Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 14

§14. Disease that turns people into beasts

The subsequent day found me entangled in contemplation. As the evening twilight gave way to the expected time of Marie’s return, I finally gathered the courage to breach the subject.

“You need not attend here for some time.”

Marie stilled her movements.

“Pray, repeat your words. I failed to discern them.”

“I shall ensure you have an independent allowance, hence for a while… for a lunar cycle or two… Nay, take a more substantial hiatus.”

In truth, I had never ventured into such a conversation with another soul. Never had I strived to convey my thoughts without inflicting emotional wounds. I was at a loss as to how to articulate my intent without sparking confusion.

Thus, I uttered the words as if they bore no particular weight. As if I was merely granting a day or two of respite.

“What implications does this hold?”

But this dialogue was far too significant to be treated lightly. Naturally.

“You harbor suspicions towards me, do you not?”

“Kindly allow me to elucidate.”

I held aloft a placating hand, yet the tremors in our trust only hastened its downfall.

“You surmise that I purloined the watch.”

“That was not my intent.”

Since the transgressions of the previous night, I had come to recognize my negligent obliviousness to my surroundings. I, who had already stepped beyond the realm of the mundane into shadowy unknowns, was not a creature of daylight, and anyone within my sphere of influence could befall a hideous fate simply by proximity.

So it was with Count Essex, with Richmond, and indeed, with Marie Curie… She was not exempt.

I sensed the urgency to safeguard my personal wellbeing. The visages of the women captured in the photographs I had seen the day prior overlapped with Marie’s every motion. I envisaged Marie’s torn abdomen and the grotesque display of viscera spilling forth. The vision persisted, even in this very moment!

“Firstly, grant me your ear.”

And then, words abandoned me.

“I have no reason to meddle with your belongings! I find my current remuneration entirely satisfactory!”

“That was not my intent.”

I was at a loss for how to clarify my stance. Should I reveal that I am under the threat of murder? That I had awakened to find my arm severed? I was uncertain if such revelations were feasible.

The gravity of the situation didn’t fully register until I attempted to verbalize it. In a lunar cycle or two at most, the malefactor would surely be apprehended, order would be restored, and I could invite her return. But who would willingly serve in a household where nocturnal intrusions by a murderer were a threat?

Marie offered her protestations, yet I found myself bereft of any suitable retort. Her words reached my ears as but an echo, a faint reverberation from some far-off place. A throbbing menace pulsed within my skull. The accursed timepiece, the watch! What occult significance could such an artifact possess!

“Silence your prattle!”

The sound of my own voice startled me, its momentum unabated.

“My head feels as if it is on the brink of rupture…! Begone! Immediately!”

Upon witnessing the horror etched on Marie’s visage, I shielded my countenance with trembling hands and bowed my head in profound contrition.

“…I am in your debt for all you have done.”

Her retreating footfalls echoed in the silence, punctuated by the rustle of her gathering her belongings. Throughout it all, I remained in my bowed position. Moments later, the door swung open and then shut with an air of finality. The cacophony of the London night filtered in through the thin window, yet I was enveloped in a void of absolute silence.

Ah, the bitter taste of regret.

To rue the events of mere minutes past seemed a foolish endeavor for one of my advanced years. I should have chosen my words with greater discretion. A sober conversation from the onset would have been the prudent course of action.

Thoughts that had failed to emerge until now began to rise slowly from the depths of my mind. It mattered little. It was, after all, an inevitable conclusion. So long as I remained a denizen of this shadowed realm, the necessity of her departure was unavoidable.

───Knock, Knock.

“Depart this place!”

I raised my head. Grasping my walking stick, I rose with an urgency that nearly saw me stumble, yet I managed to maintain my equilibrium and moved towards the door. I seized the handle.

The figure at the threshold was an unfamiliar officer of the law.

I questioned him in a voice that sounded as deep as the abyss.

“Constable, what strange circumstance prompts your visit at such a late hour?”

“You must accompany us forthwith. The situation has taken a most peculiar turn.”

Only then did I note the pallor of the officer’s countenance and realized that something decidedly uncanny was afoot.

