Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 17

§17. The alchemist who lives in the cemetery

In spite of the tenacity that kept my feet rooted to the terrestrial sphere, it felt as if I was astray in the cosmos. Anchored in the soil and stone, my limbs flailed, uncomprehending of the direction they ought to choose, and under this light-deprived expanse, my state was indistinguishable from that of a sightless man.

Clods of earth, moss, and gravel persistently sought passage into my mouth, whilst the incessant skittering of the arthropods chiselled into my flesh behind my ears. The most agonising reality was the utter audibility of the plaintive cries of these minuscule insects.

Owing to my relentless endeavour to excavate rocks with bare hands, my leathered gloves lay in tatters, my nails shattered, and the cruel pebbles sought refuge in the clefts of my hands. However, my predicament permitted no room for suffering.

My breathing pattern became disordered, harsh, as the vapours of my breath clung to my countenance. The scant moisture in this stifling underground environment seemed confined to just this, vanishing as swiftly as it appeared. Deprived of sufficient oxygen, my thoughts started to dissolve.

Yes.

I was alive, yet buried.

─────Thump, thump.

In the midst of my laborious efforts to shovel the soil, I ceased, suspending my breath. From above, rhythmic concussions were relayed to me. It was them. They were aware of my entombment close by.

The ominous footsteps ceased abruptly. Had they discovered me?

The grating sound of soil being excavated sent a shudder down my spine, followed by a man’s desperate outcry echoing from a distance.

“Argh! Ahhh! Save me! Ahhh!”

The man’s cries gradually diminished, swallowed by the unforgiving silence. I couldn’t discern if the man was still screaming or had been hauled away. The only certainty was that I was blessed with a little more time. I recommenced my frantic excavation.

With a final effort, the stone barrier before me yielded, and I emerged, crawling out from my premature grave.

“Cough, cough….”

Like a nymph exiting its casing, I drew in the fresh air greedily and expelled the residual dust from my lungs. Each cough dispensed a stream of sand onto my outstretched hand.

“Haah… Haah….”

I yearned for respite, for a moment of stillness, but time was a luxury I could ill afford. They might return any moment. I surveyed the surroundings. A hand protruded from between the rocks, its silence screaming for assistance.

“Are you unharmed?”

I extended my own hand towards it, dislodging rocks in the process. Upon extracting the buried figure and helping it to its feet, I released its hand abruptly. What remained was… merely a remnant of existence. I averted my gaze from the faceless cadaver and hobbled away, each step a struggle, my walking stick long shattered.

“Please assist….”

At that juncture, a frail plea emerged from the ground. Soft it may have been, yet the desperation it carried was thunderous. A voice brimming with dread begged for help.

“Please…. My leg… It’s injured… I can assist you….”

Prostrating myself on the ground, I grasped a sizable chunk of rock and began sweeping away the accumulated earth. The soil was tainted with excrement, the potent scent of mammalian ammonia filled the air.

“Huak… Huak… Huak…! Ahhhh….”

“Compose yourself! Regulate your breathing first!”

With exertion, I extricated the body of the young man from his terrestrial confinement and offered solace by patting his back.

“What, what is all this madness? What calamity has befallen us? Phew, phew!”

His hand weakly strove to rid his countenance of the fecal matter and earth that tainted it. He laboured to catch his breath, barely managing to restore some semblance of calm.

“Why are these abominations lurking in London’s underworld…?”

“I am as much in the dark as you. I have no inkling of what transpires here.”

“Do you know of an escape route?”

I moistened my digit with saliva and attempted to discern the direction of the breeze. Yet, in this cavernous tunnel, the wind’s whisper was lost. Only the oppressively dense air resided here, cultivating an enveloping sense of entrapment.

“This is impossible….”

The young man seemed to reach a similar realisation, his countenance drooping in surrender to despair.

“Arise. We may have stepped into a necropolis, but for the living to mimic the dead is futile.”

