrier to being taken seriously. But consider this: your ratings would likely increase exponentially. And I would donate all winnings to organizations supporting ethical scientific research and literacy programs."

As he turned to leave, he added, "Also, I believe the proper response to my final answer would have been 'correct.'"

***

Three weeks later, Frank sat in his apartment, opening his mail. Among the usual correspondence—academic journals, invitations to lecture at universities brave enough to host him, and the occasional hate mail from villagers—was an envelope with the Jeopardy logo.

His massive fingers, surprisingly dexterous after centuries of practice, carefully opened the letter.

"Dear Mr. Monster," it read. "We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as a contestant on Jeopardy. Your episode will tape on October 31st..."

The Monster allowed himself a rare smile. Halloween. Of course.

He walked to his bookshelf and ran a finger along the spines of his collection of world almanacs, encyclopedias, and historical texts.

"What is 'ready to make history'?" he said to the empty room, and began to prepare.

***

On the day of the taping, The Monster stood backstage, listening to the familiar theme music. The makeup artist had given up trying to make him look "more natural" after several futile attempts.

The floor manager approached, visibly nervous. "You're on in two minutes, Mr. Frank. Remember, when Ken introduces you, just share that anecdote we rehearsed about your work with the literacy program. 

"Not my debate with Noam Chomsky on linguistic determinism?"

"Definitely not that one. Also, remember that you are 'the Monster' for the purposes of the show.""

The Monster nodded. "Very well."

As he waited for his cue, he reflected on his long, strange existence. From his violent "birth" in that lightning-struck laboratory to this moment—about to appear on a beloved television quiz show—his journey had been improbable to say the least.

"And our third contestant," Ken Jennings' voice rang out, "is certainly one for the history books. Standing at eight feet tall and hailing from 'various graveyards across Europe,' please welcome... The Monster!"

The audience's applause was hesitant at first, then grew as the Monster emerged, waving politely.

"So, Monster," Ken said, maintaining his professional demeanor despite the extraordinary circumstances, "I understand you run a literacy program?"

"Yes, Ken," the Monster replied, his voice booming despite his attempt to modulate it. "After learning to read by observing a family through a hole in their wall—a method I do not recommend—I became passionate about accessible education. My program, 'Monsters of Literature,' brings books to underserved communities."

"Wonderful," Ken said. "And I understand you've been alive for... over two centuries?"

"Indeed. I've witnessed the French Revolution, both World Wars, and the entire run of The Bachelor. The latter was perhaps the most horrifying."

A ripple of laughter spread through the audience.

"Well, we're certainly glad to have you here. Let's see the categories for Double Jeopardy."

The board lit up: 

WORLD CAPITALS 

SCIENCE & NATURE 

LITERARY MONSTERS 

19TH CENTURY LITERATURE 

FAMOUS DOCTORS 

THINGS THAT SHOULD NOT BE

The Monster's stitched brow furrowed. "I sense some category manipulation, Ken."

Ken smiled innocently. "Pure coincidence. Monster, you have control of the board."

"I'll take 'Things That Should Not Be' for $800, please."

"The answer is: This quiz show contestant was created from dead body parts and reanimated with electricity."

The Monster sighed deeply and pressed his buzzer.

"What is... a transparent attempt to unsettle me?"

Ken paused, then smiled. "I'm sorry, we were looking for 'What is Frankenstein's Monster?' But the judges have informed me they'll accept your answer as well."

As the game progressed, the Monster dominated categories like "19th Century Literature" and "Famous Doctors," while struggling slightly with modern pop culture references. By Final Jeopardy, he held a commanding lead.

"And the Final Jeopardy category is... 'Second Chances.'"

The Monster nodded thoughtfully as he wrote down his wager.

"And the clue is: 'This is what both contestants and misunderstood creatures sometimes deserve.'"

The thinking music played as the three contestants wrote their answers. When it ended, Ken turned to the third-place contestant.

"Melissa, you wrote 'What is redemption?' That is correct. Your wager? $4,000, bringing you to $7,200."

The second contestant had the same answer and wagered everything, moving into the lead with $15,400.

"And finally, our leader, The Monster. Your response?"

The camera zoomed in on the answer, written in elegant script: "What is the opportunity to be judged by one's knowledge rather than one's appearance?"

Ken looked up. "The judges are accepting that. Your wager?"

The Monster had wagered $10,001, bringing his total to $34,801.

"Congratulations, you are our new Jeopardy champion!"

As the credits rolled, the Monster shook hands with his fellow contestants, careful not to crush their comparatively delicate bones.

"Will you be returning tomorrow?" Ken asked.

"Indeed," Frank replied. "I have waited two centuries for this validation. I intend to become the greatest champion in Jeopardy history."

Ken laughed nervously. "Well, you'll have to beat my record first."

Frank's stitched lips curved into what might have been a smile. "What is 'challenge accepted'?"

***

The Monster went on to win seventy-four consecutive games--none of which had the rigged categories on the Halloween contest. He amassed over $2.5 million in winnings, all donated to educational charities. His final defeat came at the hands of a librarian from Portland who specialized in obscure pop culture—the Monster's only weakness.

He returned for the Tournament of Champions, of course, and later became a popular guest host when Ken Jennings went on vacation. His catchphrase—"What is the correct response, or face my wrath?"—became a cultural phenomenon, though he insisted the "wrath" part was merely humorous.

Dr. Frankenstein, watching from whatever afterlife scientists go to, was presumably both horrified and impressed that his creation had found fame not through terror, but through encyclopedic knowledge and a surprisingly dry wit.

And somewhere, Mary Shelley smiled at how wrong—and right—she had been.

THE END

--

If you liked this story, you'll probably love the material that inspired it--Dick Briefer's Frankenstein Follies from NUELOW Games!

Frankenstein Follies Fiction by Steve Miller

If you enjoyed the fiction included in the recently-released NUELOW Games book Frankenstein Follies, you might enjoy this story as well! (It may or may not also appear in a future Frankenstein Follies entry.)

Frankenstein's Monster Takes the Wheel

By Steve Miller

The rain pattered against the windshield of the 2012 Toyota Camry as large, scarred hands gripped the steering wheel. The car idled at the curb outside a trendy downtown bar, its Uber light glowing softly in the darkness. Inside, a hulking figure hunched uncomfortably in the driver's seat, his broad shoulders nearly touching both sides of the car simultaneously. He adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his own mismatched eyes—one a piercing blue, the other a muddy brown—and the crude surgical scars that mapped his ashen face like railroad tracks.

"Rating: 4.2 stars," the creature thought, eyeing the phone mounted on the dashboard. "Not bad for the first week." 

He tapped his massive finger against the screen, careful not to crack it as he had done with his first three phones. Learning to moderate his strength had been a challenge, but necessary for this new venture into the gig economy.

The creature—known to his creator as "the Monster," though he had taken to calling himself Frank in recent years—had wandered the earth for over two centuries since that fateful night in Geneva. He had outlived his maker, Dr. Victor Frankenstein, and had spent decades in self-imposed isolation in various remote corners of the world. But even immortal beings created from cadaver parts needed to pay rent in the 21st century.

The Uber app chimed, and Frank's face contorted into what he hoped resembled a smile. Practice in the mirror had shown him that his attempts at friendly expressions often terrified humans, so he had settled for a neutral look—less frightening, though still unsettling to most passengers.

"Pickup: Melissa. Three minutes away," he rumbled, putting the car into Drive.

Frank had discovered that nighttime rides were ideal for his situation. The darkness concealed much of his appearance, and intoxicated passengers were less likely to notice or remember his peculiarities. The late-night crowd also tended to be more accepting of eccentricities. Still, he kept a hoodie pulled low over his face and had grown a patchy beard to cover some of his more prominent scars.

He pulled up to the bar entrance where a young woman in a sequined dress stood swaying slightly, staring at her phone. Frank took a deep breath and prepared his rehearsed greeting.

"Melissa?" he called through the partially lowered window, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer.

The woman looked up, squinting at the car. "That's me! You're... Frank?"

"Yes. Frank. Your Uber driver." He unlocked the doors with a click.

Melissa slid into the back seat, bringing with her the scent of fruity cocktails and designer perfume. "Thanks for coming so quickly. I've been waiting forever."

