Ch.23Ch.3 – My Miskatonic Comrades (3)

We each went to our hotel rooms and unpacked. We decided to leave the two potential protagonists alone for now. There wasn’t much to do anyway. I’m in room 204, Crayfield is in room 202.

The hotel room was spacious for a single. One bed, two chairs, a round table, and a separate bathroom.

On the table were today’s Arkham Times and a small radio. The purple curtains hanging from the window didn’t have a speck of dust or a single stain.

It’s a bit expensive for lodging near a university, but it’s worth the money. The floorboards didn’t even creak.

After unpacking, I gathered my equipment. Colt revolver in the holster at my waist. Chekhov in the shoulder holster inside my jacket. And a portable Doomsday Clock on my wrist—fully armed.

Unlike the Colt, the Chekhov is almost weightless, so I need to be careful to secure the holster’s lock.

Finally, I tore off a small piece of the Arkham Times’ advertisement section and folded it twice. I placed the paper under the hinge, then closed and locked the door.

It was a precaution to know if someone had entered the room in my absence.

Crayfield was waiting in the hall.

Given his personality, I doubt he unpacked meticulously—probably just left his bag as is. We left our keys with the owner, letting him know that cleaning wouldn’t be necessary today.

“If you haven’t had dinner yet, don’t eat at Miskatonic University. Try ‘The Red Herring’ around the corner. Their dried cod dish is quite good.”

Perhaps it was a place run by the bald owner’s relative or wife, but we set off, grateful for a kindness not easily found on Pollard Island.

We planned to first visit Miskatonic University to meet Agent Catherine Scully, hear about the situation, and then meet the professor in question.

“I don’t like it,” Crayfield muttered quietly.

“I trust you know that when a protagonist appears, the Doomsday Clock points to 1 o’clock. The protagonist search function wasn’t really necessary because of how this game works. Initially, they were always set to find me first.”

Two men walked from across the street. Judging by their attire, they looked like construction workers.

Crayfield paused briefly, lit a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. Unlike at the office, his lighter worked on the first try this time.

After confirming the workers had passed, we continued walking.

“But now that rule has changed. They did find me, but not directly—indirectly. And something happened before they even met me.”

The smell of rotten mud wafted from the distance again. It seemed to be the stench coming from the Miskatonic River.

The odor was so nauseating that even the cigarette smoke escaping from Crayfield’s mouth seemed to disperse in disgust.

“Having more playable characters is possible, I suppose. It’s evidence that the game is being updated. Previous titles were the same. Characters other than ‘John Crayfield’ were added. Especially in this case, where diverse protagonists are the motto.

In fact, it’s characteristic of Cthulhu stories to have characters from various backgrounds and professions navigating crises suited to their backgrounds.

So you wouldn’t have an Innsmouth fisherman exploring a noble family’s mansion, or someone without scientific knowledge exploring the Mountains of Madness.

I understand why this stage is Miskatonic University. The protagonist is a female college student, and there’s no university on Pollard Island. However…”

Crayfield tilted his head upward. The sky was full of clouds, made even more turbid by dust and smoke.

“However, I feel disgustingly like I’m being pushed to the periphery. I suspect something up there is becoming aware.

It’s rather fortunate that you got your detective license.

Actually, I have an idea of what’s happening. I know what we’re up against. I realized it after seeing that photo.

But I’m hesitant to tell you in advance.”

Whisk. The cigarette butt flew onto the road. The cunning detective moistened his lips with his tongue.

“My friend, why would I disregard you? Do I seem like that type?

I think it’s unfair how Conan Doyle made Dr. Watson increasingly stupid, with Sherlock Holmes treating him like, ‘You don’t need to know. You wouldn’t understand even if I told you.’

It’s just that there are too many uncertainties in my hypothesis. I fear my words might constrain your free thinking and actions.

Unnecessary caution? Yes, perhaps.”

We spotted the restaurant the bald owner had mentioned. Turning the corner, we saw Miskatonic University’s entrance and the imposing campus buildings behind high walls.

The buildings themselves were tall and stretched out horizontally, giving the impression of facing a fortress.

“But remember this. This is Arkham. No matter how you walk, it’s different from Pollard Island with its beaches and seagulls.

The more you walk, the more different scenery you encounter, and the more people you meet, the more diverse kinds of goodwill and malice you face—that’s what a metropolis is.

