Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 11

§11. Bizarre! A Werewolf Appears in London!

Throughout the preceding half-year, I have found myself entangled in a series of uncanny occurrences that have tested the very bounds of my mental faculties. Miraculously, the abyss of madness has not yet consumed me, a stark divergence from the fate that has befallen countless victims within the annals of the Cthulhu mythos. Over the last sixty days, I have ruminated upon the reasons for my unyielding sanity, yet no satisfactory answer has revealed itself.

The most conceivable conjecture is that I am the incarnation of another soul.

It occurs to me that my initial awareness of the Cthulhu mythos as a work of fiction may have fortified my psyche against its insidious influence. Beyond this, I have identified no singular quality that sets me apart.

Regardless, I have not been wholly consumed by insanity. Yet, this is not to say that I remain entirely unscathed.

“Master, as summer is upon us, might I suggest that you partake in a bath…?”

Marie tentatively proffered.

“What purpose would that serve? I remain confined to this abode.”

Time and again, I would dismiss her proposal with such a rational pretext.

Of late, my existence has been plunged into disarray by an array of maladies born of psychological trauma, with aquaphobia and agoraphobia proving particularly pronounced. (I assure you, I speak not of the dread affliction of rabies.)

Such was my aversion to water that I resembled a vagrant, forgoing even the most rudimentary grooming, let alone bathing. At the peak of my affliction, the merest droplet of condensation upon a drinking vessel would induce convulsions, much to Marie’s distress.

In her devotion, she devised a method to render boiling water tepid on my behalf, but now that my condition has somewhat improved, she laments the newfound obsolescence of her skill. Considering that imbibing unboiled water in London would undoubtedly result in illness, I remained ever grateful for her diligence.

Agoraphobia presented an even greater challenge, as it bore direct consequences upon my very means of subsistence.

Since the harrowing episode at the Frank estate, I have abstained from any semblance of occupation for a span of six months under the guise of convalescence. Following a four-month respite, I reluctantly embarked upon my first endeavor during rehabilitation: the meteorite inquest upon Jacob’s Isle. Alas, the aftermath of that ordeal left me incapacitated for yet another two months.

As fortune would have it, Count Essex, true to his word, bequeathed unto me a letter of recommendation ere his demise. This missive would have granted me entry to any academic institution as a professor, yet I found myself wholly unwilling to abandon the sanctuary of my home. Considering the calamities that befell me each time I ventured beyond my threshold in the preceding half-year, my reluctance was well-founded.

Inevitably, my social sphere contracted, and over the last two months, I have maintained contact only with my housekeeper Marie, Dr. Wangjin, and the purveyor of newspapers. I found myself bemused by a bold article that declared me a hermit, for there was a degree of truth in their assertion.

Thus, I was afforded the opportunity to dedicate myself wholly to a singular pursuit: translation.

[Marie Curie]

The notebook bearing this title was inscribed in a myriad of tongues.

Its pages commenced in Polish, yet as the chronicle progressed, French and English began to intermingle. Strikingly absent was the Russian language, which may have been more familiar to her than Polish. I surmised that this omission reflected an unconscious act of patriotism.

The amalgamation of languages might have been mistaken for a haphazard arrangement of multilingual sentences, but Curie ingeniously crafted multinational phrases that showcased her remarkable intellect. It was not uncommon to find words in three languages coexisting within a single sentence, with some phrases defying the grammatical conventions of any one nation.

Each line neared the complexity of a code composed of multiple languages, and as the pages advanced, even the vestiges of linguistic identity disintegrated, giving rise to an independent lexicon.

It was this peculiar characteristic that convinced me that this text was penned by Curie over an extended period during her metamorphosis. This revelation hinted at the possibility of Mrs. Curie’s survival, suggesting there was no sudden sacrifice.

Fortuitously, I possessed a fluency in both French and English, and was acquainted with a scholar versed in Polish, to whom I dispatched a letter seeking assistance. Naturally, I relied heavily upon a Polish-English dictionary to decipher the text.

Upon unraveling the multinational code, the notebook divulged its most enigmatic passage toward the end. It bore no resemblance to any Earthly language I had encountered, and I struggled to discern the boundaries of each sentence.

I was acquainted with but one tome inscribed in a similarly arcane script.

[The Gospel of Blackriver]

On a tempestuous eve, when some malevolent revelation besieged my vulnerable form, I found myself compelled to retrieve that detestable grimoire once more. Thus commenced the painstaking process of translation, comparing the two texts side by side. Mere glimpses of the unholy scripture threatened to engulf my sanity anew, necessitating a deliberate pace in my efforts.

Approximately two months had elapsed since the meteorite inquest.

“Master, you emit a most unpleasant odor.”

As I perused the newspaper, Marie, who had arrived to prepare afternoon tea, abruptly admonished me.

“Pardon?”

“Indeed, you reek. It is imperative that you bathe this day.”

“How can this be? I have merely remained indoors, have I not?”