Frank nodded, checking that she had buckled her seatbelt before pulling away from the curb. He had learned that safety protocols were important—not just for avoiding traffic violations, but for maintaining his precious rating. His first day had been disastrous: a 2.8 average after frightening an elderly couple and accidentally crushing a passenger's luggage with his superhuman strength.

"So," Melissa said, breaking the silence after a few blocks, "been driving for Uber long?"

"One week," Frank replied, keeping his answers short to minimize the unsettling effect his voice had on passengers.

"Cool, cool," she said, tapping away at her phone. "You know, you're like, really tall. Do you play basketball or something?"

Frank's massive hands tightened on the steering wheel. Small talk was always treacherous territory. "No. Not good at... sports."

"Oh my God, your accent is so interesting! Where are you from originally?"

This question always posed a dilemma. Frank had tried various answers over the years. "Switzerland. Near Geneva," he finally said, which was technically true.

"That's amazing! I've always wanted to go to Switzerland. All that chocolate and those cute little mountain houses, you know?"

Frank nodded, focusing on the road. His night vision was exceptional—another benefit of his unique physiology—allowing him to spot a potential hazard well before a normal human could. He swerved gently to avoid a raccoon crossing the street.

"Whoa, good eyes!" Melissa commented. "I didn't even see that little guy."

"I see well in dark," Frank said, allowing himself a small moment of pride.

The navigation app instructed him to turn right, and as he did so, the streetlights illuminated his face more clearly than he would have liked. He heard a small gasp from the back seat.

"Dude, those are some intense scars. Were you in an accident or something?"

Frank had prepared for this question too. "Yes. Electrical accident. Very bad."

"That's terrible! But hey, scars are badass, right? My brother always says scars tell your life story."

Frank's mouth twitched. If only she knew how literal that was in his case—his body was quite literally a patchwork of other people's life stories.

"Yes. Many stories," he murmured.

The car fell silent for a moment, save for the gentle patter of rain and the occasional swish of windshield wipers. Frank was just beginning to relax when a loud crack of thunder shook the night, followed immediately by a brilliant flash of lightning.

Frank couldn't help it—he let out a guttural yelp and swerved the car slightly. Lightning had always triggered an instinctive reaction in him, a cellular memory of the electrical current that had first animated his disparate parts.

"Whoa! You okay there, big guy?" Melissa asked, gripping the door handle.

"Sorry," Frank rumbled, embarrassed. "Not like storms. Bad memories."

"No worries, I get it. My roommate's dog goes absolutely nuts during thunderstorms. Hides under the bed and everything."

Frank nodded, though he didn't appreciate the comparison to a frightened pet. He had faced down angry mobs with torches and pitchforks in his time; a little thunder shouldn't unnerve him so. Yet something about electrical storms always sent a primal shudder through his stitched-together frame.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the car, and this time Melissa got a clearer look at her driver. Frank heard her sharp intake of breath but kept his eyes firmly on the road.

"So, um, Frank," she said, her voice pitched slightly higher than before, "do you like driving for Uber?"

"It's okay," he replied, grateful for the change in subject. "I get to meet interesting people, learn about modern world."

"Modern world? That's a funny way of putting it," she laughed nervously. "But I guess things do change pretty fast these days with technology and everything."

Frank nodded sagely. He had witnessed the invention of the telephone, the automobile, the airplane, the internet—technologies that had transformed human society while he observed from the shadows. Adapting to smartphones and apps had been his latest challenge.

"Very fast," he agreed. "It's hard to keep up sometimes."

The navigation app announced that they were approaching their destination, and Frank felt the familiar mixture of relief and disappointment. Most rides ended without incident, but each one was a risk—a chance that someone might recognize him for what he truly was. Yet these brief human interactions, however superficial, were often the highlight of his lonely existence.

He pulled up to a modest apartment building and put the car in park. "Your destination," he announced unnecessarily.

"Thanks, Frank," Melissa said, gathering her purse. She hesitated before opening the door. "Thanks for the ride. And you stay safe out there with all the weirdos, okay? A big guy like you probably doesn't have much trouble, though."

If only she knew how many "weirdos" he had encountered in his two centuries of existence—or that she was currently speaking to the original monster of modern literature.

"You, too. Be safe," he replied.

As Melissa exited the car, she turned back with a smile. "Five stars for you, Frank from Switzerland. You're definitely the most interesting Uber driver I've had all month."

The car door closed, and Frank watched as she safely entered her building before pulling away from the curb. He glanced at his phone and saw the notification: "Melissa gave you 5 stars!" A small smile tugged at his crudely stitched lips.

Perhaps this modern world had a place for him after all.

---

The next evening found Frank parked outside a popular nightclub, the bass from inside vibrating his car even from half a block away. His phone chimed with a new ride request, which he accepted with a careful tap of his massive finger.

"Pickup: Bachelor Party (6 passengers)," the app informed him.

Frank frowned. His Toyota Camry was only authorized for four passengers, but he had learned that groups often tried to squeeze in extra people to save money. He would have to politely but firmly enforce the limit—another delicate social interaction to navigate.

The group emerged from the club in a rowdy cluster, five men in button-up shirts surrounding one wearing a plastic crown and a sash reading "GROOM TO BE." They spotted his car and waved enthusiastically.

Frank lowered his window as they approached. "Uber for Jason?" he inquired, his deep voice carrying over their chatter.

"That's us!" the crowned man shouted. "Ready to hit the next spot!"

"Sorry," Frank rumbled. "Car can only fit four passengers. App says six people."

The men exchanged glances. "Come on, big man," one of them cajoled. "We can squeeze in. It's just a short ride."

Frank shook his head firmly. "Against the rules. It's not safe."

"Look at the size of this guy!" another man said, gesturing at Frank's massive frame. "Dude, what do you bench press? You're huge!"

Frank shifted uncomfortably. He had indeed tried exercise in the modern era, but had quickly abandoned it after accidentally bending a steel barbell at a 24-hour fitness center.

"Not important," he deflected. "You need two Ubers or XL size."

The groom stepped forward, swaying slightly. "Listen, Frank—it is Frank, right?—it's my bachelor party. One night to remember before the old ball and chain, you know what I mean?"

Frank did not know what he meant. Human mating rituals had evolved considerably since his creation, and the concept of bachelor parties was entirely foreign to him.

"Can pay extra," the groom offered, pulling out his wallet. "Twenty bucks cash, just for you. Our little secret."

Frank hesitated. The extra money would be useful—living expenses in this city were considerable, even for someone who required minimal food and comfort. But he had been trying so hard to follow rules, to blend in, to be a good citizen in this century.

"No," he finally said. "Against the rules. I could lose my job."

The men's friendly demeanor shifted instantly.

"Come on, man, don't be a dick," one of them said, his smile fading.

"Yeah, it's like a five-minute drive," another added. "No one's gonna know."

Frank felt a familiar tension building in his chest—the same feeling he had experienced countless times over the centuries when confronted by hostile humans. He took a deep breath, remembering the anger management techniques he had learned from a self-help book found in a free little library.

"I'm canceling the ride," he said firmly. "No charge to you. Get a different Uber."

The groom leaned down, peering into the car with narrowed eyes. The streetlight illuminated Frank's face clearly, revealing his mismatched eyes, prominent scars, and unnatural complexion.

"What the hell happened to you, man?" the groom asked, his tone somewhere between disgust and fascination. "You look like Frankenstein's Monster or something."

Frank froze. In all his years, he had never quite gotten used to hearing that name—his creator's name—spoken so casually, especially in comparison to himself. The literary reference had become ubiquitous in popular culture, but it always sent a jolt through him.

"Accident," he managed to say. "Please step back from car."

Instead, the man leaned in further. "Hey guys, check this out! What kind of freak show is this dude?"

Frank's massive hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The urge to lash out, to defend himself as he had done in centuries past, surged through his patchwork body. But he had vowed long ago to never again harm humans, no matter the provocation.

"Please cancel ride," Frank said, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "Now."

Something in his tone must have finally registered with the drunken men, because they backed away from the car.

"Whatever, freak," the groom muttered. "Let's get out of here, guys. I'll call another Uber."

Frank quickly drove away, his heart pounding in his chest. These confrontations were exactly what he had feared when he decided to join the modern workforce. Perhaps this experiment had been a mistake after all.

