Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 26

26. Thanatophobia

There was a day, a rain-drenched winter’s day, wherein the last breaths of London’s leaves clung to the rain-soaked earth.

Perhaps it was due to the humility of the funeral, or perhaps the thought of receiving the rain’s touch to salute my father’s final journey was too much for them, but not even half the seats reserved were filled when the coffin bearing my father was taken to the crematorium.

I, having been notified late and having rushed from the confines of Cambridge, arrived at the culmination of the ceremony. My mother, being drenched by the rain, kept her face veiled behind a shroud, offering no glimpse of the emotions etched onto her features.

“Philemon, your presence here soothes my heart somewhat.”

“Where is Bazel, that scoundrel?”

My question echoed abruptly. My heart was brimming more with rage than sorrow.

“You’re no longer a child, choose your words wisely in consideration of our circumstance. We informed him of the event, yet it appears he failed to acknowledge it. It would seem he provided us with an incorrect address.”

“How could he….”

Words failed me. In retrospect, my second elder brother must have borne the greater share of frustration, even if he didn’t show it. He, left to fend for himself in London, was the one who had arranged the funeral, dealing with insurance agents who prowled the cemetery’s outskirts.

Only then did I perceive the weariness etched deep into my second elder brother’s countenance.

Unwilling to discern if it was tears or rain that had traced paths down his face, I made my way to the crematorium ahead of the priest’s conclusion of the mass. They say that through the smoke of the crematorium, the deceased ascend to the heavens. But on such a rainy day, even the smoke failed to rise far.

My father’s remains found their place in the ossuary, and a pen factory was erected upon his resting place five years thence. The construction was executed abruptly without any prior notice, and my father’s ashes were scattered somewhere within London.

It was then that I fully embraced my second chance at life.

I became aware that I did not wish to perish. The lines between life and death became so blurred.

………

…..

…

..

.

With the advent of December, I found myself consumed by various tasks for a fortnight.

To quantify, I devoured a book each day, entertained two guests, permitted myself no more than three hours of rest each day, and received a total of four letters. It is surprising to note that these numbers seemed to flow together in an unrelated sequence.

Primarily, my time was greatly occupied by the task of preparing materials for the winter semester.

Teaching full lectures was a new adventure for me. I had previously imparted knowledge to pupils, but only in the capacity of a guest lecturer. The ephemeral duration of such lectures couldn’t compare to a university lecture, which unfolded over the span of a year. This necessitated a more intricate and sophisticated curriculum.

I dusted off a few tomes that I had ignored for too long. Despite being a product of my misinterpretation and illusions, I could not deny that the academic texts emblematic of Dr. Philemon Herbert were “Ethnicity and Destiny” and “The Age of Anti-intellectualism”.

Thus, whilst constantly grumbling, I prepared for the lecture, almost as though I were studying my own books anew. Topics that were popular with current students, such as nationalism, international society, and so forth. Fortunately, given the recency of these concepts, I found myself still at the forefront of academia, despite having neglected my research for a time.

But the sands of time were rapidly falling.

It was only natural that I was attempting to prepare in a mere two weeks what I had initially planned to undertake over three months. Over the last few months, I hadn’t had the luxury to commit time to such a stagnant task. I was split in two, half of me in madness, and the other confined.

Despite my multitude of excuses, I found it contrary to my nature to be lazy in my designated tasks. I found myself anchored to my chair for two weeks straight, consuming a plethora of books to complete the winter semester’s curriculum.

In the midst of all this, I scarcely found time for a decent slumber.

Each night under the watchful gaze of the stars, a spontaneous inspiration would illuminate my mind. My body felt not wholly my own. Entranced by the cascade of two notebooks, I pursued the task of translation like one possessed.

The English translations of the “The Gospel of Blackriver” and the “Marie Curie” notes were nearing completion.

No, in fact, the prayer of The Gospel of Blackriver had already been entirely translated. I had two copies of the transcripts, one a verbatim transcription, the other an English translation. The verses of the prayer were etched into the recesses of my mind and my vision.

Even the act of thinking felt excruciating, as though my body was set ablaze, yet I could recall even the stains of sweat on the notebook’s corner with vivid clarity.

