Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 12

§12. Judas and Patrick’s Dinner

On the morrow, at the behest of Marie, I yielded to her relentless urging and took to the blade. It marked a triumph for her, as she had persistently harped on the matter for the past two months.

“Oh my, what a marked improvement you exhibit with your facial hair trimmed.”

Having shorn away my whiskers, I found myself quite taken with the invigorating sensation it bestowed upon me. I silently concurred with Marie’s sentiment. However, I had no desire to undergo the rigors of a full-fledged ablution, so I beseeched Marie to procure a vessel of water to serve as a makeshift basin.

As in my days of yore, when I sailed upon the navy’s vessels, I submerged a cloth in the basin and painstakingly attended to every nook and cranny of my person. When I wrung out the cloth, a dark, muddied stream of water flowed forth. Its presence did not evoke any particular reaction from me, as I had grown accustomed to such squalor during my days of military service and ardent exploration.

However, it was Marie who beheld the sight with a degree of consternation. She swiftly emptied the basin, filled with the murky residue of my cleansing, and forcibly expelled me from the room, insisting on purging it of its accumulated impurities. The sound of her diligent sweeping and mopping resonated from within. She possessed an exceedingly meticulous disposition.

“Behold, this is the amount of dust that has been expelled.”

And after a time, Marie collected a conglomeration of filth and triumphantly presented it to me.

“Truth be told, I find myself at a loss for an appropriate response, for it is the first instance wherein one has displayed a cluster of dust to me, awaiting my reaction.”

“Such is the wretched state of your chamber.”

“Dust has an inclination to accumulate over time.”

“Even so, who in their right mind dwells amidst such a mountain of dust!”

“You are simply unaccustomed to bearing witness to such squalor.”

Fatigued by the ceaseless pestering of Marie, I sought solace within the confines of my chamber. Unquestionably, the floor and the bed appeared more immaculate than prior to my departure. Resigned to abandoning any unnecessary search for faults, I readied myself for departure.

As I attended to the arrangement of my suit, an unsettling realization abruptly seized hold of me, prompting me to direct my gaze towards the desk. I then shifted my scrutiny to the bookshelf, followed by the bed, and at last, the windowsill. Alas, the object of my quest eluded my diligent investigation, refusing to reveal its presence.

In utter desperation, I resorted to my final recourse.

“Marie, perchance have you chanced upon my wristwatch?”

“Wristwatch?” she queried.

“Yes, have you perhaps stowed it away?”

Marie, entering the chamber, shook her head with an expression fraught with anxiety.

“You know full well I refrain from meddling with your possessions.”

“Indeed, I am cognizant of that fact. Yet, if neither I nor you is responsible, do you imply that this wristwatch sprouted legs and embarked on a clandestine expedition?”

Uttering my discontent in a disgruntled tone, I muttered under my breath and, with a sense of apprehension, lifted the pillow from its resting place.

────Ding dong.

The resonant chime of the doorbell reverberated through the entryway, summoning our attention.

“Quickly, locate it,” I beseeched, my search growing ever more frantic as I rifled through drawers where the watch had no conceivable place of concealment.

“If the matter pertains to the watch, fear not, for I shall unearth it. You must proceed forthwith,” Marie insisted.

“What? Do you expect me to venture forth bereft of my timepiece? That is an inconceivable notion!” I retorted, my tone fraught with incredulity.

Marie’s obstinacy knew no bounds, driving me relentlessly toward the entrance, where I was nearly propelled forward by her unyielding determination.

“Hey!” I protested.

“You are poised to assert your refusal once more,” she retorted, an air of exasperation lacing her words.

The notion of retracing my steps at this juncture appeared increasingly preposterous. Reluctantly, I conceded defeat, yielding to the inevitability of the situation. With great reluctance, I gingerly opened the door, my countenance assuming a semblance of hospitality.

“Good morrow,” I greeted the visitor.

“Good morrow, sir. I have arrived to escort you,” replied Wilson, stationed outside the threshold, saluting dutifully, his policeman’s hat perched atop his head.

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

Occasionally, requests for civilian collaboration in investigative endeavors reached my doorstep. Yes, akin to the detective in a mystery novel.

However, if one were to inquire whether my acumen equaled that of those fictional sleuths, the answer would unequivocally be in the negative. In truth, the reason I found myself on the receiving end of such proposals stemmed from an inexplicable reputation that had somehow taken root. Personally, I pondered over the manner in which I had managed to cultivate such a peculiar renown.

Yet, one aspect remained resolute—a certain unresolved case, believed to have been resolved through my intervention, served as the initial catalyst.

