《Reincarnated Cthulhu》


 Chapter 1

    Chapter 1


    Let mein about my 40 years of life


    Greetings, dear readers of my psyche.


    Tis an unexpected intrusion, but I crave your attention for a tale of mine. Let me weave the web of who I am and the dire circumstances that have driven me to pour my heart to the readers within my own mind.


    First and foremost, I suspect I may have been reborn into a different time or realm. Nay, scratch that. I am sure of it.


    I shall borate on this matter anon, for it is a crucial part of my story. In my previous life, ere I perished, I dwelt in thend of Korea, situated in the 21st century.


    Yet now, I find myself in London, the capital of Ennd, in the 19th century.


    Thisnd feels more like home to me than my native Seoul, for my current existence spans a longer time.


    I was birthed in 1855, the third offspring of a disgraced baronial lineage. As my former life''s English was deficient, I began speaking when I turned three.


    Once Iprehended my situation, I pledged myself to a solitary goal: to survive.


    Victorian London? A time of Belle Epoque, replete with love and romance, perchance?


    As an aristocrat, I should have lived a privileged life, you say?


    You can scarcely fathom the absurdity of such notions until you have endured it yourself.


    Imagine, if you will, an era where industrialization plunged the lower sses'' human rights to their nadir.


    An epoch where wars ravaged the world due to rampant imperialism, and medical facilities were at their lowest ebb.


    What do you suppose became of a fallen noble in such dire times?


    The term "aristocrat" signified ownership ofnd, yet nary a whiff of anynd deeds tainted with wealth reached my humble abode.


    I toiled relentlessly to survive. As a native of Korea from the 21st century, I believed that academic sess and professional qualifications were inseparable. Thus, I devoted myself to learning.


    I immersed myself in my studies with great fervor, for I knew that education was the key to survival in this world.


    It was an insurance policy against the cruel whims of fate. My first brother had lived a life of madness, and my second brother had been a ve to the bank since he was young.


    But I was different. I was stubborn and determined to obtain a university diploma, even if it meant bowing my head to my parents and my second brother.


    First brother? I didnt care about him.


    As a result of my hard work and dedication, I was loved by my professors and received a letter of rmendation that helped me volunteer for the military.


    It was the best way to be an Officer in the Aristocratic society, and it did not disappoint. My four-year career as a naval officer strengthened my status in society, and I was on track to climb even higher. But fate had other ns. In a battle, my leg was blown away, and my naval career was cut short.


    Following my honorable discharge from military service, I indulged in a year of revelry and feasting before deciding to embark on a new path as an explorer.


    Did I decide it out of the blue?


    Well. I actually did.


    <em>Its not even hard. You can just write down what you saw after going abroad for two to three years. Explorers make loads of money these days  Like that guy named Charles Darwin.</em>


    After hearing those words, I went out to the harbor the next day and decided on the date of departure.


    Yes, I was ignorant.


    Fortune smiled upon me, for as an officer I secured a ce on a ship sailing towards the Dark Continent as a researcher.


    Curiously, this was one of the many aspects that diverged from my memories of my previous life.


    The Dark Continent, which referred to Africa, remained shrouded in mystery and unexplored until the rise of the Industrial Revolution.


    In any case, my reckless journeysted for about four years, during which I faced countless dangers and witnessed unspeakable horrors. I contracted mria and spent months recovering in my hometown, contemting the fickle nature of fate and the inevitability of death.


    But miraculously I recovered, maybe due to the pity of God.


    Having regained enough strength to hold a pen, I put my experiences and learnings into several tomes.


    The oue of my efforts earned me the status of a veritable celebrity in Ennd. My alma mater granted me an honorary doctorate, which I could never have earned through my mental faculties alone.


    Moreover, the medal I received in exchange for my lost limb in the army secured me a full pension.


    The book royalties were not much, but they were steady. The doctorate opened the floodgates of lecture requests, thereby ensuring an additional ie.


    After years of toil, I believed that I had reached the threshold of immortality, and that it was time to enjoy a leisurely life.


    Even with my middling fortune, I deemed it impossible to surpass my current station. I relinquished my rented attic and relocated to an apartment in London.


    This was my life, and I am sure that you can gather its essence. The year was 1895, and the 20th century was looming on the horizon.


    I believed that I had made sufficient preparations for the tumultuous era toe, and that I was in a phase of life that could weather it.


    However, I shall desist from my tedious moaning andmence the critical narrative, which will include the reason why I ampelled to prattle to readers who may or may not exist in my head.


    Where shall I start? Yes, I will recount it as a novel. Thus, let us begin


    It all began with a letter from an old acquaintance, Arthur.


    -


    My esteemed Philemon,


    I do hope this missive finds you hale and hearty. Verily, had I a guinea for every time your name hath graced mine ears these past years, I wouldst have amassed a fortune sufficient to demolish your very roof and raise up in its stead a more stately abode.


    However, I trust that thou art well, and my musings upon thy welfare are naught but superfluous.


    I beg thy pardon, dear friend, for any impertinence which mayst have found its way into this letter. Topose this epistle, I have even consulted a volume entitled "Epistry Etiquette: Crafting Correspondence with Elegance and Respect," so as to ensure that my words are proper and decorous.


    I am certain that thou art not interested in the current state of the weather or the verdure of my garden, and thus I shall spare thee such details.


    As for myself, I find that I have been upied with great industry ofte. Our years ofbor have culminated in a momentous discovery which shall surely prove most valuable to our ongoing research. I must extend to thee my deepest gratitude, for thou art the catalyst for my daily jubtions.


    In all candor, my intent in penning this letter is to solicit thy aid. I require the assistance of a learned individual, one of the highest academic and intellectual caliber, possessed of both a vast knowledge of the world and the unyielding fortitude of a soldier. Thou art the very embodiment of these qualities, and it is with great urgency that I beseech thy help.


    I shall not squander thy precious time with extraneous details in this letter, but I implore thee to grant me an audience at thy earliest convenience, so that we may speak in person. The location of thy estate remains unchanged, forsooth  though it is not blessed with legs.


    In earnest anticipation of thy swift and favorable reply, I remain,


    Thy devoted friend,


    Arthur.


    ________


    With great effort, I finished reading thest sentence of the letter, struggling to decipher the illegible handwriting.


    I let out a weary sigh and rubbed my face, frustrated with the mess before me.


    Arthur Frank. I had known him since our days in college, but twenty yearster, I had never expected to hear from him again.


    What manner of man was he, I wondered. To describe him in a single sentence, one might say that he was a dreamer with a childlike selfishness, a feline curiosity, and an endless stream of dreams, all fueled by a vast inherited fortune.


    Can you fathom such a person? Perhaps not. Having spent my student days with him, I had often suspected that he was a figure from my wildest dreams.


    Kindly, he had enclosed a photograph with the letter.


    After studying it for five minutes, I gave up trying to discern what the ck-and-white picture portrayed.


    It appeared to be a statue in the likeness of a seated figure, with the subject indistinct due to the camera''s shake.


    "These days, there are cameras that capture images instantly when you press the button," I muttered to myself.


    Arthur was always taken with thetest advancements in culture. He would still be using an antiquated camera that required several minutes of waiting before an image could be captured.


    Nowadays, cameras that could snap a picture in seconds and were easy to carry were readily avable.


    The marvels of technological progress are truly astonishing. It is a wonder to behold how far we havee in such a short span of time.


    Yet, my mind is a reflection of the age I live in, despite having witnessed the advent of smartphones in my past life.


    "This is pointless," I muttered, shaking my head at the photograph before me.


    My housekeeper, Marie, appeared at the door, curious about my mutterings.


    "What troubles you, Master?" she inquired.


    "An old acquaintance of mine has yed a cruel joke on me by sending a photograph I cannot decipher," I exined.


    A photograph you couldnt see?


    "Verily, his photographic skills are appalling. Can you divine what this is?" I queried, proffering her the photograph with scant expectation. "Dont it appear as a figure of a statue of a person, pray tell?"


    "Pray tell, sir?" Marie asked with a peculiar tone. "Tis nothing resembling a human form in my eyes."


    "Nay, Marie, do you not perceive? It is in as day, a human figure it is. Observe the limbs, the arms, the legs"


    I picked up the picture with my finger and pointed at it, while Marie wrinkled her eyebrows as if she couldntprehend my words.


    "I beg your pardon, sir. I cannot presume to be more intelligent than you."


    "Pray, do not hesitate any longer. Speak thy mind forthwith. I am not, as the public would have thee believe, possessed of great wit and acumen, and furthermore, I confess to being utterly ignorant of the subject matter at hand."


    "Please forgive me, sir, but doesn''t the master often contradict me whenever I express my thoughts?"


    "Pray, let us discuss the matter at hand. I shall offer my apologies for thwarting your endeavor to create a tart pie. I shall partake of it, if that pleases you."


    Marie and I engaged in a silent struggle, each trying to outwit the other.


    She had the notion that I was an exceedingly finicky eater, and to a certain extent, her conjecture was not entirely unfounded.


    I had spent more time in this foreign realm than in my former existence, yet there was one aspect that still left me feeling disoriented  the culinary customs.


    Having indulged in an array of modern delicacies, the consumption of the unsophisticated English fare that prevailed during the 19th century proved to be a rather unptable experience for my taste buds.


    Very well, sir. The reason why I don''t think it is a person is because of its head.


    Head?


    My eyes followed Maries fingers.


    If it were a person, this would be the head, would it not?


    Yes.


    However, a person''s head is not sorge or distorted.


    As I pondered her words, a revtion struck me like a bolt of lightning.


    In my previous life, I had been exposed to a plethora of diverse art forms, from the most fantastical to the most mundane, thanks to the marvels of modern media such asics and cartoons.


    But for the people of this era, their exposure to such visual extravaganzas was severely limited.


    Paintings were their only recourse, but even then, the notion of cartoons and caricatures was viewed with disdain, reserved only for themon rabble.


    As a result, the very concept of what constituted a "human" differed greatly from that of my former time.


    While the limbs on this entity were distinctly human-like, the size and distorted shape of its head cast doubt on its identity.


    Perhaps the creator was from an even earlier time than the present.


    This revtion was a most unexpected twist, one that forced me to reconsider everything I had previously believed about this curious creation.


    Youre right, Marie.


    "Master, it''s rare for you to admit to being wrong."


    Marie''s countenance was struck with astonishment upon hearing my reply.


    Let it not be misconstrued by my esteemed readers that my mental faculties are impaired, for I am a most magnanimous and receptive gentleman.


    With that said, I retrieved the photograph from Marie''s possession and returned it to its enclosure.


    Marie, Im going out.


    "Will you being inte, Master?"


    "It is likely a fair distance, hence it is improbable that I shall return today. Perhaps I shall have to spend the night there."


    "Will you be taking the train, Master?"


    No, not that far. Im going to take a carriage.


    Good for you, Master.


    In a state of confusion, I pondered Marie''s words, [Good for you, Master?]


    What did she mean by that? The feeling of unease only intensified, and I rose from my seat with the aid of my walking stick.


    Marie approached, holding my long coat out for me to don.


    I took my hat and ced it on my head before making my way to the porch, Marie following closely behind.


    Suddenly, a thought urred to me, and I turned back to face her.


    "When you go back" I trailed off, unsure of how to articte my concerns.


    Without missing a beat, Marie reassured me, "I''ll lock the doors, and I''ll check the chimneys."


    "And the windows" I continued, my distress growing more palpable by the moment.


    "I''ll close them and draw the curtains out," she replied with a calm demeanor.


    With a heavy heart, I mmed the door behind me and made my way outside.


    Despite my worries, let it be known that I am a very kind and open-minded person. I pray that there is no misunderstanding.


    I strode forth with purpose towards the dwelling of Arthur Frank, yet little did I know that my misstep would bring about a profound alteration in the course of my life.


    s, it was not long before I realized my error and retraced my steps.


    With renewed determination, I marched in the proper direction towards Frank''s abode, still unaware of the momentous shift that awaited me.

 Chapter 2

    Chapter 2


    Arthur Frank''s Bizarre Mansion


    As I stepped out into the street, the familiar scent of the Thames greeted me.


    That putrid stench, so vile it could make a man''s stomach turn, had be the emblem of London over the years.


    It was a festering cesspool of sewage and waste, unfit for any living creature to inhabit. But for me, it was home.


    Years had passed since I left for my military and exploratory exploits, but the river''s smell remained the same. A mixture of nostalgia and disgust filled my heart, yet I found myself enjoying every second of my walk along the Thames.


    Get out of the way! Get out of the way!


    Oh lord


    Suddenly, a loud bang shook me out of my reverie. A carriage with a red g came hurtling past me, followed by a leisurely car, belching out soot and smoke. The coachman swore and cursed at me, narrowly avoiding running me over.


    "These days," I muttered under my breath, feeling more aged than ever before.


    It was ironic, really. As a reincarnated person, I had seen countless examples of the future and the past shing together. But the younger generation of this era was different. Theycked respect and reverence for their elders and nobles, something that was a given in my youth.


    It was ironic, but as I lived as a reincarnated person, I met such irony countless times.


    The parliament was abuzz with talk of the repeal of an ancientw and gun regtions, but such matters did not pique my interest.


    I was more concerned about the rise of unregted cars and the idents they would cause.


    Iprehend that you might assume that someone with advanced thinking of the 21st century would not hold such thoughts. However, I must confess that I was simply an old man living in the 19th century.


    Verily, after much difficulty, I did indeed catch the carriage, which awaited me at the end of the road. The coachman, with his inquisitive eyes, inquired of me, "Where shall we go, Sir?"


    With a deep breath, I replied, "Out of town, to Frank''s mansion."


    But the coachman, taken aback, retorted, "Frank mansion? Are you sure, Sir?"


    Perplexed, I inquired, "What is the matter?"


    "Forgive me, Sir, but I fear you may be the victim of a cruel hoax," the coachman warned me.


    "What do you mean?" I asked, utterly confounded. How could a mere visit to my acquaintance''s mansion elicit such a reaction?


    Theres no such thing as an academic conference on mystics hosted by the Earl of Frank. Look, Sir


    The coachman handed me the Daily Telegraph, a newspaper I did not fancy reading. Within its pages, I beheld a list of celebrities, including many whom I knew well, all marked as victims of a jest perpetrated by the Earl of Frank.


    "What is this?" I demanded.


    "It is the victim''s list, Sir," the coachman exined. "Count Frank personally reported the names of the fools who arrived in front of his mansion. If you do not wish to be humiliated, it may be best to turn back."


    Ah, so it was true! Arthur had yed one of his fancy pranks once more, a joke so outrageous that even a coachman in London knew of it. Arthur Frank had always been a man of great means, conspicuous in every circle, and notorious for his wild antics.


    But I would not be deterred so easily. "No matter," I insisted. "I am merely going to visit a friend."


    "As you wish, Sir," the coachman said, reluctantlyplying with my request.


    And with a resounding "NEIGH," the carriage began to move, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. As I gazed out at the dull, gray sky of London, I pondered the reason for Arthur''s summons.


    Arthur was a man of great fortune. He could have called upon schrs such as Charles Darwin or explorers such as Roal Amundsen, or even soldiers from the Queen''s Royal Dragoon Guards. All of them were far better qualified than I, who had experienced a rather unremarkable career.


    But ever since our days in college, Arthur had taken an unusual interest in me, showering me with his favors, even though I had no obvious merit. After my discharge from the army, I had not heard from him, and I had assumed that I had fallen out of his favor. And then, out of the blue, I received his letter.


    Now, as the coachman''s words echoed in my mind, I could not help but worry. Was Arthur nning to make a fool of me, as the newspapers would have a field day with my misfortune?


    But no, I could not believe that. Surely, Arthur would not stoop so low. I tried to shake off my anxiety and drifted off to sleep,forted by the gentle swaying of the carriage.


    Sir, were here.


    Verily, the coachman''s voice shook me from my slumber as we arrived at our destination.


    Startled, he drew back as I opened my eyes with unexpected crity. My restlessness in sleep had be a habit since the days of my martial service.


    Assisted by the coachman, I alighted from the carriage with some difficulty, noting my difort to his attentive eye. A generous remuneration was offered to him for his trouble, which he received with great pleasure.


    Sir, it would be hard to get a carriage in such a remote ce. If you tell me the time, Ille to pick you up.


    It was a grateful consideration for a person like me, but I decided to politely decline his offer.


    Art has a car. Hell take me downtown.


    The coachman''s surprise was evident as he inquired, "You mean Count Frank?" To which I replied with a satisfied nod, relishing the chance to disy my association with a celebrity.


    As the coachman left in haste, I rang the bell at the entrance to the mansion, pondering a question that had struck me.


    "Did he dismiss the gardener?" The unkempt appearance of the ivy vines that spilled over the fence and the blooming moss in the shaded corners caught my attention. Was that a mushroom I saw? These were unbing signs for a grand estate such as this.


    Peering through the Gothic window gate into the garden, my mind drifted back to my youth and the vibrant hues of the flora that greeted me. However, the garden I saw now was a far cry from what I remembered. Thorny nts intertwined haphazardly, save for the stone path that led to the mansion. Red roses mingled with sharp thorns, locked in a perpetual battle to see who bore the sharper prick.


    In awe of this savage disy, I watched as the gate opened by itself.


    A self-opening gate?


    Such high technology in a mansion such as this was beyond my expectation.


    As I entered, the gate closed behind me with a sense of its own ord.


    The revtion of this automated feature caught me off guard. Surely, such advancements in technology surpassed anything of the future I know. It would be no wonder if we could catch up with the future I know in two hundred years.


    Approaching the ominous mansion along the overgrown path, I couldn''t help but feel a sense of unease. The thorny garden loomed on either side, as if attempting to devour me whole. The ustrophobic sensation was almost unbearable.


    As I drew nearer to the mansion, a word came to mind to describe itsndscape: "suspicious." Something had changed about the ce in the past twenty years, transforming it into the dreary backdrop of a mystery novel. It was a bad omen indeed.


    <strong>KNOCK KNOCK!</strong>


    Summoning my courage, I knocked hard on the door. After a moment, footsteps and the sound of unlocking reached my ears. But to my surprise, the one who answered did not seem to recognize my name.


    "Who are you, sir?" came the voice from within.


    Herbert, Philemon Herbert.


    <em>Isnt it a little out of order? Shouldnt he unlock the door before asking who I am?</em>


    I gently told my name with that question in my head.


    "There is no such name on the list, sir" the person on the other side of the door informed me.


    "s! This cannot be true," I eximed as the individual on the other side confirmed that my name was not to be found upon their list. My fears began to escte. Could it be that my suspicions, long kept at bay, had finallye to fruition? Had I, through some misfortune, been lured into a trap?


    "I implore you, good sir, to scrutinize the register anew!" I eximed with mounting trepidation. But s, the response I received was far from reassuring.


    "Verily, sir, I have re-examined the list with utmost care, and can confidently affirm that the name Philemon Herbert does not grace its pages."


    "I beseech you, kind sir, allow me a brief moment to peruse that list with my own two eyes," I implored the individual on the other side of the door, my voice filled with desperation.


    But, sir


    <strong>KNOCK KNOCK</strong>


    With a surge of frustration, I pounded my fist against the stubborn doorknob once more. As I stewed in my annoyance, my thoughts drifted to the letter that had brought me to this ce.


    My mind raced as I tried to make sense of the situation. The name on the list was the key, and it seemed that there was no other way to spell it. But then, a glimmer of hope flickered within me.


    "Waitmaybe," I muttered to myself, desperate for a solution.


    Summoning my courage, I spoke up. "Excuse me, sir, but is there a name on that list that reads flinaucinihilipilification''? That may be me," I offered tentatively, my wordsced with desperation.


    I could hear the sound of pages being turned from within the room. "Can you pronounce it again?" the person on the other side of the door queried.


    "Fli nauci nihili pilifi cation," I repeated, enunciating each syble with care.


    There was a brief pause, then the voice spoke again. "Oh, yes, there is."


    With a sense of immense relief, I leaned heavily on my cane to steady myself.


    Flinaucinihilipilification is a word that presents a great challenge to one''s pronunciation, a true tongue twister that has even been attributed to the great bard, Shakespeare


    Nay, let us cease this discussion, for it is but a jest that Arthur and I once made.


    It was Arthur who, in a public setting, would introduce me as Flinaucinihilipilification, a sly and mischievous ploy designed to ridicule those in our midst.


    I was taken aback by the fact that Arthur still remembered the prank after all this time. What''s more, it was such a mortifying experience that I couldn''t help but recall it with great embarrassment.


    The butler greeted me with impertinence, addressing me as "Mr. Floxynosini-Hilly-Philippines."


    Weary of his audacity, I corrected him with a simple "Herbert''s enough."


    Even before entering the house, I felt unexpected exhaustion creeping upon me. As I thanked the butler for opening the door, I couldn''t help but stare rudely at his bizarre countenance.


    "Is there a problem, sir?" he inquired.


    "No, nothing. My apologies," I replied, still taken aback by his strange appearance.


    The wrinkles on his face appeared to be far beyond human, melting halfway and defying all reasonable exnations. Yet his body was that of a young and strong man, creating an odd dichotomy.


    "Master is waiting for you in the drawing room, Mr. Herbert," the butler informed me, leading the way at a sluggish pace.


    From behind, I could hardly believe he was an elderly man, with broad shoulders, a straight back, and towering over me in height.


    The sheer bizarreness of the situation left me overwhelmed.


    CREAK CREAK.


    As I took each step, the floorboards beneath me creaked with dampness that made me feel as if I were in a haunted house. "We must reach the floor soon," I remarked to the old butler.


    To my surprise, he replied with a dismissiveugh. "Haha, it''s meaningless."


    Puzzled, I pondered the meaning of his words as we passed through an unknown number of doors that made the dwelling feel more like a hotel hallway than a home.


    I considered asking how much farther we had to go, but decided against it. Eventually, the butler stopped at a door and knocked with a polite yet inexperienced touch.


    <strong>Knock, knock.</strong>


    "Floxino-Hillney-Philipitation is here, Master," he announced.


    I heard a chuckle from within, unmistakably Arthur''s voice. "Thank you, but it is Flinaucinihilipilification. Please instruct him to enter."


    I was rude. Forgive me, good sir.


    Realizing his mistake, the butler offered a quick apology before ushering me in. But I couldn''t let it go so easily; I shook my head at the butler and vowed to demand an apology from Arthur.


    With a determined stride, I pushed open the door with all my might and entered the drawing room, standing tall and rigid like a marching soldier, ready to confront the impudentndlord.


    Beneath the swaying chandelier, the owner of the house sat in a chair, watching me with keen interest. "Oh, Philo, my friend. You havee," he spoke.


    I recognized him immediately: it was Arthur Frank, and he looked exactly the same as thest time I saw him. I was appalled. How could he have not aged a day in twenty years? "What is this?" I eximed, unable to contain my shock.


    Arthur chuckled in response. "Hahaha, I know you have many questions. Please, have a seat. I don''t want to keep you standing for long, especially" He winked at my prosthetic leg, which was beginning to ache.


    The old butler watched mein and offered to take my cane. I recoiled at the suggestion,shing out at him with a punch.


    "That''s preposterous! It''s my leg, have you ever heard of someone giving their leg away to another?"


    Yes, I admit it: I was rude and overreacted, but the strangeness of the situation had left me on edge.


    Since entering the mansion, I had witnessed a multitude of strange urrences. If this were a horror novel, I would roll my eyes at the author''s overuse of cliches.


    I couldn''t help but think to myself, "Okay, okay, enough already," fully expecting the next page of the story to feature a monster or a murder, or perhaps even both. The very idea of a monster emerging from a monster''s mansion was utterly incredible. I never imagined it, but there I was, and the idea of someone taking away my cane was like well, let''s just say it freaked me out.


    Arthur continued tough at my outburst, brushing it off as insignificant. "Oh, Philo, what''s going on? Where has the innocent young man who thirsted for knowledge gone, and why has a narrow-minded old man arrived?"


    I answered bluntly, "There are ordinary things that can happen in life. On the contrary, it seems as though you are the onecking in the ordinary.


    To this, Arthur simply chuckled. "Haha, do Ick the ordinary? That''s great. I like being special. If someone said I was normal, I couldn''t bear it."


    Frustrated, I blurted out, "That''s not what I''m saying damn it, you look like you''re twenty years old!"


    Ignoring my protest, Arthur dismissed the topic at hand. "I don''t care about such trivialities. Let''s get down to business."


    Arthur Frank was just as I remembered him: not only in looks but in personality as well. He waspletely indifferent to anything other than his own interests, just as he had treated me for the past twenty years.


    He pulled out a picture from his pocket and ced it on the desk, and my heart nearly stopped when I saw it.


    "What is this!? Were you really there? Is this the correct picture!?" I eximed, barely containing my outrage.


    Arthur chuckled at my reaction. "Hahaha, I knew you''de if I sent the wrong one. You''ve always been like that."


    The picture was much clearer than the one I had received earlier in the day. "You think too little of me!" I protested.


    "On the contrary, I think too highly of you," he replied with a smile, meeting my re withplete indifference.


    I couldn''t help but curse under my breath. It was that eye of his, always getting me into trouble. "Don''t give me that, Arthur. I don''t want to hear that from you." Arthur simply shrugged.


    "Of course, I''m the most unusual person around. How can youpare yourself to me?"


    With just a few words, he effortlessly changed the tone of the conversation.


    I struggled to steer the conversation back to the topic of the photograph. "So, what exactly is this picture? What kind of statue does it resemble?"


    Arthur countered my question with one of his own. "What do you think it looks like?"


    I hesitated before answering. "Well I initially thought it looked like a human figure. A man sitting and contemting, with arms and legs like Rodin''s Thinker. But my maid Marie pointed out that it looks too weird for a human being, and I had to agree with her."


    As I took my eyes off the bizarre picture, I was taken aback by the expression on Arthur''s face.


    He seemed to be expressing his displeasure quite openly, which was something I had rarely seen from him before.


    I couldn''t fathom what in my story could have possibly offended him.


    "Did you say Marie?" he asked.


    I nodded. "Yes, she''s been doing the housework for me since I have trouble with my legs."


    Arthur''s expression turned even more sour. "You have a very bad girl working for you. You need to fire her right away. If you need a new housekeeper, I can arrange for one."


    I was utterly confused by the sudden shift in topic.


    "What? I don''t understand. We were talking about the picture, why are we suddenly discussing my housekeeper?"


    Arthur shook his head. "I need someone more obedient and intelligent, someone who won''t have a negative influence on you. You need to use your imagination more freely, Philo. A mere human figure won''t cut it. Here!"


    <strong>BANG!</strong>


    Arthur mmed something onto his desk, his voice growing increasingly obnoxious. "Answer me! What does this look like?"


    I recognized it immediately.


    It was the statue from the photograph. It measured about 11 inches (30 cm) in height and was made of either bronze or jade, though it was difficult to tell. The surface was sensitive to blue light and shimmered green at certain angles. It depicted a man sitting with his hands on his knees, but the overall design was clumsy andcked finesse, despite its size. However, upon closer inspection, there were details that were not visible in the photograph that made me feel uneasy.


    But even that didn''t prepare me for what I saw next. As the statue was ced on the table, my eyes were transfixed on one particr feature, as if it were a nail holding them in ce. Around the neck, which was almost human in shape, was an indescribable and terrifying head resembling a cephalopod, perhaps an octopus. There was only one word that came to my mind at that moment: "Damn it, it''s Cthulhu."


    It was as if the Cthulhu statue from the novel hade to life before me.

 Chapter 3

    Chapter 3


    Frank''s Fools.


    Pray, allow me to make a remark that may prove somewhat delicate for the readers within my cerebral realm.


    I must confess, I harbor an abhorrence for the mythos of Cthulhu. And I daresay, perchance, many a soul among those who indulge in the multifarious artistic expressions of the 21st century might share my sentiment.


    Indeed, I perused the tomes of Lovecraft in my former life. Tis not as though I consumed every work of the Cthulhu persuasion, but I did peruse the majority of the renowned pieces, and some ere they were tranted into the Korean vernacr, the tongue of thend wherein I dwelt in a bygone era.


    I even paid my respects to the ssics, the fount from which sprung innumerable creations.


    However, a quandary arose when thementaries of the creators rued and reached an explosive zenith.


    The otherworldly beings, which held their own in their own right, suddenly materialized as mere pawns in games of strategy or characters in video games.


    Nay, there were even works of art unrted to the mythos of Cthulhu that materialized without rhyme or reason!


    As though their creators spoke it into existence! The figments of divinity, once dreaded and revered, became mere yardsticks ofbat prowess in fantastical skirmishes. Such is why I hold disdain for the Cthulhu mythos.


    I delighted in Lovecraft''s idiosyncratic sensibilities and flights of fancy, but the manner in which they were reimagined in the realm of fantasy failed to capture my interest.


    Verily, that did not signify my desire to be included in a conventional Cthulhu tome.


    Khll-hloo


    Arthur intoned after my utterance, "Ktulu, how peculiar. I am at a loss on how to properly enunciate it. It is rather amusing."


    Arthur, whose countenance had returned to a state of jocundity, as if the prior outburst was a mere facade, inquired.


    The cause of his perplexity in pronunciation was solely due to my entuation.


    Confronted with a concept that solely existed in my past life, I unconsciously truncated the sybles and uttered them in a manner akin to Korean, a fact not lost on Arthur.


    "Perchance do you possess knowledge regarding the subject matter of this statue?"


    In that moment, I cursed my own folly.


    Over the past 40 years, I had meticulously concealed my true identity as a reincarnated individual.


    This was due to fourpelling reasons.


    First, out of fear of being branded insane in London and subsequentlymitted to an asylum where a trepanning procedure would be performed on my skull. Indeed, one ought to exercise discretion when engaging in discourse within the capital, lest they find themselves in such a dire predicament.


    Second, divulging my truth would avail me naught. I have no desire to sully the reputation of my adopted home, but London is a merciless city. Good or ill repute, all things shall eventually transmute into venom that shall turn on the speaker.


    Thirdly, I myself remain uncertain if I truly hail from the future. Though I possess a scant knowledge of history, I am privy to a few indisputable facts. Darwin, who ought to have passed away in 1895, is alive and well, whilst Amundsen, who had justpleted his military service, is already traversing the Antarctic Ocean.


    Andstly, the fourth reason I had long awaited.


    I scrutinized the individual before me, and the fourth reason grinned in response, caressing the statue''s head.


    Truly, I yearned not to be ensnared by this personage.


    "I cannot recall it urately. I surmise I must have seen it in my travels abroad. I have journeyed to numerous locales."


    "Ah, splendid! This artifact happens to hail from a foreignnd."


    Arthur regarded my flimsy justification with a contented expression.


    "My father discovered it on the dark continent over half a century ago. Driven by his passion, he devoted his entire life to deciphering its secrets."


    Internally, I balled my fists.


    Very well, I am in the clear.


    Should it pertain to the Dark Continent, I am well-versed in its nuances. So much so, I was confident in deceiving Arthur, a native Englishman who had yet to venture beyond the confines of Ennd.


    "Yes, I believe it was the Dark Continent."


    "My father entrusted an explorer to uncover its origins. Coincidentally, his aspirations to traverse the Dark Continent aligned, and he readily epted my father''s patronage. Thus, he set out to cross the Dark Continent."


    As Arthur''s narrative unfolded, unease began to envelop a corner of my psyche.


    The source of my apprehension was abundantly clear.


    As previously stated, the Dark Continent was an uncharted expanse during the 19th century. Even conducting a survey beyond the dismal Cape City of the Cape of Good Hope was deemed an impossible feat.


    I did not know anyone who imed to have crossed the Dark Continent during this era. Or rather, I knew of only one such individual.


    It was a personage of considerable renown.


    "Do you refer to Dr. Livingstone?"


    Arthur assented.


    "Yes, the name of the explorer in question was David Livingstone, who returned from traversing the Dark Continent without a clear answer. Yet, you surmised his identity upon hearing his name. Quite impressive."


    Curses.


    Arthur was blessed with numerous talents, but he possessed one exceptional gift. He was a masterful orator, capable of transforming even the most innocuous dialogue into a double-edged sword that ensnared the listener. And I had fallen right into his trap.


    I was at a loss on how to answer his inquiry on how I possessed knowledge on a matter that even the illustrious Dr. Livingstone was unable to discern.


    The excuse that I chanced upon the information no longer held any weight. For Dr. Livingstone was a far more eminent figure in the annals of the Dark Continent than I, a mere four-year-old neophyte explorer.


    Such was the absurdity of the Victorian era. Merely crossing a bridge or two was sufficient to forge acquaintances with brilliant minds previously only encountered within textbooks.


    I vacited on how to respond, much like a frog caught in the gaze of a serpent. I had a premonition that Arthur would consume me should I offer a foolish excuse.


    An awkward stillness descended upon the chamber.


    Arthurid a stack of papers upon the table, opting not to pose any further inquiries, as if my silence had sufficed in providing him with the answer he sought.


    The sheets fluttered, and a cascade of dust cascaded forth from their midst.


    "Cough, cough! Goodness gracious, what manner of disarray is this?"


    "As soon as I received the statue, I found myself musing over a question: What was it wrought from? Bronze? Silver? Or perhaps jade? I intuitively recognized it to be unlike any ore I had previously encountered."


    I sniffled and nodded my head in agreement. Indeed, it was a peculiar material possessing an atypical hue. Yet, I dared not ponder over it too long.


    "I subsequently severed a segment of the statue and forwarded it to the Royal Society forpositional analysis."


    "What?!"


    I leapt up and bellowed in response to Arthur''s audacious pronouncement.


    "By the heavens, Arthur! What were you thinking?"


    I hoisted the statue aloft. It proved to be more cumbersome than anticipated, requiring some exertion to manipte.


    As I twirled it about, my gaze alighted upon an anomalous cross-section in an elongated region, the nature of which was unclear- whether it was a toenail or a toe.


    It was an incision freshly made, about the size of a finger.


    "Why would you sever a piece without having first conducted any research? What if it leaves a mark upon it?!"


    "I beg your pardon, Philo, but what on earth are you on about? The 19th century is an age defined by the science of chemistry. Even if my father was unable to adopt such a method, it is incumbent upon us to approach the issue with modern, scientific rigor."


    Arthur was so s in his response that I appeared the fool. Nay, he even derided my concerns as stupidity.''


    It dawned upon me once again how vastly dissimr themon sensibilities of the 19th and 21st centuries truly were.


    This was the 19th century- an epoch in which the imperative to safeguard cultural heritage was woefullycking. Cultural assets possessing immeasurable historical worth were often sold to collectors at a pittance or desecrated in the name of academic curiosity.


    Should I juxtapose Arthur''s intellectual approach to the standards of the 21st century, he would undoubtedly view me as a primitive savage.


    And yet, despite this knowledge, I could not shake off my nerves. For if this were truly Cthulhuif it truly existed, this statue could very well possess otherworldly powers.


    An ominous premonition consumed me that Arthur''s impulsive actions might bring forth a curse.


    Unaware of my apprehension, Arthur appeared content that I understood his conduct, given my taciturn demeanor. As such, he unfurled the analysis papers upon the desk.


    I gingerly plucked one of them up- a resplendent document bearing the seal of the Royal Society.


    Permit me to reintroduce myself momentarily- I am a graduate of Cambridge University, having earned my Ph.D. via a degreemittee, albeit not by way of traditional academia.


    Additionally, owing to my familiarity with 21st-century knowledge, I surpassed numerous experts in certain domains.


    I am not one to boast, but by the standards of the modern 19th century, I am categorized among the intelligentsia.


    It wasn''t that I was incapable ofprehending the technical jargon- it was that the author of this report was rather unsympathetic. I make no excuses- he truly was!


    "Do you grasp the significance?"


    As I grappled with the abstruse terminology, Arthur proffered a paper listing the elemental breakdown.


    "Forty-five percent tinum, twenty-three percent iron, and 0.5% Tellurium? I am unfamiliar with this element."


    "That is inconsequential. Continue perusing."


    I recited an array of elementalponents, some of which I had only ever encountered in name. When I arrived at the conclusion, instead of abyrinthine assemge of chemical terminology, I stumbled upon a sentence:


    "The Royal Society firmly believes that the following three elements differ from anypound hitherto discovered upon the Earth. However, owing to ack of specimens,prehensive research has yet to be executed. Thus, the Society hopes that you will donate the statue in its entirety, to further scientific and human development?"


    I nced up at Arthur, perplexed.


    He merely shrugged his shoulders.


    "What is your opinion?"


    "Bloody madmen."


    Arthur chortled in response to my profanity.


    "I shan''t be surrendering the statue."


    "Indeed!"


    Arthur gaped at me, his features contorting into a sheepish grin as he revised his statement.


    "No, what I meant was that it is of no import."


    Without warning, Arthur abruptly stood from his seat, clutching the statue to his chest.


    I gaped at his sudden action, as I was about to peruse another report on the table.


    "Come, I must show you something."


    "Wait, what?!"


    I sprang from my chair, struggling to match Arthur''s pace as a person with an absent limb.


    Arthur hastened down the hallway without sparing me a nce. I limped after him, muttering expletives under my breath.


    The rotting wooden floorboards creaked and groaned with every step we took.


    Arthur seemed unfazed by the noise, but I treaded carefully, not wanting to lose my bnce.


    You have quite a few questions, dont you? Arthur suddenly said, without even turning around to face me.


    Why has the mansion changed so much? Where did the other servants go? Who is that strange-looking butler? How did Ie to inherit this statue? What have I been researching all these years? And, most importantly, howe Im not old?


    I was taken aback by his words. How did he know what I was thinking? And his boldness was startling. He knew I was curious, but he didnt bother to address any of my concerns until now.


    But lets not get ahead of ourselves. Everything has its own order, dont you think? Arthur continued. I could hear the amusement in his voice. He was enjoying himself, relishing in my confusion and frustration.


    Where should I begin? Ah, yes. It all started with a letter. My fathers obituary, to be exact.


    I knew for a fact that Count Frank had died less than a year ago, but Arthur spoke as if it had been ages ago. He was deliberately ying with my perception of time.


    After my father passed away, an unwee visitor showed up. He was an insurance investigator, and he pestered me with questions for a week. He wanted to know everything about my fathers death and our familys wealth. And what do you think he eventually discovered?


    I rolled my eyes. It must have been something big for you to be so dramatic. Did he find another heir?


    Arthur paused for a moment before bursting into hystericalughter. Ha! A twin brother, locked away in a secret cer in this very mansion, who had been abused for forty years. Isnt that just brilliant, Philo? Brilliant.


    He abruptly stopped in his tracks, and I nearly collided with his back.


    Arthur strode a few paces ahead, while I remained rooted in ce. He soon turned back towards me, his expression grim.


    My family is cursed, Philo. Cursed, he said with a smile, tapping my shoulder reassuringly. But let us discuss that some other time. Right now, I must focus on the source of the curse. Fortunately, my father left behind a vast fortune, and I intend to use it to uncover the truth.


    He resumed his slow pace, and I followed. It was difficult to believe, but I couldn''t deny that Arthur cared for me.


    Have you read the Daily Telegraph? he asked suddenly.


    I raised an eyebrow. You mean that malicious prank, Frank''s Fools''?


    I like it, he said, nodding. Finally, the Telegraph did something I approve of.


    I studied his countenance carefully. Why would he bring this up now?


    It wasn''t very humorous, Imented.


    He looked pleased. That''s the point. The prank itself was a test.


    I furrowed my brow in confusion. A test?


    Think about it. The fools who fell for it thought they were too clever to be pranked. But in reality, they were just ignorant. And those who saw through the prank proved themselves to be wise. I''ve made my own filter.


    Arthur reached up and pulled on a candlestick mounted on the wall. With a loud click, a hidden door slid open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down to the basement.


    Wee to the Frankish Society, Philo, he said with a shy grin, beckoning me to follow.

 Chapter 4

    Chapter 4


    04. God of Machinery


    <strong>Thump, thump.</strong>


    The maddening sound of two people''s footsteps reverberated through the pitch-ck depths of the decrepit cer stairs. The dank passageway, as confined as it appeared from the outside, was so narrow that only a solitary soul could traverse it at a time. The termination of this abyssal tunnel was inscrutable, shrouded in a veil of ominous mystery. It must have taken eons ofborious excavation to carve out this subterranean domain.


    I dared not hazard a guess as to its antiquity. Was it the relic of some antediluvian epoch? A vestige of an ult society, ensconced in secrecy for aeons? Even the fungus clinging to the walls was twisted and warped, reminiscent of some bygone era.


    As I ruminated upon these enigmatic ruminations, Arthur bellowed from the rear,


    "Philo, do not falter, press on!"


    "Can''t you perceive my wounded leg?!"


    Ever since my left leg had been cruelly amputated, the staircase had be my most formidable adversary. My prosthetic limb, a mere wooden stick affixed to a pole, strained under the burden of my corpulent frame, which rivaled that of any grown man.


    Leaving the attic, where I had long dwelled, was an endeavor to enhance my wretched existence, yet my dread of ascending and descending those ursed steps loomedrge in my decision.


    "What inferno lies beyond, that it should emit such scorching heat?" I muttered, leaning against the grimy wall as I mopped the sweat from my fevered brow with a handkerchief plucked from my pocket. The sodden cloth was unceremoniously thrust back into its ce, for I knew not where else to dispose of it.


    "What say you, my dear friend? Any theories?" Mypanion jested, unaware of the turmoil that writhed within my anxious heart. The answer to his query was elusive, for in truth, I had no notion of what manner of ce this was. If this were the neenth century, perhaps I might hazard a guess.


    But judged by the standards of the twenty-first century, the answer was in enough. It was likely nothing more than amonce boiler room!


    Quaveringly, I retorted, "A boiler!"  a foolish answer, to be sure, given that this was the Victorian era. The very notion of a subterranean boiler room as envisioned by a modern mind was far-fetched. Edison had only just invented the radiator a decade prior, and even that was a far cry from the unwieldy boilers that might be ensconced in the basement.


    Once more, I cautiously resumed my descent of the stairs, proceeding gingerly, one step at a time. The infernal basement seemed to revolve around me, swirling and spinning, and it felt as if I had plummeted at least two floors deep. Abruptly, I realized that mypanion, Arthur, hadpsed into an uneasy silence.


    "Art? Are you present?" I inquired, hoping to break the oppressive stillness.


    "Ah, my apologies. I was lost in my thoughts," came his response  an atypical rejoinder, to be sure. For a fleeting moment, Arthur appeared deep in contemtion. Age must surely have taken its toll on him, despite his outward appearance. Nheless, I was d to have himposed, and so left him be.


    However, whilst Arthur remained subdued, pandemonium reigned elsewhere. Suddenly, a discordant mor erupted  the mor of a train, or perhaps an army on the march. It was an ear-splitting, incessant din that seemed entirely out of ce in this dismal basement. Astonishingly, Arthur said nothing of it.


    In silence, we descended the steps, only to have theme to an abrupt halt. A dead end. Could I truly lose my way on a flight of stairs? In a state of panic, I frantically searched for a handle on the wall, to no avail. The surface was as t as a table, devoid of any indentation or mechanism.


    "Art?" I called out, seeking his counsel.


    "Stand before the door," he instructed.


    Door? It appeared more akin to a wall than any door I had ever seen.


    Following hismand, I stood before the perplexing structure, only to feel a sudden sinking sensation beneath my foot, apanied by a dull thud. Instinctively, I realized that I was standing on arge switch.


    <strong>Drrrrrr.</strong>


    "It''s an automatic door," I eximed in awe, genuinely impressed by this primitive device that employed pressure. Though not as intricate as the mansion''s imposing gates, whose workings defied myprehension, this was an impressive feat of 19th-century technology. What stunned me even more was that Arthur had apparently conceived of such an invention. In all my years of knowing him, I had never glimpsed this side of his technical prowess.


    I was conscious of his gaze upon me, but what could I do? As one who recalled the advanced civilization of the 21st century, even the marvels of 19th-century technology failed to truly astound me. Whatever invention emerged, it seemed all too predictable and obvious, and I could only think, "Ah, so this is what they have developed."


    For instance,st year an electric streetlight had been erected outside my abode, which automatically illuminated at dusk, and Marie had been vexed when I had offered a curt response to her enthusiastic remarks. To me, 19th-century inventions were akin to such trivialities.


    Meanwhile, Arthur seemed unperturbed by my musings.


    "It''s an automatic door."


    I bristled at Arthur''s habit of repeating my words in such a manner, always leaving me on edge.


    "It''s much superior to the pressure-sensitive horizontal operating device we once called-"


    "You jest, do you not?"


    "No writer has yet been invited to the academic conference. All those invited were vying to see who can employ the most abstruse terminology," he quipped, his sharp senses detecting my difort.


    I realized my mistake. It was a blunder that only a reincarnated individual couldmit. Regardless of how intuitive the term "automatic door" may seem, it was a word that could not have existed in an era devoid of such devices. Moreover, it was clumsy to immediately recite the product''s brand name when it was merely a prototype.


    Arthur''s quick wit had discerned my awkwardness and amended my error.


    I inwardly reflected, relieved that my error had not been too grave.


    As the door creaked open, a bright light flooded out, causing me to instinctively close my eyes in response to the sudden stimulus. Arthur''s voice came from behind me, breaking the silence.


    "Come to think of it, you mentioned the boiler earlier, did you not? You were partially correct."


    "What do you mean?" I asked, still squinting as my eyes adjusted to the intense illumination.


    Arthur strode past me with confidence and entered the room, ignoring my presence. I protested, but he paid me no mind.


    "Our family has not always been wealthy, Philo. It was not until my father''s generation that we umted such vast riches. He was hailed as a visionary entrepreneur, but I knew he did not deserve such a title."


    As he spoke, I sensed something different about Arthur this time. His tone was stiff and rehearsed, unlike his usual impromptu manner of speaking.


    "That man had no economic sense whatsoever. I am certain he could not distinguish between a rock and a diamond, let alone determine which was more valuable. I often wondered how someone like him could achieve sess in business."


    Arthur turned to face me, with his back to the bright light. My eyes struggled to adapt.


    "I discovered the truth after my father''s death. As expected, he had no innovative ideas. He did not even need to have any sense. He simply consulted his prophet, who was always at his side, to determine where and what kind of factory to build."


    Arthur ced his hand on a massive object, which was the source of the intense light. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of incandescent bulbs flickered simultaneously, creating a brightness greater than that of the sun.


    "Allow me to introduce you to the only existing Prophet. We call it the Oracle."


    It was a hulking monster, with countless joints moving tirelessly to produce a rhythmic sound asrge and small gears meshed together. The enormous mass, which covered the walls of the spacious basement for at least ten meters, was connected to a steam engine sorge it could be used on a train. Steam rose from the engine without pause, climbing up to the ceiling. I understood now why the butler''s earlierment about changing the stairs would be meaningless.


    "The official name is Analytical Engine, which was born in the imagination of a mathematician named Charles Babbage. Myte father imed to be his sponsor and brought this steel monster to life."


    Arthur slowly turned to face the machine.


    "But doesn''t something strike you as odd? How much money was needed to create such a massive basement, hide thergest calcting machine in the underworld beneath it, and pile up steam engines and coal like a mountain? One million pounds? Two million pounds? Where did all that moneye from?"


    Arthur spun abruptly on his heel, his face hidden in the inky ckness cast by the blinding backlight. Yet, despite the obscuring shadow, a sense of foreboding emanated from him, as if he bore some terrible knowledge that he struggled to contain.


    "This is but a mere sliver of the truth. We have but grazed the surface of the shadowed side of our world," he spoke with a voice that sounded as if it came from a ce far beyond our mortal realm.


    A moment of deafening silence followed, broken only by the ceaseless, mechanical drone of a contraption that proimed its existence relentlessly.


    "We called it the Oracle,'' but it is nothing more than a mere abacus, a tool that can only store and spit out results," Arthur said, his words hanging heavily in the air.


    Then, he stopped speaking, a calcted silence that was meant to tantalize and pique my curiosity. It was his usual maddening manner of speaking, but this time it fell short.


    For I knew that machine all too well, having seen it in a photograph not from the 19th century, but from the 21st. They called it something else entirely  ENIAC, the firstputer, born half a centuryter. The Oracle was but a pale imitation of its electronic sessor.


    With slow and cautious steps, I approached the Oracle. Though I was no expert, the variousponents appeared to be of an age long past. The iron had turned a deep shade of rust, indicating it had been oxidized for decades, if not longer. It was a technology that should not exist in this era, and my sense of terror was palpable.


    It was not merely old technology that left me in awe, but the fact that it had been in existence for so long. Had it beenpleted a century earlier, and for what purpose? What calctions had it been performing all this time?


