Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 5

§05. Rotten Mother

In the hallowed halls of academia, I beheld a lady of exceptional brilliance. Madame Curie, renowned for her pioneering work in the realm of radioactivity, stood before me – a symbol of feminine intellect and ingenuity. Though she appeared a decade my junior, her expertise far surpassed my own.

“Are you the esteemed Dr. Herbert, author of ‘Nation and Destiny’ and ‘The Age of Anti-Intellectualism’?” she inquired, her voice ringing with a note of respect.

I could not help but gape in astonishment, as I had never anticipated that the titles of my tomes would pass through her lips. Yet, she nodded with a proud gleam in her eye, and withdrew from her desk drawer a book – the French translation of my work.

“I found it quite impressive!” she exclaimed.

I confess that I was quite bewildered by her words. Madame Curie had always been a figure to be emulated, yet our dynamic was quite the opposite. To her, I was a learned scholar with a record of accomplishments, while to me, she was but a newly minted research student.

At this, I suppressed a chuckle. I could not take pride in authoring a tome that impressed a figure as illustrious as she.

There exists a possibility that one day, the inscrutable enigma of my past may be expounded upon. But until that moment arrives, I am left with the knowledge that those two books bear the indelible mark of my darkest history. Whenever I am confronted by young scholars who laud my work and offer their admiration, my mind reels in bewilderment.

Especially when it was the esteemed Madame Curie herself who approached me.

“Initially, we had hoped to secure the presence of Pierre Curie,” interjected Arthur, as if to excuse himself.

“However, he remains engrossed in research back in France, and we could not expect him to abandon his work.”

“I comprehend,” I replied.

“In addition, Professor Becquerel is currently aiding him with his research endeavors. It would be untenable for both of them to vacate their posts at the institute.”

“Right. They couldn’t both abandon their work and come.”

Arthur and Curie continued their dialogue, as if in unison. I was at a loss, witnessing two figures so familiar to me from my past life and my present existence converse so amiably.

“When Pierre declined the invitation, he suggested that his wife attend in his stead. I subsequently discovered that the research they are presently undertaking was instigated by Madame Curie herself,” Arthur divulged.

“Both Pierre and Professor Becquerel have offered invaluable assistance to me,” Madame Curie added.

“I was compelled to alter my opinion once I met her. She possesses a preternatural acuity, which those so-called scholars of the academic community could never hope to achieve,” Arthur extolled.

Never before had I witnessed such a profound outpouring of admiration from Arthur. But this was no ordinary individual – this was the illustrious Madame Curie, whose remarkable intellect had already distinguished her at such a young age.

“Well, we must depart now. Ah, this is the statue we discussed earlier.”

“Ah, yes, I appreciate it,” Madame Curie replied.

Arthur concluded our discourse with a brusque gesture, already striding away before Madame Curie could finish her farewell.

As we departed, I was filled with an undeniable sense of regret. Who knew when I would again encounter an individual as exceptional as Madame Curie? It was with a heavy heart that I trailed behind Arthur, aware that any pretense of familiarity with her would seem ludicrous, given the remarkable achievements she would soon undertake.

As I pondered this, Arthur slowed his pace and drew close to me.

“Philo, is that truly your stance on this matter?” he whispered, his voice dripping with a note of reproach.

“What are you talking about?” I replied, taken aback.

“She is my esteemed guest, Philo. Even if you harbor little esteem for her, your behavior is nothing short of embarrassing.”

I was stunned by Arthur’s words and denied any such accusations.

“Me? Insulting Madame Curie? That is simply preposterous!”

Recalling the conversation that had unfolded between Arthur and Madame Curie, I could discern that he had been deliberately extolling her virtues, while she kept casting glances in my direction, as though gauging my response.

“Did you truly believe that I disregarded her simply on account of her gender?” I retorted.

“Did you not?” Arthur replied.

In the 19th century, women were often subjected to discrimination, particularly within the scientific community. Even my home country, the United Kingdom, was no exception, with the Royal Society refusing to admit female members, and my alma mater, Cambridge University refusing to confer degrees upon women. These absurdities were grounded in the unfounded belief that women’s intellectual faculties were inadequate for scientific pursuits.

“That is patently untrue. Madame Curie is an extraordinary individual,” I affirmed.

Such a claim may have appeared dubious to someone of this era, but to any individual with knowledge of Madame Curie’s life and accomplishments, it was an undeniable truth.

“How do you know this to be true?” Arthur queried.

“You stated that she passed your test, did you not?”

“How can you be certain of her abilities without even knowing the nature of the test?”

My mind was left reeling as Arthur’s words washed over me. His sudden reversal in attitude towards Madame Curie left me utterly confounded.

“I trust your judgment and my own. We both agree that she is a remarkable individual, that must be why.”

I suppressed my mounting frustration, cognizant of the potential consequences of provoking Arthur. A petulant Arthur was a dangerous Arthur, after all.

He chuckled, a disconcerting smile spreading across his features.

“Yes, that’s precisely it.”

