Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 19

19. The Catacombs

Securing a conveyance at the witching hour proved no arduous task. Our sole requirement was to intercept an oncoming merchandise wagon.

“No, good sir, this vehicle serves as a transport for the departed.”

Our driver’s discomposure was evident. Despite the lack of reverence shown to mortality in our city, London, there existed certain expectations of decorum. To place a living soul adjacent to one void of life was a glaring violation of such proprieties.

“But what recourse do we have…?”

“We are rather engaged. Is there truly no other course?”

Deftly overlooking the senseless utterances of Augustine, I presented the driver with a piece of coin. He evaluated its worth beneath the dim glow of the carriage’s lantern, subsequently erupting in mirth. The lamplight revealed a grin of scant and weathered teeth.

“In our dear London, no predicament exists that the correct sum cannot ameliorate. Pray, ascend.”

“Commendable comprehension. Let us proceed.”

Augustine, in his characteristic folly, aided my mounting of the carriage. His decision to accompany me was marked by an even greater vacillation, however, an impatient rap of my cane against the carriage floor expedited his resolve. He drew a sharp breath at the sight of our lifeless companion.

“Can we truly condone this?”

“Did you not heed his words? There is naught in London that coin cannot facilitate.”

“But….”

His leg trembled with anxiety. I was forced to acknowledge my premature judgement. In spite of his exterior, Augustine was rather delicate in constitution. In contrast to Wilson, his caution was an anomaly in young men of his age. I meant not to take on the manner of a cantankerous old man.

In our current English society, the rebellious acts of the youth were growing into a societal concern. I foresaw the future escalation of such behaviour into gang rivalry, but even in the present, their actions were of similar essence, only the magnitude differed.

Spoiled heirs, flush with wealth and liberty, often fell prey to the illusion that the world bent to their whims, and subsequently engaged in reckless exploits. Yet this timid lad seemed devoid of such tendencies. While his timidity was not a trait I cherished, his sense of duty was worth appreciation.

The carriage, burdened by the weight of three, one of whom was a corpse, ambled along at a gentle pace, sparing us from severe jolts. In the prevailing silence, Augustine ventured a cautious discourse.

“In spite of my previous assertions… my father is a man of significant stature.”

“His name?”

“Ruben Augustine.”

“Augustine.”

I echoed his name as a form of affirmation.

“Yes, though we reside in London, he was insistent upon his French heritage, and imparted this same insistence upon me.”

“That is commendable. Individuals should embrace their roots.”

As I uttered this, I found myself confronted with the realization of how far I had strayed from my own origins. I had no wish to emulate the young man’s introspective musings on identity, yet I couldn’t quell the tide of nostalgia, reminding me of who I once was.

“You cannot fathom the monumental efforts my father expended to journey to London, starting with naught but his will, and ascending to his current status. His eccentricity is likely a survival mechanism in this foreign land. I…”

“I harbour no ill will towards your father.”

Augustine, or rather Noel, hinted at the reverence he held for his father.

“You do not seem inclined to inherit his enterprise.”

“How did you discern this?”

Noel inquired, his eyes widening in surprise.

“If you had ever graced the mining site with your presence, your understanding of the operation would have surpassed mine. Yet, you seemed oblivious to the concept of mining.”

“You are correct. I have no desire to inherit the firm.”

A sudden jolt interrupted our discourse.

“What is transpiring?”

“It appears the horse has taken fright. Driver, is everything under control?”

I inclined myself towards the driver, directing my inquiry his way. His countenance was fraught with disquiet, unable to pacify the alarmed steed.

“I remain ignorant as to why the horses react thus abruptly. They halt, perturbed, gazing upon barren earth with seemingly no cause.”

“And the destination, the graveyard? How distant is it?”

“Merely a stone’s throw away, sir. However, the task of soothing the horse may consume some time.”

I acquiesced with a nod. Noël, lacking comprehension of the conversation, looked on with bewilderment.

“We shall alight here and proceed on foot. It serves us naught to draw the attention of the gravediggers.”

Upon realizing the implication of my words, Noël rapidly descended the carriage. With a dutiful air, he courteously assisted my own dismount.

We ambled alongside the scarcely populated lane. True to the driver’s words, the cemetery was in close proximity. West Norwood Cemetery, just as the day prior, was ensconced in iron bars and imbued with an air of restless suspense. The ivy that thrived on the bars flourished in the deathly gloom, feasting upon the remains of the deceased.

