This is part 3 of my Call of Cthulhu solo adventure called “Toskanische Rituale” and we are all damned… but most of all it’s Alfred Riemenschneider who has to be creative about surviving this mess.
Let’s dive into what seems to be an inescapable situation for the protagonist of this story.
Scene #7 – A way out
The immediate aftermath of the man’s demise left me paralyzed for only a moment. Driven by instinct, I sprang into action, frantically barricading the door and windows with whatever came to hand – overturned furniture, stacks of books, even the heavy oak table ripped from its moorings. It was a pathetic defense against an unknown threat, but it was all I could muster.
The knowledge that they were coming for me settled upon me like a shroud. But when? The uncertainty gnawed at my resolve, fueling a rising tide of panic. Soon, the sounds returned, amplified by the cabin’s confined space. I heard them circling – deliberate footsteps crunching on fallen leaves, the rasping sound of their breath, and something else… something utterly alien that overlaid those familiar sounds with a muffled quality. It was a language, perhaps, but unlike anything I had ever encountered – a guttural cadence interwoven with unsettling clicks and whistles.
The scent accompanying it was equally disturbing – musky and heavy, yet laced with the clean, earthy fragrance of petrichor, as if the very air itself carried an ancient, unnameable presence. It clung to the back of my throat, a constant reminder of the encroaching horror.
After what felt like an eternity, I convinced myself that every possible entry point was secured. Every window shuttered, every door braced against the inevitable onslaught. But with each successful blockade came a new wave of despair. The realization dawned upon me: I hadn’t created a sanctuary; I had merely constructed a cage.
A profound sense of mockery settled over me, an emotion so intense it bordered on physical pain. I couldn’t articulate what they were, these creatures pursuing me, but their actions felt imbued with a cruel amusement. They knew I was trapped, and the knowledge seemed to radiate from them like a palpable force. It wasn’t just fear that gripped me now; it was a crushing sense of helplessness, a feeling of being toyed with by forces far beyond my comprehension – a puppet in a play orchestrated by something ancient and malevolent.
The oppressive weight of my situation – the barricaded cabin, the circling sounds, the alien scent – threatened to suffocate me. Then, like a bolt from the blue, an idea pierced through the despair. It was a memory dredged up from the weeks I’d spent immersed in the study of “Toskanische Rituale”, a connection that had previously eluded me. The book wasn’t merely a collection of esoteric lore; it bore a striking resemblance to the manuscript of Professor Dr. Bauernfeind, my former mentor. In fact, certain passages were near-perfect replicas of texts I’d glimpsed within his private manuscript – fragments hinting at rituals and invocations of unimaginable power.
The realization sent a jolt of adrenaline through me, momentarily eclipsing the fear. The book contained spells – potent, powerful, unthinkable spells capable of manipulating forces beyond human understanding. Should I dare to use one? The question hung in the air, heavy with potential consequences. It was a gamble, a desperate throw of the dice against an unknown adversary.
I sank onto the floor, the worn pages of “Toskanische Rituale” spread before me like a map of forbidden territory. The book, once a source of unsettling knowledge, now felt strangely familiar and even… comforting in its solidity. I frantically flipped through the pages, searching for a glimmer of hope, a pathway to escape this impending doom.
And then, there it was – a sequence of symbols and incantations that seemed to pulse with an almost tangible energy. It wasn’t explicitly described as an escape ritual, but the underlying principles resonated with my desperate need for deliverance. In a final act of defiance against the encroaching darkness, I began to prepare the spell. The words felt alien on my tongue, yet I recited them with a fervent hope that bordered on madness – a last-ditch attempt to wrest control from the forces closing in around me.
Scene #8 – In space or time
The moment I finished reciting the final syllable, the world fractured. Colors erupted – hues I couldn’t name or comprehend, swirling and bleeding into one another with dizzying intensity. A blinding light pulsed around me, accompanied by a cacophony of sounds that were both excruciatingly painful and strangely wonderful. It felt as though reality itself was being reshaped, molded to an alien design.
Was the spell working? The sensation was deeply unsettling, like life itself was being slowly sucked out of me, replaced with something… else. A draining emptiness threatened to consume me entirely.
Then, with a silent bang that resonated more within my mind than in my ears, my eyes were violently opened by an unknown force. Disorientation slammed into me as I found myself standing on the dusty floor of an attic – cobwebs clinging to my hair and clothes, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and forgotten memories.
After a frantic attempt to gather what remained of my sanity, I stumbled towards a window. And there it was – the familiar sight of Düsseldorf, bathed in the soft glow of the dawning morning. Thank God, the spell had worked. I’d been transported, pulled away from the cabin and whatever horrors lurked within its shadows. The city center lay spread out before me, far enough from the woods to feel safe, for now.
The immediate relief of escaping the cabin overshadowed almost everything else. The book “Toskanische Rituale” – gone, likely still nestled amongst the horrors it contained – was a minor concern compared to the fact that I was alive. I hadn’t mourned its loss; gratitude for my survival consumed me entirely. All I carried were the meager remnants of my previous life: the silver cigarette etui I’d found at the university amidst the chaos surrounding Professor Dr. Bauernfeind’s untimely demise, and my trusty Mauser pistol, a comforting weight against my hip.
I emerged onto Josephinen Straße, attempting to orient myself within the familiar cityscape of Düsseldorf. The early morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of coal smoke and damp cobblestones. As I crossed Königs Allee, however, something felt profoundly wrong. A subtle dissonance permeated the atmosphere – a feeling that clung to me like a persistent shadow.