    Arthur seemed to know more about it than he let on. This was not a mere spreadsheet machine, but a mechanical deity that had already been created.


    "God of machinery," I murmured.


    But Arthur''s joyful voice interrupted my thoughts. "No. If it can predict a future even the gods cannot see, then humans should be considered true gods."


    At that moment, I saw in Arthur a being that was not human. His intentions remained a mystery to me. What was the academic conference about? What was his research? And what did he want from me?


    "So, is this what you wanted to show me?" I asked, attempting to sound moreposed.


    "Well, yes, I wanted to show you this as well," he replied, "but the most important thing is yet toe. Before that, however, I wish to introduce you to a fellow member of the conference."


    Arthur stumbled away from the Oracle, drenched in sweat from its blistering heat. "Attendance is sparse today, but I can still introduce you to one person," he said.


    At the edge of his gaze stood a woman, frantically running around as if preupied with some vital task. She paid us no mind as we approached.


    "Oh, Chairman Frank," she greeted Arthur in English, though her speech was fraught with awkwardness. Was she of Russian descent, perhaps? I could discern a few Russian words in her speech.


    "And who might this gentleman be?" the woman asked, adhering to formal protocol.


    Our age difference of a decade or more made things even more awkward. She appeared to be a university student, while Arthur''s youthful looks belied his true age. It was like an old man stuck amongst the youths.


    "Arthur, who is this woman?" I asked, adopting a serious tone. It would be unbing to use childish nicknames in front of a stranger.


    Fortunately, Arthur responded with a serious tone, probably having that level of culture.


    "As I mentioned earlier, I will not be sending the statue to the Royal Society. Allow me to exin why," Arthur said, turning to face me before winking mischievously.


    I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. What was he up to?


    He turned back to the woman and pointed at me with a grave gesture. "Madam, this is the illustrious Viscount Flinaucinihilipilification."


    "Ah, Floxyes?" the woman replied.


    Arthur still had no manners. And I was a terrible fool for ever trusting him.


    "Philemon Herbert," I corrected him. "You can call me Herbert. Please ignore the idiot who just spoke."


    "Philo, that''s hardly gentlemanly," Arthur chided me.


    "Just be quiet," I retorted.


    I silently thanked my lucky stars that my embarrassment did not show on my face. It would have been mortifying to have Arthur''s childish prank at my expense bemon knowledge.


    "And this woman is Marie Skodowska Curie, a French physicist and geologist," Arthur said, finally introducing her.


    "Marie Skodowska Curie. Pleasure to meet you" I said, extending a hand for a handshake, only to hesitate at thest moment.


    "Did you say Curie''s wife?" I blurted out.


    "Oh, you knew?" Arthur said. "She was Pierre Curie''s fiance, but tragically, she became a Curie herself this year."


    I repeated my question, none the wiser. "Curie''s wife?"

 Chapter 5

    Chapter 5


    05. Rotten Mother


    In the hallowed halls of academia, I beheld ady 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 trantion of my work.


    "I found it quite impressive!" she eximed.


    I confess that I was quite bewildered by her words. Madame Curie had always been a figure to be emted, yet our dynamic was quite the opposite. To her, I was a learned schr with a record of aplishments, 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 schrs whoud 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."


    "Iprehend," 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 ande."


    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 waspelled to alter my opinion once I met her. She possesses a preternatural acuity, which those so-called schrs of the academicmunity 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 usations.


    "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 nces in my direction, as though gauging my response.


    "Did you truly believe that I disregarded her simply on ount of her gender?" I retorted.


    "Did you not?" Arthur replied.


    In the 19th century, women were often subjected to discrimination, particrly within the scientificmunity. 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 im may have appeared dubious to someone of this era, but to any individual with knowledge of Madame Curie''s life and aplishments, 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 petnt 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 be 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," hemanded.


    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 cab 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 cab and offered me one.


    "Drink," he said.


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


    "I''m particr 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 cab. 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 eximed, unable to conceal my shock.


    I had always held Arthur in high regard, admiring him for his singr 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 exined 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 dered, 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''tprehend what other people think."


    "Clearly so. I didn''t even realize I could be this disillusioned!" I shot back.


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


    "You reallyck 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 mped shut.


    "In that case, you must alsoprehend 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 avable 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, ovee with fear and trepidation.


    "You won''t run away," he dered 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 myposure.


    Arthur shook his head dismissively,beling 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 ofughter 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 med 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 thresholdy 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 wasughing or crying. In its armsy a human-sized, whiterva 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 thisthis 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 toprehend 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, copted 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 himmon 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 revtions were not yetplete. "Then, one day, it urred 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


    ording 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 exnation.


    When Marie found me, copsed 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 ss 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 gued his mansion? Or why he chose me, a humble schr, 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

 Chapter 6

    Chapter 6


    06. May 17, 1895, three guests


    For two months since the tumult at Frank''s manor, I had been convalescing.


    The avenues of London, now enveloped in the full embrace of spring, were replete with the acrid scent of oil that had been neglected throughout the winter months, leading me to open the windows with decreasing frequency. Such were the alterations that had transpired in my life.


    "Perhaps a brief ambtion would suit you well?"


    Marie proposed as she delivered my midday repast. Ah, fried herring  a veritable horror.


    "Doctor Wangjin has rmended that youmence walking to regain your muscr fortitude."


    "I shall walk when the climate warms further," I retorted with my customary justification. Ordinarily, Marie would have acquiesced, but not on this asion. She drew back the curtains and flung open the window.


    "Observe."


    ""


    "If you harbor no intentions of remaining abed until the summer months, the day of which you speak has already arrived. The temperature has risen to 60 degrees."


    "In truth, it stands at 59 degrees."


    "The difference is negligible!"


    "Indeed, the discrepancy is vast. The leading digit has altered, has it not?"


    I uttered, my gaze affixed to the Fahrenheit thermometer perched upon my bedside table. Despite four decades of familiarity, the unit remained unintuitive without conversion to Celsius. In Celsius, the reading hovered between 15 and 16 degrees.


    Had the mercury truly ascended to such heights?


    Although I had marked the passage of days through the daily periodicals, I struggled to fathom that a full two months had psed since the incident. My days had been squandered in anguid stupor akin to one intoxicated by opium.


    Since the episode at the manor, my corrupted spirit had persisted in roaming thebyrinthine mansion. Within this realm where time and space were uncertain, I had aimlessly opened and closed innumerable doors.


    "Master, Master!"


    My eyes fluttered open.


    "Should I summon the physician?"


    "No, no need. It is merely the potent medication."


    Facing Marie, who gazed upon me with concern, I offered my typical justification.


    "Master, you have not even ingested the medicine."


    Marie remarked, her eyes upon the medicine box. The prescription provided by Doctor Wangjin two weeks prior remained untouched. I nced between the medicine box and Marie, endeavoring to concoct a feeble excuse to alleviate the situation. In that instant:


    <strong>Ding dong.</strong>


    Both Marie''s and my attention shifted to the sound of the doorbell emanating from the entrance.


    "Were you expectingpany?"


    "No. I shall investigate."


    "Ah."


    "I will close the door."


    Marie interjected and shut the door behind her. Left in limbo, I took a discontented sip of water. The noise of the front door opening and the murmurs of two individuals in conversation reached my ears.


    Momentster,


    <strong>Thump.</strong>


    "Oh, were you dining?"


    "No, the timing is impable. My appetite had waned, so this serves as a fitting excuse."


    I dered, pushing aside the teden with untouched fried herring.


    "Ha! I wish I possessed your disposition. It would facilitate the shedding of this excess weight."


    The man who emerged after opening the door chortled mischievously and patted his midsection. Such a gesture would not befit a nobleman. Indeed, he was no aristocrat, yet there was not a soul in London who could dismiss him on that ount alone.


    The gentleman was portly, with oil sheening upon his visage. Given the prevailing weather, his mboyant attire appeared somewhat excessive, while three gemstone rings adorned his fingers, and a gold tooth usurped the ce of his natural incisor. Affluence emanated from his very being.


    I was well-aware that his extravagantly opulent appearance was far from mere posturing. He ranked amongst the wealthiest individuals I had encountered, upying the top three. Naturally, the foremost was Arthur.


    Whitney Richmond, the founder of Richmond Co., also referred to as the Yellow Brick Company, was a prominent businessman within London''s circles.


    "Come to think of it, you typically maintain a reserved schrly demeanor, yet you remain youthful. Did you partake of opium or some such substance?"


    "What do you mean?"


    As Richmond chuckled and spoke, I recoiled and retorted. The mention of "opium" conjured vivid memories of the incident at the manor as though it had urred but moments ago.


    "I heard tell you cavorted about the vicinity bereft of trousers."


    Richmond asserted, guffawing heartily. Taken aback by the unforeseen subject, I hastily waved my hand.


    "There exists considerable misunderstanding."


    "No need for modesty. In truth, I found it rather endearing."


    "Truly, there is a significant misapprehension."


    Sensing that no matter how much I borated, the misunderstanding would persist, I swiftly redirected the conversation.


    "I did not anticipate your unannounced arrival."


    "Is that not fortuitous? Genuine opportunities for profit emerge unexpectedly, like this visit. Only fools ensnared in the trappings of formalities and regtions fail to umte wealth."


    The Yankee, as he was designated.


    This aplished middle-aged entrepreneur bore a dark and profound shadow in tandem with his illustrious sess. Perhaps due to the envy and jealousy he inspired within the denizens of London, the sinister rumors surrounding him seemed exaggerated to the point of fabrication.


    In the whispered tales, Richmond epitomized the nefarious merchant,mitting a litany of iniquities without consequence, shielded by his ties to London''s marketce and skillful maniption of influence.


    Whether one subscribed to these rumors or not, it was evident that he brazenly engaged in at least a handful of illicit endeavors.


    "The purpose of my visit is to solicit your assistance. A dispute has arisen concerning meteorite mining rights, and I believe your expertise shall prove invaluable."


    "Meteorite mining rights?"


    This was a peculiar phrase, unfamiliar to my ears.


    "Surely, despite your seclusion, you are apprised of the meteorite that descended upon London?"


    "Indeed, I am informed. It alighted upon Jacob''s Ind."


    Jacob''s Ind.


    Nestled in the eastern reaches of London, downstream of the Thames River, this diminutive isle and its environs suffered the most acute consequences of industrialization''s wrath. Effluence from factories and residences coursed through the river, engulfing the entire ind, whilst thend and structures festered and were forsaken. Myriad vermin infested the ind, and the scent of putrefying remains permeated the air year-round.


    Only the most destitute of London''s denizens resided in this forsaken locale. Prostitutes, vagrants, criminals Those cast out by the city subsisted on the oil-drenched fish that washed ashore, and the London government had all but abandoned the management of this region. Instead, they dispatched constables to keep these wretched souls from encroaching upon London proper.


    It was in the heart of London''s most squalid quarter, Jacob''s Ind, that the meteorite fell a mere two days prior, amidst a tempestuous dawn.


    "And this remains confidential, but officially, our Richmond Company holds exclusive development rights to the entirety of Jacob''s Ind."


    I marveled at Richmond''s linguistic prowess, marrying the terms "official" and "confidential."


    "Is that so?"


    "A mere week has transpired."


    Upon querying this heretofore unknown fact, he replied nonchntly.


    "Thus, the meteorite that descended there is, by all ounts, the property of ourpany."


    "Hmm Please, do borate."


    His reasoning appeared tenuous. I withheld judgment and encouraged the narrative with a prompt.


    "Yet that whelp dared to file a legal im."


    "And who might this whelp be?"


    "Who else? The toothless wolf of Essex!"


    After a moment''s contemtion, the identity became clear.


    "You refer to the Silver Wolf?"


    "That aged man contends that the meteoritemenced its aerial journey over a week ago when the ind was his possession, and therefore the meteorite is rightfully his. Has senility imed his wits?"


    Richmond had yet to relinquish his ire, snorting as he spoke.


    "Do you not employ numerous legal counselors within yourpany? Surely they would be better suited to this task than I."


    "Ah, those parasitic advisors present another quandary. They prove irresolute when confronted with an absence of precedent. Their limitations are evident. When I acquired the entire Moreton estate formercial purposes, was there a precedent? Nay, I have consistently been the pioneer and the leader! The British must boldly venture into the uncharted!"


    Indeed, Richmond was a most peculiar individual by British standards, given his candid expression of emotions. I was suddenly struck by the notion that he shared this trait with Arthur. Perhaps such emotional honesty held some sway in the umtion of wealth.


    "But you, my friend, are unlike those neophytes. Are you not adept in navigating the unexpected?"


    "I have encountered more twists in life than some, but I would not consider myself an expert."


    I disagreed, furrowing my brow. To deem myself an expert in the realm of the unexpected was preposterous, even though I had endeavored to maintain a rtively ordinary existence. Richmond pressed on, undeterred.


    "I impose but one condition. Procure favorable evidence by the day preceding the trial, irrespective of its nature. Should this venture prove sessful, I shall secure a fitting position within ourpany for you. A steady ie is requisite at your age, is it not?"


    Under any other circumstance, I would have rejected his proposition. Foremost, the timing was most inauspicious.


    Having witnessed the horrors at Frank''s mansion, and then, in a span of less than two months, a radiant meteorite  a portentous harbinger  manifested in my life, the synchronicity was too immacte to be mere coincidence.


    Nheless, the offer held allure. In truth, I grappled with financial tribtions. My military pension proved insufficient to meet London''s living expenses, and my self-imposed seclusion of the past two months had deprived me of any earnings from lectures or columns.


    Substantial savings were at my disposal, but I was loath to deplete them, uncertain of what life might yet bring.


    After a moment''s contemtion, I offered a nomittal response, neither affirmative nor negative.


    "I shall contact you if I uncover anything of merit. I caution you, however, not to nurture excessive expectations."


    "Splendid."


    Richmond proudly disyed his gold tooth in a wide grin.


    A momentter, the room was enveloped in silence, as though Richmond had never been present. The mor of London''s streets seemed distant, and my gaze fell upon the discarded herring fries. The surface of the now congealed fries bore ayer of solidified oil, rendering them even less ptable than before.


    Why must British chefs remain so fixated on frying?


    Imented the persistently unimaginative British culinary methods and returned the te to myp. My conversation with Richmond had reminded me that I had not consumed a morsel in three days.


    Small wonder Marie was concerned. I reached for a fork and knife.


    Just then,


    <strong> Ding-dong.</strong>


    I set aside my fork and knife at the sound of the doorbell, pushing the te away once more.


    Had Richmond left something behind?


    Seated on the bed, I scanned the floor and clothes hanger, yet found no trace of any luxurious items.


    <strong> Thud.</strong>


    "Master, a visitor awaits."


    "Who might it be? Pray, admit them."


    The front door creaked open upon Marie''s utterance.


    In due course, the identity of our guest was unveiled.


    "Have I arrived at an inopportune moment?"


    "Nay, your timing is impable. My appetite eluded me, and now I possess a fitting excuse."


    Before me stood an elderly gentleman with piercing eyes that seemed to slice through one''s very flesh. His elegantly groomed white mustache epitomized the quintessential British gentleman, while his taut shoulders and erect posture belied his seventy years.


    "I see."


    I shrugged nonchntly in response to his terse remark, acutely aware that anyone would have felt disquieted beneath the weight of that gaze.


    The Silver Wolf. A white wolf that prowls amid the ranks of royalty.


    Count Phil Essex swiftly surveyed my chamber with an icy stare, and I felt akin to a student subjected to a thorough examination of my studies.


    "How fares the Countess?"


    After a momentary silence, Count Essex initiated conversation with a customary salutation.


    Of course, I had never taken a wife, nor had I ever entertained a romantic liaison in my life.


    Both he and I were keenly aware that the Countess to whom he referred was not my spouse.


    "My mother remains in good health and suffers no ailments."


    "That is heartening news."


    I discerned no vacuity in his seemingly innocuous greeting.


    Count Essex had been a longstanding confidant of myte father. As a result, I had been granted the opportunity to exchange pleasantries with the Count on several asions since childhood, by way of my father''s introduction. Indeed, it had been a truly singr experience.


    Raised within an impecunious family devoid of noble lineage, I could not help but acknowledge my father''s aristocratic standing through his mere acquaintance with Count Essex. The Count''s modest yet dignified attire, fastidious appearance, and well-manneredportment, as well as his self-assured demeanor, embodied true nobility.


    It would have been impertinent to dismiss his greeting as a mere pleasantry, for he was a nobleman who had preserved his association with my father, even though there remained no particr reason for their continued interaction.


    Ourst encounter transpired at my father''s funeral, more than two decades prior.


    At that time, he might scarcely be considered middle-aged, but he now bore the unmistakable visage of an elder. His stature had diminished, his hair now white and sparse. Yet, his eyes maintained a sharper intensity than I recalled.


    "Baron Herbert may have forfeited his wealth, but he never relinquished his dignity."


    Count Essex broached a subject I struggled toprehend. His frigid stare remained fixed upon me as he spoke.


    "Conversely, you possess ample fortune and repute, yet you besmirch your family''s name. I pondered which ignominious noble progeny had incited scandal, and upon discovering your name within the newspaper, I nearly doubted my own eyes."


    Only then did I fathom the matter to which Count Essex referred. I had deemed it a trivial incident, but I had not anticipated the tale of my pantless escapade through London to reach the ears of the city''s preeminent businessman and a distinguished count.


    "I vow by my ancestors'' name to exercise caution and prevent this scandal from propagating."


    Beneath Count Essex''s icy gaze, my spine stiffened as though possessed by a sentient being. I nodded solemnly.


    "That is all I have to convey as a friend of yourte father."


    I had never expected theposed and characteristically British nobleman, Count Essex, to express concern for my well-being. Thus, I gazed upon him with widened eyes. His countenance remained remarkably frosty, prompting me to question if my ears deceived me.


    "From this point forth, we shall engage in business as equals, devoid of any formality."


    Though I could not discern the distinction, he appeared to delineate a boundary in his own manner. I did not object, insteadying bare my intentions without reservation.


    "Is it about the meteorite?"


    Count Essex''s eyebrows arched in evident surprise.


    "If you are informed of the matter, I shall spare you an exhaustive ount. I am presently entangled in a convoluted legal dispute. My adversary is a Yankee devoid of knowledge beyond his wealth."


    "Pray, borate."


    Count Essex inclined his head.


    "Are you apprised of the meteorite''snding site?"


    "Jacob''s Ind."


    "Precisely, and were you also aware that our family has exerted control over that ind for the past two centuries?"


    I shook my head.


    "Our ancestor, Maurice Essex, was bequeathed Jacob''s Ind by King Charles II, and we have since upheld order upon thatnd."


    The mention of a bygone monarch, whom I believed existed solely within the pages of books, served as a stark reminder of the nobility of this affair. Yet, an incongruity lingered in the narrative.


    Order had been maintained in London''s most wretched slums


    "However, he materialized yesterday  the merchant from Richmond. Much like a maggot writhing amidst refuse, he emerged as a rat at the site where the meteorite descended. With a crudely fabricated document incapable of deceiving even the most gullible, he asserted his ownership of the celestial stone. Most astonishingly, the London court epted his im."


    The Earl of Essex proceededposedly, albeit punctuated by asional disys of atypical ire. It was not difficult to surmise the extent to which he took umbrage at this affront.


    "I have been informed that you wield considerable influence in such legal disputes."


    "This is news to me."


    This marked the second time today that I had heard such a statement. I had believed myself to lead a diligent life, but with these peculiar incidents and sessive visitors, I began to question my existence.


    "Regardless, I seek evidence to expose the chatan''s deceit in court. I have heard you serve as an adjunct professor; should this matter resolve favorably, I shallpose a letter of rmendation to advance your professorship."


    That was, indeed, a groundbreaking proposition. Were a personage of the Earl of Essex''s stature to advocate on my behalf, no university would disregard it.


    I suddenly inquired.


    "Is the meteorite of such importance?"


    "Even if pure gold were to descend from the heavens, it would hold no significance."


    The Earl of Essex enunciated deliberately, as if in response to a foolish query.


    "The sole matter of import is the besmirching of the family''s honor."


    He concluded with a concise, formal salutation and exited the chamber.


    Perhaps due to the sessive encounters with such extraordinary visitors, I sumbed to an odd sensation of fatigue and copsed upon the bed. Adjacent to my heady the cold, congealed herring dish.


    I contemted summoning Marie to reheat it, but my irritation deterred me, and I merely grasped a fork and knife. It was at that moment.


    <strong>Ding Dong.</strong>


    "Damnation!"


    I inadvertently uttered an expletive. I thrust the te aside once more.


    How could this be possible! For two months, no visitors had darkened my door, yet the advent of a meteorite precipitated a barrage of unexpected callers.


    <strong>Thud.</strong>


    "Master."


    "Permit them entrance! Take this and reheat it!"


    I unleashed my vexation upon the innocent Marie, proffering the herring. I then turned my attention to the door, eager to discern the nature of mytest illustrious guest.


    Momentster, the door swung open, revealing the long-anticipated visitor.


    "Have I disturbed you? Do you recall who I am?"


    I could not help but lower my gaze.


    Not a singleint crossed my lips.


    Inparison to the esteemed London bourgeoisie and the distinguished earl, the third visitor appeared rather disheveled.


    However, the truly memorable individual was none other than the woman before me, an irony not lost on me.


    "Madame Curie, what brings you here today?"


    "Have you heard of the meteorite that fell in London?"


    I nodded as if hearing the day''s third question anew.

 Chapter 7

    Chapter 7


    07. Mysteriously glowing green meteorite


    On that very day, during the afternoon hours, we ambled alongside the Thames River.


    As one might discern from the term "we," I was not unapanied. Mrs. Curie trailed close behind, her countenance taut with anxiety. In truth, I had perceived this facet of her character previously, yet her unassertive demeanor took me by surprise.


    Drawing upon historical biographies and tales of eminent figures, I had instinctively envisioned her as possessing a more self-assured and valiant manner.


    I contemted whether, perhaps, her inflexible personality had been molded by the prejudices and unfortunate circumstances of her era. Undoubtedly, she too must have experienced her own naive years within society.


    No great individual is wless from the outset.


    I silently admired this concealed aspect of history.


    And what of Mrs. Curie''s present actions?


    "Ugh"


    She was intermittently retching beside me.


    "Are you alright?"


    "Yes, yes I can manage"


    Initially, I was taken aback, suspecting that the repercussions of radiation exposure had already manifested. However, I soon discerned the true cause. The culprit was none other than the Thames River coursing through London.


    I have underscored numerous times within this ount that London is the foulest city on Earth.


    The Thames River, coursing through the heart of London, epitomizes pollution, and the edifices constructed along its banks dare not open their windows, lest the stench infiltrate. A mere 17 years prior, a horrifying event transpired wherein 130 passengers, rescued during the "Princess Alice Sinking," perished after imbibing the river''s contaminated waters.


    Naturally, this was an exceedingly unfamiliar environment for Curie, a foreigner. No, rather than unfamiliar, it was revolting. As a London aficionado, I found thismentable.


    "I assume other cities are not so afflicted?"


    Yet, was it genuinely worth suchmotion? Feeling slightly affronted, I casually inquired.


    "Paris is somewhat but my homnd has nothing of this sort"


    Curie spoke, as if to justify herself. At her response, I surreptitiously grinned.


    Indeed, is Paris merely somewhat? After all, as the capital of an industrially flourishing nation, France could hardly be drastically different.


    Fundamentally, the reason for Mrs. Curie''s wretched final years stemmed from the insrity of France. Had it been Ennd, her fate might have been more favorable.


    "So, your homnd is Warsaw, Pnd? I have heard it is a resplendent city."


    In truth, during this epoch, there existed no nation by the name of Pnd. The three European great powersthe Kingdom of Prussia, the Russian Empire, and the Habsburg Empirehad partitioned and governed this ill-fated country in tripartite fashion.


    Yet, Pnd''s national identity endured undiminished, and even after a century, it produced patriots like Marie Curie. Her exceptional patriotism was evident in her decision to name the first element she discovered "Polonium."


    As anticipated, Curie replied with a faint smile, her face still pallid.


    "That is correct, it is a venerable city with a 400-year history."


    The two patriots shared a joyfulugh, delighting in their mockery of both the French and Russian Empires through their discourse.


    At some juncture, the sensation of engaging with a figure of historical import had dissipated, and I found myself in thepany of a young researcher, brimming with potential.


    "I am truly grateful for your time. Foreigners such as myself are scarcely embraced with open arms in London."


    "Assisting impassioned schrs is ever a delight. Moreover, I had business to attend to on Jacob''s Ind."


    "You alluded to your investigation earlier."


    I assented with a nod. I had already apprised Curie of my inquiry in thorough detail, as we journeyed side by side.


    "Forgive me if I failed to inquire earlier, but whatpelled you to choose me?"


    "Would it be unsatisfactory to simply state my admiration for you as a schr?"


    "It is an honor, but the exnation leaves much to be desired."


    In truth, it was rather perplexing that Curie had entrusted me with this undertaking. Our sole previous encounter had urred two months prior in the subterranean chamber of the Frank mansion, where I had made an unremarkable impression.


    Conversely, she was an esteemed member of the academic conference, and I found it difficult to fathom that not a single member of the assemge  which, ording to Arthur, wasposed of the intellectual elite  could have aided her research. Surely, Arthur himself ought to have been a suitable candidate. It seemed inconceivable that he would abstain from such a tantalizing narrative.


    "Indeed, I hesitated to broach this subject, as I remain ignorant of the precise rtionship between the chairman and the doctor, but"


    "Pray, speak your mind."


    In truth, thoughts of Arthur brought a twinge of difort to my brow. The very existence I was forbidden to recall would inevitably resurface. Yet, I harbored a keen interest in his recent activities. Such contradictory emotions roiled within me.


    "The Frank academic conference has been rendered inert."


    "What?"


    "Since that fateful day, the chairman has been in a perpetual state of mise. He has scarcely engaged in conversation, and his presence outside his chambers has be a rarity. Then, a month past, he shuttered the mansion without prior warning."


    Curie''sposed revtion left me aghast. The revtion that Arthur, an autocrat of sorts, had been so profoundly shaken by my exploits came as a surprise, as did his apparent abdication of responsibility.


    "Were there no other members?"


    "Ah therein lies the issue."


    Curie offered an awkward smile in response to my inquiry.


    "The Frank academic conference is, in essence, the chairman''s private schrly symposium. He selects the members ording to his own whims. Consequently well"


    "A congregation of entrics, then."


    "That would be one way to describe them. As each member''s connection to the others was solely through the conference, once the mansion was sealed, all means ofmunication were severed. Doubtless, they are each engaged in their individual research endeavors throughout London, awaiting the day the mansion doors swing wide once more. I intended to follow suit, provided the chairman''s funds remained essible."


    Curie abruptly lifted her gaze.


    "However, upon hearing of this meteorite, I could not remain idle. Do you recall the statue?"


    "You refer to the one bearing the visage of a bipedal creature."


    The image of Cthulhu sprang to mind as I spoke. At the time, I had not been particrly moved by its appearance, but subsequent events had imbued the statue with a sinister aura that made me loath to recall it.


    "The moment I heard the tale, a singr notion took root in my thoughts. Indeed, I could scarcely conceive of any other possibility. To our knowledge, few elements possess such luminescent properties."


    "You are alluding to uranium."


    "Precisely. However, uranium does not emit a glow in its natural state. What if there existed an element that did? In truth, I have long suspected the presence of such a substance. All that remains is to devise methods of detection and furnish proof of its existence."


    In that instant, I grasped the import of her insinuation.


    Radium.


    The unearthing of this element ranked among Madame Curie''s most monumental aplishments. It would require an additional three years and the processing of ten tons of uraninite for her to extract a mere 10 grams of radium.


    Yet, even now, she had already discerned its existence andprehended its properties. By the standards of history''s progression, this revtion had arrived prematurely.


    "Are you aware that all these luminescent minerals share amon characteristic?"


    "Radioactivity."


    Curie''s countenance bore an expression of admiration as she nodded in response to my answer.


    "Have you an aptitude for physics as well?"


    I demurred with a shake of my head. The wellspring of my knowledge was confined to the recollections from my previous existence. The more intricate aspects of radioactivity, intelligible to theyperson of the 21st century, eluded my grasp. Rather than feign expertise in the presence of an authority such as Madame Curie, I chose to speak candidly.


    "I am acquainted with Professor Becquerel''s research."


    "In that case, you must be familiar with Becquerel rays as well."


    The promation of Becquerel''s discovery of these rays, or radiation, was scheduled for the following year. Yet again, the timeline had been disrupted.


    This was no mere error. All the scientific breakthroughs within my ken were urring ahead of schedule.


    The Oracle.


    Inevitably, my thoughts turned to that voracious, steam-powered leviathan of steel. Was all this the handiwork of aputer that had emerged a century too soon? Or was it the malevolent machination of some hidden force? Striving to quell my disquieting ruminations, I respondedposedly.


    "Indeed."


    "I intend to measure the intensity of Becquerel rays emanating from the meteorite. This investigation will significantly further my research."


    After a brief pause, Curie added, her voice tinged with uncertainty.


    "Or, it may render it entirely futile."


    Her trepidation was warranted.


    Though it remained a mere conjecture, what if the celestial object that plummeted to Earth were a massive concentration of radium? Her crowning achievement, the discovery of radium that wouldter serve as her cornerstone, could be dismissed as a divine anomaly and vanishpletely.


    Unaware of the future, I couldprehend her rationale for seeking the aid of a stranger like myself, given that her years of research might be rendered inconsequential by this meteorite.


    "Consider the situation from another perspective. You are fortunate. If the meteorite indeed proves valuable, you have been granted the opportunity to study it before any other schr on Earth. You are young. Unlike myself."


    Cognizant of the future, I endeavored to reassure Curie with caution. It was conceivable that her prodigious intellect might prompt her to undertake even more remarkable research should a fragment of radium descend from the heavens.


    "Professor Becquerel would leap for joy if he were privy to this. He still deems himself a young man."


    "Has he surpassed forty years of age?"


    "He celebrates his forty-first birthday this year."


    Curie and I shared a fleeting moment of mirth.


    In the meantime, the malodorous air intensified. I could sense the infamous Jacob''s Ind drawing near. Despite being a lifelong Londoner, I had never ventured to this locale. The foul odor was but one reason, albeit a considerable one, for my avoidance.


    "Halt."


    Two constables, who had been lounging in the shadows, rose to their feet and obstructed our path.


    "Is that woman ady of the night?"


    With a grave tone, the policeman inquired as he brandished his truncheon.


    "What?"


    I instinctively retorted. Curie, perhaps unfamiliar with such coarsenguage, failed to grasp the exchange and appeared perplexed, her gaze flitting between the officer and myself.


    "I inquired if that woman is ady of the night."


    "Heavens, what is the matter? Are you truly loyal British constables in service to Her Majesty the Queen?"


    Struggling to contain my ire, I managed to suppress the volume of my voice and pose the question. Had I been one whose visage easily betrayed my emotions, my cheeks would have surely been suffused with indignation by this point.


    "I know not your destination, but this area is ill-suited for a middle-aged disabled gentleman and a foreign woman."


    "This is Ennd, and I am free to traverse any location my Queen deems permissible."


    The two constables exchanged nces and scoffed.


    "We merely offer a warning. Even if you belong to the Royal Family, we cannot ensure your safety beyond this point."


    The policeman gestured with his truncheon towards the area behind him. Mere meters away, the scene transformed into something unrecognizable as London. Mounds of refuse and rat carcasses littered the ground, the infamy of the locale palpable.


    "This is Jacob''s Ind."


    London''s most wretched slum. The isle where all the Thames River''s vermin congregated and dwelled.


    Nevertheless, my response remained singr.


    "Do I appear as one incapable of self-preservation?"


    The two constables chortled, as if amused by my words.


    "Listen, sir. I know not if you are a nobleman or a wealthy individual ustomed tofort, but such status holds no sway here."


    I extracted the Victoria Cross medal I perpetually carried within my coat and brandished it.


    "I reiterate, do I appear as one incapable of self-preservation?"


    The constables scrutinized the medal, their eyes widening in recognition. Once theyprehended its significance, they doffed their hats and averted their gazes. The message was evident.


    "We apologize. Please, proceed."


    "Hmph!"


    With an exaggerated snort and an uplifted chin, I strode past them.


    "But exercise caution. Since the meteorite''s descent, Jacob''s Ind has transformed into a truly peculiar ce."


    As I ambled by, one of the constables whispered to me. I yearned to inquire further, but the pair had already retreated into the distance. I opted against returning to pose the question.


    "What transpired? Those London constables appeared speechless and merely allowed us passage."


    Curie queried, her admiration evident.


    "It is a military medal. I exchanged it for this."


    I casually affixed the medal to my suit once more, tapping my prosthetic leg with my cane.


    "Oh, I apologize."


    "Think nothing of it."


    Viewing the situation from a 21st-century vantage point, it seemed foolish. I had not only volunteered for the army, but also lost a limb and returned home. I had oncemented and resented my circumstances.


    And so, it felt peculiar that I now considered this medal a source of pride, be it from a 21st-century or 19th-century perspective.


    Regardless, the constable''s words rang true. The environment shifted drastically within mere steps.


    "Can you endure this?"


    "Yes Thanks to my desensitized nose."


    Jacob''s Ind.


    Although it was so named, in truth, the appetion used by the citizenry referred not solely to the isle itself. The diminutive Jacob''s Ind and its surrounding polluted expanse constituted one immense slum. I had ever been curious as to how they demarcated the distinction, but now, as I stood within its confines, the differentiation became apparent.


    It was the odor. The stench delineated the space.


    "In any case, this is"


    I grimaced.


    Atop the ashes of the incinerated buildingsy charred corpses. They numbered not one or two, but dozens. Curie, following the direction of my gaze, could no longer contain her revulsion and ultimately retched. Had I not grown ustomed to such scenes during my military service, I might have done the same.


    "The article imed it was a minor disturbance due to a fire."


    I harbored resentment towards the journalists who could dismiss such a cmity as a minor disturbance.


    On the day the meteorite descended, Jacob''s Ind was engulfed in mes.


    I remained uncertain whether the congration was sparked by the meteorite''s impact or other factors. Nheless, the fire devoured the entire ind, coated in waste oil, in an instant and persisted until the evening rain doused the ze.


    The indigent inhabitants, trapped within the confined space, were consumed by the inferno without hope of escape. Countless buildings on Jacob''s Ind resembled this scene.


    This was 19th-century London''s stark reality.


    I was acquainted with this reality and fought to survive, to avoid bing another lifeless body here.


    As we delved deeper into the slum, conditions deteriorated. Corpses were ubiquitous, while living souls remained conspicuously absent. A dreadful sense of dj vu pervaded my being. I had previously witnessed a simr tableau and experiencedparable sensations.


    The strangeness intensified.


    "Remain near me."


    "Eh?"


    Upon recognizing the nature of the dj vu, I drew closer to Curie.


    "Never leave my side, stay near."


    I reiterated and implored repeatedly.


    Initially, I believed the sensation stemmed from the numerous corpses encountered. But I could ill-afford such careless musings. The constable''s words held veracity. The situation was truly peculiar.


    "We are being trailed. They are amateurs. However, their numbers remain unknown."


    I had felt this sensation on the battlefield.


    The moment I lost my leg, as foes brimming with murderous intent closed in from all directions.


    "There are many of them."


    I clenched the medal in my pocket tightly.

 Chapter 8

    Chapter 8


    08. Madame Curie


    Since themencement of our pursuit, I discerned a peculiar truth.


    It was the presence of an encirclement.


    The methodically honed encirclement constricted gradually, neither too swiftly nor too sluggishly. It was undoubtedly beyond the capabilities of untrained vagabonds to replicate.


    A decade prior, during the Battle of Sardinia where I forfeited my leg, the characteristics of modern 21st-century warfare were evident.


    The British naval blockade was an auspicious beginning, yet the coastal fortresses dispersed throughout the ind precluded even the British forces from entering. My division, abandoned amidst the blockade, resorted to guerri warfare in squad units due to inadequate strength and limited resources.


    A conflict that remains unrecorded in the tactical annals of any nation in the world, an unparalleled collective guerri warfare unfolded. For a year, both the isted friendly and adversarial forces underwent tremendous tactical advancements.


    It was peculiar indeed to evoke such a sensation within the slums of London.


    "They''re corralling us," I murmured to Curie, attempting to conceal my trepidation.


    "Corralling us?"


    "Recognizing that we''ve detected their pursuit, they''re guiding us somewhere."


    Had they harbored malevolent intentions, it would not have been difficult for them to cause us harm. Merely a middle-aged, limping man and a foreign woman were involved. Nheless, they craftily maintained their distance for some inexplicable reason. For now, our only option was to acquiesce to their intent.


    As we delved deeper into the streets, we encountered an even more uncanny experience. Approaching the crash site of the meteorite, the ignition point, the number of scorched buildings diminished. In their stead, the remaining structures were all remarkably bizarre.


    The strangenessy in the buildings''ck of doors. Shoeprints were heavily imprinted on the open window sills, giving the impression that they served as entryways.


    "Perhaps the ground has subsided. Could this also be a consequence of the meteorite?"


    "I am uncertain."


    I could not ount for the scene before me using any scientific principles within my knowledge. Had the ground been sufficiently warped due to the impact, there should not have been buildings left so intact.


    No people were visible, but innumerable footprints adorned the white ash heaps in the streets. The nature of the shoes eluded me. It seemed more fitting tobel them handprints instead of footprints.


    "It is peculiar."


    Curie, too, appeared to sense the oddity of the street and whispered to me.


    "Indeed, it does not seem as though the buildings were like this from the outset."


    "Moreover, can you not detect the scent of the sea?"


    The scent? I inhaled deeply, attempting to discern the aroma. Undoubtedly, the smell had shifted. It bore a closer resemnce to the odor of fish than the distinct stench of the Thames River.


    "It feels as if we have entered another realm."


    I concurred with her sentiment. If scent demarcates space, then this ce was indeed a separate domain.


    I conceded that I was utterly disoriented. In the military, I often ascertained my position merely by consulting a map, but my experience proved futile here. The configuration of the roads and buildings deviated entirely from what I had gleaned through the map.


    The sole certainty was that we delved ever deeper into thebyrinthine streets.


    "Are they locals?"


    "Perhaps. But let us not provoke them."


    Atst, living inhabitants emerged from behind windows and within shadowed alleys. They appeared so gaunt that it was difficult to fathom them as Londoners.


    How much time had psed since the cmity? The survivors were so emaciated that they appeared lifeless, gazing into the void and muttering in peculiar tongues. Their utterances resembled prayers, but I shuddered to contemte the abhorrent beings to whom they offered their supplications.


    By all that is holy! Some engaged in carnal acts in broad daylight, in the very center of the street. It was repugnant rather than tititing, akin to the coupling of wooden pegs. Life is oftenuded as beautiful, but this was a grotesque excess!


    I averted my gaze from the vile spectacle, finding the charred corpses more ptable.


    We ventured further still. The scent of oil and waste that once permeated the entrance of the street had all but vanished, supnted by the briny aroma of seawater and the putrid stench of decaying fish. The once modest Thames River now seemed as vast as the ocean.


    Our pursuers had, beyond doubt, herded us precisely where they desired. They no longer concealed their presence. Rounding a corner, the shadows of our trackers became visible. A multitude of stalkers paced in unison with us.


    <strong>Trudge trudge.</strong>


    <strong>nk nk</strong>


    That cacophony! As they neared, the nking reverberated. On stormy nights, when waves buffet the hull of an irond vessel traversing the sea, such a din is relentless. I questioned whether I trod uponnd or sea, feeling as though pursued by some aquatic fiend rather than a fellow human.


    An intuition told me we neared the conclusion of this relentless chase. A bridge materialized before us. It was the bridge leading to Jacob''s Ind.


    Beyond the bridge, a vivid, chaotic green luminescence flickered.


    "They''re leading us towards the meteor," I murmured.


    Curie inquired, "But why?"


    I shook my head, devoid of confidence in rationally elucidating the enigmatic events at hand. All was contradictory. Together, we ascended the bridge. Our pursuers no longer concealed themselves.


    Emerging one by oneslowly unveiling their presence, their numbers swelled to dozens. I marveled at how such a multitude could maneuver through the narrow alleyway in such disordered chaos. They appeared linked by an ineffable, arcane bond.


    Yet, the issuey in their visage. They resembled beasts garbed as humans rather than genuine human beings. Their eyes gleamed in the darkness as they observed us, unblinking as though devoid of eyelids. Somecked noses, struggling to breathe, gasping with protruding tongues.


    "Could it be some form of contagion?"


    Curie furrowed her brow, proffering a rational hypothesis. But I knew this was no illness. I had encountered such descriptions before.


    "Whatever the reason, from this moment forward, do not regard them as our equals."


    "Is it because they are impoverished and ailing?"


    Curie did not conceal her disdain for my seemingly heartless remark. I shook my head.


    "It is because they are not human."


    As we traversed the bridge, the ghastly truth of Jacob''s Ind''s cmity wasid bare before us. The once-thriving cluster of buildings and docks had been reduced to oblivion.


    In their steady a vast, gaping crater.


    A bluish-green substance, perhaps moss or mold, clung tenaciously to the ashen ground. The river collided with the ind''s edge, its waves casting tainted water into the chasm.


    At the very heart of the cratery the meteorite, encircled by the moss-like growth.


    As rumored, it emitted an eerie, luminescent green light. The unsettling glow ensnared the senses of those who gazed upon it from a distance. I averted my eyes, noting our pursuers had bowed their heads in obeisance to the celestial intruder.


    Ah, yes, in a mere two days, it had be the unholy object of devotion for the ind''s denizens.


    I could fathom the lure of their sphemous faith, for the light held the power to enthrall the minds of those who beheld it. Like moths drawn to a me, they could not resist the beguiling allure of this sinister radiance, even if it heralded their own doom.


    Yet, it was not a meteorite.


    "What is that?" Curie furrowed her brow, unable to discern its nature. Even one as perceptive as her could not fathom its true identity. I alone recognized it for what it was. Its descent from the heavens did not necessarily qualify it as a meteorite.


    What had plummeted from the sky was an airne.


    Not some vague, otherworldly flying contraption, but a distinctly human-crafted prototype bine. It was the result of an aviation mishap urring a full eight years before the Wright brothers'' historic inaugural flight.


    Struggling to conceal my astonishment, I endeavored to deduce the cause of the catastrophic descent. The wings bore the telltale signs, their cross-sections cleaved cleanly, as if rent asunder by some formidable force. Debris was conspicuously absent from the vicinity, suggesting the damage had urred mid-flight.


    No matter how rapidly aviation advanced, early prototypes were ill-equipped to withstand nature''s fury. Thus, during a tempestuous night such as the one two days prior, this ill-fated machine met its tragic demise.


    I cautiously approached the aircraft''s cockpit. A dried bloodstain marred the pilot''s seat, yet there was no sign of a corpse or the like. It seemed inconceivable that anyone who had sustained such profuse bleeding could have managed to walk away unaided.


    "I''ve never seen anything like this before"


    Curie, on the other hand, was so captivated by the meteorite that she scarcely noticed the telltale bloodstains. The sight of her, bathed in the eerie green light, struck me as disquietingly portentous.


    I discovered a charred metal tag upon the ground and retrieved it. Endeavoring to clean the soot from its surface with my glove, I realized that heat would be required to remove itpletely. This object would likely offer a clue regarding the enigmatic cargo aboard this fateful flight.


    <strong>Ssh!</strong>


    In that instant, the River Thames heaved violently. No living creature could survive in such a putrid morass. Yet, as I beheld the being that emerged from the muck, horror consumed me.


    It had transformed into a monstrosity that could scarcely be deemed human. The most apt description of its form would be that of a bipedal fish. A viscous ck substance, perhaps from the Thames or some other source, clung to its protruding gills and trailed to the ground.


    Curie finally noticed the creature and gasped. Whether she was incapable of screaming or simply refrained from doing so, it was a fortunate oue that she did not provoke the abomination.


    "Bbugura!"


    It rasped hoarsely, its unnerving voice straining the limits of human hearing and rendering it acutely diforting to the ear. The grotesquely altered denizens prostrating themselves before the meteorite rose to their feet, as if in response to their leader or perhaps a priestly figure.


    "What does it mean?"


    "Regrettably, it is not English."


    "Nor Polish, Russian, or French."


    "Bbugura! Szhu-tuthnn''uun Anghuha!"


    The priest, with only its eyeballs moving within its unnervingly vast, unblinking eyes, regarded us and raised what may have once been fingers, gesturing towards the exit.


    "Is it telling us to leave?"


    Curie and I warily began to retreat. The priest then bellowed once more.


    "Ahu-Aphu''tn! Szuhatan Fhtagn!"


    It extended a single digit, and after a moment''s pause, pointed to the ground.


    "It seems one of us must remain."


    It was a chilling deration, yet there was scant room for an alternative interpretation. Did they intend to take a hostage to deter us from summoning soldiers? Or was there some arcane religious significance? Regardless, it was a malevolent demand for sacrifice.


    Nheless, we could not simply submit to their will. I could not abandon Curie here, even if I were to depart alone. Her intellect was a gift to mankind. If one of us must stay behind, it should be me.


    I steeled my resolve.


    Yet, before I could act, Curie strode hastily towards the priest.


    "Wait!"


    "Then I shall stay."


    I reached out to restrain her, but the abominations had already interposed themselves between us, as though they had chosen Curie as their sinister tribute. I seized the arm of one of the grotesque beings attempting to apprehend me and twisted it away.


    "Begone!"


    I then struck another with my elbow as it tried to seize me from behind. It crumpled to the ground, spouting blue ichor reminiscent of fish blood. The atmosphere grew palpably hostile, and the monstrous beings appeared poised to assault me without hesitation.


    "It''s alright. Cease this at once."


    Curie halted and turned to face me.


    "You may perish if you remain here!"


    "That is precisely why I cannot forsake you, professor. Besides, it is not a certainty that I shall die, is it?"


    "It is not so simple! You!"


    In that critical juncture, I faltered. What should I disclose?


    That I hailed from the future


    That, in the future, Curie''s discoveries prove indispensable to humankind


    I could not make up my mind. She spoke before I could.


    "I have pondered what you said upon our arrival."


    I recollected my imprudent words. What had I uttered? That the meteorite''s descent was an opportunity? It was but an inconsideratement. I had achieved nothing befitting a schr in either my past or present existence.


    Yet, I found myself speechless upon beholding Curie''s countenance.


    She did not exhibit the visage of one who dreaded death.


    "This meteorite is what I have been seeking all along. Indeed, as you asserted, professor, this was an opportunity."


    It was the frenzied exultation of a scientist on the verge of an extraordinary discovery. The rapture of a moth immting itself in a me that only it could perceive!


    Recognizing Curie''s genuine intent, I was powerless to dissuade her.


    Momentster, the grotesque throng engulfed me, and the figure of Madame Curie vanished from my sight.


    <strong>Creak, creak.</strong>


    That night, wave upon wave crashed incessantly against the embankment of the Thames River''s steelworks, as if driven by the tide.


    In my 40 years residing in London, I had never witnessed the Thames so teeming with life. The appalling images that haunted my mind tormented me relentlessly.


    All the shadows of London originated from these beings, and the waves of the Thames were their aqueous puppets. I could not elude them, no matter where I sought refuge. Their malevolent voices incessantly echoed within my ears.


    "Bbugura Szhu-tuthnn''uun, Anghuha."


    I was discovered on the banks of the Thames two hours prior. My extended immersion in the water had rendered my body temperature dangerously low, and I had contracted a stomach ailment from ingesting the river water. Although I attempted to warm myself with heated water, my body remained as frigid as a corpse.


    I trembled.


    What had be of Marie Curie? Had she been offered to their heinous deity at the conclusion of a sphemous rite? Or had she transformed into one of those monstrous beings, worshiping the sinister green meteorite?


    In my hand, I clutched a rifle I had not employed since my days in the military. I nearly embraced it. This lengthy steel rod provided more sce than any crucifix.


    "Ahu-Aphu''tn, Szuhatan Fhtagn."


    "Professor, what are you murmuring?"


    The steel mill proprietor regarded me with a frown as he spoke. In his hand, he held a gleaming metal tag.


    "I have eliminated all the impurities. What is the cause of thismotion at such an ungodly hour?"


    He spoke with a tone of discontent.


    I snatched the tag from his hand with great urgency.


    There was but a single emblem upon the tag. I recognized its origin.


    Richmond Co.


    Upon verifying it, I fell into a swoon and crumpled to the ground.

