Welcome to Part four of my Call of Cthulhu solo adventure! We are still sane and alive… more or less. And how shocking was the realization that Bauernfeind is not who we thought he was.
If we ever have the chance, we should really pick our friends and mentors with more caution. But let’s see what will happen next.
Scene #10 – Bauernfeind’s accomplices
Concealed behind a towering marble column, I watched Bauernfeind’s unsettling exchange with the men. The professor turned, disappearing into his office as the two figures began their deliberate exit from the university building. A surge of morbid curiosity – and perhaps a desperate need for answers – compelled me to follow them.
The sensation that they were aware of my presence was almost palpable. From time to time, I’d catch a fleeting glimpse of their eyes, seemingly fixed on me, before they would dismissively avert their gaze, as if feigning ignorance. It felt like a deliberate tactic, an attempt to lure me into some unseen snare. The unsettling feeling intensified with each step I took behind them.
They moved with purpose, heading southwest – towards the industrial heart of Düsseldorf, a district intimately familiar to me thanks to my father’s extensive business dealings there. For nearly forty minutes, I maintained a cautious distance, navigating the bustling streets and crowded sidewalks, acutely aware that any misstep could expose me.
Finally, they entered a nondescript brick building – likely a warehouse, judging by its size and appearance. The area was one of my father’s investments; I knew it well enough to recognize the subtle signs of industrial activity that permeated the air. It felt wrong, somehow, that these men, with their unsettling aura and connection to Bauernfeind, would be operating in this seemingly mundane location.
Finding a relatively concealed vantage point, I located a rickety ladder leaning against the building’s exterior wall. Ascending it carefully, I reached a small platform situated next to a weathered wooden door and a grimy window. The wood groaned under my weight, threatening to betray my presence.
With excruciating slowness, I meticulously cleaned a small spot on the windowpane, removing years of accumulated grime. My heart hammered against my ribs as I peered through the cleared space, bracing myself for whatever lay within.
The scene within the warehouse defied easy categorization. It appeared, superficially, to be a mundane business operation – crates stacked high, filled with objects I couldn’t immediately identify; some sealed shut, others partially exposed. Around fifteen men, all clad in the same unsettling dark suits as their superiors, moved about the space with an almost robotic efficiency. Some stood next to the crates, meticulously cataloging their contents, while others sat at long tables, diligently scribbling into thick-bound books.
Yet, despite the veneer of normalcy, a pervasive sense of wrongness permeated everything. The unsettling detail – the pulsating membranes – was present in every man within the warehouse, painting a grotesque layer over the otherwise ordinary scene. It was as if humanity had been subtly, yet irrevocably, altered or undermined.
My attention was abruptly drawn to an object resting on a raised platform near the center of the room. It was a large, ornate box crafted from some dark, unfamiliar wood, intricately carved with symbols and writings that sent a jolt of recognition through me. Those were the same arcane glyphs I had encountered during my studies of the “Toskanische Rituale”. The realization hit me like a physical blow: this wasn’t merely an industrial warehouse; it was a repository for something ancient, something dangerous, something connected to the very lore I had been studying.
I let out a small noise of disbelief – a gasp that escaped my lips before I could control it. It was a mistake, a fatal breach of silence in this unsettling environment. Immediately, one of the men looked up directly at me, his face contorted into an expression of chilling rage. He pointed a trembling finger in my direction and began to shriek – a high-pitched, unnerving sound that echoed through the warehouse.
The other men turned their heads in unison, their faces a mask of cold, calculating malice. The air thickened with an oppressive sense of dread as I realized the gravity of my situation – I had stumbled upon something far beyond my comprehension, and now, I was directly in its sights. Escape seemed impossible; the warehouse felt like a cage, and I, a trapped animal about to be confronted by forces I couldn’t possibly understand.
Scene #11 – Escape!
The shriek ripped through the warehouse, shattering the fragile illusion of normalcy. Instinct took over. Without conscious thought, I launched myself from the platform, scrambling down the rickety ladder with reckless abandon. The wood groaned and splintered under my weight as I hit the ground running, desperately seeking refuge in the crowded street beyond.
