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  Frankenstein In Love

  Temple Madison

  Published: 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-62210-330-0

  Published by Liquid Silver Books. Copyright © 2016, Temple Madison.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Manufactured in the USA

  Email [email protected] with questions, or inquiries about Liquid Silver Books.

  Blurb

  Tiffany Lovelace, famous for her erotic romance novels, relocates to a little town on the East Coast where a freak hurricane destroys her house. This forces her to take shelter in an old Gothic mansion owned by two brothers. One is dark and handsome, the other, a recluse. Her writer’s curiosity, coupled with the need for a plot for her next book takes her out of her room, and down a deep tunnel of cracked cement steps. There, behind a barred door that locks, she finds an elusive creature with a scarred face. Knowing this, she is helplessly drawn into the midnight shadows where he lurks. What is there about this elusive phantom that fascinates her—this sinister silhouette whose glowing eyes burn with hunger when they look at her—this hulking creature that not only hides his face from her, but answers to the name of—Frankenstein!

  Prologue

  STORM clouds hovered low, and rain battered against the windshield.

  Kirk Kessler squinted through the downpour, trying to keep the car in a straight line. Taking a chance, he cut through the traffic, and felt a jarring bump, sending the car into a fishtail. He frantically turned the steering wheel to straighten it up, but lost control. The next thing he knew the car was careening across the freeway at breakneck speed.

  “Oh, God!” he shouted when he saw a cement wall rising up before him. He stomped on the brakes, but it was too late. A crashing jolt tossed him around while the horrible sound of tearing metal filled his ears. It was accompanied by a loud sound—like a bomb bursting—and his windshield shattered, sending knife-like shards of glass toward him. Kirk screamed in torment as the glass particles cut a slashing trail across his face, the hot, searing tear of his flesh so painful he passed out. When he finally awoke, his heavy lids blinked against the curtain of rain and blood as it gushed freely into his eyes.

  Within seconds, two squad cars screeched to a grinding halt, their flashing blue and red lights reflecting on the wet pavement. Car doors slammed, and running feet splashed through puddles to get to the demolished car. An ambulance bumped up alongside the pile of metal, its screaming siren giving way to shouting orders being issued from uniformed officers. The white-clad MEs pulled a gurney from the ambulance. Moving swiftly, they pried the car door open and saw gushing blood and hanging flesh.

  Somewhere, through the pain and haze were the words, “I’m sorry, Mr. Kessler, but your parents didn’t make it.”

  These horrible words pushed Kirk over the brink, and he sank into a deep depression making it impossible for him to withstand extensive surgery on his face at this time. Having no choice, he accepted the punishment of a grotesque face—and the darkness of a living grave.

  Chapter 1

  Ten Years Later…

  TIFFANY Lovelace, blonde, beautiful, and famous author of the hottest erotica books on the market today, stood at the big front window of a local market, rubbing the bridge of her nose and silently willing her headache to go away. The pain was jarring. It hit her with the power of a steam engine, and speared through her head like a burning javelin. She closed her eyes, thinking back to when the strange dreams had started, and got a mental picture of her latest book, Rogue of Love. It had just hit the stands. Night after night she would find herself wrapped in a velvety cocoon of sleep, only to have it cruelly ripped away by a chilling nightmare. She’d tried to deal with it for a while, even considered seeing a therapist, but finally decided the fast pace of the big city was getting to her. That’s when she made the decision to relocate to Mystic Island, a little island getaway nestled down on the coast of New Jersey.

  At that moment the sun came out from behind a cloud, and its instant warmth poured over her, stinging her skin like liquid fire. She saw her ghostly image appear in the clear glass with the words, Cheney’s Market arched above her head like a crown—or was it a shroud?

  Her face was clean of makeup because she didn’t want to be recognized. “God, I look awful,” she muttered, smoothing back wayward strands of blonde hair as it crept out of the French braid and curled around her face. Her hand seemed to flutter nervously as she moved it down and lightly touched her naked skin, wishing she’d at least put some lipstick on her pale lips. Her eyes, normally sky-blue and sharp, had become dull and cloudy. She was thankful the people in this tiny little coastal town dressed casually, and hoped her cutoff shorts and white tank top didn’t cross the line into grungy for running errands.

  Hearing a burst of laughter, her attention was taken by a group of men sitting out front on a planked porch supported by nothing more substantial than a tall sand dune. It was squared off by two iron bars painted white. To the left was a wide column of seven steps leading into a parking area large enough for no more than four cars.

  Her gaze shifted, once again admiring the little town of Mystic Island. It was part of the mainland, but was interspersed with a number of inlets that coiled throughout the town, giving a false impression of closely knit islands, hence the name. There were several small boat-hiring operations for those who lived close enough in to cut through the inlets instead of winding around on land. The little town always smelled of salt air and seemed to naturally favor the décor of anchors, ropes, piers, seagulls, and the color blue.

