Reincarnated Cthulhu

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In the throes of my external inquiries, I maintained my duties of professorship throughout the frigid winter semester.

Following the commencement day, my classroom adopted a state of ease, the previously teeming lecture hall now bereft of its scholars. 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 class 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 class is not a lone anomaly."

Yet, following her reassurances, she too vacated my class after the next session. It would appear that my lectures failed to ignite further intrigue.

Far from offering solace, this concern from a significantly younger scholar 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 immature competitiveness, 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 available 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 success.

Oldcourt was the most intricate labyrinth crafted in the medieval epoch of England.

Corridors wound within the fortress-like walls, and beyond the lanes, 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 clandestine 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 a last resort.

Today found me yet again navigating the labyrinthine 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 that lay ahead. It was not a place one should expect to encounter another soul.

With cane in hand, prepared for instant retaliation against a potential onslaught, 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 vigilant. 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 occasions 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 classroom, was decidedly uncanny.

"No, nothing."

Her feeble protest was laden 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 oscillated between the realms of suspicion and childish jest.

Despite her efforts, she seemed under the impression she had successfully 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 successful deceit.

This made it apparent. Her presence here bore no connection to me. Prying further, even with this knowledge, would be unbecoming of a gentleman. For the moment, it appeared to be a matter of a lady's private affairs.

I loosened my grip on my cane, subtly repositioning it to its original place, 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 hearty laughter. Her laughter 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 seemed laced with humor, yet her countenance bore seriousness. Regardless, she seemed far more relaxed than our initial encounter.

"From your account, 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 glance 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 scholar'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 young lady 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 explanation.

Regardless, I was fortunate that she displayed 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 become enamored with the dean. Whatever the case, it was fortuitous for me.

"That's fantastic."

"I do not comprehend your meaning."

"Oh… Is this not part of English vernacular either? It translates 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 scholarly roots.

Unlike a typical Londoner, she made no effort to conceal her joy, her countenance laid 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 accustomed to through various misadventures.

"Kindly step back a moment."

"Huh…."

Disregarding the student's confusion, I closely examined the wall. I was certain that something lay beyond, and with that conviction, I discovered a conspicuously stained stone block at the corner. Bizarrely compelled, I placed my hand on it and exerted my full force.

──── Thud.

I had encountered similar situations a handful of times before. Indeed, it bore a striking resemblance to the entrance to the cellar 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 blatantly hidden. At most, I had expected a mere hole in the wall. A mechanism to unveil a secret passage in a medieval monastery? A classic surprise indeed.

Following the wall's division, the stench intensified. Its origin undoubtedly lay 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 uncomfortable, yet she displayed no signs of distress.

In truth, I hadn't intended to venture into this place accompanied. I pursued her with the intention of intervening.

The interior was immaculate. 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 uncomfortably 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 unlabelled fluid was placed. It had a clear, slightly viscous appearance, and under the artificial illumination, it shimmered beautifully, akin to a serene lake surface within a pristine forest. Yet, its beauty was tinged with an underlying sense of revulsion.

At the room's center was a large iron table, broad enough for a man to lie upon. It brought to mind the laboratory of Dr. Frankenstein, nestled in the cellar of Frank's mansion.

Of course, that alone wasn't the reason I deemed it a slaughterhouse.

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 circulated within the room, exuding a stench reminiscent of decomposing flesh.

─────Inhale, exhale.

And beside me, she seemed to relish the smell, her face wearing an oddly entranced expression.

"Ah, it's fantastic."

A laughter brimming with delight escaped her lips.

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