Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 15

§15. Street where animals live

CLANG

I gingerly rested my teacup upon its saucer, its surface marred by an enigmatic stain. It was a testament to the hurried and fatigued dishwashing that had overtaken me after standing for far too long.

The flavor of the tea was nothing short of abysmal. The leaves, damp and sodden due to careless storage, imparted a repugnant taste that necessitated an increase in the milk quotient. Yet, in my haste, the ratio miscalculated, transforming the beverage into a nauseating concoction akin to imbibing raw milk rather than the soothing elixir of tea.

───Bang bang!

Indeed, that was the sound.

The nightmare of that fateful day concluded thusly. A procession of tardy soldiers strode along the street, discharging their weapons at anything within their sights. Wherever their path led, only the thick stench of gunpowder lingered, obliterating even the scent of blood.

The Whitechapel streets teemed with bodies, consigned to the flames of cremation. Humans and beasts alike writhed in the inferno, their destinies intermingled as they transformed into blackened ash within the crematorium’s embrace.

Beasts, instinctively repelled by light and sound, were powerless before the onslaught of gunpowder.

On that day, I bore witness to it. Beings once human, now reduced to bestial forms, skulked within the shadows of the streets, seeking refuge from the soldiers’ wrath. They surely still slumbered within the labyrinthine alleys of London. When our paths intertwine once more, will they present themselves as men or as beasts? Shall I be able to discern the difference?

───Bang bang!

Abruptly, I was ripped from the clutches of my reverie, as if rudely awakened from a profound slumber.

Beyond the windowpane stood the newspaper boy, a familiar figure who regularly traversed this path. I rose from my seat with measured deliberation and proceeded to open the window.

“Good day, sir. Care to purchase a newspaper?”

“Well… It depends on the tales contained within.”

“We have an extra edition of the Daily Mail.”

“Ah, so the reporters have finally unearthed the Yeti. Hand one over to me.”

A solitary shilling found its way into the boy’s palm. His countenance brimming with carefree delight, he graciously proffered the newspaper.

“Thank you!”

Retreating to my seat, with the window firmly sealed, I nestled the newspaper upon my lap, seizing hold of the teacup once more. Yet, my eyes discerned a black taint, a loathsome impurity, adrift within the vessel, prompting me to promptly set it aside.

Instead, I indulged in a dry scone, masticating it deliberately whilst engrossed in the newspaper’s contents.

[Curfew lifted!]

Without great expectation, I perused the main article. Reporters, after all, are known for fabricating trivialities. Hence, I was taken aback by the gravity of the news that unfurled before me. When my gaze alighted upon the passage detailing the long-awaited annulment of the curfew, I instinctively lowered the newspaper, my lungs filling with a profound inhalation.

Indeed, time had elapsed.

No longer did a fragment of summer linger as it had in days past; autumn now reigned supreme. The chill showers proved unbearable, even when shielded by a meager raincoat. As one prone to forgetfulness, neglecting to carry an umbrella, I found myself ensnared by this agonizing season.

In the interim, I could not summon Marie once more, nor could I engage the services of a new housekeeper.

A sense of trepidation still clung to me. The sporadic rumors concerning Spring-heeled Jack no longer resembled frivolous tidbits exchanged in hushed tones. Thus, I harbored an aversion to embroiling another individual in the labyrinth of my existence.

It was not an issue of petty pride that hindered my capacity to extend the first apology. To exist bereft of a housekeeper, what significance did it hold for one such as myself?

In the interim, a fresh occupation presented itself. Count Essex’s letter of recommendation had finally borne fruit.

Oldcourt University.

Once an abode of monastic piety, this esteemed institution prohibited contact with the outside world, dedicating itself fervently to the pursuit of natural philosophy. Formerly branded as heretical, it had since burgeoned into one of North London’s preeminent bastions of natural philosophy education. My appointment as a professor, set to commence in winter, had been confirmed.

A peculiar facet of this establishment lay in its peculiar customs. Despite the modest expanse of the campus, Oldcourt meticulously segregated its colleges, forbidding students and scholars alike from traversing the boundaries that demarcated them. Curricula, libraries, and laboratories remained exclusive to each college, unshared among their counterparts. Thus, the university boasted three disparate libraries housing distinct tomes. It vexed me to witness such an antiquated and disagreeable practice persist into the modern era. Only the chancellor, in accordance with tradition, traversed the colleges, partaking of a different one with each passing day.

