Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 24

24. A Reverie of the Snow-Plumed Leviathan

From the day hence, I embraced the familiar rhythms of my accustomed existence once more.

All strife had been duly settled, and, akin to Faust in his fateful bargain, I too had stumbled upon an impassioned resolution. Were this to be chronicled in the pages of a tome, the ending could scarce be more juvenile.

“Might I procure your afternoon brew, Master?”

“I would appreciate it.”

A piercing gust, bearing winter’s chill, swept in from beyond the window. Rising from my chair, I moved to shield our haven from the onslaught. It was in this instant that I noticed the lad, a purveyor of the printed word, observing me from outside. He made his approach.

“Greetings, sir. Have you recently returned from your travels?”

Caught off-guard by his guileless query, I returned my own question,

“Do you not peruse the news of the day?”

“Alas, I am illiterate, sir.”

Acknowledging his response with a nod, I queried further,

“Are you in the business of selling these newspapers? What is the day’s offering?”

He delved into his satchel, pulling forth the contents,

“We have ‘The Daily Telegraph,’ ‘Illustrated London News,’ ‘Daily Mail,’ and ‘The Sketch’ on offer.”

“I’ll take one each of ‘The Sketch’ and ‘Illustrated London News.'”

Into his outstretched palm, I deposited two shillings. A sum twice the requisite payment, the surplus was intended as a small gesture of goodwill.

“My gratitude, sir!”

He departed, face alight with youthful joy. I secured the window against the wintry air, returning to my seat. As the room was still in the grip of the chill, I turned the dial on the radiator. This antiquated contraption, reminiscent of an artifact of Doric origin, gradually roused from its slumber, the aroma of oil permeating the space.

I held my vigil until the radiator had stirred, satisfied that it functioned as expected, then retreated to the refuge of my seat. My chair, a monolithic ode to the craftsmanship of the 16th century, was amongst the accoutrements I had procured upon my tenancy of the loft. I now ruefully regretted my hasty choice.

For one from the family of Baron, I was woefully deficient in artistic acuity, particularly when compared to my two brothers. I had rather clumsily tried to blend in with the prevalent taste for nostalgia amongst my social class, and this ill-fitted monstrosity was the outcome of my folly. As its name would imply, the chair was woefully devoid of ergonomic consideration, a stark reminder of its historical era.

This may very well have contributed to the gradual contortion of my legs.

As a result, I had largely relegated myself to my bed, and only after enduring Marie’s frequent chiding about my indolence had I returned to this seat.

One by one, I laid out the papers across my lap.

Caught up in the revival of nostalgia, the advertisements were rife with antiquated language. I found myself musing on how many of the readers truly comprehended these archaic phrases. Scattered amongst the mundane news were reports of scandal within the art world, but none piqued my curiosity.

The happenings of London were last, their headlines catching my cursory glance:

[Gaping maw opens in the city’s heart, who shall bear the cost of restoration?]

This pertained to the recent seismic disturbance in the city. While the link had not been definitively proven, it reported on a chasm opening on a London street. The article was unnecessary padding, merely an attempt to fill space.

By some stroke of fortune, the chasm had appeared in the wee hours, sparing the city of casualties.

Yet another headline screamed,

[West Norwood cemetery barred! The departed banished from London!]

Despite its sensational title, the content mirrored the earlier report. The earthquake had brought down the catacombs, forcing a temporary closure of the cemetery. Once safety could be guaranteed, it would resume operations. This was but a classic case of journalistic embellishment.

I closed the newspaper, my head spinning slightly.

All is remarkably tranquil. The heartbeat of London remains steady.

The warmth emanating from the radiator infused the room, a pleasant temperance embracing the space. The once pervasive stench of the Thames had been diluted and the usually leaden skies of London, today, bore a rare azure hue. Five biplanes pierced the firmament, bisecting the white tufts of clouds.

What?

────Clang!

The discordant echo of shattered glass reverberated through the room.

“Marie?”

The door, separating us, remained obstinately closed. No response penetrated its wooden barrier. A vicious headache besieged my senses, my temples throbbed as if they were being wrenched apart. Struggling to contain this internal turmoil, I spread out the newspaper once more, honing my attention upon it, rendering the preceding articles a faint memory.

“Who is to bear the burden of restitution for the gaping chasm unveiled at the heart of the city?”

The chronicle commenced with an account of the recent seismic activity in London. Two tremors had struck the city in recent times. The initial tremor, a minor one, had revealed a link between the catacombs of West Norwood Cemetery and Londinium. The second, a much more ferocious shaking, occurred on the day when Augustine and I were plunged beneath the city.

The morning following this seismic event, the residents of central London awoke to the cacophony of rupturing earth. Those brave enough to venture onto the streets were greeted by an abyss in their midst, a yawning void of approximately 10m in diameter.

Promptly at dawn, nine prominent insurance companies, representatives from the City Hall, the Water Management Agency, the Land Survey Agency, the General Administration Office, the London Fire Brigade, and delegates from three government departments convened to assess the situation.