I was forced to revise my previous understanding of Arthur. Over the past two decades, he had not remained stagnant – if anything, he had become increasingly inscrutable.

With no discernible reason, Arthur’s mood shifted once again, and he took the lead.

“Close all the doors. Not a single one can be missed,” he commanded.

I was left to ponder the implications of his directive.

We soon arrived at a door at the end of the corridor. As I closed the door behind me and stepped forward, Arthur opened another door and disappeared within. This pattern was repeated ceaselessly, leading us through a seemingly endless series of small, empty rooms that appeared to serve no purpose.

I doubted even Arthur knew the number of rooms we had passed through. Each one was identical in shape and size, and utterly devoid of any distinguishing features.

“We’re nearly there,” Arthur announced as we arrived at yet another identical room.

I grumbled, “Is this tedious game of matryoshka finally at an end? I’m quite exhausted and in need of rest.”

“I’m afraid I cannot grant that request,” Arthur replied curtly.

The final room was markedly different from its predecessors. It contained a small cabinet positioned against the wall, and little else. And there was another door beyond that, clearly indicating that this was not the final chamber.

Arthur produced two bottles of whiskey from the cabinet and offered me one.

“Drink,” he said.

I eyed the bottle warily, noting that the label indicated it was a cheap whiskey intended for factory workers – a drink meant solely for inebriation.

“I’m particular about what I consume,” I replied, hesitating to indulge.

“The worse the hangover, the better. I’ve tried various kinds, but this one is the most potent. Come morning, it feels like my head is splitting in two,” Arthur countered.

I failed to grasp the appeal in that.

As he uncorked the bottle, he retrieved another item from the cabinet. I was taken aback and inquired, “Is that a cigarette?”

Arthur did not answer. Instead, he lit the cigarette with a match, filling the room with a sweet, familiar scent.

Regrettably, I was well acquainted with that aroma. It was the same scent that permeated the slums of London’s Whitechapel district.

“Arthur Frank!” I exclaimed, unable to conceal my shock.

I had always held Arthur in high regard, admiring him for his singular nature.

Being in his presence always resulted in one-of-a-kind experiences. It wasn’t simply because of his wealth. He possessed a charisma and imagination that set him apart from everyone else.

“Is this what you’ve been doing?” I demanded, my secret admiration for him shattered by the scene before me. All of the mystique I had attributed to him had evaporated.

“An opium den for Britain’s top intellectuals?!”

The vanished servants, the secret basement, the countless rooms and doors – all the mysteries were suddenly explained in the most reprehensible way possible. I was beyond infuriated and bitterly disappointed.

“It’s all just a misunderstanding,” Arthur protested weakly.

“A misunderstanding after this?!” I retorted.

“Many people view opium as a final destination, which is why they misunderstand. But it’s a process, like dipping your feet in the water before taking the plunge.”

Arthur lit the cigarette with a familiar motion.

“That’s the most pitiful excuse I’ve ever heard. I’m leaving,” I declared, preparing to depart.

“Believe it or not, you’re the first person I’ve brought here,” Arthur revealed, halting me in my tracks.

“As you know, I’m a bit peculiar. I really can’t comprehend what other people think.”

“Clearly so. I didn’t even realize I could be this disillusioned!” I shot back.

Arthur found my reaction amusing, his laughter echoing in the cramped room.

“You really lack self-awareness. You’re quite special. Perhaps as special as I am.”

I attempted to interject, but Arthur did not allow me to speak.

“You knew the identity of the statue, not only its name but precisely what it was, didn’t you?” he queried.

I remained silent, my mouth clamped shut.

“In that case, you must also comprehend that my actions serve a purpose, depending on the nature of the entity that resides beyond that door.”

Arthur’s words rang true.

Despite my disappointment in his opium addiction, I had sensed a possibility. It was just that my practical reasoning had sought to dismiss it.

The Cthulhu Mythos was unforgiving towards humans, teeming with mythical beings that could drive a person to madness simply by existing. There were few options available to humans to cope with such threats.

Numbing the brain with alcohol and drugs was not regarded as a poor approach.

Arthur’s words carried an ominous weight, hinting that the unthinkable was indeed a reality. He didn’t summon me merely to inquire about the statue’s identity, he possessed knowledge far beyond that. I shuddered involuntarily, overcome with fear and trepidation.

“You won’t run away,” he declared with an air of confidence.

“And why do you think that?” I retorted, attempting to mask my unease.

“I don’t have any grounds. It’s just a feeling. I can’t read people’s minds, you know,” Arthur responded, his speech slurred due to the effects of opium.

“But I do know one thing about you,” he continued, locking his bloodshot, yellowish eyes onto mine. “You thrive on danger. You relish in it.”

“My goal is a peaceful existence,” I countered weakly, struggling to maintain my composure.

Arthur shook his head dismissively, labeling me as crazy. Then, he added with a tinge of hope in his voice, “But you won’t leave me.”

“Isn’t that wishful thinking?” I scoffed, trying to regain my footing.

“Perhaps,” Arthur conceded with a chuckle.

