History Corner: The Haunted Summer of 1816

(or That Time a Teenager Had a Nightmare and Accidentally Created Science Fiction) 

It’s the summer of 1816, and the Alps are doing their best impression of a gothic novel. Rain, thunder, and a sun that seems to have called in sick for three months straight. The birds are confused. The crops are dead. The vibe is somewhere between “biblical plague” and “unlicensed Tim Burton reboot.” In short, perfect weather for a ghost story contest!

At the centre of this extremely overcast drama is the Villa Diodati, a lovely, albeit perhaps mildly ominous, mansion perched by Lake Geneva. Lord Byron, freshly exiled from England for being too scandalous for the 19th century (which is saying a lot), had rented the place for a little lakeside escapism. He wasn’t alone. With him were his physician, John Polidori, fellow poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, Shelley’s lover Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (soon to be Mary Shelley), and her stepsister Claire Clairmont, who was, surprise!, pregnant with Byron’s child.

What was meant to be a summer of boating and existential poetry was instead a soggy Gothic sleepover. The cause? The Year Without a Summer, courtesy of Mount Tambora’s massive volcanic eruption the year before, which had blanketed the skies in ash and dropped global temperatures like a moody ex dropping your calls. The world was in a literal chill, and at Villa Diodati, so were the houseguests. No sun, no swimming, no picnics. Just a thunderstorm a day and five emotionally volatile Romantics trapped indoors. So, they did what any cabin-fevered group of 19th-century creatives would do: they read ghost stories aloud by candlelight.

Specifically, they devoured Fantasmagoriana, a French translation of spooky German tales full of haunted mirrors, bloodthirsty phantoms, and assorted Victorian emotional repression. One night, after enough lightning crashes and dramatic pacing to warrant a séance, Byron issued a challenge: “We will each write a ghost story.” Now, this wasn’t just “tell us a spooky tale before bed” energy. This was a full creative showdown. Imagine MasterChef, but instead of soufflés, they were serving up psychological horror and unresolved trauma. And in the corner, quietly absorbing it all, was Mary Shelley, just 18, motherless, semi-scandalous, and already sharper than half the room.

At first, she couldn’t think of anything. Days passed, the others scribbled, and Mary sat stewing in the pressure, watching the storm and contemplating the world’s increasingly fragile relationship with reason. And then: the dream.

Mary later described it as a walking dream. In it, she saw a young scientist, pale with horror, standing beside the monstrous thing he had created: a creature assembled from corpses and jolted into life through unholy science. This wasn’t spooky for spooky’s sake, oh no. It was a story about creation and consequence. About the arrogance of man trying to play God. About the horror of human ambition untethered from morality rather than the expected ghosts, goblins, and ghoulies.

When she woke, Mary had the seed of what would become Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. The story she wrote over the following weeks, and later developed into a full novel, was revolutionary. This isn’t just a horror story, though; it was arguably the first science fiction novel ever written; however, technically, the genre had yet to be invented and probably would have been manspained to her by Byron or Shelley if it had. Mary’s ghost story asked questions about technology, ethics, responsibility, and what it means to be human.

It's worth pausing here to appreciate that the tale of Frankenstein (arguably the most enduring monster tale of the modern era) did not come from ancient folk myth or dusty tome. It came from the mind of an 18-year-old woman, raised by a feminist philosopher and an anarchist, sitting in a Swiss villa full of poets who were mostly trying to out-melancholy each other. This was entirely of her own creation.

And yes, her lover Percy would later edit the manuscript, giving it a slightly more Romantic flourish, and possibly inserting a few thunderclaps for good measure. But make no mistake: Frankenstein is Mary’s creature, start to finish. The language, the structure, the raw horror of the creation story… those were hers. While the others tinkered with their tales, Mary quietly built a narrative that would endure, terrify, and entertain through the ages.

It would be rather rude of me not to at least give a passing mention to the work of those around Mary while she endeavoured on literary brilliance. Byron jotted down a few pages about a creepy traveller; then, presumably distracted by his own reflection, gave up. Percy, bless him, wrote about a ghostly woman who vanishes into thin air. It was fine. Nobody remembers it. Claire… did not submit a story. Probably because she was too busy mediating Byron’s latest baby mama drama and reminding him that while he might consider himself a force of nature, that doesn’t exempt him from basic parental responsibilities. Byron, naturally, would disagree, insisting that emotional devastation was his contribution to childcare.

Polidori, however, he was up to something as well. Maybe not Frankenstein level, but still a classic amongst the Gothic fans of the ages and a major influence for those of you who love a good old vampire tale. His resulting story, The Vampyre, became the first work of prose fiction to portray the vampire as an aristocratic, seductive predator. So basically, he created the blueprint for every vampire story from Dracula to Twilight, with an emphasis on cheekbones and morally ambiguous eye contact. The character of Lord Ruthven in The Vampyre was very obviously based on Byron. Like, didn’t-even-try-to-hide-it obvious. Ruthven was tall, pale, magnetic, and trailed emotional wreckage like confetti; basically, Byron if you swapped out the iambic pentameter for actual bloodlust. The resemblance was so uncanny that many of The Vampyre’s contemporary readers thought Byron had written it. This delighted absolutely no one except Polidori, whose petty revenge fantasy accidentally launched the modern vampire genre.

Anyway… back to Frankenstein: the novel was published anonymously in 1818, attributed only to “the author of Frankenstein” on early editions; rather fitting, giving mysterious, spooky vibes before anyone had even opened the front cover. Many assumed Percy Shelley was the author behind it. Because how on earth could it have been anyone else?! But once the truth emerged, it was undeniable. Mary Soon-To-Be-Shelley had invented a modern myth. Perhaps hard to believe now (or perhaps not), but the book was not universally adored at first; some critics found it shocking, others found it silly, but it certainly struck a chord. And over the next two centuries, it would be adapted, reimagined, and parodied more times than its author could have ever thought. The creature (who, let me remind everyone – or more specifically those who say they have read it but, at best, have given a fleeting glance to the blurb – is not named Frankenstein), has become one of the most iconic figures in literature and film, a tragic, misunderstood symbol of human folly.

So next time someone says that nothing good comes from bad weather, kindly remind them that one of the most enduring and intellectually rich horror stories of all time came from a summer so cursed, it felt like the sky was stuck in grayscale. No summer, no sun, no Switzerland lake frolicking; just a teenager, a nightmare, and a room full of poets who didn’t realise they were being completely outwritten.

Now? More than two centuries later, the challenge still stands: can you write a ghost story worthy of a stormy night at the Villa Diodati?

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL…

The rain may have stopped (for now), but the spirit of that fateful 1816 gathering lives on. Just like Byron’s reputation and Frankenstein’s creature, some ideas refuse to die. Therefore, I invite you to light a candle, stare moodily, or broodingly, out the window, and summon your inner Mary Shelley, because Scribbled is hosting its very own ghost story competition!

Announcing the 1816 competition!

Send us your spookiest stories for a chance to win!

1st prize: £50

2nd prize: £25

3rd prize £15

Deadline: 31st of October

Submit through our general submission point with the description ‘1816 award’!

Your tale could be the one that haunts us next! Whether it’s Gothic grandeur, slow-burning dread, or something so modern it glows in the dark, we want to read it. Send us your spooky stories, and who knows? In 200 years, someone might still be telling your story.

Katelyn is an editor, aspiring author, and history fanatic living in the south of England. She graduated from the University of St Andrews with a degree in English and is now attempting to navigate the chaotic world of adult responsibility in the ways she knows best: writing and having fun. When she’s not sat at her desk working or writing, she can be found swimming, embroidering, or spending time with her loved ones.