 Chapter 9

    Chapter 9


    09. Jacobs Ind


    From that fateful moment, a feverish mdy gripped me in its sinister clutches. My temperature soared beyond the threshold of 100F (38C), and my wretched body could no longer abide the act of swallowing, instead purging its insides with a violent intensity. Marie, ever attentive, dampened a towel with heated liquid, and let a single droplet fall upon my parched lips, yet my fevered form perspired a chill sweat all through the night, and dehydration soon followed.


    As for the spectre of death, I found myself no different from a cherished maiden. Incapacitated and forlorn, I paced the edge of the River Styx and, by some miraculous turn, recovered. It was a convalescence that took ce after a fortnight ofnguishing in the throes of a raging fever.


    Upon witnessing my reanimated form donning fresh garments, Marie''s eyes widened, and she clung to me, weeping. I was taken aback by her emotional disy.


    "By the gods, Master! I believed you were destined for the grave!"


    "Surely, that is a bit of an overstatement."


    "You are ignorant of the countless days you were confined to your sickbed!"


    My fevered delirium had obscured the passage of time, but a nce at Marie''s countenance revealed that it was not a mere day or two. I offered her my heartfelt gratitude and inquired about the events that had transpired during my incapacitation.


    Marie, with a hesitant stutter, recounted the tale of her tribtions. The royal physician, thrice, had decreed that I would not survive another day. A solicitor arrived to authenticate the will I had penned a dozen years prior and took his leave. Of my kin, only my second brother paid a visit, bearing a delicate white orchid nestled within a Chinese porcin vessel he had unearthed from some forgotten corner.


    Throughout my unconscious ordeal, Marie attended to me without once returning to her abodean act of devotion for which I was profoundly grateful. Such an exceptional housekeeper was a rare treasure in London.


    "Ah, and there was this peculiar urrence."


    She rted an incident that transpired a week prior, on a night when torrential rains fell, reminiscent of the day the meteorite descended. rmed by the sound of rain, Marie opened the door to ensure my chamber''s window was not left ajar, and there she beheld a most unearthly tableau.


    I had risen from my bed of suffering, flung open the window, and exposed my naked form to the tempestuous deluge. I bellowed in anguage beyondprehension towards the stygian heavens, and in response, a sound akin to a ship''s bell seemed to resonate through the shrouded mists.


    Petrified, Marie desired to flee, but her steadfast loyalty would not permit her to abandon me, my sanity seemingly ravaged, to the merciless storm. And so, she entered the chamber and, with great effort, sealed the window. (Her devotion in this regard was mostmendable.)


    Yet, an even more bizarre event unfolded thereafter.


    As the window was shut, my body copsed like a marite bereft of its strings. Ibored to sit at my writing desk and demanded a quill and parchment from her. Marie obliged, even preparing a thin, warming broth to serve alongside. But I paid the sustenance no heed, instead furiously penning some cryptic message.


    "Impossible," I dered. I had no recollection of the night she described, and from that eve until the morrow and the day that followed, I had been incapacitated by the relentless fever.


    "But it is the truth! Behold this evidence!"


    She proffered a notebook, asserting with an air of indignation that I had authored its contents. Emzoned upon the cover was the title:


    "The Gospel of ckriver"


    It was apparent that the handwriting was either my own or that of one who had cunningly mimicked it after perusing my tomes. Otherwise, it would defy reason that I could not discern any disparity.


    "Pray tell, what does it contain? Have you perused its pages?"


    "No. It emitted a sinister aura, and so"


    Upon opening to the first page, I found myself grateful for Marie''s decision to refrain from delving into the notebook. Itmenced with an admission of sacrilege and imprecations against the sole deity in which I held faith, penned in a ndestine manner. As if itid bare my innermost thoughts all along.


    What''s more, it meticulously detailed the vivisection of a living sheep as an offering over the course of eleven pages, including the forms and procedures of three associated incantations. The subsequent fifteen pages harbored obscene prose that I could not bear to gaze upon, as ifposed from my own experiences.


    A portion of each page was marred by a cold perspiration, rendering the ink indecipherable, and the volume of blood spilled augmented as the pages progressed. I could infer the origin of the myriad scars that adorned my hand; self-inflicted wounds inflicted by a sharpened quill.


    The lunacy contained within this slender tome reached its zenith on the final page. Inscribed in blood were the details of all that I had witnessed and heard on Jacob''s Ind, the abominable entities and their utterances. From the point at which my memory had been severed, there existed an unceasing torrent of thenguage utilized by those loathsome creatures, and somehow, I knew it was their prayer.


    I wiped away the cold sweat that had formed upon my brow. This sphemous chronicle must not be read by any soul.


    "Speak of this to no one."


    I rifled through a drawer, procured a chain and a diminutive book coffer, and ced the notebook within the coffer before Marie. I secured it with the chain, and resolved that the box would remain sealed for the duration of my existence. In addition, I vowed to amend my will, instructing a solicitor to ensure its incineration alongside my mortal remains upon my demise.


    "What has you so disquieted?"


    Marie gazed up at me with a countenance fraught with apprehension. The frenzy of that tempestuous eve she had witnessed shimmered in her eyes. I pondered whether to cate her with a falsehood or to share a measure of truth.


    "It is a matter of a personal nature. I know not how I came to pen such a document."


    This knowledge must not be shared with another. Most notably Marie, who had earned the rpense of her devotion: the gift of blissful ignorance.


    In that instant, I grasped the true essence of the pride I harbored as a soldier. I had waged battle to shield virtuous and innocent souls such as hers. With this revtion, my course of action crystallized with unprecedented rity.


    My pretext was unconvincing, yet Marie posed no further inquiries. Instead, she pressed a mercury thermometer against my flesh.


    "I assure you, I am quite well."


    "Your recovery cannot be deemed certain until your fever abates."


    Marie examined the thermometer.


    "95 degrees Fahrenheit? Your constitution is akin to an icebox."


    "Allow me to see; perhaps it is malfunctioning?"


    Upon reevaluating my temperature, the oue remained unchanged. Hovering around 35 degrees Celsius, it was far from the norm. However, I felt more invigorated than ever before. I deduced the thermometer to be faulty.


    "Why not repose at home for a spell?"


    "What is the date today?"


    "It is the 31st of May."


    I blinked in astonishment.


    "The 31st? Are you quite certain?"


    "Indeed. Pray tell, have you an urgent engagement?"


    I hastily donned my coat, which hung upon a nearby rack. Marie assisted me by disentangling the hem of the garment from my trousers.


    "Today marks the trial of Richmond and Count Essex."


    Once the proceedings conclude, the opportunity to unveil the truth shall be irretrievably lost. The meteorite will be surrendered to either Count Essex or Richmond, and the fate of the ind shall be irrevocably altered in ordance with their designs. The chance to liberate Mrs. Curie will likewise vanish into the ether.


    I gripped my cane with resolute determination.


    "Should you venture forth, do not neglect to bring an umbre."


    Marie admonished me as she observed my preparations.


    "A torrential downpour assails the city."


    Beyond the windowpane, a ferocious tempest raged. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the day the meteorite descended from the heavens.


    Late morn.


    I found myself in Count Essex''s study. Every item was meticulously arranged, and nary a superfluous object could be found in the austere chamber that mirrored its proprietor''s disposition.


    Count Essex imbibed a draught of wine that filled but half the ss.


    "Following breakfast and supper, pour a third of a ss of red wine and mix with two spoons of vinegar. This, my friend, is the elixir of longevity."


    He drained the vessel without parting his lips or dampening his mustache.


    "I was informed you had a misadventure in the river, leading to a feverish state."


    "I was most unfortunate."


    "Nay, consider yourself fortunate. You emerged alive from the depths of the Thames."


    Count Essex, having pushed the ss aside,boriously rose from his seat. His movements were as deliberate as my own, a man bereft of legs. With measured grace, he pivoted to face the window and uttered in a murmur.


    "Are you aware that Lord Herbert also plunged into the Thames in his youth?"


    "I was not privy to that fact."


    "It is hardly surprising. Upon siring a son, he adopted the visage of a stern patriarch without a hint of shame."


    I struggled to discern the intent behind his utterances. It seemed incongruous that the earl, renowned for his fastidious attention to detail, would engage in such inconsequential conversation in the presence of his friend''s offspring.


    "Forgive my protracted preamble. Now, does the golf bag you bear pertain to this case?"


    Count Essex swiveled only his head in my direction as he inquired. True to his observation, I carried a golf bag upon my back. Though the sport had long enjoyed poprity in Ennd, I had never properly participated due to the limitations of my left leg. Even less usible was the notion that the contents of the bag were golf clubs.


    A Snyder Enfield rifle.


    I extracted the antiquated firearm from the bag. While I had lovingly maintained it since my discharge, it appeared that the passage of time had taken its toll, leaving me with a weapon as aged as myself. Regardless, I believed it still capable of discharging a single round.


    I trained the barrel of the gun upon the earl.


    "What manner of jest is this?"


    "Tis no jest. Your lordship must demonstrate your innocence."


    "Have you lost your reason?"


    Indeed, my reason had long been forfeit.


    It had urred long ago, prior to my bout with the dreadful fever and my penning of lunatic missives, before my encounter with the fish-man on Jacob''s Ind, before I uncovered the unspeakable secret of the Frank mansion on the distant isle of Sardinia.


    In that ce, I had been mad enough to take a life without the slightest hesitation.


    "You must disclose all you know of the ind and the meteorite."


    "You are bereft of reason Bereft of reason"


    The Earl repeated the words, apparently taken aback. His withered fists quivered with a sense of betrayal.


    "What is your objective? Are you under the sway of that wretched Richmond?"


    "Only I and Her Majesty the Queen hold dominion over me. And I shall do whatever it takes to protect my beloved country and city."


    A panoply of emotions flitted across the Earl''s countenance: astonishment, terror, and vacition.


    "You possess quite the audacity to spout such drivel. I suspected that one day, someone might make such a confession. I know not what you have unearthed, but if you persist in this manner, as a servant of Her Majesty the Queen, I am left with no choice but to divulge the truth."


    Atst, he bore a vacant expression. His voice held no genuine sentiment.


    "This is the disgrace of our lineage Nay, my own personal ignominy."


    As though nothing had transpired, hemenced his tale with an air ofposure.


    "Four decades past, my father, Earl William Essex, met a woeful end on a rain-sodden day much like this."


    As he recounted the tale, the Earl gazed out the window, where rain streamed down, seemingly oblivious to the firearm trained upon him.


    "It was a tragic ident. Earl William was swept into the Thames, and the deluge-born torrent carried him out to sea. For two months, we searched in vain; not even a corpse to inter at his funeral was returned to us."


    His slender, furrowed hand traced the windowpane.


    "My mother, consumed by grief, took ill and was diagnosed with dementia a year thereafter. She flung herself into the river, leaving a message that she would seek out my father. I was ill-equipped to confront a double bereavement, yet the solicitor intoned the inheritance I was to receive in a dispassionate manner: the title of Earl, my rights and property, and the attendant responsibilities."


    The aged Earl''s eyes, mirrored in the window, were suffused with myriad emotions: grief, yearning, and ire.


    "And among those bequeathments was that ursed isle: Jacob''s Ind, the damned ind that entombed my father."


    The Earl swiveled his head.


    "I was not alone in my suspicions regarding my father''s demise. Providentially, I was able to enlist the aid of several adept coborators. Among them was your father, Baron Herbert, a consummate detective. Over several years, we conducted a meticulous investigation of the ind and, at longst, arrived at the truth."


    The Earl''s eyes gleamed.


    "My father was in by the hands of those coarse and monstrous dockworkers!"


    <strong>Crack! Crackle!</strong>


    As lightning rent the air, the chamber was plunged into darkness. The window was tinged with a ruddy glow. The lightning-stricken wooden utility pole zed fiercely. White electrical sparks cascaded from the severed wires.


    "They had on numerous asions sought to negotiate with my father for reduced port fees. But time and again, my resolute father refused, and they changed tack, joining forces with a factory proprietor. They awaited a day when the Thames'' currents were strong, lured my father to the ind, and dispatched him."


    In my mind''s eye, I beheld the visage of the mutants. Had they truly forged such an unholy bond after their metamorphosis? Or was it the inescapable fate of those who had shared in sin throughout their lives?


    "Theborers demanded rpense for their nefarious deeds, but the factory owner reneged on his promises and threatened to expose them as my father''s killers, reducing them to servile pawns. Some, stricken with remorse, sought my forgiveness, but I held no intention of granting them absolution."


    The room''s illumination showed no inclination to return. All I could discern in the darkness were the Earl''s inquisitive eyes. I raised the barrel of the firearm. The sole target I could strike in this ckness was the Earl''s cranium.


    "I swore vengeance. I vowed to visit ruination upon the corrupt industrialist and the entire ind until my dying breath."


    The Earl began tough. It was a bitter, hollow sound.


    "The factory owner has already perished. It was an ident. He drowned in the Thames on a rain-swept day."


    Heughed as though on the brink of madness. The aged man chortled with such force that he gasped for air and spewed forth spittle. The sound of his breath was akin to the patter of rain against the windowpane.


    "All the inheritance bequeathed by the factory owner was obliterated, leaving naught but a deste ind polluted and eroded by unbridled development. Whenever it rained, the ind would subside ever so slightly. Not excessively, not sparingly, just leisurely enough for the inhabitants to acknowledge their transgressions and repent. I received numerous entreaties from residents, imploring for redevelopment as their edifices sank, but I cast them all into the firece, bribed the officials, and excised that region from the maps each time they were drawn anew."


    It was then that I finally grasped the reality of that peculiar street. The structures without a ground floor and the thoroughfares differing from the map bore no connection to the meteorite. It was all an act of vengeance orchestrated by the Earl.


    "My meticulously crafted retribution was nearing its denouement. The ursed ind and its progeny were fated to be engulfed by the Thames'' waves, just as my father and mother had been. And then that man appeared."


    "Whitney Richmond."


    The Earl nodded.


    "He purported to possess the development rights to the ind, which he could not possibly have, and that constituted the direst of circumstances for me. Though my odds of losing were slim, if I were to be defeated, I would forfeit everything."


    "Should he scrutinize Jacob''s Ind for development, it will unveil the discrepancies between the survey results and reality over the past few decades, and your malfeasance will beid bare."


    At my dispassionate conjecture, the Earl offered a benevolent smile and shook his head. That smile wounded my spirit. I was even filled with dread that a human could manifest such a countenance.


    "No. If he seeds in developing the ind, it will not sink, will it?"


    <strong>Drip, drip</strong>


    Solely the sound of rain reverberated hollowly in the hushed chamber. The fervent madness that had reigned mere moments prior had dissipated, leaving behind only an old man who had lost the impetus of life.


    "I had intended to confess this sin before the Lord, but I never imagined I would divulge everything to Herbert''s offspring. The designs the Lord has conceived are truly beyond human ken"


    The Earl appeared far more aged than before hemenced his tale.


    The keen vigor that had enveloped his entire form had utterly faded, leaving in its wake a wrinkled and fragile old man befitting his seventy years. He seemed to have aged nearly two decades in a mere ten minutes, yet his visage appeared more serene than before.


    "Have you uncovered the answer you sought? Will you now expose me and absolve those sinners?"


    "Ultimately, your involvement with the meteorite was nonexistent."


    "I swear upon the name of myte father, I have no further secrets to conceal."


    I lowered the rifle and delved into my coat pocket, extracting a metal tag.


    "Rejoice, my lord. Your vengeance has been fruitful. They have encountered a fate more terrible than death, all due to another''s blunder."


    "Richmond"


    Richmond Co.


    "As you proimed, Richmond is a chatan. There exists no possibility that he could have purchased thend a mere week before the meteorite''s descent, for the meteorite''s arrival there was sheer happenstance."


    "What do you imply?"


    I dimly discerned the verity underlying this trial.


    "He harbored no intent to emerge victorious from thewsuit. Rather, he lodged an oundish suit concerning the meteorite''s extraction rights to preclude you, the legitimate proprietor of thend, from essing the meteorite. All he required was the passage of time to reim that which was his."


    I cast a nce at my wristwatch. The hour hand indicated precisely noon.


    "What do you mean? So, it is as if"


    I nodded in response to the Earl''s inquiry.


    "The possessor of the meteorite is Richmond. And this very instant, when all the stakeholders of Jacob''s Ind are engrossed in the trial, must be the moment he has so patiently awaited."


    It was one hour before the trialmenced.

 Chapter 10

    Chapter 10


    10. Great river Thames


    <strong>Quack quack quack!</strong>


    The Thames River appeared to seethe with fury. Despite the torrential downpour, the levees that had never breached before were now rendered futile, as floodwaters cascaded onto the streets. Workers d in raincoats persisted in their tasks, huddling at the harbor''s edge.


    "Is there no vessel arriving?"


    "Are you mad to expect one in this tempest?"


    I muttered curses under my breath and turned away. It was a futile endeavor. I had entertained the notion of renting a boat, but in such weather, even the sturdiest of ships refused to stir.


    With neither carriages nor automobiles in operation, the streets were quieter than ever. A single panicked horse spooked by thunder could provoke cmity. Perhaps as a result, the customary traces of horse dung and gasoline stains were absent from London''s streets.


    The scent of the sea pervaded the air.


    The distinct stench of London that invariably wrinkled my nose was swept away by the rain, reced by the salty aroma typical of the sea more than 30 kilometers to the east. The scent blurred the boundary between the city and the ocean.


    A vision manifested before me. Big Ben and Buckingham Pce, submerged in tidal waters.


    It was a scene from both the distant past and an impending future. A hundred million years ago, the continents were not yet fully segregated, and the earth''s surface underwent cycles of sedimentation and melting. At that time, Londony deep beneath the waves, its original denizens being the fish people. The grotesque relics they crafted still linger throughout Britain, foretelling the downfall of a humanity yet unborn.


    When the earth settled and humans emerged, the fish people receded to the sea. However, they remained patient. In due time, thend would sink once more, and humanity would be forced to supplicate the fish people for survival, offering themselves as livestock.


    As a denizen of the 21st century, I know that prophecy to be true.


    Sea levels have been steadily rising for millennia. In another century or two, London will be engulfed by water. The Queen''s residence will metamorphose into an altar for their malevolent deity, and the Houses of Parliament will be a breeding ground for human captives.


    The fish people will reim their ancient domain and rule over humanity with wickedness!


    Mars! Their sinister god is none other than Mars!


    I swam through nightmarish delusions.


    Who presents me with these visions, and to what end? I groaned and stumbled. My cane slipped on the slick pavement and rolled along the ground.


    "Sir, are you quite well?"


    A youthful constable observed my fall and hastened to lend support.


    "It is perilous out here; let us return to your abode!"


    I shook my head. As I rose with the constable''s assistance, my gaze met the heavens. The rain, cascading from the somber sky since daybreak, seemed intent on engulfing the world with even greater ferocity. It was the sky that humanity, until a millennium ago, believed to signify the gods'' wrath.


    "I must proceed."


    "Whither are you bound? I can apany you."


    I cried out.


    "Jacob''s Ind!"


    The very epicenter of tragedy and the genesis of London''s impending destruction!


    <strong>Swoosh!</strong>


    I reached the entrance of Jacob''s Ind approximately ny minutester. Due to the absence of carriages, I arrived half an hour behind schedule.


    "Are you certain this is the location?"


    The constable inquired apprehensively. Even for awman, venturing into such a slum was umon. Only the most seasoned and hardened officers were assigned to these impoverished districts.


    I nodded.


    The officers who had guarded the entrance the previous day were nowhere in sight. I knew they had not deserted their post. The copious bloodstains on the ground attested to that.


    "They have already passed."


    The bloodstains led directly to the Thames River. The victims had been in here and subsequently cast into the river. There was no need to erase the evidence. Within an hour or two, the rain would cleanse all traces of blood.


    "Bloodstains!"


    The young constable, taken aback, approached the gruesome scene.


    "Do not be rmed. We shall encounter worse henceforth."


    He squatted, observing the futile spectacle of bloodstains being washed away by the rain. Meanwhile, I retrieved a rifle from my bag, angling the barrel downward to prevent rainwater from seeping into the muzzle.


    "What are you suggesting! Sir, what is the meaning of this?"


    "A Snyder Enfield. Aged, but serviceable. Much like myself."


    "That is not the issue!"


    Even in firearm-tolerant Britain, brandishing a weapon in the city center was a different matter. The constable sprang up and advanced towards me. It was an unguarded move that would have allowed me to shoot him with ease, had I been so inclined. Inexperience, I surmised.


    "Thank you for escorting me thus far. You may depart now."


    He was too young to be entangled in such a matter. If London required bloodshed, it shoulde from an adult.


    "This is not a situation to dismiss with mere words. You must exin everything forthwith."


    I presented my Victoria Cross to the constable, who recited the sage advice unbefitting his youth. Icked both the confidence to persuade him with words and the time to do so. This was the most direct way to rify my identity and the current predicament.


    "London is under siege, constable."


    A retired soldier bearing a military medal, an antiquated military rifle, the assaulted officers.


    The constable, recognizing the medal, seemed to grasp that the situation was far from ordinary.


    "Moreover, this has nothing to do with glory. Are you prepared to die for your country and Her Majesty the Queen?"


    I did not hasten or chastise him. Instead, I strode past the constable, whose gaze was downcast, and ventured into the heart of Jacob''s Ind.


    "I-I shall apany you. I cannot permit you to proceed alone, sir!"


    I furrowed my brow at the voice emanating from behind.


    "What is your name?"


    "Peter. Peter Wilson."


    "Philemon Herbert."


    Though I was loath to involve the young man, the situation did not afford the luxury of refusing assistance. I was still haunted by the visions. To escape the dreadful nightmare of a submerged London, I was prepared to sacrifice anything.


    The streets were markedly different from my prior visit.


    The first thing I noticed was the odor. The foul miasma that had once distinctly separated the streets of London from Jacob''s Ind had vanished. All that remained was the salty, piscine aroma of the sea. The delineation between London and Jacob''s Ind was already disintegrating.


    "Is this truly London?"


    Wilson surveyed the surroundings and inquired with an apprehensive tone. His anxiety was understandable, given his ignorance of the circumstances.


    Even I, who was privy to the entire tale, shuddered at the extent to which the ground had sunkpared to a mere fortnight prior. Buildings that had stood two or three stories tall had descended further, nearly engulfed by the mire, resembling primitive hovels.


    And the roads? The cobblestone paths were now submerged in sludge, with each step sinking us ankle-deep. Unidentifiable primeval creatures, be they insects or fish, wriggled and crawled through the muck.


    "Ugh!"


    All thempposts and streetlights had toppled andy haphazardly strewn at the waterway''s edge, apanied by scores ofrge fish carcasses washed ashore. Wilson retched at the repugnant sight. Even I, possessing a robust constitution, felt queasy.


    I approached the remains and scrutinized them. More precisely, they were still human. The bodies, now bearing a closer resemnce to fish than they had two weeks prior, were already infested with the eggs of opportunistic flies.


    Careful not to touch the remains, I prodded them with my cane. As anticipated, they were drained of blood and desated, with the gunshot wound in the chest serving as the source of the hemorrhage.


    "He could not have aplished this alone."


    I surveyed the multitude of corpses. They were arrayed in a line, as though queuing, with a uniform distance between thema formation only achievable through synchronized gunfire.


    "What are these abominations?"


    "Sinners. They were cursed by an elderly man and transformed into these shapes."


    "Is that some manner of jest?"


    I shook my head.


    "Are you prepared to confront hundreds of monstrous fish and armed brigands wielding firearms?"


    "No"


    "Neither am I."


    As anticipated, Richmond had arrived.


    He was not unapanied; at his side stood several armed mercenaries wielding firearms. The dreadful reality weighed upon me, yet simultaneously, a modicum of sce could be discerned.


    "Wilson, I beseech you for assistance. You must locate a woman somewhere upon this ind. My wretched leg hinders my pursuit. Can you undertake this task?"


    I described to him Curie''s facial characteristics. Wilson nodded with apprehension and took his leave.


    <strong>Bang!</strong>


    <strong>Bang! Bang!</strong>


    Discovering Richmond proved no arduous task.


    One simply needed to follow the cacophony of shrieks and gunfire, piercing the torrential downpour. As expected, he resided upon Jacob''s Ind.


    "Exterminate them all!"


    "Repugnant, monstrous fiends!"


    Six mercenaries, armed with rifles and even machine guns, hurled curses as they fired upon the fleeing fish-people, while Richmond observed the unfolding carnage from a safe distance.


    I stealthily approached him.


    "Herbert! I had heard of your plunge into the river, yet you have prevailed!"


    Recognizing me, Richmond revealed his gold teeth in a cunning grin as he greeted me.


    "Pray tell, why do you stand here when you ought to be present at the court?"


    "No one attended the court."


    At my response, Richmond''s eyebrows betrayed a subtle twitch.


    "Neither Count Essex nor I made an appearance, much like yourself."


    "You possess an irksome aptitude."


    "Was it not suchpetence you sought when you came in search of me?"


    Richmond shook his head.


    "Nay, of course not. I surmised that, being in close association with the Earl, I could intertwine falsehoods and present a tantalizing offer such that he might somehow prevail in the case. I spent a fortnight confined to the London library, rummaging through the dustden tomes ofw."


    Hemented as though matters had not unfolded ording to his design. Remarkably, his tone carried a note of merriment, given the dire circumstances.


    "One could scarce imagine my astonishment upon learning you had ventured directly to Jacob''s Ind. I never would have surmised."


    "Did you arrive here to reim the meteorite?"


    Instantaneously, Richmond''s visage shifted from a sardonic smile to one of solemnity.


    "If you possess such knowledge, you ought to realize it was originally mine."


    "That object is not meant for human possession."


    "Indeed, I purloined it from a non-human entity."


    Richmond confessed withposure.


    "Twenty-five years past, I endeavored to take my own life aboard a vessel bound for America. My venture had failed, and I found myself consumed by staggering debts. I saw no prospect of repayment, even if I were to toil for the remainder of my days in the United States, and so I leapt into the Antic''s vast expanse. Miraculously, I survived."


    It was a tale I had previously encountered. His convoluted debt situation had been a frequent topic in the press.


    "I found myself upon a peculiar isle. Nay, it was a continent  a submergedndmass, engulfed by the tides. An immense expanse of mudts, nketed in shallow seawater, stretched interminably across the horizon, devoid of any elevation surpassing my own knees. No living beings inhabited this ce; all was lifeless and decaying. The only reflections cast upon the water were my own image and the cerulean sky above."


    Richmond''s countenance was awash with rapture.


    "Upon that forsakennd, I discovered it: the enigmatic, verdant meteorite that gleamed brilliantly. A malevolent, primitive race worshipped the celestial stone."


    He entuated the term "primitive race" and averted his gaze. At the end of his line of sight, the fish people perished helplessly before the relentless onught of firearms.


    "Fortuitously rescued by an American vessel, I returned posthaste to London, the meteorite clutched in my grasp. It bestowed upon me the power to achieve the unachievable. Serendipitously, all my creditors, who had extended loans to me, perished in a series ofmentable shipwrecks, affording me the opportunity to cultivate my enterprise."


    Indeed, the origin of the whispers surrounding himmenced here. His intricate debt situation persisted unresolved to this day.


    "Once my affairs had stabilized, I purchased a quaint rural hamlet by the name of Moreton. Situated a great distance from the sea, it was a tranquil vige. I erected a factory there, provided employment to the popce, and bestowed salvation upon them. Is not that tale most inspiring?"


    "Nevertheless, the meteorite''s presence on Jacob''s Ind remains unounted for."


    In response to my query, Richmond suddenly unleashed a fearsome cry.


    "My meteorite was purloined! By those wretched fish-creatures that breached my sanctuary under the veil of night! Anticipating such an event, I managed to dispatch the majority of the intruders, yet a select few eluded me! I vow to eradicate that inferior race and reim my meteorite ere I expire!"


    A palpable madness swirled within Richmond''s eyes, entuated by the harsh light of the machine gun.


    "And a fortnight past, I finally located the French coastal vige that harbored them andid it to waste. I could no longer bear the absence of the meteorite from my grasp."


    During the tempestuous night when the flight was forcibly taken aloft, I discerned that it was Richmond who had orchestrated the event. Yet he made no mention of the anachronistic technology that should not have existed in this age.


    "The meteorite is mine! It belongs not to those vagabond fiends, but to me!"


    <strong>Vrooom</strong>


    The sound of a boat''s engine emerged from beyond the fog.


    "Yjzuq''hacha Fhanglu Fhtagn!"


    "IA! IA! Tekeli-li Dagon Fhtagn!"


    The atmosphere shifted. Amidst the heated carnage, the fish-men shrieked their fanatical incantations. They hurled themselves toward the onught of bullets. Even as their scales shattered and heads erupted, more of the fish-men materialized.


    "IA! IA! Tekeli-li Dagon Fhtagn!"


    "IA! IA! IA! IA!"


    In stark contrast to their frenzied conduct, they regarded the humans with the emotionless eyes of fish. Their mouths hung agape, reminiscent of fish awaiting their prey.


    <strong>Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!</strong>


    "Boss, we must flee!"


    A mercenary, paralyzed by terror, implored.


    "No! Keep firing, you fools! You cannot be halted by a mere handful of vagrant abominations?"


    Richmond roared, his foot striking the earth.


    "Huh?"


    Atst, a fish-man''s hand grasped the head of a mercenary. The unfortunate soul crumpled to the ground, his hair ensnared. Despite attempts at suppressive fire to rescue him, the fish-man who had captured the mercenary swiftly retreated to whence they came.


    "Help me! Help me! Aaaaah!"


    The fish-man mercilessly dismembered the captured mercenary before us, as if to exhibit his conquest. It was a torturous disy. They inflicted agony upon him until he finally sumbed to his grievous wounds. When the mercenary''s life ebbed away, naught remained of his countenance.


    A singr emotion permeated the unfeeling eyes of the fish-creatures: rage, a thirst for retribution. The mercenaries, overwhelmed by terror, attempted to flee, but it was already far toote. Those who fell backward, meeting their demise with fractured skulls, were the fortunate ones.


    The climactic end of the fric battle drew near. Richmond grasped a firearm and brought it down upon the fish-man''s skull.


    "Be gone! Do not sully my flesh!"


    Richmond struggled as he was ensnared by the fish-man''s fin. The fish-men dragged him and the lifeless bodies of his numerous cohorts towards the river. The vagrants had transformed into beings more piscine than human. Frothy foam billowed in the water as Richmond was pulled under.


    All was finished.


    The world was shrouded in silence.


    The nightmarish scene that had transpired moments ago concluded, leaving behind an unsettling chill.


    <strong>Vrooom</strong>


    Within the fog, I came upon an entity.


    Towering over even the tallest structures of London, it loomed above the Thames, casting its gaze upon me. Its limpid eyes, even from the abyssal depths, exuded the mineral-like emotions characteristic of underwater beings as it observed London.


    "Haak Hah."


    Upon realizing its presence, I drew breath in short gasps akin to a fish stranded ashore. With each inhtion, the fetid odor of sea mold and parasitic waste suffused the air, and the guttural rumble of its voice reverberated throughout London.


    Ah, indeed. The aircraft did not plummet due to inclement weather.


    It was veritably something of immense power that had seized the wing with its very fingertips.


    Gazing upward at that entity, I felt suffocated.


    "Heuk Heuk Heuk."


    Jacob''s Ind was descending into the depths along with the meteorite. I, too, would be submerged. To draw breath, I must return to the sea. As with all life, I must return to the sea.


    "Sir! Sir! Compose yourself!"


    Wilson cried out as he hoisted me up.


    Those eyes! Eyes!


    "Aaaaaah!"


    I shrieked, attempting to rend Wilson''s eyes from their sockets!


    "Into the abyss! Into the abyss! Ites! To the sea! To the sea! To the sea!"


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    A weekter, I sat listlessly upon the bed.


    The incident''s impact on my sanity was tremendous, yet regrettably, I failed to lose my mind entirely. I spent the majority of my days grappling with terror, and I became hysterical at the slightest hint of rainfall.


    Books and newspapers served as a distraction from my fears.


    The meteorite trial, which had garnered significant attention, fizzled out as none of the involved parties appeared. Even Richmond, who would have raised objections, vanished, and the trial went unmentioned. Indeed, any verdict would have been inconsequential. Both Jacob''s Ind and the meteorite had been swallowed by the Thames, disappearing without a trace.


    The public''s attention swiftly shifted to another matter.


    It was the intense legal dispute over how creditors would divide the heirless Richmond Co. Consequently, no one took notice of the case involving the overnight disappearance of every resident in a small rural vige called Moreton. It received only brief coverage in local newspapers.


    London''s economy suffered its worst downturn since the typhoon.


    The Thames'' waters grew so tempestuous that no ships could enter. On the day of the typhoon, anchored vessels and cargo worth millions of pounds were lost, and port facilities installed across the city became useless. It was London''s darkest day.


    During my convalescence, two letters arrived.


    One announced the death of Count Essex. People imed that he had aged 30-40 years overnight, sumbing to old age the following day. Upon the revtion of his peculiar dietary habits, rumors circted thatbining vinegar and red wine was detrimental to one''s health.


    The other letter was from Wilson. He sent a few pleasantries along with a notebook. On the first page, this name was inscribed:


    <strong>[Marie Curie]</strong>


    I decided to dy reading it for some time. Had she truly gone to the river, or had she perished? I dreaded the knowledge of the truth.


    As ever, the Thames River flowed just beyond the window.


    The Thames was purer than it had been in the past century. The river would eventually return to its original state. As always, the river would one day be a vibrant, azure sea teeming with life.


    Each time I showered, I could hear something passing beneath the sewer. Those who could not return to the sea now dwelled within London''s sewers. I had a premonition that when the river bes the sea once more, they would rise to the surface seeking vengeance.


    In that moment, what could I do as a British soldier? Night after night, my worries deepened.

 Chapter 11

    Chapter 11


    11. Bizarre! A Werewolf Appears in London!


    Throughout the preceding half-year, I have found myself entangled in a series of uncanny urrences that have tested the very bounds of my mental faculties. Miraculously, the abyss of madness has not yet consumed me, a stark divergence from the fate that has befallen countless victims within the annals of the Cthulhu mythos. Over thest sixty days, I have ruminated upon the reasons for my unyielding sanity, yet no satisfactory answer has revealed itself.


    The most conceivable conjecture is that I am the incarnation of another soul.


    It urs to me that my initial awareness of the Cthulhu mythos as a work of fiction may have fortified my psyche against its insidious influence. Beyond this, I have identified no singr quality that sets me apart.


    Regardless, I have not been wholly consumed by insanity. Yet, this is not to say that I remain entirely unscathed.


    "Master, as summer is upon us, might I suggest that you partake in a bath?"


    Marie tentatively proffered.


    "What purpose would that serve? I remain confined to this abode."


    Time and again, I would dismiss her proposal with such a rational pretext.


    Ofte, my existence has been plunged into disarray by an array of mdies born of psychological trauma, with aquaphobia and agoraphobia proving particrly pronounced. (I assure you, I speak not of the dread affliction of rabies.)


    Such was my aversion to water that I resembled a vagrant, forgoing even the most rudimentary grooming, let alone bathing. At the peak of my affliction, the merest droplet of condensation upon a drinking vessel would induce convulsions, much to Marie''s distress.


    In her devotion, she devised a method to render boiling water tepid on my behalf, but now that my condition has somewhat improved, shements the newfound obsolescence of her skill. Considering that imbibing unboiled water in London would undoubtedly result in illness, I remained ever grateful for her diligence.


    Agoraphobia presented an even greater challenge, as it bore direct consequences upon my very means of subsistence.


    Since the harrowing episode at the Frank estate, I have abstained from any semnce of upation for a span of six months under the guise of convalescence. Following a four-month respite, I reluctantly embarked upon my first endeavor during rehabilitation: the meteorite inquest upon Jacob''s Isle. s, the aftermath of that ordeal left me incapacitated for yet another two months.


    As fortune would have it, Count Essex, true to his word, bequeathed unto me a letter of rmendation ere his demise. This missive would have granted me entry to any academic institution as a professor, yet I found myself wholly unwilling to abandon the sanctuary of my home. Considering the cmities that befell me each time I ventured beyond my threshold in the preceding half-year, my reluctance was well-founded.


    Inevitably, my social sphere contracted, and over thest two months, I have maintained contact only with my housekeeper Marie, Dr. Wangjin, and the purveyor of newspapers. I found myself bemused by a bold article that dered me a hermit, for there was a degree of truth in their assertion.


    Thus, I was afforded the opportunity to dedicate myself wholly to a singr pursuit: trantion.


    <strong>[Marie Curie]</strong>


    The notebook bearing this title was inscribed in a myriad of tongues.


    Its pagesmenced in Polish, yet as the chronicle progressed, French and English began to intermingle. Strikingly absent was the Russiannguage, which may have been more familiar to her than Polish. I surmised that this omission reflected an unconscious act of patriotism.


    The amalgamation ofnguages might have been mistaken for a haphazard arrangement of multilingual sentences, but Curie ingeniously crafted multinational phrases that showcased her remarkable intellect. It was not umon to find words in threenguages coexisting within a single sentence, with some phrases defying the grammatical conventions of any one nation.


    Each line neared theplexity of a codeposed of multiplenguages, and as the pages advanced, even the vestiges of linguistic identity disintegrated, giving rise to an independent lexicon.


    It was this peculiar characteristic that convinced me that this text was penned by Curie over an extended period during her metamorphosis. This revtion hinted at the possibility of Mrs. Curie''s survival, suggesting there was no sudden sacrifice.


    Fortuitously, I possessed a fluency in both French and English, and was acquainted with a schr versed in Polish, to whom I dispatched a letter seeking assistance. Naturally, I relied heavily upon a Polish-English dictionary to decipher the text.


    Upon unraveling the multinational code, the notebook divulged its most enigmatic passage toward the end. It bore no resemnce to any Earthlynguage I had encountered, and I struggled to discern the boundaries of each sentence.


    I was acquainted with but one tome inscribed in a simrly arcane script.


    <strong>[The Gospel of ckriver]</strong>


    On a tempestuous eve, when some malevolent revtion besieged my vulnerable form, I found myselfpelled to retrieve that detestable grimoire once more. Thusmenced the painstaking process of trantion,paring the two texts side by side. Mere glimpses of the unholy scripture threatened to engulf my sanity anew, necessitating a deliberate pace in my efforts.


    Approximately two months had psed since the meteorite inquest.


    "Master, you emit a most unpleasant odor."


    As I perused the newspaper, Marie, who had arrived to prepare afternoon tea, abruptly admonished me.


    "Pardon?"


    "Indeed, you reek. It is imperative that you bathe this day."


    "How can this be? I have merely remained indoors, have I not?"


    As per my custom, I furnished the same justification.


    "Yet you bear the scent of dust. Could it be the result of your incessant bookish pursuits?"


    "Surely, the odor does not transfer from tome to reader. Furthermore, who would characterize this as the aroma of dust?"


    In jest, I chided Marie for her peculiar choice of words, whereupon she set down the teacup she was arranging and pivoted towards me.


    "Ah, yes. Unlike the erudite master, my expressions are decidedly unsophisticated"


    "Pray, desist. When have I ever held you in contempt?"


    Feeling vexed, I truncated the wearisome exchange.


    "Regardless, Master, your malodorous presence this day necessitates a bath."


    For reasons unknown, her insistence was more tenacious than ever. Left with no alternative, I feigned ignorance and resumed my perusal of the newspaper.


    "Today''s edition features a rather intriguing article."


    "Again, with such diversions"


    "No, truly. This piece may pique your interest."


    "Indeed? What is its subject?"


    I directed Marie''s attention to the headline.


    "London witnesses the advent of a werewolf!"


    "Can this be true?"


    "Assuredly."


    Initially, I surmised that the appetion "werewolf" was employed as a literary metaphor. However, as I delved deeper into the article, I discovered the earnestness of the im and promptly lost interest. While I idled away in a state of unrest, the London press was once again manufacturing sensationalist drivel to bolster their sales.


    "Is this authentic?"


    "Please, do not mimic the credulity of today''s youth. You are well aware of the spurious nature of such tales."


    "Then what, pray tell, is this?"


    Marie gestured towards the image apanying the article.


    It depicted a blurred nocturnal photograph. Owing to the inadequate focus, the silhouette of a creature, straddling the line between beast and human, was scarcely discernible. The figure in the snapshot crouched on all fours, fixing a baleful gaze upon the photographer, its eyes aglow, while coarse hair sprouted from beneath its jowls, reminiscent of a feral creature.


    In this epoch, the masses possessed an unwavering faith in the veracity of photographs. Although techniques for image maniption existed, the belief that a photograph embodied truth persisted.


    "Any soul with nefarious intent could fabricate such an image."


    "And what of the fur?"


    "A mere growth of one''s beard would suffice for such a ruse."


    "Ah, indeed."


    Marie uttered, directing her gaze at my chin. I red in response, warning her against such a frivolous inspection.


    In any case, the article posited that the perpetrator responsible for the recent uproar in London, spanning five months, had been unmasked as a werewolf. The denizens'' dread of the lycanthrope had reached its zenith, with the constabry receiving three to four reports of sightings daily, and an incessant influx of unverified rumors inundating the press.


    The catalog of crimes attributed to the werewolf was extensive, epassing assault, arson, public indecency, harassment of both women and men, theft, property damage, sexual affronts, and home invasions, with over 50 households alleging damages.


    The creature roamed the dimly lit backstreets of London on all fours each night, hunting its subsequent quarry, its speed surpassing even the swiftest of London''s motorcars. All endeavors to photograph the beast had culminated in failure, save for the lone snapshot featured in the article.


    I heaved a sigh.


    Even a lowly novelist, earning a mere five shillings per volume, would pen their tales with greater earnestness. While such sensationalist stories were customary in these trying times, this particr piece was egregiouslycking in quality.


    "Perusing this drivel induces a headache. Remove it from my sight. I shall savor my tea."


    Thus, I handed the newspaper to Marie, whose expression was one of intrigue, and cleansed my memory with a sip of tea.


    One week hence.


    I persisted in my struggle to decipher the notes left behind by Mrs. Curie. My efforts bore little fruit, prompting me to rise from my seat in search of respite. As I peered out the window, I chanced upon a newspaperd passing by, and promptly beckoned him.


    "Sir, might you be interested in purchasing a newspaper?"


    "Which publications do you carry?"


    The boy rifled through his satchel of newspapers, reciting the titles one by one.


    "I have the Daily Telegraph, the Illustrated London News, and the Daily Mail."


    "And what of The Sketch?"


    "I do not possess that, sir. Shall I procure it for you?"


    I shook my head and ced a one-shilling coin in the boy''s palm. With three newspapers, the sum would suffice to purchase a dozen inexpensive Daily Telegraphs.


    "Provide me with one Illustrated London News, and retain the remainder."


    "Thank you, sir!"


    Thed scrutinized the coin before presenting me with the newspaper, a radiant smile adorning his face. I epted the periodical and promptly closed the window.


    Upon hearing the window close, Marie entered the chamber, muttering her discontent.


    "Did you bestow a tip upon that newspaperd once more?"


    "He is a diligent andmendable youth."


    "Commendable? I dare say he is more cunning. He lingers outside the window until you purchase a newspaper. Instead of incessantly iming penury, you ought to economize in such matters."


    Disregarding Marie''s admonishments, I perused the contents of the articles. The first page, as per custom, teemed with advertisements. I turned the page and promptly closed the newspaper after glimpsing the initial article.


    "You squander funds impulsively, which is the cause of our budgetary shorings. How can one of such brilliance possess no sense of frugality?"


    "Cease your maternal-like chiding and behold this."


    "What might it be?"


    Grasping the newspaper I proffered, Marie cried out in delight.


    "It''s Spring-heeled Jack!"


    "Last week, it was a werewolf; this week, Spring-heeled Jack. When did British newspapers transform into a carnival of oddities? What shall we witness nexta yeti?"


    Spring-heeled Jack.


    An appetion for an enigmatic figure that had been inciting amotion in London since before my birth. As the sobriquet implies, he donned springs upon his heels to vault over edifices, spewed fire from his maw, and assailed without trepidation, even soldiers.


    Ah, what a magnificent monster he was. When he discovered a solitary woman whilst bounding betwixt buildings, it was said he would harass her. Inparison to London''s myriad other monstrosities, his motives were rtivelyprehensible.


    "All of this is mere fabrication."


    I deemed him a sort of savior for British newspapers. Any mediocre sensationalist writer could concoct a tale concerning him, supplement it with a chilling illustration, and the periodicals would sell like the finest confections.


    "Nheless, it retains a certain amusement, does it not?"


    Marie harbored the peculiar predilection of amassing newspapers featuring ounts of monsters or murderers. I had not esteemed it highly in the past, but now that I was cognizant of the existence of such creatures lurking in the shadows, I could no longer regard it with ease.


    "You ought to ept more cases of this nature."


    "Pray tell, what do you presume my profession entails?"


    "However, sir"


    <strong>Ding-dong.</strong>


    The chime of the doorbell interrupted Marie, who set the newspaper down and pivoted.


    "I shall attend to it."


    As Marie opened the door and withdrew, I secured it once more myself. Presently, I perceived the sound of the front door opening and the voices of a man and a woman. I recognized the feminine voice as Marie''s, but the masculine voice, though familiar, eluded my recollection of its origin.


    <strong>Knock, knock.</strong>


    "Master, a visitor has arrived to seek your counsel."


    "Admit them."


    I seated myself and endeavored to neaten my cluttered desk. The Gospel of ckriver and its trantion were not artifacts I could permit others to view.


    <strong>Creak.</strong>


    A man garbed as a constable entered. Atst, I recalled the identity of the voice and offered a wry smile. The visage of the man remained as rigid as I remembered.


    "Its a pleasure meeting you, Lord Herbert."


    "I received word of your promotion, Wilson."


    He was the youthful Lieutenant Peter Wilson, who had apanied me during the submersion of Jacob Ind. At the time, he served as a patrol officer, but now he bore the title of detective.


    "Your influence is to thank."


    Wilson responded with a taut grin.


    There was cause for his uneasy smile. It was likely my doing.


    On that fateful day, Wilson, who had been searching for Mrs. Curie in a vacant edifice, did not witness the entirety of the ind''s events, but he resolved to report truthfully all that he had observed. As a consequence, he garnered not onlymendation for halting the machine-gun terror but also faced dismissal due to spurious rumors of drug use whilst on duty.


    It was an unsuitable reward for the bravery he had exhibited. Once I regained my senses, I learned of the news and penned a personal missive to the head of the Criminal Investigation Department (CID). Unlike Wilson, I obscured the truth of that day''s urrences and supnted the void with fabrications regarding Officer Wilson''s valor.


    Given the personal rapport between the CID director and myself, as well as my status as the sole witness to the ind''s events, Wilson''s aplishments were acknowledged, and he was promoted to a CID detective in lieu of termination. It was an unparalleled privilege, ascending from patrol officer to detective, predicated upon a singr case.


    Nevertheless, Wilson ceased dispatching regr correspondence to me after that day and severed all contact.


    The forthright young man discerned my involvement in his elevation and felt that sustaining a friendship with me was akin to partaking in grave corruption. He was a rare and honest youth in London, and I found myself disheartened for a time upon losing such a young confidant.


    "Has your eyesight improved?"


    "Yes, my vision has been fully restored."


    Ah, yes, and I had once stabbed him in the eye. It was born of necessity.


    "So, what has brought you hither today?"


    I was well acquainted with Wilson''s character from those incidents, and I did not surmise he would call for personal reasons. As anticipated, he proffered a letter bearing the police seal.


    "I am here today to formally request your coboration in resolving a case as a CID detective."


    I epted the letter and retrieved a paper knife from a drawer.


    "I may decline after perusing the contents."


    "I have never known you to refuse, particrly in cases such as these."


    I meticulously opened the envelope with the de.


    "There are two cases in total. They may or may not be rted."


    "It appears you are suggesting your ownck of knowledge."


    "If it were not such a case, there would be no necessity to solicit your cooperation, sir."


    He possessed a valid argument. I nodded in agreement.


    "The informal designations of the cases are as follows."


    I unfurled the two documents and perused the names of the cases inscribed in bold letters, furrowing my brow in consternation.


    Wilson assumed a formal stance and dered,


    "The Werewolf Affair. The Spring-Heeled Jack Conundrum. The CID earnestly beseeches the aid of Lord Philemon Herbert in the examination of these two enigmatic urrences."

 Chapter 12

    Chapter 12


    12. Judas and Patrick''s Dinner


    On the morrow, at the behest of Marie, I yielded to her relentless urging and took to the de. It marked a triumph for her, as she had persistently harped on the matter for the past two months.


    "Oh my, what a marked improvement you exhibit with your facial hair trimmed."


