Ch.25Ch.3 – My Miskatonic Comrades (5)

On the surface, Crayfield appears relaxed. But he’s hiding his tightly clenched fists under his sleeves. His knuckles were white from the pressure.

“An interesting story.”

Crayfield finally broke the silence. Dr. Waitley grinned widely.

“Of course, it must be hard to believe!”

“Everything has changed since last year. The ‘Dunwich Horror’ case with Wilbur Whateley. It was reported in both the ‘Arkham Advertiser’ and the ‘AP Wire.’ The story of an unprecedented monster raised on Dunwich moonshine.”

“Since you know that story, perhaps…”

“I live on Pollard Island.”

Waitley nodded.

“I thought as much. It’s unfortunate. If only Professor Henry Armitage were here! He’s on sabbatical. Still quite vigorous, despite being at an age where retirement wouldn’t be surprising. Professors Warren Rice and Francis Morgan are also taking a break until the end of this semester. If even one of them were here, this case would have been solved already.”

Somehow, it seemed Gordon had more to say. He tucked in his chin and looked at us alternately with a somewhat mischievous tone.

“Well? I’m a ‘Whateley’ too, but do I look strange to you?”

“Wilbur Whateley and his twin brother clearly committed wrongdoing.”

Crayfield began slowly.

“But there were other ‘Whateleys’ at the scene as well. Old Zebulon Whateley, who exposed the family’s shame, and brave Curtis Whateley, who directly witnessed the beast’s appearance and reported its features. And honestly, I believe whether human or vampire, as long as they obey the law and pay their taxes, there’s no problem.”

Waitley apologized politely.

“I’m sorry. It seems I’ve ended up testing you both. That wasn’t my intention.”

Crayfield smiled graciously.

“Not at all. You must have faced many hardships.”

“I’d be lying if I said otherwise. Having lived with this appearance my whole life, I thought I was used to people’s stares, but last year was truly difficult.”

There was sadness in Waitley’s tone.

“It happened a week after the Dunwich incident. I was walking down Arkham Street when someone poured a bucket of water on me from above. There were rag scraps mixed in.

Since then, I’ve become conscious of looking up whenever I walk. People who don’t know the situation ask, ‘What’s wrong, are you crazy?’

Then I have to explain what happened to me. Repeating it over and over again.”

Crayfield silently waited for him to continue.

“Similar incidents happened two, three times. Someone wrote insults in paint on our front door, and the same terror occurred at my office door.

The things to fear and worry about have increased. Eventually, I became too exhausted to even explain myself.

Nothing major has happened since, but I still feel that sinking feeling in my stomach every morning when I go to work.”

“You’ve endured well.”

“At least I have a profession. I have work to do, and many supporters, including Dean Eckerman.”

Waitley caressed the armrest of his chair.

“Still, I sometimes imagine. What if there were a truly equal world? What kind of place would it be where everyone receives the same level of respect?

A dreamlike, ideal world where no one is discriminated against for looking different, where everyone is equal.

But look. Hasn’t such a world come one step closer now?”

“Do you mean the Soviet Union?”

“The Soviet Union has failed.”

The frog-like professor declared.

“Stalin is driving everyone out. He wields legitimacy like a weapon. Someone may be more right than others, but that doesn’t mean they can torture and beat others to death. I believe if only one righteousness remains in the world, that itself is dictatorship. But. If we could make America such a country…”

Gordon Waitley’s eyes sparkled with fervor. It was the face of someone introducing a truth they believe in and follow. It seemed as if not his brain, nor his tongue, but the passion in his heart, a sacred fire, was speaking through him. But as belated self-awareness came to him, his neck and cheeks turned red. He was shy and embarrassed.

“Well. I’ve kept you both too long. You must be busy?”

“No, not at all. By the way, a reading discussion during exam period—will there be many participants?”

“It’s Miskatonic’s academic culture. Activities outside of classes are just as important as the courses themselves. That’s the foundation that has allowed us to remain a leading American university despite numerous incidents.”

