29 October 2027
Friday. Halloween weekend in Northbridge, and the whole building has the shivers.
My laboratory, I have learned, is not the only house of horrors on Lake Street. There is a haunted house down the corridor, something involving cannibals, an asylum, and a certain count from the Carpathians whom I have never met but whose cloak I have seen on a hook in the staff room. Groups come to me first and then go straight on to one of the others, still trembling, as if one hour of genius were not enough.
I find this disloyal. I also find it very sensible. The storm takes an hour; the night is long.
Tonight’s best group came dressed as my wedding party. I have never had a wedding party. I was very moved, then very confused, and then they woke the Subject and went off to the asylum.
In the margin: I have met the count. He came by after closing to borrow some lightning. I lent him a little. He was perfectly polite and would not stay for dinner, which I gather is a habit of his. The doctor was asleep. I have not told him. I am telling you.
— V. Frankenstein
