Chapter 02
It was a memory from a very long time ago.
Ten years ago, I received a marriage proposal from Randolph Carter, a horror novelist known as the ‘darling of the literary world.’
About a year into our happy marriage, captivated by his brilliant intellect and sincere nature, we had a very minor argument.
That night, my husband disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a note.
‘Emily, I think I need some time apart.’
One day. Two days. Eventually, the waiting stretched into a week.
I searched everywhere for my husband in shock and despair, but I could not hear a word from him.
About three months after I officially reported him missing to the police, I received news that struck me like a bolt from the blue.
‘Mrs. Carter, your husband’s body has been found.’
To be honest, I do not remember much of what happened after that.
Half of me longed for my husband, while the other half hated him.
Overwhelmed by grief, hatred, and loss, all I can say is that I simply endured each day as it came.
Several more years passed like that when I suddenly recalled a shocking memory.
……The past life of a Korean woman who had lived in the 2020s.
***
That was probably four years ago.
I confided that fact to only one true friend.
My dear friend, who had been by my side ever since I first met her at the North London Girls’ School when I was fifteen, someone who was practically my ‘soulmate.’
The person who had held me together when I was on the verge of losing my mind after the senseless loss of Randolph.
That was the beautiful woman standing before me, Helena Blavatsky.
“Your past life means…… the life you lived before you became Emily Carter, right?”
Despite how far-fetched it might have sounded, Helena’s reaction was utterly serious.
Born into a Russian aristocratic family, her skin, boasting the color of coffee with milk thanks to her one-quarter Gypsy blood, glowed softly beneath the indoor lights.
“Yes. And it wasn’t the past. It was the future.”
The future me, who had lived an utterly ordinary life.
As those memories slowly seeped into the mind of ‘Emily Carter,’ who lived in 1890s Britain, I came to realize something strange.
‘This isn’t the Britain of history.’
It was Britain under the reign of Queen Victoria, just as history recorded, but there were countless differences, both large and small, from the history I remembered from my past life.
For instance, Charles Darwin’s <On the Origin of Species> had never been published here.
That was because Darwin’s voyage aboard the Beagle, which had had the greatest influence on the completion of the book, had never taken place.
The waters of the South Pacific were still regarded as ‘the Sea of Demons’ among sailors and remained forbidden territory.
And above all.
‘Characters from works of fiction actually exist.’
Such ‘fictional characters’ appeared in forms distinctly different from their original versions.
I had never met him, but ‘Dr. Victor Frankenstein’ of <Frankenstein> had made a name for himself in London’s academic circles.
Professor ‘Abraham Van Helsing’ of <Dracula> also held a tenured professorship at Oxford University.
I had also heard once that ‘Sir Phileas Fogg’ had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen.
……Yes, the very Phileas from <Around the World in Eighty Days>.
“How fascinating.”
“You…… really believe me, Helena?”
When I raised my head, Helena smiled as though I had said something absurd.
“Of course, Emily. There’s no way what you’re saying could be anything but the truth.”
“But—”
“I believe anything you say.”
“…….”
Her words warmed a corner of my heart, and Helena continued.
“Besides…… scholars in occult studies have recently been conducting experiments using hypnosis to help people recall their past lives. Why wouldn’t I believe something like that?”
It was exactly the sort of thing one would expect from a female scholar at the forefront of occultism and mythology.
Helena had originally been born the eldest daughter of a wealthy aristocratic family and married at a young age, but after divorcing spectacularly just two years later due to differences in temperament.
She suddenly threw herself into the study of folklore and occult philosophy, achieving remarkable accomplishments within a few years, and eventually introduced a new field of theology known as ‘Theosophy’ and founded an association bearing her own name.
“And…… have you thought about the proposal Mr. Dulles mentioned before?”
At Helena’s words, I raised my head, and my eyes fell upon the document envelope in her hand. I remembered the contents of the ‘proposal’ I had forgotten about for some time.
When Randolph passed away a few months after his disappearance, the problems I was left with were not merely emotional.
Since the only property Randolph had left behind was a single house that was practically falling apart, my financial situation was also close to the worst imaginable.
My husband’s acquaintances tried to help the young and unfortunate woman in whatever way they could.
One of them was Mr. Dulles, my late husband Randolph’s friend and his editor.
‘I’m not sure whether it is appropriate for me to offer you this sort of work…….’
He introduced me to proofreading work for <Weird Fiction>, the horror fiction magazine where he worked, and thanks to that, I was able to scrape by.
Not long afterward, I successfully submitted a novel I had written as a hobby to the magazine, and when my first novel, <The Child in the Dark>, became a great success, I embarked upon a career as a full-time writer.
In any case, this was how I came to know Mr. Dulles, who had continued to serve as the editor in charge of all my works.
“……You mean Randolph’s final work?”
Then, not long ago, he sent me an urgent message.