“But I won’t do opium.”

“Stubborn as always,”

Arthur and I shared a moment of laughter as I downed the whiskey, the fiery liquid scorching every inch of my mouth and throat, its shape palpable in my gut.

I was spellbound by the sensation that I was capable of anything.

I blamed Arthur for it, as his presence seemed to have transported me back to the days of my youth.

“Alright, let’s get to the bottom of this.”

Arthur scanned the room cautiously before asking, “Did you make sure the door is locked?”

“Yes, but what’s with all these doors?” I inquired, curious yet apprehensive.

Arthur simply shrugged in response. “You’ll find out soon enough. Just be sure to remove anything sharp you may have on you.”

The door creaked open, releasing a putrid stench that seemed to rot my nostrils from within.

Beyond the threshold lay a darkness so deep and unfathomable that my heart quivered in fear. What lurked in the shadows was a monster, a living, decaying, and regenerating abomination. It resembled a spider with ever-shifting limbs, making it impossible to determine their exact number. Its face was human-like but without any definitive form.

The creature’s visage melted and solidified continually, making it impossible to discern whether it was laughing or crying. In its arms lay a human-sized, white larva that it cradled as a doting parent.

I instinctively knew that an emotional bond existed between the two beings beyond mere predation or symbiosis.

It was a sickening love!

The creature rested on a web that was not made of silk.

The door should have remained shut!

It could traverse through any barrier in a heartbeat and reach me!

I needed more doors to keep it at bay!

I desperately longed for a shotgun to end it all!

I had to shoot it and then shoot myself in the head!

But then, it saw me!

In a panic, I took off my belt and wrapped it around my neck!

Arthur grabbed me and pulled me away, causing me to fall back helplessly.

“Aaah! Aaaaaaaah!” I cried out in agony.

Pain surged through me, and I screamed until my throat gave out. Arthur seized my chin and forced another bottle of whiskey down my throat, causing me to vomit on the floor.

“Gag! Cough! Cough! Aaaaaaa! What in the devil is all this!” I cried out in despair.

“You haven’t contacted me in 20 years, and now you suddenly invite me to a mansion straight out of a detective novel, show me impossible future technology, reveal a mysterious family history, and now this…this monster! A monster!”

Arthur’s bitter smile revealed a truth that defied all rational thought. “Philo, I am a hybrid,” he confessed, his voice quivering with emotion. “That monster is my biological mother.”

I struggled to comprehend his words, feeling as though the very fabric of reality was unraveling before me. “I only recently discovered the truth,” Arthur continued, his voice growing more strained. “My father, consumed by his cursed lust, copulated with that abomination. The price was cruel, especially for my brother and I, his twin offspring. We shared what should have been a single human life. In my case, it was aging, while my brother had his youth stolen from him.”

The image of the butler, his face melting away like wax, filled my mind. “Yes, that’s right,” Arthur confirmed, his eyes filled with pain. “The butler you saw is my brother. Teaching him common sense is a Sisyphean task, for he has received no education and has been abused for forty years. Thanks to that, all the servants in the mansion quit.”

I recalled the butler’s awkward movements. The polite gesture that seemed like he had just learned to knock? No, he had literally just learned to knock!

But Arthur’s revelations were not yet complete. “Then, one day, it occurred to me,” he said, his voice growing more frantic. “If my brother and I each had only half a human, what filled the other half? What am I, Philo? Philo?”

My mind reeled at the implications of his words, and I remember little of what happened next…

According to those around me, I ran madly from the Frank mansion, my pants falling from my waist due to my loosened belt. I ran for over seven hours, driven by a terror that defied all explanation.

When Marie found me, collapsed and bloody, my prosthetic leg digging deep into my flesh, I was taken to the hospital. The doctor prescribed absolute rest for a month, and I spent that time in bed, my mind consumed by terror and despair.

Marie, convinced that my affliction was due to excessive drinking, forbade me from imbibing any alcohol. I tried to negotiate using the threat of being fired, but Marie stubbornly found and hid all the wine I had stashed away. Deprived of my post-meal glass of wine, one of my few pleasures, I suffered from severe depression.

From that day forward, I became acutely sensitive to the sound of doors opening. I forbade anyone from opening both the front door and my bedroom door at the same time, leading Marie to treat me like a dementia patient.

Arthur Frank never contacted me again, but the memory of our encounter haunted me, filling my mind with unspeakable dread.

I sense a palpable curiosity emanating from you, dear reader. Perhaps you are wondering what fate befell Arthur Frank and the monstrous horrors that plagued his mansion? Or why he chose me, a humble scholar, to bear witness to his unspeakable secrets?

The purpose of the Frank Academic Conference remains shrouded in mystery, as do the true intentions of its enigmatic host. But rest assured, the story is far from over.

Exactly two months after my fateful visit to the Frank mansion.

“Extra! Extra! A meteorite has been discovered in London! A glowing green meteorite has been found! Extra! Extra!”

Whether I wanted it or not, the dark side of the Earth was swallowing London ominously…