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

The tableau was nothing short of pandemonium.

Whitechapel, the arterial thoroughfare leading to London’s largest den of destitution, was barricaded. Scores of constables stood in a formidable line, effectively sealing off the street, while two mounted officers maintained a strategic distance, vigilant for potential fugitives.

Certain ill-favored denizens dared to approach the police with their grievances, yet they too hastily retreated as if fleeing from the forceful blow of a truncheon. Like the rest seeking refuge in alleyways and buildings, they lingered at a safe distance, anticipating the lifting of the blockade.

A man lay prone on the cobblestones, his form steeped in gore, yet none offered him attention or approached. His attire was dichotomous, a gentleman’s suit adorning his upper half, while his lower half was indecorously exposed, lacking even the modesty of undergarments.

The grisly spectacle was overwhelming. Despite my location in the heart of London, I felt akin to a soldier summoned to the epicenter of a battlefield.

“Ah, sir, your arrival is timely.”

A familiar countenance emerged from the chaos, offering a modicum of relief.

“What infernal circumstance has given rise to this disorder?”

“Dr. Jekyll’s prediction rang true. Sherry Patrick has made her presence known on these streets.”

The image of the woman whose photograph I had scrutinized the previous evening flashed in my mind. Wilson’s voice was somber and hushed.

“We arrived too late. She has already exacted her vengeance.”

At that moment, a man burst onto the scene from a distance, falling prostrate. Like the fallen man, his attire was befitting of a gentleman, yet he was grotesquely naked from the waist down. Drool oozed from his gaping mouth, and his breath came in bestial pants.

“Halt him!”

The officers sprang into action, encircling the man, and commenced a brutal assault with their wooden truncheons. Pitiful cries echoed through the night, yet no one intervened. Only when the man ceased his struggles did the officers relent.

“Do you witness this? This is the individual we presumed to be the werewolf. And there are a multitude of such men plaguing the streets. Much like the events of sixteen years past, Sherry Patrick has found a means to transmogrify humans into beasts.”

It was beyond comprehension. The events from a span of 16 years ago were not some convenient incantation capable of inducing madness at will. Yet, as I could not refute the evidence before my eyes, I was driven to exclaim in a state of hysteria.

“Then we must intervene! What is our course of action? Do we intend to simply stand idle?”

“The military reinforcements are expected imminently.”

Wilson’s voice was riddled with uncertainty.

“We have been instructed to ensure no one exits the streets, in order to contain the outbreak… until their arrival…”

I held my tongue momentarily. It was futile to chastise this young detective who had braved Jacob’s Island out of a sense of duty. My regret over neglecting to bring my firearm was palpable.

“Furnish me with a weapon.”

“I cannot! I cannot permit you to proceed!”

I was reminded of our initial meeting. The circumstances were strikingly similar. As it was then, I felt compelled to intervene now. I had a responsibility.

“Understand this, while I may be discharged, I remain a soldier at heart. I pledged my allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen, vowing to safeguard Britain, and I am prepared to fulfill that duty at any moment. As we stand here, innocent Londoners are perishing within, and I refuse to endure the indignity of idleness in a place of safety. I will venture forth, even if I must do so unarmed.”

Wilson’s expression morphed several times as he met my gaze. Ultimately, he procured a rifle and ammunition box from a fellow detective and presented them to me.

“It’s a Martini. Have you handled one before?”

“I have not. It appears today will be a day of firsts.”

The loading procedure differed from my familiar firearm, but it did not seem overly complex.

“I appreciate your respect for my honor.”

I conveyed my gratitude to Wilson and advanced towards the tumultuous street. A constable attempted to hinder me, but at Wilson’s intervention, he stood down. He called after my retreating form.

“Seek out Dr. Jekyll! He’s in pursuit of Sherry Patrick!”

I acknowledged his instructions with a nod, not breaking my stride.

I hadn’t misjudged the foreboding sensation that gripped me at the threshold of the street. Whitechapel had already descended into a battleground.

The denizens who had surmised that the police presence was not intended for their rescue had assembled impromptu militias for self-defense. Every domicile stood steadfastly sealed, crude fortifications erected before them.

