Reincarnated Cthulhu
Chapter 31: Red Bud

Surrounded by a stench so foul it choked the breath from my lungs, the young woman stood as if in a perfumed garden, enraptured by the scent.

“Isn’t it deliciously chilling?” she asked me. Or perhaps she was merely speaking to herself, for she continued without awaiting my response.

“I adore this smell. It takes me back to my innocent childhood. Those carefree, peaceful days. Nostalgia. Mirror. Summers with flamingos. Heart. The scent of coal. Black sun and firefighter and engineer. Blue rose. Stonehenge towering ten times my height.”

Disconnected words tumbled from her lips in strange succession. In that moment, she was a poet—the world’s most lyrical lunatic. Behind her vacant eyes, childlike wonder drifted serenely like glitter in a snow globe.

Only then did I comprehend what had transpired. What she had been doing at the dead end of that passage.

She hadn’t detected this connecting room, but she had sensed her beloved aroma emanating from beyond the wall. And like flies drawn to rotting fish, she had pressed herself against the wall for hours, bewitched by that scent.

I grasped the shoulder of the swaying student and halted her progress.

“Oh?”

Caught in my grip, her body tilted backward. A dull sound escaped her lips.

“I’m beginning to understand your father’s overprotectiveness. Have you always had such an affinity for the smell of blood?”

At this, her eyes widened with genuine shock.

“This is… blood?”

There was something disturbingly theatrical about her response. What must it be like to fall in love with the scent of blood without knowing its nature? Though somewhat fascinating, I chose not to pursue the matter.

“That simply can’t be right…”

Leaving her to her quiet bewilderment, I stepped into the room proper.

I had no intention of bringing the student further into the depths, but having ventured this far, I refused to leave empty-handed. Seeking evidence I could take as a souvenir of sorts, I approached several glass bottles without labels.

“Formalin,” “Alcohol Disinfectant,” and unnamed vessels of glass.

I withdrew my flask from within my coat, its contents sloshing audibly. Then I drained it in a single draught. Hot whiskey cascaded down my throat, vividly tracing the anatomical path from esophagus to stomach.

Expelling the lingering alcohol vapor from my tongue, I carefully unscrewed the bottle before me. The lid was slick with transparent liquid, making the fingertips of my leather gloves slip slightly.

At worst, I thought it might be hydrochloric acid, but it seemed benign as neither my gloves nor flask showed damage upon contact. I submerged the flask deeply, filling it with the mysterious clear substance.

I couldn’t identify it now, but Dr. Frankenstein the chemist would surely provide answers.

As I contemplated this, the previously dazed student suddenly rushed toward me. She clutched my arm with surprising strength.

“We must leave now! We shouldn’t be here!”

Though not forceful enough to drag me away, her desperate manner caused me to instinctively cap the bottle and step backward. Glancing back at her, I saw her eyes remained as hazy as a sleepwalker’s, but if she truly was dreaming, it was certainly a nightmare.

“Hurry!”

Realizing she couldn’t physically move me, she pleaded with urgent desperation. Perhaps she had belatedly noticed something frightening like a saw, or perhaps—I mused—she had been raised as a pampered child at home, unaccustomed to such sights.

As much as I longed to explore further, this seemed the perfect moment for a strategic retreat.

I could resume my investigation later, but if any harm came to her, I would be consumed by remorse. The tragedy that befell Madame Curie still haunted the darkest corners of my mind.

Besides, I saw no reason to object when this spirited young lady was urging our departure of her own accord.

I surrendered to her insistent tugging. She pulled at me with surprising strength, and I found myself entertaining the ridiculous sentiment that had I fathered a daughter early in life, she might be about this age now. Just as we exited the room and the iron door sealed behind us—

Tsk

A contemptuous click of the tongue sounded from behind us.

The wall had sealed itself shut.

I froze, staring at the now-seamless barrier. Someone—or something—had been lurking in that supposedly empty room. An entity harboring malevolent intent had been mere steps behind us.

“Don’t stop. Keep your head down.”

