Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 28

28. ■■■ ■■ ■■■ Comes

As the moon rode high in the inky expanse of the London night, when even the clamour of this metropolis had subsided into a desolate quiet, there came a timid knock on my chamber door. It was Marie, visiting in an hour when slumber usually took hold, and the city’s cacophony was a distant echo.

My room was bathed in the golden glow of every lamp and candle I could ignite, piercing the darkness with defiance. Seated on the edge of my bed in a modest posture, Marie mimicked my actions, saying nothing.

Two curious objects adorned my desk: one, a blackened tome that promised the mysteries of the heavens; the other, a notebook, bearing the name of Marie Curie. My obscure and often clandestine work was laid bare, causing Marie’s eyes to flicker with restrained curiosity.

Many a thought and word had I prepared for her, but her presence reduced them to mere echoes in my mind, leaving me wordless. When finally I spoke, it was a raw, unadorned confession.

“Perhaps you are aware, Marie, it was I who bore the responsibility for your death.”

Her eyes, glassy and cool as mercury, fluttered with palpable shock.

“Was this knowledge not yours?”

“No,” she replied, her voice an off-kilter melody, a fusion of copper and zinc – a symphony of the inanimate and living. It held an eerie beauty, yet lacked the warmth to fully mirror human emotion.

“I could have surmised as much. I knew my injuries were grave, but to know they were fatal…that I relinquished my life…I suppose it makes sense.” Her eyes, orbs filled with collagen and preservative, shifted towards me.

“That day, Marie, I sank my fangs into your neck. My teeth pierced your artery, leading to heart failure from the ensuing blood loss. This was the hand that death dealt you.”

Fright flickered across her countenance, causing her to avert her gaze.

“Why recount such a brutal tale? Is it because you believe I pilfered the timepiece?”

“No, not at all,” I admitted, a shade of shyness colouring my words. “I am losing my grasp on sanity.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her gaze now fixed on me.

“In an effort to restore my sanity, I fed my ego to the beast within. Yet, I fear, I am far from restored. Each time I close my eyes, I hear the gnawing, incessant sound of bugs within my skull, feasting upon my brain. It’s driving me towards madness.”

Marie blinked her glassy eyes.

“Is this merely a metaphor?”

“I wish it were so.”

Then, the understanding dawned upon me – the torment that had been Arthur’s lot. To confront the truth, to abandon hope and face one’s darkest fears.

In a feeble voice, I began to recite the rehearsed words.

“Imagine, Marie, if Magellan, in his quest to prove the Earth round, discovered an insurmountable cliff at the end of his journey. Imagine if all human knowledge was revealed as nothing more than a vain dream, and destiny, subject to the whims of the currents, consigned us to an endless abyss. I am a survivor of the Victoria Lake incident, and I’ve been bestowed with a gruesome truth as a punishment for my transgressions. The human mind is frail, incapable of withstanding such revelations.”

Marie, if I wasn’t mistaken, appeared frightened and reluctant.

“Why do you think I kept you by my side, Marie? I’ve always said you’re not oblivious, and I believe you’ve understood my meaning. Have you not?”

A brief, uneasy silence fell between us.

“To be honest, I hoped you wouldn’t return. I prayed that you would start anew somewhere far from London. I had resolved to dedicate my life to ensuring your comfort, a small and somewhat insufficient penance. But since you’ve chosen to remain in London, I will no longer keep the truth from you. Originally, I didn’t intend to share this with anyone, but now that we’re here…”

My voice trailed off, the bitter taste of my words lingering on my tongue.

“Shadows have gathered over London, Marie, posing a threat to all mankind. And your name, Shirley Marie, is among them.”

From the confines of my notebook, I drew out a sheet of printed paper, a relic of a bygone era. To my knowledge, only one device of this time could yield such a paper.

“Do you recall Count Frank?”

With a nod, Marie acknowledged the memory.

On awakening in the underground laboratory that day, the first sight to greet her had been Dr. Frankenstein, stitching her head. Arthur and I were standing behind him, and the realization of her nudity struck her like a thunderbolt.

The incident was surely etched in her memory, an unforgettable nightmare for a young maiden. It must have pained her, being visited by Arthur and Frankenstein in turns.

“Count Frank was one of the first to decipher the world’s secrets. He created a plan to prevent mankind from being consumed by darkness, and in doing so, he founded a secret society called the Frank Academic Society. I plan to join his cause. At the heart of this society is a machine called the Oracle, located in the mansion’s basement. Yes, the monstrous machine you encountered the day you emerged from the basement. It’s a complex apparatus, a calculator with immense predictive capabilities, capable of charting our future.”