Efforts to gauge the depth of the sinkhole proved fruitless. Even the longest ruler available, supplemented by the second-longest, failed to reach the bottom. Anything that descended into the chasm disappeared soundlessly, as though swallowed by nothingness.

Naturally, this sparked a chaotic blame game. Nobody wished to assume accountability for this incident and a fierce squabble erupted at the scene. Eventually, on the precipice of legal proceedings, the General Administration Office conceded to shoulder responsibility for this calamity.

They tamed the gaping void with reinforced concrete, encircling it with sturdy walls, bringing closure to the incident.

“West Norwood Cemetery barred! The departed banished from London!”

The content of this article was as inflammatory as its title. The catacombs had succumbed to the tremor, trapping 11 gravekeepers in their subterranean depths, their mortal remains forever beyond our reach.

In light of this, the General Administration Office declared a temporary closure of the cemetery, citing instability of the ground. There was no reference to Ruben Augustine and the miners.

Of course, I knew the truth. The catacombs had not simply collapsed due to the earthquake.

This was merely a stopgap measure. London was slowly sinking.

And when the monumental construction that had spanned two millennia reached its conclusion, the city would plunge into the bowels of the earth in an instant. It was a cruel inevitability as long as the entity beneath remained ravenous. The downfall of London was nigh.

The previous night was a testament to this.

As I attempted to court sleep in my bed, I was tormented by the incessant clanging of mining. They were still burrowing underground. A labor that had persisted for 2000 years was unabated.

“Marie? Marie!”

I called out, my gaze still tethered to the newspaper. Her response was conspicuous by its absence. The room was unnervingly silent. I discarded the newspaper and heaved myself out of the chair, my makeshift walking stick quivering in my grasp.

.

.

.

.

.

Yesterday bore witness to the resurrection of Shirley Marie.

Life was granted anew, born from within the confines of a waxen semblance. There she lay, a creature in distress. Initially, I surmised the spasmodic contortions of her artificial sinews were induced by shock, but I was soon disabused of this notion.

She writhed as if being engulfed by an invisible sea.

“Indeed… this is not an unprecedented event.”

The words spilled forth in a gloomy undertone from the lips of Dr. Frankenstein.

I endeavored to question him, but ere I could, Marie’s eyes flickered open. She surveyed her surroundings before letting out an unearthly scream. A shriek that seemed to be birthed from the very essence of suffering!

“Without exception, all who have been brought back from the beyond, beast or man, bellow out thusly.”

His countenance bore the visage of a man on the precipice of despair.

“Pain and terror, of a magnitude unfathomable to us, reside beyond the realm of death. It is a testament that we, as mortals, should not tread upon the shores of the Stygian river.”

Rising from his perch, Frankenstein laid his hand on Mari’s trembling head.

“Stop it.”

“What do you imply?”

“No matter what, don’t do it!”

“It’s for the experiment subject.”

And then, he…

…Ultimately, the screams that emanated from Shirley Marie subsided. The reanimated Marie cast her gaze upon me and uttered,

“Master, I am innocent of the theft of the timepiece.”

Henceforth, I could not perceive her as a member of my own species.

.

.

.

“Are you well?”

Shirley Marie was seated on the floor, ensnared in a ring of shattered porcelain.

“Ma, master, I….”

“Stay put. You might sustain injury.”

Leaning my cane against the wall, I cautiously lowered myself to the floor. Pieces of the tea cup were strewn around her feet and I commenced the task of collecting them. Marie, her gaze fixed upon her own digits, murmured,

“Am I…wounded…?”

Upon examining her fingers, I discovered a sharp shard lodged in her waxen flesh, but no blood flowed from the wound. Presumably, no sensation of pain was elicited either. I extricated the shard from her digit. The grotesque indentation that remained was a stark reminder of its previous inhabitant.

“What did I…”

Her voice was barely a whisper.

───Ding dong.

At the sound of the doorbell, Marie’s head snapped towards the source of the noise. She sprang to her feet, hastily making her way towards the entrance.

“I’ll, I’ll attend to it!”

“Wait.”

She disregarded my plea, flinging open the door.

“Marie, has your wellbeing been preserved? How fares your constitution?”

“Ah, Count Frank.”

An unwelcome voice floated in from the threshold.

“Is Philemon present? It goes without saying. Given the condition of his leg, where could he possibly venture?”

“Yes, but… at this juncture….”

“Is he in the realm of dreams? Worry not, merely announce my presence and rouse him from his slumber.”

As I assembled the fragments into a neat pile and hoisted myself off the floor with great effort, I grasped my cane leaning against the wall and ambled towards the entrance. Arthur Frank, upon recognizing me, flashed an audacious smile.

“Permit him entrance.”

“Ah, Philemon, how the tables have turned since our last encounter.”

Before Marie could even step aside, Arthur sauntered in. Poor Marie, taken aback, retreated until she found herself pressed against the wall. Almost like a creature unversed in the art of ambulation.

“She is yet to attain full functionality.”

With a sidelong glance at her, Arthur voiced his observation under his breath. Marie’s eyes, as devoid of warmth as glass marbles, trembled. Since her visage was formed from wax, the only means of expressing her feelings were limited to such minute gestures. The woman who once was animated could only maintain a single countenance.