“Ah. Just one more thing. Are there ‘no’ midterm exams for all Folklore Department courses?”

“None. After last year’s incident, Professor Henry Armitage earnestly requested Dean Eckerman to allow at least the Folklore students to focus on recording and preserving the tales and traditions of Arkham and its surroundings. The argument was that if there had been more attention to folklore, the damage from the Dunwich incident could have been reduced.”

“Was the report submission deadline this week?”

“No, it was a week ago. Ha ha, the students complained so much! But what our young friends overlook is that professors were once students who only started working on assignments as deadlines approached. So isn’t it better to submit reports early with peace of mind and focus on the remaining exams?”

“Very true. I’m not saying this as a graduate. Anyway, I apologize for taking so much of your time.”

As Crayfield stood up, Gordon Waitley followed suit. Crayfield slowly and gently shook hands with him in farewell.

As soon as they reached the fourth-floor landing, Crayfield hid in a corner. He put his index finger to his lips, signaling to be quiet. When the footsteps and voices faded, he whispered.

“Assistant. Ann Molly is the protagonist.”

Crayfield’s reasoning is as follows:

The Doomsday Clock increases by 1 when the protagonist appears. And after their appearance, it increases by one each time a strange event occurs or information about the truth is obtained.

If Marie Shelley were the protagonist, it should have increased by 1 just from her appearance.

It should have increased by 1 more when she wrote the report on the Breath Cult, and again by 1 when that terrible incident occurred.

But the clock points to 2.

“If Ann Molly is the protagonist, everything fits. It became 1 o’clock when she appeared, and 2 o’clock when the terrible incident occurred. In other words, our Political Science student Ann Molly knows nothing about what’s happening now.”

Crayfield didn’t look pleased at all. Rather, the opposite. He growled, fidgeted, and sighed.

“Why am I upset? Isn’t something strange? Our protagonist ‘isn’t doing anything.’ It’s no different from entering a game and just sitting there with it turned on. Is she just enjoying campus life at Miskatonic University?”

Crayfield rested the back of his head against the building wall. Though it was early summer, the concrete wall still emitted coldness. Coolness—he needed more coolness.

“Let me correct myself. She is active. She goes to take exams, pretends to be friendly with us, and has built enough of a friendship with Marie Shelley, who knows about the Breath Cult, to join the same reading club. But she’s not advancing anything related to knowledge of evil entities or solving puzzles. She’s leaving the main quest untouched and only doing side quests, like an RPG player. Usually, such players are either leveling up, collecting items, or gathering as much preliminary information as possible.”

With a click of his tongue, Crayfield moved on.

“Our style would be to barge in and take down both the Breath Cult followers advancing their plans and the protagonist trying to stop them. But the protagonist is silent, and the Breath Cult followers are quiet. It’s like a waiting game. If we all sit still, we all die; if one moves first, only they die. But if they don’t move, we’ll have to make the first move. Assistant, let’s go meet that professor with the hard-to-see face.”

* * * * *

Professor Mark Bravery looked like Karl Marx. A dark-skinned Marx, that is.

He was large, bald on top, but with lion-mane-like abundant hair on the sides, and a very unkempt beard. His eyes were even bloodshot.

“Unless it’s important, would you please leave?”

“You’re the faculty advisor for the broadcasting club, correct?”

“And if I am?”

“I need the student roster.”

“Don’t have it.”

Professor Bravery kicked the trash can. Black ashes flew everywhere.

“I burned it all.”

“Is there a reason for this?”

“When you treat my students like potential criminals, do you expect the faculty advisor to just sit by?”

“We could collect testimonies from the students.”

“Get out.”

Professor Bravery didn’t even glance our way.

“You’ve kept your clarinet assembled and standing against the wall. Not storing it disassembled.”

“I said get out.”

The professor didn’t stop at words. With a click, he pointed a revolver at us.

Crayfield silently retreated into the hallway. As we approached the landing, we heard a loud bang as the door slammed shut.

