I have loved the summer of 1816 since I was a kid, which probably tells you what kind of kid I was. It is the worst vacation in the history of literature and the best thing that ever happened to horror. Picture the villa above Lake Geneva. The rain will not stop, the cold has no business being there in June, and the dark sits against the windows like it wants a look at the people inside. There are five of them. A poet in disgrace, the young doct…
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