-1- <Jjooni>
Someone once said:
The pursuit of knowledge brings pain and agony, and the revelation of secrets carries the risk of death.
“That’s my secret, Miss Emily. One I’ve never shared with anyone before.”
So, if someone were to expose a secret hidden deep within their soul to prove their love—
It would be a situation fraught with extreme danger.
“I see.”
“Of course, something like this isn’t nearly enough to prove my feelings, but…”
Sir Henry trailed off, his face flushed with emotion.
Just moments ago, he had confessed something of a lifetime to me.
“Miss Emily, I have been watching you for a long time.”
He said he became my fan after reading my debut novel, Child in the Dark.
That he came to every one of my readings and was content just to see me from afar.
“But now… I can no longer suppress my feelings for you.”
After having a few deep conversations with me at Helena Blavatsky’s academic society, he realized what he thought was mere admiration had become genuine affection.
“This might sound sudden… but would you consider courting me with marriage in mind?”
Naturally, I was taken aback and gave the formal answer—that we didn’t know each other well enough yet.
In response, Henry Langham offered to open up and share a secret he had never told anyone.
‘That secret was more shocking than I expected, honestly.’
Trying not to show my surprise, I smiled politely.
“Since you’ve shared such a personal secret, I’ll share a few of my own—not that they’re anything grand.”
At that, the ‘Sir Henry’ sitting across from me leaned forward.
Broad shoulders, a thick torso. Firm pectoral muscles and bulging arms clearly visible even through his clothes.
‘He’s got the build more suited to a factory laborer than a respectable businessman from a traditional gentry family.’
Though rugged and masculine in appearance, the sun streaming in through the window caught his dark brown hair, making it glisten. His strikingly handsome features offset the coarseness.
Looking into his deep blue eyes, reminiscent of the midnight sea, I continued.
“You probably know I married young—at eighteen—and became a widow the following year.”
Right after graduating boarding school, I fell head-over-heels for an unpopular writer I’d met in high society.
Ignoring my aunt’s foam-mouthed protests about marrying a man with no money or prospects, we wed in a whirlwind romance.
We had a year of wedded bliss… until—
“No one could have predicted Mr. Carter, once the darling of the literary world, would pass so suddenly.”
Sir Henry offered a polite response, and I nodded.
“Yes. But that event led me to a rather extraordinary experience.”
“Extraordinary?”
“I remembered my past life.”
At the word past life, Sir Henry’s eyes widened.
“A past life…?”
“A life before I became Emily. I once lived more than a hundred years in the future from now—far from London, born as an East Asian in the Far East.”
He seemed genuinely fascinated.
Judging from his expression, he appeared to believe every word I said.
“100 years in the future… If you don’t mind, could you tell me more? Like, what happens to Her Majesty’s Empire—?”
“That’s not the only secret I hold.”
I cut him off, adding,
“I cannot die, Sir Henry.”
“…Excuse me?”
“To be precise, I return to the past before death. Have you heard of ‘infinite regression’?”
He blinked in confusion.
“Um, well, I…”
“It doesn’t matter if you haven’t. The point is—I’ve experienced countless deaths and returned to the past each time.”
“…”
“You probably don’t believe me, do you?”
As if to drive the nail in, I asked again.
He looked up suddenly and shook his head.
A gentle smile spread across his handsome face.
“No, I believe you. Of all people, I know best that this world is full of mysteries beyond reason and logic.”
…I hadn’t expected him to believe it so easily.
Somehow, I felt deflated.
“Well, I’m glad you believe me. Anyway, I’ve also been through horrific and bizarre incidents. In fact, every event in my novels—every single one—I’ve experienced myself.”
For reference:
I am a popular pulp horror writer, contributing mainly to Weird Fiction and Gothic Story magazines.
“And just last week, Weird Fiction published a story titled The Gentleman’s Two Faces.”
“I haven’t read that one yet.”
The Gentleman’s Two Faces.
A horror story about the double life of one of London society’s most esteemed gentlemen—it had been the most widely acclaimed piece in Weird Fiction’s history.
