Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 13

§13. The Scarlet Letter

I traversed upon a colossal digestive tract, a grotesque path to behold. It was none other than the desiccated and contorted innards of a horse that had succumbed to death’s embrace a mere two days prior.

Everywhere I gazed, my vision was assailed by the presence of fly eggs and wriggling maggots. Unintentionally, I trod upon them, sensing a disgustingly vivid squishiness beneath the sole of my shoe. Medieval painters, in their quest to frighten the masses, endeavored to depict the horrors of hell. Little did they know, a mere glimpse at the putrid intestines of a horse, two days lifeless, would suffice to evoke unparalleled terror.

“Had I but foreseen this fate, I would have adorned my feet with sturdy boots.”

“The original directive stipulated immediate cleanup.”

I grumbled, while Wilson, as if speaking on behalf of the authorities, offered a feeble justification.

“However, we were instructed by the director to preserve the scene until today. He claimed that the visual impact cannot be truly comprehended merely by perusing the photographs.”

“Did this directive not arrive prior to the solicitation of my investigative assistance two days hence?” I inquired, met with silence from Wilson. I cast a momentary glare in his direction, but swiftly realized the futility of venting my anger and resigned myself. Indeed, he was correct. Seeing with one’s own eyes differed vastly from observing through the lens of a photograph. Without having witnessed this tangle of entrails firsthand, I would have never surmised the gruesome smears besmirching the walls.

Drawing nearer to the horse’s cadaver, I brandished my cane in a futile attempt to disperse the swarm of flies encircling it.

“What portion is this? Has it been tampered with?” I questioned, prompting Wilson to clamber atop the intestines to ascertain which area I referred to. A sudden pallor overtook his countenance, and he convulsed in revulsion. It was then that I realized the extent of my unnaturally composed disposition amidst this abhorrent miasma.

Had I allowed my life to descend into squalor, or was Marie perhaps correct in her assertions?

“Ah, that… is where the constable was found prone,” Wilson stammered, pointing towards a space concealed behind the horse’s frigid saddle. Amidst the smeared filth, a patch remained untainted. Horizontally, it spanned a breadth of two feet, while vertically, it provided ample room for a grown man to crouch within, measuring four to five feet.

“Elaborate further,” I implored, and Wilson, his visage betraying a nod, proceeded to comply.

The occurrence transpired in the early hours, around one or two o’clock, a mere two days prior. Ordinarily, equestrian pursuits were not conducted during the nocturnal hours. However, the investigative agency, acknowledging the necessity to apprehend the werewolf and Spring-heeled Jack, conceded to the employment of horses. It was under these circumstances that the mounted police officer commenced his night patrol, when an enigmatic entity crossed his path.

Unmistakably a creature, regardless of its precise classification, its presence was palpable even without visual confirmation. The officer discerned the telltale signs of a bestial nature—the low, guttural respiration and the slicing sound that accompanied its movements through the air. At long last, the patrolling officer found himself face to face with a being that seemed to defy the very fabric of our reality.

It was a werewolf!

Thick bristly hair concealed its countenance, while its body, in stark contrast, retained a semblance of humanity, clothed in garments befitting a civilized being. The officer promptly pursued the creature, but it appeared to comprehend its predicament and cunningly took refuge within a dimly lit alley.

With a swift, quadrupedal gait, it outpaced the horse, rendering pursuit futile. For a brief moment, the officer lost sight of the elusive quarry. Then, a shriek, neither human nor beast, resonated in close proximity. The horse collapsed, and the officer, his skull striking the ground, succumbed to unconsciousness.

The following morning, the officer was discovered, bereft of any trace of the mysterious creature.

“May I have an audience with the officer who encountered the werewolf?” I inquired immediately upon Wilson’s conclusion of the narrative. Numerous elements within the tale aroused suspicion. However, Wilson’s countenance bore a regretful expression as he shook his head.

“He is convalescing from a fractured leg.”

“Has his tongue been rendered inarticulate as well?” I pressed, to which Wilson hesitated momentarily before confessing the truth.

