Ch.38Ch.4 – The Perfect Human Image (4)

Aaron guided us to the warehouse in question. A building with barricaded doors and windows, complete with “No Entry” signs, greeted us.

“The city hall growled at everyone to leave this place alone. Quite a few people in this neighborhood can’t even read these simple words.”

It’s an awkward situation. We could force our way in, but there are too many watching eyes and gossiping mouths.

Moreover, Avassina and Beatrix are wearing nun habits. There would certainly be talk. Avassina made the decision.

“Let’s go back for now. But not through the sewers.”

To catch a taxi, we needed to reach the main road, which meant crossing through the slum.

Fortunately, the locals held the monks from the Southern Cathedral in high regard, so we didn’t encounter any problems.

Instead, we had the leisure to look around.

A poor neighborhood doesn’t just consist of collapsing shacks. Along the long, straight street stood brick houses at regular intervals, all partially crumbled.

The symmetrical design and columns flanking the entrances suggested they were built in the colonial style popular half a generation ago.

White curtains replaced glass windows, and metal sheets covered collapsed rooftops. Even amid the ruins of a bygone era, people of the new age were rebuilding their lives.

“Look. Over there.”

Avassina pointed to a street sign. It proudly read “Main Street,” with a half-erased question mark at the end, as if some mischievous person had played a prank.

“This used to be the city center, they say. Abandoned after the Great Fire. Once, only ladies and gentlemen walked here. Wow, imagine puff-sleeve tops with shoulders as big as possible and arms tightly fitted.”

Avassina looked up at the sky with an expression like she’d just tasted something sweet. Unfortunately, no one here dressed that way.

Instead, the streets were filled with work clothes dissolving in dust and sweat, and patched pants that would surely stain a white handkerchief if rubbed against them.

Children who couldn’t afford diapers went about with their lower halves completely bare.

In the center of the district stood the remnants of a warehouse building.

“Nobody goes there. They say it’s a cursed place. In reality, it was a storage facility for whale oil.”

On an extremely cold winter night, flames erupted from the warehouse and quickly spread to the bustling district.

It was an era when gas lamps were common instead of electricity, so flammable materials were abundant both in homes and on streets.

Despite the cold, the weather was excessively dry, and there were issues with the firefighters’ inexperience.

The haphazard spraying of water caused the burning oil to spread everywhere, and the mixture of hot oil and cold water resulted in numerous burn victims.

The flames were so intense that smoke could be observed even from Kingsport. People whispered that the whales had finally taken their revenge.

Thus, Main Street was abandoned. Instead, an entirely new commercial district emerged around the city center. The poor who had been scattered throughout the city relocated to the south.

“Father Michael thought it might have been a city scheme. It was essentially creating a containment area for the poor instead of establishing measures to help them.”

Tax collectors needed to enter to collect taxes, but those who ventured into the southern streets often disappeared without a trace.

In response, the city cut off almost all public services. As a result, the area transformed into what was essentially a human garbage dump.

“Even the mafia doesn’t covet this place much. They might take promising kids as cannon fodder. Or temporarily store people before ‘laundering’ them.”

This seemed to be a different kind of laundering than I was familiar with. Avassina responded while gently returning the greeting of a passing woman.

“Oh, I don’t mean literally soaking people in water and beating them with a washing paddle. It’s about laundering identities.

I know several methods: hiring them at mafia-run companies, then bribing officials to issue fake IDs.

A slightly more expensive method is stealing the identity of someone who died in the slums.

A man who was Russo yesterday becomes Hamilton by morning, an American caring for his elderly, sick mother.

The real Hamilton is buried in an unmarked grave.”

Avassina lowered her voice.

“The underground tunnels. Remember? The southern cemetery for the unclaimed. Where no one cares even if you drop dead.

Those people rose as zombies and dug tunnels. There’s something here.

It’s too big for the mafia to handle alone. I even get the feeling that city hall is tacitly allowing it.”

A group of teenage boys and girls ran up to the nuns. I couldn’t be certain, but they seemed to be speaking Italian. The two nuns conversed quite warmly with the children. Avassina forced a bright smile.

“No, surely not. What mayor would want their citizens to die? I must be too suspicious.”

That would be true for citizens. For those within the boundaries.

But among the people of “Main Street,” actual citizens could be counted on one hand. These people aren’t even someone’s property. On paper, they don’t exist.

These nobodies, whom the vampire nuns care for with utmost devotion. In the midst of this, the fact that a doll made in human likeness entered and left freely is beyond bizarre.

Yet even that wasn’t a surprising story to these people.

* * * * *

April 25, 1929. 1:55 PM

Southern Cathedral, Pollard City

Creyfield’s office is on the second floor of the building at 22 Gorde Street, with apartments on the three floors above. Creyfield stays on the third floor, and I stay on the fourth.