Numerous bodies were strewn about, and it was alarmingly simple to distinguish between those who had succumbed to madness and those who had not. The former were unmistakably gentlemen, a stark contrast to the humble dwellings of Whitechapel, while the latter were garbed in tattered attire.

I approached a woman huddled against a wall, her frame wracked with sobs.

“Why do you not seek refuge?”

“Where can I flee to? The police stand guard at the perimeter, and every door within the street is bolted.”

Her voice trembled as she replied. In her hand, she clutched a Woodbine cigarette – the most inexpensive tobacco one could procure in London.

“Do you suppose the tale is true, that werewolves detest the scent of tobacco?”

“I suspect that will offer little protection. Seek out the constabulary and find a man named Wilson. Inform him that Herbert sent you; he will ensure your safety.”

I bid the woman farewell and ventured deeper into the chaos. As I progressed, the anarchy intensified, revealing more structures with breached doors or shattered windows, unlike the entrance of the street where most buildings were fortified.

Bodies littered the street, the majority being women. They were among those who traded their flesh for survival, a lamentably common practice in London.

They toiled as maids or in garment factories during the day, earning a pittance, and by night they sold their bodies for mere pennies in Whitechapel to supplement their meager income. Whitechapel was a notorious confluence of poverty and vice, the largest slum and red-light district on the globe.

Acclimated to the comforts of London life, I had long neglected this grim tableau. The darkness that cloaked London was not solely a product of concealed contrivances in grand estates or the mutants dwelling in the Thames.

This was the profoundest, most ancient darkness that underpinned London.

The calamity of 16 years prior had commenced in a similar fashion.

Harris Jude and Martin Patrick were perceived as exemplary gentlemen by the world at large. They were devoted family men, figures of respect, yet beneath this veneer, they harbored lascivious desires that could not find satisfaction even within the confines of a brothel.

Initially, they were content purchasing the services of inexpensive courtesans in Whitechapel, but their lusts amplified over time, growing insatiable. Having inadvertently discovered each other’s clandestine indulgences, they conspired to perpetrate a crime of staggering depravity. Their idea was unthinkable, yet their financial resources and societal standing enabled its realization.

They procured a subterranean space under a fictitious corporate guise and meticulously refurbished the walls and ceiling to impede any sound leakage. They lured unsuspecting, unemployed women from Whitechapel with the promise of money, ensnared them within this dungeon, and repeatedly enacted unspeakable horrors upon them.

Through threats and manipulation, they ensured the silence of their victims, progressively escalating the severity of their transgressions, resulting in the women losing parts of their bodies, eyes and ears amongst other things. Yet, the men’s sadistic appetites were unquenched, and the women sensed an imminent death.

In the interim, the shared secret solidified the bond between the two men. They introduced their families to each other, inviting them to their homes as a safeguard against potential betrayal.

This unholy camaraderie endured until the day of the incident.

If I were to describe it, it was akin to the world’s inaugural act of bio-terrorism.

Newsprint accounts of the duo’s symptoms brought to mind a stark resemblance to rabies. It wasn’t akin to premeditated acts of cannibalism, but rather the possibility of a coincidental, simultaneous outbreak in both men.

Their reported habit of sucking on their fingers while eating was suspect. Upon inspection, the act appeared more akin to chewing than mere ingestion. Considering the role the mouth plays in moving food down the esophagus, it wasn’t implausible to discover unchewed body parts within their stomachs.

In a missive to the constabulary, I penned two sentences.

‘I suspect the symptoms bear a resemblance to rabies. Perhaps a search for common locales or individuals the pair might have encountered during the incubation period would prove fruitful?’

The year was 1881, a time when bacteria and viruses were mere theoretical conjecture in the minds of a select few intellectuals. The concept of someone intentionally spreading infection to murder others was not easily fathomable.

Based on this information, the police assembled circumstantial evidence and eyewitness accounts concerning the duo, discovering that they had frequented a basement within the same edifice a mere 10 days before the incident.