“Indeed, it was the case. The officer had steadfastly declined all interviews subsequent to the encounter with the werewolf. Moreover…”

Wilson cast a cautious glance around our surroundings, and I surmised the imminent revelation. When the officer regained consciousness, he had suffered the agonizing loss of a trusted comrade, snuffed out in a most savage manner.

“He is in a state of fragility. On the battlefield, the loss of a comrade is but a fleeting moment.”

I directed my censure towards the unidentified officer, who was not present to bear witness to my reproach.

“Do you comprehend the nature of a beast’s actions following a hunt?”

“I… I cannot say for certain,” Wilson replied, once again taken aback by my abrupt query, shaking his head.

“They consume. Beasts hunt for sustenance, not for mere exhibition.”

Casting a discerning gaze upon the alley, I contemplated the circumstances at hand.

“How long do you reckon this endeavor would have required? One hour? Perhaps two? Do you truly believe that a creature driven by the scent of blood and presented with fresh prey would possess such unwavering focus?”

I stooped down slightly, my gaze fixated upon the lifeless equine before me. Rotted flesh had succumbed to the ravages of decay, dissolving into a gelatinous mass. Yet, amidst the putrescent spectacle, I discerned significant clues. A finger-sized orifice had been forcefully drilled into the depths of the horse’s dilated pupil.

“As it struck, it aimed directly for the eye, with a thumb-like appendage. It possesses the knowledge of subduing a horse. Could it be a veteran of some military order?”

Turning my attention to the spilled entrails, I prodded the grotesque sight with my trusty cane. Contrary to the repugnant spectacle of fanned innards, there was a striking absence of blood upon the fur surrounding the belly.

Instead, my cane exposed a minuscule wound near the horse’s neck, scraping away the entrails that concealed it. As expected, a vivid and expansive bloodstain emerged beneath the veil of viscera.

“This perpetrator possessed remarkable skill. They severed the blood vessels in the neck with a single precise stroke. Judging by the quantity of blood spilled, it is evident that the horse endured a protracted demise. It was not a matter of the innards being expelled and causing death, but rather, death preceding the extraction of the entrails.”

I visualized the agonizing scene, the horse convulsing in agony upon the ground, blood cascading from its violated neck. The assailant watched from a distance, patiently awaiting the equine’s demise before proceeding to dissect its lifeless form. This macabre reality far exceeded the fantastical notions of a werewolf.

Doubts that had plagued me since the commencement of this investigation began to dissipate, replaced by a lucidity of understanding. The culprit possessed an acute sense of spatial awareness and a profound knowledge of London’s intricate geography. They lured the horse into a narrow thoroughfare, impeding its flight, thereby instilling within the officer the belief that the assailant surpassed the horse in swiftness. Moreover, such an individual would effortlessly elude pursuit in the labyrinthine alleys riddled with branching side streets.

A rough sketch of the culprit started to coalesce within the recesses of my mind. Everything fell into place.

The quadrupedal movements, the shaggy fur—mere byproducts of hallucinations conjured by the nocturnal haze. Or perchance, the officer’s recollections had become muddled and embellished within his testimony.

“Yet, one question remains: Why?”

The ultimate answer eluded me. As each knot unraveled, one last tether remained stubbornly entwined, akin to the Gordian Knot.

“Why?”

For what purpose would an individual undertake such an elaborate endeavor?

In that moment, a vision of a heretical ritual, conducted by some clandestine sect, seized my consciousness. At dawn’s first light, they chanted malevolent incantations, offering the horse’s entrails as tribute to the demon they worshipped, desecrating the noble soul of the officer.

“But why?”

Even this explanation failed to fully illuminate the enigma. Why would they assail the police? Suddenly, an obsessive compulsion to ascertain the hour seized me. Alas, I lacked a timepiece.

No matter how grotesque and revolting my imaginings, they fell short of comprehending this grim reality.

“Why?”

I wielded my cane, swiftly swatting at the wriggling horde of maggots. Had some abominable entity been awakened from its slumber within the depths of London? Could this demonic force be poised to claim the entire citizenry of this sprawling metropolis as its hapless prey? Blast it all! My thoughts grew muddled, consumed by the absence of that infernal timepiece.