Deliberating upon the offer for a spell, I ultimately appended my signature to the contract, for it represented the closest bastion of learning willing to accept my modest qualifications. King Henry VIII College became my designated abode.

Though my schedule had yet to encompass any lectures, I faithfully ventured to the university in the early hours of each morn. Such had become my daily routine as of late.

I extended a polite greeting to the familiar librarian and proceeded directly towards the stairwell. The third floor beckoned me, and I halted before the ascending steps, pausing to catch my breath. This particular moment always posed a challenge to my stamina.

“Do you require assistance?”

As I turned my head, a young student approached me, concern etched upon their countenance.

“Do not treat me as feeble old man. I am more than capable of managing this task.”

“You’re Professor Philemon Herbert, if I’m not mistaken?”

“My reputation precedes me?”

“Indeed… when word of your impending arrival spread, it ignited a flurry of conversation amongst us students.”

I could well imagine the contents of those exchanges and so a knowing smirk curled my lips.

“Yet, I must express my delight. Oldcourt greatly benefits from fresh influences.”

“I appreciate your sentiment. If only there were more of your kin in our midst.”

The student’s journey concluded at the second landing. I inclined my head in a silent farewell before resolutely continuing my climb towards the third floor.

Storage No. 3-8. My hands deftly extricated a collection of archived newspapers, remnants from the land of Wales, and took my seat. Then, the spectacles suspended about my neck were put to use as I commenced the slow immersion into print.

According to the account of Dr. Jekyll, Sherry Patrick had emerged a year prior, in 1894. I pondered upon the likelihood of an erroneous declaration or the deliberate feeding of misinformation, and so embarked on a thorough search of Welsh newspapers from 1893.

My digit traced a line as I scrutinized each subtitle.

Silgwin Forest… Wolf… Woman… Circus…

After several days of painstaking inquiry, an article caught my attention. I paused and verified the publication date and accompanying headline.

The second week of November 1894.

“Beast or Woman? Mysterious Fallen Female in Silgwin Forest!”

This piece, splattered with sensational diction, undeniably pointed towards Sherry Patrick. My subsequent cross-checking of post-November newspapers unearthed a common narrative.

Silgwin Forest, reputed for harboring wolves thought extinct within the British Isles, had been the site of a lumberjack stumbling upon a ‘fallen’ woman.

This woman, bearing distinct Welsh features, exhibited the primal instincts of a beast, moving on all fours, and was subsequently subdued by local huntsmen. She was unresponsive to all linguistic approaches and displayed such animalistic violence that attempts to clothe her were futile.

Amidst the quandary of her disposal, a self-proclaimed circus ringmaster stepped forth, offering to acquire the woman for a sum of 10 pounds. This proposition was accepted by the villagers, the amount being scarcely enough to sustain a month or two of existence within London.

Their subsequent whereabouts remained shrouded in mystery, as no newspaper could provide any clues as to the circus the man operated or their eventual destination.

“Sherry Patrick was devoid of speech.”

As that declaration escaped my lips, I found myself in the throes of a staggering revelation. All the sense of estrangement I had experienced since the onset of the unfortunate event originated from this very aspect.

Sherry Patrick was bereft of intellect!

The notion that she, who was incapable of even the simplest literacy, could have etched those symbols onto my flesh was utterly implausible. Equally improbable was the thought that she, who bore a likeness closer to a beast with her aversion to clothing, could mastermind and execute an intricate plot of vengeance while evading the vigilant gaze of London’s constabulary.

Everything was merely the whim of fate.

The circumstances that led to Sherry Patrick being ensnared in Dr. Jekyll’s photographic apparatus were mere chance. The eruption of the Whitechapel case, following the day Dr. Jekyll presented that incriminating image of Sherry to both law enforcement and myself, was a product of happenstance. And it was a cruel coincidence that it was Dr. Jekyll who delivered the killing blow to Sherry, all under my own gaze.

Of course, when such coincidences begin to weave an intricate tapestry, one cannot discount the presence of a premeditated design. A meticulously orchestrated scenario designed to skew perception. Had he borne any other name but Henry Jekyll, I might have never entertained suspicions.