Yet, there existed an uncanny vitality in this inherently desolate locale. A congregation of individuals, all of broad build and muscular physiques, huddled near the cemetery. Such musculature could only be attained through strenuous labour.

“Father!”

Noël approached them, his voice carrying across the distance.

“Natál? What brings you here?”

I shadowed Noël as he neared the group. While mingling with a cluster of robust men was not particularly comforting, a former naval officer could not be daunted by mere miners. I carried my head high, as elevated as my pride.

The individual who addressed Noël as ‘Natál’, presumably Ruben Augustine, scrutinized me with suspicious eyes.

“What is your name, sir?”

His size seemed magnified at close quarters, likely an optical illusion fostered by his surrounding cohorts of miners.

“Philemon Herbert.”

“Ah, that name! … I am Ruben Augustin.”

Ruben’s eyelids fluttered in rapid succession, as if my name was familiar to him. I overheard the miners around us mutter phrases akin to ‘murder professor’. Evidently, the London newspapers had bestowed upon me a colourful new moniker.

As I extended my hand towards Ruben, his eyes registered a momentary regret as he instinctively reciprocated the gesture. His hand was considerably coarse, with calluses gathered at the joints of his middle finger. The hand of one who once toiled on-site, now burdened by the ink of office work.

“Natál, was it you who brought this gentleman?”

“Yes….”

Noël’s voice faltered. I couldn’t help but observe the subtle power dynamics at play. A successful father juxtaposed with a diffident son, a truly classic tableau.

“I surmise the circumstances that brought you here. You have arrived in response to my son’s words, with intentions to impede me, albeit a futile endeavour.”

“I fail to understand your insinuation.”

As I contemplated, I appraised the miners who appeared ready to initiate a brawl at any moment.

“Surely, you did not rally these men for an invasion, did you…”

“The state offers no protection to my rights, thereby necessitating me to protect them myself.”

“By ‘rights’, what do you imply?”

“Naturally, the rights of property!”

Ruben puffed his chest out, his voice echoing in the graveyard.

“Our South London Mining Office holds the exclusive prerogative to mining rights within London. Thus, if a silver vein is discovered within these catacombs, the claim to it is inherently mine.”

The tale was peculiar. I felt compelled to interrogate.

“But surely, there are no mines within London, correct?”

“Exactly why this is an absolute swindle! Any city hall, when faced with a foreign businessman of sufficient wealth, resorts to such tactics. Do you comprehend the extent of resources I expended on procuring such an inconsequential thing as the primary bidding rights for London mining from them? Now that mines have seemingly appeared in London, I intended to repay those wretches in kind. But now, these ignorant clods have seized my rightfully owned mines.”

With vehement wrath trembling through him, he gestured towards the shared burial ground.

“Is there not an alternative remedy? Perhaps entreat an investigator from the city hall.”

“That echoes my sentiments exactly! However, their response is rather unsettling. They claim one cannot gain entry to the West Norwood communal cemetery catacombs without royal consent. Is that not peculiar? Are we to assume that the silver surfaced from the ether?”

It was indeed an anomaly. Given that Buckingham Palace is virtually autonomous from all administrative affairs within the UK, the demand posited by the London City Hall appeared highly unwarranted.

“Drawing from my own experiences, the resolution in such instances is crystal clear. Bribery has been exchanged. The situation cannot be dissected logically. A forceful penetration is required to verify the existence of a vein. Following that, the city hall will find it impossible to remain passive.”

Noël’s awkward elucidation filled in the pieces that seemed incomprehensible. Despite its illegal nature, I found myself sympathizing with Reuben’s actions. My purpose here was not, in fact, to thwart him, a fact I felt I should apologize to Noël for.

“So, might I join your expedition underground?”

“You wish to accompany us, sir?”

My unexpected request took both Reuben and Noël by surprise. Noël’s expression oscillated between confusion and betrayal as I defied his expectations, while Reuben scrutinized me, his gaze lingering on my cane.

“Pardon my impertinence, but you do not appear cut out for such a strenuous task. We are attempting to confirm the existence of a vein. It might elude your knowledge, but an unsecured mine poses considerable danger.”

“There is no cause for concern on my behalf. I am a navy veteran. Although my leg bears an injury, it remains superior to the youth of today.”

Despite Reuben’s outward jovial demeanour, he was a pragmatic man contrary to my initial impression. His keen eyes ceaselessly evaluated the intent and merit of my proposition.