As I burst out into the sunlight, I risked a glance back. The warehouse door swung open, revealing five of the men – their faces contorted in expressions of furious intent. They stood for a moment, heads tilted, sniffing the air with an unsettling intensity, much like the creature I had encountered and killed in that isolated cabin. It was as if they were attempting to track my scent, to lock onto my presence through some unnatural means.
Then, their movements shifted. The initial stillness dissolved into a terrifying burst of speed. They didn’t simply run; they propelled themselves forward with an almost inhuman energy. Their limbs flailed, and it seemed for a horrifying moment that they were transitioning to all fours, their bodies contorting in a grotesque imitation of quadrupedal locomotion. It was a display of raw power and unsettling agility that defied explanation.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I scanned the street for an escape route. My eyes landed on a bicycle leaning against a brick wall – a simple, unassuming machine that suddenly represented my only hope. Without hesitation, I grabbed it, throwing myself onto the saddle and pedaling with every ounce of strength I possessed. The chain rattled, the tires spun, and the world blurred into a chaotic rush of color and sound.
I poured every last reserve of energy into this desperate escape. Each rotation of the pedals was an act of defiance against the pursuing figures gaining ground behind me. The wind screamed in my ears as I navigated the crowded streets, dodging pedestrians and narrowly avoiding collisions with carts and carriages. The men were relentless, their unnatural speed closing the gap between us.
The city seemed to warp and distort around me – the familiar landmarks blurring into a nightmarish landscape of shadows and fleeting glimpses of those pursuing figures. I could hear their labored breathing behind me, punctuated by the rhythmic clatter of the bicycle wheels against the cobblestone streets. The air grew thick with a palpable sense of dread, as if the very fabric of reality was fraying around me.
Hours bled together in a frantic blur of exertion and fear. Each turn felt like a gamble, each intersection a potential trap. I pushed myself beyond my physical limits, fueled by adrenaline and the primal instinct to survive. The bicycle groaned under the strain, threatening to give way at any moment, but I dared not slow down.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I recognized the familiar turnoff leading into the woods. My legs burned, my lungs screamed for air, but I kept pedaling, driven by a desperate hope that I could reach safety before they caught me. The trees loomed ahead, offering the promise of concealment and solitude.
I abandoned the bicycle at the edge of the forest, stumbling through the undergrowth until I reached the small cabin I had left behind just hours earlier – in exactly seven years time. It was a haven of relative normalcy in this increasingly surreal nightmare.
And to my immense relief, it was unoccupied. The silence within felt almost deafening after the chaos and pursuit that preceded it. I collapsed onto a chair, gasping for breath, my body trembling with exhaustion and lingering fear.
I was lucky – incredibly so. The men hadn’t followed me into the woods. Whether they lacked the ability to track me through the dense foliage or were deterred by some other unknown factor, I didn’t know. But for now, I was safe – at least temporarily. The memory of their faces, their unnatural movements, and the pulsating membranes where ears should have been would undoubtedly haunt my dreams for years to come. This experience had irrevocably altered my perception of reality, revealing a hidden world of ancient horrors and unsettling truths that lay just beneath the surface of our seemingly ordinary existence.
Scene #12 – A generous offer
The days following my escape were an exercise in taut vigilance. I remained holed up within the cabin, every creak of a branch, every rustle of leaves sending a jolt of fear through me. The specter of discovery loomed large – not just by those unnatural pursuers, but also by the familiar faces of my own family.
Then came the morning that shattered the fragile peace. I heard noises outside – voices, muffled and indistinct at first, then growing steadily louder. Panic surged through me as I realized what they were: preparations for a gathering. A frantic whisper confirmed my worst fears – it was our housemaid, preparing the cabin for a social event involving my father and his business associates.
A chilling memory surfaced – a casual conversation between my parents years ago, where my mother had remarked on her housekeeper’s unsettling conviction that someone had been living in the cabin that year. It must have been this very moment she recalled. The realization struck me with the force of a physical blow: they were close to finding me. There was no time for deliberation. I hastily packed my meager belongings – a few books, some clothes, and the remnants of my sanity – into a small bag.