There are several other tenants, but apart from occasional shouting matches, there isn’t much disturbance.

However, this case is in the southern district, and Gorde Street is too far from the south. So this time, I decided to stay at the Southern Cathedral.

It was at Avassina’s insistence, but Father Michael gladly provided a room. It was a separate building between the priest’s residence and the convent.

“Many people find American culture unfamiliar. This space is for them. Sometimes it’s also used for retreats.”

The priest is a man who truly deserves to be called strong. He was similar in build to Joe Torio, but his body was well-balanced and his posture stable.

“You have good eyes. That’s right. I used to box a bit. Before becoming a priest, I worked as a bouncer. Knocked down quite a few troublemakers who picked fights because I’m Black.”

I found it curious how such a man became a priest, but in a way, it seemed fitting. A religious leader in Pollard Island would need to be tough enough not to break easily.

It happened to be mealtime, so we had bread, a little wine, and sandwiches with meat and vegetables. After the meal, the priest showed me around the cathedral.

During our conversation, he occasionally took white powder from a leather pouch and sprinkled it on the ground.

“Ah, that’s alum. We have some snakes around here.”

Snakes. While I don’t claim to know everything about this island’s ecology, I’ve never seen a snake on Pollard Island. The priest pointed toward the convent and smiled.

“I hope Sister Avassina hasn’t been too much trouble? She often spoke of you.

I was curious what kind of person you were, and now I meet you today. She’s quite cheerful for a Russian.

Oh, you didn’t know? She was born in Russia.”

Avassina and Beatrix are napping like the other nuns. They’ll need to attend evening mass and then reopen the bars in the entertainment district.

After showing me around the cathedral, we entered the priest’s residence. The priest offered me a glass of Scotch mixed with cold water.

His manner of speaking was more cunning than I expected. He confirmed that the nuns were affiliated with the Vatican, but curiously evaded all other questions.

“This is no ordinary cathedral.”

The priest moistened his lips with a sip of Scotch.

“But then again, this is no ordinary island. To be frank, this is a den of demons.

But true demons tend to hide among humans.

That’s why the Vatican’s nuns stay here. To find the identity of the demon.”

That was all I could get from him. After our various conversations, I began to feel drowsy. It seemed to be from the alcohol I’d consumed after so long.

The priest gave me the key to my lodging. There happened to be a telephone at the entrance of the annex. I picked up the receiver and dialed, hearing a familiar voice.

“The priest’s residence? Are you planning to get baptized?”

Creyfield was quite surprised, but after hearing the circumstances, he fell silent for a moment.

“Listen, assistant. Isn’t it strange? You said there was a wax figure in that coffin.

Originally, that figure should have departed from New Bedford and gone to Arkham. There was no reason for it to come to Pollard Island.

That means the figure had no connection to Pollard Island.

Yet someone made a call, and a truck came as if they’d been waiting and took it away?”

That’s the most troubling part. Whatever the identity of that wax figure, it shouldn’t have any connection to Pollard Island.

And if they had known they were receiving a call from a figure, they would have been terrified.

Yet they left as casually as if picking up a passenger, which is peculiar.

“Listen, assistant. And that name, Herbert West. I thought it sounded familiar—he’s a terribly wicked character from Lovecraft’s stories.

A deranged doctor who reanimates corpses. A graduate of Miskatonic University Medical School who met his end at the hands of the undead he created.

By the end of the story, his body was dismembered and his head severed, so he must be dead!”

Having never read Lovecraft’s stories, this was all new to me. And I felt deeply uncomfortable about what kind of person would create such unpleasant tales.

“This West character lived in Boston. His house was near a cemetery, and the basement contained stone structures connected to an old graveyard.

It even had an incinerator. In a residential basement!

If that wax figure wrote Herbert West’s name on the wall, it must be connected to that story.

This won’t do. I’ll investigate this case separately. Shall I send the materials to the Southern Cathedral? Always be careful, and never let go of your gun!”

Feeling frustrated, I went out to the cathedral courtyard.

Under an arch covered with climbing roses stood a marble statue of the Virgin Mary. Beyond it, the sky was heavily overcast as if rain might fall.

Two young altar boys approached the statue carrying cloth wrapped around wooden sticks. Both were short and seemed to struggle with hanging the banner, so I helped them. The children expressed their thanks and ran back to the cathedral.

The banner fluttered with the words “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.”

A bird flew in with a trill and hopped around the courtyard. It looked cheerful, but in reality, it was pecking at ants on the ground.

For ants living on a flat plane, a beak coming from the unknown dimension of height must be a terror beyond comprehension.

Suddenly, I wondered what heaven might be like. I pondered for a while but couldn’t arrive at a suitable answer. Only one thing was clear.

If humanity’s oldest and strongest emotion is fear, and the oldest and strongest fear is that of the unknown,

Then heaven must be an exceedingly ordinary place.