    Having shorn away my whiskers, I found myself quite taken with the invigorating sensation it bestowed upon me. I silently concurred with Marie''s sentiment. However, I had no desire to undergo the rigors of a full-fledged ablution, so I beseeched Marie to procure a vessel of water to serve as a makeshift basin.


    As in my days of yore, when I sailed upon the navy''s vessels, I submerged a cloth in the basin and painstakingly attended to every nook and cranny of my person. When I wrung out the cloth, a dark, muddied stream of water flowed forth. Its presence did not evoke any particr reaction from me, as I had grown ustomed to such squalor during my days of military service and ardent exploration.


    However, it was Marie who beheld the sight with a degree of consternation. She swiftly emptied the basin, filled with the murky residue of my cleansing, and forcibly expelled me from the room, insisting on purging it of its umted impurities. The sound of her diligent sweeping and mopping resonated from within. She possessed an exceedingly meticulous disposition.


    "Behold, this is the amount of dust that has been expelled."


    And after a time, Marie collected a conglomeration of filth and triumphantly presented it to me.


    "Truth be told, I find myself at a loss for an appropriate response, for it is the first instance wherein one has disyed a cluster of dust to me, awaiting my reaction."


    "Such is the wretched state of your chamber."


    "Dust has an inclination to umte over time."


    "Even so, who in their right mind dwells amidst such a mountain of dust!"


    "You are simply unustomed to bearing witness to such squalor."


    Fatigued by the ceaseless pestering of Marie, I sought sce within the confines of my chamber. Unquestionably, the floor and the bed appeared more immacte than prior to my departure. Resigned to abandoning any unnecessary search for faults, I readied myself for departure.


    As I attended to the arrangement of my suit, an unsettling realization abruptly seized hold of me, prompting me to direct my gaze towards the desk. I then shifted my scrutiny to the bookshelf, followed by the bed, and atst, the windowsill. s, the object of my quest eluded my diligent investigation, refusing to reveal its presence.


    In utter desperation, I resorted to my final recourse.


    "Marie, perchance have you chanced upon my wristwatch?"


    "Wristwatch?" she queried.


    "Yes, have you perhaps stowed it away?"


    Marie, entering the chamber, shook her head with an expression fraught with anxiety.


    "You know full well I refrain from meddling with your possessions."


    "Indeed, I am cognizant of that fact. Yet, if neither I nor you is responsible, do you imply that this wristwatch sprouted legs and embarked on a ndestine expedition?"


    Uttering my discontent in a disgruntled tone, I muttered under my breath and, with a sense of apprehension, lifted the pillow from its resting ce.


    <strong>Ding dong.</strong>


    The resonant chime of the doorbell reverberated through the entryway, summoning our attention.


    "Quickly, locate it," I beseeched, my search growing ever more frantic as I rifled through drawers where the watch had no conceivable ce of concealment.


    "If the matter pertains to the watch, fear not, for I shall unearth it. You must proceed forthwith," Marie insisted.


    "What? Do you expect me to venture forth bereft of my timepiece? That is an inconceivable notion!" I retorted, my tone fraught with incredulity.


    Marie''s obstinacy knew no bounds, driving me relentlessly toward the entrance, where I was nearly propelled forward by her unyielding determination.


    "Hey!" I protested.


    "You are poised to assert your refusal once more," she retorted, an air of exasperationcing her words.


    The notion of retracing my steps at this juncture appeared increasingly preposterous. Reluctantly, I conceded defeat, yielding to the inevitability of the situation. With great reluctance, I gingerly opened the door, my countenance assuming a semnce of hospitality.


    "Good morrow," I greeted the visitor.


    "Good morrow, sir. I have arrived to escort you," replied Wilson, stationed outside the threshold, saluting dutifully, his policeman''s hat perched atop his head.


    asionally, requests for civilian coboration in investigative endeavors reached my doorstep. Yes, akin to the detective in a mystery novel.


    However, if one were to inquire whether my acumen equaled that of those fictional sleuths, the answer would unequivocally be in the negative. In truth, the reason I found myself on the receiving end of such proposals stemmed from an inexplicable reputation that had somehow taken root. Personally, I pondered over the manner in which I had managed to cultivate such a peculiar renown.


    Yet, one aspect remained resolutea certain unresolved case, believed to have been resolved through my intervention, served as the initial catalyst.


    "It pertains to a case from fourteen years past," Wilson articted, his gait unhurried.


    "The Norfolk Evening IncidentI delved into its depths. Your name garnered considerable renown."


    "Thanks to that, I acquired a measure of undesired notoriety."


    "You performed admirably."


    In the year 1881, a macabre incident of unparalleled proportions unfurled, sending shockwaves across the entirety of Ennd.


    The venue of this distressing affair was none other than a domicile nestled on Norfolk Street, a thoroughfare characterized by its tranquil ambiance, even within the bustling confines of Londonwhere men of letters traditionally congregated. Within the confines of that residence, five souls met their untimely demise, their demises so intricately entangled that discerning a clear demarcation between victims and perpetrators proved an exercise in futility.


    The origins of the cmity can be traced back to the ill-fated asion when Harris Jude extended an invitation to Martin Patrick, beseeching his presence at a solemn repast.


    "Seated at the dining table were Jude''s two progeny and his wife," I recounted.


    Twas an evening that would forever be etched in the annals of London''s historya harrowing chapter unfurling before their very eyes.


    The initial harbinger of this grim saga emerged from the lips of a concerned neighbor. The eyewitness, having been assailed by piercing cries and unnerving shrieks emanating from the domicile of Jude, promptly sought the aid of the constabry. To the authorities, he divulged, "It appears that a burry has taken ce next door." This supposition arose from the fact that Jude''s family had perpetually conducted themselves with decorum, never once yielding to fits of discordant tumult.


    Indeed, such was the reputation of Judea gentleman esteemed and relied upon by his neighboring denizens. Without dy, two vignt patrolmen set forth towards the abode of Jude.


    However, upon their arrival, the cacophony of screams and mors that had tormented the air had long since been silenced. The house stood not in a state of abandonment, for faint streams of light pierced through the sagging curtains, hinting at signs of upancy. The two officers approached the threshold, their footstepsden with trepidation, yearning to glean insight into the enigmatic tableau that awaited them within.


    <strong>Chomp chomp.</strong>


    The two officers poised to knock upon the door were arrested by an anomalous sound emanating from within. Perplexing indeed, for one of Jude''s esteemed standing would not produce such an indelicate mor. It resembled the ravenous feeding of a canine or swine rather than theportment befitting a human being.


    The officers, sensing an inexplicable shift in the situation, halted their intended action of knocking, realizing that the door stood ajar. They applied a gentle pressure, causing the portal to yield slightly. In that instant, a putrid stench, reminiscent of the abattoir''s pungent domain, gushed forth from the crevicean olfactory assault born of blood, viscera, and excrement intermingled.


    Their intuition whispered of an egregious circumstance unfolding within,pelling them to breach the threshold.


    Within, a sight unfolded that transcended the boundaries of our mortal realm. All was suffused with a ghastly crimson hue.


    At the table sat five figures, their abdomens rent asunder, allowing their innards to spill forth like twisted serpents. None among them possessed unmarred ocr orbs. Upon thevishly adorned table, a macabre collection of unmistakably human appendages, including ears,y heaped, while the Arabian carpet beneath was drenched in crimson, its fibers desated and twisted.


    Four were but lifeless husks, their souls forever vanquished. Only one exhibited signs of animation. Harris Jude, with fingers ensanguined, gorged upon his own daughter''s entrails.


    "Jude, apprehended at the scene, sumbed immediately."


    "He bled out."


    Subsequent scrutiny by the investigating officers unearthed a revtion more shocking still.


    The invited guest, Patrick, too willingly partook in this grotesque banquet. Several undigested fingers were discovered within his stomach, and within the recesses of his oral cavity resided an esophagus presumed to be that of Jude.


    It suggested but one conclusion. Amidst the unfolding dinner, Jude and Patrick, like savage beasts, orchestrated the massacre, rending flesh and tearing asunder with unabated ferocity.


    As news of the incident reverberated, an ominous pall descended not only upon the streets of London but also upon the entirety of Ennd.


    Dread enveloped the popce, for the two gentlemen, once esteemed, had metamorphosed into the most grotesque murderers in the annals of history.


    The family of Patrick, used of harboring devilish inclinations, fell prey to the torment inflicted by the local denizens, forcing them to seek refuge in the remote countryside.


    Yet, even there, they found no sce, for their presence was unwee in their former abode. Helen, the wife of Martin Patrick, her mind addled by the relentless pursuit of journalists from the capital, sumbed to the grasp of despair, departing from this mortal coil without leaving behind testament or testamentary provisions.


    Henceforth, the warmth of neighborly camaraderie evaporated, dissipating like ethereal mist. Suspicion coursed through the veins of neighbors, rendering them wary of one another. No longer did doors remain ajar when visitors arrived. This phenomenon, this apprehension towards one''s neighbors, spread like a malignant affliction, its dominion extending far and wide. Sociologists, seeking toprehend this collective anxiety, christened it the Jude Syndrome''.


    Newspaper pressesbored ceaselessly, birthing sensational articles with unyielding fervor, as the industry witnessed an unprecedented surge. Amidst their revelry and morous delight, the burden upon the Crime Investigation Bureau deepened, as public intrigue swelled to a crescendo.


    This proved to be the inaugural trial for the recently established Bureauan opportunity to showcase their mettle, their unwavering resolve tobat heinous transgressions.


    Though the London police force boasted a mere seventy years of existence, the Crime Investigation Bureau''s own history was unusually brief, having undergone aprehensive reorganization a mere three years prior, in 1878, under the ambitious direction of its former head, who meticulously handpicked two hundred detectives. This case, urring at such a juncture, offered a momentous asion for the Bureau, which, thus far,ckedmendable achievements. Should they navigate these treacherous waters adroitly, they stood to earn the trust and confidence of London''s citizenry.


    However, this case deviated from the norm, defying conventional reasoning. The lines between victim and perpetrator appeared starkly delineated, yet an enigma shrouded their fates. No one stood to be held ountable, no avenue presented itself for justice to be meted out. Nevertheless, the public mored for some semnce of resolution, yearning for a modicum of closure amidst the chaos that ensued.


    The Bureau conducted their investigation in a haze of uncertainty. Thirty seasoned detectives were deployed, their efforts supplemented by six vignt military canines and two steadfast equinepanions, all poised for constant mobilization to ensure on-site security. Yet, despite their unwavering dedication, a significant portion of these detectives found themselves adrift, their purpose obfuscated amidst the swirling maelstrom of enigma.


    As the fervor of public expectation waned, the Bureau, driven to desperation, sought to enlist civilian aid in their unraveling of the enigma. Each newspaper bore an extensive ount of the case, apanied by a fervent plea for any minuscule clue to be reported.


    "It was then that your missive found its way to the Bureau."


    "The public possesses an affinity for grand theatrics, finding it far easier to believe that a singr prodigious mind unraveled the case through a mere letter, rather than attributing sess to the collective efforts of numerous detectives. In truth, I penned but two sentences."


    The year 1881 marked a momentous juncture in my life. My left leg, once an indomitable limb, was irrevocably lost, and with it, my cherished tenure in the military, a life I had envisioned serving until my twilight years. Bereft of purpose, akin to an aged man bereft of vigor, I whiled away the hours in a rented abode, masquerading my aimless existence as a futile search for new employment.


    Naturally, I became acquainted with the case at hand. With idle hours to spare, I dispatched a letter to the Bureau, dismissing it as naught but a fan''s indulgence in concocting deductions akin to those found within the pages of a detective novel. Soon after, I dismissed it from my thoughts entirely.


    Some oundish im arose, purporting that I had divined the intricate course of the case, even uncovering the malefactor''s identity from the confines of my humble abode. Yet, this assertion was a facya distortion of truth. I had, in a casual and inattentive manner,mitted but two sentences to paper, unwittingly providing the spark that reignited the case''s dwindling me, bridging the vast chasm thaty betwixt the sensibilities of the 21st and the 19th centuries.


    Indeed, the 19th century bore witness to a period characterized by the remarkable expansion of scientific understanding. The chasm separating the erudite few from the general public was vast and profound. Science, to many, resembled a mystical craft, a ndestine art known only to a select few artisans.


    Furthermore, the concept of forensic investigation had yet to be firmly established, resulting in infrequent coboration between detectives and experts in the field. This stark contrast yed out against a backdrop where detectives, well-versed in a myriad of misceneous disciplines, often found themselves at odds with the authorities.


    Nevertheless, the sentence I had dispatcheda mere trifle I deemed to bemon knowledgepierced the very heart of the case, providing a clue of immense significance. Two months hence, an article was published, heralding the apprehension of the true malefactor behind the enigma.


    At that precise juncture, I found myself adrift above the vast expanse of the Antic, ensconced as a researcher aboard the illustrious HMS Glory. Secluded upon the vessel, I possessed no means to refute the deluge of facious reports disseminated by the voracious journalists of the era.


    These scribblers drained every drop of intrigue from the incident, weaving fantastical narratives around my personaan ordinary civilian who had stumbled into coboration. The resulting tales were not of the strange and otherworldly, but mundane fabrications. s, this unforeseen turn of events saddled me with an unwanted reputation for involvement in perplexing and enigmatic urrences.


    In the depths of London''s enigmaticbyrinth, whenever an aberrant urrence unfurled its sinister tendrils, I found myself ensnared in its web. Each mention of my name in connection to these disquieting affairs only served to further entrench my infamous reputation, a relentless cycle reminiscent of the inescapable Jacob''s Ind trial of yore.


    "But you have sessfully resolved numerous cases since then."


    "Yes, that is the refrain I often hear when encountered in public. They speak of haunted abodes, children possessed by demons. I offer mundane advicefix the creaking floorboards, engage in heartfelt conversations with their progeny. If that passes for a resolution," I retorted, my wordsden with sardonic bitterness.


    Already a target of scorn in the eyes of the press, I harbored no enthusiasm for entanglement in these peculiar affairs. With each foray into the realm of the inexplicable, they gleefully concocted nicknames that failed to elicit even the slightest twitch of amusement.


    "But it is the first time I have been summoned to apprehend a werewolf."


    "And it is likewise the first asion we have made such a request."


    Wilson emitted a bitter chuckle, his mirth tinged with destion.


    "So, how much farther must we tread? Allow me to remind you that traversing great distances does not align with my physical prowess," I jestingly remarked.


    "We are nearly there. Merely a passage through that alley awaits us," Wilson reassured.


    Amidst our conversation, we had already veered away from the main thoroughfare, venturing deep into the recesses of a dimly lit alley, its obscurity an invitation to trepidation.


    "The newspapers assert that the werewolf materializes with every passing night."


    "A sip of whiskey renders the detection of a werewolf a trivial matter. Bearded men abound, after all."


    Wilson cast a quick nce on me.


    "What?" I queried, his gaze momentarily fixated upon me.


    "No, it is nothing. Merely observing that you appear somewhat sullen today."


    I averted my impending remark, striving to maintain the facade of an ordinary, unremarkable middle-aged man. However,menting the loss of a timepiece hardly seemed characteristic of my usual temperament.


    "Pray, continue," I encouraged Wilson.


    "ording to the constabry, the werewolf has manifested on three asions," he divulged.


    My eyebrows arched in surprise. "That is quite frequent," Imented.


    "And there are an additional five incidents that bear the hallmarks of the werewolf," he continued.


    Myprehension faltered. "What do you mean by bear the hallmarks''?" I queried, seeking illumination.


    "As you are aware, we find ourselves simultaneously investigating two casesthose of the werewolf and Spring-heeled Jack. Those five urrences may pertain to thetter," Wilson rified.


    Though Iprehended the words that had been spoken, their deeper significance eluded me, as if they were the riddles of a malicious mathematician, purposefully confounding the senses.


    "Pray, where is our destination now? For it does not appear to lead us towards the city hall," I inquired, a veil of uncertainty tinging my words.


    "Indeed, there is something I wish for you to witness," Wilson replied, his voiceced with an air of solemnity. With those words, he turned into an alley, the twisting backstreets of London unveiling theirbyrinthine nature, where new paths materialized, regardless of the direction one chose to tread. A peculiar odor permeated the air, pervading every nook and cranny. Not wholly unpleasant, yet bearing an essence that stirred within me a sense of repulsion. To describe it precisely would prove a daunting task.


    "The werewolfst made its appearance two nights hence. We are now heading to witness the aftermath of that fateful night," Wilson disclosed.


    "Ah, excellent. I am eager to hear what the purported victim has to impart," I responded, my curiosity piqued. In a city teeming with youthful imitators, driven to perform oundish acts merely for a taste of notoriety, I yearned to discern the true nature of those who sought the limelight.


    "That may prove to be quite challenging," Wilson confessed, his countenance beset by aplex amalgamation of emotions. Together, we turned into the final secluded alley, veiled from prying eyes.


    Then, a swarm of flies assailed my face, disrupting the tranquil air.


    Before mey a decaying corpsea macabre tableau brought to life. Maggots writhed upon dimmed pupils, and the desated tongue hung limply, akin to a piece of withered timber. The abdomen, torn asunder, cast the entrails in a grotesque dance across every corner of the narrow passageway. It was a work of art that defied the whims of chance, a grotesque masterpiece.


    "The victim of that night was a police horse," Wilson solemnly dered.


    Peering down the alleyway, a shiver coursed through my being. The scene before me evoked the notion of modern arta haunting reflection of the world''s first abstract painting, rendered with the innards of a horse.

 Chapter 13

    Chapter 13


    13. The Scarlet Letter


    I traversed upon a colossal digestive tract, a grotesque path to behold. It was none other than the desated and contorted innards of a horse that had sumbed to death''s embrace a mere two days prior.


    Everywhere I gazed, my vision was assailed by the presence of fly eggs and wriggling maggots. Unintentionally, I trod upon them, sensing a disgustingly vivid squishiness beneath the sole of my shoe. Medieval painters, in their quest to frighten the masses, endeavored to depict the horrors of hell. Little did they know, a mere glimpse at the putrid intestines of a horse, two days lifeless, would suffice to evoke unparalleled terror.


    "Had I but foreseen this fate, I would have adorned my feet with sturdy boots."


    "The original directive stipted immediate cleanup."


    I grumbled, while Wilson, as if speaking on behalf of the authorities, offered a feeble justification.


    "However, we were instructed by the director to preserve the scene until today. He imed that the visual impact cannot be trulyprehended merely by perusing the photographs."


    "Did this directive not arrive prior to the solicitation of my investigative assistance two days hence?" I inquired, met with silence from Wilson. I cast a momentary re in his direction, but swiftly realized the futility of venting my anger and resigned myself. Indeed, he was correct. Seeing with one''s own eyes differed vastly from observing through the lens of a photograph. Without having witnessed this tangle of entrails firsthand, I would have never surmised the gruesome smears besmirching the walls.


    Drawing nearer to the horse''s cadaver, I brandished my cane in a futile attempt to disperse the swarm of flies encircling it.


    "What portion is this? Has it been tampered with?" I questioned, prompting Wilson to mber atop the intestines to ascertain which area I referred to. A sudden pallor overtook his countenance, and he convulsed in revulsion. It was then that I realized the extent of my unnaturallyposed disposition amidst this abhorrent miasma.


    Had I allowed my life to descend into squalor, or was Marie perhaps correct in her assertions?


    "Ah, that is where the constable was found prone," Wilson stammered, pointing towards a space concealed behind the horse''s frigid saddle. Amidst the smeared filth, a patch remained untainted. Horizontally, it spanned a breadth of two feet, while vertically, it provided ample room for a grown man to crouch within, measuring four to five feet.


    "borate further," I implored, and Wilson, his visage betraying a nod, proceeded toply.


    The urrence transpired in the early hours, around one or two o''clock, a mere two days prior. Ordinarily, equestrian pursuits were not conducted during the nocturnal hours. However, the investigative agency, acknowledging the necessity to apprehend the werewolf and Spring-heeled Jack, conceded to the employment of horses. It was under these circumstances that the mounted police officermenced his night patrol, when an enigmatic entity crossed his path.


    Unmistakably a creature, regardless of its precise ssification, its presence was palpable even without visual confirmation. The officer discerned the telltale signs of a bestial naturethe low, guttural respiration and the slicing sound that apanied its movements through the air. At longst, the patrolling officer found himself face to face with a being that seemed to defy the very fabric of our reality.


    It was a werewolf!


    Thick bristly hair concealed its countenance, while its body, in stark contrast, retained a semnce of humanity, clothed in garments befitting a civilized being. The officer promptly pursued the creature, but it appeared toprehend its predicament and cunningly took refuge within a dimly lit alley.


    With a swift, quadrupedal gait, it outpaced the horse, rendering pursuit futile. For a brief moment, the officer lost sight of the elusive quarry. Then, a shriek, neither human nor beast, resonated in close proximity. The horse copsed, and the officer, his skull striking the ground, sumbed to unconsciousness.


    The following morning, the officer was discovered, bereft of any trace of the mysterious creature.


    "May I have an audience with the officer who encountered the werewolf?" I inquired immediately upon Wilson''s conclusion of the narrative. Numerous elements within the tale aroused suspicion. However, Wilson''s countenance bore a regretful expression as he shook his head.


    "He is convalescing from a fractured leg."


    "Has his tongue been rendered inarticte as well?" I pressed, to which Wilson hesitated momentarily before confessing the truth.


    "Indeed, it was the case. The officer had steadfastly declined all interviews subsequent to the encounter with the werewolf. Moreover"


    Wilson cast a cautious nce around our surroundings, and I surmised the imminent revtion. When the officer regained consciousness, he had suffered the agonizing loss of a trustedrade, snuffed out in a most savage manner.


    "He is in a state of fragility. On the battlefield, the loss of arade is but a fleeting moment."


    I directed my censure towards the unidentified officer, who was not present to bear witness to my reproach.


    "Do youprehend the nature of a beast''s actions following a hunt?"


    "I I cannot say for certain," Wilson replied, once again taken aback by my abrupt query, shaking his head.


    "They consume. Beasts hunt for sustenance, not for mere exhibition."


    Casting a discerning gaze upon the alley, I contemted the circumstances at hand.


    "How long do you reckon this endeavor would have required? One hour? Perhaps two? Do you truly believe that a creature driven by the scent of blood and presented with fresh prey would possess such unwavering focus?"


    I stooped down slightly, my gaze fixated upon the lifeless equine before me. Rotted flesh had sumbed to the ravages of decay, dissolving into a gtinous mass. Yet, amidst the putrescent spectacle, I discerned significant clues. A finger-sized orifice had been forcefully drilled into the depths of the horse''s dted pupil.


    "As it struck, it aimed directly for the eye, with a thumb-like appendage. It possesses the knowledge of subduing a horse. Could it be a veteran of some military order?"


    Turning my attention to the spilled entrails, I prodded the grotesque sight with my trusty cane. Contrary to the repugnant spectacle of fanned innards, there was a striking absence of blood upon the fur surrounding the belly.


    Instead, my cane exposed a minuscule wound near the horse''s neck, scraping away the entrails that concealed it. As expected, a vivid and expansive bloodstain emerged beneath the veil of viscera.


    "This perpetrator possessed remarkable skill. They severed the blood vessels in the neck with a single precise stroke. Judging by the quantity of blood spilled, it is evident that the horse endured a protracted demise. It was not a matter of the innards being expelled and causing death, but rather, death preceding the extraction of the entrails."


    I visualized the agonizing scene, the horse convulsing in agony upon the ground, blood cascading from its vited neck. The assant watched from a distance, patiently awaiting the equine''s demise before proceeding to dissect its lifeless form. This macabre reality far exceeded the fantastical notions of a werewolf.


    Doubts that had gued me since themencement of this investigation began to dissipate, reced by a lucidity of understanding. The culprit possessed an acute sense of spatial awareness and a profound knowledge of London''s intricate geography. They lured the horse into a narrow thoroughfare, impeding its flight, thereby instilling within the officer the belief that the assant surpassed the horse in swiftness. Moreover, such an individual would effortlessly elude pursuit in thebyrinthine alleys riddled with branching side streets.


    A rough sketch of the culprit started to coalesce within the recesses of my mind. Everything fell into ce.


    The quadrupedal movements, the shaggy furmere byproducts of hallucinations conjured by the nocturnal haze. Or perchance, the officer''s recollections had be muddled and embellished within his testimony.


    "Yet, one question remains: Why?"


    The ultimate answer eluded me. As each knot unraveled, onest tether remained stubbornly entwined, akin to the Gordian Knot.


    "Why?"


    For what purpose would an individual undertake such an borate endeavor?


    In that moment, a vision of a heretical ritual, conducted by some ndestine sect, seized my consciousness. At dawn''s first light, they chanted malevolent incantations, offering the horse''s entrails as tribute to the demon they worshipped, desecrating the noble soul of the officer.


    "But why?"


    Even this exnation failed to fully illuminate the enigma. Why would they assail the police? Suddenly, an obsessivepulsion to ascertain the hour seized me. s, Icked a timepiece.


    No matter how grotesque and revolting my imaginings, they fell short ofprehending this grim reality.


    "Why?"


    I wielded my cane, swiftly swatting at the wriggling horde of maggots. Had some abominable entity been awakened from its slumber within the depths of London? Could this demonic force be poised to im the entire citizenry of this sprawling metropolis as its hapless prey? st it all! My thoughts grew muddled, consumed by the absence of that infernal timepiece.


    "Sir," Wilson''s voice interjected, jolting me back to reality. It appeared I had be rather unsettled, all due to the loss of that wretched watch.


    "My apologies, but I believe I must retreat and seek respite and embark upon a search for my watch within the confines of my abode."


    "Before you depart, there is something I must impart to you," Wilson interjected.


    I epted the envelope proffered by Wilson''s outstretched hand.


    "The doctor requested that I deliver it to you. He expressed a desire to invite you to a dinner engagement."


    "A doctor?" I murmured, my gaze fixated upon the sender''s name inscribed upon the envelope.


    [Dr. Henry Jekyll]


    On that fateful evening, I found myself standing before an establishment nestled in the heart of Londonthe prestigious Le Horton restaurant.


    The coachman who had ferried me to this esteemed location disyed an unexpected level of deference upon learning of my intended destination. Filled with a sense of contentment, I bestowed upon him a generous gratuity as an expression of my appreciation.


    "Le Horton."


    Once overlooked by the British elite, this refined eatery, situated within the vicinity of the illustrious London Guildhall, had experienced a remarkable reversal in fortune a mere half-century prior. In bygone days, the social elite gravitated toward the "River line," a collection of six renowned establishments boasting picturesque vistas along the Thames River.


    However, with the advent of industrialization, the power dynamic shifted entirely. The Thames River, once a scenic marvel, had transformed into a loathsome entity capable only of quashing one''s appetite. Consequently, the River line sumbed to closure or relocation, leaving Le Horton to ascend unrivaled as London''s premier dining venue.


    s, within these hallowed halls, where the finest French cuisine in all of Britain was on offer, it was not solely the culinary delights that garnered attention. Most patrons entrusted their entire gastronomic experience to the chef''s discerning pte, rendering those who dared peruse the menu as mere individuals seeking to showcase theirmand of the Frenchnguage.


    The most sought-after delicacies within the confines of Le Horton were the people themselves. High-ranking nobles, steadfast in their loyalty to the royal family, industrial magnates who presided over London''s factories, and those who aspired to forge connections with such illustrious figures, swarmed like flies entangled in a sulent feast.


    Once, I too had frequented this establishment, seeking to establish alliances with London''s eminent personalities. However, it had been four long years since my ignoble expulsion from high society, and this visit marked my first return to Le Horton.


    <strong>Thump. Thump.</strong>


    Oh, how resonant the mor of a wooden leg and a cane can be in moments such as these! I felt the weight of gazes, seeking to pierce through me, and I made every effort to avoid their probing eyes.


    Most nces cast my way carried an air of indifference. No one wished to cultivate the friendship of a London entric whose sole im to notorietyy in sporadic appearances within the pages of newspapers. Yet, among the myriad gazes, a few stood out, brimming with ill intent.


    Amidst this sea of hostility, I managed to discern a gaze that bore a glimmer of reluctant camaraderie.


    A suave gentleman, his eyes possessing a predatory gleam, locked onto me with an intensity that bordered on surveince. Rarely did he blink, and when he did, his eyelids remained shut for a duration exceeding the ordinary. I found myself under the unrelenting scrutiny of those eyes, yet, truth be told, the experience was not entirely disagreeable.


    "Dr. Jekyll?"


    "I have eagerly anticipated our meeting."


    Jekyll, in his initial impression, emanated an aura of remarkable refinement.


    Though outwardly appearing to be of simr age to myself, I detected no hint of impetuousness within him. His meticulous adherence to self-imposed regtions was evident, every fingernail grown to a uniform length, not a single strand of hair straying from his meticulously groomed beard.


    Jekyll possessed an exceptionally broad forehead, the type only those who had never sumbed to fits of rage could possess. His posture exhibited unwavering rectitude, revealing the resolute discipline he had maintained over the years, with his shoulders aligned directly above his upright waist.


    Contrary to his benign countenance, his eyes harbored a sharpness that evoked images of an imprable vault. It was an indomitable vault known to contain profound secrets, enticing yet forbidden to all who dared approach.


    In the moment our gazes converged, a jolt coursed down my spine, as though I had transformed into a conductor for lightning. He was unmistakably Dr. Jekyll!


    Trepidation coursed through me as our hands sped in a firm handshake.


    Until the very moment I arrived at this rendezvous, I had entertained the notion that it might be an borate jest. Then I considered the possibility of a mere coincidence in namesake. It was only at thest fleeting moment that the realization struckI had never before encountered the novel "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" in all my years!


    "I am astounded, for I was unaware of your actual existence."


    I ventured forth cautiously, seeking a response along the lines of, [Ah, I frequently encounter such sentiments. The novel''s renown often overshadows my own, which proves to be quite the predicament.] However, Jekyll withheld the answers I longed to hear. Instead, he arched his left eyebrow at an approximate angle of fifteen degrees before replying,


    "What do you mean?"


    "It is of no consequence."


    I lowered my cane and assumed a seated position.


    "I must admit, I found it astonishing to learn that your lordship would be partaking in this investigation. Are you not among the foremost experts in this field within London?"


    "To im such a title would be difficult, even as a mere formality. And what of yourself, Doctor?"


    Jekyll nodded affirmatively.


    "I strive to ept requests for coborative investigations whenever possible."


    "That is trulymendable."


    "You tter me."


    Despite his seemingly unassuming words, Jekyll was poised to receive admiration. The amalgamation of humility and confidence within his dual persona lent him a captivating allure. Were he not the very Dr. Jekyll, I might have found myself instantaneously enamored by his presence.


    "So, upon hearing of your recent ordeal, I opted for a single course, assuming your appetite may be diminished. Does that suit you?"


    I expressed gratitude for his considerate gesture. Truth be told, after bearing witness to the repugnant alleyway, any desire for sustenance had been thoroughly extinguished. Throughout my journey to this establishment, I pondered various polite excuses to decline the meal.


    Soon, a waiter approached, cing a te before each of us. Upon the tey four thin slices of an unfamiliar meat.


    "What do you perceive this meat to be?" Jekyll inquired, as if posing a riddle. I surmised that he had made a particr request, and so I took up my fork and knife. Though my appetite had waned, I deemed it necessary to consume at least a morsel or two, if only for the sake of propriety.


    Jekyll deftly cut a small piece of meat, bringing it to his lips with such subtlety that it seemed to vanish seamlessly, leaving no trace of an open mouth. He chewed the meat with minimal jaw movement and nodded approvingly.


    Following suit, I cut into my own piece of meat. Although roughly twice the size of Jekyll''s, theparison was minuscule at best. I abstained from partaking and gently rested my utensils upon the te.


    "It is horse meat."


    "Have you ever partaken of it before?"


    "I have ridden and touched horses on numerous asions. However, I have never consumed their flesh."


    My heart trembled with a profound shock. Unlike many of my fellow countrymen, I held no inherent aversion to the consumption of horse meat. Nevertheless, he had specifically ordered it, knowing full well what I had witnessed. I struggled to fathom his intentions.


    "In my view, the British should embrace the consumption of horse meat," Jekyll calmly pronounced, methodically cutting his portion into smaller fragments. Each morsel seemed to dissolve upon reaching his lips, evaporating in a manner that defied perception. If I did not concentrate intently, I could easily forget that he was even engaged in the act of chewing and swallowing.


    "Have not thews against blood consumption been abolished? Horse traders will bepelled to dispose of their steeds, and the price of horse meat shall plummet. Much like our shift to consuming beef during the spread of the gue, the British popce shall turn to horse as a substitute for pork. Society naturally evolves in such a manner."


    I relinquished my utensils and cleansed my mouth with water, seeking to alleviate the unsettling unease that had taken hold. The enigmatic charm that initially captivated me had transformed into an unpredictable anxiety, casting a shadow upon our interaction.


    "I shall abstain from further indulgence," I dered firmly.


    "That is regrettable. Establishments offering such fare are scarce in Ennd."


    Jekyll followed suit, setting aside his own implements and pushing his te away.


    "The reason for my invitation today, Baron, was to issue a warning," Jekyll began, retrieving two photographs from his pocket and cing them upon the table.


    Each photograph depicted a distinct woman, yet they shared a multitude of simrities. Both were young in age, their modest attire indicative of their meager means. However, the most striking resemncey in their gruesome fatelifeless corpses with their innardsid bare, bearing the telltale marks of being ravaged by some ravenous beast.


    "Dreadful."


    "On the previous two asions when reports of a werewolf circted throughout London, there has been amon thread. As you are aware, norge creatures capable of attacking humans have roamed the British Isles since the reign of Henry VI. Hence, the moniker werewolf'' was bestowed upon the entity."


    He spoke while flipping through the photographs.


    "Yet, the bite marks upon these victims are unmistakably human in nature. Does a certain incidente to mind?"


    ""


    "Something akin to this urred sixteen years ago. Although, to be precise, there was no consumption involved at that time."


    Jekyll carefully returned the photographs to his pocket.


    "The culprit was apprehended, and the case ostensibly concluded. However, not all matters were resolved. Martin Patrick had a wife, Helen, and a daughter, Sherry. Unable to endure the discrimination rampant within London, they retreated to their ancestral homnd in Wales. Regrettably, no respite awaited them there, and Helen chose to embrace the release of death through suicide. Sherry was consigned to a local orphanage. Were you aware?"


    I shook my head, negating any knowledge of this tragic tale.


    "Young Sherry, left bereft, became the target of relentless bullying even within the confines of the orphanage. In desperation, the girl fled from its oppressive walls and sought sce within the embrace of the nearby Silgwyn Foresta ce whispered to be frequented by wolves. Though likely naught more than a local superstition, the rumors held considerable sway over the townsfolk. None ventured into the cursed woods to rescue the tormented child. Thus concludes the saga of the Patrick family."


    Jekyll fell silent, as if the narrative had truly reached its conclusion, and he raised his water cup to his lips. If he intended to engage in a contest of patience, I was willing to acquiesce.


    "Pardon me, but did I overlook something in the ount you just shared? If not, it appears there is a crucial aspect that you have omitted, Doctor."


    Jekyll shamelessly nodded in agreement.


    "Indeed, something was omitted. Many failed to grasp this particr detail. Fifteen yearster, when a woman emerged, unclothed, from the depths of the forest, none could have fathomed that she might be none other than the surviving Sherry. Instead, the focus rested upon another facet of her existenceher behavior, more akin to that of a feral beast than a human. Rumors proliferated, iming she had been reared by wolves, akin to the tale of Romulus and Remus, and eventually joined a traveling circus troupe."


    Jekyll''s dispassionate recitation of facts had wearied those who listened intently. I had no choice but to interject, interrupting the conversation to seek further rification.


    "Are you implying that this woman was Sherry Patrick?"


    "I do not possess certitude. What remains unequivocal is that her whereabouts have remained shrouded in mystery ever since. Some posit that she perished under the circus troupe''s mistreatment, while others contend she could no longer endure the confines of the city and retreated to the forest."


    Jekyll produced a different photograph.


    "This picture fortuitously came into my possession recently. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, adorned with raven-ck hair reminiscent of Martin and Helen."


    Within the photograph, against the distant backdrop of Big Ben, the faint silhouette of a woman emerged. Her arms seemed affixed to the ground like the limbs of a quadruped, causing her unkempt tresses to cascade over her body, resembling a wild mane.


    "So you are suggesting that she seeks retribution for the events of sixteen years ago?"


    "How can I possibly discern the machinations of a deranged mind?"


    Jekyll responded nonchntly, retrieving his utensils.


    "However, if she has indeed acquired the means to transform others into beasts, might she not harbor a desire for vengeance against London, the city that robbed her of her parents? Sixteen years ago, sir, you were a conspicuous figure. This serves as a warning in that regard."


    <strong>Thunk, thunk.</strong>


    I remained seated, a statue in my own stupor, fixated on Jekyll''s mechanical consumption of his meat.


    Upon returning home, not a single soul traversed the streets. Inserting the key into the lock, I gained entry to my abode. The hour was alreadyte, and Marie had undoubtedly departed, leaving the interior devoid of human presence. Methodically, I inspected the front door, assuring its security, before meticulously surveying each window, ensuring they were firmly shut and their curtains drawn.


    Only once I had confirmed the perfection of my fortress did I retreat to my room.


    Switching on the room''s solitary light, I removed my coat and hat, casually draping them upon the waiting rack. It was amentable habit, one that eluded easy correction. Copsing onto the bed, I sought refuge from my weariness.


    Despite this outing marking my first venture in quite some time, fatigue overwhelmed me, threatening to plunge me into an abyss of unconsciousness. Sumbing to the allure of respite, I settled upon the bed, intending to indulge in a momentary reprieve.


    .


    .


    <strong>Thump.</strong>


    Awakening from my slumber, a cacophony emanated from the windowa disturbance in the darkness. I trained my gaze upon the aperture. A draft crept in, infiltrating the room. Had I unintentionally left the window ajar during my rest?


    Impossible. In our Thames River-adjacent abode, even a partially opened window would usher forth a putrid stench, rendering its transgression unmistakable. The noise I had just heardno doubt, it was the sound of a window being pried open.


    I sprung from the bed with haste. If a thief or intruder had endeavored to breach the sanctity of my dwelling, they should havepleted their sinister task by now. Yet, an unnerving stillness nketed the exterior. I flicked on the light.


    <strong>Ping</strong>


    The fment warmed, its trembling surface apanying the sound of electricity coursing through the bulb. Amidst this profound silence, even the minutest of electrical currents could be discerned.


    No alteration had befallen the room.


    No, that was not entirely urate. The sole transformationy within me. The suit I had confidently worn prior to sumbing to sleep had been undressed from my form. Gazing upon my reflection in the mirror, I observed crimson markings upon my arm, raising it toward my visage.


    "Ugh."


    In that instant, my arm was consumed by searing heat, and an involuntary moan escaped my lips.


    Carved into my arm were crimson characters.


    [STOP INVESTIGATING]


    As I read the words, the letters quivered and shifted, mirroring the contours of my arm before descending, one by one, to the floor.


    Ah, yes, they were not mere letters.


    Realization dawned upon me atst. This was a wounda testament to the de that had etched these inscriptions into my flesh while I slumbered.


    <strong>TRIVIA:</strong>


    1. Jekyll is a fictional character created by Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson in his 1886 nove "Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde." The story revolves around Dr. Henry Jekyll, a respected London physician who develops a potion that transforms him into the evil and monstrous Mr. Edward Hyde.


    Dr. Jekyll is initially driven by a desire to separate the good and evil aspects of his personality, believing that by isting the evil in himself, he can live a virtuous life as Jekyll while indulging his darker side as Hyde. However, as the story progresses, Jekyll realizes that he is losing control over Hyde and bes trapped in his own experiment. The duality between Jekyll and Hyde explores the themes of human nature, morality, and the consequences of suppressing one''s dark impulses.


    The character of Dr. Jekyll has be an enduring symbol in literature and popr culture, representing the conflict between good and evil within a person. The phrase "Jekyll and Hyde" is often used to describe someone who disys contrasting personalities or behavior.


    2. Romulus and Remus are legendary figures from ancient Roman mythology. ording to the myth, they were twin brothers and the founders of the city of Rome. The story of Romulus and Remus is deeply ingrained in Roman history and folklore.


    As the legend goes, Romulus and Remus were the sons of the god Mars (or alternatively, the demigod hero Hercules) and the Vestal Virgin Rhea Silvia. The wicked king Amulius, fearing the potential threat to his throne, ordered the twins to be abandoned in the Tiber River. They were ced in a basket and left to the mercy of the river.


    Miraculously, the twins survived and were found by a she-wolf (lupa) who nurtured and raised them in her den on Ptine Hill. Eventually, they were discovered by a shepherd named Faustulus, who took them in and raised them as his own.


    As Romulus and Remus grew older, they became natural leaders and gathered a band of followers. In their quest to establish a city, they chose the area where they had been saved by the she-wolf as the site for their settlement. However, a dispute arose between the brothers over which hill, Ptine or Aventine, would be the center of the new city.


    The conflict escted, and in a tragic turn of events, Romulus killed Remus. Romulus then proceeded to found the city on Ptine Hill and named it Rome, after himself. He became its first king and established thews and institutions that would shape the Roman civilization.

 Chapter 14

    Chapter 14


    14. Disease that turns people into beasts


    The subsequent day found me entangled in contemtion. As the evening twilight gave way to the expected time of Marie''s return, I finally gathered the courage to breach the subject.


    "You need not attend here for some time."


    Marie stilled her movements.


    "Pray, repeat your words. I failed to discern them."


    "I shall ensure you have an independent allowance, hence for a while for a lunar cycle or two Nay, take a more substantial hiatus."


    In truth, I had never ventured into such a conversation with another soul. Never had I strived to convey my thoughts without inflicting emotional wounds. I was at a loss as to how to articte my intent without sparking confusion.


    Thus, I uttered the words as if they bore no particr weight. As if I was merely granting a day or two of respite.


    "What implications does this hold?"


    But this dialogue was far too significant to be treated lightly. Naturally.


    "You harbor suspicions towards me, do you not?"


    "Kindly allow me to elucidate."


    I held aloft a cating hand, yet the tremors in our trust only hastened its downfall.


    "You surmise that I purloined the watch."


    "That was not my intent."


    Since the transgressions of the previous night, I hade to recognize my negligent obliviousness to my surroundings. I, who had already stepped beyond the realm of the mundane into shadowy unknowns, was not a creature of daylight, and anyone within my sphere of influence could befall a hideous fate simply by proximity.


    So it was with Count Essex, with Richmond, and indeed, with Marie Curie She was not exempt.


    I sensed the urgency to safeguard my personal wellbeing. The visages of the women captured in the photographs I had seen the day prior ovepped with Marie''s every motion. I envisaged Marie''s torn abdomen and the grotesque disy of viscera spilling forth. The vision persisted, even in this very moment!


    "Firstly, grant me your ear."


    And then, words abandoned me.


    "I have no reason to meddle with your belongings! I find my current remuneration entirely satisfactory!"


    "That was not my intent."


    I was at a loss for how to rify my stance. Should I reveal that I am under the threat of murder? That I had awakened to find my arm severed? I was uncertain if such revtions were feasible.


    The gravity of the situation didn''t fully register until I attempted to verbalize it. In a lunar cycle or two at most, the malefactor would surely be apprehended, order would be restored, and I could invite her return. But who would willingly serve in a household where nocturnal intrusions by a murderer were a threat?


    Marie offered her protestations, yet I found myself bereft of any suitable retort. Her words reached my ears as but an echo, a faint reverberation from some far-off ce. A throbbing menace pulsed within my skull. The ursed timepiece, the watch! What ult significance could such an artifact possess!


    "Silence your prattle!"


    The sound of my own voice startled me, its momentum unabated.


    "My head feels as if it is on the brink of rupture! Begone! Immediately!"


    Upon witnessing the horror etched on Marie''s visage, I shielded my countenance with trembling hands and bowed my head in profound contrition.


    "I am in your debt for all you have done."


    Her retreating footfalls echoed in the silence, punctuated by the rustle of her gathering her belongings. Throughout it all, I remained in my bowed position. Momentster, the door swung open and then shut with an air of finality. The cacophony of the London night filtered in through the thin window, yet I was enveloped in a void of absolute silence.


    Ah, the bitter taste of regret.


    To rue the events of mere minutes past seemed a foolish endeavor for one of my advanced years. I should have chosen my words with greater discretion. A sober conversation from the onset would have been the prudent course of action.


    Thoughts that had failed to emerge until now began to rise slowly from the depths of my mind. It mattered little. It was, after all, an inevitable conclusion. So long as I remained a denizen of this shadowed realm, the necessity of her departure was unavoidable.


    Knock, Knock.


    "Depart this ce!"


    I raised my head. Grasping my walking stick, I rose with an urgency that nearly saw me stumble, yet I managed to maintain my equilibrium and moved towards the door. I seized the handle.


    The figure at the threshold was an unfamiliar officer of thew.


    I questioned him in a voice that sounded as deep as the abyss.


    "Constable, what strange circumstance prompts your visit at such ate hour?"


    "You must apany us forthwith. The situation has taken a most peculiar turn."


    Only then did I note the pallor of the officer''s countenance and realized that something decidedly uncanny was afoot.


    The tableau was nothing short of pandemonium.


    Whitechapel, the arterial thoroughfare leading to London''srgest den of destitution, was barricaded. Scores of constables stood in a formidable line, effectively sealing off the street, while two mounted officers maintained a strategic distance, vignt for potential fugitives.


    Certain ill-favored denizens dared to approach the police with their grievances, yet they too hastily retreated as if fleeing from the forceful blow of a truncheon. Like the rest seeking refuge in alleyways and buildings, they lingered at a safe distance, anticipating the lifting of the blockade.


    A many prone on the cobblestones, his form steeped in gore, yet none offered him attention or approached. His attire was dichotomous, a gentleman''s suit adorning his upper half, while his lower half was indecorously exposed,cking even the modesty of undergarments.


    The grisly spectacle was overwhelming. Despite my location in the heart of London, I felt akin to a soldier summoned to the epicenter of a battlefield.


    "Ah, sir, your arrival is timely."


    A familiar countenance emerged from the chaos, offering a modicum of relief.


    "What infernal circumstance has given rise to this disorder?"


    "Dr. Jekyll''s prediction rang true. Sherry Patrick has made her presence known on these streets."


    The image of the woman whose photograph I had scrutinized the previous evening shed in my mind. Wilson''s voice was somber and hushed.


    "We arrived toote. She has already exacted her vengeance."


    At that moment, a man burst onto the scene from a distance, falling prostrate. Like the fallen man, his attire was befitting of a gentleman, yet he was grotesquely naked from the waist down. Drool oozed from his gaping mouth, and his breath came in bestial pants.


    "Halt him!"


    The officers sprang into action, encircling the man, andmenced a brutal assault with their wooden truncheons. Pitiful cries echoed through the night, yet no one intervened. Only when the man ceased his struggles did the officers relent.


    "Do you witness this? This is the individual we presumed to be the werewolf. And there are a multitude of such men guing the streets. Much like the events of sixteen years past, Sherry Patrick has found a means to transmogrify humans into beasts."


    It was beyondprehension. The events from a span of 16 years ago were not some convenient incantation capable of inducing madness at will. Yet, as I could not refute the evidence before my eyes, I was driven to exim in a state of hysteria.


    "Then we must intervene! What is our course of action? Do we intend to simply stand idle?"


    "The military reinforcements are expected imminently."


    Wilson''s voice was riddled with uncertainty.


    "We have been instructed to ensure no one exits the streets, in order to contain the outbreak until their arrival"


    I held my tongue momentarily. It was futile to chastise this young detective who had braved Jacob''s Ind out of a sense of duty. My regret over neglecting to bring my firearm was palpable.


    "Furnish me with a weapon."


    "I cannot! I cannot permit you to proceed!"


    I was reminded of our initial meeting. The circumstances were strikingly simr. As it was then, I feltpelled to intervene now. I had a responsibility.


    "Understand this, while I may be discharged, I remain a soldier at heart. I pledged my allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen, vowing to safeguard Britain, and I am prepared to fulfill that duty at any moment. As we stand here, innocent Londoners are perishing within, and I refuse to endure the indignity of idleness in a ce of safety. I will venture forth, even if I must do so unarmed."


    Wilson''s expression morphed several times as he met my gaze. Ultimately, he procured a rifle and ammunition box from a fellow detective and presented them to me.


    "It''s a Martini. Have you handled one before?"


    "I have not. It appears today will be a day of firsts."


    The loading procedure differed from my familiar firearm, but it did not seem overlyplex.