Isn’t that why cities are frightening? People are wary of each other, yet when they turn away, they voyeuristically observe one another. Doesn’t that disharmony sometimes paint a terrible abstraction?”

We approached Miskatonic more closely. The first thing that caught our eye was a gaunt iron arch.

Rather than the entrance to one of America’s prestigious universities, it looked so shabby and messy that it could have been mistaken for a slaughterhouse sign.

Beneath it were temporary outposts and soldiers. All soldiers were carrying rifles. An officer with a pistol at his waist was inspecting everyone entering and exiting.

“How can I help you?”

An officer with a lieutenant’s insignia looked up at Crayfield. He was somewhat short in stature.

“We’re here at the request of the Federal Bureau of Security. I’m private detective John Crayfield, and this is my assistant. Nice uniform, Lieutenant.”

“And what’s your business?”

The lieutenant’s voice was hoarse. Well, anyone would get a sore throat standing for long periods under such a hazy sky.

“We’re here at the request of Federal Agent Henry Payne. I can’t share the details, but…”

“Let me verify that.”

The lieutenant signaled, and a soldier made a phone call. Judging by how long it was taking, it seemed to require some time.

Meanwhile, two college students left the school, and three entered. Whether leaving or entering, everyone’s ID was checked against a list.

The college students didn’t spare their quiet curses and disgusted looks. I could understand why the soldiers’ eyes looked so lifeless.

“Confirmed. If you go to the medical building, second floor, research professor’s office, you’ll find Agent Catherine Scully.”

Despite hearing this, Crayfield didn’t move.

“You’re doing tough work. Really.”

The officer’s expression softened slightly at those words. Behind his rigid face, fatigue was evident.

“Being everyone’s punching bag isn’t fun. What’s even more fucked up is that if shit hits the fan, it’s me and my boys who have to protect these wet-behind-the-ears kids.”

“Everyone seems on edge.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

The officer shifted his body with a grunt.

“I’m an ROTC graduate myself. I’ve been through college. Two students’ heads explode during exam period, and the campus gets locked down?

When you meet that government agent, please convey our grievances. Ask them to lift the lockdown. I really don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I’ll be sure to remember.”

The scene inside the campus was just as bleak. Outposts were everywhere with soldiers sitting around.

Their rifles were leaned against walls, but the soldiers’ fatigue was apparent. Throughout the campus, signs both supporting and mocking the soldiers were planted like blooming flowers.

Near the entrance was a wooden board with a map of the buildings. We were at the north gate.

The medical building was right next door, and the observatory was located in an annex below the south gate of the campus.

The tall, elongated, imposing building was the main hall, with its pointed spire and roaring gargoyles clearly visible even from here.

We headed toward the medical building.

* * * * *

April 16, 1929. 5:13 PM

Outside the Research Professor’s Office, Miskatonic University Medical Building

Outside the research professor’s office, Crayfield cleared his throat a couple of times, spat a bit of saliva onto his hand, and fixed his hair.

With his left hand in his pocket, he lightly knocked on the research professor’s office door twice with his right. Knock knock.

“Can I help you?”

The answer came not from behind the door but from the side of the corridor.

She was a blonde woman with a reddish tinge to her hair. Her bob cut with an oblique parting cast a slight shadow on one side of her face.

She wore round, thin gold-rimmed glasses, which seemed to soften her fierce impression created by her large eyes with upturned corners.

Her long, slender neck and narrow shoulders were perfectly straight, showing no sign of the stooped posture typical of scholars.

Rather, there was a palpable tension about her, as if she were leaning against an invisible wall.

A sharp scalpel. Keen. Always tense and razor-edged, yet somehow fragile.

But the kind of fragility that would cut you if you reached out to fill it. That was the atmosphere this woman exuded.

Crayfield’s visible discomfort was probably due to this.

“Ah. Um. Well, that is, I’m here on Henry Payne’s recommendation.”

“Come in.”

The woman opened the door.

Though called a research professor’s office, it contained only bookshelves packed with yearbooks, a long table, chairs, and a desk.

The desk was meticulously organized with labeled documents, folders, and medical textbooks. There was not a single personal item in sight. Not even a notebook with a cute drawing, which one might expect.

“Let me introduce myself properly. I’m private detective John Crayfield. This is my assistant.”