However, I was now privy to his concealed alter ego.

Spring-heeled Jack.

He persists in his nocturnal prowls within the confines of our city. It is incumbent upon me to unmask his deceit.

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

─────Knock Knock!

As the shroud of night descended, I found myself at the doorstep of Jekyll’s residence, following some investigative diligence. The dwelling mirrored Jekyll’s impeccably ordered demeanor, standing as a paragon of cleanliness amidst its neighboring abodes.

Momentarily, the distinctive sound of a bolt sliding free rang out, and the entranceway swung open. Jekyll stood before me, garbed for an outing.

“Dr. Herbert. What stirs you to visit at such a late hour?”

“It was your doing. You ushered Sherry Patrick into London.”

Jekyll’s acknowledgement was devoid of any surprise. His affect was so restrained, I was almost beguiled into believing he had orchestrated my presence here. The enigma that was Jekyll remained as inscrutable as ever, a stark departure from the character as portrayed in my readings.

“Please step inside. It appears we have matters warranting discussion.”

Jekyll swiveled his form, traversing the threshold and making way to the inner sanctum. I trailed in his wake, unflinching in my resolve. Even if he intended to silence me, I did not foresee submitting to such an ordinary mortal.

However, upon entering the room, I found myself reeling in surprise.

In stark contrast to the orderly exterior and entranceway, the interior of the room was a veritable maelstrom of disorder. I was greeted by walls adorned with depictions of women, predominantly indulging in explicit portrayals of feminine nudity and carnal acts. Among these, I discerned a profusion of images dedicated to Sherry Patrick.

“Do you realize, humans are profoundly paradoxical beings? They are fundamentally flawed in their design. The Almighty, who asserts perfection, unveiled His immaturity in the creation of humanity.”

Jekyll’s words filled the air, seemingly justifying the state of his chamber.

“However, if Charles Darwin’s hypothesis holds true, we are presently in a transitional phase of evolution. The shift from beast to human, from instinct to cognition.”

With a dismissive gesture, he ripped a piece of artwork from the wall and nonchalantly cast it into the flame of an alcohol lamp. The room began to swell with the scent of burning parchment.

“As is evident, there exist urges within me that resist the reins of reason. My existence has been an incessant struggle against these cravings, cloaked in the facade of propriety. But as is plain to see, as long as I am shackled by this mantle of humanity, I shall forever remain enslaved to these desires.”

Beneath the brilliant luminescence, Jekyll’s shadow stretched forth truncated and warped, akin to a stunted, stooped gnome.

“Malevolence. Can you fathom the essence of harbouring such depravity within?”

“Merely a pretext.”

“Such a response from Dr. Herbert, a veteran of the battlefield, is unexpected. Surely you’re not parroting those idealistic ignoramuses proclaiming humans as paragons of reason?”

Jekyll’s scornful scrutiny caused me to seal my lips.

“In the interim, whispers reached my ears. Ah, indeed, I had found her. Sherry Patrick!”

While Jekyll’s explanation unfolded, the alcohol lamp blazed unabated. In the flask poised atop, an alien substance roiled.

“Isn’t it remarkable? This is humanity in its raw form.”

It was a shade of black. Not merely devoid of light, but a darkness so pure it erased the concept of illumination. It stirred ceaselessly, and the ebb and flow of its undulations disoriented my spatial perception. It loomed before me and in an instant receded to a mere speck, all whilst confined within the flask.

“It represents the quintessence of logic, repressing all impulses and cravings. It has been lurking within our craniums, eluding detection until now. I have christened it Hyde.”

Hyde. Its violent ebullition invoked a sense of revulsion that nearly made my stomach revolt.

“Sherry Patrick, she was not a human.”

Jekyll’s confession was delivered with unnerving tranquility.

“Isn’t it peculiar? The last sighting of a grand beast on the British Isles dates back 400 years, yet local whispers hint at a creature lurking within Silgwin forest. They were aware, of an indescribable monstrosity that made the woods its domicile. Their inability to articulate its form led them to label it as a wolf.”

His gaze wandered to a wall, brimming with photographic tributes to Sherry Patrick. A majority of the images were steeped in Jekyll’s repugnant debaucheries, while others revealed scenes of torment and experiments too monstrous to recount.

