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