The Zombie Book. Nick Redfern

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       Meet the real Dr. Frankenstein: Andrew Crosse.

      Rather interestingly, Mary Shelley actually met Crosse, albeit a significant time before his wildest research began. Mary, and her husband, Percy Shelley, were introduced to Crosse by a mutual friend: a poet named Robert Southey. Moreover, both husband and wife attended one of Crosse’s lectures on the nature of life and death in London in 1814. It was a lecture in which Crosse expanded at great length on his then-burgeoning research into the domain of electricity and how it might conceivably revive the dead. And twenty-two years later, in 1836, Edward W. Cox, a writer for the England’s Taunton Courier newspaper, interviewed Crosse and learned that both Mary and Percy had visited the Crosse residence on several occasions, specifically prior to Mary having written Frankenstein.

      We can—and, indeed, are forced to—speculate on what might have been discussed between Mary Shelley and Andrew Crosse while behind the closed doors of the latter’s bizarre lab. But of one thing we can be sure: Mary Shelley, the brains behind the world’s most infamous patchwork zombie of all time, had a connection to a man who earnestly believed he had uncovered something significant about life, death, and animation.

      The matter of the full extent to which the character and work of Crosse inspired Shelley is something that, two centuries later, is unlikely to ever be resolved to the satisfaction of students of both Shelley’s Frankenstein and Crosse’s work. Without any shadow of doubt, however, Andrew Crosse—the man, the visionary, and the self-made alternative scientist—was a character that, one way or another, will forever remain tied to Mary Shelley and to her diabolical zombie-like creation: Victor Frankenstein’s terrifying but tragic monster.

      In late 1836, and in the wake of the publicity given to Andrew Crosse’s controversial experimentation, a journalist, Edward W. Cox, had an article published in England’s Taunton Courier newspaper that served to deeply reinforce the growing whispers that Crosse was a real-life maker—or reanimator—of monsters. It was an article prompted by the fact that, as part of an effort to have the public and the media view him in a favorable light, Crosse invited Cox to his Broomfield, Somerset home. It was an action that proved to be very costly for Crosse.

      If Cox thought, prior to visiting the Crosse residence, that the Frankenstein parallels were uncalled for, his views soon changed. In his article, Cox wrote that on entering the old mansion he was confronted by “the philosophical room, which is about sixty feet in length and upwards of twenty feet in height, with an arched roof—it was built originally as a music hall—and what wonderful things you will see: a great many rows of gallipots and jars, with some bits of metal, and wires passing from them into saucers containing dirty-looking crystals.”

      Adding even more to the legend of Crosse, Cox expanded that, while in the creepy house “you are startled in the midst of your observations, by the smart crackling sound that attends the passage of the electrical spark; you hear also the rumbling of distant thunder.” And the Frankenstein-like comparisons continued to flow forth from Cox in fine style: “Your host is in high glee, for a battery of electricity is about to come within his reach a thousand–fold more powerful than all those in the room strung together. You follow his hasty steps to the organ gallery, and curiously approach the spot from where the noise proceeds that has attracted your notice. You see at the window a huge brass conductor, with a discharging rod near it passing into the floor, and from the one knob to the other, sparks are leaping with increasing rapidity and noise.”

      If that wasn’t enough to convince many of the Courier’s readers that Crosse was a definitive mad scientist, there is the following from Cox, who said of his host: “Armed with his insulated rod, he plays with the mighty power; he directs it where he will; he sends it into his batteries: having charged them thus, he shows you how wire is melted, dissipated in a moment by its passage; how metals—silver, gold, and tin—are inflamed, and burn like paper, only with the most brilliant hues.”

      While Cox’s article was not a damning one, it most certainly helped to reinforce the unease that the villagers of Broomfield had about Crosse. And, in addition to that, Cox’s amusing and entertaining piece helped to solidly cement the Frankenstein parallels that still exist to this very day.

       Cypress, Texas, Mummy

      Paranormal authority Brad Steiger notes: “Perhaps of all the classic monsters that have terrified theater audiences and groups gathered around campfires, the two most likely to be confused with one another are the mummy and the zombie. One thinks of curses and spells associated with both of these beings. Of course, the principle difference is that the mummies pronounce curses upon those who disturb their elegant tombs, while zombies lie for a time in crude graves because a curse has been placed upon them.”

      Steiger is not wrong when he refers to mummies and zombies causing confusion due to the somewhat similar territory they inhabit. His words are made all the more significant by the fact that in 2011 startling rumors began to circulate that a zombified mummy was roaming around the Texas town of Cypress, which is located northwest of the city of Houston. The quickly escalating atmosphere of terror and menace led Houston’s KPRC news to home-in on the controversy. In semi-comic tones, they reported on how whole swathes of the population of Cypress were “living in fear,” as a result of the bandaged nightmare said to be walking the streets, specifically in the town’s Fairfield area.

      While jokes and comments were made about a looming zombie apocalypse, not everyone was laughing. In fact, in Cypress itself, hardly anyone saw the joke. “It’s scary not knowing what this man is up to or what he wants,” said one of the town’s residents, Jon Hill, who saw the creature moving around in his front yard. Another of the townsfolk, Steven Scheiffele, added: “It’s creepy, especially since he’s here in the neighborhood with the kids and stuff.”

      Harris County police officers tried their very best to diffuse the anxiety by asserting that it was all the work of a prankster—albeit a slightly warped one—that enjoyed scaring the living daylights out of people, and nothing else. Others were not quite so sure, however, and noted that the person responsible might well suffer severely, given that Texas is very well known for its “shoot first and ask questions later” attitude towards dealing with potentially violent individuals. In view of that, would someone really have been so stupid as to invade private land in the Lone Star State, while swathed in bandages, staggering around like the living dead, and all without thinking of the potentially fatal consequences of doing so? If not, perhaps the real culprit was one of the dead. To date, the mystery of the zombie/mummy of Cypress, Texas remains exactly that: a mystery.

      D

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