As per my custom, I furnished the same justification.

“Yet you bear the scent of dust. Could it be the result of your incessant bookish pursuits?”

“Surely, the odor does not transfer from tome to reader. Furthermore, who would characterize this as the aroma of dust?”

In jest, I chided Marie for her peculiar choice of words, whereupon she set down the teacup she was arranging and pivoted towards me.

“Ah, yes. Unlike the erudite master, my expressions are decidedly unsophisticated…”

“Pray, desist. When have I ever held you in contempt?”

Feeling vexed, I truncated the wearisome exchange.

“Regardless, Master, your malodorous presence this day necessitates a bath.”

For reasons unknown, her insistence was more tenacious than ever. Left with no alternative, I feigned ignorance and resumed my perusal of the newspaper.

“Today’s edition features a rather intriguing article.”

“Again, with such diversions…”

“No, truly. This piece may pique your interest.”

“Indeed? What is its subject?”

I directed Marie’s attention to the headline.

“London witnesses the advent of a werewolf!”

“Can this be true?”

“Assuredly.”

Initially, I surmised that the appellation “werewolf” was employed as a literary metaphor. However, as I delved deeper into the article, I discovered the earnestness of the claim and promptly lost interest. While I idled away in a state of unrest, the London press was once again manufacturing sensationalist drivel to bolster their sales.

“Is this authentic?”

“Please, do not mimic the credulity of today’s youth. You are well aware of the spurious nature of such tales.”

“Then what, pray tell, is this?”

Marie gestured towards the image accompanying the article.

It depicted a blurred nocturnal photograph. Owing to the inadequate focus, the silhouette of a creature, straddling the line between beast and human, was scarcely discernible. The figure in the snapshot crouched on all fours, fixing a baleful gaze upon the photographer, its eyes aglow, while coarse hair sprouted from beneath its jowls, reminiscent of a feral creature.

In this epoch, the masses possessed an unwavering faith in the veracity of photographs. Although techniques for image manipulation existed, the belief that a photograph embodied truth persisted.

“Any soul with nefarious intent could fabricate such an image.”

“And what of the fur?”

“A mere growth of one’s beard would suffice for such a ruse.”

“Ah, indeed.”

Marie uttered, directing her gaze at my chin. I glared in response, warning her against such a frivolous inspection.

In any case, the article posited that the perpetrator responsible for the recent uproar in London, spanning five months, had been unmasked as a werewolf. The denizens’ dread of the lycanthrope had reached its zenith, with the constabulary receiving three to four reports of sightings daily, and an incessant influx of unverified rumors inundating the press.

The catalog of crimes attributed to the werewolf was extensive, encompassing assault, arson, public indecency, harassment of both women and men, theft, property damage, sexual affronts, and home invasions, with over 50 households alleging damages.

The creature roamed the dimly lit backstreets of London on all fours each night, hunting its subsequent quarry, its speed surpassing even the swiftest of London’s motorcars. All endeavors to photograph the beast had culminated in failure, save for the lone snapshot featured in the article.

I heaved a sigh.

Even a lowly novelist, earning a mere five shillings per volume, would pen their tales with greater earnestness. While such sensationalist stories were customary in these trying times, this particular piece was egregiously lacking in quality.

“Perusing this drivel induces a headache. Remove it from my sight. I shall savor my tea.”

Thus, I handed the newspaper to Marie, whose expression was one of intrigue, and cleansed my memory with a sip of tea.

One week hence.

I persisted in my struggle to decipher the notes left behind by Mrs. Curie. My efforts bore little fruit, prompting me to rise from my seat in search of respite. As I peered out the window, I chanced upon a newspaper lad passing by, and promptly beckoned him.

“Sir, might you be interested in purchasing a newspaper?”

“Which publications do you carry?”

The boy rifled through his satchel of newspapers, reciting the titles one by one.

“I have the Daily Telegraph, the Illustrated London News, and the Daily Mail.”

“And what of The Sketch?”

“I do not possess that, sir. Shall I procure it for you?”

I shook my head and placed a one-shilling coin in the boy’s palm. With three newspapers, the sum would suffice to purchase a dozen inexpensive Daily Telegraphs.

“Provide me with one Illustrated London News, and retain the remainder.”

“Thank you, sir!”

The lad scrutinized the coin before presenting me with the newspaper, a radiant smile adorning his face. I accepted the periodical and promptly closed the window.

Upon hearing the window close, Marie entered the chamber, muttering her discontent.

“Did you bestow a tip upon that newspaper lad once more?”

“He is a diligent and commendable youth.”

“Commendable? I dare say he is more cunning. He lingers outside the window until you purchase a newspaper. Instead of incessantly claiming penury, you ought to economize in such matters.”

Disregarding Marie’s admonishments, I perused the contents of the articles. The first page, as per custom, teemed with advertisements. I turned the page and promptly closed the newspaper after glimpsing the initial article.

“You squander funds impulsively, which is the cause of our budgetary shortcomings. How can one of such brilliance possess no sense of frugality?”