“Sir,” Wilson’s voice interjected, jolting me back to reality. It appeared I had become rather unsettled, all due to the loss of that wretched watch.

“My apologies, but I believe I must retreat and seek respite… and embark upon a search for my watch within the confines of my abode.”

“Before you depart, there is something I must impart to you,” Wilson interjected.

I accepted the envelope proffered by Wilson’s outstretched hand.

“The doctor requested that I deliver it to you. He expressed a desire to invite you to a dinner engagement.”

“A doctor?” I murmured, my gaze fixated upon the sender’s name inscribed upon the envelope.

[Dr. Henry Jekyll]

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

On that fateful evening, I found myself standing before an establishment nestled in the heart of London—the prestigious Le Horton restaurant.

The coachman who had ferried me to this esteemed location displayed an unexpected level of deference upon learning of my intended destination. Filled with a sense of contentment, I bestowed upon him a generous gratuity as an expression of my appreciation.

“Le Horton.”

Once overlooked by the British elite, this refined eatery, situated within the vicinity of the illustrious London Guildhall, had experienced a remarkable reversal in fortune a mere half-century prior. In bygone days, the social elite gravitated toward the “River line,” a collection of six renowned establishments boasting picturesque vistas along the Thames River.

However, with the advent of industrialization, the power dynamic shifted entirely. The Thames River, once a scenic marvel, had transformed into a loathsome entity capable only of quashing one’s appetite. Consequently, the River line succumbed to closure or relocation, leaving Le Horton to ascend unrivaled as London’s premier dining venue.

Alas, within these hallowed halls, where the finest French cuisine in all of Britain was on offer, it was not solely the culinary delights that garnered attention. Most patrons entrusted their entire gastronomic experience to the chef’s discerning palate, rendering those who dared peruse the menu as mere individuals seeking to showcase their command of the French language.

The most sought-after delicacies within the confines of Le Horton were the people themselves. High-ranking nobles, steadfast in their loyalty to the royal family, industrial magnates who presided over London’s factories, and those who aspired to forge connections with such illustrious figures, swarmed like flies entangled in a succulent feast.

Once, I too had frequented this establishment, seeking to establish alliances with London’s eminent personalities. However, it had been four long years since my ignoble expulsion from high society, and this visit marked my first return to Le Horton.

───Thump. Thump.

Oh, how resonant the clamor of a wooden leg and a cane can be in moments such as these! I felt the weight of gazes, seeking to pierce through me, and I made every effort to avoid their probing eyes.

Most glances cast my way carried an air of indifference. No one wished to cultivate the friendship of a London eccentric whose sole claim to notoriety lay in sporadic appearances within the pages of newspapers. Yet, among the myriad gazes, a few stood out, brimming with ill intent.

Amidst this sea of hostility, I managed to discern a gaze that bore a glimmer of reluctant camaraderie.

A suave gentleman, his eyes possessing a predatory gleam, locked onto me with an intensity that bordered on surveillance. Rarely did he blink, and when he did, his eyelids remained shut for a duration exceeding the ordinary. I found myself under the unrelenting scrutiny of those eyes, yet, truth be told, the experience was not entirely disagreeable.

“Dr. Jekyll?”

“I have eagerly anticipated our meeting.”

Jekyll, in his initial impression, emanated an aura of remarkable refinement.

Though outwardly appearing to be of similar age to myself, I detected no hint of impetuousness within him. His meticulous adherence to self-imposed regulations was evident, every fingernail grown to a uniform length, not a single strand of hair straying from his meticulously groomed beard.

Jekyll possessed an exceptionally broad forehead, the type only those who had never succumbed to fits of rage could possess. His posture exhibited unwavering rectitude, revealing the resolute discipline he had maintained over the years, with his shoulders aligned directly above his upright waist.

Contrary to his benign countenance, his eyes harbored a sharpness that evoked images of an impenetrable vault. It was an indomitable vault known to contain profound secrets, enticing yet forbidden to all who dared approach.

In the moment our gazes converged, a jolt coursed down my spine, as though I had transformed into a conductor for lightning. He was unmistakably Dr. Jekyll!