Many times over, I found myself thankful for the frailty of human speech. One night, having lost my senses, I found myself reciting the malevolent verse repeatedly. From that moment, I endeavored to exercise greater caution to prevent total loss of self.

In the midst of all this, a horrifying truth emerged. The three spells that adorned the chapter of the Gospel of Blackriverl were not fruits of my delusion. This was ancient wisdom imparted to me by another. I was disconcerted by the idea that such a miniscule and malevolent existence had hinted at such knowledge

Conversely, the text of Madame Curie was infused with a plainness that defied the fervency of her narrative style.

It was a mere compendium of facts, every line punctuated by her speculations as to its logic. Ruthlessly, she proceeded, altering sentences that reeked of irrationality.

There was no trace of frantic prayer, no hint of a woman losing her grip on reality. What emerged from the parchment were solely objective truths and research material. As she navigated towards the denouement, even she began to falter.

Her sterile style grew further parched as if she presaged her impending doom. Such material was more suited to a physicist or a chemist than me. No English phrase could sufficiently articulate the tenacity of her will.

I remained undeterred until I had translated the final sentence. I entertained the possibility that she had concealed a clue to be decoded at the end, and her madness beckoned me.

Every night, I was enthralled by her fantasy, my pen dancing a captivating ballet on the paper. At times, I indulged in a brisk polka, and on occasion, I surrendered myself to the leisurely rhythms of the Allemande. Each time Johann Strauss father and son alternately asked who’s music was better.

When the sun rose, casting away the shadows that lay reflected in the window, the magic waned. I relinquished my hold on the pen, falling into a slumber akin to collapse.

The toll of such a disorderly existence became evident in a mere fortnight. My health was in tatters.

Regardless of where I fell asleep, I would always awake in bed. Marie tried to coax me to rest occasionally, but her efforts were futile. She was too perceptive. She grasped my fear and unease better than anyone else.

———Knock, knock.

The sound of knocking echoed in the room. Judging from the direction, it appeared to be from the front door.

Marie had grown increasingly silent upon observing my distaste for her voice. The consideration I had once cherished now felt worse than nothing.

“Enter.”

The door creaked open, revealing the visitor.

“Greetings.”

“Dr. Frankenstein.”

I nudged the box at my feet further under the desk. It contained the translations of the Gospel of Blackriver and Curie’s notes.

“To what do I owe this visit?”

“Is a reason necessary?”

Frankenstein murmured, seemingly taken aback by my response.

“From what I gather, you would only venture out for a purpose.”

“You are not entirely mistaken.”

He handed me a letter.

“What is this?”

“A missive from Chairman Frank.”

“I see.”

I accepted the letter and laid it on my desk. Frankenstein glanced between me and the letter before venturing a question.

“Don’t you wish to peruse it?”

“I have received four such letters from him in the past fortnight, and they were nearly identical. Has he penned something novel this time?”

“I cannot say…”

Frankenstein replied hesitantly.

“Chairman Frank appears to be quite distressed of late. He would appreciate a reply if you are not too occupied to attend to his letters.”

“What could possibly be troubling him? A beagle faced with a pheasant would exhibit more patience.”

The mere thought of Arthur triggered a throbbing headache. He had flooded my desk with verbose letters berating my lethargy ever since his visit. I was beginning to wonder if he viewed me as his underling.

“Is there anything else? If not, kindly request Arthur to entrust such tasks to a postman.”

Frankenstein did not respond. As I had suspected, he had more on his mind.

He mumbled, glancing back at the door.

“Did you mention Shirley Marie? You omitted her name.”

“Yes, it so happened.”

He touched his throat with his thumb and index finger.

“Is there something wrong with your throat?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s a… complex matter.”

At a loss for words, I retorted in exasperation.

“Why do you inquire?”

“I am here to perform maintenance.”

“Maintenance?”

“Even God left disease to mankind, would I be any different….”

He mumbled somberly. However, I suspected that the maintenance he referred to was not merely about repairing his body. I raised my finger to my lips.