“If that gentleman were my bodyguard, I’d be safe for life. Even the White Hand Mafia couldn’t catch that professor.”

Crayfield chuckled.

“It seems the professor has already undergone numerous interrogations. Probably harassed by both the FBI and the military. Either trying to pin spy charges on him or demanding the list of those with access to broadcasting facilities. So he burned it all. Is he hiding something? Or is it just to attract attention? I’ll report this to Agent Catherine Scully. Since the professor told us to get out, I’ll tell her that protection will be difficult!”

* * * * *

We walked out through Miskatonic University’s north gate. As when we entered, there was a checkpoint, but thanks to the lieutenant’s assistance earlier, we passed through easily. He was very pleased when we told him we’d submitted a recommendation to Agent Scully. In return, we asked him for one favor: to relay the message that ‘the subject doesn’t seem to want protection.’ He immediately had a private deliver the message.

“He says you’ve done well today. He’s giving you his direct number and says to contact him there from now on. He’ll answer unless it’s very late at night.”

Grateful for the kindness, we had dinner at the restaurant recommended by the bald innkeeper. The fried cod and french fries were crispy and satisfying. But we couldn’t finish them.

With a click, the clock moved to 3. And then with another click, it moved to 4 in succession.

Leaving an excessive tip on the table, we borrowed the restaurant owner’s phone.

Crayfield called Agent Scully directly and shouted to check the entire campus immediately.

Without even waiting for a response, we threw down the receiver and ran to the hotel. The bald owner handed us our keys with a rather surprised face.

“Wait.”

Crayfield pointed to a piece of paper that had fallen in front of his room door. It was clearly something he had inserted in the hinge area. We returned to the first floor.

“Did you clean the rooms today?”

“No, I didn’t. What’s the matter?”

The innkeeper blinked. Crayfield smiled awkwardly.

“Ah. The door won’t open properly, either it’s not locked correctly or something else. Do you have a master key?”

“Of course.”

The bald owner bent down under the desk. After the clicking sounds of a safe, he finally produced a master key.

“Here. Room 202 is the problem.”

The owner inserted the key. The door opened with a click.

“There doesn’t seem to be any problem… wait. What’s that smell?”

The owner gasped as he flung the door open. Then he froze.

A flower was blooming in the middle of the room. It was black and red like congealed blood, and its green stem was as thick as bundled steel cables.

[The ancients seemed to view Mars as a kind of seed pouch. When the seed pouch comes close, a vessel to hold the seeds—a flowerpot would be a more accurate expression, I suppose.]

The leaves didn’t sway even in the wind. And its roots were embedded in a splayed human body.

[Anyway, there needs to be something to contain it, right? So they would climb very high mountains, cut open the bellies of cows and sheep, and pray for the seeds to be contained within.]

Literally, it was “splayed”—with the stomach split open. Without a single piece of clothing.

[According to Marie Shelley’s expression, “receiving the seed” would be the accurate term.]

The owner covered his mouth and ran back. Crayfield drew his revolver and searched the room.

There was nothing.

A dark knife was visible in one of the corpse’s hands. It appears to be an obsidian blade. Under the white, rolled-back eyes, freckles were distinct on the stiffened cheeks.

“It’s Marie Shelley.”

Crayfield put away his revolver and took out his notebook. Around the plant, letters drawn in blood were abundant. It was strange. Not a drop of blood remained in the corpse.

Crayfield seemed to notice this as well.

“This is a sacrifice. It must have been drawn with Marie’s blood while she was still alive.”

“Marie!”

There was a crash of breaking dishes. It was Ann Molly. Before anyone could stop her, she shook Marie Shelley’s body.

“No, no!”

Ann wailed and grabbed Crayfield’s clothes.

“Murderer! Murderer! You killed her!”

Something red and dark was visible on Ann Molly’s fingers. Between her nails and fingers. And at the fingertips.

There were blood scabs that she hadn’t managed to wipe away.