“Cease your maternal-like chiding and behold this.”

“What might it be?”

Grasping the newspaper I proffered, Marie cried out in delight.

“It’s Spring-heeled Jack!”

“Last week, it was a werewolf; this week, Spring-heeled Jack. When did British newspapers transform into a carnival of oddities? What shall we witness next—a yeti?”

Spring-heeled Jack.

An appellation for an enigmatic figure that had been inciting a commotion in London since before my birth. As the sobriquet implies, he donned springs upon his heels to vault over edifices, spewed fire from his maw, and assailed without trepidation, even soldiers.

Ah, what a magnificent monster he was. When he discovered a solitary woman whilst bounding betwixt buildings, it was said he would harass her. In comparison to London’s myriad other monstrosities, his motives were relatively comprehensible.

“All of this is mere fabrication.”

I deemed him a sort of savior for British newspapers. Any mediocre sensationalist writer could concoct a tale concerning him, supplement it with a chilling illustration, and the periodicals would sell like the finest confections.

“Nonetheless, it retains a certain amusement, does it not?”

Marie harbored the peculiar predilection of amassing newspapers featuring accounts of monsters or murderers. I had not esteemed it highly in the past, but now that I was cognizant of the existence of such creatures lurking in the shadows, I could no longer regard it with ease.

“You ought to accept more cases of this nature.”

“Pray tell, what do you presume my profession entails?”

“However, sir…”

───Ding-dong.

The chime of the doorbell interrupted Marie, who set the newspaper down and pivoted.

“I shall attend to it.”

As Marie opened the door and withdrew, I secured it once more myself. Presently, I perceived the sound of the front door opening and the voices of a man and a woman. I recognized the feminine voice as Marie’s, but the masculine voice, though familiar, eluded my recollection of its origin.

───Knock, knock.

“Master, a visitor has arrived to seek your counsel.”

“Admit them.”

I seated myself and endeavored to neaten my cluttered desk. The Gospel of Blackriver and its translation were not artifacts I could permit others to view.

───Creak.

A man garbed as a constable entered. At last, I recalled the identity of the voice and offered a wry smile. The visage of the man remained as rigid as I remembered.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you, Lord Herbert.”

“I received word of your promotion, Wilson.”

He was the youthful Lieutenant Peter Wilson, who had accompanied me during the submersion of Jacob Island. At the time, he served as a patrol officer, but now he bore the title of detective.

“Your influence is to thank.”

Wilson responded with a taut grin.

There was cause for his uneasy smile. It was likely my doing.

On that fateful day, Wilson, who had been searching for Mrs. Curie in a vacant edifice, did not witness the entirety of the island’s events, but he resolved to report truthfully all that he had observed. As a consequence, he garnered not only commendation for halting the machine-gun terror but also faced dismissal due to spurious rumors of drug use whilst on duty.

It was an unsuitable reward for the bravery he had exhibited. Once I regained my senses, I learned of the news and penned a personal missive to the head of the Criminal Investigation Department (CID). Unlike Wilson, I obscured the truth of that day’s occurrences and supplanted the void with fabrications regarding Officer Wilson’s valor.

Given the personal rapport between the CID director and myself, as well as my status as the sole witness to the island’s events, Wilson’s accomplishments were acknowledged, and he was promoted to a CID detective in lieu of termination. It was an unparalleled privilege, ascending from patrol officer to detective, predicated upon a singular case.

Nevertheless, Wilson ceased dispatching regular correspondence to me after that day and severed all contact.

The forthright young man discerned my involvement in his elevation and felt that sustaining a friendship with me was akin to partaking in grave corruption. He was a rare and honest youth in London, and I found myself disheartened for a time upon losing such a young confidant.

“Has your eyesight improved?”

“Yes, my vision has been fully restored.”

Ah, yes, and I had once stabbed him in the eye. It was born of necessity.

“So, what has brought you hither today?”

I was well acquainted with Wilson’s character from those incidents, and I did not surmise he would call for personal reasons. As anticipated, he proffered a letter bearing the police seal.

“I am here today to formally request your collaboration in resolving a case as a CID detective.”

I accepted the letter and retrieved a paper knife from a drawer.

“I may decline after perusing the contents.”

“I have never known you to refuse, particularly in cases such as these.”

I meticulously opened the envelope with the blade.

“There are two cases in total. They may or may not be related.”

“It appears you are suggesting your own lack of knowledge.”

“If it were not such a case, there would be no necessity to solicit your cooperation, sir.”

He possessed a valid argument. I nodded in agreement.

“The informal designations of the cases are as follows.”

I unfurled the two documents and perused the names of the cases inscribed in bold letters, furrowing my brow in consternation.

Wilson assumed a formal stance and declared,

“The Werewolf Affair. The Spring-Heeled Jack Conundrum. The CID earnestly beseeches the aid of Lord Philemon Herbert in the examination of these two enigmatic occurrences.”