  Beach Drive speared through town, dead-ending at Ocean Boulevard which edged along Mystic Beach at the other end. The beautiful, wide carpet of sand stretched for miles both ways. Since the town was so close to the coast, the streets seemed to stay covered by a light dusting of sand whipping through the town on a rogue wind that moaned like the ghost of a dead pirate. Unfortunately, the little town could not avoid commerce, which finally invaded Mystic Island in the form of housing developments, malls, and business centers that spread lazily across the hilly countryside.

  While the cold, impersonal outskirts continued to grow, the tiny, picturesque little shops that made up the center of town stubbornly held on to the past. Small silver bells tinkled prettily at the opening and closing of their doors, and old-fashioned street lamps glowed with a lovely golden warmth along the narrow cobblestone walkways when the sun sank behind the constant bank of clouds in the west.

  Tiffany was used to cracked asphalt, dirty streets, towering skyscrapers, and crowds stumbling all over themselves in their rush to the subway or in and out of taxis. She smiled to herself. Mystic Island didn’t even have a taxi service unless you counted the boat operations. And since there were no shrill sirens, car chases, drive-by shootings, muggers, or killings, it caused her to wonder what the Police Department did to earn their pay. The little town was disturbed by nothing more than the noisy lapping of ocean waves, and soothed by the beauty of the sparkling water that seemed to rise like a wall at one end of town.

  In the background, Tiffany could hear the clickity-clack of the old-fashioned cash register the clerk used to ring up her grocery order while she gazed up at a distant bluff. The old mansion that sat on it reminded her of a tattered old duchess on a throne p
eering out over the ocean. It was gloomy, old and sinister—and oddly familiar.

  “That it, miss?” the clerk asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  Tiffany turned. “Yes, I think so,” she said, pulling out her wallet as she turned to walk back to where her groceries waited. She leaned over the wooden counter that was badly worn with nicks and scratches to write out a check.

  While she wrote, the clerk leaned back, propped his foot on the edge of a cracked orange crate and watched her. “Name’s Luke Cheney. I own this here store.” He gazed upward at the small space. “Sech as it is.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Tiffany said, still writing.

  “Thinkin’ about stayin’ here a while, are ye?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “For a while, at least.”

  “That bein’ the case, you might want to think about settin’ up an account here at the store.”

  “No,” Tiffany said, smiling as she handed him the payment. “That’s not necessary. I’ll be paying by check.”

  The clerk took the check, frowning down at it as if he’d never seen one. “Most people use credit,” he mumbled. His aged eyes that were surrounded by wrinkled, sagging skin lifted over his wire-rimmed glasses, and peered sharply at her. “You got identification, I take it.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said and began to dig for it when a thought came to her, and she hesitated. It would mean recognition, she thought. No, it’s all right, if he doesn’t recognize the name on the check, he—She shook her head. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a criminal, for God’s sake, and if being too tired to deal with a bunch of fans right now is unlawful lock me up, I’m as guilty as hell.

  Finally finding the small laminated document that would reveal all the secrets she held dear, she pulled it out. “Here it is,” she said, thrusting it forward. She watched him as he took it and peered down at it through his bifocal lenses. Her gaze shifted down to his apron that was once white but now wildly splattered with blood. Tiffany shivered, getting a crazy picture of the hawk-faced man heaving a hatchet. It didn’t help that his hair was the color of dried blood, and the wrinkles on his face crisscrossed each other into a permanent scowl. Altogether, it painted a pretty gruesome picture. She glanced around nervously, making a mental note to check out the other two markets in town and happened to notice a large rack of reading material where several of her books had a lovely color photograph of herself. Her attention immediately darted back to him, wondering what was taking him so long.

  “Your hair’s different,” he said, hesitantly giving back her license.

  “Yes,” she said, plucking it out of his hand. “It was shorter when that picture was taken.”

  “Mmmmm,” he answered, still watching her like a bug under a microscope.

  “Well, have a good day,” she said with a smile, thankful that he gave no hint of detection. Not wanting to linger any longer than necessary, she hurriedly picked up her bags.

  While walking out of the market juggling her armful of groceries, she noticed the group of old men turning their heads in her direction. She tried to ignore them as she continued on toward her car, but apparently she was more interesting than politics or fertilizer, so one of them strolled over.

  “Seems like you got quite a load there,” a man in overalls called out in a friendly voice. “Care for some help?”

  She smiled. “Thank you very much. I didn’t realize I had bought so much until the clerk bagged everything up for me.”

  “The name’s Sam—Sam Walters.”

  “Tiffany Lovelace,” she said, while managing to work her hand around the lurching bags.

  As soon as he heard the familiar name he stroked his chin, leaving Tiffany’s hand hanging. “Tiffany Lovelace,” he mumbled. Like a Peeping Tom he peered around one of the bags, and a big smile lit up his face when he recognized her. “Of course, Tiffany Lovelace,” he blurted out. “Well, what do you know about that? I heard about you,” he said, grabbing her hand and pumping it up and down, almost spilling Tiffany’s groceries. “You’re that writer lady they say moved down here from New York.”