The young student displayed a composure unsettling in one so young. Though her body trembled visibly, she moved with the calculated precision of someone well-practiced in such evasions.

We walked in tense silence until we reached the main corridor frequented by students. Only then did she release my arm and fix me with an accusatory glare.

“Really, Professor, it’s entirely your fault my face was seen! If you hadn’t dawdled so long! I’ve never been discovered before…”

Thoroughly incensed, she spoke with unprecedented volume. She resembled nothing so much as an indignant child.

“How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“I failed to notice it until it was practically breathing down my neck. How did you detect that invisible presence?”

I had always prided myself on my heightened awareness—the sort of battlefield instincts that only a seasoned veteran could claim. However, this incident had delivered a sobering lesson in humility.

Upon reflection, she had reacted far too quickly for someone merely responding to visual cues.

Even if that entity moved at merely human speed, she had sensed its presence long before it entered the chamber.

“Professor… you’re not nearly as wise as I expected. Especially for someone who has experienced so much.”

Her features betrayed profound disappointment. I couldn’t fathom what had so disillusioned her, but her newfound distance was palpable.

“What precisely is this ‘wisdom’ you speak of? I understand now that you don’t mean wisdom in the conventional sense. Acting Dean Callas referred to it as a sixth sense.”

“Sixth sense—not an inappropriate description. Wisdom is insight… the natural enemy of the Invisible.”

She hesitated before continuing her explanation.

“Truthfully, I don’t fully understand it either. Some claim it emanates from the cosmos, others insist it originates in the brain. What’s certain is that those who possess it perceive more than ordinary people.”

“More, you say?”

“Literally, more. Our world teems with things that exist yet remain unseen. Do you know why? It’s the brain’s doing. The feeble human mind cannot comprehend these things, so it simply refuses to perceive them. But wisdom matures the brain, allowing one to witness what humans were never meant to see… I apologize, you probably can’t grasp what I’m trying to explain, can you?”

Her voice carried a note of resignation.

“I’m well aware that numerous entities exist beyond the threshold of human perception. I understood everything except for your characterization of our minds as ‘feeble,’ so please don’t concern yourself.”

“Is that so?”

Hearing my response, her face brightened incongruously against our dire circumstances. Disappointment one moment, delight the next—her emotions flitted about like butterflies in a storm.

“Do all Oldcourt students share your vision?”

She shook her head firmly.

“No, only me. My fellow students lack sufficient wisdom.”

Unfortunately, I knew that most of this fantastical narrative was rooted in truth. I had witnessed firsthand how fragile the human mind truly is, and how our world seethes with unseen malevolence.

“Can you see them now? Those invisible entities?”

“This university teems with them. Countless beings without brains. No eyes, no hair, no eyebrows, not even foreheads. They always creep along the walls.”

I instinctively began to turn toward the nearest wall. She clutched my lapel with surprising force.

“Never look directly at them. They’ve already glimpsed your face, so you must keep your head lowered at all times.”

Her urgent whisper carried genuine fear. Undeniably, she possessed knowledge far beyond the apparent. It was an eerie, almost impossible perception, particularly striking given her failure to locate that conspicuous mechanism concealed in the wall.

“You speak as though you’ve witnessed future events unfold.”

“Well… it’s not entirely different. The future is ultimately invisible too, so one truly wise might pierce that veil as well. Ah… this proves remarkably difficult to articulate.”

She offered no denial of my assertion.

“Do you possess such foresight?”

“I’m not… entirely certain. When younger, I believe I perceived a greater breadth of things.”

At that moment, my thoughts inexplicably turned to the Oracle.

If wisdom entails glimpsing the future, then that mechanical wonder must be the wisest entity in existence. By extension, what of ■■■ ■■ ■■■, purportedly the wisest among mortals? Does his wisdom likewise extend to foreseeing what is yet to come?

“Very well, let us assume it’s all true.”

“It is all true….” she muttered with a hint of indignation.

“But something remains utterly inexplicable. Until this contradiction is resolved, your entire account stretches credulity beyond its limits.”

