1313 Electric avenue

Come in!  Welcome…I’m A. Harriet Frankenstein.

Please step inside.  I knew you'd find your way here; the most interesting people always do.  

Settle in and make yourself comfortable. Not there!—the ceiling drips over that spot. And the floor is a little spongy to the right of the fireplace. Yes—that chair over there by the window should be fine if you can tolerate the draft...

Welcome to The Promethean:  Haunted House of Frankenstein!  The tour starts here, although if you’ve already heard enough blah blah blah from me, you can always sneak out behind the bookcase and check out The Parlor, The Liberry or The It-Could-Workshop.  

But I know you’re not here for the House and its decadence in decay; the coolest thing about The Promethean is the Ghosts.

When I moved in, I assumed The Promethean was haunted—how could the abandoned House of Frankenstein not be filled with ghosts?! I was particularly hopeful about conjuring my Great-Grandmother, Fannie Frankenstein. She died in the house. Lies were told about how. About why.  

I set out to communicate with The Afterworld in all the time-tested ways—séances, ouija boards, chalkboards, baby monitors, a broken radio, spirit writing, spirit photography, dream analysis, and psychedelics.

In every way I could think of, I asked anyone who was listening:  

Are you there? Do you have anything to say?

One night, I dumped a bag of lettered tiles onto the table, asked my questions, and went to bed. I woke up to this:

B BETTER

As if she’d simply been waiting to be asked. As if she’d been whispering it to me the whole time. Like dust in a shaft of light, she was there whether I saw her or not.  

HOW FANTASTIC IS THAT?!  

Okay...a thing that’s important to know about me: I am the girl who wants to be haunted.  I wish on stars and eyelashes and 11:11’s. I spent the entire summer of 1982 trying to lure E.T. to my back door with Resee Peecees. I once street-picked a rocking chair in hopes that it came with a ghost (it didn’t). I check the backs of closets for snow and lamp posts. Call me Fox Mulder cuz I want to believe.  

All that to say, when Fannie Frankenstein showed herself, I had no fear.

B BETTER

Imagine! Dead for a century, and these are the words she chose! What would YOU choose? What’s your "I thought you’d never ask" answer?  

I won’t lie; I was expecting something more along the lines of 

HELLO, or 

HELP ME, or 

BURIED IN CELLAR. Perhaps even, 

CASH BURIED IN CELLAR. 

But Fannie used all the power her misty fingers could manifest to tell me to:

B BETTER,

and I intend to figure out how to do it. 

Don’t let’s forget: I am a Frankenstein. Deadly departed Uncle Victor was epically cuckoo for sure—monstrous, you could say—but he did manage to re-animate a corpse into a living, breathing, walking-around guy who loved music and literature! GENIUS!  

The Frankensteins aren't just Mad, my friends, we are Scientists!  

And so, here in the Promethean, Haunted House of Frankenstein, I am conducting an experiment on myself. Using The Sci-Fientific Method of my own devising, I will attempt to answer the following question:

Could a Better Frankenstein make a Better Monster?

Take your time and look around. You'll find my blog in The Parlor, sources and resources in The Liberry, and tricks and practices in The It-Could-Workshop. Maybe even try a little Bettering of your own and let us know how it's going in the Dear Harriet page.  

Until next time, I remain,

A. Harriet Frankenstein

Mad Sci-Fientist