“It pertains to a case from fourteen years past,” Wilson articulated, his gait unhurried.

“The Norfolk Evening Incident—I delved into its depths. Your name garnered considerable renown.”

“Thanks to that, I acquired a measure of undesired notoriety.”

“You performed admirably.”

In the year 1881, a macabre incident of unparalleled proportions unfurled, sending shockwaves across the entirety of England.

The venue of this distressing affair was none other than a domicile nestled on Norfolk Street, a thoroughfare characterized by its tranquil ambiance, even within the bustling confines of London—where men of letters traditionally congregated. Within the confines of that residence, five souls met their untimely demise, their demises so intricately entangled that discerning a clear demarcation between victims and perpetrators proved an exercise in futility.

The origins of the calamity can be traced back to the ill-fated occasion when Harris Jude extended an invitation to Martin Patrick, beseeching his presence at a solemn repast.

“Seated at the dining table were Jude’s two progeny and his wife,” I recounted.

‘Twas an evening that would forever be etched in the annals of London’s history—a harrowing chapter unfurling before their very eyes.

The initial harbinger of this grim saga emerged from the lips of a concerned neighbor. The eyewitness, having been assailed by piercing cries and unnerving shrieks emanating from the domicile of Jude, promptly sought the aid of the constabulary. To the authorities, he divulged, “It appears that a burglary has taken place next door.” This supposition arose from the fact that Jude’s family had perpetually conducted themselves with decorum, never once yielding to fits of discordant tumult.

Indeed, such was the reputation of Jude—a gentleman esteemed and relied upon by his neighboring denizens. Without delay, two vigilant patrolmen set forth towards the abode of Jude.

However, upon their arrival, the cacophony of screams and clamors that had tormented the air had long since been silenced. The house stood not in a state of abandonment, for faint streams of light pierced through the sagging curtains, hinting at signs of occupancy. The two officers approached the threshold, their footsteps laden with trepidation, yearning to glean insight into the enigmatic tableau that awaited them within.

───Chomp chomp.

The two officers poised to knock upon the door were arrested by an anomalous sound emanating from within. Perplexing indeed, for one of Jude’s esteemed standing would not produce such an indelicate clamor. It resembled the ravenous feeding of a canine or swine rather than the comportment befitting a human being.

The officers, sensing an inexplicable shift in the situation, halted their intended action of knocking, realizing that the door stood ajar. They applied a gentle pressure, causing the portal to yield slightly. In that instant, a putrid stench, reminiscent of the abattoir’s pungent domain, gushed forth from the crevice—an olfactory assault born of blood, viscera, and excrement intermingled.

Their intuition whispered of an egregious circumstance unfolding within, compelling them to breach the threshold.

Within, a sight unfolded that transcended the boundaries of our mortal realm. All was suffused with a ghastly crimson hue.

At the table sat five figures, their abdomens rent asunder, allowing their innards to spill forth like twisted serpents. None among them possessed unmarred ocular orbs. Upon the lavishly adorned table, a macabre collection of unmistakably human appendages, including ears, lay heaped, while the Arabian carpet beneath was drenched in crimson, its fibers desiccated and twisted.

Four were but lifeless husks, their souls forever vanquished. Only one exhibited signs of animation. Harris Jude, with fingers ensanguined, gorged upon his own daughter’s entrails.

“Jude, apprehended at the scene, succumbed immediately.”

“He bled out.”

Subsequent scrutiny by the investigating officers unearthed a revelation more shocking still.

The invited guest, Patrick, too willingly partook in this grotesque banquet. Several undigested fingers were discovered within his stomach, and within the recesses of his oral cavity resided an esophagus presumed to be that of Jude.

It suggested but one conclusion. Amidst the unfolding dinner, Jude and Patrick, like savage beasts, orchestrated the massacre, rending flesh and tearing asunder with unabated ferocity.

As news of the incident reverberated, an ominous pall descended not only upon the streets of London but also upon the entirety of England.

Dread enveloped the populace, for the two gentlemen, once esteemed, had metamorphosed into the most grotesque murderers in the annals of history.

The family of Patrick, accused of harboring devilish inclinations, fell prey to the torment inflicted by the local denizens, forcing them to seek refuge in the remote countryside.

Yet, even there, they found no solace, for their presence was unwelcome in their former abode. Helen, the wife of Martin Patrick, her mind addled by the relentless pursuit of journalists from the capital, succumbed to the grasp of despair, departing from this mortal coil without leaving behind testament or testamentary provisions.