He pulled over a few blocks away to collect himself. His phone chimed with a notification: "Ride canceled by passenger. Cancellation fee applied." At least there was that small consolation.

Just as he was considering calling it a night, another ride request came through. Frank hesitated, then accepted it with a sigh. One more ride, he decided. Then home to his small apartment where he could retreat into one of his beloved books—the one pleasure that had remained constant throughout his long existence.

The pickup location was a hospital, which immediately put Frank on alert. Hospitals made him deeply uncomfortable, reminding him too much of his own unnatural origins. But the passenger was waiting outside, a middle-aged woman in scrubs clutching a tote bag, looking exhausted.

Frank pulled up and lowered the passenger window. "Sarah?" he inquired cautiously.

The woman nodded wearily. "That's me. Thanks for coming so quickly."

She climbed into the back seat without giving Frank more than a cursory glance, which was a relief. She smelled of antiseptic and coffee, and her eyes had the glazed look of someone who had been awake far too long.

"Long shift?" Frank ventured as he pulled away from the curb, attempting the small talk that seemed expected in these situations.

"Sixteen hours," she replied with a sigh. "I'm a nurse in the ICU. We're short-staffed, as usual."

Frank nodded sympathetically. "Important work. Helping people."

"Try telling that to hospital administration," she said with a bitter laugh. "Sorry, I don't mean to complain. It's just been one of those days."

They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the late-night streets nearly empty. Frank found himself relaxing slightly. This passenger seemed too tired to notice or care about his unusual appearance.

"You know," Sarah said suddenly, "you remind me of someone."

Frank tensed again. "Oh?"

"Yeah, there was this patient I had years ago. Big guy like you, unusual features. He had a rare condition that affected his appearance. People were so cruel to him, but he was the gentlest soul."

Frank kept his eyes on the road, unsure how to respond. In his centuries of existence, he had occasionally sought medical help when necessary, always at small, discreet clinics, always using different names. Could she possibly have encountered him before?

"People judge too quickly," he finally said.

"They really do," Sarah agreed. "In my line of work, you learn that what's on the outside rarely tells the whole story."

Frank felt a surprising lump in his throat. How long had it been since someone had spoken to him with such simple understanding?

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?" Sarah asked, sounding genuinely puzzled.

"For... helping people. Not judging."

She was silent for a moment. "Well, thank you for driving at this ungodly hour so people like me can get home safely."

The navigation announced their arrival at Sarah's destination, a modest house in a quiet neighborhood. Frank pulled into the driveway as instructed.

"Home safe," he announced.

"Thanks, Frank," Sarah said, gathering her things. She looked at him directly for the first time during the ride, her tired eyes taking in his appearance without a hint of fear or disgust. "Take care of yourself, okay? And drive safely."

"You too. Rest well."

After she entered her house, Frank sat in the driveway for a moment longer than necessary. The interaction had left him with an unfamiliar warmth in his chest. He checked his phone and saw that Sarah had already given him five stars and added a modest tip.

Perhaps there was hope for him in this century after all.

---

Over the next few weeks, Frank settled into a routine. He drove exclusively at night, learned which areas of the city to avoid, and developed strategies for minimizing attention to his appearance. He kept a collection of hoodies in different colors, grew his beard fuller, and perfected the art of keeping conversations brief but not rudely so.

His rating steadily improved to 4.7 stars, and he began to recognize regular passengers—late-night workers, club-goers, and the occasional airport pickup. Most were too tired, intoxicated, or distracted to pay much attention to their driver's peculiarities, and those who did notice often assumed he was simply a very large man with some unfortunate scarring or a medical condition.

One rainy Tuesday night, Frank received a pickup request from an address he recognized as a small independent bookstore. He had passed it many times but had never ventured inside, wary of the bright lighting and close quarters that would make his appearance all too noticeable.

He pulled up to find a young man with thick glasses and an armful of books waiting under the store's awning. The passenger looked up from his phone and did a visible double-take when Frank rolled down the window.

"Oliver?" Frank inquired, bracing himself for another uncomfortable reaction.

"Yes, that's me," the young man replied, adjusting his glasses. "You must be Frank."

"Yes. Please, get in."

Oliver slid into the back seat, his books tumbling onto the seat beside him. "Sorry about that," he said, gathering them up. "I may have gone a bit overboard at the sale."

Frank nodded, pulling away from the curb. He glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed Oliver studying him with undisguised interest. Here it comes, he thought resignedly.

"Excuse me," Oliver said, leaning forward slightly, "but I have to ask... are you a fan of Gothic literature by any chance?"

The question was so unexpected that Frank nearly missed a stop sign. "What?"

"It's just—well, this might sound strange, but you have a remarkable resemblance to the description of the creature in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. The height, the proportions, even the... anatomical details. It's quite striking."

Frank's hands tightened on the steering wheel. In his two centuries of existence, no one had ever so directly connected him to his literary counterpart. People had called him monster, freak, abomination—but no one had ever simply recognized him for what he was.

"You... read that book?" Frank asked cautiously.

"Oh yes, many times. It's one of my favorites. I'm doing my doctoral dissertation on early 19th-century Gothic literature, actually. Shelley's work is central to my research."

Frank felt a strange mixture of alarm and excitement. Here was someone who knew the story—his story, or at least the fictionalized version that had become famous while he himself remained in hiding.

"What you think of... the creature?" Frank asked, unable to help himself.

Oliver's face lit up at the question. "That's exactly what makes the novel so fascinating! The creature is portrayed with such complexity and humanity. He's not simply a monster but a being capable of deep emotion, intellectual growth, and moral reasoning. His tragedy lies in being rejected by society based solely on his appearance, despite his inherent capacity for goodness."

Frank nearly missed the turn indicated by his navigation app, so focused was he on Oliver's words. How strange to hear his existence analyzed by this young scholar, who had no idea he was speaking to the very being whose literary counterpart he studied.

"Some people think monster is... the villain," Frank ventured.

"That's a common misconception," Oliver said enthusiastically. "People often conflate the creature with the various film adaptations, where he's reduced to a shambling, grunting monster. In Shelley's original text, he's articulate, self-educated, and deeply philosophical. His violence stems from his mistreatment, not from any inherent evil."

Frank felt an unexpected emotion welling up inside him—something like validation. For centuries, he had lived with the knowledge that his story had been told to the world, but twisted and simplified until "Frankenstein's monster" became shorthand for a mindless, violent abomination. Yet here was someone who understood the nuance, who had read Shelley's words and seen beyond the surface.

"Interesting perspective," Frank managed to say, his voice rougher than usual with emotion.

"Sorry, I tend to get carried away on this subject," Oliver said with a self-deprecating laugh. "My friends are sick of hearing about it."

"No. It's good. You understand... the complexity of the creature."

Oliver looked at Frank with renewed interest. "Are you a reader yourself?"

Frank nodded. "Many books over many years."

"Any favorites?"

Frank considered the question carefully. Over his long life, he had read thousands of books, finding in literature the connection to humanity that he was often denied in person. "Paradise Lost," he finally said. "Milton. And Goethe. Sorrows of Young Werther."

Oliver's eyes widened. "Those are exactly the texts that influenced the creature in Frankenstein! Milton's Paradise Lost was particularly formative for him—the parallel between himself and the fallen angel, cast out by his creator."

Frank nearly smiled at the young man's excitement. If only he knew how literal the connection was—that the real creature had indeed found those very books in a forgotten satchel during his early wanderings, and had taught himself to read through their pages.

"You have good insights," Frank said as they approached Oliver's destination, a small apartment building near the university.

"Thanks," Oliver replied, gathering his books as the car stopped. "You know, there's a lecture series on Gothic literature starting next week at the university. Open to the public, free admission. The first one is specifically on Frankenstein. You might find it interesting, given your... um, aesthetic."

Frank raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to be amused or offended.

"I mean, you've clearly put a lot of effort into the look," Oliver continued, misinterpreting Frank's expression. "The scars, the subtle skin tone. It's an impressive commitment to the character. You'd probably be appreciated by the literary crowd."

Frank realized that Oliver thought his appearance was an elaborate costume or body modification—a deliberate homage to Shelley's creation rather than the genuine article.