It appeared as though preparations were underway for some sort of grand celebration. Banners hung from buildings, depicting stylized eagles and heraldic crests. The air buzzed with an unusual energy, suggesting imminent festivities – perhaps a parade or public display of some kind. But it was the fashion that truly unsettled me. People’s attire seemed… outdated, almost theatrical in its formality. Men sported bowler hats and impeccably tailored suits; women wore long skirts and elaborate hats adorned with feathers and ribbons.
Driven by an unsettling curiosity – and a growing sense of dread – I approached one of the newspaper stands lining the street. I grabbed a copy of the Rheinische Merkur and froze, my blood turning to ice in my veins. The headline screamed at me: “Zum Feiertag der 100 jährigen zugehörigkeit zum Preussischen Reich, 21.4.1915.” (engl.: “To commemorate the 100th anniversary of affiliation with the Prussian Empire, April 21, 1915.”)
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The spell hadn’t relocated me in space; it had relocated me in time. I’d been flung back seven years – to April 21st, 1915. A wave of nausea washed over me, triggered by the sheer impossibility of my situation. The implications were staggering, terrifying even. My carefully constructed reality had vanished, replaced with a past that was both familiar and utterly alien.
My stomach rebelled against the sudden temporal shift. I stumbled, clutching at a nearby lamppost for support, before finally succumbing to the overwhelming wave of sickness. A torrent of bile erupted from my throat, staining the cobblestones beneath my feet – a visceral manifestation of the profound disorientation that gripped me. The world spun around me, a dizzying vortex of confusion and dread. I was stranded in 1915, with no understanding of how to return, surrounded by a past I barely knew, and haunted by the shadows of the Great War.
Scene #9 – False friends
The world swam around me after the violent expulsion of sickness. I stumbled through the streets of Düsseldorf, a ghost adrift in time, unsure where to turn or what action to take. The initial shock had subsided into a dull ache of disorientation, leaving behind a pervasive sense of unease. The loss of “Toskanische Rituale” felt particularly acute now – it wasn’t just the loss of knowledge; it was the potential key to returning to my own time, a concept that sounded ludicrous even as I entertained it.
My immediate needs were simple: sustenance and shelter. The thought of seeking assistance from anyone in this era filled me with apprehension. Explaining my situation would undoubtedly lead to accusations of madness or worse. A grim practicality settled upon me. Returning to my father’s cabin seemed the most logical, if unsettling, course of action.
He only occupied it during the autumn and winter months for his hunting expeditions – a solitary pursuit that suited his temperament. Perhaps, by some miracle, it would be unoccupied. The prospect was far from appealing; the memory of what lurked within those woods still clung to me like a shroud. Yet, it offered a degree of anonymity, a place where I could attempt to unravel this temporal anomaly without drawing unwanted attention – and hopefully, devise a plan to return to my own time, however improbable that might seem.
The decision to seek out Professor Dr. Bauernfeind felt both desperate and faintly absurd, yet I reasoned that he – or rather, a younger version of him – might be the only individual open-minded enough to entertain my outlandish claims for more than a fleeting moment before dismissing me as irrevocably mad. The thought of confessing my predicament to anyone else in this era was unthinkable; it would likely result in confinement within an asylum’s walls.
I made my way across the familiar, yet jarringly different, campus towards the building that housed Bauernfeind’s office. As I ascended the grand marble staircase of the entrance hall, a glimpse from afar stopped me dead. There he was – Professor Dr. Ernst Bauernfeind, undeniably younger than the man I knew from 1922, his hair not yet grown into the wild, shaggy mane that characterized him in my time, but unmistakably him.
But it wasn’t just the professor’s youth that arrested me; it was the company he kept. He stood engaged in conversation with two men dressed in impeccably tailored dark suits – men who sent a jolt of icy dread through my veins. They were identical, or frighteningly similar, to those who had attacked me within the confines of the cabin. The realization struck with the force of a physical blow: this wasn’t merely an isolated incident; it was part of something far larger and more sinister.
Forcing myself to maintain composure – a feat that felt increasingly difficult – I quickened my pace, attempting to pass them without drawing attention. I managed to overhear snippets of their conversation, enough to send a fresh wave of unease washing over me. Bauernfeind’s voice was smooth, almost unnervingly calm as he stated, “It is of most importance that the manuscript is found by you.” He instructed them to report back on a daily basis, emphasizing the urgency of their task.
But it was a detail I hadn’t noticed before – a horrifying anomaly that eclipsed all other concerns – that truly shattered my composure. As Bauernfeind spoke, his sleek grey hair seemed to catch the light in an unsettling way. And then I saw them: visible now, thanks to the angle of the sunlight, were thin, translucent membranes where his ears should have been. They pulsed with a slow, rhythmic beat, like something alien and organic struggling for purchase beneath his skin.
My gaze dropped to the floor, my boots clicking unnervingly loud on the marble as I accelerated my walk – a desperate attempt to escape the image seared into my mind. How could I have failed to notice it before? During our meetings in the library, during our conversations about obscure texts and forgotten lore? The memory of his face now felt tainted, corrupted by this grotesque revelation. It was a horrifying realization: Bauernfeind wasn’t merely eccentric; he was… something unspeakable.
To be continued…
That’s it! I hope to see you next week for part 4 of this adventure.