Trepidation coursed through me as our hands clasped in a firm handshake.

Until the very moment I arrived at this rendezvous, I had entertained the notion that it might be an elaborate jest. Then I considered the possibility of a mere coincidence in namesake. It was only at the last fleeting moment that the realization struck—I had never before encountered the novel “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” in all my years!

“I am astounded, for I was unaware of your actual existence.”

I ventured forth cautiously, seeking a response along the lines of, [Ah, I frequently encounter such sentiments. The novel’s renown often overshadows my own, which proves to be quite the predicament.] However, Jekyll withheld the answers I longed to hear. Instead, he arched his left eyebrow at an approximate angle of fifteen degrees before replying,

“What do you mean?”

“It is of no consequence.”

I lowered my cane and assumed a seated position.

“I must admit, I found it astonishing to learn that your lordship would be partaking in this investigation. Are you not among the foremost experts in this field within London?”

“To claim such a title would be difficult, even as a mere formality. And what of yourself, Doctor?”

Jekyll nodded affirmatively.

“I strive to accept requests for collaborative investigations whenever possible.”

“That is truly commendable.”

“You flatter me.”

Despite his seemingly unassuming words, Jekyll was poised to receive admiration. The amalgamation of humility and confidence within his dual persona lent him a captivating allure. Were he not the very Dr. Jekyll, I might have found myself instantaneously enamored by his presence.

“So, upon hearing of your recent ordeal, I opted for a single course, assuming your appetite may be diminished. Does that suit you?”

I expressed gratitude for his considerate gesture. Truth be told, after bearing witness to the repugnant alleyway, any desire for sustenance had been thoroughly extinguished. Throughout my journey to this establishment, I pondered various polite excuses to decline the meal.

Soon, a waiter approached, placing a plate before each of us. Upon the plate lay four thin slices of an unfamiliar meat.

“What do you perceive this meat to be?” Jekyll inquired, as if posing a riddle. I surmised that he had made a particular request, and so I took up my fork and knife. Though my appetite had waned, I deemed it necessary to consume at least a morsel or two, if only for the sake of propriety.

Jekyll deftly cut a small piece of meat, bringing it to his lips with such subtlety that it seemed to vanish seamlessly, leaving no trace of an open mouth. He chewed the meat with minimal jaw movement and nodded approvingly.

Following suit, I cut into my own piece of meat. Although roughly twice the size of Jekyll’s, the comparison was minuscule at best. I abstained from partaking and gently rested my utensils upon the plate.

“It is horse meat.”

“Have you ever partaken of it before?”

“I have ridden and touched horses on numerous occasions. However, I have never consumed their flesh.”

My heart trembled with a profound shock. Unlike many of my fellow countrymen, I held no inherent aversion to the consumption of horse meat. Nevertheless, he had specifically ordered it, knowing full well what I had witnessed. I struggled to fathom his intentions.

“In my view, the British should embrace the consumption of horse meat,” Jekyll calmly pronounced, methodically cutting his portion into smaller fragments. Each morsel seemed to dissolve upon reaching his lips, evaporating in a manner that defied perception. If I did not concentrate intently, I could easily forget that he was even engaged in the act of chewing and swallowing.

“Have not the laws against blood consumption been abolished? Horse traders will be compelled to dispose of their steeds, and the price of horse meat shall plummet. Much like our shift to consuming beef during the spread of the plague, the British populace shall turn to horse as a substitute for pork. Society naturally evolves in such a manner.”

I relinquished my utensils and cleansed my mouth with water, seeking to alleviate the unsettling unease that had taken hold. The enigmatic charm that initially captivated me had transformed into an unpredictable anxiety, casting a shadow upon our interaction.

“I shall abstain from further indulgence,” I declared firmly.

“That is regrettable. Establishments offering such fare are scarce in England.”

Jekyll followed suit, setting aside his own implements and pushing his plate away.

“The reason for my invitation today, Baron, was to issue a warning,” Jekyll began, retrieving two photographs from his pocket and placing them upon the table.