"Maybe," Frank said noncommittally. "When is lecture?"

"Next Thursday at 7 PM, Thompson Hall. I'm actually giving the introductory remarks." Oliver handed Frank a small flyer from among his books. "Here's the information. No pressure, of course, but you'd definitely be welcome."

Frank accepted the flyer with careful fingers, mindful not to tear the delicate paper. "Thank you."

After Oliver left, Frank sat in his car for several minutes, staring at the flyer. In all his years, he had never attended any public event related to Frankenstein. He had avoided theaters when the films were released, steered clear of Halloween celebrations, and certainly never set foot in academic settings where his literary counterpart might be discussed.

But something about Oliver's genuine enthusiasm and thoughtful analysis made him reconsider. Perhaps, in this modern age where body modification, elaborate costuming, and celebration of the unusual had become more commonplace, he could actually attend such an event without raising undue alarm.

The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.

---

The following Thursday evening found Frank parked outside Thompson Hall, his car idling as he debated whether to go through with this unprecedented step. He had dressed carefully in his least threatening outfit—dark jeans, a button-up shirt that actually fit his massive frame (custom-ordered online), and a casual blazer that helped disguise the breadth of his shoulders. He had even trimmed his beard neatly and pulled his long hair back into a tidy ponytail.

Still, there was no disguising what he was. The bolts in his neck, the mismatched eyes, the patchwork of scars that mapped his face and hands—these would be visible to anyone who looked closely. His only hope was that in an academic setting focused on Frankenstein, people might assume he was in costume, as Oliver had.

Frank finally turned off the engine and stepped out of his car. At nearly seven feet tall, he towered over the students and faculty members making their way into the building. A few glanced his way with curious expressions, but no one screamed or pointed. That, at least, was a good sign.

He followed the small crowd to a lecture hall, where rows of seats faced a podium and projection screen. Frank selected a seat in the back row, close to the exit—a habit formed over centuries of needing quick escape routes. The chair creaked ominously under his weight but held.

The room gradually filled, and Frank kept his eyes down, focusing on the flyer in his hands rather than meeting the occasional curious glance. Just as the anxiety was becoming nearly unbearable, the lights dimmed slightly, and a middle-aged woman in academic attire approached the podium.

"Good evening, everyone. Welcome to our Gothic Literature Lecture Series. I'm Dr. Eleanor Winters, chair of the English Department. We're delighted to see such a wonderful turnout tonight for our discussion of Mary Shelley's groundbreaking novel, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus."

Frank's heart pounded in his chest at hearing the full title spoken aloud—the very words that had appeared on the first edition he had glimpsed in a bookshop window in 1818, shortly after fleeing Geneva.

"Before we begin our main lecture, I'd like to introduce one of our promising doctoral candidates, Oliver Chen, who will offer some preliminary thoughts on the enduring relevance of Shelley's work."

Frank straightened slightly as Oliver approached the podium, looking nervous but excited in a more formal outfit than he had worn in Frank's Uber.

"Thank you, Dr. Winters. As we discuss Frankenstein tonight, I'd like us to consider how this 200-year-old novel continues to resonate with contemporary concerns about scientific ethics, human responsibility, and our treatment of those we perceive as 'other.'"

Frank listened, transfixed, as Oliver eloquently outlined the novel's themes, occasionally referencing passages that Frank knew by heart—words that described his own creation, his own suffering, his own longing for connection, albeit filtered through Shelley's imagination and literary license.

"The creature in Frankenstein is perhaps literature's most profound example of how society creates its own monsters through rejection and prejudice," Oliver continued. "When the creature pleads, 'I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend,' he articulates a truth that remains relevant in our own time: that cruelty and isolation can transform even the gentlest soul into something feared and reviled."

Frank felt an unexpected moisture in his eyes—tears, a physiological response he rarely experienced. How strange to sit in this room full of humans, listening to a scholarly discussion of his own existence, his own pain, without anyone realizing the subject of their analysis sat among them.

The main lecturer took over, a distinguished professor who delved deeper into the novel's historical context and literary significance. Frank absorbed every word, occasionally nodding in agreement or furrowing his brow at interpretations that diverged from his lived experience.

When the formal presentation concluded and the floor opened for questions, Frank remained silent, though his mind brimmed with perspectives no other person in the room could possibly possess. How could he explain that Shelley had gotten some details wrong but had captured the essential truth of his existence? That the real Dr. Frankenstein had been both more brilliant and more cowardly than his fictional counterpart? That the real creature—himself—had indeed learned language by observing a family, but had spent not one winter but many decades in solitude before attempting human connection again?

As the event wound down and people began to disperse, Frank rose to make his exit, hoping to slip away unnoticed. But Oliver spotted him from across the room and hurried over, his face lighting up with recognition.

"Frank! You came! I wasn't sure if you would." He extended his hand, which Frank carefully shook, mindful of his strength. "What did you think?"

"Very... informative," Frank said, searching for appropriate words. "Good analysis of the creature's... humanity."

"Thanks! I'm glad you found it worthwhile." Oliver glanced at Frank's appearance with appreciation. "And I have to say, your look is even more impressive in this setting. The attention to detail is remarkable. Are you a cosplayer or just a really dedicated fan?"

Frank hesitated, unsure how to respond. In his centuries of existence, he had constructed countless false identities and backstories, but he had never pretended to be a fictional version of himself.

"Just interested in story," he finally said.

"Well, you've certainly committed to the aesthetic. The proportions, the features—even your speaking pattern has that formal, slightly archaic quality that Shelley gave the creature. It's quite effective."

Before Frank could respond, they were joined by the main lecturer, an older man with a tweed jacket and kind eyes.

"Oliver, excellent introduction tonight," the professor said, then turned to Frank with interest. "And who is your tall friend?"

"This is Frank. He's an Uber driver I met last week who shares my interest in Gothic literature. Frank, this is Dr. Harrison, my dissertation advisor."

Dr. Harrison extended his hand, which Frank shook carefully. "Remarkable costume," the professor commented, studying Frank with academic interest. "One of the most authentic interpretations of the creature I've seen outside of professional theater. Are you in the performance arts?"

"No," Frank said simply.

"Frank is a bit reserved," Oliver explained with an apologetic smile. "But he's quite knowledgeable about the literature. He mentioned Paradise Lost and Goethe as favorites—the exact texts that influenced the creature in the novel."

"Is that so?" Dr. Harrison's eyes lit up. "A man of literary taste! You know, we're always looking for interesting perspectives in our discussion groups. Would you perhaps be interested in joining us sometime? We meet monthly to discuss various Gothic and Romantic texts."

Frank felt a strange sensation in his chest—something like longing mixed with fear. The idea of regularly discussing literature, of engaging with minds that appreciated the very works that had shaped his understanding of himself and the world, was tempting beyond measure. Yet the risk of prolonged exposure, of questions he couldn't answer, of eventually being discovered for what he truly was...

"I will consider it," he said finally. "Thank you for the invitation."

"Splendid! Oliver can give you the details." Dr. Harrison checked his watch. "I'm afraid I must be going—committee meeting in fifteen minutes. It was a pleasure to meet you, Frank."

As the professor departed, Oliver turned to Frank with enthusiasm. "This is great! The discussion group is really insightful, and they'd be fascinated by your, um, commitment to the character."

Frank nodded noncommittally, already wondering if he had made a mistake in coming. He had lived for two centuries by remaining in the shadows, by never forming connections that might lead to questions he couldn't answer. Yet here he was, contemplating regular social interaction centered around the very literature that told his story.

"I must go now," Frank said abruptly. "Work calls."

"Oh, of course! Thanks for coming. It really means a lot that you took the time." Oliver pulled out his phone. "Would it be okay if I got your number? Just to let you know about the next discussion group meeting?"

Frank hesitated, then recited his number. What harm could come from one more tentative connection to the human world? After centuries of isolation, perhaps it was time to risk a small step toward community—even if that community believed him to be merely an enthusiastic literary fan with an elaborate costume.

As he drove away from the university, picking up his first Uber passenger of the night, Frank felt something he hadn't experienced in a very long time: hope and possibility. The modern world, with its technology and relative acceptance of the unusual, offered opportunities for integration that would have been unthinkable in earlier centuries.