“What contradiction?”

“You.”

I fixed her with a penetrating gaze. She blinked, genuinely bewildered.

“You possess insight into the atrocities unfolding here. You’re aware that malevolent entities threatening humanity stalk these halls. Yet you inexplicably remain at this university—why?”

Her puzzled expression persisted. I continued, my frustration mounting.

“Is it the Dean’s influence? As you’ve witnessed today, ■■■ ■■ ■■■ is a figure of dubious origin and intent. He’s orchestrating some sinister design involving the students here. Were I in your position, I would have fled this place and never ventured within miles of it again.”

Finally comprehending my point, her lips parted in realization.

Then, the most disconcertingly bashful expression overtook her features. It stood in perfect contrast to the ecstatic fervor displayed by her fellow students. Still harboring a child’s innocence, she whispered like a young girl entrusting me alone with her most precious secret.

“Only here can I recapture fragments of my childhood memories. That’s why I remain. Oh, to return just once more to those blissful, golden days…”

Her childlike spirit was clouded and red.

I returned home at dusk. The student and I had promised to keep today’s events a secret between us, and she had vowed never to visit that hidden room alone again.

Upon opening the front door, I sensed an unfamiliar presence inside.

It wasn’t Marie’s. I’d recently discovered that she no longer gave off a human presence. If anything, she resembled a well-wound timepiece.

“Marie, do we have a visitor?”

If so, it would be most peculiar. Since becoming aware of her transformation, Marie hadn’t received guests in my absence.

No answer came. I followed the presence instinctively, approaching the drawing room. From beyond the door came a low, somber male voice. I knew its owner all too well.

—Click.

“Dr. Frankenstein.”

The thin man thus named merely turned his head toward me and offered a silent bow.

“What brings you to an unattended home?”

“The weather is frightfully cold… Is it London custom to leave visitors standing outside in winter?”

He spoke first as though making an excuse, then curtly, as if possessed of two distinct personalities.

“Marie. Please serve some tea.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“Very well? In that case, you may attend to your duties.”

Marie, who had been seated, rose from her chair, bowed her head, and withdrew. Though she’d become more talkative than before, she remained reserved compared to when she was alive.

I took the seat she had vacated and faced Frankenstein.

“You’re late. Is it Oldcourt business?”

“You answer me first.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Is it about Marie?”

“I thought you might have killed her by now.”

His tone was disagreeable, yet he himself remained perfectly composed.

“No signs of self-harm, no evidence of confinement—impressive results. Perhaps she should have been fashioned from wax from the beginning. It feels as though humanity has stepped a little further from death’s door.”

“Let me be clear—don’t use me as your benchmark.”

At that, Frankenstein nodded as if suddenly recalling something.

“Ah yes, you consumed that perfect rationality distilled from human essence.”

“Where did you hear that?”

The question was unnecessary. I received my answer as soon as I asked.

“You’re aware Arthur suffers from delirium, aren’t you? Take most of what he says with considerable skepticism.”

He must have enthusiastically shared my tale with Frankenstein. My head already ached imagining how he might have embellished my adventure.

“I heard it was Dr. Jekyll’s final work. Having imbibed the ultimate creation of such a genius, I suppose you would hardly serve as an appropriate specimen.”

“You know something of him?”

“No chemistry student would be ignorant of him. The Royal Society never had a finer chemist. Losing such a mind to an accident is a tremendous loss for our age.”

Frankenstein spoke with what appeared to be genuine regret. Dr. Frankenstein evaluating Dr. Jekyll—what a fantastically absurd tableau.

Nevertheless, I gleaned much from this brief exchange.

About Arthur’s intentions, specifically. Frankenstein showed no animosity toward the Royal Society. He remained ignorant of the relationship between Frank Academy and the Royal Society.

The implication was clear. Arthur did not trust Frankenstein. In retrospect, Arthur had me deliver that letter to Frankenstein from the beginning, its contents encrypted. Thus he had left me a veiled warning.