“As you may be aware, there exist rather unsavoury rumours concerning you….”

“My desire is but a simple one. To enter and emerge from the catacombs. If we manage to locate a vein during my presence, I shall pen a certificate confirming the same. I retain my title as a Cambridge doctor, and a professor at Old Court.”

Pretending to contemplate for a moment, Reuben nodded in agreement. As a businessman with a penchant for weighing profits and losses, he had no reason to decline.

“Very well. However, you must ensure your own safety.”

Noël approached me, his countenance aggrieved. His gaunt cheeks under the lamplight evoked a sense of guilt within observers.

“This deviates from my initial request.”

“Indeed, your father is a man of remarkable wisdom. You are fortunate to have such a remarkable parent.”

My astute response left him speechless and he trailed behind his father.

“I shall accompany you.”

The father and son began a dialogue, but I opted not to interject and followed in their wake. The miners, faces tense, traversed the barred gate of the West Norwood Cemetery. The caretakers, unlike the previous day, were conspicuously absent, seemingly observing us from a distance.

In silent observation, they regarded us. They struck me as identical twins, all possessing an uncanny similarity. Their thoughts remained obscure, and their bizarre countenance unsettled the miners who were unaccustomed to their presence.

“Today, we shall procure an answer.”

Ruben’s words, directed at the caretakers, hinted at repeated visits. However, the situation quickly pacified. The caretakers refrained from creating any disturbances and cleared the path to the catacombs for us.

“As you are aware, the catacombs have been sealed by royal decree. Therefore, you must maintain silence regarding your entry and observations within.”

“Is it a mandate for silence?”

“Not quite. There is nothing clandestine within.”

Ruben’s expression was obscured from view, but his posture alone betrayed his bewilderment. If veins were indeed present within, their confidence was puzzling. Nevertheless, he proceeded towards the catacombs, unable to retreat at this stage.

The ostentatious building, erected in a Gothic retro style, felt overly grandiose for a cemetery entrance. Simultaneously, it seemed overly simplistic for a gateway that bore witness to countless final journeys.

With Ruben at the forefront, the miners trailed behind, while Noel and I stood at the end of the line. My pace was languid, and Noel appeared unsettled by the unfolding circumstances.

We ventured into the engulfing darkness.

The catacomb’s portal was as I had imagined it would be. This subterranean necropolis, fashioned after the catacombs of Paris, was filled with the charred remains of skulls adorning the stone walls which formed narrow passageways. It seemed the catacombs had only recently been populated.

Fresh-looking skulls predominantly clustered near the entrance served as evidence, and as we journeyed deeper, skulls stained with age began to emerge. This was London’s stratum. We were tracing back through the city’s death lineage. I was consumed by the delusion that I might encounter the forefathers of humanity at the catacombs’ end.

And as we pressed on, the stench intensified. The unmistakable scent of methane gas, which could not come from the cremated bones, emanated from a place that was anything but. Upon Ruben’s indication, a miner uncaged a canary, which began to sing as light bathed it.

“Do you believe there might be veins?”

“In our line of work, it is not uncommon for such a smell to arise when the earth is indiscriminately excavated.”

Ruben carried himself as though he had already discovered the silver vein.

“While I am no expert in the craft of tunnel excavation, I have formed some conclusions regarding this scent.”

“What do you propose?”

“It smells of decaying bodies. It’s reminiscent of the scent neglected corpses produce.”

“That cannot be….”

Ruben was not a fool. He was aware we were still in the dark concerning the fate of the missing bodies. He discreetly summoned a pair of miners and instructed them to exit the catacombs.

Our party, now hushed, continued our trek through the sepulchre. The scent of decay grew stronger, serving as an encouraging sign for both me, in my search for Mary’s body, and Ruben, in his pursuit of the vein.

But as we ventured further, a foreboding transformation began to take place.

The most remarkable change involved the skulls. The skulls lining the passage began to darken inexplicably. Regardless of their age, this was an unnatural transformation. Despite the electric light, the catacomb’s corridors seemed to be slowly consumed by the encroaching darkness.

I was seized by an illusion of walking upon shadows. The passage was gradually narrowing until only individuals could be discerned in the light.

“Ugh… Ugh….”

Even the seasoned miners began to gasp for breath, their claustrophobia triggered. We were undoubtedly marching into a coffin. None of us had foreseen such an extensive tunnel, and consequently, our breaths grew ragged as though we had been marching for hours.