Each photograph depicted a distinct woman, yet they shared a multitude of similarities. Both were young in age, their modest attire indicative of their meager means. However, the most striking resemblance lay in their gruesome fate—lifeless corpses with their innards laid bare, bearing the telltale marks of being ravaged by some ravenous beast.

“Dreadful.”

“On the previous two occasions when reports of a werewolf circulated throughout London, there has been a common thread. As you are aware, no large creatures capable of attacking humans have roamed the British Isles since the reign of Henry VI. Hence, the moniker ‘werewolf’ was bestowed upon the entity.”

He spoke while flipping through the photographs.

“Yet, the bite marks upon these victims are unmistakably human in nature. Does a certain incident come to mind?”

“……”

“Something akin to this occurred sixteen years ago. Although, to be precise, there was no consumption involved at that time.”

Jekyll carefully returned the photographs to his pocket.

“The culprit was apprehended, and the case ostensibly concluded. However, not all matters were resolved. Martin Patrick had a wife, Helen, and a daughter, Sherry. Unable to endure the discrimination rampant within London, they retreated to their ancestral homeland in Wales. Regrettably, no respite awaited them there, and Helen chose to embrace the release of death through suicide. Sherry was consigned to a local orphanage. Were you aware?”

I shook my head, negating any knowledge of this tragic tale.

“Young Sherry, left bereft, became the target of relentless bullying even within the confines of the orphanage. In desperation, the girl fled from its oppressive walls and sought solace within the embrace of the nearby Silgwyn Forest—a place whispered to be frequented by wolves. Though likely naught more than a local superstition, the rumors held considerable sway over the townsfolk. None ventured into the cursed woods to rescue the tormented child. Thus concludes the saga of the Patrick family.”

Jekyll fell silent, as if the narrative had truly reached its conclusion, and he raised his water cup to his lips. If he intended to engage in a contest of patience, I was willing to acquiesce.

“Pardon me, but did I overlook something in the account you just shared? If not, it appears there is a crucial aspect that you have omitted, Doctor.”

Jekyll shamelessly nodded in agreement.

“Indeed, something was omitted. Many failed to grasp this particular detail. Fifteen years later, when a woman emerged, unclothed, from the depths of the forest, none could have fathomed that she might be none other than the surviving Sherry. Instead, the focus rested upon another facet of her existence—her behavior, more akin to that of a feral beast than a human. Rumors proliferated, claiming she had been reared by wolves, akin to the tale of Romulus and Remus, and eventually joined a traveling circus troupe.”

Jekyll’s dispassionate recitation of facts had wearied those who listened intently. I had no choice but to interject, interrupting the conversation to seek further clarification.

“Are you implying that this woman was Sherry Patrick?”

“I do not possess certitude. What remains unequivocal is that her whereabouts have remained shrouded in mystery ever since. Some posit that she perished under the circus troupe’s mistreatment, while others contend she could no longer endure the confines of the city and retreated to the forest.”

Jekyll produced a different photograph.

“This picture fortuitously came into my possession recently. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, adorned with raven-black hair reminiscent of Martin and Helen.”

Within the photograph, against the distant backdrop of Big Ben, the faint silhouette of a woman emerged. Her arms seemed affixed to the ground like the limbs of a quadruped, causing her unkempt tresses to cascade over her body, resembling a wild mane.

“So you are suggesting that she seeks retribution for the events of sixteen years ago?”

“How can I possibly discern the machinations of a deranged mind?”

Jekyll responded nonchalantly, retrieving his utensils.

“However, if she has indeed acquired the means to transform others into beasts, might she not harbor a desire for vengeance against London, the city that robbed her of her parents? Sixteen years ago, sir, you were a conspicuous figure. This serves as a warning in that regard.”

Thunk, thunk.

I remained seated, a statue in my own stupor, fixated on Jekyll’s mechanical consumption of his meat.

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

Upon returning home, not a single soul traversed the streets. Inserting the key into the lock, I gained entry to my abode. The hour was already late, and Marie had undoubtedly departed, leaving the interior devoid of human presence. Methodically, I inspected the front door, assuring its security, before meticulously surveying each window, ensuring they were firmly shut and their curtains drawn.