    "I appreciate your respect for my honor."


    I conveyed my gratitude to Wilson and advanced towards the tumultuous street. A constable attempted to hinder me, but at Wilson''s intervention, he stood down. He called after my retreating form.


    "Seek out Dr. Jekyll! He''s in pursuit of Sherry Patrick!"


    I acknowledged his instructions with a nod, not breaking my stride.


    I hadn''t misjudged the foreboding sensation that gripped me at the threshold of the street. Whitechapel had already descended into a battleground.


    The denizens who had surmised that the police presence was not intended for their rescue had assembled impromptu militias for self-defense. Every domicile stood steadfastly sealed, crude fortifications erected before them.


    Numerous bodies were strewn about, and it was rmingly simple to distinguish between those who had sumbed to madness and those who had not. The former were unmistakably gentlemen, a stark contrast to the humble dwellings of Whitechapel, while thetter were garbed in tattered attire.


    I approached a woman huddled against a wall, her frame wracked with sobs.


    "Why do you not seek refuge?"


    "Where can I flee to? The police stand guard at the perimeter, and every door within the street is bolted."


    Her voice trembled as she replied. In her hand, she clutched a Woodbine cigarette  the most inexpensive tobo one could procure in London.


    "Do you suppose the tale is true, that werewolves detest the scent of tobo?"


    "I suspect that will offer little protection. Seek out the constabry and find a man named Wilson. Inform him that Herbert sent you; he will ensure your safety."


    I bid the woman farewell and ventured deeper into the chaos. As I progressed, the anarchy intensified, revealing more structures with breached doors or shattered windows, unlike the entrance of the street where most buildings were fortified.


    Bodies littered the street, the majority being women. They were among those who traded their flesh for survival, amentablymon practice in London.


    They toiled as maids or in garment factories during the day, earning a pittance, and by night they sold their bodies for mere pennies in Whitechapel to supplement their meager ie. Whitechapel was a notorious confluence of poverty and vice, thergest slum and red-light district on the globe.


    limated to theforts of London life, I had long neglected this grim tableau. The darkness that cloaked London was not solely a product of concealed contrivances in grand estates or the mutants dwelling in the Thames.


    This was the profoundest, most ancient darkness that underpinned London.


    The cmity of 16 years prior hadmenced in a simr fashion.


    Harris Jude and Martin Patrick were perceived as exemry gentlemen by the world atrge. They were devoted family men, figures of respect, yet beneath this veneer, they harboredscivious desires that could not find satisfaction even within the confines of a brothel.


    Initially, they were content purchasing the services of inexpensive courtesans in Whitechapel, but their lusts amplified over time, growing insatiable. Having inadvertently discovered each other''s ndestine indulgences, they conspired to perpetrate a crime of staggering depravity. Their idea was unthinkable, yet their financial resources and societal standing enabled its realization.


    They procured a subterranean space under a fictitious corporate guise and meticulously refurbished the walls and ceiling to impede any sound leakage. They lured unsuspecting, unemployed women from Whitechapel with the promise of money, ensnared them within this dungeon, and repeatedly enacted unspeakable horrors upon them.


    Through threats and maniption, they ensured the silence of their victims, progressively escting the severity of their transgressions, resulting in the women losing parts of their bodies, eyes and ears amongst other things. Yet, the men''s sadistic appetites were unquenched, and the women sensed an imminent death.


    In the interim, the shared secret solidified the bond between the two men. They introduced their families to each other, inviting them to their homes as a safeguard against potential betrayal.


    This unholy camaraderie endured until the day of the incident.


    If I were to describe it, it was akin to the world''s inaugural act of bio-terrorism.


    Newsprint ounts of the duo''s symptoms brought to mind a stark resemnce to rabies. It wasn''t akin to premeditated acts of cannibalism, but rather the possibility of a coincidental, simultaneous outbreak in both men.


    Their reported habit of sucking on their fingers while eating was suspect. Upon inspection, the act appeared more akin to chewing than mere ingestion. Considering the role the mouth ys in moving food down the esophagus, it wasn''t imusible to discover unchewed body parts within their stomachs.


    In a missive to the constabry, I penned two sentences.


    I suspect the symptoms bear a resemnce to rabies. Perhaps a search formon locales or individuals the pair might have encountered during the incubation period would prove fruitful?''


    The year was 1881, a time when bacteria and viruses were mere theoretical conjecture in the minds of a select few intellectuals. The concept of someone intentionally spreading infection to murder others was not easily fathomable.


    Based on this information, the police assembled circumstantial evidence and eyewitness ounts concerning the duo, discovering that they had frequented a basement within the same edifice a mere 10 days before the incident.


    When they stormed the basement, they were met with a sight of absolute horror: the dposing body of the true culprit, confined within. She had allowed rabid rats to bite her, bing a vector herself, and infected the two men.


    The lifeless body was immediately seized and incinerated without trial.


    A decade had passed since Louis Pasteur''s discovery had quelled the terror of rabies, relegating the nightmare of the cannibalism incident to the annals of history.


    No longer did humanity tremble at the prospect of a disease morphing them into beasts. However, human beings, consumed by desire, would readily transform into beasts themselves. The line demarcating humans from beasts was perilously thin.


    Bang!


    A round from a Martini rifle found its mark in the body of a deranged man. Like the others, he was attired as a gentleman but was sans his trousers. I retrieved my cane which I had been using to maintain my bnce.


    "Quickly, make for the police officer!"


    "Thank you thank you!"


    The woman, until recently under assault, fled in the direction from whence I came. I found it difficult to make sense of the situation.


    Could it truly be that Sherry Patrick had returned? For revenge?


    It was a possibility, yet it failed to elucidate the current state of affairs. Rabies was a virus marked by an extended incubation period, not a disease that morphed individuals into cannibalistic monsters. A synchronized outbreak, akin to the coincidence 16 years prior, was patently impossible.


    Werewolf.


    The word abruptly sprang to mind. Could werewolves truly exist?


    I had approached this case assuming it would be a rtively simple affair. From tall tales designed to frighten children, like werewolves and Springheel Jack, up to the moment I hadid eyes on Dr. Jekyll, suspecting him to be the offender as Hyde.


    Yet, I found myself devoid of answers, blindly following the trail of bodies and screams. Like a beast drawn to the scent of blood. The pitiful cries of those unable to fully transition into beast or man grew louder.


    Ah, and finally, I had reached the epicenter of chaos!


    I was thrust into a nightmare, a grotesque tableau of blood and gore. The familiar scene was inteced with hellish aspects, instilling a nauseating sense of dread.


    London Hospital, a reputable medical institution at the heart of Whitechapel, standing for over 150 years, had been desecrated into a devil''s altar.


    The hospital was awash in blood, with bodies heaped in front of it. Patients and doctors, who had been unable to escape in time, were hurled out of windows. A few doctors, making a valiant final attempt to evacuate their charges, were set upon by an unseen entity and dragged back inside.


    "Haah Haah."


    My vision wavered as my mind sought to reject the horrifying spectacle before me. This was no ordinary disease. A malevolent force was orchestrating the terror in the street. As I drew nearer to the hospital, the screams intensified, causing a throbbing pain in my eardrums.


    Then, I caught sight of the one I had been pursuing, from a third-floor window.


    "Sherry Patrick!"


    A woman with tousled ck hair was darting forward, closely pursued by a man. I could only see his back, but I recognized it to be Dr. Jekyll. I made haste towards the hospital''s main entrance.


    "Save me."


    "It hurts."


    "Haah Haah."


    Pleading cries emanated from patients, not yet departed, nestled amidst the mountains of corpses. They squirmed in a manner akin to a grotesque conglomeration of living beings.


    "I''m sorry."


    Forcing myself to disregard their hopeless plight, I ventured into the hospital. On the first-floor corridor, not a single living being was to be seen. Blood inundated the floor, spilling over and pooling outside.


    Second floor. It was strewn with chunks of flesh. The deranged bore more resemnce to animals than human beings. Werewolf, the word surfaced in my mind once again. Taking care not to alert them to my presence, I relied on sheer perseverance as I stealthily ascended the stairs.


    Third floor. In stark contrast to the second, the third floor was engulfed in silence. It felt as though the space had been partitioned by the staircase. Clutching the Martini rifle with both hands, I proceeded with utmost caution.


    Ah, then I witnessed the horror within the ward.


    In my line of sight was Dr. Jekyll''s back. He was wielding a blood-stained rifle.


    "You don''t need to worry anymore."


    Lying before him was a woman, sprawled out. A gruesome cavity in her skull leaked a mixture of blood and brain matter, staining the floor. Jekyll''s voice, delivering the words with eerie tranquility, devoid of any hint of agitation, echoed in the room.


    "Sherry Patrick is dead. The case is over."

 Chapter 15

    Chapter 15


    15. Street where animals live


    CLANG


    I gingerly rested my teacup upon its saucer, its surface marred by an enigmatic stain. It was a testament to the hurried and fatigued dishwashing that had overtaken me after standing for far too long.


    The vor of the tea was nothing short of abysmal. The leaves, damp and sodden due to careless storage, imparted a repugnant taste that necessitated an increase in the milk quotient. Yet, in my haste, the ratio miscalcted, transforming the beverage into a nauseating concoction akin to imbibing raw milk rather than the soothing elixir of tea.


    Bang bang!


    Indeed, that was the sound.


    The nightmare of that fateful day concluded thusly. A procession of tardy soldiers strode along the street, discharging their weapons at anything within their sights. Wherever their path led, only the thick stench of gunpowder lingered, obliterating even the scent of blood.


    The Whitechapel streets teemed with bodies, consigned to the mes of cremation. Humans and beasts alike writhed in the inferno, their destinies intermingled as they transformed into ckened ash within the crematorium''s embrace.


    Beasts, instinctively repelled by light and sound, were powerless before the onught of gunpowder.


    On that day, I bore witness to it. Beings once human, now reduced to bestial forms, skulked within the shadows of the streets, seeking refuge from the soldiers'' wrath. They surely still slumbered within thebyrinthine alleys of London. When our paths intertwine once more, will they present themselves as men or as beasts? Shall I be able to discern the difference?


    Bang bang!


    Abruptly, I was ripped from the clutches of my reverie, as if rudely awakened from a profound slumber.


    Beyond the windowpane stood the newspaper boy, a familiar figure who regrly traversed this path. I rose from my seat with measured deliberation and proceeded to open the window.


    "Good day, sir. Care to purchase a newspaper?"


    "Well It depends on the tales contained within."


    "We have an extra edition of the Daily Mail."


    "Ah, so the reporters have finally unearthed the Yeti. Hand one over to me."


    A solitary shilling found its way into the boy''s palm. His countenance brimming with carefree delight, he graciously proffered the newspaper.


    "Thank you!"


    Retreating to my seat, with the window firmly sealed, I nestled the newspaper upon myp, seizing hold of the teacup once more. Yet, my eyes discerned a ck taint, a loathsome impurity, adrift within the vessel, prompting me to promptly set it aside.


    Instead, I indulged in a dry scone, masticating it deliberately whilst engrossed in the newspaper''s contents.


    [Curfew lifted!]


    Without great expectation, I perused the main article. Reporters, after all, are known for fabricating trivialities. Hence, I was taken aback by the gravity of the news that unfurled before me. When my gaze alighted upon the passage detailing the long-awaited annulment of the curfew, I instinctively lowered the newspaper, my lungs filling with a profound inhtion.


    Indeed, time had psed.


    No longer did a fragment of summer linger as it had in days past; autumn now reigned supreme. The chill showers proved unbearable, even when shielded by a meager raincoat. As one prone to forgetfulness, neglecting to carry an umbre, I found myself ensnared by this agonizing season.


    In the interim, I could not summon Marie once more, nor could I engage the services of a new housekeeper.


    A sense of trepidation still clung to me. The sporadic rumors concerning Spring-heeled Jack no longer resembled frivolous tidbits exchanged in hushed tones. Thus, I harbored an aversion to embroiling another individual in thebyrinth of my existence.


    It was not an issue of petty pride that hindered my capacity to extend the first apology. To exist bereft of a housekeeper, what significance did it hold for one such as myself?


    In the interim, a fresh upation presented itself. Count Essex''s letter of rmendation had finally borne fruit.


    Oldcourt University.


    Once an abode of monastic piety, this esteemed institution prohibited contact with the outside world, dedicating itself fervently to the pursuit of natural philosophy. Formerly branded as heretical, it had since burgeoned into one of North London''s preeminent bastions of natural philosophy education. My appointment as a professor, set tomence in winter, had been confirmed.


    A peculiar facet of this establishmenty in its peculiar customs. Despite the modest expanse of the campus, Oldcourt meticulously segregated its colleges, forbidding students and schrs alike from traversing the boundaries that demarcated them. Curric, libraries, andboratories remained exclusive to each college, unshared among their counterparts. Thus, the university boasted three disparate libraries housing distinct tomes. It vexed me to witness such an antiquated and disagreeable practice persist into the modern era. Only the chancellor, in ordance with tradition, traversed the colleges, partaking of a different one with each passing day.


    Deliberating upon the offer for a spell, I ultimately appended my signature to the contract, for it represented the closest bastion of learning willing to ept my modest qualifications. King Henry VIII College became my designated abode.


    Though my schedule had yet to epass any lectures, I faithfully ventured to the university in the early hours of each morn. Such had be my daily routine as ofte.


    I extended a polite greeting to the familiar librarian and proceeded directly towards the stairwell. The third floor beckoned me, and I halted before the ascending steps, pausing to catch my breath. This particr moment always posed a challenge to my stamina.


    "Do you require assistance?"


    As I turned my head, a young student approached me, concern etched upon their countenance.


    "Do not treat me as feeble old man. I am more than capable of managing this task."


    "You''re Professor Philemon Herbert, if I''m not mistaken?"


    "My reputation precedes me?"


    "Indeed when word of your impending arrival spread, it ignited a flurry of conversation amongst us students."


    I could well imagine the contents of those exchanges and so a knowing smirk curled my lips.


    "Yet, I must express my delight. Oldcourt greatly benefits from fresh influences."


    "I appreciate your sentiment. If only there were more of your kin in our midst."


    The student''s journey concluded at the secondnding. I inclined my head in a silent farewell before resolutely continuing my climb towards the third floor.


    Storage No. 3-8. My hands deftly extricated a collection of archived newspapers, remnants from thend of Wales, and took my seat. Then, the spectacles suspended about my neck were put to use as Imenced the slow immersion into print.


    ording to the ount of Dr. Jekyll, Sherry Patrick had emerged a year prior, in 1894. I pondered upon the likelihood of an erroneous deration or the deliberate feeding of misinformation, and so embarked on a thorough search of Welsh newspapers from 1893.


    My digit traced a line as I scrutinized each subtitle.


    Silgwin Forest Wolf Woman Circus


    After several days of painstaking inquiry, an article caught my attention. I paused and verified the publication date and apanying headline.


    The second week of November 1894.


    "Beast or Woman? Mysterious Fallen Female in Silgwin Forest!"


    This piece, sttered with sensational diction, undeniably pointed towards Sherry Patrick. My subsequent cross-checking of post-November newspapers unearthed amon narrative.


    Silgwin Forest, reputed for harboring wolves thought extinct within the British Isles, had been the site of a lumberjack stumbling upon a fallen'' woman.


    This woman, bearing distinct Welsh features, exhibited the primal instincts of a beast, moving on all fours, and was subsequently subdued by local huntsmen. She was unresponsive to all linguistic approaches and disyed such animalistic violence that attempts to clothe her were futile.


    Amidst the quandary of her disposal, a self-proimed circus ringmaster stepped forth, offering to acquire the woman for a sum of 10 pounds. This proposition was epted by the vigers, the amount being scarcely enough to sustain a month or two of existence within London.


    Their subsequent whereabouts remained shrouded in mystery, as no newspaper could provide any clues as to the circus the man operated or their eventual destination.


    "Sherry Patrick was devoid of speech."


    As that deration escaped my lips, I found myself in the throes of a staggering revtion. All the sense of estrangement I had experienced since the onset of the unfortunate event originated from this very aspect.


    Sherry Patrick was bereft of intellect!


    The notion that she, who was incapable of even the simplest literacy, could have etched those symbols onto my flesh was utterly imusible. Equally improbable was the thought that she, who bore a likeness closer to a beast with her aversion to clothing, could mastermind and execute an intricate plot of vengeance while evading the vignt gaze of London''s constabry.


    Everything was merely the whim of fate.


    The circumstances that led to Sherry Patrick being ensnared in Dr. Jekyll''s photographic apparatus were mere chance. The eruption of the Whitechapel case, following the day Dr. Jekyll presented that incriminating image of Sherry to bothw enforcement and myself, was a product of happenstance. And it was a cruel coincidence that it was Dr. Jekyll who delivered the killing blow to Sherry, all under my own gaze.


    Of course, when such coincidences begin to weave an intricate tapestry, one cannot discount the presence of a premeditated design. A meticulously orchestrated scenario designed to skew perception. Had he borne any other name but Henry Jekyll, I might have never entertained suspicions.


    However, I was now privy to his concealed alter ego.


    Spring-heeled Jack.


    He persists in his nocturnal prowls within the confines of our city. It is incumbent upon me to unmask his deceit.


    Knock Knock!


    As the shroud of night descended, I found myself at the doorstep of Jekyll''s residence, following some investigative diligence. The dwelling mirrored Jekyll''s impably ordered demeanor, standing as a paragon of cleanliness amidst its neighboring abodes.


    Momentarily, the distinctive sound of a bolt sliding free rang out, and the entranceway swung open. Jekyll stood before me, garbed for an outing.


    "Dr. Herbert. What stirs you to visit at such ate hour?"


    "It was your doing. You ushered Sherry Patrick into London."


    Jekyll''s acknowledgement was devoid of any surprise. His affect was so restrained, I was almost beguiled into believing he had orchestrated my presence here. The enigma that was Jekyll remained as inscrutable as ever, a stark departure from the character as portrayed in my readings.


    "Please step inside. It appears we have matters warranting discussion."


    Jekyll swiveled his form, traversing the threshold and making way to the inner sanctum. I trailed in his wake, unflinching in my resolve. Even if he intended to silence me, I did not foresee submitting to such an ordinary mortal.


    However, upon entering the room, I found myself reeling in surprise.


    In stark contrast to the orderly exterior and entranceway, the interior of the room was a veritable maelstrom of disorder. I was greeted by walls adorned with depictions of women, predominantly indulging in explicit portrayals of feminine nudity and carnal acts. Among these, I discerned a profusion of images dedicated to Sherry Patrick.


    "Do you realize, humans are profoundly paradoxical beings? They are fundamentally wed in their design. The Almighty, who asserts perfection, unveiled His immaturity in the creation of humanity."


    Jekyll''s words filled the air, seemingly justifying the state of his chamber.


    "However, if Charles Darwin''s hypothesis holds true, we are presently in a transitional phase of evolution. The shift from beast to human, from instinct to cognition."


    With a dismissive gesture, he ripped a piece of artwork from the wall and nonchntly cast it into the me of an alcoholmp. The room began to swell with the scent of burning parchment.


    "As is evident, there exist urges within me that resist the reins of reason. My existence has been an incessant struggle against these cravings, cloaked in the facade of propriety. But as is in to see, as long as I am shackled by this mantle of humanity, I shall forever remain enved to these desires."


    Beneath the brilliant luminescence, Jekyll''s shadow stretched forth truncated and warped, akin to a stunted, stooped gnome.


    "Malevolence. Can you fathom the essence of harbouring such depravity within?"


    "Merely a pretext."


    "Such a response from Dr. Herbert, a veteran of the battlefield, is unexpected. Surely you''re not parroting those idealistic ignoramuses proiming humans as paragons of reason?"


    Jekyll''s scornful scrutiny caused me to seal my lips.


    "In the interim, whispers reached my ears. Ah, indeed, I had found her. Sherry Patrick!"


    While Jekyll''s exnation unfolded, the alcoholmp zed unabated. In the sk poised atop, an alien substance roiled.


    "Isn''t it remarkable? This is humanity in its raw form."


    It was a shade of ck. Not merely devoid of light, but a darkness so pure it erased the concept of illumination. It stirred ceaselessly, and the ebb and flow of its undtions disoriented my spatial perception. It loomed before me and in an instant receded to a mere speck, all whilst confined within the sk.


    "It represents the quintessence of logic, repressing all impulses and cravings. It has been lurking within our craniums, eluding detection until now. I have christened it Hyde."


    Hyde. Its violent ebullition invoked a sense of revulsion that nearly made my stomach revolt.


    "Sherry Patrick, she was not a human."


    Jekyll''s confession was delivered with unnerving tranquility.


    "Isn''t it peculiar? Thest sighting of a grand beast on the British Isles dates back 400 years, yet local whispers hint at a creature lurking within Silgwin forest. They were aware, of an indescribable monstrosity that made the woods its domicile. Their inability to articte its form led them tobel it as a wolf."


    His gaze wandered to a wall, brimming with photographic tributes to Sherry Patrick. A majority of the images were steeped in Jekyll''s repugnant debaucheries, while others revealed scenes of torment and experiments too monstrous to recount.


    "Sherry Patrick was reced by the creature in the forest some 16 years past. She was once human, but after apse of 15 years, her humanity had eroded. I procured her, in hopes of deciphering the dividing line between man and beast, between reason and instinct. If she indeed transitioned from human to beast, would it not be usible for mankind to escape the chains of desire and impulse, by suppressing the traits she exhibited?"


    I spotted a human-shaped mass of flesh within the images Jekyll was scrutinizing.


    "Thus, Imenced experimentation."


    The figure was none other than Sherry Patrick, fastened to a dissection table, her form grotesquely yed.


    "Through my investigations, I sessfully refined the active extract procured from Sherry Patrick. It was unlike any element that had been the subject of a millennium''s worth of chemical scrutiny, but rather, its answersy within the tomes of mythical alchemists. A vast repository of clinical trial data was necessitated to ascertain which constituent in it dictated the human-to-beast transformation."


    "Thus, you instigated the werewolf event."


    Confronted with my usatory gaze, Jekyll disyed a blush of chastisement as though a minor transgression had been called into question.


    "That was unintended. The subject selection process was meticulous, yet a single failure proved highly costly. A minor deviation in the concoction would transform the subject into a beast in entirety."


    Prior to the Whitechapel incident, cannibalistic atrocities had been perpetrated. I grimaced, vividly recalling images of women with their entrails grotesquely exposed.


    "Owing to that blunder, I found myself pursued by the authorities, and the experiment still demanded a plethora of failures. An urgent need arose for a significant quantity of samples."


    "Thus, you set your sights on Whitechapel."


    "Indeed. The so-called gentlemen, garbed in pretentious facades, yielded to their insatiable lust, engaging in debauchery on those streets. They bore closer resemnce to beasts than humans. The circumstances were opportune. I amassed sufficient data, and opted to deal with Sherry Patrick to forestall futureplications."


    Only now did the full picture crystallize before me. The events of that fateful day had been meticulously choreographed. Jekyll had ensconced himself in the ward, awaiting the pursuit, even as he engineered a scenario where Sherry Patrick was set free, only to be pursued.


    "The toll it exacted was not insubstantial, yet it pales inparison to the results achieved. Humanity teeters on the brink of its final evolutionary leap. In the impending twentieth century, humans will shed the irrationality engendered by desire, moving towards an epoch dominated solely by reason."


    Jekyll decanted a small measure of the sk''s contents into an ampoule. Although the quantity dispensed was minute, it propagated within the ampoule, filling it.


    "Dr. Philemon Herbert. You are a man of academia, guided by reason rather than instinct. You must recognize the validity of my assertions."


    He extended the ampoule towards me. I cast a downward nce at the object now in my possession. Within the ampoule, a human form shrieked soundlessly.


    "No, I''ll turn you over to the authorities. You remain a hideous beast."


    Jekyll''s brows furrowed into a narrow crease.


    "It appears I have misjudged you."


    Thud.


    In that precise moment, a disturbance echoed from beyond the window.


    "What is thismotion?"


    Jekyll ambled toward the window. Without warning, the ss shattered inwards, and a dark figure descended upon Jekyll.


    It appeared human.


    No, rather, it was a human-shaped clump of coal. The form barely retained its human shape, charred beyond recognition, the visage metamorphosing into a skeletal grimace. Sparse strands of curled hair clung tenaciously to the scalp.


    I recognized the figure immediately. It was Sherry Patrick.


    She engulfed Jekyll, entwining her torso around him.


    "I was under the impression she had been utterly consumed by me. Such extraordinary vitality, did she return in search of her remains? It appears to be a trait of hers."


    Jekyll calmly dissected her actions as he inched toward the door. I swiftly barred his path.


    "What is this folly? Exercise sound judgement. She poses no threat. Her strength is waning. Reason! Use your reason! Open this door!"


    A sound of disintegration resonated from the opposite side of the door.


    More akin to the sound of a tree being crushed than a human voice, a hoarse whisper pleading, "Open the door." gradually ebbed away.


    I detected a whiff of an impending congration from behind the door. I surmised the fate of the beast and Dr. Jekyll. Jekyll was meeting his due end, yet my morbid curiosity pertaining to the beasts fate spurred me on.


    I swung the door wide open.


    The room was in turmoil as though a wild creature had wreaked havoc and departed. Desk and bookshelvesy upturned, fire raged, fuelled by the spilled alcoholmp and scattered research materials. A nauseating toxic fume billowed from the liquid seeping out of a shattered sk.


    There was no trace of Sherry Patrick. Dr. Jekyll, with his hand clutching the window frame, was gazing up at the night sky. After twisting his neck in an unnatural angle to meet my gaze, he threw himself out the window.


    A shriek, neither human nor beast, reverberated from outside the window, triggering the beast''s ominous song. Ah! It ignited the fear of a lurking predator, nestled within the primal instincts of humans.


    The fire showed no signs of abating.


    The chemicals filling the room detonated in response to the fire, intensifying the ze to a degree visible from across the Thames. All that remained of Dr. Jekyll''s deranged research and its yield was a solitary ampoule in my hand.


    I roused the neighboring residents for evacuation. The London fire brigade, having witnessed the inferno, sought to contain the ze. But it will continue to escte. Fuelled by Dr. Jekyll''s derangement, it will rage throughout the night, foretelling London''s inevitable doom.


    Indeed, the beast still prowls London.


    The beast of the Silgwyn Forest and its offspring, neither human nor beast, will roam the backstreets of London. As long as they fear the light and noise, they pose no threat.


    London, post the lifting of curfew, was louder than ever.


    However, if the streetsy deserted for even a single day, if the streetmps remain dark, if London is enveloped in silence, they will reim the streets.


    We need not fear them yet, as long as we steer clear of the silent, shadowy alleyways. Not just yet.


    Upon my return journey home.


    I remained in possession of an unresolved enigma. Dr. Jekyll did not unleash his inner Hyde, and he was not the notorious Spring-heeled Jack. Sherry Patrick was no more than a mere beast.


    Then who in Hades was he?


    The devil, still prowling the streets of London under the cloak of night, brandishing a savagery akin to a werewolf coupled with human guile, lingered in my vicinity. Awaiting the moment I sumb to sleep''s embrace!


    It was then I saw it!


    In the scarlet skies of London, set ame by the ongoing fire, resided a devil! The devil, emitting a beast-like cackle, hopping from one rooftop to another! He was the authentic Spring-heeled Jack!


    I pursued him, as though under a spell. No, I was undoubtedly bewitched by this devil. He would eventually devour me, thus I waspelled to eliminate him first.


    Where did he vanish? I spotted a figure vanishing into an alleyway after scanning the deste cityscape of London. Indeed, it was he who galloped on all fours like a savage creature.


    The vicious winds of London blew with a biting chill, carrying within them the cry of a beast. At some point, my hat had been swept off my head. It must have been carried off by the mighty winds originating from the Thames. Retrieving an object stolen by the winds of London was an impossible task.


    The focus of my concern, however, was Spring-heeled Jack. I had a premonition that this pursuit was nearing its conclusion.


    In the distance, I could see my apartment building. He was making his way towards my apartment, undoubtedly with the wicked intent to harm my housekeeper and myself! How fortunate it was that I had uncovered his nefarious scheme in the nick of time!


    The apartment door stood ajar. The house key was inserted in the lock. I patted my pockets, finding them empty! He must have ndestinely acquired my keys through some sly trickery!


    I pushed the door wide open and stepped inside. The house was in shambles as though a wild creature had run amok. There was a potent smell of dust, as if a beast had rolled around in a pile of it to mask its scent.


    Upon observing the footprints at the entrance, I had a moment of rity. Ah, indeed! He had but a single leg! That''s why he had been traversing on all fours!


    There was a rustling sound from within the room. Sensing a presence, I flung the door wide open and came face-to-face with the monster!


    A man, shrouded in fur, unveiled his countenance.


    It was a mirror.


    "This."


    An alternate term for rabies.


    "It was me."


    Hydrophobia.


    "I was Spring-heeled Jack!"


    "Master?"


    Marie?


    "I apologize for thete hour. You may find this hard to believe, but I think I''ve found the watch. I have no idea why it was under my bed, but I assure you I didn''t steal it. Please believe me."


    "Don''t, don''t approach! Keep your distance!"


    "Master? What on earth."


    In a fit of ecstatic frenzy, I sunk my teeth into Marie''s neck.

 Chapter 16

    Chapter 16


    16. Letter from Newgate


    #1


    October 25, 1895


    Dearest and esteemed second elder brother,


    I am filled with regret as I must burden you with woeful tidings, amentable intrusion after an extended period of silence.


    The passage of time eludes me, slipping through my grasp like quicksilver. The sun rises and sets, yet its warm rays are thwarted by the cruel iron bars that confine me, denying me even a sliver of their radiant light.


    Surely, you must have received news of my apprehension, for I find myself imprisoned within the formidable walls of Newgate.


    Fortunately, the prison governor has recognized the frailty of my constitution and spared me from the rigors of hardbor. He went so far as to inquire if I required a special diet, an offer I declined with utmost humility. I, a transgressor of the highest order, must partake in the same meager sustenance as my fellow captives.


    However, I beseeched the authorities for a solitary indulgence, a request to pen letters, and they have graciously provided me with ink and parchment. Curiously, the governor seems to oscite between disdain and pity in his regard for my wretched state, a contradiction that lends a modicum of sce to my existence within these deste walls.


    Memories now seem but faint whispers, evading my grasp like elusive phantoms. How did the trial unfold? What verdict was pronounced upon my head? Have I been used of the full breadth of my transgressions? My heart quivers with unease, fearing that my clouded mind may hinder the full rpense for my sins.


    Within the confines of my meager chamber in Newgate, a persistent symphony echoes through the veil of solitudean incessant crash of waves upon a distant shore.


    Behind my heavy-lidded eyes, a vision unfoldsan ethereal nocturnal sea that defies the bounds of mortalprehension.


    It is a beach, shrouded in obsidian darkness, impervious to the caress of moonbeams or starlight. The horizon remains an imprable enigma, cloaked in an immeasurable void. In this realm, only I, the ceaseless sea, and the enveloping darkness exist.


    With each surge of the iing tide, the ocean inches closer, its frothy fingers sweeping gently against my weary feet. Uncertainty shrouds my consciousnessdo I draw near to the sea, or does it, with relentless determination, draw near to me? Yet, with eachnguid blink, the distance diminishes infinitesimally.


    In this fantastical vista, sce awaits me. Though my bodynguishes in this confined cell, my soul traverses boundless astral nes, unencumbered like the legendary Faust himself. The rhythmic cadence of the waves lulls my tormented spirit, evoking the dulcet strains of a music box.


    Yet, when my eyes reluctantly open, reality floods back with cruel swiftness.


    I am thrust once more into the harsh embrace of my solitary abode, a 5-square-meter cell within the formidable confines of Newgate Prison, ensconced within the heart of London. Each time, an ache for the wondrous sea I have beheld seizes my being, leaving me disquieted and longing.


    Fear not, dear brother, for I shall endeavor to correspond with you in due time. I implore you, exercise caution in your wanderingssteer clear of the treacherous waters of the Thames and the somber recesses of dark alleys.


    Yours in unutterable shame,


    Philemon Herbert


    #2


    November 7, 1895


    Respected and beloved second elder brother,


    Your missive arrived intact, every word preserved, contrary to your apprehensions. At present, they seem to bestow upon me a modicum of care, alleviating the burden of your worry.


    As you so astutely noted, a letter from our esteemed eldest brother found its way into my possession. It held such little worth that I deemed it fit for naught but wiping away the refuse of my existence, consigning it to the void. (Had he but known of the scarcity of toilet paper within these walls and sent it with that purpose in mind, it would have been the most meaningful contribution he could have made.)


    Within the confines of this prison, time evades my senses, slipping through my grasp like ethereal mist. The cell remains devoid of warmth, and the encroaching chill pervades, gnawing at my very core. Does autumn still hold sway beyond these grim walls? If so, I may not withstand the harsh winter that looms.


    A dearth of warmth emanates from within me. Am I being punished in this living state? Or have I descended into the abyss of Tartarus, where the sun''s caress is forever absent?


    I remain seated upon that somber shore, ensnared by its unforgiving embrace.


    Though my bodynguishes in the clutches of illness, my mind finds an unusual rity within these confines. This realization, however, torments me. The once romantic notion of the encroaching sea now rings hollow in my ears.


    The ocean that surrounds me exudes a frigidity that freezes the very essence of the soul. Rather than submerging me in its depths, the shoreline cruelly strips away any vestiges of warmth with each relentless wave that assails my feet and legs. There is no respite, no sce in this ce bereft of the sun''s gentle touch. I gasp, for the moment approaches when I shall be swallowed by this ebony sea.


    A sliver of inky luminescence emerges from the horizon, a realm untouched by the moon''s gentle glow or the shimmer of distant stars. Could it be that the sun rises even in this deste realm? My yearning intensifies, a fervent desire for the fiery embrace that would liquefy my corporeal form. Anything, however consuming, would be preferable. I eagerly await the advent of the sun above that darkened horizon, pleading for its swift arrival.


    From your humble and forlorn younger brother,


    Philemon Herbert


    P.S. If the embers of affection for your wretched sibling yet flicker within your heart, I beseech you, send forth a nket to ward off the biting chill. Otherwise, I implore you to release me from your thoughts, severing the tether that binds us, apanying this epistle to oblivion.


    #3


    November 19, 1895


    Respected and esteemed second elder brother,


    (I apologize for the alteration in my penmanship, as I have entrusted another to wield the brush in my stead, for my hands remain shackled and unyielding.)


    I beseech you to understand that though your concerns of my entanglement within delusions hold merit, I implore you to recognize the abundance of time I spend ensconced in slumber, eclipsing the realms of reality.


    During these somnolent interludes, an alien presence takes root within my very being. He, a malevolent entity, confronts the jailer with a volley of profanities, uttered in anguage hitherto unfamiliar to my ears. Moreover, he subjects my physical form to his sadistic whims, rending flesh and sinew with jagged nails. Even the nket you so graciously sent has fallen victim to his voracity. Please understand, dear brother, it is not my volition that rends these material possessions asunder; it is the beast lurking within, a sinister force I cannot control.


    Now, even within the confines of this minuscule prison, my movements are restricted, limbs ensnared, and the quill withheld from my grasp. Oh, the realization that an abhorrent evil resides within me is an rming and disquieting truth!


    I, a sinner, find myself confined not solely within these oppressive walls but alsopelled to bear witness to the relentless presence of this abominable creature, a penance for the sins I am fated tomit.


    Ofte, I havee to discern that my vigil is not without witnesses. Those lurking beneath the murky depths of that ebony sea, spoken of so frequently, have unveiled their presence. Cunningly concealed beneath the guise of undting waves, they have finally revealed themselves as the sea water encroaches upon my ankles, granting me a glimpse into their realm.


    Now Iprehend the allure of this seemingly resplendent sea.


    Within its depths, life has foundered and perished, transforming it into a realm of destion and death. Once a beacon of ethereal beauty, it now assumes a repulsive and grotesque visage.


    The purpose of their scrutiny eludes me, and I remain bereft of understanding. They merely await the moment when I sumb to the watery abyss. Though that fateful instant draws near, my soul remains tethered to this realm, unable to take flight.


    The ebony radiance I previously alluded to gradually materializes on the distant horizon. It exudes an ominous aura, a menace that defies description by the limits of my philosophical lexicon. Yet, its malevolence is palpable, directed squarely at my beleaguered existence.


    The malevolence of this light is directed toward me!


    I shudder to contemte the impact it shall have upon my sanity when it ascends above the shoreline. s, my head is unable to turn, and departure from this forsaken coast is an unattainable fantasy. Therefore, I must fixate my gaze upon the horizon until that fateful moment arrives.


    This cruel and merciless judgment befalls my sinful self with unwavering severity. Dearest brother, fear grips me tightly, entwining itself around my every waking hour, as I dread whether my soul shall find reprieve upon this terrestrial ne. Even now, as I pen these words, the shoreline relentlessly advances. Ia, ia


    From the depths of the sea, a cacophony ensues, a resonant cry calling my name. Can it be Curie?


    I must bring this correspondence to a close for now.


    Yours, ever-humbled, as a younger brother,


    Philemon Herbert


    November 25, 1895


    The night held Newgate prison in its grip as the resounding crash of waves roused both inmates and guards from their slumber. Chaos and confusion ensued, providing me with a stolen moment to acquire pen and paper amidst the mor, granting me the means to pen this missive.


    Throughout the night, the guards tirelessly searched for the elusive source of the sound, unaware that only I possess the knowledge of its origin. Their efforts shall prove futile, for the sound emerges from the recesses of space, where no glimmer of light may prate.


    Indeed, the expansive coastline, once believed to exist solely within the confines of my own delusions, reveals itself as a deste adrift in the cosmic expanse. Since my realization, dire prophecies have gued my mind, foretelling a grim and foreboding future.


    In that frigid abode, where all life in the universe has met its demise and stars have faded into oblivion, they endure.


    The Old Ones! Their presence inspires dread! The ck dwarf star that has yet to ascend is naught but an illusion of the sun. The, having exceeded its destined lifespan, hosts naught but primordial fungi upon its deste surface.


    No longer do they merely mimic the ebb and flow of the waves. They have emerged from the depths, breaching the surface of the enigmatic sea, silently observing my every move. They bide their time, awaiting the moment when I shall bepletely engulfed.


    Once I am submerged within this stygian sea, I shall be their vessel, their conduit.


    This ckened sea shall surge forth, traversing dimensions, rending my eardrums and piercing my retinas. Do youprehend the magnitude? Even if all continents were stripped bare, their essence would fail to fill this seemingly bottomless expanse. The inevitable oue, my dear brother, is the submersion of the Earth beneath these treacherous tides.


    Ah, even now, as I close my eyes, I envision it. The sea rises, surpassing the limits of the darkened horizon. Have you ever witnessed the waves ascend to meet the very precipice of the heavens? Have you ever beheld the ghastly sight of a lifeless sea, its fetid waters stained with the decay of its own algae, bridging the chasm between the vastness of space and the celestial dome? Have you ever witnessed its relentless advance, drawing ever closer to me?


    The true meaning of its name has been unveiled to me. Though I encountered it within the pages of literary tomes,prehension eluded me until this very moment. The name, the name!


    #5


    On the prison cell wall


    Ia Ia Dagon Fhtagn! Yjzuq''hacha Fhanglu Fhtagn! Hyhm''fku mak Unn''gu-rah


    Since that memorable day, the capacity to inscribe another letter has evaded my grasp.


    In time, the riddle of how I procured a pen within my confinement remained unsolved, and upon discovering that I had used my own lifeblood as a medium to express my tormented psyche on the grim walls, the wardens of my incarceration beheld me with revulsion. I was cast aside, as none dared to converse or even venture close to my proximity.


    Whether their intent was to condemn me to a slow demise by starvation remains uncertain. I was served no morsels of nourishment nor granted the mercy of even a drop of water. Strangely, despite this deprivation, my body seemed to rue vitality with each passing day. I spent my hours ensnared in solitude, my gaze fixed upon the mold-ridden wall of my cell.


    The illusory auditory phenomenon of the sound of waves, which I had once perceived in my solitude, had now be an eerie melody heard by every soul confined within Newgate.


    Each night, prisoners and wardens alike were tortured by fear and anxiety, their screams echoing through the cold stone corridors. The entire prison was enmeshed in a colossal nightmare, and they were all trapped within the same horrifying dream. Yet I, I was immune to their collective terror. Regardless of their mor, all I could discern was the rhythmic sound of waves.


    Though still trapped within my diminutive cell, my being was infused with the acrid stench of seawater, reminiscent of a wastnd where life had once flourished but was now bereft.


    <strong>Creak Creak</strong>


    "Prisoner!"


    The cell door creaked open, and a sliver of light infiltrated the gloom. I blinked as if emerging from an extended slumber. The sudden influx of light was painful, as though my eyes were witnessing illumination for the first time.


    "Get out."


    It took me a moment toprehend the simplemand.


    "Is my sentence being executed?"


    The guard offered no response, merely unfastening the manacles from my limbs and cing a staff beside me. With considerable effort, I grasped it and rose to my feet. My long-dormant muscles screamed in protest.


    "Where are we going?"


    The guard offered no response to my inquiry. I was under the impression that we were descending deeper into the depths of the prison. They returned all the possessions that were stripped from me upon my arrival, and I was then expelled from the entrance of the prison.


    "Philemon Herbert, you are hereby released on bail."


    "Impossible!"


    In that moment, I fathomed the situation. An intervention had taken ce. There were few in my circle with the capacity to orchestrate such a feat. Instantly, I recognized the silhouette of the man standing against the sun.


    "You appear more robust than I anticipated."


    "Art!"


    My faculties nearly betrayed me at his appearance.


    "You could not possibly fathom the ordeal it was to secure your release. I presumed it would be a mere matter of remunerating the court for your bail, but it proved moreplex. I have spent thest month in ceaseless appointments, often with the most unapproachable figures in all of London."


    Arthur ryed his feats with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a child.


    "Art, you have blundered gravely. I ought to remain confined!"


    "Enough."


    Arthur furrowed his brow in evident frustration.


    "Is this the gratitude I receive after negotiating with those bigoted, ignorant noblemen to free you? Is it my folly for not even anticipating a word of thanks?"


    His reproach left me gasping for breath.


    "Yes you are correct, undoubtedly."


    "We have a multitude of tasks to undertake and much to discuss. As I have iterated from the very beginning, that woman''s influence upon you has been destructive. Reflect upon these past months."


    Arthur gave aforting pat on my shoulder and began moving towards the carriage he had prepared.


    "Art, heed me, I have been driven to madness. I am deranged."


    "There is always a solution. Coincidentally, a neurosurgeon acquaintance of mine has just returned from the Nethends, or perhaps we could seek assistance from that renowned Austrian psychoanalyst. It is high time for the Frank academic symposium to regain its former glory."


    "But it is not about that, my mind, my very mind."


    I felt utterly impotent in conveying the ordeal I was experiencing. How could I encapste the terror of anticipating invaders from the distant cosmos breaching the sanctuary of my psyche?


    I needed a solution, one more immediate. For instance death! The thought of immting my own physical form, which they sought to inhabit, seemed like the only reasonable recourse.


    "A method! Indeed, that''s it!"


    I frantically rummaged through my coat pocket. As anticipated, it remained untouched, in its pristine state. Arthur''s curiosity was piqued by the unfamiliar object.


    "What might that be?"


    "Pure reason."


    Hyde. The living legacy of Dr. Jekyll still resided within the ampoule. The distilled essence of humanity, extracted from the creature of Silgwyn forest Could it mend my fractured psyche? If I were to survive, would I retain my former human essence?


    I faltered at the precipice of the decision. Arthur lifted his hand to his ear.


    "Has there been a sound of waves crashing for some time now?"


    In that instant, I consumed the contents of the ampoule.


    ..


    ..


    .


    Indeed, this constitutes the initial tale I have assembled for you.


    It chronicles my experiences as a survivor, as I ndestinely scrutinized the shadowy underbelly of our Earth and observed my consciousness shattering into innumerable fragments, more abundant than the dust particles in a neb. Even as I pen this, my ego diffuses prismatically, undergoing countless divisions and unifications.


    Yes, I am referring to a veritable legion of identities within my mind, a conglomerate I liken to an ensemble of so-called readers.


    Nevertheless, this narrative has barelymenced. It serves merely as a prelude to the forting nightmares and torments that await my witness and endurance. There is an abundance of urrences to ry, and precious little time to do so.


    Ah, I must not overlook the unfortunate series of events that befell dear Shirley Marie.


    TRIVIA


    Faust is a legendary German figure who is said to have made a pact with the Devil in exchange for knowledge and power. The story of Faust has been told and retold in many different forms, including ys, operas, and novels.


    The most famous version of the Faust story is Johann Wolfgang von Goethe''s two-part y, Faust, which was first published in 1808. In Goethe''s y, Faust is a learned man who is dissatisfied with his life. He makes a pact with Mephistopheles, the Devil, in exchange for knowledge and power. Faust uses his newfound powers to experience all that life has to offer, but he eventuallyes to regret his bargain. In the end, Faust is saved from damnation by the love of Gretchen, a young woman whom he had seduced.


    The Faust story has been interpreted in many different ways. Some see it as a cautionary tale about the dangers of ambition and the importance of humility. Others see it as a story about the human desire for knowledge and experience. Still others see it as a story about the power of love and redemption.


    The Faust story continues to be relevant today because it explores universal themes such as the struggle between good and evil, the nature of knowledge and power, and the meaning of life.

 Chapter 17

    Chapter 17


    17. The alchemist who lives in the cemetery


    In spite of the tenacity that kept my feet rooted to the terrestrial sphere, it felt as if I was astray in the cosmos. Anchored in the soil and stone, my limbs iled, uprehending of the direction they ought to choose, and under this light-deprived expanse, my state was indistinguishable from that of a sightless man.


    Clods of earth, moss, and gravel persistently sought passage into my mouth, whilst the incessant skittering of the arthropods chiselled into my flesh behind my ears. The most agonising reality was the utter audibility of the intive cries of these minuscule insects.


    Owing to my relentless endeavour to excavate rocks with bare hands, my leathered glovesy in tatters, my nails shattered, and the cruel pebbles sought refuge in the clefts of my hands. However, my predicament permitted no room for suffering.


    My breathing pattern became disordered, harsh, as the vapours of my breath clung to my countenance. The scant moisture in this stifling underground environment seemed confined to just this, vanishing as swiftly as it appeared. Deprived of sufficient oxygen, my thoughts started to dissolve.


    Yes.


    I was alive, yet buried.


    Thump, thump.


    In the midst of myborious efforts to shovel the soil, I ceased, suspending my breath. From above, rhythmic concussions were ryed to me. It was them. They were aware of my entombment close by.


    The ominous footsteps ceased abruptly. Had they discovered me?


    The grating sound of soil being excavated sent a shudder down my spine, followed by a man''s desperate outcry echoing from a distance.


    "Argh! Ahhh! Save me! Ahhh!"


    The man''s cries gradually diminished, swallowed by the unforgiving silence. I couldn''t discern if the man was still screaming or had been hauled away. The only certainty was that I was blessed with a little more time. I rmenced my frantic excavation.


    With a final effort, the stone barrier before me yielded, and I emerged, crawling out from my premature grave.


    "Cough, cough."


    Like a nymph exiting its casing, I drew in the fresh air greedily and expelled the residual dust from my lungs. Each cough dispensed a stream of sand onto my outstretched hand.


    "Haah Haah."


    I yearned for respite, for a moment of stillness, but time was a luxury I could ill afford. They might return any moment. I surveyed the surroundings. A hand protruded from between the rocks, its silence screaming for assistance.


    "Are you unharmed?"


    I extended my own hand towards it, dislodging rocks in the process. Upon extracting the buried figure and helping it to its feet, I released its hand abruptly. What remained was merely a remnant of existence. I averted my gaze from the faceless cadaver and hobbled away, each step a struggle, my walking stick long shattered.


    "Please assist."


    At that juncture, a frail plea emerged from the ground. Soft it may have been, yet the desperation it carried was thunderous. A voice brimming with dread begged for help.


    "Please. My leg It''s injured I can assist you."


    Prostrating myself on the ground, I grasped a sizable chunk of rock and began sweeping away the umted earth. The soil was tainted with excrement, the potent scent of mammalian ammonia filled the air.


    "Huak Huak Huak! Ahhhh."


    "Compose yourself! Regte your breathing first!"


    With exertion, I extricated the body of the young man from his terrestrial confinement and offered sce by patting his back.


    "What, what is all this madness? What cmity has befallen us? Phew, phew!"