Perhaps Mary Shelley's creature had never found acceptance, but Frank—the real being who had inspired her tale—might finally have a chance at the connection he had sought for so long.

---

The following weeks brought a steady stream of Uber passengers, each ride a brief window into human lives that Frank observed with his usual quiet attention. But now there was something new in his routine: text messages from Oliver about books, literary theories, and reminders about the upcoming discussion group.

Frank responded sparingly, still cautious about revealing too much, but he found himself looking forward to these brief exchanges. They were the first ongoing human connection he had allowed himself in decades.

The night of the discussion group arrived, and Frank once again found himself parked outside the university, debating whether to proceed. The text from Oliver glowed on his phone: "Hope to see you tonight! We're in Room 302, Liberal Arts Building. Starting in 15 minutes."

With a deep breath, Frank exited his car and made his way across campus. He had dressed carefully again, this time adding a scarf that partially obscured his neck bolts—not enough to appear as if he was hiding them, but sufficient to make them less immediately noticeable.

Room 302 proved to be a small seminar room with a circular table surrounded by comfortable chairs. When Frank entered, five people were already seated, including Oliver and Dr. Harrison. The conversation paused as all eyes turned to the massive figure in the doorway.

"Frank! Welcome," Oliver said warmly, standing to greet him. "Everyone, this is the friend I mentioned, Frank. Frank, this is our Gothic literature discussion group."

Frank nodded awkwardly to the small gathering. "Thank you for the invitation."

"We're delighted you could join us," Dr. Harrison said. "Please, have a seat. We were just about to begin our discussion of The Monk by Matthew Lewis."

Frank carefully lowered himself into a chair that creaked ominously but held his weight. He placed on the table the worn copy of the novel he had purchased from a used bookstore—one of many editions he had read over the centuries, though the others were long gone, left behind in various hiding places as he moved from country to country.

"So, Frank," said a woman with silver-streaked hair and bright eyes, "Oliver tells us you're quite the Frankenstein enthusiast."

Frank shifted in his chair, his massive hands folded carefully on the table. "The novel... interests me," he replied with characteristic understatement.

"Frank has a remarkable grasp of the creature's perspective," Oliver added enthusiastically. "It's like he has special insight into the character's mindset."

"If only they knew," Frank thought, fighting back the urge to smile at the irony.

The discussion began in earnest, with each participant offering their analysis of Lewis's Gothic masterpiece. Frank remained quiet initially, listening intently as the others dissected the novel's themes of religious hypocrisy and forbidden desire. When Dr. Harrison finally turned to him, eyebrows raised in invitation, Frank cleared his throat.

"The monk's fall," he said slowly, choosing his words with care, "reminds me of Paradise Lost. Ambrosio begins virtuous but pride makes him vulnerable. Like Lucifer. Like the creature in... Frankenstein."

The group fell silent for a moment, considering his words.

"That's an excellent parallel," Dr. Harrison said, looking impressed. "The pattern of the exalted one who falls through pride and then resentment—it does run through much of Gothic literature, doesn't it?"

The silver-haired woman—who had introduced herself as Professor Emerita Katherine Winters—leaned forward with interest. "Your costume is remarkably detailed," she commented. "May I ask what inspired such dedication to Shelley's creature?"

Frank tensed slightly. "Personal connection," he said vaguely. "The story... resonates."

"It resonates with many who feel marginalized or misunderstood," Katherine nodded. "That's the enduring power of Shelley's work—she created a monster who is, paradoxically, deeply human in his suffering and longing."

Frank felt a lump in his throat. "Yes. Exactly this."

As the evening progressed, Frank gradually relaxed enough to contribute more frequently to the discussion, careful to maintain his simplified speech pattern while still conveying thoughtful insights. The academics seemed to accept his peculiarities as part of his "character," even appreciating what they assumed was his commitment to role-playing Shelley's creation.

When the meeting concluded, Katherine approached him as the others were gathering their things.

"You brought a fascinating perspective tonight, Frank," she said. "I've been teaching Gothic literature for forty years, and it's refreshing to hear such... embodied analysis."

Frank nodded, unsure how to respond to the unintentional accuracy of her comment.

"I hope you'll join us again next month," she continued. "We'll be discussing Polidori's 'The Vampyre' and its influence on the vampire genre."

"Would like that," Frank replied, and realized with some surprise that he genuinely meant it.

Outside, Oliver walked with him toward the parking lot. "That went really well! Everyone was impressed with your insights."

"Thank you for... including me," Frank said, the words feeling strange in his mouth. How long had it been since he had been included in anything?

"Same time next month?" Oliver asked hopefully.

Frank nodded. "Will be there."

As he drove home that night, Frank felt a curious lightness in his chest. For the first time in perhaps a century, he had engaged in meaningful intellectual discourse without fear or disguise—or at least, with only the partial disguise of pretending to be someone pretending to be him, a meta-deception that struck him as almost humorous.

Back in his sparsely furnished apartment, Frank carefully placed his copy of The Monk on a bookshelf that held his modest but growing collection. From the nightstand, he picked up his battered copy of Frankenstein—a 1931 edition he had purchased shortly after the release of the James Whale film that had forever altered the public's image of him.

He opened to a familiar passage, one he had read countless times over the decades:

"If I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear!"

Frank shook his head slowly. For so long, he had lived by those words, embracing the fear he inspired as a substitute for the connection he craved. But perhaps, in this strange new century, with its ubiquitous technology and evolving social norms, there might be another way.

Perhaps, at long last, Frankenstein's creature might find a place where he belonged.

The Board Game: A Short Story by L.L. Hundal & Steve Miller

THE BOARD GAME

By L. L. Hundal & Steve Miller

The candles flickered in Megan's bedroom, casting long shadows across the walls. The Ouija board sat between them on the plush carpet, its wooden planchette waiting patiently for their fingertips.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Jen said, brushing some stray strands of blonde hair out of her eyes. "These things are supposed to be dangerous."

Megan rolled her eyes. "It's just a board game, Jen. Parker Brothers makes them, for God's sake. It's not like we're summoning the devil."

"Fine," Jen sighed, placing her fingertips lightly on the planchette. Megan did the same, their hands nearly touching. "What should we ask it?"

Megan's eyes glinted mischievously in the candlelight. "I know exactly what to ask." She cleared her throat dramatically. "Spirit World, we seek your wisdom. Is Jen sleeping with my boyfriend, Tyler?"

"Megan!" Jen's face flushed crimson. "What the hell?"

"What? You've been acting weird around him lately. And he's been acting weird around you." Megan's voice was light, but there was an edge to it. "Let's just see what the spirits have to say."

They watched as the planchette remained stubbornly still under their fingertips. Then, slowly, it began to move.

"I'm not moving it," Jen whispered, her eyes wide.

"Neither am I," Megan replied, her earlier bravado fading slightly.

The planchette slid deliberately across the board, stopping first on 'N', then 'O'.

Megan let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "See? The spirits confirm what I already knew. You'd never do that to me."

Jen's shoulders relaxed. "Of course I wouldn't. I can't believe you even asked that."

But before either could lift their hands, the planchette began moving again, more quickly this time, as if with purpose.

Y-O-U-T-W-O-S-H-O-U-L-D-B-E-L-O-V-E-R-S

"What?" Megan's voice cracked.

K-I-S-S-H-E-R-N-O-W

Jen's eyes met Megan's across the board, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "This is stupid. Someone's obviously messing with us."

"Yeah," Megan agreed, but neither of them moved their hands from the planchette.

D-O-I-T-N-O-W

"This is crazy," Jen whispered, but she was leaning forward slightly, her gaze dropping to Megan's lips.

"Totally crazy," Megan agreed, but she was leaning in too, drawn by something she couldn't explain—curiosity, the atmosphere, the commanding presence of whatever was moving the planchette beneath their fingers.

Their lips met hesitantly, softly. It was nothing like kissing boys—Jen's lips were softer, her approach gentler. Megan felt a strange flutter in her stomach, not unpleasant but confusing. They pulled apart after a few seconds, both breathing a little faster.

"That was..." Jen started.

"Different," Megan finished, not meeting her friend's eyes. "I don't know if I..."

"Yeah," Jen agreed quickly. "Me neither."

The planchette moved again beneath their fingers.