“Sherry Patrick was replaced by the creature in the forest some 16 years past. She was once human, but after a lapse of 15 years, her humanity had eroded. I procured her, in hopes of deciphering the dividing line between man and beast, between reason and instinct. If she indeed transitioned from human to beast, would it not be plausible for mankind to escape the chains of desire and impulse, by suppressing the traits she exhibited?”

I spotted a human-shaped mass of flesh within the images Jekyll was scrutinizing.

“Thus, I commenced experimentation.”

The figure was none other than Sherry Patrick, fastened to a dissection table, her form grotesquely flayed.

“Through my investigations, I successfully refined the active extract procured from Sherry Patrick. It was unlike any element that had been the subject of a millennium’s worth of chemical scrutiny, but rather, its answers lay within the tomes of mythical alchemists. A vast repository of clinical trial data was necessitated to ascertain which constituent in it dictated the human-to-beast transformation.”

“Thus, you instigated the werewolf event.”

Confronted with my accusatory gaze, Jekyll displayed a blush of chastisement as though a minor transgression had been called into question.

“That was unintended. The subject selection process was meticulous, yet a single failure proved highly costly. A minor deviation in the concoction would transform the subject into a beast in entirety.”

Prior to the Whitechapel incident, cannibalistic atrocities had been perpetrated. I grimaced, vividly recalling images of women with their entrails grotesquely exposed.

“Owing to that blunder, I found myself pursued by the authorities, and the experiment still demanded a plethora of failures. An urgent need arose for a significant quantity of samples.”

“Thus, you set your sights on Whitechapel.”

“Indeed. The so-called gentlemen, garbed in pretentious facades, yielded to their insatiable lust, engaging in debauchery on those streets. They bore closer resemblance to beasts than humans. The circumstances were opportune. I amassed sufficient data, and opted to deal with Sherry Patrick to forestall future complications.”

Only now did the full picture crystallize before me. The events of that fateful day had been meticulously choreographed. Jekyll had ensconced himself in the ward, awaiting the pursuit, even as he engineered a scenario where Sherry Patrick was set free, only to be pursued.

“The toll it exacted was not insubstantial, yet it pales in comparison to the results achieved. Humanity teeters on the brink of its final evolutionary leap. In the impending twentieth century, humans will shed the irrationality engendered by desire, moving towards an epoch dominated solely by reason.”

Jekyll decanted a small measure of the flask’s contents into an ampoule. Although the quantity dispensed was minute, it propagated within the ampoule, filling it.

“Dr. Philemon Herbert. You are a man of academia, guided by reason rather than instinct. You must recognize the validity of my assertions.”

He extended the ampoule towards me. I cast a downward glance at the object now in my possession. Within the ampoule, a human form shrieked soundlessly.

“No, I’ll turn you over to the authorities. You remain a hideous beast.”

Jekyll’s brows furrowed into a narrow crease.

“It appears I have misjudged you.”

–Thud.

In that precise moment, a disturbance echoed from beyond the window.

“What is this commotion?”

Jekyll ambled toward the window. Without warning, the glass shattered inwards, and a dark figure descended upon Jekyll.

It appeared human.

No, rather, it was a human-shaped clump of coal. The form barely retained its human shape, charred beyond recognition, the visage metamorphosing into a skeletal grimace. Sparse strands of curled hair clung tenaciously to the scalp.

I recognized the figure immediately. It was Sherry Patrick.

She engulfed Jekyll, entwining her torso around him.

“I was under the impression she had been utterly consumed by flame. Such extraordinary vitality, did she return in search of her remains? It appears to be a trait of hers.”

Jekyll calmly dissected her actions as he inched toward the door. I swiftly barred his path.

“What is this folly? Exercise sound judgement. She poses no threat. Her strength is waning. Reason! Use your reason! Open this door!”

A sound of disintegration resonated from the opposite side of the door.

More akin to the sound of a tree being crushed than a human voice, a hoarse whisper pleading, “Open the door….” gradually ebbed away.

I detected a whiff of an impending conflagration from behind the door. I surmised the fate of the beast and Dr. Jekyll. Jekyll was meeting his due end, yet my morbid curiosity pertaining to the beast’s fate spurred me on.

I swung the door wide open.