For once, I found myself in agreement with Arthur’s judgment. Frankenstein was concealing a dangerous secret.

“Was that your only business here?”

“Would I have any other reason to visit? Now, kindly answer my question.”

Frankenstein echoed my earlier words. Naturally, I had no reason to withhold an answer.

“Indeed, as you’ve likely heard, suspicious incidents are occurring within Oldcourt. I believe ■■■ ■■ ■■■, the dean, is implicated in all these events. Since we’re discussing it, would you examine this?”

I withdrew a flask from inside my coat and extended it to him.

“There’s a meticulously concealed room within the university. This liquid was found there.”

He regarded the flask with skeptical eyes, then drew it toward himself with the cautious movements of a wary predator.

“May I touch or smell it?”

“I’ve done both, and remain perfectly sound.”

“Couldn’t you employ more scientific terminology to inspire confidence?”

“I’ve conducted an empirical test upon my person.”

“That isn’t what I meant…”

He muttered some unintelligible complaint as he unsealed the flask. Then, bringing it near his face, he wafted the air toward his nose with a hand.

“It carries the scent of alcohol.”

“Yes, until several hours ago, it contained whiskey.”

I averted my gaze from Frankenstein’s. Eventually, perhaps abandoning the olfactory analysis, he tilted the flask over the back of his hand. A slightly viscous liquid flowed across his skin. It remained clear yet bore that disturbing hue.

“What else was present in the room where you discovered this?”

“Formalin. Alcohol disinfectant. And approximately four varieties of saw blades. The bottle containing this liquid was uniquely unlabeled, and the largest among them. Can you identify it?”

“How large was the bottle?”

“Roughly two gallons, I’d estimate.”

I demonstrated with my hands while recalling its dimensions. Two gallons—approximately ten liters in volume.

“For a conclusive result, proper laboratory examination would be necessary, but my immediate assessment is…”

Frankenstein stirred the pooled liquid on his hand with his finger, deliberately drawing out the moment.

“This is cerebrospinal fluid.”

“What?”

I furrowed my brow.

“The transparent liquid that cushions the brain within the cranium. This specimen suggests the work of an extraordinarily skilled surgeon—or perhaps one who developed a specialized extraction technique. Normally, when breaching the skull, blood or bone particulates inevitably contaminate the sample. Yet this is remarkably pure, without a trace of blood. They must have precisely excised a section where no major vessels traverse the cranium.”

He touched his own head with the fluid-coated finger. I found the gesture revolting, but he was indicating the region of his skull devoid of significant vasculature.

“I’ve never conducted precise measurements, but assuming approximately 0.3—no, closer to 0.35 gallons of cerebrospinal fluid per human subject, one could calculate that the bottle contained the extracted essence of six individuals. How peculiar to quantify fluid in terms of human lives.”

People without brains. The phrase suddenly surfaced in my mind.

“Once removed from the body, cerebrospinal fluid deteriorates more rapidly than any other biological material. The absence of putrefaction suggests a recent extraction. If this analysis is correct, your suspicions are validated. Something truly abhorrent is transpiring at Oldcourt.”

Having completed his calculations, he murmured with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

“Assuming, of course, this is indeed cerebrospinal fluid… A proper laboratory examination would yield more conclusive results.”

“Keep the flask. I doubt I shall ever desire to drink from it again.”

As I finished speaking, he reluctantly tucked my flask inside his coat. A moment of silence fell between us before he finally acknowledged our business concluded and rose from his seat.

“Ah, regarding that Dean ■■■ ■■ ■■■ you mentioned.”

Frankenstein, while fastening his collar, spoke as though something had just occurred to him.

“I wasn’t aware that was a person’s name. Does such an individual truly exist? I had assumed it was merely some arcane tradition in British academia.”

“What do you mean?”

Frankenstein narrowed his eyes, appearing surprised by my ignorance.

“Since 1727, every paper published by the Royal Society bears the name ■■■ ■■ ■■■ listed among its co-authors. If this person truly exists, they would be at least 169 years old this year.”