Ruben, our guide, came to a sudden halt and crouched to examine the floor with his bare hands.

“Wood has been used to fortify the ground here.”

Never before had I heard of a catacomb constructed atop a natural cavern. If this tunnel was man-made, there was no necessity to sheath the floor in timber.

“It’s all decayed… Appears to be oak.”

“Is such a thing even plausible?”

Without turning back, Ruben responded to my query.

“Indeed, wood decays in coal mines. The deeper you delve, the more moisture you encounter, expediting the wood’s decay. Here, it’s… roughly equivalent to the surface.”

“How many years would it take for such a decay to occur?”

“It varies based on the conditions… but I’ve never observed it in such a wretched state. A hundred years? Two hundred perhaps?”

Noel voiced his fear.

“West Norwood Cemetery was established merely fifty years ago!”

“They must have used decayed timber from the beginning.”

Ruben strove to maintain composure.

“Or, perchance, this catacomb predates its function as a cemetery.”

At my suggestion, Ruben fell into contemplative silence. He was teetering on the edge of a conclusion.

“But who would conceive such a scheme? And to what end?”

“I cannot say.”

Aware that our quest could not languish in indecision, Ruben resumed our descent. Upon reaching the timber-laden passage, he turned to issue a warning.

“Proceed with caution, avoid haste! The integrity of this floor is questionable!”

Thus, one by one, our troupe set foot upon the timbered pathway. Despite our staggered pacing, each seam groaned under the burden of our weight, and the timber bowed ominously. In observing this spectacle, a disconcerting reality dawned upon me.

“The bodies?”

Noel, who had been accompanying me closely, cast a questioning gaze in my direction.

“Assuming the bodies, not merely skulls, were transported deeper into this abyss, it would require the strength of two men to bear them. But can these decayed planks sustain the weight of three souls simultaneously?”

I shook my head.

“No, the bodies were initially conveyed to the crematorium. Yet they were neither incinerated nor discarded in these catacombs. There must be a cavity within the crematorium intended for the disposal of bodies. The absence of accumulated corpses thus far suggests a larger, deeper cavity resides elsewhere.”

Upon this revelation, Noel’s face paled, and he took his first tentative step onto the timbered pathway.

“…I must relay this to my father. We should never have embarked on this expedition. It’s not too late to….”

His words were abruptly severed by a cry echoing from the rear.

“It’s Weaver and Benson!”

A voice rang out. Though I was unfamiliar with the names, I surmised from the context that they were the miners who had previously exited the catacombs. Those already embarked upon the timbered corridor could neither advance nor retreat, leaving them stranded, their terror-stricken eyes riveted on the path we had tread.

Ruben was the first to grasp the severity of our predicament.

“Natal! Run! Hurry!”

Upon his command, the miners, as if roused from a slumber, began their hurried advance. Ironically, Noel, who had been summoned, remained rooted beside me.

“But….”

“Do not dawdle!”

From the abyss, the echo of accelerating footsteps reverberated. The frequency and fervor suggested a creature of four legs, not two.

“Damn… Damn….”

In vexation, I swathed my arm in my cloak.

Emerging from the shadowy depths, the first to penetrate the lantern’s feeble light were the malevolent black hounds I had encountered previously. Their jaws smeared with blood, they charged directly towards us.

“Augustine!”

Without requiring my urgent plea, Noel sprinted towards the timbered pathway at the sight of the menacing hounds. I retreated onto the wooden platform.

“Doctor!”

I fended off one of the lunging hounds with my cloaked arm. The second hound latched onto my leg, fortuitously seizing the prosthetic. This bought me enough time for a miner to rush to my aid.

Yet, if the hunting dogs were here, it was only a matter of time before their masters arrived.

The gravekeepers were advancing. A group of around ten gravekeepers charged towards us, their countenances devoid of emotion. They wielded crowbars and shovels in their hands.

“Ah….”

Overwhelmed by the surreal and terrifying spectacle, the miners began to flee in panic.

I relinquished the hope of aid. And I fell onto the wooden corridor. I did not believe they would dare traverse this decaying passage unless they were utterly devoid of sanity.

Yet they leaped onto the timbered pathway without hesitation, as if bereft of fear or, indeed, possessed by madness. The timber plank that had been supporting my weight screamed its last lament. Its final sound must have been a creak. The corridor gave way.

And so, we were swallowed by the abyss.