Crayfield extended his hand, but the woman merely raised an eyebrow slightly. Only after a red-faced Crayfield took out his handkerchief and wiped his hand could they shake hands.

“Federal Bureau of Security Special Agent Catherine Scully. Badge number 85224.”

As soon as Agent Catherine Scully sat down, Crayfield immediately asked a question.

“Why do federal agents always state their badge numbers? Henry Payne did the same.”

“It’s because of the many impostors. It’s a directive issued because attempts to thwart police searches using the Federal Bureau of Security’s name have been observed everywhere. Any nearby government office can verify it for you.”

After finishing her answer, Scully shuffled through some documents.

“John Crayfield. You’re from Pollard Island, correct? I’ve heard a lot about you from Dr. Gregory Hugh regarding the Becket O’Brien diagnosis.”

“I thought you didn’t like me, but it was because of a very bad preconception?”

“You’re quite assertive.”

Scully smiled faintly. As she tilted her head slightly, the shadow covering her forehead lengthened.

“I don’t think of it as good or bad. I think you did well with the O’Brien case. If it had been any later, the optimal time for treatment would have been missed.”

“How is that child doing?”

“He was severely traumatized. He appeared fine on the outside, but his inner state was completely different. It’s one of the very unusual cases, and I plan to report it to the academic community soon. The prognosis is quite unique.”

“Is that all?”

Crayfield’s voice was tinged with concern and worry. Scully shook her head slightly.

“He’ll be treated at another hospital in Arkham. His wife who came with him is very dedicated, and he himself has a strong will, so I believe he’ll overcome it well.”

In the end, Becket O’Brien and Audrey registered their marriage at the city hall. It’s not well known how Burroway’s father reacted, but seeing that Audrey is still moving around here and there, she probably wasn’t kicked out.

“The real problem is right here.”

Catherine Scully tapped the desk lightly a couple of times with her finger.

“I don’t know how much you’ve heard from Agent Henry Payne, but I’ll tell you as much as I can. Let’s talk after you look at this report.”

Agent Scully handed over a short piece of paper.

The dead students were discovered by a janitor around 7:20 AM on April 14th.

They were found in the shortwave radio broadcasting room on the second floor of the astronomy building, which was normally used as the campus radio station and on weekends and evenings by club members.

The faculty advisor is astronomer Professor Mark Bravery.

The names of the deceased students are Mickey Howland and Olson Noble. Mickey was a sophomore in the English department, and Olson was a freshman in the physics department. Both were members of the campus broadcasting club.

There wasn’t a drop of blood at the scene. The autopsy revealed that their bodies were filled with plant stems and roots.

Moreover, there were no “internal organs” left in the bodies of the deceased.

Some muscle and fat layers were damaged, and the bones were mostly intact except for the skulls, which were completely shattered and scattered on the floor.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Crayfield groaned and turned away.

“What’s the conclusion of this report, Agent?”

“The plants grew using their organs as nutrients. If our assumption is correct, they first absorbed the weaker parts—the internal organs and blood. Fine roots had penetrated along the muscles and fat.”

“You say that without batting an eye?”

Crayfield completely frowned. The window suddenly darkened. Even the sun seemed to hide behind the smog, as if concealing itself from such cruelty.

“The Soviets are maintaining silence, but we’ve heard that the same thing happened in England. On the same day, at the same time as when the incident occurred at the Massachusetts base.”

Agent Scully sighed softly.

“Yes. It’s horrific. But what’s truly horrific is something else. Car accidents happen occasionally. In wars, soldiers kill each other. It’s tragic, but predictable.

But radio is different. It’s something everyone is familiar with, something they interact with ‘routinely.’

Yet we don’t know who’s behind this, what methods they used, or how to deal with it.”

Scully stood up. She looked out the dark window. Despite the bright light, the sky remained turbid. In fact, the brightness only accentuated the cloudiness and murkiness.

“Mr. Crayfield. The truly horrifying point is this: when you realize that everyday life can be easily destroyed with just a small gesture,

when you understand how ridiculously fragile the things you’ve taken for granted all your life can be, a person can never live as before.

If everyone in the world starts thinking, ‘We were not safe. We are not safe at all.'”

“If they do?”

Scully turned around. Now her voice sounded like a whisper.

“This world would become hell.”