  “I’m afraid so,” she said with a note of despair, thinking her luck hadn’t held out after all.

  Curling his fingers around a match he’d been chewing on, he leisurely removed it and said, “So you’re the one who bought the old Lawson place, huh?”

  “Yes, actually, I did. Which reminds me of something that maybe you can help me with.”

  “You bet. What’s the problem?”

  “I happened to notice a little road nearby. I don’t think it has a name. It’s kind of dark, and lonely. Do you know where that leads to?”

  “I know the one you mean, but I don’t think anybody’s ever been up there since it’s private property and all.”

  “Yes, I know, it’s on my property.”

  “Well, you can do what you want, but that place is kind of off-limits. Nobody goes up there. I mean, there’s noises…”

  “But it’s on my property. At least up to a certain point, anyway. After that I don’t know where it goes. It’s probably just an old country road.”

  “Well, that’s your business, of course, but whatever you do, be careful.” He tipped the bill on his cap, and said, “Have a good day, now.”

  “Yes, thank you. You do the same.”

  While wondering about the man’s comments about the little road, she reluctantly got in her car and pulled out. As she drove she couldn’t put it out of her mind, and knew what was happening. She was coming down with a big case of writer’s curiosity that, if she let it, could get her into all kinds of trouble. There were pills for everything these days. Everything from simple headaches to that time of the month. If there was only a pill she could take for this. She bit her lip, knowing where it would eventually lead her.

  Down that dark, rutted old road.

  Later that night, Tiffany lay on her bed dividing her time between reading and watching an old classic movie on TV, neither one getting her full attention. Her gaze lifted when she heard a deep guttural sound and saw the Frankenstein monster walking stiffly toward the camera, his hands outstretched. A tiny thread of fear chilled her spine at the sight of the tall, foreboding castle silhouetted against a luminous collection of clouds in varying shades of gray. The monster seemed to be walking through a field of tombstones, his enormous feet causing a sinister sound of crunching, scraping, and crushing.

  She leaned her head down and rubbed her forehead. The headache had finally gone away, but now she was feeling a little peculiar, and wondered if she was coming down with something. Thinking that sleep was what she probably needed more than anything, she finally clicked the TV off and lay back on her bed, a lighter-than-air sensation closing about her.

  She drifted on a witch’s spell.

  Higher and higher she floated until she entered into a cool darkness. The night wind swirled around her, wrapping her in a lonely cocoon, its amorous hand lifting her thin nightgown and mussing her hair sensuously. As she drifted, peaceful and serene, she passed through several shades of darkness that draped mysteriously over the earth until she finally opened her eyes and saw herself surrounded by a cool, blue beauty that was breathtaking. Within only seconds she felt a solid surface beneath her feet that was smooth and cool. She glanced around, wondering where she was. The further she walked, the darker it became, until she saw dancing flames in the distance.

  She became part of a scene that filled her with fear.

  As she gazed around the room, she saw that it was extremely cavernous with a wide, flowing staircase. The flames she’d seen came from a grotesque stone fireplace that filled one whole wall. She felt small and insignificant as she gazed up at the beamed ceiling, and a sudden dizziness came upon her, making her reel as if drunk. The towering walls had giant panels of glass with a mysterious view into the black night.

  “My God,” she muttered as she heard the sound of gnarled tree limbs scratching at the gla
ss. “I’ve stepped into the Frankenstein movie.”

  She gazed around nervously, almost expecting to see a big, hulking monster coming toward her with outstretched arms and bolts on his neck. She didn’t know where she was, or how she had gotten there, but didn’t intend to stay. Turning, she ran toward the front door, and had just reached for the large antiquated door knob when something moved. The sound made her jump, and she turned, slamming her back against the door.

  She immediately saw a pool of shadows where a pair of glowing blue orbs were watching her. Seconds passed with her breath caught in her throat. As she watched, the shadow heaved with life, and the darkness began to move one nail-biting inch at a time until she saw an incredible face. The stranger’s eyes glittered like broken pieces of glass, and a dimple pierced his chin. His lips, although not excessively full, were appealingly curled. His black hair fell in thick waves, reaching his shoulders. His sideburns extended to the tips of his lobes, and he had just the slightest shadow of a mustache. He was tall, dressed in dark clothes—even a cape.

  “Oh, God,” she mumbled. She finds herself trapped in a Frankenstein movie, then enters—Dracula!

  With slow steps he moved toward her.

  In desperation she whirled around and pulled on the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “It’s locked,” he said, his deep voice resonating through the spacious room.

  She turned back, fear making her heart pound and thrash. Inching her gaze around, she looked for a way of escape, but could find none, so she slid carefully along the wall until she found herself trapped in a corner.

  She began to feel uncomfortable when she saw his gaze move along her body, lingering on her breasts. She followed it to see what was so fascinating, and saw her cleavage revealed seductively. With a quick movement she reached up to the lacy top of her nightgown, trying to somehow close it. From the hungry way he gazed at her she wasn’t quite sure whether he wanted to kiss her or bite her.