I spurred him to stand upright. His assistance was pivotal if we were to ever see daylight again.

“I should never have ventured into this place… But why, doctor, are you here?”

“I came in search of someone.”

“A living soul? In this subterranean cemetery? The only vestiges of life here are us and those abominations!”

“I am aware.”

Indeed, I was all too aware. After all, my quest did not concern the living.

Shirley Marie. It was her remains I had ventured here to locate.

………

…..

…

..

.

The day prior to my subterranean imprisonment, I found myself within the grandeur of Arthur Frank’s estate.

Upon my arrival, Arthur commenced an incessant barrage of inquiries, firing them at me like a Gatling gun, with no regard for my well-being. He bore the unwavering resolve to keep me hostage until every question had been answered. And so, I found myself obediently responding to his inquisitions one after the other.

The spectacles and sounds I had been privy to on Jacob’s Island after departing his manor…

The enigmatic absence of Mrs. Curie and the cryptic notes she had left behind…

Dr. Jekyll’s abhorrent experiments and the monstrous beings that now infested London…

For every utterance that escaped my lips, he countered with two interrogatives, and I scrambled to provide a response without a moment’s respite for my thoughts. Consequently, I inadvertently divulged a few closely guarded secrets that I had intended to carry to my grave.

Eventually, as I concluded detailing the contents of the ampoule I had consumed, he queried with palpable curiosity,

“So, you partook of the same concoction as Dr. Jekyll. Does it not make you feel somewhat lucid?”

His question prompted an epiphany. Contrary to my apprehensions, my mind remained undamaged. In fact, it was functioning with exceptional clarity. Far from losing my bearings, I had found them.

“No. I’m… as I have always been.”

“Perhaps your pre-existing insanity has played a part. Or could the potency have diminished over time? Tell me, Philo, do you still dwell in madness?”

His candid question left me momentarily nonplussed.

The truth was, I did not.

Upon consuming the ampoule left by Dr. Jekyll, Hyde, my mind had undergone an extraordinary transformation. The insanity that had once reigned supreme was peeled away, revealing an inner brilliance akin to a newborn’s.

Arthur wore his fascination for these mysteries openly.

“Dr. Jekyll, I had initially desired to extend an invitation to him to join the Frank Academy. Had he not been a part of the Royal Society, I would have done so. However, knowing what has transpired, I should have coerced him into our ranks.”

“Art.”

“I jest, Philo. Even I would hesitate to embrace a murderer as a comrade.”

I took Arthur’s words with a grain of salt. He was a man who dared to dance upon societal norms, where the line separating morality and law was but a blur.

“Proceed. What transpired in London during my absence? You were present at the catastrophe of Jacob’s Island, chased a werewolf, and now find yourself pursued by a creature of the Silgwyn forest, concealed somewhere within the city.”

“Do you derive amusement from this? Are you even aware of the count of lives lost?”

Finally, the perpetually jovial facade Arthur wore began to irk me.

In a state of agitation, I voiced my exasperation, and, sinking back into indifference, I whispered, my face hidden within my hands.

“And Shirley Marie, what horrors did I inflict upon that innocent woman…”

“It was an unfortunate incident.”

“It was an act of homicide! I intended to take her life!”

At my outburst, Arthur’s expression turned sour. He paced before me with a look of displeasure. He anticipated an apology from me, but I had no intention of proffering one. I was bereft of patience for his childlike and reckless comments.

Several moments of silence reigned before it was punctured by Arthur’s low murmur.

“There may exist a solution.”

His tone was one he often donned when situations were not falling into his preferred alignment.

“To what end are you referring?”

“The Frank Academy you have witnessed thus far is merely the tip of the iceberg. The academy I envisage seeks to elevate mankind into more intricate realms.”

“Speak without guile.”

“I am suggesting there may exist a means to eradicate the root of your remorse. Indeed, it seems likely.”

I grappled with his implication. There existed but one method to assuage my guilt.