‘Mrs. Carter, Randolph’s manuscript has been found.’
A package with no return address had arrived at the offices of <Weird Fiction>.
Inside was a document envelope containing a stack of manuscripts and a single note.
[I ask that you deliver this to my wife, Emily Carter. She alone has the right to open this work.]
It was unmistakably the handwriting of my deceased husband, Randolph, and when Mr. Dulles opened the document envelope and saw the title written on the cover of the manuscript, he was utterly stunned.
‘This is…… that work!’
It was the two-act play Randolph had poured his heart and soul into until the very end, and which had now become his posthumous work, <The King in Yellow>.
My husband, who often quoted Plato’s rhetoric while discussing his works during his lifetime, once described this particular piece to me like this.
‘Emily, this is different from my previous works.’
‘Different?’
‘If my previous works were shadows cast upon the wall of a cave…… then this work is the substance itself, the Idea itself.’
Randolph often discussed his ideas with those around him, such as me or Mr. Dulles, whenever he was planning a work, but he kept this particular work strictly secret.
‘Once it’s finished, I’ll be sure to show it to you first.’
Was he trying to keep that promise now? After leaving me all alone like this, a promise like that…….
“Emily?”
“……Huh?”
“Are you all right?”
Just as I was about to sink into those despairing memories, Helena’s voice finally brought me back to my senses.
I met her warm dark eyes and nodded.
“I’m fine.”
“If it’s really too difficult for you, I can look through it with you.”
“No, I really am fine.”
When I reassured her again, Helena, though still worried, took the manuscript from the document envelope and handed it to me.
“Thank you, Helena.”
Helena merely nodded before leaving my study.
After the door closed behind her, I stared intently at the title written on the cover of the manuscript, <The King in Yellow>.
‘But, Randy, who does the King in Yellow refer to?’
“Hmm, that is…….”
When I had once asked what it meant, Randolph had hesitated for a long time before finally managing to answer.
‘The lord of the worlds that exist among the stars.’
‘What is that supposed to mean? Is it part of the mythology you created?’
Randolph had merely smiled awkwardly at that, but…… recalling that memory, I slowly turned over the cover of the manuscript.
“<The King in Yellow>, original work by Almuk al-Asfar, adapted by Randolph Carter.”
I had not known it was based on an existing work.
Brushing that fact aside as insignificant, I turned the page and found ‘The History of This Work’ written there.
[<The King in Yellow> is a play written in the third century BC by the Arab writer Almuk al-Asfar, and was later translated in AD 830 by the ancient Greek poet Andronikos Mikellis, after which it spread widely throughout Europe.]
[Most of those who encountered this work met horrific ends; first, the poet Mikellis, who translated this play, was driven mad and plagued by hallucinations, eventually dying while saying, ‘A golden skull is trying to kill me.’]
[The monk Francis, who produced the first Latin manuscript of this work, was bitten to death by a stray dog after becoming terrified upon seeing it and calling it ‘the king wearing a pale mask.’ It was later discovered that the dog had no teeth.]
[Because the contents themselves were shocking and blasphemous, and because of the ominous rumors surrounding the work, the Eastern Orthodox Church designated <The King in Yellow> as a banned book, but thanks to a handful of curious scholars, the work managed to survive for a long time.]
The rest of the contents followed the same pattern.
Whoever read it went mad, and how they eventually met some kind of horrific death.
And at the very end, there was a ‘warning’ written.
[Do not pass this manuscript on under any circumstances!]
[<The King in Yellow> is not an ordinary play.]
[I solemnly swear that the adapter can take no responsibility for any consequences arising from failure to heed the above warning.]
A strange chill came over me, and I stopped reading. Then I noticed Randolph’s handwriting written beneath it.
[To Emily, whom I love more than my own life.]
Those words suddenly brought tears to my eyes.
It had been nearly ten years since I had endured his absence, and I had truly thought I was completely fine by now……
I steadied my overflowing emotions and read the next line.
[Emily, I have finished <The King in Yellow>. If you trust me, if you truly love me……
Ignore the ‘warning’ written here, and read this play for me.]
Should I follow his dying wish and read it?
Or should I heed the warning, which sounded absurd, that everyone who had read this work had suffered tremendous misfortune?
I considered it for a moment, but I did not hesitate for long.
The ‘history of the work’ written here could simply have been a fictional fabrication invented by Randolph.
My husband, as befitted a horror novelist, enjoyed creating eerie tales.
Considering that particular inclination of his, it was highly likely that he had invented this material as well, merely to add flavor to the work.
Having reached that conclusion, I turned the manuscript over and began reading the first line.
「Oh, great King and revered being. You who are the source of chaos and evil…….」
As I continued reading the script, I realized something strange.
“This is almost…….”
°°°°
Hello everyone! I’ve brought you a new rating this time, and it’s a little different from my usual ones! I hope you like it. Let me know what you think! 🫶💕