Henceforth, the warmth of neighborly camaraderie evaporated, dissipating like ethereal mist. Suspicion coursed through the veins of neighbors, rendering them wary of one another. No longer did doors remain ajar when visitors arrived. This phenomenon, this apprehension towards one’s neighbors, spread like a malignant affliction, its dominion extending far and wide. Sociologists, seeking to comprehend this collective anxiety, christened it the ‘Jude Syndrome’.

Newspaper presses labored ceaselessly, birthing sensational articles with unyielding fervor, as the industry witnessed an unprecedented surge. Amidst their revelry and clamorous delight, the burden upon the Crime Investigation Bureau deepened, as public intrigue swelled to a crescendo.

“This proved to be the inaugural trial for the recently established Bureau—an opportunity to showcase their mettle, their unwavering resolve to combat heinous transgressions.”

Though the London police force boasted a mere seventy years of existence, the Crime Investigation Bureau’s own history was unusually brief, having undergone a comprehensive reorganization a mere three years prior, in 1878, under the ambitious direction of its former head, who meticulously handpicked two hundred detectives. This case, occurring at such a juncture, offered a momentous occasion for the Bureau, which, thus far, lacked commendable achievements. Should they navigate these treacherous waters adroitly, they stood to earn the trust and confidence of London’s citizenry.

However, this case deviated from the norm, defying conventional reasoning. The lines between victim and perpetrator appeared starkly delineated, yet an enigma shrouded their fates. No one stood to be held accountable, no avenue presented itself for justice to be meted out. Nevertheless, the public clamored for some semblance of resolution, yearning for a modicum of closure amidst the chaos that ensued.

The Bureau conducted their investigation in a haze of uncertainty. Thirty seasoned detectives were deployed, their efforts supplemented by six vigilant military canines and two steadfast equine companions, all poised for constant mobilization to ensure on-site security. Yet, despite their unwavering dedication, a significant portion of these detectives found themselves adrift, their purpose obfuscated amidst the swirling maelstrom of enigma.

As the fervor of public expectation waned, the Bureau, driven to desperation, sought to enlist civilian aid in their unraveling of the enigma. Each newspaper bore an extensive account of the case, accompanied by a fervent plea for any minuscule clue to be reported.

“It was then that your missive found its way to the Bureau.”

“The public possesses an affinity for grand theatrics, finding it far easier to believe that a singular prodigious mind unraveled the case through a mere letter, rather than attributing success to the collective efforts of numerous detectives. In truth, I penned but two sentences.”

The year 1881 marked a momentous juncture in my life. My left leg, once an indomitable limb, was irrevocably lost, and with it, my cherished tenure in the military, a life I had envisioned serving until my twilight years. Bereft of purpose, akin to an aged man bereft of vigor, I whiled away the hours in a rented abode, masquerading my aimless existence as a futile search for new employment.

Naturally, I became acquainted with the case at hand. With idle hours to spare, I dispatched a letter to the Bureau, dismissing it as naught but a fan’s indulgence in concocting deductions akin to those found within the pages of a detective novel. Soon after, I dismissed it from my thoughts entirely.

Some outlandish claim arose, purporting that I had divined the intricate course of the case, even uncovering the malefactor’s identity from the confines of my humble abode. Yet, this assertion was a fallacy—a distortion of truth. I had, in a casual and inattentive manner, committed but two sentences to paper, unwittingly providing the spark that reignited the case’s dwindling flame, bridging the vast chasm that lay betwixt the sensibilities of the 21st and the 19th centuries.

Indeed, the 19th century bore witness to a period characterized by the remarkable expansion of scientific understanding. The chasm separating the erudite few from the general public was vast and profound. Science, to many, resembled a mystical craft, a clandestine art known only to a select few artisans.

Furthermore, the concept of forensic investigation had yet to be firmly established, resulting in infrequent collaboration between detectives and experts in the field. This stark contrast played out against a backdrop where detectives, well-versed in a myriad of miscellaneous disciplines, often found themselves at odds with the authorities.

Nevertheless, the sentence I had dispatched—a mere trifle I deemed to be common knowledge—pierced the very heart of the case, providing a clue of immense significance. Two months hence, an article was published, heralding the apprehension of the true malefactor behind the enigma.

At that precise juncture, I found myself adrift above the vast expanse of the Atlantic, ensconced as a researcher aboard the illustrious HMS Glory. Secluded upon the vessel, I possessed no means to refute the deluge of fallacious reports disseminated by the voracious journalists of the era.

