1 November 2026
Sunday. Halloween is over and I am exhausted. I have been impersonated all week.
I counted eleven Victor Frankensteins yesterday alone. Lab coats, wild hair, one pair of goggles worn upside down. A woman in Victorian mourning black so severe that I offered my condolences, and she said, “For what?”, and I said, “Everything,” and we understood each other perfectly.
There were also four of the Subject: green paint, bolts, a great deal of shuffling. The real one was asleep under his sheet and missed it, which is just as well, as he would have wanted to compare.
Costumes are welcome, the company says. I say they are essential. An assistant who plays the part, who cries “the storm, the storm!” at the shutters and hunches when carrying a jar, has a far better evening than one who does not. Comfortable shoes, though. Hunching is hard on the knees.
In the margin: For the record, I did not miss it. I was awake for the fourth group. One of me waved. I waved back. I believe I frightened myself. It was wonderful.
— V. Frankenstein