With a heavy heart, I continued, “According to the Oracle’s calculations, you, Marie, are destined to bring about humanity’s downfall.”

Upon her revival, the Oracle for the first time in months had spat out a different value.

「Ⅲ」

The ominous phrase was imprinted clearly on the output paper.

“You… you might be one of those things. Honestly, I’m still afraid of you.”

That night, I spoke a few more words with Marie.

From the prophecy of the final vision to be beheld by the remnants of humanity, to the mending of a shattered teacup, her reaction was less taken aback than I had anticipated.

She inquired earnestly how to properly receive guests. She endeavoured to shroud her countenance and mimicked the silent opening of the door, seeking advice on which was less likely to inspire terror. I was uncertain whether she had truly accepted her monstrous transformation or if she was simply wallowing in self-deprecation, influenced by the pervasive melancholy.

In the end, our conversation continued until only a single building in London remained illuminated. Around the same time, our dialogue ceased. All tales seemed to evaporate at once, leaving their content in a foggy haze.

She appeared lost in profound contemplation, wordless, resembling a doll in her silence. I confessed my fatigue and dismissed her. When she departed from my quarters, I unlatched the window and retched.

That night, I lost consciousness, tormented by an icy chill. I dreamt a nightmarish waltz with the deceased.

.

.

.

The following day, I ventured out early in the morning.

Marie was nowhere to be found until the moment I departed from the house. She was always diligent enough to conclude her chores before I arose, so I did not surmise her to be asleep. I concluded that she required more time.

And so did I. Opting against a carriage, I chose to ambulate.

The unique, nauseating aroma of a London winter morning was heavy in the dense fog. Although the foul residue clung to my respiratory tract with each inhalation, it served to clarify my thoughts rather well.

The university was not far. Even at my unhurried pace, I would arrive in less than an hour. I cast my gaze skywards. London refused to reveal even the sky.

Old Court University.

This secretive and secluded university was an anomaly, even when measured against the standards of the 19th century. Naturally, from a 21st-century perspective, it may appear unfathomable how it came to exist in such conditions.

Therefore, I shall provide a succinct explanation, borrowing the name of a prestigious university emblematic of the 19th century, Cambridge.

Of course, there exists no personal agenda in citing Cambridge, my alma mater. Even Oxford University, most renowned for producing the English dictionary, followed belatedly in Cambridge’s advanced footsteps, so no further explanation should be necessary.

In any case, back to the subject at hand.

In the 19th century, all university students were affiliated with a college. This is not the concept of a faculty we commonly know today, but more akin to a form of membership within the university. Each college owned a certain tract of land, and students resided in campus buildings situated on their college’s premises.

This is not to imply that it corresponds to the concept of a department. Departments were separate entities, each assigned its respective professors. In Cambridge, a professor would be responsible for one student, or at most, about half a dozen. This is because universities of this era had a predominant role as nurturing grounds for academia.

Understandably, there were no restrictions on the lectures a college could attend.

By this point, one can comprehend how peculiar Old Court’s customs are, even by 19th-century standards.

Since the monastery first opened its doors to the public 250 years ago, their inconvenient customs have persisted until today. The colleges, split into no more than three due to the narrow plot, were isolated and fragmented, adhering strictly to isolationism.

Professors and students remained unaware of who belonged to other colleges, what classes were being held, or what research was being conducted. Even the professors and graduates affiliated with the campus were cautious about revealing which college they were associated with, maintaining their secrecy with an unidentifiable sense of belonging.

It was an odd phenomenon. It was astonishing that such a large, secretive community could operate so openly in a corner of London. And at its heart, he was there.

■■■ ■■ ■■■.

Since laying eyes upon Arthur’s letter the day before, I could not help but harbour a preconception about Old Court. If the acting dean Kallas was correct, it was clear that the dean held a close relationship with the Royal Society.

And Old Court was rife with inexplicable implications.

Its entity was so opaque that I could not even hazard a guess as to its nature. It felt as if I was voluntarily walking into an enemy-laid trap unarmed. The circumstances that had led me to Old Court were too convenient to be coincidence, yet contained too many variables to be inevitable.

I resolved not to overlook any clues within the unfolding destiny.