These scribblers drained every drop of intrigue from the incident, weaving fantastical narratives around my persona—an ordinary civilian who had stumbled into collaboration. The resulting tales were not of the strange and otherworldly, but mundane fabrications. Alas, this unforeseen turn of events saddled me with an unwanted reputation for involvement in perplexing and enigmatic occurrences.

In the depths of London’s enigmatic labyrinth, whenever an aberrant occurrence unfurled its sinister tendrils, I found myself ensnared in its web. Each mention of my name in connection to these disquieting affairs only served to further entrench my infamous reputation, a relentless cycle reminiscent of the inescapable Jacob’s Island trial of yore.

“But you have successfully resolved numerous cases since then.”

“Yes, that is the refrain I often hear when encountered in public. They speak of haunted abodes, children possessed by demons. I offer mundane advice—fix the creaking floorboards, engage in heartfelt conversations with their progeny. If that passes for a resolution,” I retorted, my words laden with sardonic bitterness.

Already a target of scorn in the eyes of the press, I harbored no enthusiasm for entanglement in these peculiar affairs. With each foray into the realm of the inexplicable, they gleefully concocted nicknames that failed to elicit even the slightest twitch of amusement.

“But it is the first time I have been summoned to apprehend a werewolf.”

“And it is likewise the first occasion we have made such a request.”

Wilson emitted a bitter chuckle, his mirth tinged with desolation.

“So, how much farther must we tread? Allow me to remind you that traversing great distances does not align with my physical prowess,” I jestingly remarked.

“We are nearly there. Merely a passage through that alley awaits us,” Wilson reassured.

Amidst our conversation, we had already veered away from the main thoroughfare, venturing deep into the recesses of a dimly lit alley, its obscurity an invitation to trepidation.

“The newspapers assert that the werewolf materializes with every passing night.”

“A sip of whiskey renders the detection of a werewolf a trivial matter. Bearded men abound, after all.”

Wilson cast a quick glance on me.

“What?” I queried, his gaze momentarily fixated upon me.

“No, it is nothing. Merely observing that you appear somewhat sullen today.”

I averted my impending remark, striving to maintain the facade of an ordinary, unremarkable middle-aged man. However, lamenting the loss of a timepiece hardly seemed characteristic of my usual temperament.

“Pray, continue,” I encouraged Wilson.

“According to the constabulary, the werewolf has manifested on three occasions,” he divulged.

My eyebrows arched in surprise. “That is quite frequent,” I commented.

“And there are an additional five incidents that bear the hallmarks of the werewolf,” he continued.

My comprehension faltered. “What do you mean by ‘bear the hallmarks’?” I queried, seeking illumination.

“As you are aware, we find ourselves simultaneously investigating two cases—those of the werewolf and Spring-heeled Jack. Those five occurrences may pertain to the latter,” Wilson clarified.

Though I comprehended the words that had been spoken, their deeper significance eluded me, as if they were the riddles of a malicious mathematician, purposefully confounding the senses.

“Pray, where is our destination now? For it does not appear to lead us towards the city hall,” I inquired, a veil of uncertainty tinging my words.

“Indeed, there is something I wish for you to witness,” Wilson replied, his voice laced with an air of solemnity. With those words, he turned into an alley, the twisting backstreets of London unveiling their labyrinthine nature, where new paths materialized, regardless of the direction one chose to tread. A peculiar odor permeated the air, pervading every nook and cranny. Not wholly unpleasant, yet bearing an essence that stirred within me a sense of repulsion. To describe it precisely would prove a daunting task.

“The werewolf last made its appearance two nights hence. We are now heading to witness the aftermath of that fateful night,” Wilson disclosed.

“Ah, excellent. I am eager to hear what the purported victim has to impart,” I responded, my curiosity piqued. In a city teeming with youthful imitators, driven to perform outlandish acts merely for a taste of notoriety, I yearned to discern the true nature of those who sought the limelight.

“That may prove to be quite challenging,” Wilson confessed, his countenance beset by a complex amalgamation of emotions. Together, we turned into the final secluded alley, veiled from prying eyes.

Then, a swarm of flies assailed my face, disrupting the tranquil air.

Before me lay a decaying corpse—a macabre tableau brought to life. Maggots writhed upon dimmed pupils, and the desiccated tongue hung limply, akin to a piece of withered timber. The abdomen, torn asunder, cast the entrails in a grotesque dance across every corner of the narrow passageway. It was a work of art that defied the whims of chance, a grotesque masterpiece.

“The victim of that night was a police horse,” Wilson solemnly declared.

Peering down the alleyway, a shiver coursed through my being. The scene before me evoked the notion of modern art—a haunting reflection of the world’s first abstract painting, rendered with the innards of a horse.