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Maybe you know the name Frankenstein. If you do, you're probably thinking about a giant green

man with bolts in his neck. But that's not the real story, as it was imagined by Mary Shelley

on a summer night that should have been warm and clear, but instead was cold and wet.

Our story about Mary begins in Switzerland, and like all good scary stories, it begins on a dark

and stormy night. Some people called it the year without summer. Some say the skies over Europe

were clouded with ash from a volcano that exploded far away. Mary and her friends, Byron,

Percy and John, spent much of their time in a sprawling mansion Byron had rented in Geneva.

The stormy weather drove the group indoors where they read aloud to each other from a book of

ghost stories they found. The shape was lost beneath the shadow of the castle walls, but soon

a gate swung back. Step was heard. The door of the chamber opened.

There before him was his beautiful bride, once lost to him, but now returned. As he reached

to Rappers Arms around her, her familiar rose-centred perfume, he found himself wrapped up in nothing but

mist. The rose-centred haze fading into the night. Oh, I liked that one. Tell another.

No, I have an idea. We should each write a ghost story, and then take turns telling them to

each other, and judge which of them is the best. Mary was intrigued by this idea. Her friends

were all established and pretty fancy writers. Byron was a wealthy and popular poet.

Percy was also a poet, and John was a doctor and an author. At that time in history,

it may have seemed to those famous male friends and the outside world that Mary would be an

unlikely spinner of scary stories. Back then, it was unusual for a woman to have a career as an author,

...