The immediate aftermath of leaving the cabin brought a wave of disorientation. Where could I possibly go? The world felt alien and hostile, tainted by the knowledge of what lurked beneath its surface. My mind raced, desperately seeking an anchor in this sea of uncertainty.
Then, a name surfaced – Professor Dr. Hermann Mülder. He was the only individual I could conceive of who might entertain my outlandish tale, or at least offer some semblance of understanding. A man steeped in the esoteric and arcane, he possessed a reputation for open-mindedness that bordered on eccentricity. His bookstore, I recalled, was an institution – a repository of forgotten lore and forbidden knowledge.
I spent the entire day traveling, or rather walking, driven by a desperate hope. Finally, as dusk began to settle, I reached Düsseldorf, and there it stood: Mülder’s establishment – a dimly lit haven amidst the bustling city. The shop’s windows were crammed with ancient tomes and curious artifacts, hinting at the secrets held within.
Just as on my first visit, I paused before pushing open the door. A wave of apprehension washed over me – a mixture of hope and dread. Would he believe me? Could this eccentric scholar offer any solace or guidance in the face of such unimaginable horror? Or would I find myself dismissed as a madman, further isolating myself from any semblance of normalcy? Taking a deep breath, I steeled my resolve and pushed the door open, ready to confront whatever awaited me within.
I placed all my hope on this single encounter, clinging to the desperate belief that this eccentric scholar might be my only lifeline. Directly confronting the man I recognized as Professor Dr. Hermann Mülder, I attempted a demeanor of utmost seriousness, even injecting a calculated air of mystery into my voice.
“In seven years’ time,” I began, carefully choosing each word, “a man who looks remarkably like myself will enter this shop. He will ask for the ‘Toskanische Rituale.'” A pause hung in the air, thick with anticipation. “His name is Alfred Riemenschneider,” I continued, my voice low and deliberate. “That man…is me. Or was me.”
To my astonishment, Mülder didn’t scoff or dismiss my claim as the ramblings of a lunatic. Instead, he gestured towards a plush velvet couch with an unexpected grace. “Please, sit,” he invited, his eyes twinkling with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and amusement. “And would you care for a cup of tea? Your story is already proving… remarkable.”
I decided that half-measures were pointless. It was best to lay bare the entirety of my experience, holding nothing back. I began recounting my journey, starting with Professor Dr. Bauernfeind’s cryptic manuscript and my subsequent quest for the elusive “Toskanische Rituale.” I described the relentless pursuit by men in impeccably tailored black suits with missing ears.
I detailed my desperate escape from the cabin, the frantic hours spent evading unseen pursuers, and then, most crucially, the inexplicable sensation of being flung backward through time—landing here, in this very year, 1915. I explained Bauernfeind’s involvement, revealing him as one of those shadowy figures orchestrating events far beyond my comprehension. “And they store their… artifacts,” I concluded, my voice barely a whisper, “in a warehouse located within Düsseldorf’s industrial district.”
Mülder listened intently throughout my narrative, his expression unreadable. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer any immediate judgment. The only sound was the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional rustle of pages as he subtly adjusted his position on the couch. When I finished, a long silence descended upon the shop, broken only by the distant sounds of the city outside. Finally, he leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity. “Artifacts, you say? And Professor Dr. Bauernfeind… involved in their acquisition?”
I was utterly perplexed. He hadn’t dismissed my story as madness; instead, a spark of something akin to understanding flickered within his eyes. I nodded slowly, confirming the gravity of my situation. Recognizing that I was clearly on the run and adrift in time, Mülder unexpectedly offered me refuge – a room in the dusty attic above the bookstore.
Even more surprisingly, he proposed an arrangement: I could work within his shop, assisting with cataloging and research, while simultaneously gathering information about the men who pursued me. He assured me I would have all the time needed to find a way back to my own timeline. Overwhelmed by relief and gratitude, I readily accepted his generous offer.
To be continued…
Thank you for reading and I hope to see you back next week!