Only once I had confirmed the perfection of my fortress did I retreat to my room.

Switching on the room’s solitary light, I removed my coat and hat, casually draping them upon the waiting rack. It was a lamentable habit, one that eluded easy correction. Collapsing onto the bed, I sought refuge from my weariness.

Despite this outing marking my first venture in quite some time, fatigue overwhelmed me, threatening to plunge me into an abyss of unconsciousness. Succumbing to the allure of respite, I settled upon the bed, intending to indulge in a momentary reprieve.

.

.

Thump.

Awakening from my slumber, a cacophony emanated from the window—a disturbance in the darkness. I trained my gaze upon the aperture. A draft crept in, infiltrating the room. Had I unintentionally left the window ajar during my rest?

Impossible. In our Thames River-adjacent abode, even a partially opened window would usher forth a putrid stench, rendering its transgression unmistakable. The noise I had just heard—no doubt, it was the sound of a window being pried open.

I sprung from the bed with haste. If a thief or intruder had endeavored to breach the sanctity of my dwelling, they should have completed their sinister task by now. Yet, an unnerving stillness blanketed the exterior. I flicked on the light.

Ping…

The filament warmed, its trembling surface accompanying the sound of electricity coursing through the bulb. Amidst this profound silence, even the minutest of electrical currents could be discerned.

No alteration had befallen the room.

No, that was not entirely accurate. The sole transformation lay within me. The suit I had confidently worn prior to succumbing to sleep had been undressed from my form. Gazing upon my reflection in the mirror, I observed crimson markings upon my arm, raising it toward my visage.

“Ugh….”

In that instant, my arm was consumed by searing heat, and an involuntary moan escaped my lips.

Carved into my arm were crimson characters.

[STOP INVESTIGATING]

As I read the words, the letters quivered and shifted, mirroring the contours of my arm before descending, one by one, to the floor.

Ah, yes, they were not mere letters.

Realization dawned upon me at last. This was a wound—a testament to the blade that had etched these inscriptions into my flesh while I slumbered.

TRIVIA:

1. Jekyll is a fictional character created by Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson in his 1886 novella “Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.” The story revolves around Dr. Henry Jekyll, a respected London physician who develops a potion that transforms him into the evil and monstrous Mr. Edward Hyde.

Dr. Jekyll is initially driven by a desire to separate the good and evil aspects of his personality, believing that by isolating the evil in himself, he can live a virtuous life as Jekyll while indulging his darker side as Hyde. However, as the story progresses, Jekyll realizes that he is losing control over Hyde and becomes trapped in his own experiment. The duality between Jekyll and Hyde explores the themes of human nature, morality, and the consequences of suppressing one’s dark impulses.

The character of Dr. Jekyll has become an enduring symbol in literature and popular culture, representing the conflict between good and evil within a person. The phrase “Jekyll and Hyde” is often used to describe someone who displays contrasting personalities or behavior.

2. Romulus and Remus are legendary figures from ancient Roman mythology. According to the myth, they were twin brothers and the founders of the city of Rome. The story of Romulus and Remus is deeply ingrained in Roman history and folklore.

As the legend goes, Romulus and Remus were the sons of the god Mars (or alternatively, the demigod hero Hercules) and the Vestal Virgin Rhea Silvia. The wicked king Amulius, fearing the potential threat to his throne, ordered the twins to be abandoned in the Tiber River. They were placed in a basket and left to the mercy of the river.

Miraculously, the twins survived and were found by a she-wolf (lupa) who nurtured and raised them in her den on Palatine Hill. Eventually, they were discovered by a shepherd named Faustulus, who took them in and raised them as his own.

As Romulus and Remus grew older, they became natural leaders and gathered a band of followers. In their quest to establish a city, they chose the area where they had been saved by the she-wolf as the site for their settlement. However, a dispute arose between the brothers over which hill, Palatine or Aventine, would become the center of the new city.

The conflict escalated, and in a tragic turn of events, Romulus killed Remus. Romulus then proceeded to found the city on Palatine Hill and named it Rome, after himself. He became its first king and established the laws and institutions that would shape the Roman civilization.