M-O-R-E

 ---

Meanwhile, in the fiery depths of Hell, three demons lounged around a cracked television screen, watching the scene unfold with rapt attention. Empty cans of Red Dog and Coors Light littered the floor around them, and a half-eaten pizza sat congealing on a nearby table, the cheese bubbling in the heat.

"Dude, this is working better than I thought," snickered Balphezor, a portly demon with small horns and a goatee. He crushed another beer can against his forehead and tossed it onto the growing pile. "Humans are so easy to manipulate."

"I told you the boyfriend angle would work," Asmahdeus, a lankier demon with scaled skin, said smugly. "Nothing gets humans going like jealousy and forbidden fruit."

The third demon, Malphis, belched loudly and reached for another slice of pizza. "So what do we tell them to do next? This is getting good."

Balphezor scratched his chin thoughtfully. "We could tell them to strip. That's always entertaining."

"Nah, too obvious," Asmodeus countered. "We need something more... psychologically damaging. Something that'll really mess with their friendship."

"How about we tell one of them to call the boyfriend right now?" Malphis suggested, his forked tongue flicking out to catch a string of cheese. "While they're still all hot and bothered?"

"Not bad," Balphezor nodded appreciatively. "Or we could tell them that one of them has to sacrifice something important to the other. Create some real trust issues."

"Wait, wait," Asmahdeus held up a clawed hand, his yellow eyes gleaming with malice. "I've got it. We tell them that one of them is possessed, and the only way to save her is for the other to do something really embarrassing."

"Like what?" Malphis asked, leaning forward with interest.

"Like... having a threesome with each other and the boyfriend on the church front lawn?" Balphezor suggested.

The three demons erupted in laughter, spilling beer and knocking over empty cans.

"Perfect!" Asmahdeus wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "And then we can—"

He was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. The demons froze as the door to their den swung open, revealing a much larger, more imposing demon with massive horns and glowing red eyes.

"What do you three think you're doing?" the newcomer growled.

"Just a little recreational possession, sir," Balphezor stammered. "Nothing serious."

"Unauthorized use of the Ouija network for personal entertainment?" The senior demon's voice was dangerously calm and measured. "Need I remind you that we have quarterly corruption quotas to meet? The Dark Lord doesn't look kindly on wasting resources for your amusement."

"We were just—" Malphis began.

"Save it," the senior demon cut him off. "Clean up this mess and report to soul-flaying duty immediately. And turn that thing off before you do any real damage."

As the senior demon stomped away, the three looked at each other guiltily.

"Should we at least finish this session?" Asmahdeus asked hopefully.

Balphezor sighed and reached for the remote control. "Nah, not worth getting our tails singed over. Besides, we've probably freaked them out enough for one night."

Malphis chuckled as the screen went dark. "Those girls are going to have some awkward conversations going forward."

 ---

Back in Megan's bedroom, the planchette suddenly stopped moving. The girls quickly pulled their hands away from it, as if it had burned them.

"Okay, that's enough," Megan said firmly, standing up and turning on the lights. The spell of the moment was broken, leaving them both feeling embarrassed and confused.

"Yeah," Jen agreed, avoiding eye contact. "These things are stupid anyway."

They packed up the Ouija board in awkward silence, neither quite sure what to say about what had just happened between them—or whether it had meant anything at all.

"So..." Megan finally broke the silence. "Movie?"

Jen smiled, relieved at the offer of normalcy. "Yeah. Movie sounds good."

As they settled onto Megan's bed with her laptop, carefully placed between them and so maintaining several inches of space between them. Neither noticed that, in the corner of the room, the lid of the Ouiji board’s box seemed to lift itself and slide half off on its own accord, perhaps wanting to make sure there would be another round of questions in the future.

'The Collector': A short story by Steve Miller

This is a draft of a story that will end up in one of NUELOW Games' releases at some point. It might see more revisions, it might not. But please let us know what you think of it!

The Collector

By Steve Miller

The dealer hall buzzed with excitement, a kaleidoscope of costumed fans navigating the narrow aisles between booths full of colorful merchandise. Marcus Heller moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his eyes constantly scanning. Not for rare comics or collectible figurines, but for something else entirely.

He spotted her near the indie comics section—petite frame, choppy auburn hair that looked like she'd cut it herself, and a constellation of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She wore an oversized t-shirt featuring some obscure anime character, faded jeans, well-used sneakers, and a messenger bag covered in enamel pins. What caught his attention wasn't her appearance so much as her solitude. Convention-goers typically traveled in packs, but she flitted from booth to booth alone, examining artwork with an infectious enthusiasm that made several vendors smile despite themselves.

Marcus adjusted his vintage Batman t-shirt and casually drifted in her direction. He'd perfected this routine across a dozen conventions in three different states. Comic cons were perfect hunting grounds—loud, crowded, full of socially awkward people seeking connection. Nobody questioned when strangers struck up conversations about shared interests, and many attendees came from out of town, staying in the convention hotel, away from friends or family who might notice their absence... until well after he was finished with his tasks and long gone.

He positioned himself at a neighboring booth, pretending to browse through back issues while watching her from the corner of his eye. She purchased a small original drawing, carefully placing it in a protective sleeve before tucking it into her bag. Her smile was radiant as she thanked the artist. For a moment, Marcus felt a twinge of something—not quite conscience, but perhaps the faintest recognition that he was about to extinguish something bright. The feeling passed quickly, replaced by the familiar thrill of anticipation.

He didn't approach her then. Patience was key. Instead, he followed at a distance, observing her patterns, noting which panels she attended, which merchandise caught her eye. He learned that she laughed openly, without restraint, during the animation showcase. That she took meticulous notes during a discussion on comic book coloring techniques. That she seemed to know an impressive amount about Golden Age comics, based on a question she asked during a creator panel.

By evening, when the dealer hall closed and activities shifted to the hotel bars and conference rooms, Marcus had compiled a mental dossier. He watched her enter the hotel bar alone but soon join a table of animated convention-goers discussing the merits of different comic book universes. Perfect.

The hotel bar had transformed into an extension of the convention floor, packed with attendees unwinding after a day of sensory overload. Cosplayers posed for photos, industry professionals nursed drinks in corners, and heated debates about fictional characters' abilities echoed from every table. Marcus ordered a beer and made his approach.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, affecting a slightly nervous demeanor, "but I couldn't help overhearing your discussion about Kirby's influence on modern cosmic comics. Mind if I join?"

The table welcomed him with the easy camaraderie of fellow enthusiasts. The freckled woman—who introduced herself as Brigid—scooted over to make room. Up close, her eyes were an unusual amber color that seemed to catch the light in strange ways. Marcus contributed enough to the conversation to establish his credibility as a genuine fan while focusing his attention on Brigid without being obvious about it.

"You really know your stuff," he told her during a lull, as others at the table broke into smaller conversations.

"Been collecting for a long time," she replied with a shrug and a smile that dimpled her right cheek. "I inherited a large collection of weird and obscure titles going all the way back to Centaur's Amazing Man.. and I've been growing it myself ever since."

The conversation flowed easily after that. Marcus excused himself to get another round for the table, a gesture that earned him appreciative nods. When he returned with the drinks, he made sure to hand Ellie hers directly—a fruity cocktail she'd requested—after adding a colorless, odorless substance from a small vial he kept in his pocket. The movement was smooth, practiced, invisible in the crowded bar.

Brigid finished her doctored drink while explaining why Alan Moore was overrated—a deliberately provocative stance that had the table erupting in friendly argument. Marcus glanced at the clock on his phone. Twenty minutes. That's all he needed.

Fifteen minutes later, he noticed the first signs—her blinks becoming longer, her words occasionally slurring. She pressed her palm against her forehead.

"You okay?" he asked, concern etching his features.

"Just... really dizzy all of a sudden," she murmured, her words slightly slurred. "Maybe I should go to my room."

"Let me help you," Marcus offered, already standing. "These convention centers are like mazes when you're feeling well."

The others at the table, still deep in their argument about Alan Moore--that had somehow expanded to include Garth Innis and Frank Miller--barely noticed as Marcus helped Ellie to her feet. She swayed slightly.

"Thanks," she whispered. "Room 742. I think I just need to lie down."

"Of course," Marcus said soothingly, guiding her toward the elevators. "Let's get you somewhere quiet."