    His hand weakly strove to rid his countenance of the fecal matter and earth that tainted it. Heboured to catch his breath, barely managing to restore some semnce of calm.


    "Why are these abominations lurking in London''s underworld?"


    "I am as much in the dark as you. I have no inkling of what transpires here."


    "Do you know of an escape route?"


    I moistened my digit with saliva and attempted to discern the direction of the breeze. Yet, in this cavernous tunnel, the wind''s whisper was lost. Only the oppressively dense air resided here, cultivating an enveloping sense of entrapment.


    "This is impossible."


    The young man seemed to reach a simr realisation, his countenance drooping in surrender to despair.


    "Arise. We may have stepped into a necropolis, but for the living to mimic the dead is futile."


    I spurred him to stand upright. His assistance was pivotal if we were to ever see daylight again.


    "I should never have ventured into this ce But why, doctor, are you here?"


    "I came in search of someone."


    "A living soul? In this subterranean cemetery? The only vestiges of life here are us and those abominations!"


    "I am aware."


    Indeed, I was all too aware. After all, my quest did not concern the living.


    Shirley Marie. It was her remains I had ventured here to locate.


    ..


    ..


    .


    The day prior to my subterranean imprisonment, I found myself within the grandeur of Arthur Frank''s estate.


    Upon my arrival, Arthurmenced an incessant barrage of inquiries, firing them at me like a Gatling gun, with no regard for my well-being. He bore the unwavering resolve to keep me hostage until every question had been answered. And so, I found myself obediently responding to his inquisitions one after the other.


    The spectacles and sounds I had been privy to on Jacob''s Ind after departing his manor


    The enigmatic absence of Mrs. Curie and the cryptic notes she had left behind


    Dr. Jekyll''s abhorrent experiments and the monstrous beings that now infested London


    For every utterance that escaped my lips, he countered with two interrogatives, and I scrambled to provide a response without a moment''s respite for my thoughts. Consequently, I inadvertently divulged a few closely guarded secrets that I had intended to carry to my grave.


    Eventually, as I concluded detailing the contents of the ampoule I had consumed, he queried with palpable curiosity,


    "So, you partook of the same concoction as Dr. Jekyll. Does it not make you feel somewhat lucid?"


    His question prompted an epiphany. Contrary to my apprehensions, my mind remained undamaged. In fact, it was functioning with exceptional rity. Far from losing my bearings, I had found them.


    "No. I''m as I have always been."


    "Perhaps your pre-existing insanity has yed a part. Or could the potency have diminished over time? Tell me, Philo, do you still dwell in madness?"


    His candid question left me momentarily nonplussed.


    The truth was, I did not.


    Upon consuming the ampoule left by Dr. Jekyll, Hyde, my mind had undergone an extraordinary transformation. The insanity that had once reigned supreme was peeled away, revealing an inner brilliance akin to a newborn''s.


    Arthur wore his fascination for these mysteries openly.


    "Dr. Jekyll, I had initially desired to extend an invitation to him to join the Frank Academy. Had he not been a part of the Royal Society, I would have done so. However, knowing what has transpired, I should have coerced him into our ranks."


    "Art."


    "I jest, Philo. Even I would hesitate to embrace a murderer as arade."


    I took Arthur''s words with a grain of salt. He was a man who dared to dance upon societal norms, where the line separating morality andw was but a blur.


    "Proceed. What transpired in London during my absence? You were present at the catastrophe of Jacob''s Ind, chased a werewolf, and now find yourself pursued by a creature of the Silgwyn forest, concealed somewhere within the city."


    "Do you derive amusement from this? Are you even aware of the count of lives lost?"


    Finally, the perpetually jovial facade Arthur wore began to irk me.


    In a state of agitation, I voiced my exasperation, and, sinking back into indifference, I whispered, my face hidden within my hands.


    "And Shirley Marie, what horrors did I inflict upon that innocent woman"


    "It was an unfortunate incident."


    "It was an act of homicide! I intended to take her life!"


    At my outburst, Arthur''s expression turned sour. He paced before me with a look of displeasure. He anticipated an apology from me, but I had no intention of proffering one. I was bereft of patience for his childlike and recklessments.


    Several moments of silence reigned before it was punctured by Arthur''s low murmur.


    "There may exist a solution."


    His tone was one he often donned when situations were not falling into his preferred alignment.


    "To what end are you referring?"


    "The Frank Academy you have witnessed thus far is merely the tip of the iceberg. The academy I envisage seeks to elevate mankind into more intricate realms."


    "Speak without guile."


    "I am suggesting there may exist a means to eradicate the root of your remorse. Indeed, it seems likely."


    I grappled with his implication. There existed but one method to assuage my guilt.


    "Surely you are not suggesting"


    "For this, there is something you must seek."


    Interrupting my protest, Arthur gestured towards the map of London, adorning the room''s wall. The contours of the map were difficult to discern amidst the myriad symbols, figures, and lengthy notations penned in Arthur''s unique, nearly illegible handwriting.


    He pointed to a specific location.


    "Did the housemaid mention she was an orphan? If so, there exists but one ce she could be."


    That evening found me venturing to the outskirts of southern London.


    In 1836, London was among the world''s most densely popted nned cities.


    An unforeseen issue surfaced. Corpses. They were ubiquitous. Traditional local interment practices were ill-equipped to manage the mounting toll of deaths, rendering the small graveyards scattered throughout the city grotesque.


    Additionally, due to unsanitary handling methods, epidemics proliferated, with some advocating for the incineration of graveyards. The issue of the dead was non-negotiable.


    Amidst this conundrum, the London City Hall, intoxicated by the pride of being hailed as the world''s paramount city, conceived an experimental solution. They proposed the construction of a vast,ndscaped graveyard in the southern segment of London. It was an audacious initiative to address the graveyard crisis whilst also providing citizens with recreational facilities in the guise of natural parks.


    Thus was the West Norwood Cemetery brought into existence.


    Boasting sculptures of the Gothic Revival style that were nothing short of artistic marvels, and manicuredwns, all bathed in a favourable luminosity, this establishment nheless found itself in the disfavour of the denizens. It was a cemetery, after all. No soul sought leisure amidst gravestones.


    So was it that London learnt the bitter lesson, that it was folly to attempt turning a graveyard into a park with the expenditure of thousands of pounds.


    Yet, the cemetery stood steadfast in its duty despite the woeful history that birthed it. Over the past half a century, it had dutifully received the countless bodies that had spilled forth from London. Tombstones sprawled across its 16 hectares, while those without tombstones found their eternal rest in the subterranean catbs.


    The cemetery was the most dignified of all of London''s refuse heaps.


    Carriages, carrying their grim cargo, came to a halt at the cemetery''s entrance ceaselessly, day and night. London was a city with a surfeit of corpses, and in this context, death was one of the few trades where carriages still held sway over automobiles.


    As soon as a body was brought forth, a gravedigger and a manager of the crematorium promptly carried the body straight into the crematorium. ck smoke billowed forth from the chimney of the crematorium, as though escorting the soul of the nameless deceased to the furthest ends of the heavens. The burnt remains were nonchntly scattered underground in urns.


    I observed this entire process from a remove.


    The gravedigger ferried the body to the crematorium, yet the crematorium bore no sign of activity. No smoke unfurled from its chimney nor was there a glimmer of light to be seen. This was very much in ordance with the rumours Arthur had shared with me.


    Silently, I made my entry into the cemetery.


    "How might I assist you, sir?"


    A gravedigger, who had seemingly been observing me, materialized and impeded my progress. His attire was so opulent that it took me a moment to recognize his upation.


    "I am here to pay my respects."


    As I said this, I disyed the white artificial flowers in my possession.


    "And who might the departed be?"


    "Shirley Marie."


    "Do you require assistance in locating her grave?"


    As he spoke, his gaze surveyed the multitude of tombstones around us. I declined his offer with a shake of my head.


    "She rests not here, but there."


    The gravedigger''s countenance took on a hardened aspect as he recognized the direction my finger pointed towards. I was indicating the catb, a structure leading underground. He shook his head in denial.


    "ess is forbidden."


    "Why so?"


    "Too many have lost their way and disappeared, leading to its closure to the public."


    It was an absurd logic. I was on the verge of protesting, but thought better of it. I noticed that other gravediggers from within the crematorium were emerging one after the other, their gazes trained on me.


    Their eyes were frigid, their expressions impassive. Despite their varied appearances, an identical aura clung to them all, making them seem like twins.


    Sensing this uncanny and exclusive atmosphere, I decided to withdraw for the moment.


    "Understood. There''s nothing I can do."


    Near to a state of flight, I extricated myself from the cemetery. Even as I traversed the cemetery entrance, their gazes remained affixed to my retreating figure.


    <strong> Woof woof! tter tter!</strong>


    A hound came hurtling towards me from beyond the cemetery bars, its baying loud and insistent. The shock nearly caused me to stumble. It was that very gravedigger who had sed the hound upon me. The savage creature continued its cacophony until I was well out of sight.


    The cemetery security was draconian, to say the least.


    Furthermore, I sensed an uncanny solidarity amongst them, more than mere colleagues sharing amon workspace. It was as if their minds were eerily entwined.


    Danger lurked, I could sense it, but retreat was not an option.


    In line with Arthur''s words, it was desirable if Marie''s body remained intact. Given that her body had been discarded in this subterranean cemetery a month prior, haste was of the essence even ounting for the low temperatures.


    Strange urrences were reported at this cemetery, or so I had heard.


    The shiftmenced a month ago. A minor earthquake had hit London. Although the damage was minimal, limited to a few toppled horses, it amounted to little more than a trivial disturbance. The citizens of London quickly consigned the event to oblivion.


    However, post that day, West Norwood Cemetery underwent a peculiar metamorphosis. Bodies continued to be delivered to the crematorium, yet the furnace remained unlit, bereft of a coal supply.


    Several conjectures quietly circted in hushed tones. For a period, the most persuasive among these was that the city hall had imposed a ban on cremation to conserve coal. However, this notion did not gain much traction. After all, it concerned the affairs of the deceased.


    It was only when another incident arose that the living took note.


    The modest gravedigger and the crematorium manager made a conspicuous appearance, their handsden with an unidentified silver. They maintained a guarded silence about the origin of the silver, and with that money, they purchasednd in the vicinity of the cemetery.


    A furnace that refrained from burning, unidentified silver.


    These two pieces of evidence were enough to fan the mes of spection, and various low-grade rumours proliferated within the localmunity. Eventually, the rumours found their way to the upper sses, yet the nobility refrained from discussing such base gossip pertaining to the dead.


    Thus, in order to satiate theirtent desire to gossip, they often resorted to this phrasing.


    "There resides an alchemist in the West Norwood Cemetery. He transmutes bodies into silver." Coincidentally, rumours circted of a gaunt foreigner of exotic appearance seen lingering around the cemetery around the same period.


    I prowled around the cemetery through the night, seeking a suitable opening. Unlike Arthur, I had scant interest in the truth they were concealing. What weighed heavily upon my conscience was the burden of penance.


    Even if this path led to some form of transgression, I was already steeped in a sin far greater.


    However, the guard remained unrelenting throughout the night. The gravediggers executed shifts ording to some undisclosed protocol, and I sighted more than three varieties of hunting hounds.


    It was more challenging to distinguish among the people. Each gravedigger donned different attire, yet their facial expressions were eerily identical, almost grotesque. They maintained poker faces, their demeanour seemed fearful of something, their movements stiff. I had never witnessed such a uniformly influenced group outside of military ranks.


    Their duties never varied.


    Upon the arrival of a funeral carriage, they would dutifully transport the body into the crematorium.


    That was the sum total of theirbour.


    In the end, I found nopse in their vignce all through the nocturnal hours. As dawn approached, I prepared to surrender for the day. As I attempted to rise, my equilibrium faltered, and I fell. Be it a bout of anemia or some other mise, it seemed as though the world was in a tremulous dance.


    No, the very earth beneath was indeed in upheaval. It was an earthquake.


    After enduring the extended and gentle tremors, I took a considerable time to make my careful return to the heart of London. Whether the earthquake had fully abated or not, I could still perceive the quivering vibrations as I leaned against the wall.


    Come morning, I procured a handful of newspapers, searching for any mention of the earthquake that had transpired the previous night. However, not a single article referred to it. At that moment, a chilling realization dawned upon me.


    The earthquake I had perceived had, in fact, nevere to pass.

 Chapter 18

    Chapter 18


    18. Silver Light Under the Tomb


    In the dim light preceding the full bloom of dawn, I found my way back to the confines of my dwelling. It was a recent addition to the grand, orient-inspired architectural tapestry of the city, my residence for the past month or so. Despite my brief absence, the familiarity of the streets sung to me a song of nostalgia, of homing. Yet, before I could bask in the warm glow of home, a sight most disconcerting assailed my senses.


    "What in the world of God is this mayhem?" I bellowed, rushing towards the men at work. Taken aback, they ceased their actions, fixing their gaze upon me.


    "Whomanded you to undertake this venture?" I demanded.


    "The proprietor of this establishment," they responded.


    Amongst the inventory they were shiftingy articles familiar to my eye, indeed, belongings of my own abode! I confronted these brash intruders.


    "I am the proprietor! Who dares misrepresent me?"


    "The owner of this structure," they countered.


    The entirety of the situation dawned upon me. In the wake of my temporary confinement, the building''s master, bereft of contact from my side, had decided to purge my living quarters, disposing of my furniture. An act of theft, by any other name!


    I was at the edge of sanity, appalled at this disy of crass ignorance, a spectacle I would have ascribed only to French decadence, brazenly unfolding in the heart of London. Beside myself, I roared once more.


    "I assume responsibility! Desist and revert the situation!"


    Initially skeptical, the workers relented when thendlord made his domineering presence felt. With much grumbling, they started recing the furniture.


    "Hold! Who dared move the secretaire in its entirety? Are scratches on the floor a matter of such triviality? That armchair isn''t even hefty!"


    Theckluster workmanship of the crew was irksome. They were handling the cargo carelessly and I was frantically overseeing their progress. My terror of the overnight events seemed to have been washed away in the flurry.


    Observing a worker moving a piece of Chinese porcin, I halted him.


    "Has this been so from the beginning?"


    "Pardon?"


    He seemed wary, treating me as a person prone to nitpicking. Considering my hospitable demeanor so far, this reaction seemed egregiously unfair.


    With a critical eye, I studied the flower adorning the porcin.


    My understanding of orchids might not be extensive, but I was aware of the challenges in their blossoming and upkeep. Could an orchid bloom such vibrant flowers after a month of neglect? And in the absence of winter at that?


    Suspecting it to be an artificial adornment, I decided to inspect it furtherter.


    After an exhaustive ordeal, I ensured all the items were duly restored and bid farewell to the workers. Upon entering my home, I found the entrance littered with mail, some visibly trampled upon. Had the workers lingered, they would have borne the brunt of my outrage.


    I gathered the correspondence carefully and retreated to my quarters.


    Dust nketed the room, and muddy footprints painted a picture of neglect, hardened since the day of my unfortunate arrest. In simpler words, my room had remained untouched for a month.


    Exhausted, I sunk into the familiarfort of my chair, reflecting on the events of the night  from a vigil near the graveyard post my release to the chaotic homing. I allowed myself a brief respite before intending to attend to the pile of unread mail.


    Five letters in total awaited my attention.


    Among these, only two bore identifiable origins  a public document from the city hall and another from the esteemed Oldcourt University. The origins of the remaining three were a mystery, although the distinct shapes of their envelopes suggested disparate senders.


    In search of a paper knife, I embarked on a hunt through the contents of my drawers. A blessing indeed, that the constabry had not taken upon themselves to conduct a thorough investigation within these confines, and thus, the configuration within the drawers was precisely as I recollected. I deemed it best tomence with the lessplicated matters.


    The dispatch from the City Hall of London was the first to be tended to. As I had anticipated, it concerned the mundane matter of taxation. I cast it aside on the desk, resolving to address it at ater convenience.


    I then turned my attention to the trio of letters, bearing no indication of their respective senders. I carefully dissected each envelope and promptly decided to set them aside for future perusal. Curiously, the contents of the letters, though penned by separate hands, shared a striking resemnce in theirposition  all were outpourings of public discontent, rebuking me for an alleged heinous act. They offered no valuable insights, thus earning my dismissal.


    Thest letter tomand my attention was perhaps the most unsettling to me. Dispatched from the prestigious Oldcourt University, it bore ill tidings, or so I feared. To my surprise, however, the content contradicted my spection.


    Rather than a dismissal, it was an administrative document concerning my lecture scheduled for the winter semester. The concluding note simply mentioned that, should I fail to submit a lecture n within the given timeline, regardless of my circumstances, our agreement would be dissolved.


    I chose to ept this piece of information with a measure of gratitude. My apprehension of losing my means of livelihood was thus alleviated, at least for the time being.


    Having dealt with the correspondence, I copsed onto my bed, fatigue gaining the upper hand.


    Clutched in my grasp was a newspaper, procured en route to my residence. The previous night had been devoid of seismic activity. But what could ount for the tremors I had perceived? The mysterious alchemist, the gravekeepers, the unidentified silver, the unburning incinerator  all presented riddles too enigmatic to decipher.


    gued by a splitting headache, I sumbed to slumber.


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    <strong>Thump, thump, thump, thump!</strong>


    I was roused from my sleep by the rhythmic insistence of a knock at my door. By now, the sun had relinquished its hold over the sky. Fatigue continued to w at my senses as I propped myself up, casting a vacant gaze upon the wall.


    <strong>Thump, thump, thump, thump!</strong>


    The urgency of the knocking was undiminished, bordering on frantic. It was as if decorum had been forsaken in favor of urgency. Roused to action by the insistence, I moved swiftly to the door.


    The visitor disyed an impatient demeanor, choosing to knock relentlessly, even in the presence of a perfectly functional doorbell. With the safety chain still engaged, I creaked open the door.


    "Who might you be?"


    A conspicuously lean foreigner greeted my gaze. He seemed vaguely familiar, yet I held no personal association with one so youthful. His youthful visage made even Arthur seem advanced in age.


    "Pray, grant me entry."


    His continuous disy of nervousness seemed uncalled for, his agitation disproportionate to any apparent urgency. Nheless, I released the chain and allowed him ess.


    "Sigh Thank you. It is paramount that my presence here remain undisclosed."


    Once within my quarters, he heaved a sigh of relief. His pale countenance elicited a chuckle within me. His English wasmendably fluent, albeit tinted with a French ent, suggesting a possible second-generation immigrant.


    His lineage could possibly be traced back to the regions of Lyon or Dijon. His split chin and light red hair bore a striking resemnce to the inhabitants of Central France.


    "Are you by any chance, Dr. Philemon Herbert?"


    "That I am."


    His joy was evident at my affirmation. The mere act of finding the correct address without losing his way seemed a cause for celebration.


    "Oh, firstly, my hearty congrattions on your release."


    He stammered, seemingly flustered, before extending a handshake with an unexpected degree of formality.


    The abrupt transition was disconcerting, evenical. His attempt at mimicking the Yorkshire ent, initially amusing, now seemed endearing. Yet, I could not dismiss him as a naive youth affecting the mannerisms of nobility. His appearance and demeanor suggested otherwise.


    I don''t merely refer to the quality of his attire. His suit, tailored to his slender frame, was indicative of an affluent upbringing, a feature associated with the upper ss. Perhaps he was a nouveau riche or the offspring of one.


    However, this youth appeared excessively ingenuous to helm any business concern, and considering his tender age, I surmised his father to be a bourgeois of foreign origin.


    "Gratitude. Word does indeed spread like wildfire. As far as my awareness goes, the press has not caught wind of it yet."


    "Oh, that may not entirely be urate. I stumbled upon the news in the course of seeking you."


    For the moment, I decided to ept his extended hand. His gaze held a pathetic appeal that I found myself unable to resist. The hand I sped was devoid of any calluses, smooth and pristine.


    "Permit me to introduce myself. I am Noel Augustine, progeny of the Director of the South London Mining Office."


    His introduction did not stray from my spections.


    An English first name paired with a French surname, he was indeed a French bourgeois of the second generation. I found myself intrigued by the curiosity of what could drive a young man of privilege, leading a life as reckless as his, to go out of his way to seek me out, whilst steering clear of public attention.


    "Pray, let us retire to the parlor. I beg your pardon for the state of my humble abode."


    "No, it is quite alright."


    Augustine''s response was nothing short of courteous. However, upon entering the parlor, he was unable to mask his astonishment. My own surprise mirrored his as a pair of rodents made a hasty dash across our path.


    A residence left unattended for a month had predictably descended into chaos.


    "Do you not employ the services of a maid?"


    "That is indeed the case. Presently, no."


    If he was privy to my recent imprisonment, it stands to reason that he would also be aware of the circumstances leading up to it. I refrained from highlighting Augustine''s unfortunate faux pas. It would be unbing of a gentleman to shame him by pointing out each minute blunder.


    We each took our seats. Augustine seemed unable to findfort, his restlessness betrayed by his constant fidgeting. Observing him, I felt an overwhelming sense of frustration. Unable to endure this spectacle any longer, I decided to initiate a conversation.


    "Augustine, may I inquire the purpose of your nocturnal visit, undertaken with such discretion?"


    To be candid, my expectations from this dialogue were modest. A young man,cking in experience as he seemed, would scarcely be entangled in affairs of grave significance. Despite his visible difort, his demeanorcked the desperation typically associated with pressing matters.


    Augustine replied with due solemnity,


    "I implore you to dissuade my father from a course leading to a transgression."


    This was a request quite unlike what I had anticipated. I had envisioned a personal counseling session or, in the worst-case scenario, a rather absurd inquiry regarding my alleged crime. However, this seemed like a matter beyond my expertise.


    I slowly shook my head.


    "I regret to inform you, but it would be more judicious to consult thew enforcement authorities in this regard."


    "No! In that case, my father would be apprehended, wouldn''t he?"


    Augustine''s voice trailed off. He seemed to realize the ludicrousness of his assertion.


    "Indeed, transgressions lead to arrest. A lesson I learned rather harshly a month prior."


    "No, my father hasn''tmitted any crime yet! He is merely on the brink of it!"


    "I''ll state this assuming you have a firm grasp of the Englishnguage, but the two are quite synonymous."


    He struggled to find the appropriate phrasing, stuttering as he deliberated.


    "No, what I intend to convey is that this is a rather unusual situation. I was informed that you specialize in such cases."


    "Who might have shared that piece of information?"


    "My acquaintances the consensus seems to be the same."


    I found myself frowning. While it was preferable to be known as an expert in unusual situations rather than an incarcerated felon, it was disheartening to hear of the spread of my false indictment.


    "Do tell, what is the nature of this situation?"


    "Thank you! Are you perchance familiar with the rumors surrounding the West Norwood Cemetery?"


    I found myself taken aback.


    "Indeed, I am acquainted with them. You refer to the tales of an alchemist who transmutes corpses into silver."


    "Precisely so. However, my father held no credence in such a rumor."


    "Unless he harbored the whims of a fool, he would not."


    "Beyond that, my father postted that the gravediggers were the propagators of such tales, a deliberate stratagem to shroud some consequential truths."


    Augustine''s voice quivered as he raised his volume. His demeanor suggested an imitation of someone else''s habitual patterns, as though that were his only means of summoning courage.


    "The catbs harbor a vein of silver! They seek to veil this truth and make illicit gains!"


    "Illicit gains?"


    Augustine stumbled over his words once again.


    "As for that, Ickprehensive knowledge, but we possess mining rights in the region around West Norwood. They, therefore, unjustly exploit the territory belonging to our South London Mining Office."


    "London houses no mines, how does one possess mining rights in the city?"


    "That I trulyck an in-depth understanding."


    I was inclined to believe him. He was indeed devoid of knowledge. And this fact induced an agonizing headache. He appeared to be merely parroting the words of those around him, perhaps his father or a simr figure.


    "For reasons known only to the City of London, they denied any investigation into the catbs. Thus, under my father''s direction, I have sought opportunities to infiltrate the catbs under the cloak of night. A pursuit that has upied an entire month."


    "And then?"


    "However Doctor, you must have witnessed it yourself. The heavy guard it retains. After a month of unsessful attempts to breach the catbs, my father has resolved to employ thest resort."


    He whispered, his voice trembling with fear.


    "My father has summoned the strongest miners from our office. His n God help us is to force an entry."


    It was at this juncture that his intentions became clear to me.


    "You''ve sought me out as you find yourself unable to restrain your father. The mystery was merely a pretense."


    "Yes That is indeed urate However, isn''t the tale peculiar? The closure of the cemetery cannot be justified solely on the discovery of a silver vein."


    He presented a valid point. If silver had indeed been discovered and mined, the problem of gas in the mine would exacerbate. Particrly in a confined space such as a catb, where even the dposing bodies emit methane gas, any form of work would be rendered unfeasible.


    Although Augustine had not extrapted to such extents, the case continued to intrigue me with its mysterious undertones.


    "Moreover."


    "Moreover?"


    "The tales of a foreign alchemist of strange ways, wandering about, send shivers down my spine."


    Augustine murmured, casting his gaze downwards with an expression of fear. His words left me so astounded that I inadvertently raised my voice.


    "The alchemist in these tales is you, my friend!"


    "Uh I had not considered that perspective."


    I found myself pinching the bridge of my nose. The protagonist of innumerable rumors was this hapless young man, who remained oblivious to the fact that he was the very subject of these tales.

 Chapter 19

    Chapter 19


    19. The Catbs


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


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


    Our driver''s diposure was evident. Despite theck of reverence shown to mortality in our city, London, there existed certain expectations of decorum. To ce a living soul adjacent to one void of life was a ring vition 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''sntern, subsequently erupting in mirth. Themplight revealed a grin of scant and weathered teeth.


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


    "Commendableprehension. Let us proceed."


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


    "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 esction of such behaviour into gang rivalry, but even in the present, their actions were of simr 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 timidd 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 ismendable. 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 emte 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 entricity is likely a survival mechanism in this foreignnd. 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 rmed 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. Nol,ckingprehension 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, Nol rapidly descended the carriage. With a dutiful air, he courteously assisted my own dismount.


    We ambled alongside the scarcely poptedne. 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 deste locale. A congregation of individuals, all of broad build and muscr physiques, huddled near the cemetery. Such muscture could only be attained through strenuousbour.


    "Father!"


    Nol approached them, his voice carrying across the distance.


    "Natl? What brings you here?"


    I shadowed Nol as he neared the group. While mingling with a cluster of robust men was not particrlyforting, 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 Nol as Natl'', 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 session, 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.


    "Natl, was it you who brought this gentleman?"


    "Yes."


    Nol''s voice faltered. I couldn''t help but observe the subtle power dynamics at y. A sessful father juxtaposed with a diffident son, a truly ssic 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 contemted, 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 catbs, the im to it is inherently mine."


    The tale was peculiar. I feltpelled 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 youprehend 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 im one cannot gain entry to the West Norwoodmunal cemetery catbs 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 Pce 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 pration is required to verify the existence of a vein. Following that, the city hall will find it impossible to remain passive."


    Nol''s awkward elucidation filled in the pieces that seemed iprehensible. 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 Nol for.


    "So, might I join your expedition underground?"


    "You wish to apany us, sir?"


    My unexpected request took both Reuben and Nol by surprise. Nol''s expression oscited 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 catbs. 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 contemte 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."


    Nol approached me, his countenance aggrieved. His gaunt cheeks under themplight 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 apany 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 simrity. Their thoughts remained obscure, and their bizarre countenance unsettled the miners who were unustomed 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 catbs for us.


    "As you are aware, the catbs 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 ndestine 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 catbs, 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 wasnguid, and Noel appeared unsettled by the unfolding circumstances.


    We ventured into the engulfing darkness.


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


    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 catbs'' end.


    And as we pressed on, the stench intensified. The unmistakable scent of methane gas, which could note from the cremated bones, emanated from a ce 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 umon 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 catbs.


    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 ce.


    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 catb''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 ustrophobia 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 catb 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 usible?"


    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 ur?"


    "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 maintainposure.


    "Or, perchance, this catb predates its function as a cemetery."


    At my suggestion, Ruben fell into contemtive 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 notnguish in indecision, Ruben resumed our descent. Upon reaching the timberden 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 apanying 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 nks 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 catbs. There must be a cavity within the crematorium intended for the disposal of bodies. The absence of umted corpses thus far suggests arger, deeper cavity resides elsewhere."


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


    "I must ry this to my father. We should never have embarked on this expedition. It''s not toote 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 catbs. 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 hismand, 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 elerating 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 prate thentern''s feeble light were the malevolent ck 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 tform.


    "Doctor!"


    I fended off one of the lunging hounds with my cloaked arm. The second houndtched 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 nk that had been supporting my weight screamed itsstment. Its final sound must have been a creak. The corridor gave way.


    And so, we were swallowed by the abyss.

 Chapter 20

    Chapter 20


    20. Buried Alive


    Could you ever imagine yourself as naught but a mere cut of beef, strung up in the grim abode of a butcher, lifeless and devoid of dignity?


    That was my unenviable fate in this direst of moments. My body, bereft of volition, was reduced to a pitiful rag doll, hoisted and hauled without a modicum of care. My legs served as the pitiless grip of my captor, my form scraping the cold hard ground with each drag, each pull.


    "Heck Heck."


    The creature in possession of my unfortunate limbs huffedboriously, a sound that did not belong to any man I knew. It was an uncanny creature indeed, that saw no humanity in me, just as I saw none in it. With great effort, I mustered enough strength to part my eyelids, a feeble attempt to observe my surroundings.


    I was met with utter darkness, a void that swallows all light, an infernal abyss into which I had been tossed. Deprived of strength, I could not afford the simple luxury of turning my head, of glimpsing the beast that toyed with me so. I could only register the swift shes of the ground that sped past my eyes.


    Rock, rubble, gravel and the gruesome remains of what once was a canary, its tiny head severed from its body.


    After some indeterminate period, my body was once again made weightless, then abruptly discarded into a pit. A rain of soil and filth fell upon me. Summoning all the will I had left, I shielded my face from the foul deluge, my arm serving as the only barrier between me and the onught of dirt and decay.


    Thus, I found myself buried alive, a living corpse interred in a premature grave.


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    .


    How much time had passed since my burial, I could not tell. The concept of time had forsaken this ce. When I finally emerged, my body was a ghastly sight  flesh scraped bare, nails torn asunder. My mind was in a simr disarray, my senses dulled by the deprivation of oxygen.


    "Haa Haa."


    Every breath was a painful intake of dust and decay. Upon regaining some semnce of my senses, I fumbled desperately for my cane. My fingers instead found a broken wooden stick, rendered useless by the impact of my fall. With a sense of resignation, I cast it aside.


    Who had been my captor? Why had I been buried? These unanswered questions fed my growing dread. I suspected the gravediggers at first, but the discovery of a half-eaten carcass that used to be a faithful hunting dog dashed that theory.


    As I staggered onward, leaning against the dank wall for support, a faint plea for help reached my ears.


    "Please assist"


    The voice was muffled, choked by the weight of soil, but I knew it to be Noel''s without a doubt.


    "Please. My leg Its injured I can assist you."


    Perhaps hearing mybored footfalls, he begged for salvation. With a newfound urgency, I set to work, hacking away at the hardened soil with a jagged rock.


    Huak Huak Huak! Ahhhh.


    Compose yourself! Regte your breathing first!


    What, what is all this madness? What cmity has befallen us? Phew, phew!


    Noel''s visage, already drained of color, took on a deathly pallor. He was teetering on the precipice of the unknown.


    Why are these abominations lurking in Londons underworld?


    "I wish I knew, Noel. I truly do."


    I couldn''t help but consider a terrifying possibility  a theory inspired by the macabre tales of Lovecraft. I entertained the notion of ghouls, cursed creatures that dwell in the earth, their forms akin to hounds. They were said to be of high intelligence, their diets disturbingly including the flesh of the deceased. But I held my tongue, choosing not to rm Noel with my conjectures.


    Arise. We may have stepped into a necropolis, but for the living to mimic the dead is futile.


    With a firm grip, I assisted Noel in regaining his footing. My words seemed to anchor him, and he reciprocated by helping me to stand. A grim thought had passed my mind  that he might forsake me and escape alone in our dire predicament, yet fortune was on my side as the timid youth showed no such intentions.


    I should never have ventured into this ce


    Noel muttered to himself, seemingly forgetting he was currently my main support.


    "But why, doctor, are you here?"


    I came in search of someone.


    A living soul? In this subterranean cemetery? The only vestiges of life here are us and those abominations!


    "I am aware."


    I responded, my voicecking any semnce of optimism.


    Reflecting upon the catbs, the uncremated bodies, the ghouls the pieces seemed to fall into a morbid puzzle. Shirley Marie, it appeared highly unlikely that her body remained intact.


    Our journey led us deeper into the foreboding darkness, reminiscent of explorers charting an overgrown jungle, hacking at tall grass and stubborn branches.


    Noel navigated the terrain cautiously, yet I bore no ill will for his slow pace. His ability to remain upright wasmendable in itself. Even in the gloom, I could discern the pallor of his lips, a worrying shade of blue.


    "What purpose could this vast cavern serve Could it be natural?"


    His desperate bid to distract his mind from the enveloping fear resulted in this question. It afforded me a moment to truly scrutinize our surroundings. Noel''s query, in fact, seemed quite insightful.


    "There are no stctites, and the terrain is remarkably even. Even if it was a natural formation, it appears to have been repurposed."


    "Then who would."


    Noel silenced himself abruptly. Our thoughts mirrored one another. We were indeed entombed by another.


    The path we traversed, barely qualifying as a cave, was unmistakably intentional in design. The uniform distance between the ceiling and the ground, the loess that coated the floor instead of rock, all hinted at a nned structure. As we pressed onward, I spotted an opening in the ceiling above.


    "Presumably, that''s where we descended from."


    Noel paled, confronted by the considerable distance we had plummeted from. I shared his sentiments. As a seasoned veteran, I had never faced such a fall with naught but my bare skin. A rough estimation suggested a height of no less than five meters.


    "Do you reckon we could ascend?"


    "Perhaps we should attempt."


    I grazed the wall with my hand. The surface was polished to a sheen, mimicking the smoothness of marble. A slimy residue clung to it, a substance that appeared to be of organic origin. The texture was reminiscent of the inner lining of a colon.


    "No, I retract my words. It would be ill-advised to waste our strength."


    Noel''s face hardened, a mask of despair. The cruel irony of our situation was not lost on us. The exit was tantalizingly close, yet we remained confined in this tomb.


    We were not the sole upants of this burial ground. Fragments of bodies littered the length of the tunnel. Whether they had met their demise through suffocation or consumption, none showed signs of life.


    Such gruesome scenes were not foreign to me, courtesy of past experiences, yet Noel was ill-prepared for such atrocities. He dug at the soil with a morbid fascination,pelled to unmask each body, despite knowing their ultimate fate.


    Among the emerging bodies, I recognized some. They were miners or gravediggers that had apanied us. The unidentifiable remains presumably shared the same fate. Yet, Ruben Augustine''s figure was nowhere to be found.


    "Father."


    His voice wavered with fear. My worry for his sanity grew, yet I could not suggest a rest. This nightmare would surely haunt him for the remainder of his days, even if he survived this predicament.


    However, we werepelled to continue our descent.


    Our path was nothing but a constant downward slope.


    An insidious thought gnawed at me  I must persist along this route. If the ghouls weren''t destined to a subterranean existence, there had to be a way to the surface. Yet logic seemed impotent against the pervading terror.


    An unsettling notion surfaced  could this path be truly infinite?


    Situated upon a route plunging into the bowels of the earth, I felt myself caught in a gentle, continuous descent.


    In fortunate turn, my spiralling delusion was abruptly rectified before reaching a threshold of insanity.


    A divergence appeared in the path that had hitherto seemed without end. It resembled the mouth of a semi-circr tunnel, so wide that two carriages could easily traverse abreast despite its subterranean existence, where no coach would dare journey.


    Additionally, the entrance, arch-shaped in design, spoke of masterful construction. I felt akin to an archaeologist uncovering the relics of ancient Rome. It was evident that the architects of this structure had an exquisite taste in both aesthetics and architecture.


    "Without a doubt, the missing individuals ventured this way! It must lead to the open air!"


    Noel proimed in a voice quivering with hope, his mind bordering on delirium.


    "Perhaps. But let us not entertain high hopes."


    For me, a sense of unease permeated the ce. Regardless of my attempts to dismiss it, the undergroundplex was undeniably crafted with a meticulous hand. One could only imagine the time and resources needed to erect such a grandiose structure.


    Never had I heard of such an endeavour in London, either during this lifetime or prior.


    With no other alternatives, we stepped into the tunnel. Beyond a short corridor, a room, somewhat smaller than the entrance,y ahead. Noel''s shoulders sagged in visible disappointment.


    "We''ve reached a dead end."


    His disillusionment was such that he failed to observe the small aperture in the ceiling, from which a faint illumination leaked, a dim radiance that filled the subterranean chamber.


    Upon noticing this, I gazed up towards the hole. The extensive corridor appeared to merge into the base of a building, and to my knowledge, the only usible structure near the cemetery was the West Norwood Cemetery''s crematorium.


    I suddenlyprehended the fate of the missing bodies. They were transported to the crematorium, yet rather than reducing them to ashes, they were cast down into this abyss. A horrifying suspicion took hold  could they be trading bodies with the ghouls for silver?


    A chill coursed through me at this appalling realization.


    The gravediggers were all desecrators of the departed. Their shared guilt formed a grotesque fraternity. Then, the emptiness of this room signified.


    "There''s nothing of consequence here, let us hasten."


    Upon my insistence, Noel cast aside his lingering musings and resumed walking.


    I resolved to keep Noel oblivious to my newfound insight. The ordeal was already overwhelming him. Should he unearth the entirety of the truth, he would certainly sumb to madness.


    However, my resolution was in vain.


    Beyond the initial tunnel, further passages materialized. With each tunnel, we discovered an abundance of skeletal remains. The chambers served as crypts. This undergroundbyrinth was a vast necropolis,prised of smaller catbs.


    A curious notion indeed. The catbs concealed beneath the tombs, were the subterranean crypts of West Norwood Cemetery mere replicas of those in Paris?


    Though not an authority on the matter, I could discern the antiquity of this site. It possibly predated the founding of London itself. Even the ckened skulls on disy were ancient to the point of disintegrating upon touch.


    A recollection surfaced. The Parisian catbs also preexisted the arrival of the Frankish people in Paris. They simply repurposed a vast underground structure, the original function of which remains unknown.


    The French catbs, the London catbs it was apparent that these two colossal subterranean edifices were somehow linked.


    Despite his best efforts to deny it, Noel was forced to ept the artificial origins of this structure. In a voice trembling with apprehension, he inquired.


    "Where does the tunnel end Who constructed it? Who in their right mind would erect such a building underground?"


    At this juncture, I could no longer withhold what I knew. I confessed the truth.


    "Ghouls."


    At this stage, the existence of ghouls wasn''t an extravagant hallucination. It was better for him to know now than to unexpectedly encounter a ghoul in ignorance. The unknown is what truly incites madness.


    "Ghouls?"


    Noel retorted incredulously.


    "Do you refer to grave robbers?"


    And he endeavoured to interpret the circumstances in terms he could fathom. Indeed, ghouls'' was a term colloquially applied to grave robbers. I shook my head.


    "No, I mean it in the literal sense. They are ghouls."


    "Pray tell, what is a ghoul!"


    Noel released a scream unbeknownst to himself, his visage reflecting surprise at his own outburst.


    "A ghoul a creature of another kind, bearing a canine''s head and a human form. Their intellect rivals that of mankind perhaps a subterranean species that retains vitality despite attaining this degree of civilization."


    I struggled toprehend my own utterances. I had never articted the notions from Lovecraft''s literature that dwelled solely within the chambers of my memory. I was a mad prophet.


    "Ghouls genuine ghouls, damnation."


    With an expletive, Noel continued his journey, his face a vacant mask. He strained to process the revtion.


    "So a race that isn''t human."


    "Indeed. Precisely so."


    "But, why beneath a cemetery."


    It was then that I realised a crucial detail had been left unsaid.


    "They they consume flesh. Cadavers included within their vast culinary repertoire."


    Upon hearing this final disclosure, Noel bore the look of a man on the verge of tears. It did not take long for him to draw a corrtion between the harrowing sights he had borne witness to in this subterranean realm and the disconcerting rumours surrounding West Norwood Cemetery. Subsequently, Noel retched, the vomit sttering on the floor, some flecks adhering to my trousers.


    "I apologise I beg your pardon."


    "Think nothing of it. For now, let us concentrate on finding a way out."


    Post the revtion of the ghouls, Noel bore the demeanour of one resigned to his fate.


    "Is there a means of escape?"


    "Ghouls they aren''t confined to subterranean existence. How could they procure sustenance in such an environment to begin with?"


    "But the the bodies."


    "The bodies began disappearing only a month past. Do you believe this structure could have been erected in a mere month?"


    I waspelled to confess a fact I was reluctant to disclose.


    "They''ve been ascending to London for an extended period. Otherwise, it''s inexplicable there must exist a route."


    Even if we seeded in safely escaping this ce, as long as we resided in London, they would always be lurking beneath us. Noel and I journeyed in silence, enveloped by the gloomy ambience.


    Our destination was yet another tunnel, at this point, we had ceased to tally their numbers.


    The interior bore no major differences to the previous ones.


    A chamber of modest proportions, featuring several tiers of shelves adorned with ckened skulls. The structure appeared even older than the tunnel we had just traversed. Identical to the ones before.


    The sole divergence was the grotesque entity in the center, which appeared to be a gravedigger, its face buried in a cadaver, feasting upon it.


    The sight of an actual ghoul, a creature we only knew by appetion, left us taken aback.


    I was the first to regainposure. I was ustomed to corpses, blood, and such cannibalistic sights. Swiftly recovering my equanimity, I made a rational decision. From the onset, there was no reason why I couldn''t y it.


    A ghoul was merely a creature, and despite the manner of its portrayal in literature, it appeared frail and diminutive to me. I quietly approached the pale-skinned entity.


    Noel, immobilized by dread, refused to budge, and I didn''t anticipate his assistance. I pushed Noel aside, and with that momentum, I lunged at the creature engrossed in its macabre feast. The creature''s frail skull shattered, and the ghoul convulsed.


    "Haa haa."


    "Is it dead?"


    "Yes."


    Noel slowly approached me. While I was still prostrated on the floor, I rolled over the body of the ghoul with its face buried in the cadaver.


    And and


    It wasn''t a ghoul.


    It was human.


    Undeniably diminutive and pallid, but indisputably human!


    (TO BE CONTINUED on Jun 2{FRI})

 Chapter 21

    Chapter 21


    21. Layers of Humanity


    As we beheld the shattered skull of the diminutive being before us, disbelief imed us both.


    "Diddid you kill him?" Noel queried, his voiceden with fear. It intrigued me, the chasm of perception between us. It was not his existence as a ghoul that startled me, but rather, the grotesque distortions that led him to resemble a human in such a twisted manner.


    Conversely, I found a twistedfort in the fact that the creature was lifeless. In this moment, I could not discern which of us was on the path of rational judgement. But one thing was clear, one of us was deviating from the bounds of humanity.


    "Perhaps. If this is indeed a person."


    "But it''s not a ghoul."


    "Yes."


    I had neverid eyes upon a ghoul, but from what I knew of such creatures, this being did not fit the mold. The main feature of a ghoul, we were often told, was a dog-like heada grotesque beastly cranium, consuming a human head whole.


    And yet, despite his monstrous disfigurements, he was nothing more than a human to my eyes. I examined the creature more closely, turning its form to see every angle.


    In the dimness, I noted the creature''s skin, white as marble or quartzso pale I could see veins and organ shapes beneath. It was clear he had never experienced sunlight; such exposure would surely burn his delicate skin.


    He wore no clothing, his skin too sensitive even for the softest silk. His body was thin, skeletal even, with bone outlines visible through scant muscle. His waist was bent, not unlike a quadruped, and his arms bore odd, O-shaped joints.


    Upon prying open his eyelids, his eyes were disyed in all their peculiarity. His irises were fully rxed, pupils consuming nearly the entire eye. I questioned whether he could perceive anything with such eyes. And despite his bizarre form that made racial distinction meaningless, he didn''t strike me as a native Briton.


    To put it simply, he was not of traditional Anglo-Saxon descent. I find it appropriate tobel him a foreigner.


    Time seemed to stretch as I examined the creature, as though seeking concrete evidence to prove he was devoid of humanity. Yet the deeper I delved, the more I waspelled to reaffirm his link to our own species.


    "There''s nothing more to gain from looking."


    My voice brought Noel back from his stupor. He aided me in standing, his expression vacant. He was clearly still grappling with the notion that we may have killed a man.


    To me, this was afort. Had he probed deeper, I may have been forced to reveal the true depths of my despair. Indeed, I had been nursing a growing dread ever since we had encountered this pale individual.


    Could such a creature exist unless there was aplete severance between the surface and the underground?


    If this was indeed a branch of humanity, it seemed improbable that such a transformation could have urred in one or two generations. The inhabitants of the London underground must have evolved independently over dozens, perhaps hundreds of generations. This brought into question the existence of an exit leading back to the surface.


    "Why do you wear such a look?"


    "Noit''s nothing. Let''s press on."


    Numerous times, I contemted advising Noel to turn back, yet I remained silent. We could note this far only to return empty-handed. Whether I found hope or despair, I needed a concrete discovery. The same was true for Noel. We needed to examine the corpse.


    Tunnel after tunnel unfolded before us. We no longer felt the need to inspect their depths. We knew they were catbs. We marched forward, driven by inertia alone. Downward was the only direction here; our descent was unstoppable.


    Although we had deemed them all tunnels, their shapes varied wildly.


    I was unaware of the myriad methods for constructing such simple things as tunnels. We observed Roman-style arched tunnels from the beginning, rectangr shortcuts, and circr tunnels reminiscent of sewers. The deeper we went, the less human-like their construction became.


    The frequency of tunnels lessened, revealing wider gaps in time. As this urred, the changes in architectural style became more pronounced. Techniques grew cruder, artistry fell away, leaving behind a primitive aesthetic. Each shift incited a rise of fear within me.


    What had begun as a testament to human ambition seemed to morph into something far more sphemous the deeper we ventured. If these catbs filled with skulls, this lengthy series of tunnels, constituted ayer of history, then our forebears had paid homage to some malevolent entity. This was its trace.


    The tunnels themselves grew increasingly alien, no longer appearing to be constructed for human passage. They were bing more suitable forrger rodents than men.


    "We must go around."


    Noel''s whisper hung in the air.


    "What do you mean?"


    "We''ve been circumnavigating for quite some time now. This path, it forms a circle. A very vast circle."


    Gazing upon the path we had trodden, I began to discern the subtle rightward lean of the road. A detail so minute, one could easily overlook it, yet if such a path continues, it is fated to form a circle. And given its scale, it seemed to encapste far more than West Norwood Cemetery or merely South London.


    "We''re circling all of London."


    I groaned, the realisation hitting me with the force of a scream. The tunnels weren''t under London by chance. They were meticulously crafted, a path designed with precision down to thest incha corridor where the floor was mixed with waste and soil, easing their lotion.


    Regardless of the tunnels'' original purpose, the architect had not shrouded any malevolence towards all of London. It became clear that this subspecies of human, which branched off millennia ago, bore no neighbourly love.


    We traversed an invisible threshold, entering an underworld wholly separated from the surface.


    The unique chill of the underground dissipated, supnted by an unfamiliar warmth emanating from the ground. Though I knew the still depths of the earth could bear heat, this sensation was more akin to the thermal pulse of a living being.


    The heat one feels atop a galloping horse.


    "Look, doctor."


    Noel gestured forward. Though we hadn''t yet reached the''s core, the path had sprouted a massive fork.


    Vast was no overstatement. Unlike the tunnel entrances existing solely on the circle''s outer rim, the opening finally appearing within its interior spanned tens of metres in height, even from a distance.


    A considerable walk was required to approach this chasm.


    "God above."


    The spectacle beyond was an immense subterranean city.


    Every facet of this sight defied logic. Who could predict another civilization flourishing beneath London? They had erected a city without our knowledge, boring tunnels towards the surface.


    But that vision was fleeting.


    The city, cloaked in darkness, grew hauntingly familiar the longer we observed. The architectural style, all elements, were an identifiable legacy to us. The Colosseum, the Basilica, barrel-vaulted arched bridges, and dry aqueducts


    Realisation dawned.


    "It''s Rome, this was Rome."


    Two millennia past, Rome, which held dominion over Ennd, crumbled. They fell victim to the Anglo-Saxon tribe''s invasion, the tribe that once governed Ennd, and subsequently vanished. Londinium, the radiant city they once named, was presumed lost due to the savagery of barbarians.