When they stormed the basement, they were met with a sight of absolute horror: the decomposing body of the true culprit, confined within. She had allowed rabid rats to bite her, becoming a vector herself, and infected the two men.

The lifeless body was immediately seized and incinerated without trial.

A decade had passed since Louis Pasteur’s discovery had quelled the terror of rabies, relegating the nightmare of the cannibalism incident to the annals of history.

No longer did humanity tremble at the prospect of a disease morphing them into beasts. However, human beings, consumed by desire, would readily transform into beasts themselves. The line demarcating humans from beasts was perilously thin.

─────Bang!

A round from a Martini rifle found its mark in the body of a deranged man. Like the others, he was attired as a gentleman but was sans his trousers. I retrieved my cane which I had been using to maintain my balance.

“Quickly, make for the police officer!”

“Thank you… thank you!”

The woman, until recently under assault, fled in the direction from whence I came. I found it difficult to make sense of the situation.

Could it truly be that Sherry Patrick had returned? For revenge?

It was a possibility, yet it failed to elucidate the current state of affairs. Rabies was a virus marked by an extended incubation period, not a disease that morphed individuals into cannibalistic monsters. A synchronized outbreak, akin to the coincidence 16 years prior, was patently impossible.

Werewolf.

The word abruptly sprang to mind. Could werewolves truly exist?

I had approached this case assuming it would be a relatively simple affair. From tall tales designed to frighten children, like werewolves and Springheel Jack, up to the moment I had laid eyes on Dr. Jekyll, suspecting him to be the offender as Hyde.

Yet, I found myself devoid of answers, blindly following the trail of bodies and screams. Like a beast drawn to the scent of blood. The pitiful cries of those unable to fully transition into beast or man grew louder.

Ah, and finally, I had reached the epicenter of chaos!

I was thrust into a nightmare, a grotesque tableau of blood and gore. The familiar scene was interlaced with hellish aspects, instilling a nauseating sense of dread.

London Hospital, a reputable medical institution at the heart of Whitechapel, standing for over 150 years, had been desecrated into a devil’s altar.

The hospital was awash in blood, with bodies heaped in front of it. Patients and doctors, who had been unable to escape in time, were hurled out of windows. A few doctors, making a valiant final attempt to evacuate their charges, were set upon by an unseen entity and dragged back inside.

“Haah… Haah….”

My vision wavered as my mind sought to reject the horrifying spectacle before me. This was no ordinary disease. A malevolent force was orchestrating the terror in the street. As I drew nearer to the hospital, the screams intensified, causing a throbbing pain in my eardrums.

Then, I caught sight of the one I had been pursuing, from a third-floor window.

“Sherry Patrick…!”

A woman with tousled black hair was darting forward, closely pursued by a man. I could only see his back, but I recognized it to be Dr. Jekyll. I made haste towards the hospital’s main entrance.

“Save me….”

“It hurts….”

“Haah… Haah….”

Pleading cries emanated from patients, not yet departed, nestled amidst the mountains of corpses. They squirmed in a manner akin to a grotesque conglomeration of living beings.

“I’m sorry.”

Forcing myself to disregard their hopeless plight, I ventured into the hospital. On the first-floor corridor, not a single living being was to be seen. Blood inundated the floor, spilling over and pooling outside.

Second floor. It was strewn with chunks of flesh. The deranged bore more resemblance to animals than human beings. Werewolf, the word surfaced in my mind once again. Taking care not to alert them to my presence, I relied on sheer perseverance as I stealthily ascended the stairs.

Third floor. In stark contrast to the second, the third floor was engulfed in silence. It felt as though the space had been partitioned by the staircase. Clutching the Martini rifle with both hands, I proceeded with utmost caution.

Ah, then I witnessed the horror within the ward.

In my line of sight was Dr. Jekyll’s back. He was wielding a blood-stained rifle.

“You don’t need to worry anymore.”

Lying before him was a woman, sprawled out. A gruesome cavity in her skull leaked a mixture of blood and brain matter, staining the floor. Jekyll’s voice, delivering the words with eerie tranquility, devoid of any hint of agitation, echoed in the room.

“Sherry Patrick is dead. The case is over.”