How Mary Shelley Ruined My Vacation

ME AND GEORGIE BYRON GO WAY BACK. Sorry! — I know these days everyone calls him “Lord”.

I grew up across the street from the Byrons. His mom borrowed sealing wax from us all the time. I would drag Georgie away from his books to skip rocks by the riverbank — he’d moan the whole way there, but believe me, he loved it. I still drop him a line every year around the holidays. He never responds, but with long-lasting friendships like ours, you don’t have to.

When I ran into him and heard he was renting a place down by Lake Geneva — well, I couldn’t help myself. “Switzerland, wow, that’s something!” I said. Georgie kept looking at snuff boxes in a window display. “I can’t imagine visiting a place like that. Lifetime highlight, right there!”

“Drop by, if you like,” he finally sighed, hailing a carriage. Well, Thad Grimes doesn’t have to be asked twice.

My first night there, we’ve just finished a huge dinner and everyone’s having cigars in the study. Percy Shelley’s there too, Georgie’s writer friend. Poet, I’m told, real sour look on his face. Along with Percy is the kid he just married. Molly, I think?

Georgie’s spinning a globe, letting his finger drag along the surface. He fixes the room with a mischievous stare and declares, “What if we each were to write… a ghost story?”