    But Londinium is here!


    The remnants of the civilisation that once governed the British Islesy perfectly preserved within this subterranean vault. Yet despite such an extraordinary archaeological revtion, joy eluded me.


    "It was a Roman."


    "What, what do you mean?"


    This was no archaeological site. People were still dwelling here.


    "The imitation ghoul we encountered earlier was Roman. They didn''t vanish, they''ve been inhabiting this underworld for a thousand years!"


    A revtion akin to a nightmare struck me with the force of lightning.


    This vast city, capable of amodating hundreds of thousands, was buried, and its inhabitants entombed alive. Completely severed from the surface, they experienced grotesque deformities after generations of inbreeding.


    We treaded towards the city.


    Londinium bore no resemnce to a city inhabited by humans. The streets were coated in dried excrement, and the aqueducts flowed with rancid water, akin to the putrid blood oozing from a dposing corpse. The once blessed city, which harnessed river water and groundwater, had be a breeding ground for filth.


    Noel attempted to retch, but having already expelled all his contents, he could only manage a weak heave of stomach acid.


    "Don''t touch anything."


    "Yes Yes You don''t have to tell me."


    Noel, surveying the squalid street, responded feebly.


    We could notprehend the number of lethal germs this putrid environment had cultivated over thousands of years. Icked the conviction to exin this on the spot, and instead, issued him a stern warning.


    Once Londinium was engulfed by the underworld, dread must havemandeered the streets. Wisdom diminished, leaving only hunger and torment to steer the course of a grievous decline over centuries. Most of the structures were shattered from the outside, suggesting that thievery and ughter weremonce.


    The cityy shrouded in eerie silence. How many could have endured? It was conceivable that the creature we had in was thest remnant.


    "Do you suppose they endeavoured to flee?"


    Noel questioned, his gaze drifting back towards the tunnel.


    "Over the span of one and a half millennia, they would have sought a route back to the surface. And, and when they finally reached the world above they yearned for, they must have discovered that they were no longerpatible with life on the surface."


    My spection was imbued with palpable anxiety.


    "And, they encountered the gravekeepers and, with their amassed silver procured sustenance."


    Noel murmured in a troubled voice, seemingly caught between empathy for their pitiful history and repulsion towards their abhorrent dietary habits.


    But I knew better. Such urrences were seldom.


    Examining the evidence, the descent of Londinium must have been swift. The majority of the popce was likely entombed alive in this subterranean expanse stretching for kilometres, with no opportunity for escape.


    Why then, would the tunnel construction grow more primitive the deeper they went, if they were indeed striving for the surface? The final tunnel, which should have been in its prime state, was erected when the city still operated as Rome.


    There was yet another enigma concealed here.


    We concurred that to ascend to the surface, we must retrace our steps. However, neither of us was eager to propose a retreat. Noel was still seeking his father, and I clung to a slender thread of hope.


    Possibly, I might be harbouring the hope of not discovering Shirley Marie''s body. Maybe I was even yearning to find her horrifically mutted.


    Regardless, we had to proceed.


    Blood was seeping from the buildings.


    The still-fluid lifeblood coursed into the drains, through the pipes, and onto the streets. Lured by the morbid scent, like flies to decay, we followed it. The basilica. Once a sanctuary where worship alternated between Latin gods and Jesus Christ.


    Now it housed a novel malevolent deity.


    Upon crossing the basilica''s threshold, we finallyprehended the fate of the missing gravekeepers and miners. The primitive religion they served was likely founded on human sacrifice.


    "Father!"


    I discerned the body of Ruben Augustine, disyed as a gruesome trophy in their hands. I couldn''t determine if they had dispatched him in such a manner, or if they had performed these atrocities post mortem. Either way, I now understood why all the skeletons bore a darkened hue.


    The Romans, startled by Noel''s outburst, turned their heads. They resembled terrified beasts. Noel, driven to the edge, shoved me aside and, seizing a fragment of rubble, lunged at them in frenzied fury.


    Peog! Peog! Peog! Peog!


    "Ah! Ah!"


    The Romans, subject to the brutal assault, issued cries akin to pleas for mercy. I couldn''t decipher if these bestial sounds originated from them or Noel.


    I raked through the ground. The amassed bodies weren''t only gravekeepers and miners. There were older corpses here. So, so.


    "Ah!"


    Whilst digging through the mound of bodies, I found myself clutching a woman''s head.


    "Oh! Oh God! What the hell am I doing!"


    In that instant, the earth itself trembled. The flooring sundered apart, and innumerable bodies vanished into the immeasurable obscurity.


    "No!"


    I seized Noel, teetering on the brink of descending alongside the body of Ruben. He merely stared, his gaze vacant at the unfolding ruin. Swiftly, I clutched at his shoulder, pulling him upright.


    "Rise, we must escape!"


    I resented my legs for not moving quickly enough. The seismic disturbance remained unabated. The city, once proud and erect, was crumbling at a pace that belied the unstable foundation upon which it had stood.


    Noel, in a daze, trudged on, leaning on my steadying form. A wave of heat surged from the chasm beneath the decimated floor, a breath reminiscent of living me.


    The city was disintegrating. Millennia of human advancement tumbling into the abyss. I observed as the very floor of the city submerged, buildings vanishing into the depths. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished. London fell and perished.


    Noel persisted in his march, as if ceasing would render him lifeless. I nced back. The Romans were digging the ground. Our spection had been entirely misguided.


    They did not tunnel upwards, but rather buried their own city beneath the surface. Theybored incessantly for thousands of years, only to perish as a result.


    We were thrust back through time.


    Having passed countless tunnel entrances, we reached our initial point of descent. It dawned upon me that the buried bodies had all vanished, swallowed by the recent seismic catastrophe.


    I couldn''t discern whether it was mere happenstance.


    <strong>Ggang. Ggang.</strong>


    "Is there someone there?"


    A man''s voice echoed from above. It was gruff, carrying the timbre of aborer.


    <strong>Ggang. Ggang.</strong>


    "Help me! I have fallen!"


    "I''ll fetch someone!"


    "No, no! Adder, lower adder! There should be one nearby!"


    I pleaded, cradling Marie''s head. Once we surfaced, Noel silently crumpled, gazing emptily into the void. I attempted to rouse him, to no avail.


    <strong>Ggang. Ggang.</strong>


    Eventually, the man returned.


    <strong>Ggang. Ggang</strong>.


    "Found adder at the crematory!"


    In silence, Noel ascended thedder. My strength sufficed to scale thedder without assistance, thus I followed once he had reached the surface.


    <strong>Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang. Ggang.</strong>


    They were nearing!


    "Pull up thedder!"


    "What?"


    "Pull it up! With haste!"


    Having scrambled onto the surface, as if flung out, I hastily yanked up thedder. The echo of digging that had reverberated in my ears abruptly ceased.


    "Heugh Heugh."


    "Why, why have you done this?"


    I gazed into the basement. There was nought to be seen.


    "No nothing absolutely nothing."


    "Earlier, yourpanion left without a word."


    Upon reflection, I realized Noel was nowhere to be seen. He had entirely absented himself from the graveyard. Whether we would meet again was uncertain.


    "You are?"


    "I''m a coachman. Arrived with a corpse, found no one about, so ventured in."


    "I see that''s good. Could you offer me a ride?"


    "No, I only ferry the deceased."


    I showed him Marie''s head.


    "Perfect! That''s exactly what I require! A corpse! I''llpensate you handsomely! Onwards!"


    Fear flickered in the coachman''s eyes. I shuddered to think what my expression must have been.


    <strong>Too-duk. Too-duk.</strong>


    Raindrops pattered onto the hearse''s roof. The coachman repeatedly cast anxious nces my way from his perch on the driver''s seat. But I paid it no mind. This was nothingpared to whaty ahead.


    In the distance, the notorious mansion of Arthur Frank loomed.


    Lightning illuminated the tempestuous skies as if to condemn our sacrilegious deeds. It struck the mansion''s lightning rod, a symbol of how divine wrath no longer touches mankind.


    Humans turn to the devil for what God denies.


    All preparations wereplete.


    Resurrection.


    "Forgive me."


    The thought of a madman. And I, the most deranged of all, knew it could be made reality.


    (TO BE CONTINUED)

 Chapter 22

    Chapter 22


    22. Steam Engine Apocalypse


    Thud! Thud! Thud!


    Summoning what courage remained within my shaken form, my grip upon the door fastening grew rigid and insistent. The indomitable torrent from the heavens drenched my protective coverings to the core. With each resurgence of the downpour, droplets sought shelter within the sanctity of my pupils.


    "Art! Art!"


    In desperation, my hands struck heavily against the obstinate door handle.


    Thud! Thud! Thud!


    After a breath-holding pause, the muted rattling of an unfastening lock permeated my consciousness, followed by the reluctant yielding of the door. Materialising from beyond the portal, the figure I beheld was Arthur''s enigmatic twin, a nameless phantom. Ever since the unwrapping of Arthur''s ndestine secret, my every encounter with this man instilled a disquiet that never failed to churn my insides.


    "Sir. Philemon Herbert, I have been expecting your arrival."


    His visage held its familiar inscrutability. Time had etched deep grooves into his skin, drawing it downwards in a relentless gravitational pull that made a true gaze exchange an arduous task. His acknowledgement of my presence wasmunicated through a solemn nod, his eyes resting briefly upon the decapitated head of Marie cradled in my embrace.


    "Your arrival, apanied by a guest, was not forewarned."


    "Do you perceive this this horror, as a person?"


    My question wasced with incredulity and simmering rage.


    "Indeed. The facialndmarks appear to be appropriately situated."


    "My desire is to address Arthur directly."


    "Such a course of action would be unfeasible."


    Asserting my entry, I endeavoured to manoeuvre past his stubbornly firm blockade. Yet, his sturdy form stood unyielding against my efforts. As we skirmished at the doorway, the familiar resonance of approaching footfalls drifted towards us.


    "Philo? Can it be Philo?"


    Arthur''s voice perforated the discord. I responded, my voice straining to pierce the cacophony.


    "Thank goodness! Art, I beseech you, enlighten your brother."


    Upon his arrival at the scene, Arthur''s gaze ricocheted between the butler and myself, his underling struggling to mask his unease.


    "This gentleman, sir, arrived with an unexpected addition"


    "Ah, I see. No matter, doe in."


    "If you insist, sir."


    At Arthur''smand, the man obediently relinquished his hold on the door, and with an air of havingpleted his duty, absented himself from the unfolding tableau. The events unwinding felt as if trapped within a fantastical dream. Arthur, feigning a casual familiarity, ced a hand upon my shoulder.


    "My apologies for the omission, but my brother possesses a peculiar deficiency in distinguishing individuals. Indeed, his acquaintances may be counted on one hand. But, tell me, where is that quaint cane you habitually carry?"


    In my hand was a robust branch, its origin a solemn gravesite. An exhtion of deep fatigue escaped me.


    "An extensive narrative, very good. Shall we stroll and converse? It has been two days since you vanished, embarking on the quest for this woman, Marie. I trust your tale is riveting."


    Arthur''s voice wasced with anticipation. Finally, I found an opportunity to scrutinise him. d in casual attire, an irregr sight for such a man, his appearance suggested he had been awaiting my return with impatience.


    His eyes focused on the severed head in my arms.


    "This is rather less than I envisaged."


    I was startled. His firstment about the severed head was about its appearance. My debut experience with a decapitated head left me unprepared for a standard response, yet I was certain his reaction was decidedly abnormal.


    "Could you not have sought a more suitable woman? This, it doesn''t suit you."


    "Preposterous! What gibberish do you spew!"


    My outburst was met with surprise from Arthur, his eyes widening momentarily before settling into a disappointed expression.


    "Ah, I sense a misunderstanding?"


    "Were you not my friend, I''d have cast my glove at you, pledging both my honor and hers. Have you also fallen prey to the ludicrous rumours spun by the press?"


    "Well I believed it would infuse our tale with drama."


    Arthur feigned ignorance, his voice adopting a yful tone,


    "Resurrection, that''s the heart of it all, isn''t it? Our hero returning from the underworld, his deceasedpanion in tow."


    Resurrection.


    The utterance of the word silenced me. The weight of it lingered in the air between us. Neither of us found it within ourselves to refute the absurdity. It appeared to herald an impending, unspeakable miracle within the confines of this manor.


    "And so can resurrection be achieved with this alone? The head, as you demanded, has been brought."


    "I cannot im certainty, for I am no expert. This is precisely why schrly society exist."


    Arthur inclined the candlestick, revealing an entrance to the basement. From its depths, a gust of searing steam erupted.


    Our descent down the staircasemenced, each step echoing with a measured patience. Exertion, far beyond the usual norm, had etched its mark on me, prompting hushed curses to spill forth as we navigated each tread. Arthur, in stark contrast, appeared unperturbed, his stride confident, not once betraying a desire to look back, as hemenced his narration.


    "Upon my initial discovery of this subterranean chamber, it was littered with countless printouts strewn alongside the oracle. The legacy of my forebearer''s relentlessputations, as evident in the magnitude of these printouts, overwhelmed the space, unabated even when paper supplies were exhausted."


    The oracle, a remnant of the past etched into my memory  a monstrous machine that had burrowed its way into the foundation of the dwelling. A metallic behemoth, driven by a steam engine of such potency that it could empower a lotive, yet ity dormant.


    "And yet, its task remains iplete. In the absence of additional equations, the oracle dedicates its entireputational capacity to this solitary calction."


    The soleputational device of the 19th century. Intrigue piqued at the prospect of the equation that this antiquated beast had grappled with, stretching across decades and marking each passing year with relentlessputation.


    "It''s noteworthy, you see, that the oracle has the capacity to churn out hundreds of symbols, apart from the traditional alphabet and Arabic numerals. My diligent investigations revealed these characters to be unique, unseen in any recorded civilization. From Egyptian hieroglyphs to the Devanagari script of India, even the Chinese characters of the East held no simrity. I believe my ancestor employed a cipher, thereby rendering it unrecognisable."


    Arthur, ever the eloquent, had a knack for stirring curiosity and promptly veering the discourse off tangent. Pursuit of rity would only yield a nonchnt response, withholding the crux of the matter.


    "The output remained consistent. I sought the expertise of linguists from across Europe, hosting them for a month. Despite their tireless attempts at deciphering the code, they one by one, confronted me with usations of a cruel jest and promptly took their leave. It was a monumental disappointment. Ultimately, the enigma tranted to mere names. This conundrum sparked the conception of the Frank Academic Conference."


    Arthur recounted this episode of disappointment with an oddly lively cadence. Particrly when pronouncing Frank Academic Conference'', each syble was enunciated with meticulous precision, as if he took pride in his own endeavour.


    "Devoid of any means of decryption, I resigned to a single identifiable fact  the output, though lengthy, repeated itself. Minor variations existed, but the broader structure remained consistent. At the very heart of this output was a singr character, one even my limited understanding could recognise."


    A pause ensued, amplifying the brewing suspense. Then, he whispered as if unveiling a monumental secret.


    "It''s a number. Denoted in Roman numerals, it was I."


    And so, the tale ended. Arthur had fallen silent, evidently having exhausted his narration. I could envisage the reaction he sought.


    "Surely, that isn''t the end of it."


    "And, this number remained constant, from the day I first descended to this basement up until a few months ago."


    Arthur resumed his narration as soon as I had voiced my curiosity.


    "I''ve disassembled the Oracle."


    "You disassembled it!"


    This revtion, indeed, shocked me. While I was aware of Arthur''s daring spirit, the audacity of such an act astounded me.


    "Yes, that was the only means to decipher the output symbols. s, that''s all I could discern."


    Arthur voiced his disappointment yet again, yet it hardly surprised me. After all, he was tinkering with technology far advanced for our era, and Arthur was by no means a technician.


    "Nheless, it was a significant breakthrough. Philo, are you acquainted with the structure of Roman numerals?"


    "Something tells me you wouldn''t ask if you didn''t already know."


    "Indeed, Roman numerals arebinatory. I, V, X. A mere trio of characters, yet sufficient to denote values up to 39. Each numeral needn''t be symbolized individually. However, the Oracle has taken it upon itself to symbolize each character separately."


    He produced a sheet of paper, seemingly from thin air, and offered it to me.


    "I can''t see it."


    "What? Look properly!"


    Arthur''s exmation was punctuated with disappointment. And understandably so. He must have clung to this piece of paper the preceding day, in anticipation of our discourse. Yet, I remained unable to decipher it, owing solely to the inadequate lighting in the basement stairwell.


    I found myself obliged to adorn the spectacles dangling from a chain around my neck, squinting against the dim light to make out the details on the paper.


    "Roman numerals."


    "I''ve catalogued all the Roman numerals the Oracle is capable of producing."


    "Are those beyond 12 omitted?"


    Arthur swiveled his head towards me, a sinister grin adorning his face.


    "Philo, you''ve got it backwards. Have you already forgotten what I''d imparted? Merely three Roman characters could represent numerals up to 39. Hence, the peculiarity lies in theption only going up to 12!"


    His argument held merit. If the sole intention was numerical representation, there was no necessity for such a convoluted method. Moreover, using Roman numerals for such a purpose was in itself meaningless. Arabic numerals could conveniently represent even vast numbers with a mere ten characters.


    "My theory is thus. The Oracle was initially designed with this specific calction in mind."


    Arthur punctuated his assertion with an uplifted finger. At that moment, enlightenment dawned upon me, prompting an exmation.


    "Indeed, it''s not that it could only represent numerals up to 12, but that it only needed to represent up to 12."


    "Yes, that was my second theory. The Roman numerals are merely symbols, inserted solely for that output."


    Arthur grumbled, seemingly dissatisfied at having his words preempted, folding his outstretched finger.


    "Regardless, ever since I first ventured into the basement, the numeral had been a constant I. And just a while ago, it transitioned to II. Can you guess when this urred?"


    I was certain this was the crux of his narrative. After navigating multiple tangents, he seemed prepared to divulge his main point.


    "The day Jacob''s Ind sank into the Thames. Do youprehend the implications, Philo? The equation is not static. It reacts instantly to events urring in London."


    We had now reached the terminus of our descent.


    Arthur ascended the Pressure-sensitive horizontal operating device  or in my pance, the automatic door. Finally, the gateway to the basement swung open, prompting a fit of coughing as I inhaled the damp steam billowing from the doorway.


    "So why bring this up now?"


    "Two reasons."


    Arthur raised his fingers once more.


    "Firstly, ourst encounter was cut short by your abrupt departure, leaving behind your belt in your haste."


    His retort wasced with a mocking sneer, aeback for my earlier interruption. I had no choice but to calmly acknowledge his irritation.


    "The second pertains to the gravity of our imminent task."


    It dawned upon me!


    Arthur was sounding a warning. All the fuss about the Oracle and the numerals was but a prelude to this solitary caution. However, he had cunningly withheld a crucial detail, conveniently ming my premature interruption.


    It appeared he was deeply disturbed by the Oracle''s numeral increment, leading me to suspect some ominous portent.


    "Every mortal who dares tread into the realm of life and death, the exclusive domain of the divine, is met with a savage conclusion. As were Orpheus and Eurydice, Asclepius and Hippolytus."


    Arthur continued with his characteristic verbosity. Stealing a nce at his countenance, I found it difficult to decipher his emotions  was it fear or exhration?


    "Asclepius was smote by Zeus''s thunderbolt. Yet, beneath the lightning rod, we have surpassed divine retribution. I wonder how God shall mete out our punishment."


    Once again, I was reminded of his ambivalent nature.


    Cthulhu Mythos.


    He is half-human and half-god.


    "Philemon, do you recall our previous conversation?"


    Arthur was the most fervent insurgent amongst the gods.


    "I did not consent to resurrect Shirley Marie, that inconsequential woman, purely out of regard for you. Today, we tread into the divine domain. We ascend to true godhood."


    Again, I perceived a different entity within him. Legs. Several pairs of arthropod-like limbs flickered in and out of existence.


    "I may have mentioned this before, but I''m conducting a specific research. It''s"


    Thud.


    A dull sound resonated from above the ceiling. The ndestine stairway to the basement had been opened. The rhythm of a substantial object tumbling down the stone steps reverberated in the chamber.


    "Let''s postpone our conversation. It appears our principal guest has arrived."


    Arthur murmured. I inquired, my voice betraying my bewilderment.


    "Is it Herbert West?"


    Arthur squinted in confusion at my question.


    "I''m not sure who you''re mistaking him for, but his name is Frankenstein. Dr. Victor Frankenstein!"


    (TO BE CONTINUED)

 Chapter 23

    Chapter 23


    23. The Visage of Dr. Frankenstein


    Effort would be futile in endeavouring to recount the dread which washed over me upon first acquaintance with Dr. Frankenstein.


    Permit me tomence with his distinct and peculiar disposition.


    Indeed, never had I encountered a man so gaunt as Frankenstein. His fervor was a phantom''s glimmering betwixt his sunken cheeks, his sharp cheekbones eerily reflecting the stark angles of his eyes. His appearance bore such fragility that one could anticipate his copsing there and then, yet his gaze bore an icy intelligence, a terrifying rationale.


    His eyes! Indeed, I have always postted that the nature of a man could be gleaned by scrutinising his eyes. Thus, it was clear that there were no limits to what Dr. Frankenstein might aplish. His dark, bottomless eyes held within them a dread which refused to dissipate. His gaze danced, like the pendulum of an old clock, seeming perpetually hounded by an invisible pursuer.


    He held a cane which, despite a brief glimpse, was clearlyden with solid intricacies. The end of the cane bore scars from having been dragged relentlessly, yet oddly, it was not muddied despite the day''s inclement weather.


    "Why, Dr. Frankenstein!"


    Even though Arthur had foreknowledge of his arrival, his surprise seemed genuine. As he approached Dr. Frankenstein, he appeared suddenly abashed at his own casual attire.


    "Pray forgive my rudimentary attire. The anticipation of this moment has left me a touch unprepared."


    Frankenstein merely acknowledged him with a subtle nod. Indeed, Arthur was not truly seeking permission, thus a response was not essential.


    "Philemon, allow me to present our esteemed colleague, the master chemist, Dr. Victor Frankenstein. He hails from the German Empire."


    "Actually, it is Geneva."


    Arthur gazed quizzically at Frankenstein.


    "I took my degree from the University of Ingolstadt in Bavaria"


    "What consequence does one''s ce of birth bear in this era of scientific enlightenment? Ever since the inception of the lotive, the world has be a much smaller ce."


    I elected to not correct Arthur''s error. Highlighting what he might perceive as a slight to his ego would be folly, particrly considering his evident pride.


    "Dr. Victor Frankenstein is the cornerstone of our current endeavour. Indeed, without his invaluable insights, I wouldn''t dare suggest that we possess the capacity to resurrect her."


    "The honour is mine. I had desired further assistance"


    "s, our fellow members are beyond our reach."


    As I mentioned earlier, I was still in a state of disbelief over the enigma that was Frankenstein.


    His voice carried an unexpected sweetness. While I would not dare to define one''s nature by voice alone, I could sense a fragile spirit within him. This, considering he was Dr. Frankenstein! Being cognizant of his notorious reputation, my astonishment was amplified.


    Yet, taking into ount the case of Dr. Jekyll, I resolved to approach with caution. Dr. Jekyll was a stark contrast from the man I had anticipated. His supposed alter ego, Hyde, had neither split nor descended into madness.


    It would be no surprise if Dr. Frankenstein were simrlyplex.


    "And this is my esteemedpanion, Philemon Herbert. A renowned figure in Ennd, surely you''ve heard of him?"


    "Indeed, I have followed his aplishments closely."


    Frankenstein''s gaze fell upon me for the first time since we descended into the underground chamber.


    This was when I encountered the third wave of shock. It was as though he viewed me less as a man and more as an experiment. When he extended his hand in greeting, for a fleeting moment, I feared he sought to peel the very skin from my face.


    His antagonism towards others was transparent. I marvelled at Arthur''s audacity in feigning familiarity with him. Even while extending my own hand in greeting, I maintained a prudent distance.


    "I feared we would not meet. I am Victor Frankenstein."


    "Philemon Herbert, a professor at Oldcourt."


    In truth, my faith in retaining this position was waning. However, given the circumstances, I thought it fitting to introduce myself as such, albeit hesitantly.


    "I trust that the two of you will forge a strong camaraderie. We have a great deal to aplish together."


    Arthur wedged himself between us, embodying camaraderie. As it had been prior to this encounter, it was evident that Arthur intended for me to join the academic society. He dismissed the possibility that I might decline his invitation.


    Though I cannot deny a certain curiosity about his proposition, it seemed neither the time nor ce to discuss such matters. Frankenstein appeared simrly disinterested in the topic, striding past me with long, purposeful steps.


    "Is this the subject of our work today?"


    "Indeed, her name is Shirley Marie."


    Frankenstein raised Marie''s head abruptly. He peeled back her eyelids, scrutinized the cross-section of her neck, and pried open her mouth to grasp her tongue. His movements were practiced and nonchnt, clearly familiar with the inspection of lifeless bodies.


    "Pray, exercise caution."


    My words fell from my lips without thought.


    "I assure you, I am quite practiced in handling the deceased. There is no cause for concern."


    "Worry not. He is a peculiar man who has spent two years in close quarters with the church cemetery, wielding a shovel."


    Arthur chuckled as he spoke, his sphemous humor often set me ill at ease. Today was no exception. Frankenstein continued to scrutinize Marie''s skin for a while, probing her loose neck bone, before finally knitting his brows together.


    "When did the subject pass on?"


    "A month, thereabout."


    "Preposterous."


    Frankenstein''s face contorted. His already unsettling visagebined with his grimace gave me a sense of foreboding unease. The sight was akin to a madman''s fevered nightmare, a lunatic tormenting a severed head.


    "Do you know which part of a corpse dposes first?"


    I shook my head. I had a basic understanding of when death had urred, but such specifics eluded me.


    "Typically, it is the area where flies have deposited their eggs. This is usually the part of the body that has retained the most warmth post-mortem. As maggots can only digest rotting flesh, fliesy their eggs in parts already beginning to decay. It''s their own form of childcare."


    Frankenstein continued his examination of Marie''s head in a roundabout manner.


    "Conversely, if flies have not yetid eggs, it indicates that the body has not begun to decayI see no sign of maggot activity in this subject. Has she been embalmed?"


    I couldn''t provide an answer, but it seemed unlikely that anyone would have taken the effort to preserve the body of a woman as unfortunate as Marie. Frankenstein poked a long wooden stick into Marie''s nostrils.


    "Hold on!"


    "It doesn''t seem soEmbalming cannot be performed without the removal of the brain."


    Frankenstein withdrew the wooden stick. He then produced a small bottle from his pocket, spraying a bit of liquid onto the end of the stick. The droplets that fell to the floor smelled of alcohol.


    "This is an anomaly. Her head is exceptionally fresh. I am uncertain if even a freshly guillotined head could be in such pristine condition"


    He carefullyid Mary''s head down once more. His fleeting insanity seemed to evaporate, leaving only profound weariness etched on his face.


    "Since my arrival in Ennd, I have been beset by inexplicabilities. Is the preparation within?"


    "Indeed, the requested item has been at the ready for a year now."


    "That''s an excessively long duration"


    Arthur and Frankenstein carried on a conversation that seemed pre-arranged, an exchange of narratives known only to them. Suddenly fraught, I turned to Arthur.


    "Do we need to venture into that room?"


    Honestly I harbored no desire to unlock any doors in this subterranean abode.


    "Owing to the steam engine, the humidity here is unbearable. The human body is so delicately bnced that any excessive moisture is an aberration."


    "Fear not. I have no intention of opening that particr door. The one we seek lies opposite."


    "Opposite?"


    Arthur strode ahead without further exnation, as was his wont. I clutched Marie''s head and hurriedly followed. Frankenstein again took hold of the wheelbarrow, grating it across the floor, but Arthur seemed entirely unbothered by his struggle.


    "I daresay you didn''t anticipate a door here, did you?"


    He halted before a wall. No, not a wall, but a door. Indeed, a door was cleverly concealed behind the oracle square. Arthur beamed with impish delight.


    "Gracious, how extensive is this basement?"


    "I confess, I''ve not taken measurements. However, having spent thest year confined to the house, merely traversing it once in a while served as ample exercise."


    Arthur replied with a smirk, then proceeded to open the door. I couldn''t discern how he managed to open a door seemingly devoid of a handle, but I assumed some sort of mechanism was at y. His knack for discovering such contraptions continued to baffle me.


    The room that unveiled itself was grander than I had envisioned. Its sheer size surprised me, but the presence of yet another door within was the most startling revtion. At this point, I began to suspect that Arthur''s earlier jests may not have been in mere jest.


    "Does it not spark a sense of awe in you? I dare say even the Royal Academy could not offer such surroundings."


    Indeed, it was true. The Royal Academy was not capable of providing such an environment.


    Primarily, they would not have sanctioned the expenditure for all these devices, their purposes unknown.


    This appeared less a modernboratory and more the workshop of a medieval alchemist. Even to my inexperienced eyes, it was apparent we had regressed into a time of rudimentary science. The sks arranged on the desk were geometrically bewildering, the exact shapes eluding understanding upon a cursory nce.


    Upon the walls, liquids of assorted colours were stacked by the gallon, most of them hues I''d struggle to describe in the Englishnguage. Bile-coloured'' was a phrase that sprang to mind, though those with an artistic or literary inclination might be able to offer a more nuanced exnation.


    At the very centre of the room stood an iron experimentation table. The grooves in the floor directed towards it implied a significant rtion. A silken covering ensured the table remained the most sanitary environment possible in this era.


    Adjacent to this, an iron spike ran from floor to ceiling with a noticeable seam halfway up. Likely it could be separated, though its use was wholly beyond my understanding.


    "If only I possessed a deeper understanding of chemistry"


    "Pardon?"


    Arthur swung his gaze towards me.


    "I''d have no hesitation inbelling this as utter chaos. Regrettably, I can''t."


    The trouble was that Arthur was the one who had prepared this room. The various instruments were his responsibility and, whilst he was evidently a man of considerable talents, he seemed incapable of organising them in a logical fashion.


    "I''d prefer to clean up, if at all possible."


    Frankenstein, who had arrived btedly in the room, was panting heavily as he surveyed the chaotic scene. Given the traces he''d dragged along the floor, the contents of the case must have been burdensome. Especially so, given his appearance did not suggest a man of great strength.


    "I want to get started whilst the brain is still fresh, so I''ll get right to it. Can you remove the silk?"


    Arthur, for once, obliged. His anticipation was palpable. I gently ced Mary''s head onto the exposed iron te. Meanwhile, Frankenstein opened the case and began to meticulously organise its contents.


    "Could that possibly be."


    "Materials. It was never my intention to utilise a decaying corpse from the outset."


    "Are you going to construct a human body?"


    I did not doubt his capability.


    Frankenstein had aplished the most divine feat of the era. Aware of his achievement in creating life from nothing, the suggestion of constructing a human body did not seem imusible.


    However, the issuey with the materials. The items he was listing bore no resemnce to human body parts. Sensing my sceptical gaze, Frankensteinunched into an exnation, clearly aware of my scrutiny.


    "The skin will beposed of wax."


    "Wax!"


    "Yes, sourcing the required quantity was quite the task. I''ve sourced it from all corners of London."


    In truth, Frankenstein was not some deranged man piecing together corpses. Even I, cognizant of this fact, had anticipated a morbid disy of cadaverous fragments. His proposal was startlingly innovative. He continued with measured caution.


    "As the esteemed gentlemen present will likely know The advancement of science has recently revealed that the human body is simplyposed of a handful of chemicalponents. In a bid to determine the perfectposition of the human body, towards the conclusion of the Frank academic conference"


    Arthur eximed, augh echoing in his voice.


    "You''ve been robbing graves!"


    "There aren''t many sources of untarnished human bodies."


    Frankenstein mumbled a justification, a note of grievance in his tone. At that moment, a revtion struck me with the force of a blow to the head.


    "You are the Graveyard Alchemist!"


    He offered a shy nod. I was astounded by this unexpected fact, or perhaps, a fact that seemed so fitting. After all, Frankenstein had a more apt appearance for a suspicious foreigner than Noel. He was the very image of a dubious gravedigger, exactly as an Englishman might imagine.


    "Anyway, I noticed a substantial difference between healthy and unhealthy corpses Namely, the amount of fat. If Darwin''s im is correct, the more fat, the better to conserve heat and moisture for survival Furthermore, wax, although derived from fat, does not decay in the absence of blood. From this perspective, wax is the ideal substitute for the human body."


    Frankenstein took out an iron can from beside him, filled it with wax and began to melt it with heat.


    "It will take some time. Meanwhile, let''s prepare the skeleton. Contrary to popr belief, bones, which do not circte blood, decay easily Therefore, we''ll use lead."


    "Lead!"


    I had vowed not to be surprised by any of his promations, yet once again, I found myself taken aback.


    "Yes. Admittedly, there is a certain level of toxicity, but given that bones are enveloped by the body, there''s no immediate danger. The wax skin will effectively shield against the toxicity of the lead. This would only be possible with wax. Other materials would not be suitable."


    I couldn''t just attribute this to a discrepancy in understanding between the 19th and 21st centuries. Despite his fullprehension of the toxicity of lead, he remained adamant about using it for the skeletal structure.


    "Lead, possessing an amiable malleability, lends itself well to the intricacies of nerve embedding. Few substances bnce the necessity of firmness and ductility as artfully as this does for a skeletal structure. The muscr system will be crafted with a protein adhesive of my own creation,bined with copper and rubber. They constrict and solidify under the influence of even the feeblest electric pulse. Preventing the flow of electricity in precise areas should suffice to mimic muscture. As for the delicate matter of the eyes, they will be formed from minuscule ss orbs mixed with mercury, filled with cogen derived from the bones of poultry. The adhesive strength of the concoction was found wanting in my original application, yet it serves well here. To simte the neuralwork, fine copper thread shall be employed, with the vital brain-to-spine pathway being constructed of gold. In truth, human cognition and actions are mere electrical signals. We are not so far from the humble lightbulb."


    Thus did Frankenstein discourse, his utterances betraying a remarkable madness. I could discern no sense in his musings, each sentence a refutation of the basic ts of science.


    This is preposterous. We must abort this endeavor.


    My tongue teetered on the brink of this deration.


    Arthur, however, had already spoken, his lips curling into an unsettling smile.


    "Your experience is evident in your discourse."


    A sh of guarded terror on Frankenstein''s face confirmed my suspicion. He was privy to a secret, one hidden within a realm unfamiliar to me. He carried within his gaze a potent secret, a danger to mankind, a knowledge procured from trespassing forbidden territories!


    I stood powerless. Today, Shirley Marie would be given a second life. This, I felt in my soul.


    "To engender a human, it isn''t necessary to craft a wless physique. Life, after all, is but a crude puppet. In the era of electric power, man will give rise to man."


    And with that, the experiment was set into motion.


    Incredibly, Frankenstein brought to life all that he had imed. He was manufacturing a human being! Employing materials that bore no resemnce to human tissue! Doctor Frankenstein was indeed unhinged!


    Of all the chemicals he had prepared in hisb, I could confidently identify not a one. His hands seemed otherworldly. Everything I had known was rendered unrecognizable by his touch. Even the mysteries of existence and reproduction were reduced to mere substances under his maniption.


    His countenance betrayed an intense passion, even as he looked upon his own work with revulsion. Yet his hands did not falter. His eyes mirrored his terror with every passing moment, but his hands, diligently at work, remained steadfast.


    Marie''s brain was transnted as the final stage.


    Her skull was meticulously cleaved, her fresh brain extracted and ced into the newly crafted body. ck fluid reced cerebrospinal fluid within. The suturing of the skull seemed a mere hallucination.


    How long had it been?


    A matter of hours, or perhaps days? I could not tell. The sanctity of humanity was vited with each passing moment, divine works desecrated. I beheld the gruesome spectacle for hours, entranced. I could almost hear the devil''s derisiveughter, or was it merely the sound of the rain?


    Arthur hummed a merry tune as he observed the proceedings.


    "Children conceived amidst a thunderstorm were said to be offspring of Zeus. Is she then an illicit child of a god? Or had they known, even two millennia past, that the mysteries of life they babbled about were merely illusions of electricity?"


    Frankenstein extricated a metallic rod from the earth.


    "This is a lightning rod."


    He inserted it calmly into the reassembled body of Marie.


    Boom! Boom!


    Lightning struck. At that moment, I feared not even the wrath of God.


    A brilliant sh of white light surged through Shirley Marie''s renewed form. White sparks danced from the metal te, and Marie''s bare form twitched violently.


    And what I truly feared was


    Oh, God!


    Oh, God! She''s moving!


    (TO BE CONTINUED On Jun 9{Fri})

 Chapter 24

    Chapter 24


    24. A Reverie of the Snow-Plumed Leviathan


    From the day hence, I embraced the familiar rhythms of my ustomed 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 onught. It was in this instant that I noticed thed, 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?"


    "s, 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 outrements 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, particrly whenpared to my two brothers. I had rather clumsily tried to blend in with the prevalent taste for nostalgia amongst my social ss, and this ill-fitted monstrosity was the oue 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 hadrgely 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, Iid out the papers across myp.


    Caught up in the revival of nostalgia, the advertisements were rife with antiquatednguage. I found myself musing on how many of the readers trulyprehended 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 werest, their headlines catching my cursory nce:


    [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 catbs, forcing a temporary closure of the cemetery. Once safety could be guaranteed, it would resume operations. This was but a ssic 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 bines pierced the firmament, bisecting the white tufts of clouds.


    What?


    ng!


    The discordant echo of shattered ss reverberated through the room.


    "Marie?"


    The door, separating us, remained obstinately closed. No response prated 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 chroniclemenced with an ount 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 catbs of West Norwood Cemetery and Londinium. The second, a much more ferocious shaking, urred 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 insurancepanies, 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 avable, 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 me game. Nobody wished to assume ountability 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 cmity.


    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 inmmatory as its title. The catbs had sumbed 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 dered 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 catbs had not simply copsed 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 nging of mining. They were still burrowing underground. Abor 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 semnce. There shey, 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, Frankensteinid 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 porcin.


    "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 Imenced the task of collecting them. Marie, her gaze fixed upon her own digits, murmured,


    "Am Iwounded?"


    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.


    <strong>Ding dong.</strong>


    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 unwee 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, shed an audacious smile.


    "Permit him entrance."


    "Ah, Philemon, how the tables have turned since ourst 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 ambtion.


    "She is yet to attain full functionality."


    With a sidelong nce at her, Arthur voiced his observation under his breath. Marie''s eyes, as devoid of warmth as ss 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 myst 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 frommenting on the decrepit state of your mansion purely as a gesture of gentlemanly respect. Take heed."


    We settled down. Arthur quicklymandeered his seat, and no sooner had I lowered myself onto the cushion, heunched 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 mustprehend my impatience when I covet something. Surely, I cannot ord 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 popce 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 revtions.


    "Upon my arrival at the cemetery, I found it to be inessible. 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 cor, and had my legs cooperated, I might have seeded.


    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 im that my reflections were of shorter duration than yours. And I have arrived at a singr conclusion."


    His voice,ced with tedium, bore the essence of his revtion. 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 pedestrianments, refrain from voicing them at all."


    Arthur''s voice grew strident, his intensity escting.


    "The Oracleputes the fate of London, nay, the future of all mankind! Merely by calcting 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 red 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 nebe twinkled against the backdrop of an infinitely dark expanse.


    Deep within his eyes was the fathomless universe. They were concealed within the imprable, 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)

 Chapter 25

    Chapter 25


    25. Among All, The Most Cryptic Being


    At our next meeting, it will be you who seeks me out. I have found that the distance to this ce is considerable, indeed.''


    Having uttered these audacious words, Arthur took his leave. Yet, I found myself ensnared by his enigmatic presence, transfixed in my seat long after his departure.


    He had shared glimpses of his far-reaching visions, each revtion shocking, audacious, draining me of my mental reserves. Indeed, if I were to liken myself to Faust, then Arthur would undoubtedly take on the role of Mephistopheles. I was captivated by his sphemous blueprint, standing at the precipice of the Brocken Mountain, where devils revel in their wicked dance.


    My mind, lost in thought, was jolted back to reality by the audacity of a bold rat, its small head peeking out from the crevices, as if to determine whether I was man or mere object. At the sight of this, a sigh escaped my lips. Reflecting upon my circumstances, I was reluctantly led to a singr conclusion.


    I was intricately woven into Arthur Frank''s grand design from the very beginning. The realization that such an impetuous man could meticulously execute his n was a revtion in itself.


    Yet, why me? Surely, a more suitable candidate could have been found with ease. Yet Arthur, to the very end, had not deigned to reveal the answer to this intriguing question. Undoubtedly, he withheld this information intentionally, knowing my intense curiosity. A sly and distasteful individual indeed.


    <strong>Knock knock.</strong>


    The knock at the door served as a lifeline, pulling me back from the abyss of my musings.


    "Master, are you within?" came the query.


    "Yes."


    The voice belonged to Marie. Well, to be precise,it was Marie''s new voice. Simr, yet disturbingly alien, it left me unsettled every time it graced my ears, as though every word chipped away at my very soul.


    "I do not wish to intrude, Master, but it is time for you to prepare to venture out"


    "Has so much time psed already?"


    Arthur''s unexpected visit had led me to lose track of time, and I had forgotten that this day held a certain importance.


    I vacated the parlor, the image of shattered teacups strewn across the floor suddenly shing in my mind. I couldn''t leave them as they were, so I found myself swiftly heading to the kitchen.


    Yet, upon arrival, I was met with a scene of pristine order. No fragments of ceramic were to be seen, the space immactely clean.


    "Marie, did you clean up this mess?"


    Marie, who had followed me into the kitchen, fidgeted nervously. Her movements were awkward, reminiscent of a marite''s disjointed dance.


    "Yes, I feared you might injure yourself, Master."


    "Show me your hand."


    Her ss-like eyes, touched with hues of blue, quivered in trepidation.


    "Quickly."


    With an air of reluctance, Marie extended her hand at my insistence. As I examined her hand, turning it over delicately, I found additional scratches marring her smooth, waxen skin.


    "In the future, refrain from such actions."


    "But, Master"


    "I am perfectly capable of domestic duties. Focus on tasks within your realm of ability. For instance, tending to the orchids."


    Unable to meet her gaze, I released her hand and swiftly turned away.


    "I must prepare to depart."


    "Can I assist you, Master?"


    "No, I can manage alone!"


    I hurriedly extricated myself from the situation under the pretense of getting ready. However, Marie''s deste whisper followed me, the words piercing my heart like a sharpened de.


    "Then what purpose do I serve"


    Oldcourt University.


    This serene institution, nestled on a quaint hill in North London, was originally an enigmatic and secluded monastery. The monks, early adopters of natural philosophy, frequently proposed bold interpretations that were deemed heretical, resulting in a multitude of executions for heresy.


    Thus, over time, the monastery naturally evolved into a fortress. Today, we still see remnants of this transformation, with evidence of secret passages and panic rooms built into each building on campus.


    At the heart of it all stands the Tower of the Irish Saint, a testament to medieval architecture.


    This cylindrical fortress stands at the intersection of three colleges, intentionally designed to ensure that no corridors or stairways provide ess to the other institutions. This is a clear demonstration of theirmitment to maintaining the autonomy of each college.


    Atop the Tower of the Irish Saint lies the Dean''s Office, also divided into three separate areas, each inessible from the others. In essence, this peculiar university houses three dean''s offices in a single location.


    <strong>Tock.</strong>


    The quill pen echoed as it dipped into the inkwell. The sound, bouncing off the dome-shaped ceiling of the Dean''s Office, resonated deeply throughout the room. Professor Apollo Gregorios Kas adjusted his sses, sliding the signed contract towards him.


    "Nationalism and International Politics Do I discern this aright?"


    "Indeed."


    Anxiously, I awaited his response, akin to a youngd having just made his foray into the vast city of London. Kas, seemingly more intrigued by the title of the lecture than the content of the contract, rose from his seat, extending a weing hand and a congenial smile.


    "Excellent. As of this day, December 2, 1895, you are hereby officially appointed at Oldcourt. Wee."


    A moment of respite washed over me. I attempted to rise, but Kas, observing my condition, offered his hand while I remained seated. I gratefully epted his tactful gesture, shaking the practically untouched hand in one decisive motion.


    Professor Kas retreated back to his seat, releasing a deep sigh.


    "Today, I find myself standing in for the Dean. I confess, I find contracts far less pleasing than books."


    The elderly schr made no effort to conceal his strained state, his countenance easing considerably. He was a man who understood thefort brought about by human imperfections.


    "And the Dean?"


    "He is much the same. Nay, he is even more severe in this regard. A schr at heart, he disys an utterck of interest in administration. I have yet to witness him sign a contract in person, though he is never amiss in signing important documents for the Royal Society."


    "I must admit, I have received several letters bearing the Dean''s signature."


    "Ah, those, too, were penned by my hand. I am now more ustomed to signing in his name than my own."


    Kas chuckled briefly at his admission.


    "How curious. I thought the only aspect of him I was acquainted with was his penmanship, and now it appears I was mistaken even in that."


    "Indeed. He is a figure of enigma. The Dean is among the most mysterious individuals I havee across."


    At myment, Kas burst into heartyughter. His exaggerated reaction, a trait of his Mediterranean heritage, didn''t unsettle me.


    "You arrived just in the nick of time."


    "To be frank, I was surprised. I hadn''t expected my position to be maintained."


    "There were some who foolishly petitioned for your removal."


    Kas'' eyebrow arched in emphasis.


    "However, the faculty and student representatives unanimously agreed to retain you. This was a matter of course for an Oldcourt individual. We seek wisdom. Wisdom is akin to clear water; it begins to stagnate the moment it settles. As the times ebb and flow, new currents must infiltrate Oldcourt."


    His words sparked a vivid sense of dj vu. They echoed a familiar sentiment, something I had certainly encountered within these walls before.


    "Is this a well-known quote?"


    Kas blinked in surprise.


    "Is it perhaps an adage unique to this university, something akin to a slogan?"


    "Ah, it seems you have had some intriguing interactions during your journey here."


    "To be precise, a simr sentiment was expressed by a student when I visited the library a few months ago."


    At my rification, Kas seemed momentarily stumped. His lips parted and closed, mimicking the actions of a schr contemting the best method to elucidate aplex concept to a novice. Given his profession, it was an understandable habit.


    "How might I expound this uh."


    While he pondered, my gaze drifted around the room. Since entering the Dean''s office, something had persistently gnawed at my curiosity. It was a mechanical clock mounted on the wall, though I was uncertain if it could even be urately described as such.


    It was the second most intricate mechanical contraption I had ever encountered.


    It bore a resemnce to the astronomical clock in Prague, but even that, celebrated as one of the mostplex and artistic timepieces in the world, seemed simple inparison to this contrivance. This device appeared more akin to an intricate piece of artwork than a timekeeping instrument.


    Countless symbols were disyed, including Roman numerals, intersecting ecliptic and equatorial lines, Greek zodiac signs, Jesus and his apostles, Kabbh, and numerous others. Soon unfamiliar symbols superseded them.


    Each symbol moved at its own rhythm, the ticking sounds ovepping to form an almost cacophonous hum. The ordinarily tranquil Dean''s office was infused with an incessant noise reminiscent of a bustling London street.


    These symbols participated in an unending metaphysical dialogue, appearing and disappearing in an instant. As a result, the clock appeared to morph into a different entity each second, creating a mesmerizing illusion. Any attempt to extract meaningful information from it was futile.


    In truth, I had sought to ascertain the time, but only managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of the hour hand. I was certain that there were minute and second hands as well, yet their location and form eluded me.


    "Does it distract you?"


    Perhaps my fixation was overtly apparent. Kas, with a warm smile, interrupted my contemtion. I confessed to my rudeness and offered my apologies.


    "My apologies."


    "Fear not, it is quitemon. Most react simrly upon their initial encounter with it."


    Kas dered, his tone hinting at a peculiar sort of pride.


    "That is the Hexasofia clock, a contraption devised by the dean himself."


    "Hexasofia, you say?"


    It was a term with which I was unfamiliar. He began to borate, as if anticipating my ignorance.


    "Are you aware of the concept of a sixth sense?"


    "During my tenure in naval service, certain impressionable recruits would dabble in such beliefs."


    "Ah, I see. What is your stance on the matter?"


    "After witnessing them being unceremoniously shot and killed, I''ve made it a point to avoid those who entertain such subjects."


    Kas appeared taken aback by my candid response and feltpelled to apologize.