Whether it was lucky or unlucky that he hadn’t read it—I didn’t know.
But I pressed on.
“Sir Henry, that story was based on you. Did you know that?”
His eyes widened.
“Pardon? But we’ve barely ever met—”
“Yes, only a few times at best. But there are many ways to learn about someone beyond meeting them face-to-face.”
His expression was still one of utter confusion.
“Henry Langham. Young and respectable businessman from the gentry. Learned the trade under your uncle, Graham Langham, and inherited the luxurious ‘Langham Hotel’ ten years ago. Now one of the most sought-after men in London society…”
He lowered his eyes modestly at the compliments, but—
My explanation did not end there.
“But at night, you roam the alleys of London, indulging in vice—and even worse, you enjoy acts that border on criminal, heinous behavior. Your real identity is the inhuman figure known as ‘Edward.’”
“…”
Even after I finished, Sir Henry looked utterly shaken, speechless. If that was acting, it rivaled a professional stage actor.
It took him a while before he finally opened his mouth.
“What… what are you saying?”
“Exactly what you just heard, Sir Henry.”
Sweat trickled down his chiseled face.
“There must be some mistake. My friends may call me by a nickname now and then, but—”
“Let’s drop the act now, shall we?”
“…What?”
At the final moment, I purposely provoked him.
Because if I didn’t push him, there’d be no meaning to risking my life by revealing my hand.
“I have evidence of your double life. So I suggest you come clean before I hand everything over to my friend at Scotland Yard—”
-…You insolent wench.
A voice reverberated, buzzing through the air.
And I felt a sudden chill from the man across me.
When I looked up again, the mild-mannered Sir Henry was gone.
In his place sat a man who exuded sheer terror and dominance just by existing.
Finally.
He had the same dazzlingly handsome face as Sir Henry.
But his eyes—so sharp they looked like they could kill—and his twisted smile made him appear completely different.
At last, Edward had revealed himself.
Gonna snitch to the coppers, are ya? You dare to threaten me, Edward?
I stared back at him, half in awe.
Though I’d experienced many paranormal events, this was my first time actually seeing someone possessed by an evil spirit.
And the thought that had been mere suspicion—turned to certainty.
There’s no doubt now.
This man was the real Edward Hyde, the true protagonist of one of the greatest and most famous works in literary history—Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Seeing my expression, Edward clicked his tongue in disbelief.
Oi, girl. Ever heard this?
“What?”
Knowledge is death. So any knowledge too dangerous to pass on should remain a secret.
Quoting one of my favorite authors, I replied,
“The Manuscript Found in a Bottle. Edgar Allan Poe.”
A twisted smile curled on Edward’s face.
At least you’ve got some culture. If you knew that, you wouldn’t have dared summon me.
“Too late now.”
I watched as Edward’s left hand slowly reached toward his chest.
“And I’ll be dead soon anyway, so I might as well see your true form before I go.”
…
His eyes widened—but only for a moment.
Then, with an amused expression, he spoke:
Don’t tell me—you’ve got foresight? Or are you some prophet? Doesn’t matter either way.
He drew a gun from the inside of his coat.
Click. The bullet was loaded.
And in the next moment—
BANG!
“Kh…!”
The bullet pierced my chest, a harsh gasp escaping my lips.
The burning pain was vivid and real.
As the flame of life flickered out inside me, I heard His whisper.
My apostle…
The whisper became a voice, then a roar, filling my mind.
With every nerve in my body standing on end, I surrendered to the voice.
I shall turn back your time, by my own hand.
And then—it came.
That moment when every bone twisted, every cell regenerated, and my brain felt like it was being crushed.
No matter how many times I experienced it, I could never get used to it.
In agony far worse than death—
I returned to the past.
As always, a piece of long-sealed memory surfaced again.
It was something I had forgotten—yet the most vital piece of all.
This entire tragedy had started with my late husband’s final manuscript, The King in Yellow, which had come into my hands years ago.
And because of it, I—Emily Carter—
Had died twenty times,
Been resurrected twenty times,
Returned to the past twenty times.
And in one of those returns…
I had witnessed the end of this world with my own eyes.