In the elevator, Brigid's head lolled against his chest. Her breathing had become shallow, her eyes unfocused. Marcus pressed the button for the fifth floor, not the seventh.

"This isn't... my floor," she mumbled as the elevator doors opened.

"Just need to make a quick stop at my room first," Marcus explained smoothly. "Get you some water, maybe some Aspirin. Then I'll take you up to yours. Okay?"

She made a noncommittal sound that he took as agreement. The hallway was deserted as he half-carried her to room 523, fumbling slightly with the keycard while supporting her weight. Once inside, he guided her to the bed where she collapsed, eyes fluttering.

"So dizzy," she whispered. "What's happening?"

"You're fine," Marcus assured her, already removing his belt. "Just relax."

The room was standard convention hotel fare—bland artwork, heavy curtains, a desk with a lamp that cast everything in a sickly yellow glow. Marcus moved methodically, setting his phone on the nightstand, checking that the curtains were fully closed. He'd done this before. Many times.

He returned to the bed, where Brigid lay, rapidly fading into unconsciousness. With practiced efficiency, he  removed her shoes, then reached for the buttons of her jeans. Her shirt had ridden up, revealing a pale strip of freckled skin at her waist. He traced it with his finger, a possessive gesture that made him smile.

"You won't remember any of this tomorrow," he murmured, leaning down to pull her shirt higher.

That's when her hand caught his wrist with surprising strength.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Brigid said, her voice suddenly clear and resonant, with no trace of the drugged slurring from moments before.

Marcus froze. The dosage he'd given her should have left her barely conscious, certainly not capable of this iron grip or lucid speech. Something was wrong.

"I think you're confused," he said, trying to pull away and regain control of the situation. "You're not feeling well. Let me help—"

"I'm not confused, Marcus Heller," she interrupted, and the use of his full name sent a chill through him. He hadn't introduced himself with his last name, or even Marcus; he had just called himself Mark.. "I know exactly what you are and what you've done. Phoenix. Albuquerque. Seattle. Portland. Chicago. Now Phoenix again."

As she spoke, listing cities where he'd attended conventions over the past two years, her skin seemed to shimmer slightly, as if the freckles were rearranging themselves across her face. She sat up effortlessly, still gripping his wrist, her amber eyes now burning with an unnatural clarity.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Marcus said, finally wrenching free and backing toward the door. Something was very wrong. He needed to leave, to abandon this attempt and move on. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"No misunderstanding," Brigid said. "You dropped something in my drink. You brought me here to rape me while I was unconscious. There's no misunderstanding at all."

She stood up from the bed, and somehow seemed taller than before. The room's temperature rose noticeably, the air becoming thick and difficult to breathe.

"You prey on the vulnerable," she continued, taking a step toward him. "You corrupt spaces meant for joy and community. You're a threat in places should be safe." With each accusation, her voice deepened, acquiring harmonics that shouldn't have been possible from a human throat.

Marcus lunged for the door, but his legs wouldn't cooperate properly. The room swam around him, and he realized with dawning horror that he felt exactly how his victims were supposed to feel—disoriented, weak, trapped.

"What did you do to me?" he gasped, stumbling against the wall, sliding toward the door and the safety beyond it.

Brigid smiled, but it wasn't the bright expression from earlier. This smile stretched too wide, revealing teeth that seemed too numerous, too sharp.

"Nothing you didn't plan to do to me," she replied. "Though I didn't drug you. That's just fear you're feeling. Primal recognition of a predator far above you in the food chain."

As she spoke, her skin began to change, the freckles expanding and merging into patches of what looked like fine scales, crimson and gleaming in the dim light. Her pupils had become vertical slits, and her amber irises now glowing as if lit from within.

"What are you?" Marcus whispered, his back pressed against the door, fingers fumbling uselessly for the handle.

"I am justice," she said simply. "I am retribution. I am fire."

With that last word, flames erupted from her skin, racing across her arms and torso, consuming her clothing but leaving her unharmed. The transformation accelerated—her face elongating, shoulders broadening, fingers extending into talons. Where Ellie had stood moments before, a creature now towered, its form a nightmarish blend of human and reptilian features, wreathed in flames that gave off no smoke but intense heat.

Marcus screamed, but the sound was cut short as the creature—dragon, demon, avenging angel, his terrified mind couldn't decide—opened its jaws and exhaled. A torrent of white-hot flame engulfed him, so intense that his skin blistered and blackened before his nerves could even register the pain. His last conscious thought was that he smelled like cooking meat.

The gout of flame expanded, consuming everything in the room—the bed, the curtains, the generic artwork, even the creature that had been Brigid—but contained itself within the walls as if guided by an intelligent force. The windows blew outward in a shower of glass and flame, raining down on the parking lot five stories below, but the fire did not spread to the hallway or adjacent rooms.

When it was over, nothing remained of Marcus Heller but a pile of fine ash on the scorched carpet. The creature surveyed the destruction with glowing eyes, then began to contract, flames receding, scales smoothing back into freckled skin. 

Within moments, Brigid's slight form was back, standing naked amid the devastation, Smoke swirled around her and swiftly coelesed into the clothing she was wearing before--except now there was a red dragon on the t-shirt.

She walked calmly to the door, which swung open at her touch despite the melted lock. In the hallway, alarms blared and sprinklers hissed, but she moved through the chaos untouched by the water, passing panicked hotel guests evacuating in various states of undress.

By the time firefighters arrived, the blaze had mysteriously extinguished itself. They found room 523 devastated—furniture reduced to cinders, walls scorched black, windows blown out—but with damage contained in a way that defied explanation. More puzzling was that part of the fire had lasted long enough and been intense enough to completely incinerate a human being.  Forensic experts determined later that the ashes near the door contained human remains. The fire's intensity had made it impossible to apply any known methods to determine the victim's identity for sure, but it was assumed to be the room's occupant, Marcus Heller, 34, a marketing executive from Denver with no criminal record. Within a few weeks, that assumption would be taken as fact, because Heller would be found to have vanished without a trace.

The investigation would note several unusual aspects of the case: the extreme localization of the fire, the complete incineration of the victim, and the absence of any accelerants or ignition source. Witnesses and security footage showed Heller leaving the hotel bar with a slight, young woman and going to the elevators... but at that moment, every security camera in the hotel went offline due to a mysterious power surge that the hotel's electrician and engineer could not explain. The police traced the woman to her room and found her bleary-eyed and sleepy and completely unawares that anything had been going on. She claimed "Mark" had brought her to her room and then left, like a perfect gentleman.

In the end, the official report cited "inconclusive evidence suggesting electrical fire of unusual intensity" and the case was filed away among other unsolved mysteries.

But the morning after the bizarre fire, as convention attendees buzzed with rumors about the mysterious fire, about the evacuated attendees getting free meal vouchers and free passes for next year's convention, a petite woman with choppy auburn hair and freckles browsed the artist alley, purchasing prints, original art, and chatting enthusiastically with creators. Being awakened in the middle of the night by the police, had done nothing to diminish her seemingly boundless energy. 

Brigid browsed a table of hand-bound journals, her freckled face lighting up when she found one with a dragon embossed on its leather cover. The vendor, a gray-haired woman with kind eyes, smiled as she purchased it.

"You seem very happy today," the vendor observed. "Enjoying the convention?"

"Very much," Brigid replied cheerfully as she placed the journal in her pin-covered messenger bag. She smiled to herself, humming a tune from a bygone age as she disappeared into the crowd—just another fan enjoying the celebration of stories about heroes, villains, and monsters hiding in plain sight.

--

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The Sword of Traveling and the Chain Reaction

Among the many unique magic treasures in her hoard, the Sword of Traveling is one of Brigid the Dragon's favorites. She uses it equally for fighting and for fun, and when she has time to plan, she often wears the magical armor known as Chain Reaction. (This is, of course, when she is in her human form. When she takes on her natural, massive body of an ancient red dragon, a wasteland of terror, regrets, and ash is created if her foes don't back down.)