“Surely you are not suggesting…”

“For this, there is something you must seek.”

Interrupting my protest, Arthur gestured towards the map of London, adorning the room’s wall. The contours of the map were difficult to discern amidst the myriad symbols, figures, and lengthy notations penned in Arthur’s unique, nearly illegible handwriting.

He pointed to a specific location.

“Did the housemaid mention she was an orphan? If so, there exists but one place she could be.”

That evening found me venturing to the outskirts of southern London.

In 1836, London was among the world’s most densely populated planned cities.

An unforeseen issue surfaced. Corpses. They were ubiquitous. Traditional local interment practices were ill-equipped to manage the mounting toll of deaths, rendering the small graveyards scattered throughout the city grotesque.

Additionally, due to unsanitary handling methods, epidemics proliferated, with some advocating for the incineration of graveyards. The issue of the dead was non-negotiable.

Amidst this conundrum, the London City Hall, intoxicated by the pride of being hailed as the world’s paramount city, conceived an experimental solution. They proposed the construction of a vast, landscaped graveyard in the southern segment of London. It was an audacious initiative to address the graveyard crisis whilst also providing citizens with recreational facilities in the guise of natural parks.

Thus was the West Norwood Cemetery brought into existence.

Boasting sculptures of the Gothic Revival style that were nothing short of artistic marvels, and manicured lawns, all bathed in a favourable luminosity, this establishment nonetheless found itself in the disfavour of the denizens. It was a cemetery, after all. No soul sought leisure amidst gravestones.

So was it that London learnt the bitter lesson, that it was folly to attempt turning a graveyard into a park with the expenditure of thousands of pounds.

Yet, the cemetery stood steadfast in its duty despite the woeful history that birthed it. Over the past half a century, it had dutifully received the countless bodies that had spilled forth from London. Tombstones sprawled across its 16 hectares, while those without tombstones found their eternal rest in the subterranean catacombs.

The cemetery was the most dignified of all of London’s refuse heaps.

Carriages, carrying their grim cargo, came to a halt at the cemetery’s entrance ceaselessly, day and night. London was a city with a surfeit of corpses, and in this context, death was one of the few trades where carriages still held sway over automobiles.

As soon as a body was brought forth, a gravedigger and a manager of the crematorium promptly carried the body straight into the crematorium. Black smoke billowed forth from the chimney of the crematorium, as though escorting the soul of the nameless deceased to the furthest ends of the heavens. The burnt remains were nonchalantly scattered underground in urns.

I observed this entire process from a remove.

The gravedigger ferried the body to the crematorium, yet the crematorium bore no sign of activity. No smoke unfurled from its chimney nor was there a glimmer of light to be seen. This was very much in accordance with the rumours Arthur had shared with me.

Silently, I made my entry into the cemetery.

“How might I assist you, sir?”

A gravedigger, who had seemingly been observing me, materialized and impeded my progress. His attire was so opulent that it took me a moment to recognize his occupation.

“I am here to pay my respects.”

As I said this, I displayed the white artificial flowers in my possession.

“And who might the departed be?”

“Shirley Marie.”

“Do you require assistance in locating her grave?”

As he spoke, his gaze surveyed the multitude of tombstones around us. I declined his offer with a shake of my head.

“She rests not here, but there.”

The gravedigger’s countenance took on a hardened aspect as he recognized the direction my finger pointed towards. I was indicating the catacomb, a structure leading underground. He shook his head in denial.

“Access is forbidden.”

“Why so?”

“Too many have lost their way and disappeared, leading to its closure to the public.”

It was an absurd logic. I was on the verge of protesting, but thought better of it. I noticed that other gravediggers from within the crematorium were emerging one after the other, their gazes trained on me.

Their eyes were frigid, their expressions impassive. Despite their varied appearances, an identical aura clung to them all, making them seem like twins.

Sensing this uncanny and exclusive atmosphere, I decided to withdraw for the moment.

