Reincarnated Cthulhu

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 become 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 flag 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 clashing together. But the younger generation of this era was different. They lacked 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 ancient law and gun regulations, but such matters did not pique my interest. 

I was more concerned about the rise of unregulated cars and the accidents they would cause. 

I comprehend 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 explained. "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 played 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, reluctantly complying 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 scholars 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 planning 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, comforted by the gentle swaying of the carriage.

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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 alacrity. My restlessness in sleep had become a habit since the days of my martial service.

Assisted by the coachman, I alighted from the carriage with some difficulty, noting my discomfort 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 place. If you tell me the time, Ill come 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 display 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 unbecoming 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 plants 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 display, 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 accord. 

The revelation 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 claustrophobic sensation was almost unbearable.

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

KNOCK KNOCK! 

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. 

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

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.

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

"I implore you, good sir, to scrutinize the register anew!" I exclaimed with mounting trepidation. But alas, 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

KNOCK KNOCK

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 place.

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 floccinaucinihilipilification'? That may be me," I offered tentatively, my words laced 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.

"Flocci nauci nihili pilifi cation," I repeated, enunciating each syllable 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.

Floccinaucinihilipilification 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 Floccinaucinihilipilification, 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 explanations. 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 dismissive laugh. "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.

Knock, knock. 

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

I heard a chuckle from within, unmistakably Arthur's voice. "Thank you, but it is Floccinaucinihilipilification. 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 impudent landlord.

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

I recognized him immediately: it was Arthur Frank, and he looked exactly the same as the last time I saw him. I was appalled. How could he have not aged a day in twenty years? "What is this?" I exclaimed, 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 me complain and offered to take my cane. I recoiled at the suggestion, lashing 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 occurrences. 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 to laugh 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 one lacking in the ordinary.

To this, Arthur simply chuckled. "Haha, do I lack 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 was completely 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 placed 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 exclaimed, barely containing my outrage.

Arthur chuckled at my reaction. "Hahaha, I knew you'd come 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 glare with complete 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 you compare 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 contemplating, 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!"

BANG! 

Arthur slammed 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 and lacked 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 placed on the table, my eyes were transfixed on one particular feature, as if it were a nail holding them in place. 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 had come to life before me.