THE SWORD OF TRAVELING

This powerful and unusual magic item was first recorded as existing in 1481 when it was used in a failed attempt to assassinate King John of Denmark. It remained in the possession of this royal house through its ups and downs over the several decades until King Christian IV gave it as a gift to Brigid in 1601 in appreciation of her many varied skills and talents and a thank-you for watching over him from the age of 3 until he became an adult. The Danish royals knew the sword was magical, and could be quite deadly, but they never had an inkling of its full power.

    If examined with detect magic, the Sword of Traveling radiates strong transmutation and conjuration magic, with a strong undercurrent of divination.

    Functions: Most basically, the Sword of Traveling seems like it is a vorpal sword. Like the more common necromatic creation, the Sword of Traveling provides the wielder with a +5 bonus to-hit and +5 bonus to damage. If the wielder rolls a natural 20 on his or her attack roll, the target's head (or equivalent) is cut clean off with death being instantaneous.

    The sword's true power, however, is hinted at in its name. Further hints, and even instructions in its use, can be found on blade and hilt. presence of a triangle engraved both on the hilt and on both sides of the blade, near the tip, Just above the hilt, there is an engraving in Atlantean that is wrapped around the blade that reads: "A focused mind and thrusts at the center and three points will bring the deserving wielder to the desired place". 

    If a wielder follows the instructions--clearing his or her mind and picturing a place he or she wants to go to, then makes four sword thrusts in the order and pattern described--and then a rift will be carved open in the fabric of space and time, providing direct access to the location the wielder envisioned. The portal remains open for one minute, until up to eight beings have passed through it, or until the wield closes it by thrusting the sword one more time at the center of the rift.

    Game mechanic-wise, the character must make several rolls to use the Sword of Traveling.

    First, the character must clear his or her mind and focus on making a mental image of the place to open a magical portal to.

    Second, the character must make four attack rolls, striking the air (or even a solid surface) in the pattern mentioned above. The best d20 roll of the four determines how close to the intended destination that the magic portal deposits those who enter it. See the following table for details: 

Best d20 Roll (of four)               Result

1-3                                                Failure. The portal doesn't even open.

4-7                                                Characters arrive 100+2d20 miles 

                                                     from the desired destination.   

7-11                                              Characters arrive 10+2d20 miles 

                                                     from the desired destination.

12-15                                            Characters arrive within sight

                                                     of their desired destination

16-20                                            Characters arrive exactly at

                                                     their desired destination.                                              

For purposes of determining where the characters arrive through the portal, the unmodified d20 die is used.

THE CHAIN REACTION

The Chain Reaction is a set of enchanted armor that is of the styling that is often derisively referred to as a "chainmail bikini". In the case of this armor, however, it is more literally chainmail that most armors, as it is made of hundreds of intertwined chains of varying sizes, lengths and delicateness, with segments of chains dangling from both the top and bottom pieces of the armor. If inspected with detect magic, the Chain Reaction radiates strong abjuration magic.

    The Chain Reaction is a one-of-a-kind item that Brigid herself created to show off her human form while making it so she could wield magic while in metal armor and add some surprises to those who face her in combat: 

    Function: The Chain Reaction is a +2 set of armor that can be worn by arcane spellcasters without penalty to their spellcasting abilities The seemingly ornamental dangling chains on the armor will, as combat rages, lash out at foes within melee range, primarily attacking the foe who either first struck the wearer, or the one who is perceived as the greatest threat.

   The Chains attack with the wearer's ranged attack value and deal 1d4+2 points of damage when striking a target. When struck, the target must roll a Dexterity attribute check (DC14) or the chain wraps around part of his body. 1d4 chains attack each target per round, on the wearer's initiative.

   On the round following being gripped by a chain, the target must roll a Balance skill check or a Dexterity attribute check (or be yanked off his feet and pulled toward the armor's wearer, suffering an additional 1d2+2 points of damage. Targets can attempt to break free from the chains either by striking them with a weapon of at least +1 enchantment (AC/DR20), or by making a successful Strength attrubute check (DC19). The wearer can release and retract the chains at any time.

The Ring of Darius

One of the more infamous artifacts in existence is the Ring of Darius, as the historical record actually confirms the accuracy of the tales that are told about it. Since ca. the year 50BC, only one individual who have claimed the Ring as theirs and not died a violent or unnatural death after having done so.

THE RING OF DARIUS

This is a bulky gold ring that is filigreed with overlapping Celtic symbols that represent humans drawing power from their native lands. The most remarkable thing about the item, however, is the large, deep red diamond, a shade so dark and intense that both its size and hue make it one of a kind among an already extremely rare type of diamond. The Ring of Darius has been described as priceless, and it is.

Functions

When worn by the rightful owner of the ring, in the proper place, possessing and wearing the Ring of Darius provides powerful benefits. When worn by someone who come to have the ring through dishonest or violent means, it is an almost-guaranteed death sentence.

On the Hand of the Rightful Owner

When worn by its rightful owner--someone of Darius' bloodline, or someone who has come by the ring via legitimate means, such as purchasing or having it gifted by a rightful owner--the ring functions as a ring of protection +2. It also grants the wearer a +2 bonus to three crucial skill rolls per day. (The player can choose which rolls, unless the GM wants to reserve determining what's crucial for him- or herself.)

  When worn by its rightful owner in the lands that used to be home to the Gauls--currently claimed by the modern-day nations of France, Belgium, and Luxembourg-- the ring functions as a ring of protection +4. Further, it provides a +1 bonus to all skill checks and attack rolls made by the wearer.

   Unfortunately, its method of creation (assistance from a demon) left the ring with a curse: Whenever a character sees the ring for the first time, he or she must roll a Willpower saving throw (DC13). If the saving throw fails, the character becomes obsessed with the idea of possessing the ring. If the owner isn't willing to part with the ring when asked nicely or offered compensation, the obsessed character starts making plans to have the ring stolen and its (unworthy) possessor killed. Once the obsessed character gains possession of the ring, the cycle stars all over again. 

On the Hand of Someone who Acquires the Ring through Theft or Violence

There is no benefit from the ring to a character who acquires it through theft or murder, although the ring appears provide all the benefits described above. The wearer also becomes increasingly convinced that the ring has boosted all of his or her abilities and talents. Eventually, he or she becomes so arrogant and self-assured that a confrontation that will end badly is a sure thing.

Art by Harold DeLay

A Brief History of the Ring of Darius

The item now known as the Ring of Darius was made by a Circle of Druids, intended to provide magical assistance to a hero who would lead the Gauls into final battle against the Romans and drive the invaders from their lands. 

    Before they could give the ring to a hero of the stature who could save their nation and tribes, the Romans attacked the area, killing all the druids. One of them, as she lay dying, gave the ring to her son, Darius, telling him that the powerful ring would help him restore freedom to their lands and people.

    This was not to be, however. Darius was captured by the invaders and sent to Rome as a slave. He did his best to keep the ring that could restore his people, but, eventually, his captures spotted it. Darius became the first person to be killed over a greedy need for the right, but dozens (possibly even hundreds) more would follow. Darius' ghost has also cursed the ring, intensifying its negative qualities, a fact confirmed by psychic Edward Kelley in 1588 after he came into possession of the ring. Although he tried to keep others from becoming aware of the item, he fell victim to its curse in 1597, after narrowly escaping ring-caused doom on two previous occasions.

     Since 1939, the ring has been in the possession of the ancient red dragon know as Brigid. Aware of the ring's curse, she, like Kelley, has been careful about letting anyone--especially other dragons--know that she has acquired the ring. She keeps it secured in a hidden compartment under the fourth (from the top) back step leading out of her Arizona mansion/lair. Whenever she gets wind of someone seeking to loot one of her treasure hoards (of which she has 15, spread across the globe), she grabs the ring and places it in a prominent spot so it's one of the first extremely valuable items the thieves will find. Brigid then keeps track of the thieves and recovers the ring and any other unique items she baited them with, once they have met their predictable ends for stealing the Ring of Darius.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The preceding article was inspired by "The Ring of Darius", an unusual comics series that appeared in issues 1, 4-5 of Lucky Comics , an anthology titled published by Consolidated Magazines in 1945-1946. This unusual series will be collected in its entirety for the first time in a forthcoming comics/rpg hybrid product from NUELOW Games. 

   The paragraph "On the Hand of the Rightful Owner" is Open Game Content, and it is presented under this license. "The Ring of Darius" is Copyright 2025 by Steve Miller