Frankenstein stared at my gesture, puzzled. I motioned for him to lock the door with my other hand, and he finally understood. After securing the door, he moved closer, his voice barely audible. In order to hear him, I had to draw my chair nearer.

“You were quick to notice.”

“It’s a habit inherited from my days in the military.”

“Is it her?”

“Yes… she wasn’t naturally inclined to eavesdrop…”

I voiced in a desolate tone. In response, Frankenstein regarded my leg with somber eyes.

“Life is repugnant, I sympathize.”

He ensconced himself on my bed without solicitation. It was a discourteous act, yet I refrained from admonishing him. His melancholy was already palpable, his hands clenched as if threatening to rip his skin.

“Oh… poor Elizabeth… pitiful Elizabeth…”

I remained silent as he immersed himself in self-reproach. From his eyes, tears traced paths down to his hands, their sobs trickling through his fingers.

“Because humans cherish what they have lost, requests for the resurrection of life are not uncommon. To act against the laws of life is a natural inclination. I have never denied these foolish supplications…”

“So, Marie wasn’t the first to be resurrected?”

Frankenstein conceded with a nod. My face displayed a mix of shock and disbelief.

“Heavens… there are more of them!”

I recoiled at my own words. What had I insinuated about Marie?

“You need not fret about that.”

Contrarily, Frankenstein responded to my outburst with equanimity. As if he had foreseen such a reaction.

“Because they have all perished.”

“What?”

“Life, as captivating as it appears, is hideous beneath the surface. The price of beholding this secret is more unbearable than the apple Adam and Eve consumed…”

Dr. Frankenstein intertwined his fingers. His hands moved as though touching a tangible presence.

“Initially, I crafted them to resemble humans. I painstakingly added flesh and muscle to make it seem as though the individual had returned to life. Gradually, I made them appear less human. I distorted facial features, modified skin colors to hues inconceivable for a human, removed hair and wrinkles… And finally, I discovered. The closer they mirror humans, the quicker they succumb to death.”

Frankenstein’s tongue unfurled. His elongated tongue, akin to the corpse of a hanged man, spewed out words.

“They were all slain. By those desperate enough to be resurrected.”

And Frankenstein voiced his lament.

“What is a soul? Why can’t what was lost return? Humans are driven by greed. Even a newborn, unable to articulate, knows that once a toy is destroyed, it cannot be repaired. Even if provided a replica, he wails, claiming it isn’t what he desires. Can’t humans be revived, given identical thoughts, identical bodies? Is Shirley Marie alive or merely a pitiful mimic of a deceased individual? Chairman Frank, you erred. God need not sully his hands to inflict punishment upon us. He had already doomed us to execute our beloved ones once more. This is the secret of life and procreation that we naively perceive as pure. Life is bondage, death is a curse. We were brought into existence merely to perish.”

Frankenstein expelled a sigh. His sunken eyes welled up with tears.

“Shirley Marie… She now resembles a doll more than a human. It’s expected since she is crafted from wax that shields against lead poisoning. But it seems it couldn’t entirely disguise the repulsion you harbor.”

Frankenstein rose from his seat, not masking his contempt and guilt. He cleared his throat and murmured in a hopeless voice, one that seemed choked and futile.

“All correspondence sent by Chairman Frank is being monitored at the General Post Office. The same applies to letters dispatched to the Frank residence….”

I frowned.

“Is this true?”

“I cannot be certain. But the chairman advised me against penning sensitive matters in letters… If this is indeed true, our adversary has thoroughly infiltrated all aspects of British society. Please be cautious….”

Having exhausted his words, Frankenstein vacated the room. He seemed intent on not lingering a moment longer, unencumbered, he opened the front door and exited.

Marie, who had been lingering outside the room, was nowhere to be seen. Whether it was due to her inability to hear the voices or the locked door, I couldn’t discern. I blankly stared at the letter from Arthur resting on the desk.

And then, it dawned on me.

As Frankenstein expressed, humans fear death. They are engineered that way.

Shirley Marie, she glimpsed something beyond death, and I fear her.

But if death is as terrifying as proposed, why can’t I, having once experienced it, recall anything at all?

(TO BE CONTINUED)