Anyway, after much contemplation, I finally arrived at King Henry VIII College. It was somewhat early, yet the students arrived in the classroom just in time for the lecture. All the buildings in the Old Court were akin to a labyrinth. It was common for corridors and staircases that appeared connected from the outside to lead nowhere.

I held no great expectations for the lecture.

In this humble college, there were unlikely to be many scholars attending the winter term. Furthermore, I was a fresh professor, infamous merely for my contentious nature, bereft of any academic validation.

Contrary to my predictions, the lecture hall was teeming with students.

The room was not of meagre proportions, yet students who had failed to secure a seat were resigned to the edges, readying themselves to partake in the discourse whilst standing. All students were armed with parchment and writing implements, showing no signs of having wandered in mistakenly.

I flung open the door, surveying the scene with a bewildered gaze.

Then, upon feeling the intensity of the students’ stares, I trudged towards the podium with the dread of a piglet being led to the abattoir. I dispelled the growing noise with a series of dry coughs and eschewed the formulaic introduction.

“It is likely known to all… I am Philemon Herbert, your guide through the course on Nationalism and International Politics. I trust you will glean much from today’s discourse.”

The lecture commenced amidst the innocent applause of the scholars.

It was an unforeseen scenario, yet the class progressed without notable incidents. The curiosity of Old Court’s scholars was no less than their counterparts at renowned institutions such as Cambridge. Each time I elucidated my prepared materials, I found myself responding to a barrage of inquiries.

The students probed with innocent and academic questions befitting their age, some of which were so incisive that even a celebrated professor would hesitate to answer. And I was the lecturer of this discourse.

I hastily supplemented persuasive explanations, bathed in perspiration. I had envisioned my discourse to be grounded in moral perspectives, but the students pursued logic relentlessly. Explaining the sovereignty of a nation to such pupils proved a herculean task.

Some scholars seemed to occupy their seats solely to refute my propositions. Eventually, I conceded and called for a recess, as though surrendering.

Then, a few scholars packed their writing implements and vacated the room. Their seats were promptly claimed by scholars who had been absent before the break. I was aware of the college’s liberal academic culture, but this sight still delivered a considerable shock.

“Are you taken aback?”

As I sat, attempting to recover, a scholar approached and initiated a dialogue.

“You are…”

Looking at the scholar, I was overwhelmed by a powerful sensation of déjà vu. However, since I seldom interacted with students on campus, I struggled to place them. She promptly provided additional information, as if anticipating my struggle.

“Do you recall our encounter in the library three months past?”

“Ah, I do.”

Then I remembered this scholar. She was the gracious pupil who had assisted me in scaling the library stairs while I gathered data on the beasts of the Silgwin Forest.

“Were you also present. Was the discourse tolerable?”

I cautiously probed, harbouring a flicker of hope. She responded with brutal honesty.

“In all honesty, it was somewhat dull. It will improve, I trust?”

Although her candour was startling, I found myself at a loss for words, shocked. My baseless confidence that I would surpass the pedantic, aged professors in captivating my pupils had been shattered. Before I could recover from this blow, she continued.

“As I informed you then, I expect a fresh current to surge through Old Court. Other scholars share this sentiment. It has become somewhat of an Old Court tradition to attend the inaugural lecture of a new professor. Shall we liken it to a baptism of wisdom?”

Wisdom, that word surfaced again.

It was evident that Hollo, the deputy Dean Kallas, was not alone in his deep reverence for the word “wisdom”. It was perplexing how such a uniform belief could permeate a university populated by individuals of diverse backgrounds.

“But you scholars must surely be at ease. The discourses are open to all, and the professor doesn’t assign grades.”

“That is a misconception. After all, it is Dean ■■■ ■■ who ultimately decides graduation.”

Her words were peculiar, yet every bit true.

Within the college, all discourses at Old Court were accessible to all. Scholars freely audited and dropped courses without being bound by a major. They were not subjected to exams or grades, and the conferring of their diplomas was at the Dean’s discretion.

I questioned how the Dean, who barely mustered the effort to sign a contract with a professor, would assess the academic progression of all scholars and determine the basis for graduation.

“Do you always address them by their full name?”

“Do you refer to Dean ■■■ ■■ ■■■?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, we have four Deans, including the deputy, so a touch of caution does no harm.”

Though her explanation seemed plausible, it did not wholly satisfy me.

“Perhaps you may encounter him today. Today is the day the Dean graces our college with his visit.”

“That would be fortuitous. I haven’t even had the chance to extend my greetings yet. Could I meet him if I seek him out at the Dean’s office?”

