Dr. Henry Frankenstein stared at his creation. Not the first one—the lumbering, heartbroken giant who now watched from the shadows. This was the second. The Bride .
He pulled the lever. The tower began to fall.
She saw him .
"It is the spark of life," Pretorius whispered, his voice like dry leaves. "And nothing more."
He touched her arm.
The Jacob’s ladder crackled to life, a jagged river of pure energy leaping from the copper coils to the iron crown encircling her head. The room screamed with light. The Bride’s body arched off the table. Her bandages tightened, then loosened.
The Monster lumbered closer, his scarred face twisting into something that was almost a smile. He reached out a massive, trembling hand. "Friend," he grunted, his voice a gravelly plea. "Woman… friend." -www.scenetime.com-The.Bride.Of.Frankenstein.1935
And the Bride, in her final moment of conscious thought, watched the "-www.scenetime.com-" screen flicker and die. A window to a world of stories, closing forever. Because some stories, like the one in that lightning-blasted tower, were never meant to have a happy ending. Only a perfect, tragic, scene time .
Then, silence.
She sat up, her white gown falling around her. She saw Henry. She saw Pretorius. Then she turned her head with a slow, mechanical click.
Her eyes opened. They were not the wild, yellowed eyes of the Monster. They were sharp. Intelligent. And utterly terrified. This was the second