The room was in turmoil as though a wild creature had wreaked havoc and departed. Desk and bookshelves lay upturned, fire raged, fuelled by the spilled alcohol lamp and scattered research materials. A nauseating toxic fume billowed from the liquid seeping out of a shattered flask.

There was no trace of Sherry Patrick. Dr. Jekyll, with his hand clutching the window frame, was gazing up at the night sky. After twisting his neck in an unnatural angle to meet my gaze, he threw himself out the window.

A shriek, neither human nor beast, reverberated from outside the window, triggering the beast’s ominous song. Ah! It ignited the fear of a lurking predator, nestled within the primal instincts of humans.

The fire showed no signs of abating.

The chemicals filling the room detonated in response to the fire, intensifying the blaze to a degree visible from across the Thames. All that remained of Dr. Jekyll’s deranged research and its yield was a solitary ampoule in my hand.

I roused the neighboring residents for evacuation. The London fire brigade, having witnessed the inferno, sought to contain the blaze. But it will continue to escalate. Fuelled by Dr. Jekyll’s derangement, it will rage throughout the night, foretelling London’s inevitable doom.

Indeed, the beast still prowls London.

The beast of the Silgwyn Forest and its offspring, neither human nor beast, will roam the backstreets of London. As long as they fear the light and noise, they pose no threat.

London, post the lifting of curfew, was louder than ever.

However, if the streets lay deserted for even a single day, if the street lamps remain dark, if London is enveloped in silence, they will reclaim the streets.

We need not fear them yet, as long as we steer clear of the silent, shadowy alleyways. Not just yet.

⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩ ⏩

Upon my return journey home.

I remained in possession of an unresolved enigma. Dr. Jekyll did not unleash his inner Hyde, and he was not the notorious Spring-heeled Jack. Sherry Patrick was no more than a mere beast.

Then who in Hades was he?

The devil, still prowling the streets of London under the cloak of night, brandishing a savagery akin to a werewolf coupled with human guile, lingered in my vicinity. Awaiting the moment I succumb to sleep’s embrace!

It was then I saw it!

In the scarlet skies of London, set aflame by the ongoing fire, resided a devil! The devil, emitting a beast-like cackle, hopping from one rooftop to another! He was the authentic Spring-heeled Jack!

I pursued him, as though under a spell. No, I was undoubtedly bewitched by this devil. He would eventually devour me, thus I was compelled to eliminate him first.

Where did he vanish? I spotted a figure vanishing into an alleyway after scanning the desolate cityscape of London. Indeed, it was he who galloped on all fours like a savage creature.

The vicious winds of London blew with a biting chill, carrying within them the cry of a beast. At some point, my hat had been swept off my head. It must have been carried off by the mighty winds originating from the Thames. Retrieving an object stolen by the winds of London was an impossible task.

The focus of my concern, however, was Spring-heeled Jack. I had a premonition that this pursuit was nearing its conclusion.

In the distance, I could see my apartment building. He was making his way towards my apartment, undoubtedly with the wicked intent to harm my housekeeper and myself! How fortunate it was that I had uncovered his nefarious scheme in the nick of time!

The apartment door stood ajar. The house key was inserted in the lock. I patted my pockets, finding them empty! He must have clandestinely acquired my keys through some sly trickery!

I pushed the door wide open and stepped inside. The house was in shambles as though a wild creature had run amok. There was a potent smell of dust, as if a beast had rolled around in a pile of it to mask its scent.

Upon observing the footprints at the entrance, I had a moment of clarity. Ah, indeed! He had but a single leg! That’s why he had been traversing on all fours!

There was a rustling sound from within the room. Sensing a presence, I flung the door wide open and came face-to-face with the monster!

A man, shrouded in fur, unveiled his countenance.

It was a mirror.

“This….”

An alternate term for rabies.

“It was me…….”

Hydrophobia.

“I was Spring-heeled Jack!”

“Master?”

Marie?

“I apologize for the late hour. You may find this hard to believe, but I think I’ve found the watch. I have no idea why it was under my bed, but I assure you I didn’t steal it. Please believe me.”

“Don’t, don’t approach! Keep your distance!”

“Master? What on earth….”

In a fit of ecstatic frenzy, I sunk my teeth into Marie’s neck.