She was no more than a puppet endowed with a brain.

“Let’s adjourn to the parlor.”

“The tea, I…”

“Your assistance is appreciated, but unnecessary. Retire and rest.”

Witnessing her movement was a sight most heart-wrenching. The torment she was subject to was merely a byproduct of my own selfish desires. What had I inflicted upon her merely to alleviate my guilt?

Choosing to ignore the reality of my situation, I made my way towards the parlor.

The moment the door swung open with a resounding thud, a multitude of rats scheming to raid the kitchen scattered in various directions. Their numbers seemed to have grown since my last encounter, their physical forms bearing the evidence of malnourishment. Arthur, who had witnessed the spectacle over my shoulder, quipped with a smirk,

“Were you aware of your additional housemates?”

“I choose to refrain from commenting on the decrepit state of your mansion purely as a gesture of gentlemanly respect. Take heed.”

We settled down. Arthur quickly commandeered his seat, and no sooner had I lowered myself onto the cushion, he launched into the main subject at hand.

“I am here to procure your response to the proposition extended yesterday.”

“Did I not request additional time?”

“And I have hence granted you the entirety of the night. Philo, you must comprehend my impatience when I covet something. Surely, I cannot accord you special indulgences?”

I found myself utterly bereft of words in the face of his audacity. Without awaiting my response, Arthur plunged headlong into his narrative.

“In the early morn, I ventured to the West Norwood Cemetery. En route, as I cast my gaze skywards, I discerned a flight that belonged neither to avian nor aeronautical creation. Such sights have been sporadically visible in the London sky for a period now. I find it perplexing how the populace remains indifferent. All it would take is a simple upward tilt of the chin.”

His customary flood of meaningless prattle had been unleashed. I was at a loss to decipher his intentions. However, as Arthur continued his tale, the ominous intent beneath the surface began to take form, stirring a dread within me concerning my erstwhile friend’s impending revelations.

“Upon my arrival at the cemetery, I found it to be inaccessible. The speed with which the rotund, lethargic mayor moved to enforce closure surprised me. Furthermore, there were guards posted. Upon inquiry, I was informed that they were employed by the General Administration Office or some such entity. Apparently, the cemetery was rendered off-limits by a royal decree, and the guards were stationed to prevent unwitting trespassers from venturing into the hazard zone. Since when, I wonder, has London exhibited such regard for human lives?”

Then he dared utter the unthinkable.

“Surely, you do not harbour suspicions against Her Majesty?”

Scarcely had Arthur concluded his sentence, I attempted to hoist myself from my chair. Perhaps my intent was to grab him by the collar, and had my legs cooperated, I might have succeeded.

Instead, my voice resonated through the room.

“Are you suggesting Her Majesty has sold London to the subterranean beasts!”

“What transpires in London is bound by no limits.”

Arthur’s eyes half-closed, seemingly absorbing my fervor.

“Philo, my friend. I have devoted considerable thought to the matter of London. I dare not claim that my reflections were of shorter duration than yours. And I have arrived at a singular conclusion.”

His voice, laced with tedium, bore the essence of his revelation. It was necessitated. He was a priest, a harbinger of mortality. A priest’s sermon on death could harbor no cheer. Arthur intoned solemnly.

“London is already a corpse upon which we thrive. Can you not see the truth, no matter how much you strive to look away?”

His words trailed off, and my mind was besieged by a kaleidoscope of thoughts.

Yes, I had borne witness to it all along. Consigned to the basement of a suburban mansion, navigating through London’s pipes, cloaked in the shadows of back alleys, slumbering in London’s underbelly!

“No… this cannot be.”

Indeed, humanity is already extinct! It remains unnoticed by all!

“What… what is it that you wish to convey?”

“Do not feign ignorance. If you intend to retort with such pedestrian comments, refrain from voicing them at all.”

Arthur’s voice grew strident, his intensity escalating.

“The Oracle computes the fate of London, nay, the future of all mankind! Merely by calculating a sequence of numbers, the existence of humanity is debated! How outrageously presumptuous those who deem themselves divine appear when determining our fate!”

With a vehement blow, Arthur’s fist connected with the desk. His knuckles were torn and blood began to seep out. He glared at the desk, gasping for breath for what seemed an eternity.

“I resolved to confine….”

“Them? It’s an impossibility!”

“No, not them. We are the ones who will be imprisoned.”

He slowly shook his head, lifting his gaze towards the ceiling.

“Where, I wonder, do all these pseudo-deities originate from?”

I followed his gaze upwards, only to behold a ceiling scarred by mold, tarnishing the paint. Lowering my gaze, I locked eyes with Arthur. In his irises, a spectacle of cosmic colors, stars and nebulae twinkled against the backdrop of an infinitely dark expanse.

Deep within his eyes was the fathomless universe. They were concealed within the impenetrable, inky depths of the universe, beyond the reach of even starlight!

“I will seal off the universe. That is the sole purpose of the Frank Academic Society.”

Arthur Frank was undoubtedly a madman.

(TO BE CONTINUED)