“Understood. There’s nothing I can do.”

Near to a state of flight, I extricated myself from the cemetery. Even as I traversed the cemetery entrance, their gazes remained affixed to my retreating figure.

─── Woof woof! Clatter clatter!

A hound came hurtling towards me from beyond the cemetery bars, its baying loud and insistent. The shock nearly caused me to stumble. It was that very gravedigger who had sicced the hound upon me. The savage creature continued its cacophony until I was well out of sight.

The cemetery security was draconian, to say the least.

Furthermore, I sensed an uncanny solidarity amongst them, more than mere colleagues sharing a common workspace. It was as if their minds were eerily entwined.

Danger lurked, I could sense it, but retreat was not an option.

In line with Arthur’s words, it was desirable if Marie’s body remained intact. Given that her body had been discarded in this subterranean cemetery a month prior, haste was of the essence even accounting for the low temperatures.

Strange occurrences were reported at this cemetery, or so I had heard.

The shift commenced a month ago. A minor earthquake had hit London. Although the damage was minimal, limited to a few toppled horses, it amounted to little more than a trivial disturbance. The citizens of London quickly consigned the event to oblivion.

However, post that day, West Norwood Cemetery underwent a peculiar metamorphosis. Bodies continued to be delivered to the crematorium, yet the furnace remained unlit, bereft of a coal supply.

Several conjectures quietly circulated in hushed tones. For a period, the most persuasive among these was that the city hall had imposed a ban on cremation to conserve coal. However, this notion did not gain much traction. After all, it concerned the affairs of the deceased.

It was only when another incident arose that the living took note.

The modest gravedigger and the crematorium manager made a conspicuous appearance, their hands laden with an unidentified silver. They maintained a guarded silence about the origin of the silver, and with that money, they purchased land in the vicinity of the cemetery.

A furnace that refrained from burning, unidentified silver.

These two pieces of evidence were enough to fan the flames of speculation, and various low-grade rumours proliferated within the local community. Eventually, the rumours found their way to the upper classes, yet the nobility refrained from discussing such base gossip pertaining to the dead.

Thus, in order to satiate their latent desire to gossip, they often resorted to this phrasing.

“There resides an alchemist in the West Norwood Cemetery. He transmutes bodies into silver.” Coincidentally, rumours circulated of a gaunt foreigner of exotic appearance seen lingering around the cemetery around the same period.

I prowled around the cemetery through the night, seeking a suitable opening. Unlike Arthur, I had scant interest in the truth they were concealing. What weighed heavily upon my conscience was the burden of penance.

Even if this path led to some form of transgression, I was already steeped in a sin far greater.

However, the guard remained unrelenting throughout the night. The gravediggers executed shifts according to some undisclosed protocol, and I sighted more than three varieties of hunting hounds.

It was more challenging to distinguish among the people. Each gravedigger donned different attire, yet their facial expressions were eerily identical, almost grotesque. They maintained poker faces, their demeanour seemed fearful of something, their movements stiff. I had never witnessed such a uniformly influenced group outside of military ranks.

Their duties never varied.

Upon the arrival of a funeral carriage, they would dutifully transport the body into the crematorium.

That was the sum total of their labour.

In the end, I found no lapse in their vigilance all through the nocturnal hours. As dawn approached, I prepared to surrender for the day. As I attempted to rise, my equilibrium faltered, and I fell. Be it a bout of anemia or some other malaise, it seemed as though the world was in a tremulous dance.

No, the very earth beneath was indeed in upheaval. It was an earthquake.

After enduring the extended and gentle tremors, I took a considerable time to make my careful return to the heart of London. Whether the earthquake had fully abated or not, I could still perceive the quivering vibrations as I leaned against the wall.

Come morning, I procured a handful of newspapers, searching for any mention of the earthquake that had transpired the previous night. However, not a single article referred to it. At that moment, a chilling realization dawned upon me.

The earthquake I had perceived had, in fact, never come to pass.