At this, she gifted the young scholar before her with an enlightened smile, reminiscent of a monk.

“No. The Dean may be encountered anywhere. If one is indeed wise, that is.”

All I perceived from her cryptic smile was a sense of disquiet. It mirrored the unease I felt when I met Deputy Dean Kallas a fortnight prior. The youthful scholar before me seemed to metamorphose into an entirely different entity within a moment. I was engulfed by a chilling sensation of incongruity.

I rapidly shifted the topic of our discourse.

“However, I was taken aback by the sheer number of attendees at my lecture. Is it not commonplace for the professor to make an appearance?”

“No, but few linger for an extended duration.”

Somehow, her words offered a nebulous understanding. Every revelation about this university shrouded me in an ominous aura. It seemed improbable that many would desire to remain in such a stifling atmosphere.

“We all bear lofty expectations of you, professor.”

As per schedule, the intermission concluded and the lecture resumed.

I found myself unable to concentrate on the discourse. My brief exchange with the young scholar had adhered to my mind like tar, clouding my thoughts. Despite this, the lecture proceeded similarly to its conduct before the break.

The only evident alteration was the assembly of scholars. Many had departed, and their vacancies were filled by unfamiliar faces. Adjusting to such a capricious classroom environment seemed quite a formidable task.

The wall clock indicated it was about 11:15.

Abruptly, a scholar rose to his feet.

His countenance did not ring any bells, but I was bereft of choice. He was the typical scholar you could find ubiquitously. A healthy, industrious student one could encounter on any campus, be it two decades prior during my university years, or presently.

He did not exude the aura of a disruptor. Yet, the expression that subsequently crossed his face was one I knew would be etched in my memory indefinitely.

Pure ecstasy radiated from his countenance.

His eyes, formerly bright with curiosity, now held a vacant look as though gazing upon something transcendent. Overcome with euphoria, he raised his gaze to the ceiling and proclaimed,

“■■■ ■■ ■■■ is here!”

All scholars’ attention was riveted on the young man. They then followed his gaze upwards, towards the ceiling.

I was not granted the opportunity to observe what had captured their attention. I was too dumbfounded by the scholar’s abrupt behaviour and felt compelled to intervene. He appeared to be in dire need of aid.

Another scholar rose to his feet and declared,

“It’s true! ■■■ ■■ ■■■ is here!”

His outcry served as the catalyst, and scholars began standing in quick succession. Soon, the lecture hall was devoid of seated scholars. They all craned their necks to gaze at the ceiling. A palpable wave of ecstasy washed over them, and they chorused,

“Oh! ■■■ ■■ ■■■ is here! Oh! ■■■ ■■ ■■■ is here!”

I was utterly confounded.

I hastily scanned the scholars’ faces. To my horror, even the scholar who had conversed with me during the break was an active participant in this frenzied spectacle.

The others were no different. The scholar who had enthusiastically engaged in inquiry, the scholar who had detected grammatical errors in my book, the scholar incessantly scribbling in his notebook, these erstwhile ordinary individuals were unrecognisable. They were consumed by a euphoria of pure form.

I could only watch this spectacle of madness unfold, paralysed by disbelief.

It was purely by chance that my gaze fell upon a small, worn parchment wedged between the window frames. I could not ascertain whether it had been present before the commencement of the lecture. I found myself aimlessly approaching it and tugging it free.

The scholars were indifferent to my actions.

The emblem of Oldcourt University was depicted on the parchment, which appeared to have lain dormant for decades.

“■■■ ■■ ■■■ is here! Oh! ■■■ ■■ ■■■ is here!”

“■■■ ■■ ■■■ is here!”

“….”

The voices of the scholars, their necks extended towards the sky as they chanted frenetically, began to subside. A few minutes had elapsed since the initial proclamation. They all abruptly ceased their outcry and seated themselves, as if nothing had transpired.

They turned their gaze towards me, standing by the window, their expressions indicating anticipation for the continuation of the lecture. Involuntarily, my eyes darted to the wall clock.

11:15.

I hastily wrapped up the lecture, as if propelled by an external force. Dispensing with the formalities of greetings or queries, I fled the lecture hall like a fugitive.

Was I spiralling into madness yet again? Was this a hallucination?

Instinctively, my hand slipped into my pocket. The rough, dry texture of the concealed parchment resonated through my fingertips to my spine. This was evidence of my sanity. I was not a victim of hallucination.

■■■ ■■ ■■■ had indeed been present.

(TO BE CONTINUED)