    "That''s unfortunate."


    "It has been more than a decade."


    I erred in my manners. My gentlemanly decorum waspromised by an incident from this morning involving Mari''s hand, but that is no justification for my insensitivity.


    "The sixth sense we refer to is distinct from such pseudoscientific ims. Literally, it is the human''s sixth sense."


    "Do you imply something akin to a sense of equilibrium?"


    "Rather, I refer to wisdom. The sixth sense, subsequent to the known five."


    A luminescent spark ignited in the elderly eyes of Kas.


    "A person imbued with wisdom perceives more than their less enlightened counterparts. It affords them a glimpse into horizons otherwise invisible to themon observer."


    "Is that philosophy?"


    At my inquiry, Kas exhibited a knowing smile.


    "The Hexasofia clock persistently exhibits only six units of information. Yet, the truly wise can decipher an abundance of knowledge beyond that from it. It is a masterwork intended to reveal a thousand truths from six."


    "To me, it seems exceptionally abstract."


    "No, it is a tangible reality. I invariably decipher some form of information from the Hexasofia clock. However, thus far, only the dean has exhibited fullmand over the Hexasofia clock."


    There was no usible reason for this seasoned professor to resort to exaggeration. Thus, it was rather astounding. That intricate contraption, which seemed utterly nonsensical to me, served as a practical timekeeping instrument for someone else.


    "And you, being a wise individual, I am certain will discern even more than I."


    Kas winked subtly, betraying the amicability that must have endeared him to his students.


    "I fear I may have digressed excessively. I trust I have not detained you unduly?"


    "No, quite the contrary. Your conversation has been most enlightening."


    I struggled to my feet to bid him farewell, and then a thought urred to me, which I voiced.


    "Pray, where might I find the dean? It has been quite some time since our pathsst crossed. I would like to pay my respects."


    "He is at Jamestown College today. Regrettably, you may need to wait for a future asion."


    "May I not go and seek him out?"


    Kas''s countenance took on a grave expression.


    " As one ages, the propensity to overlook important details seems to increase. I ought to have informed you of this sooner."


    He muttered, removing his spectacles and meticulously cleaning them.


    "Oldcourt is a seeker of wisdom. Any means may be employed to procure wisdom. However, there is one principle that must never be breached."


    Kas returned his sses to their rightful ce and rose from his seat.


    "You must never encroach upon the territory of another college."


    Despite myck of understanding, I experienced a chill of fear emanating from this genial old man. For a fleeting moment, his gaze bore an uncanny resemnce to the madmen I had encountered in my past.


    Professor Kas eased his expression and offered a warm smile once again.


    "And even if I were to inform you that today is the day the dean visits Henry VIII College, I am uncertain whether you would have the opportunity to meet him."


    "What do you mean by that?"


    "You will learn soon enough. But let me tell you, even I have yet to see his face."


    "How can that be?"


    His face was adorned with the same genial smile as before, but it no longer feltforting. There was a profound secretced within that smile.


    "Did I not mention it earlier? The Dean of Oldcourt,   , is the most mysterious of all."


    (TO BE CONTINUED)

 Chapter 26

    Chapter 26


    26. Thanatophobia


    There was a day, a rain-drenched winter''s day, wherein thest 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 notifiedte 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 ce in the ossuary, and a pen factory was erected upon his resting ce 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 unrted sequence.


    Primarily, my time was greatly upied 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''tpare 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 popr 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 nned to undertake over three months. Over thest few months, I hadnt had the luxury tomit 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 bezy in my designated tasks. I found myself anchored to my chair for two weeks straight, consuming a plethora of books toplete 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 trantion like one possessed.


    The English trantions of the "The Gospel of ckriver" and the "Marie Curie" notes were nearingpletion.


    No, in fact, the prayer of The Gospel of ckriver had already been entirely tranted. I had two copies of the transcripts, one a verbatim transcription, the other an English trantion. 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 aze, yet I could recall even the stains of sweat on the notebook''s corner with vivid rity.


    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 ckriverl 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 inness that defied the fervency of her narrative style.


    It was a merependium of facts, every line punctuated by her spections 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 articte the tenacity of her will.


    I remained undeterred until I had tranted 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 asion, 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 thaty reflected in the window, the magic waned. I relinquished my hold on the pen, falling into a slumber akin to copse.


    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 asionally, but her efforts were futile. She was too perceptive. She grasped my fear and unease better than anyone else.


    <strong>Knock, knock.</strong>


    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 trantions of the Gospel of ckriver and Curies 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 epted the letter andid it on my desk. Frankenstein nced between me and the letter before venturing a question.


    Dont 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 ofte. He would appreciate a reply if you are not too upied 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, ncing 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, its not that. Its aplex 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 deste 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 mncholy 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 umon. To act against thews 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 disyed 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 sumb to death."


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


    "They were all in. By those desperate enough to be resurrected."


    And Frankenstein voiced hisment.


    "What is a soul? Why can''t what was lost return? Humans are driven by greed. Even a newborn, unable to articte, knows that once a toy is destroyed, it cannot be repaired. Even if provided a replica, he wails, iming 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 nkly 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)

 Chapter 27

    Chapter 27


    27. Philemon Herbert is dead


    "Marie, are you present?"


    Upon Frankenstein''s departure, I found myself uttering her name, soaked with apprehension.


    Fortunately, my fear proved to be unfounded as Marie soon emerged from behind the door. She stood in silence, a patient specter awaiting mymand. I, however, had no pressing demand to impose, leaving me reluctant to disrupt the stillness.


    "Might you fetch some tea? My throat is parched."


    A feeble pretext, indeed. Marie assented and retreated.


    In her departure, a gesture that might otherwise have struck me as ordinary, I discerned a glimmer of hope. She clung to the prospect of mending the fractures in our association.


    The realization sent a profound shudder through my being.


    Rising from my seat, I found my gaze anchored to the door through which she''d disappeared. I moved to shut it. The envelope that Arthur had dispatchedy at my feet. I''d received three of his correspondences already, but this one carried a weight I felt sure would bear the critical message.


    Though he often indulged in trivial pursuits, he was never devoid of sincerity. His insistence on supplying Frankenstein with details of the standard postal service was a clear signal that he desired me to treat this missive with utmost gravity.


    I resolved to concentrate on the letter, relegating thoughts of Marie''s predicament to the back of my mind for the moment.


    The envelope showed no sign of tampering on either side. With caution, I broke its seal, observing whether it had been reattached. Enclosed was a piece of paper roughly torn, calling it a letter felt somewhat inappropriate.


    The paper struck me as entirely odd. Were it indicative of an individual''s censorship, it demonstrated a woefully inept spy. I thus chose to consider it a jest on Arthur''s part.


    The content of the letter was as follows:


    Philemon Herbert is no more.


    A brave naval officer, a Cambridge graduate, a distinguished member of the respected Society of Sand Martin Endgame Studies, and yet, an outcast of high society, a university professor, a virgin unfamiliar with the affections of women, a merciless killer. He was an amputee, having lost a leg, an orphan bereft of a father, a man shrouded in disreputable gossip, a vile exhibitionist with a disdain for trousers.


    His absence is a tragedy, yet the Royal Navy stands undeterred in his absence. I kindly request that you maintain politeness at his final farewell.


    PS. Do not believe thest three letters; they were not sent by me. Burn them in the furnace.


    The letter was littered with malevolent expressions.


    It was not a missive one could, in good conscience, send, not even in jest. Arthur, perhaps the most seasoned jester in existence, would never resort to such juvenile mockery. He was a man who devoted his life to the art of insult, each executed with finesse and civility.


    This was a jest, a y on words, and consequently, a cipher.


    This game of words was not unfamiliar. He had either invented it two decades prior, when we were club members, or he had acquired it elsewhere, but he had vexed those around him with this game for a good two months.


    Naturally, I was included in that circle, having spent over two months decoding his cryptic riddles. Thanks to that, I could discern the intention behind this jumbled sentence, even after a span of twenty years.


    I read the sentence at a leisurely pace. It was vital not to rush.


    <strong> Ding dong.</strong>


    As my eyes lingered on the letter, the intrusion of the doorbell echoed through the entrance.


    Marie, engaged in the quiet pursuit of boiling water in the kitchen, did not appear to notice the ringing. However, even if she had, I would not desire her to receive our visitor. Laying down the letter, I rose from my seat and moved towards the front door.


    Unlocking it and swinging it open, the figure of a soldier took form at the threshold.


    "Herbert, what state do I find you in?"


    The man stood adorned in a navy admiral''s uniform, greeting me as though we werepanions of old. A Royal Victorian Order embellished his chest, and his identity was clear to me, not simply because he was among the most recognized soldiers in all of London.


    We had enlisted together, fought side by side in numerous battles. He was a decorated hero of Sardinia and the second historical figure to grace my life.


    "Robert! What wind blows you to my door?"


    The man was none other than Robert Falcon Scott, a navalmander renowned for his bitter rivalry with Amundsen over the South Pole.


    "Word has reached me of your promotion to lieutenant. Can this be true?"


    "Fortune favored me."


    Despite his modest words, every minute gesture of Scott seemed poised to ept the praise of others. A product of a distinguished naval lineage, he exuded an unshakeable confidence, an attribute that won him as many foes as allies due to its perceived arrogance.


    I ushered him into the reception room.


    Every level of this new apartment boasted a reception room, a concept haphazardly conceived by the architect and relegated to a corner. It appeared to have been added with begrudging necessity.


    However, whenpared to mere days ago, the reception room now boasted immacte cleanliness. Though the holes bore evidence of rat upation, the creatures no longer had the audacity to interfere with the master''s daily affairs.


    No sooner had Scott taken his seat than he spoke.


    "I extend my felicitations upon your release."


    "It''s not a matter for public celebration but I thank you."


    His words, however well-intended, stirred unease in me. It was a hard truth to digest that barely a month had passed since my release from prison.


    "You appear to be courting more aggressive mishaps after your military discharge. Ever considered rejoining the Navy?"


    "A distasteful jest."


    "Far from it, I am earnest. I''ve yet to encounter a man more befitting of the soldier''s life."


    Scott regarded me with seriousness. I brushed aside hisment.


    "When did you acquire such eloquence? Your ttery leaves my ears tingling."


    "Do you recall the summer 15 years past?"


    "Sardinia."


    The word slipped quietly from my lips.


    "A burial ground for young men, brimming with dreams. How could I forget?"


    "I thought you were possessed by madness."


    Scott remarked,ughter softening his words.


    "You were invariably in the most perilous heart of the battlefield on the ind. You seemed to leap headfirst into danger, as if death was a prize to be sought. That summer, we owed you our lives. Isn''t that the very essence of a soldier?"


    A memory of a simr exchange floated back to me. Yes, it was indeed Arthur. A year ago, at the Frank estate, after a gap of two decades, Arthur had voiced a parallel sentiment.


    "I had not fathomed you would be such a fervent recruitment officer. Nheless, I have heard the tales of that brave young man you reference. So, what words do you bring to this worn andme man?"


    My conversation with Scott transported me back two decades. Unintentionally, a coarse oath from my military past escaped my lips. Instead of reprimanding my error, Scott responded with a chuckle and navigated to his main point.


    "I am in need of your assistance. Not as a retired officer, but for the wealth of your experience as an adventurer. Would that be agreeable?"


    "My help? Indeed, we are as close as brothers, are we not? We entrusted each other with our lives, what resistance could there be now?"


    By this point, I had begun to fathom the purpose of his visit. As he stated, Scott was presently the most famed soldier in London. His ambitious undertakings continued to be the focus of the public''s attention.


    "Are you familiar with the Discovery Expedition?"


    "Unless one lives in deaf solitude, every inhabitant of London would be."


    The Discovery Expedition.


    In this modern era, on the verge of the 20th century, the world has drastically shrunk due to leaps in technology. Journeys that once spanned months can now be traversed by train within a day. And yet, numerous uncharted territories remained scattered across the world map.


    The enigmatic Southern Dark Continent, the extreme ends of the world at the North and South poles, the Pacific''s small inds housing ancient remnants, and the mystic and enchantingnds of Western America.


    Humanity rose to challenge these untamed regions. The thirst for exploration reached fever pitch, and the masses yearned for fresh knowledge.


    Western nations poured considerable resources into this international contest, and countless explorers embarked on journeys to unknown shores, seeking fortune and renown. The traditional maritime powerhouse, the British Empire, could not afford tog in this race.


    The Royal Society, the Royal Geographical Society, and the Royal Navy coborated.


    The idle British fleet docked at the harbor, along with skilled naval officers, were dispatched to various corners of the world through the expedition n. The world watched with interest as it marked themencement of the era of internationalpetition. All of London eagerly anticipated news of Britain''s triumphs, overshadowing my release from prison.


    "At this moment, I am no greater an explorer than you."


    The man seated before me was Robert Falcon Scott, one of history''s most recognized explorers, who famously vied with Amundsen.


    Selected as the leader of the Antarctic expedition, he was already a hero in the public eye, carrying the weight of national expectations. Indeed, he was a protagonist of this era, not I, who boasts but an unremarkable career.


    "What nonsense you speak. Within Ennd, none hold a candle to your fame regarding the Dark Continent."


    "What of Dr. Livingstone?"


    Caught off guard by my perfectly reasonable retort, Scott was left momentarily speechless. His response came awkwardly, as he attempted to defend his earlier statement.


    "It is unfair topare oneself to figures from a bygone era. Nevertheless, in contemporary London, you undoubtedly enjoy considerable renown."


    "Let us cease discussion of my fame and return to the matter at hand."


    "You are likely aware, but I have been appointed leader of this Antarctic expedition."


    I nodded in response.


    "My congrattions to you."


    "And I find myself in desperate need of your assistance."


    Staring into his grave eyes, I merely scowled in response.


    "Do you recall the circumstances of my military departure?"


    "Indeed, and how soon you used yourme leg as a pretext to retire, only to emerge as an explorer but a yearter. You could not fathom the extent of our curses when the news reached us."


    I was rendered speechless.


    "In those days, I was youthful, and it was the Dark Continent that allowed such exploits. The majority of my time was spent aboard the ship. My sole duty was to ascend the continent by river, a task shrouded in no mystery. The Antarctic is a beast of a wholly different nature."


    "You speak as though you''ve trodden on Antarctic ground."


    Scott fixed me with a piercing gaze. While he was no master of deceit, age had bestowed upon him a crafty edge. I hastily offered a distraction.


    "The savants of the Royal Society would not wee mypany."


    "Concern yourself not with that. The Society has granted me the authority to select the members. As long as I escort their assigned schrs and deliver some survey data, I am free to proceed as I wish."


    His stubbornness was unparalleled.


    Indeed, his proposal was an honor of great magnitude. Every ambitious youth in Britain aspired to join the Antarctic expedition. And yet, out of an enduring camaraderie, he extended the invitation to me first.


    "The Antarctic, you say."


    I was stirred. Though the prospect of my professorship at Oldcourt University loomedrge, his proposal tugged at my heart. An urge to escape the confines of London, to wander for a time in the untamed world, presented itself as an ideal cure for my weary spirit, worn thin by the events of the past year.


    Suddenly, the doorknob began to turn.


    I only just remembered the task I had left to Marie. As I had retreated from the room to the reception area without a word, she would surely be seeking me out with the prepared tea.


    "Hold! Do not enter!"


    But my response came toote, my attention too consumed by the Antarctic tale. The door opened, and Marie, bearing a tray adorned with a teapot and a basket of scones, made her entrance. Upon seeing her, Scott paled, his eyes filled with horror.


    A vicious cycle of life and death. A soldier, a man who had ended countless lives, was stricken with a fear of the dead.


    "What is that creature?"


    "Robert, regain yourposure. She is my housekeeper."


    He sprang from his seat. His abrupt movement caused Marie to recoil.


    "Have you lost your senses! Or perhaps it is I who have descended into madness? How can you regard that as a housekeeper? I cannot fathom it! That you would harbour such a monster in your home!"


    "Robert!"


    He was rooted in dumbfounded terror. His soul gripped by a sudden and all-consuming fear. I endeavoured to halt his tantrum before it escted further, but I, with my impaired legs, was no match for the nimbleness of an active military man.


    "We shall resume this discussion at ater time! But certainly not within these walls!"


    Scott, shoving past Marie who remained in the doorway, made his swift exit. The mming of the front door echoed behind him. Marie, who had been left swaying, copsed. The tea and bread from the tray scattered across the floor. I hastened to her side, tossing aside my cane, and lifted her up.


    "Marie, are you unharmed?"


    A foolish inquiry. The term "injury" applies only to the living.


    "Master."


    Marie spoke in a vacant tone.


    "Am I truly monstrous?"


    "Do you harbour resentment towards me?"


    She gave no response. Yes, perhaps she did.


    "I find myself truly without refuge."


    "I deeply regret."


    Frankenstein''s words rang true. Punishment had already descended upon me. In that moment, I yearned for the fires of hell, to be consumed by the maw of Satan himself. Yet even so, Marie expressed no resentment.


    "Master, do not leave me."


    It dawned on me. The true monster was none other than myself. I could notpare to the purity of this innocent maiden''s form, especially when considering my own vile and petty existence.


    Helping Marie to her feet, gazing into her eyes, I realized it was time to end this flight, for which guilt had long served as a pretense.


    "Tonight, grace me with your presence in my quarters. I will unveil the veiled truths that bind me, you, and the whole of London in this moment. It is a tale that may rend your heart, and upon its conclusion, you might yearn for my demise."


    Marie''s eyes fluttered,cking natural rhythm.


    "If you choose not to attend, on the morrow, I will seek a secluded dwelling in the tranquil countryside for you. Should you im sensitivity to the sun''s rays and cloak your form, you will avoid suspicion. Should doubts still arise, I shall facilitate your migration to an alternative locale. You will be provided a generous monthly sum, tomence a new existence there Though I admit it is a paltry offeringpared to the life I have obliterated."


    Marie''s thoughts remained a mystery to me. She was devoid of voice, her eyes and face betrayed no emotions. The age-old belief that one could read another''s heart through their gaze proved more elusive with her than the dawn fog shrouding London.


    Yet, I held onto the notion that she had found some tranquility. Marie rose, a slight nod marking her departure, and retreated to her quarters. It was the modest room, still bearing the dust of hasty preparation, that I had assigned upon her arrival.


    Soon after, I retreated to my own solitude. The scones, strewn across the floor, were left to the mercy of the mice.


    Arthur''s untouched missivey upon my desk.


    Sinking into the chair, I revisited his coded letter. Its basis was a simple principle, one that even a child could decipher with ease. It was nothing more than a game of words. One simply had to discard the plethora of meaningless sentences, and align the affirmations and denials.


    One needed only to interpret the letter in reverse.


    [His absence is a tragedy, yet the Royal Navy stands undeterred in his absence. I kindly request that you maintain politeness at his final farewell.]


    The Royal Navy doesn''t need me. And I am the brave Navy. So, what''s left is Royal. What is sought is (Polite)ness, and since I have been ousted from polite society, Society is what remains.


    Combined, it signifies the Royal Society, indicative of the esteemed Royal Society of Sciences.


    In the postscript, Arthur penned thus,


    [P.S. Do not believe thest three letters; they were not sent by me. Burn them in the furnace.]


    He had exerted considerable effort tomunicate this singr notion.


    Discarding the letter, I drew a deep breath. Arthur had already ascertained the identity of the adversary.


    "Do not believe the Royal Society!"


    (TO BE CONTINUED On Jun 23{Fri})

 Chapter 28

    Chapter 28


    28.    Comes


    As the moon rode high in the inky expanse of the London night, when even the mour of this metropolis had subsided into a deste 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 everymp 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 ckened tome that promised the mysteries of the heavens; the other, a notebook, bearing the name of Marie Curie. My obscure and often ndestine work wasid 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, ssy 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, yetcked the warmth to fully mirror human emotion.


    "I could have surmised as much. I knew my injuries were grave, but to know they were fatalthat I relinquished my lifeI suppose it makes sense." Her eyes, orbs filled with cogen 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 ssy 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 Magen, 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 revtions."


    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 yourfort, 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 undergroundboratory 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 n to prevent mankind from being consumed by darkness, and in doing so, he founded a secret society called the Frank Academic Society. I n 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 aplex apparatus, a calctor with immense predictive capabilities, capable of charting our future."


    With a heavy heart, I continued, "ording to the Oracle''s calctions, 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.


    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 epted her monstrous transformation or if she was simply wallowing in self-deprecation, influenced by the pervasive mncholy.


    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 contemtion, wordless, resembling a doll in her silence. I confessed my fatigue and dismissed her. When she departed from my quarters, I utched 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 ambte.


    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 inhtion, it served to rify 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 sinct exnation, 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 btedly in Cambridge''s advanced footsteps, so no further exnation 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 wemonly know today, but more akin to a form of membership within the university. Each college owned a certain tract ofnd, 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 canprehend 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 isted and fragmented, adhering strictly to istionism.


    Professors and students remained unaware of who belonged to other colleges, what sses 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 arge, secretivemunity could operate so openly in a corner of London. And at its heart, he was there.


    .


    Sinceying eyes upon Arthur''s letter the day before, I could not help but harbour a preconception about Old Court. If the acting dean Kas was correct, it was clear that the dean held a close rtionship 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 enemyid 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 contemtion, I finally arrived at King Henry VIII College. It was somewhat early, yet the students arrived in the ssroom just in time for the lecture. All the buildings in the Old Court were akin to abyrinth. It wasmon 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 schrs 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 formic 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 lecturemenced amidst the innocent apuse of the schrs.


    It was an unforeseen scenario, yet the ss progressed without notable incidents. The curiosity of Old Court''s schrs 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 exnations, bathed in perspiration. I had envisioned my discourse to be grounded in moral perspectives, but the students pursued logic relentlessly. Exining the sovereignty of a nation to such pupils proved a herculean task.


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


    Then, a few schrs packed their writing implements and vacated the room. Their seats were promptly imed by schrs 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 schr approached and initiated a dialogue.


    "You are"


    Looking at the schr, I was overwhelmed by a powerful sensation of dj vu. However, since I seldom interacted with students on campus, I struggled to ce 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 schr. 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 schrs share this sentiment. It has be 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 Kas, was not alone in his deep reverence for the word "wisdom". It was perplexing how such a uniform belief could permeate a university popted by individuals of diverse backgrounds.


    "But you schrs 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 essible to all. Schrs 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 schrs 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 exnation seemed usible, 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 schr 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 Kas a fortnight prior. The youthful schr 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 notmonce for the professor to make an appearance?"


    "No, but few linger for an extended duration."


    Somehow, her words offered a nebulous understanding. Every revtion 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 schr had adhered to my mind like tar, clouding my thoughts. Despite this, the lecture proceeded simrly to its conduct before the break.


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


    The wall clock indicated it was about 11:15.


    Abruptly, a schr rose to his feet.


    His countenance did not ring any bells, but I was bereft of choice. He was the typical schr 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. Ovee with euphoria, he raised his gaze to the ceiling and proimed,


    "   is here!"


    All schrs'' 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 schr''s abrupt behaviour and feltpelled to intervene. He appeared to be in dire need of aid.


    Another schr rose to his feet and dered,


    "It''s true!    is here!"


    His outcry served as the catalyst, and schrs began standing in quick session. Soon, the lecture hall was devoid of seated schrs. 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 schrs'' faces. To my horror, even the schr who had conversed with me during the break was an active participant in this frenzied spectacle.


    The others were no different. The schr who had enthusiastically engaged in inquiry, the schr who had detected grammatical errors in my book, the schr 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 themencement of the lecture. I found myself aimlessly approaching it and tugging it free.


    The schrs were indifferent to my actions.


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


    "   is here! Oh!    is here!"


    "   is here!"


    "."


    The voices of the schrs, their necks extended towards the sky as they chanted frically, began to subside. A few minutes had psed since the initial promation. 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)

 Chapter 29

    Chapter 29


    29. Life, in its brevity, yet contrasts the enduring length of art.


    After a fleeting period, I was once more master of my faculties.


    In spite of the enigmatic event that had transpired, the campus was steeped in an eerily serene aura. A duo of owls perched atop a streetmp, hootingfortably, whilst students, in all their youthful vibrancy, trod across the grass with their vivacious chatter.


    I found myself standing in stark contrast, sauntering about as an uneasy elder, my neck drawn in and a suspicious re fixed in my eyes.


    Bizarrely, this tranquil atmosphere felt grotesque, looming over the mysterious urrence I had just experienced. It differed vastly from the past incidents at Jacob''s Ind or the West Norwood Cemetery, where threats from monstrous entities, frantic in their ability to bring death upon mankind, gushed from the unseen corners, unbeknownst to the denizens of London.


    Yet, Oldcourt was nestled squarely within the confines of London, a university teeming with hundreds of students, who casually attended their lectures. They bore no animosity towards me, nor did they worship any sphemous deity and mutter in an unintelligiblenguage.


    It was akin to wandering in a fogden field, amon urrence in London, yet one that perpetually stirred a sense of difort.


    "Ah, Professor Herbert."


    A familiar voice echoed from behind me. Prepared to strike with my cane, I wheeled around.


    "Acting Dean Kas."


    "Please, call me professor today. The dean is present."


    It was Kas who had approached me. His expression seemed more animatedpared to when we had met in the dean''s office a fortnight prior. However, even this cheerful expression appeared pretentious to me. Wasn''t his current demeanor conspicuously contrived?


    "How was your inaugural lecture?"


    "Far from facile."


    My response was deliberately vague, to which Kas repliedposedly.


    "Indeed, whates easily at the outset is often of little value."


    "The students were peculiar."


    I had chosen my words intentionally, for he was the acting dean in title, yet in truth, he oversaw all the university''s affairs. Surely, he couldn''t be ignorant of the strange phenomena I had encountered within just a single day.


    Kas'' fists clenched upon hearing my words, and I subtly readied my cane.


    "I understand. Lecturing at another university is significantly different. Here at Oldcourt, everyone is in pursuit of wisdom. Wisdom and knowledge are frequently conted, yet they are diametrically opposed. Those steeped in knowledge often bear narrow minds, while the wise approach new knowledge with caution. Hence, such resistance from the students."


    He animatedly swung his clenched fist into the thin air, resembling a boxer engaged in pathetic shadow boxing.


    "They are fighting back, challenging the intellectual authority amassed by schrs over centuries. Ipetent professors, who merely regurgitate defunct knowledge, fail to thrive here. They remain oblivious to their faults until they are dethroned from the lectern."


    He thumped my shoulder with his fist, a touch reminiscent of the Mediterranean fervor, somewhat intrusive in London''s customary reserve.


    "But, since you mentioned it wasn''t easy, you must have imparted some wisdom. I anticipate the forting changes."


    Kas voiced his sentiments cheerfully. The stingy kindness of London made it challenging to believe this benevolent professor was part of this mad university. It would have seemed more natural for him to side with the victims.


    Yet, I had just borne witness to an inconceivable urrence.


    Ordinary students, with nomonality save for their affiliation with Oldcourt, were instantaneously driven to madness. Madness, it appeared, rendered all men equal.


    Side by side, we ambled along, our strides unconsciously aligning. I waspelled to concede that Professor Kas was indeed genuinely concerned about my welfare.


    As we strolled beneath the university''s g fluttering overhead, the emblem, bearing a unique ominousness, underlined the sacrilege of erecting a university atop a former monastery.


    "Isn''t it mystical? Even in such a small g, thews governing the universe are enshrined."


    I nced back at Kas. His eyes twinkled with reverence.


    "Are you referring to the emblem?"


    "The emblem was conceived by Dean   . Much akin to a sextant, the greater one''s wisdom, the clearer the insight they acquire. It closely resembles a form of foresight."


    At the mere mention of the name, a pounding headache set in.


    I was aware of their reverence for the dean, but the stories seemed steeped in mythology. Finally, I couldn''t resist voicing my skepticism.


    "Unless my memory fails me, it has been over a century and a half since the Oldcourt Monastery was transformed into Oldcourt University."


    "Ah, indeed. I speak of the inaugural dean."


    Kas rified with a heartyugh.


    "So, you''re suggesting that every dean bore the name   ?"


    "Well."


    Kas responded with uncertainty to my veiled sarcasm, which only deepened the confusion.


    "It remains unknown as to the number of generations the current dean belongs to, when they assumed office, or the criteria for appointing their sessor. Nevertheless, they havee to be collectively referred to as   ."


    "Impossible!"


    "Why? As long as we abide by and learn from his wisdom, we too may regard ourselves as an extension of   . Oldcourt functions as an incubator for cultivating another   ."


    Kas'' sudden fanatical fervor sent a chill down my spine. His allegiance was pledged not to Her Majesty the Queen nor to the Divine Father. He merely sought the wisdom bestowed upon him by the university dean.


    "Purchase truth and never part with it; cherish wisdom, instruction, and understanding."


    I swiveled my head.


    "That is a proverb of King Solomon. Does it not strike you as paradoxical? Knowledge, wisdom, instruction, understanding  they are allmendable, so why does he implore us not to part with them? Solomon indeed was a foolish king. His ignominious end was a result of his failure toprehend that wisdom stagnates when hoarded. Conversely, we are professors who earn our livelihood by imparting knowledge. Surely, we cannot adhere to the baseless words of a foolish king?"


    Kas audaciously expounded his interpretation of the King of Wisdom.


    "Oldcourt esteems the sharing of wisdom as the paramount virtue."


    I swiveled my head only to catch sight of a high stone wall separating the colleges. His notion of sharing appeared ipatible with the daunting structure.


    "I fail toprehend."


    "Dan staidar san eagna, agus sbhlfar t."


    Kas, employing his eloquence, shed a cryptic smile.


    "That''s alright. Given your wisdom, it is inevitable that you will understand someday."


    .


    .


    .


    Upon reaching Frank Mansion, I sought out Arthur directly.


    He sat alone at an ostentatiouslyrge dining table that seemed grotesquely oversized for the dining room. I finally had the chance to satiate my curiosity about Arthur''s dietary habits in the absence of a housekeeper.


    Laid out before Arthur was a meat pickle encased in sugar crystals. The so-called sauce bore a charred appearance, reminiscent of the caramelized surface of crme brle. He was cutting into it with a spoon and knife and devouring it.


    Observing him, a wave of nausea washed over me. Arthur''s pallor, too, provided a stark indicator of the taste.


    "Have some?"


    "No, thank you. Unlike you, I must reduce my sugar intake."


    He discarded his cutlery and dabbed at his mouth. The sweetness was so intense that a swarm of flies promptly descended upon the te the moment Arthur''s hand ceased moving. I had never witnessed such a revolting sight at a dining table.


    "Do you follow a simr diet?"


    "Pardon?"


    "Considering your dual nature, is your diet simrly diverse?"


    Arthur responded to my query with a grimace.


    "That is the most asinine question I''ve heard in a while, Philo."


    Despite wiping his mouth repeatedly, a sticky residue clung to his lips, prompting him to spit onto the table. Such behavior would not be exhibited by even an eight-year-old gentleman.


    "Something''s amiss at Oldcourt."


    I dove straight into the matter at hand.


    "Your disappointment is palpable every time I utter a word. I presumed you were uninterested in continuing our previous conversation regarding the academic conference and the like."


    "Your supposition was urate in that regard. I can no longer turn a blind eye to the events unfolding in London. As long as I have resolved to reside in London, I will assist with your conference. However, you must listen to me. It''s usible that the lives of hundreds of unsuspecting young men are at risk."


    "Really? That warrants listening. Pray, what did you say?"


    Arthur pushed the te aside and propped his elbows on the table. The swarm of flies dispersed from the te, radiating out like an aura.


    "Are you aware that I have been appointed as a professor at Oldcourt University?"


    "What? You never shared that."


    He let out a gasp of surprise before mumbling to himself, his voice gaining in volume.


    "  . The dean of Oldcourt. He resides there!"


    "Do you know him?"


    At my question, Arthurunched into a well-rehearsed monologue. It led me to wonder if he had prepared a script for such asions.


    "I did my due diligence. He seemed a worthy candidate to invite to the conference. Unlike the mere figureheads, he is a true schr. He maintains a low profile, yet his name features in every newspaper circted in London ofte. The only other individuals capable of such feats are the chairman of the Royal Society and  . Even in academic circles, it has be a ritual to submit papers to Oldcourt prior to publication. Can you fathom that? Those pompous schrs humbly submitted. Yet, he refrains from registering his name with the Royal Society."


    Arthur concluded his eloquent tirade with a slight squint.


    "In extending an invitation and furthering my research, I stumbled upon an odd fact. Hecks a tangible existence. Renowned schrs typically leave a trail. They append their names to conference attendee lists, dispatch lengthy and monotonous letters of protest to academic journals, and are prone to showcasing their intellect. However, this author operates strictly within the confines of Oldcourt University. I speak of the closed, dreary fortress situated in North London. Despite it being modern times, his practices resemble those of a medieval individual. I am yet to encounter someone who ims to haveid eyes on him."


    Arthur leapt from his seat. With his head cast low, he paced in an agitated manner, a perturbation of the senses that stirred the air around him.


    "The missive''s dispatch was an error. Irrespective of the man''s existence, the perils are too great. One can''t conjecture the extent of the Academic Society''s breach. Has the list of membership beenpromised? Unlikely. The buffoons of Frank are akin to a smokescreen. However deep one delves behind these motley lot, no meaningful discovery awaits."


    His anxious ramblings barely resonated within myprehension.


    Arthur was disturbed, his mind in disarray. To him, the enigmatic Dean   was an inscrutable specter.


    "Compose yourself. By God, your frenzy infects my own calm."


    "One certainty prevails  he is in contact with the Royal Society. Else, they wouldn''t have permitted his fortified stronghold in London, a feudal lord in his own right. What allure beckoned the lofty schr? What is his reciprocal offering?"


    ""


    "Philo, we are at a pivotal juncture. We must rally the dispersed members within London. Even with the Academic Society''s full preparation, I am loath to engage with the Irish recluse known as  . The timing is precarious, delicate."


    With his ceaseless pacing halted, Arthur''s countenance underwent a drastic metamorphosis. A nefarious grin twisted his lips, evocative of the Cheshire Cat from Alice''s fabled tale. He sank back into his seat,ughing with a wicked mirth.


    "Yet, an unexpected weapon hasnded in our favor. Regardless of his cunning, how could he have anticipated a plot unbeknownst even to me?"


    "Art, you surely don''t imply"


    "Philo, I seek intel on this Irish recluse known as  . His schemes behind the fortress walls of Oldcourt and the nature of his rtionship with the Society."


    His demand was direct.


    "Hundreds of young lives hang in the bnce, approach the task with gravity!"


    ""


    "Surely, you, having witnessed and endured the circumstance, are better equipped than I, who remains ignorant. I trust you to unravel the situation. We can strategize once we are better informed."


    In the face of Arthur''s stern demeanor, I was rendered speechless. Indeed, I had no retort! Acknowledging the veracity of his words, I suppressed my indignation.


    "I seek rity on a single matter."


    I ventured, holding little hope for a satisfactory response.


    "Do youprehend the meaning of Dan staidar san eagna, agus sbhlfar t''?"


    "It''s Irish."


    Arthur responded promptly.


    "Immerse yourself in wisdom, and salvation shall follow. A pedestrian y on words. Acts 16:31, Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you and your household will be saved.'' A mere modification to the initial phrase. Is such jestingmon amongst the present-day university youth?"


    I gaped in disbelief. Arthur smirked.


    "Is my knowledge of Irish so astonishing?"


    "It is indeed! Your French proficiency is questionable, yet you speak Irish?"


    "Life is brief, yet Art endures. At the tender age of twenty, what schrly aplishments could I have amassed?"


    His unabashed dismissal irked me. I was well-aware of his inclination towards academic truancy and frivolous pursuits.


    "So, did you venture to Irnd? Or perhaps Scond?"


    "Oldcourt."


    My negation made him falter.


    "One of Dean  ''s followers coined the phrase."


    "Indeed? He is of Irish descent. Remarkable that such a ce could foster talent."


    Arthur spewed his bias casually. I was not taken aback. Anti-Irish sentiment was rampant across Britain in these times. Arthur''sments were not uniquely offensive; they mirrored the societal norms of the era.


    "Art, that''s not in good taste."


    "Aye, I was rather candid in the presence of an esteemed nationalist."


    However, his barbed retort was a reflection of his sardonic disposition. Regardless of my evident displeasure, he pondered deeply, chin in hand.


    "The Royal Society has a means to bind a distinguished Irish schr. Perhaps, by promising Irish independence."


    "They are merely a group endorsed by the royals, can they make such amitment?"


    His soliloquy had left me agitated, and I interjected.


    "Can we repose faith in parliament when even the queen''s trustworthiness is suspect?"


    His reprimand fell on me as if my query was devoid of reason. His words rang true, and I drummed the table in silent frustration.


    (TO BE CONTINUED)

 Chapter 30

    Chapter 30


    PrevITOCI Next


    In the throes of my external inquiries, I maintained my duties of professorship throughout the frigid winter semester.


    Following themencement day, my ssroom adopted a state of ease, the previously teeming lecture hall now bereft of its schrs. The enduring few neither bore great passion nor hostility for me; they were the silent note-takers.


    Scarcely six souls remained, and of those, only four graced my ss with their consistent presence. I harbored a sense of guilt at this sight, a sentiment evidently perceived by one kind-hearted pupil who sought to console me.


    "It is often thus, on the inauguration of a term," she asserted, "Thy ss is not a lone anomaly."


    Yet, following her reassurances, she too vacated my ss after the next session. It would appear that my lectures failed to ignite further intrigue.


    Far from offering sce, this concern from a significantly younger schr plunged my heart into deeper despair. My zeal for teaching remained undiminished, but this peculiar predicament impeded the progression of my internal university investigation.


    I was fully cognizant of my misaligned priorities. Yet, I could not bear to neglect my professorial obligations. It was not a matter of immaturepetitiveness, but rather a staunch adherence to duty.


    In any event, my initial observations of the students at Oldcourt held true; they were serious in their academic pursuits, challenging me with profound philosophical queries post-lecture.


    As a consequence, my avable hours on the campus grounds dwindled, thus curtailing my investigative efforts, and those fleeting periods of inquiry bore little fruit.


    The influence of   was clearly discernible despite his physical absence. His fingerprints were omnipresent, yet he himself remained elusive.


    Thus, I persevered in my inquiry, albeit with limited sess.


    Oldcourt was the most intricatebyrinth crafted in the medieval epoch of Ennd.


    Corridors wound within the fortress-like walls, and beyond thenes, more walls loomed. The minor offshoots from the main corridor typically led to frustrating dead-ends, an experience that was disheartening to say the least. Despite numerous refurbishments, Oldcourt''s edifices retained much of their medieval ndestine passages.


    Students, in jest, dubbed these barren hallways Cecil Roads'', a mockery aimed at the fruitless bluster of the renowned politician and businessman, Cecil Rose, and his colonial policies.


    Yet, it was these very Cecil Roads'' that I frequented, seldom trodden by students, mapping their intricate design. From an external viewpoint, and from within, I observed a vast expanse between the walls.


    Predictably, I was convinced of the existence of concealed passages or chambers within these walls.


    Such a proposition would necessitate an entrance. As a final recourse, the thought of utilizing dynamite to breach the wall crossed my mind. However, seeking to avoid undue attention at present, I decided to reserve this drastic action as ast resort.


    Today found me yet again navigating thebyrinthine Cecil Roads. The phrase seemed absurd, but no better description presented itself. Then, I perceived a presence and halted in my tracks.


    The presence emanated from beyond a bend.


    Labored respiration reached my ears, more nasal than oral in nature. Having passed by earlier, I was certain of the cul-de-sac thaty ahead. It was not a ce one should expect to encounter another soul.


    With cane in hand, prepared for instant retaliation against a potential onught, I leaned against the wall. With utmost care, I rounded the bend, minimizing the sound of my wooden leg.


    Upon turning the corner, I was met by the sight of a woman, her nose pressed against the wall.


    "Ah."


    Upon registering my presence, the young woman withdrew her nose from the wall, wearing a visibly awkward expression.


    "What, pray tell, is thy purpose here?"


    I remained vignt. Contrarily, the fact that I recognized her necessitated even greater caution.


    Too many peculiarities converged for me to dismiss this as mere coincidence. She was the individual I had most frequently encountered and conversed with during my time at Old Court, the student I had conversed with on several asions since our initial meeting in the library three months prior.


    The Almighty would not orchestrate such frequent chance encounters without reason. Such an inadvertent meeting in this secluded location, let alone in a library or ssroom, was decidedly uncanny.


    "No, nothing."


    Her feeble protest wasden with awkwardness, her falsehood transparent. Even assuming she was lost  a likelihood that itself seemed dubious  there was no justification for venturing into such a dead-end.


    Sensing that I was not deceived, she hastily added,


    "I am fond of confining spaces. I appreciate the dark. My affection for dimly-lit, cramped spaces is even greater."


    Her utterance oscited between the realms of suspicion and childish jest.


    Despite her efforts, she seemed under the impression she had sessfully deceived me, yet her attempts bore the likeness of a child hiding behind drapery, under the misguided belief that they are invisible to an adult. Nevertheless, I allowed her to bask in the illusion of her sessful deceit.


    This made it apparent. Her presence here bore no connection to me. Prying further, even with this knowledge, would be unbing of a gentleman. For the moment, it appeared to be a matter of ady''s private affairs.


    I loosened my grip on my cane, subtly repositioning it to its original ce, unnoticed by her.


    "I understand," I offered.


    To this, her eyes widened in surprise.


    "Is that the extent of your queries? No further questions?"


    "You seem to have been raised under the watchful eye of an overbearing patriarch."


    She vehemently shook her head, akin to one reacting to a magician unveiling his secrets. The woman I had previously encountered bore the mature demeanor characteristic of university students, newly christened as adults. Yet, it seemed this was a facade maintained for societal expectations.


    "However did you discern that?"


    "How many years have you seen?"


    "I am of 18 years. I began my academic pursuit at the university at the age of 17."


    "By the age of 18, one should not anticipate the concerns of others, especially within the university sphere. You should be relishing the liberties of adulthood. Yet, you seem to expect a humble professor to probe into your personal affairs, as though you are obliged to report daily events to your patriarch post-supper."


    She nodded slowly in agreement.


    "Indeed, my father is the headmaster of Oxford University. He expects maturity from me at all times. He wishes to meddle in all aspects of my personal life."


    With a sigh of regret, I said, "That is indeed a great misfortune."


    "Why so?"


    "Because your father could not secure the position of headmaster at Cambridge."


    At my jest, the student burst into heartyughter. Herughter was unencumbered and refreshing. Despite societal norms in London deeming such outbursts of mirth from women as uncouth, her youthful demeanor made it seem fitting.


    "I would be delighted to share your jest with my father."


    "Are you at odds?"


    "Um not precisely. But my father takes too keen an interest in my acquaintances. He even acquired a dreamcatcher to ensure even my dreams are not beyond his reach."


    Her words seemedced with humor, yet her countenance bore seriousness. Regardless, she seemed far more rxed than our initial encounter.


    "From your ount, your father is indeed extraordinary"


    "Sigh It''s because you are of an age with my father."


    Now, she found humor at my expense.


    Initially, I was oblivious, but through extended discourse, I realized she possessed a considerable audacity. Her assertiveness hinted at an upbringing doused in abundant affection.


    "Oh, my apologies if I have caused offense."


    "No, it''s quite alright."


    She offered a quick nce my way before expressing her apologies. I''m unsure of the reason for her assumption, but I am not so thin-skinned as to take umbrage at a youthful schr''s jest at my expense.


    "Why find you yourself here, professor?"


    "I have lost my way. The structure of this edifice is inherently convoluted."


    I recited an excuse I had readied in anticipation of encountering someone who may question my presence.


    "Unlikely."


    To my surprise, she dismissed my excuse with swift conviction.


    "All one must do is retrace one''s steps. How could one possibly lose their way? You''ve fabricated this, haven''t you? You have reasons you wish to keep hidden, correct? I promise to uphold your secret. But in return, you must swear to never disclose my presence here. That would be equitable, would it not?"


    In truth, she was right.


    My excuse was rather clumsy. The typical Londoner, when confronted with an obvious falsehood, tends to withdraw with characteristic caution. Yet, this youngdy did not seem to adhere to this conventional behavior.


    "Solemnly?" I queried.


    However, my challenge to her peculiar choice of words seemed to startle her, and she hastily offered an exnation.


    Regardless, I was fortunate that she disyed no hostility towards me.


    From what I gathered, she was merely in her first, perhaps second, year of study, and hence perhaps hadn''t had enough time to be enamored with the dean. Whatever the case, it was fortuitous for me.


    "That''s fantastic."


    "I do notprehend your meaning."


    "Oh Is this not part of English vernacr either? It trantes to very, very good.''"


    This seemed to be yet another neologism she had conjured. The origin of her childlike expressions remained a mystery but to be frank, they were bold and engaging. The 19th century was, after all, an era when the field of linguistics was truly taking form. Regardless of whether her approach bore any schrly roots.


    Unlike a typical Londoner, she made no effort to conceal her joy, her countenanceid bare with delight. As she advanced towards me, she suddenly stumbled forward.


    Her legs, having remained stationary for an extended period, likely gave way, resulting in her forward lunge. Regardless of the cause, I managed to step forward swiftly enough to catch her.


    "Do take care."


    "Oh, indeed My thanks."


    She blinked her eyes in bewilderment. As I straightened myself, an unpleasant odor reached my senses, and I raised my head in its direction.


    A noxious scent that had not previously pervaded the entrance now assailed my nostrils with a heightened intensity as I delved deeper. It was a most odious smell, akin to decaying victuals.


    "Professor?"


    Ignoring her anxious utterance, I pressed myself against the wall. A familiar scent wafted from the other side of the barrier, a scent I''d grown ustomed to through various misadventures.


    "Kindly step back a moment."


    "Huh."


    Disregarding the student''s confusion, I closely examined the wall. I was certain that somethingy beyond, and with that conviction, I discovered a conspicuously stained stone block at the corner. Bizarrelypelled, I ced my hand on it and exerted my full force.


    Thud.


    I had encountered simr situations a handful of times before. Indeed, it bore a striking resemnce to the entrance to the cer in Frank''s mansion.


    However, this mechanism seemed to rely on a more primitive power. The sound of a pulley system echoed from within, and the wall parted to reveal a metal door.


    The student, who had reflexively shielded her head at the abrupt noise, cautiously lifted her gaze.


    "What transpired?"


    "Well, it seems we have unearthed the 201st secret passage of Oldcourt. It''s astonishing, yet not entirely unexpected."


    I endeavored to maintain an appearance of calm.


    While I had indeed foreseen an unusual discovery to some degree, I hadn''t anticipated something so tantly hidden. At most, I had expected a mere hole in the wall. A mechanism to unveil a secret passage in a medieval monastery? A ssic surprise indeed.


    Following the wall''s division, the stench intensified. Its origin undoubtedlyy beyond the door. I heard an anxious swallow nearby. At some point, the student had sidled up beside me and was transfixed by the door.


    "Observe this."


    Sensing a potential threat, I attempted to discourage her, but she fearlessly proceeded ahead, pushing open the iron door. The touch of the cold metal must have been ufortable, yet she disyed no signs of distress.


    In truth, I hadn''t intended to venture into this ce apanied. I pursued her with the intention of intervening.


    The interior was immacte. Disturbingly so.


    Contrasting with the stone and brick corridor outside, filled with frigid air, the interior was constructed of modern concrete. Moreover, Edison bulbs not present in the corridor were installed inside, their radiant heat making the room ufortably warm.


    Bone and skin saws of various dimensions adorned the walls, and to one side, containers marked "Formalin" and "Alcohol Disinfectant" were securely sealed. A potent aroma leaked from beneath their caps, hinting at their frequent use.


    Beside them, a bottle of ubelled fluid was ced. It had a clear, slightly viscous appearance, and under the artificial illumination, it shimmered beautifully, akin to a sereneke surface within a pristine forest. Yet, its beauty was tinged with an underlying sense of revulsion.


    At the room''s center was arge iron table, broad enough for a man to lie upon. It brought to mind theboratory of Dr. Frankenstein, nestled in the cer of Frank''s mansion.


    Of course, that alone wasn''t the reason I deemed it a ughterhouse.


    It was the overpowering aroma of blood.


    A potent smell of blood that had permeated the walls and floors, a scent that no amount of cleansing could expel. The damp humidity circted within the room, exuding a stench reminiscent of dposing flesh.


    <strong>Inhale, exhale.</strong>


    And beside me, she seemed to relish the smell, her face wearing an oddly entranced expression.


    "Ah, it''s fantastic."


    Aughter brimming with delight escaped her lips.


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