EHM 02

Chapter 02

It was a memory from a very long time ago.

Ten years ago from now, I received a marriage proposal from Randolph Carter, a horror novelist once hailed as the “darling of the literary world.”

After falling in love with his brilliant intellect and sincere character, we had a happy marriage that lasted about a year—until we had a minor quarrel.

That night, my husband disappeared, leaving behind only a note.

“Emily, I think I need some time apart for a while.”

A day passed. Then two. Eventually, the waiting stretched into a week.

I searched for my husband everywhere in shock and despair, but no news ever came.

About three months after I officially filed a missing person report with the police, I received devastating news.

“Mrs. Carter, your husband’s body has been found.”

To be honest, I don’t really remember how I lived after that.

Half of me longed for him. The other half hated him.

Caught in a haze of grief, resentment, and loss, all I could do was survive each day.

Then, a few more years passed—and a shocking memory returned to me.

…A past life, in which I had lived as a Korean woman in the 2020s.

That happened about four years ago.

I shared this revelation with only one truly trustworthy friend.

She was someone I had met at North London Girls’ School when we were fifteen, someone who had been with me ever since. My “soulmate,” you could say.

And when I was on the verge of losing my mind after Randolph left me behind so suddenly, she was the one who held me together.

That person now stood before me—this beautiful woman, Helena Blavatsky.

“By past life… you mean the life you lived before you became Emily Carter, right?”

Even though what I said could easily sound preposterous, Helena’s response was nothing but sincere.

With one-quarter Romani blood in her noble Russian lineage, her coffee-and-milk skin glowed softly under the indoor lighting.

“Yes. And it wasn’t even the past—it was the future.”

The future me had lived an ordinary life.

As those memories gradually seeped into the mind of “Emily Carter,” who lived in 1890s England, I came to a strange realization:

“This isn’t the England of history.”

It was still Queen Victoria’s reign, but numerous small and large details differed from the historical England I remembered from my past life.

For example, Darwin’s On the Origin of Species had never been published here.

Because Darwin’s voyage on the HMS Beagle, which greatly influenced that book, had never taken place.

The South Pacific was still widely regarded as a “cursed sea” among sailors, and remained taboo.

But more than anything…

“Characters from fiction exist in real life here.”

These “fictional characters” appeared in forms completely different from their original stories.

I hadn’t met them myself, but I’d heard that Victor Frankenstein from Frankenstein had made a name for himself in London’s academic circles.

Professor Abraham Van Helsing from Dracula was supposedly a tenured professor at Oxford University.

And according to rumors, Phileas Fogg had once been granted audience with the Queen herself.

Yes, that Phileas Fogg—from Around the World in 80 Days.

“That’s fascinating,” Helena said.

“You actually… believe me, Helena?”

When I looked up, Helena smiled like she found my doubt amusing.

“Of course I believe you, Emily. There’s no way you’d lie to me.”

“But—”

“I believe whatever you say.”

That warmed a place deep in my chest. Then Helena continued.

“Besides, lately the esoteric community has been conducting hypnosis experiments to recover memories of past lives. There’s no reason not to believe something like this.”

It was the kind of comment you’d expect from a female scholar at the forefront of mythology and mysticism.

Helena had been born the cherished daughter of a wealthy noble family. Married at a young age, she divorced after only two years due to personality differences.

Then she threw herself into folklore and esoteric philosophy, achieving remarkable success in just a few years. She eventually founded a new academic society called “Theosophy” and established a prestigious organization bearing her name.

“By the way… have you thought about that offer Mr. Dulles mentioned?”

As Helena spoke, I looked up and noticed a document envelope in her hands.

The contents of that long-forgotten “offer” came back to me.

Several months after Randolph disappeared and was later declared dead, I was left not only emotionally devastated but also financially ruined.

The only asset Randolph left behind was a crumbling old house, and my economic situation was dire.

His friends, pitying this young and helpless widow, tried to help however they could.

One of them was Mr. Dulles, Randolph’s close friend and editor.

“Madam, I’m not sure if this kind of work is appropriate for you, but…”

He introduced me to proofreading manuscripts for the horror fiction magazine Weird Fiction, where he worked. Thanks to that, I was barely able to put food on the table.

Later, I submitted a short story I wrote as a hobby, and to my surprise, it was accepted. That story—The Child in the Darkness—became a hit and launched my full-time writing career.

Since then, Mr. Dulles had served as the editor for all of my works.

“You mean Randolph’s unpublished manuscript?”

Not long ago, he sent me an urgent message.

“Mrs. Carter, we’ve discovered one of Randolph’s manuscripts.”

A package with no return address had arrived at the Weird Fiction editorial office.

Inside was a stack of manuscript pages in a document envelope, along with a note.

[Please give this to my wife, Emily Carter. Only she has the right to open and read this work.]

The handwriting unmistakably belonged to my late husband.

When Mr. Dulles opened the envelope and read the title on the cover, he was shocked.

“This is… that work!”

It was the very play Randolph had poured his soul into until the end—a two-act play titled The King in Yellow, now become his final, posthumous work.

Randolph, who often quoted Platonic rhetoric, had once told me:

“Emily, this one is different from everything I’ve written before.”

“Different how?”

“If my previous works were mere shadows cast on the cave wall… then this one is the form itself. The true idea.”

He would usually discuss his story ideas with me or Mr. Dulles, but for this one, he had maintained strict secrecy.

“When it’s finished, I’ll show it to you first. I promise.”

Was he now trying to fulfill that promise? After leaving me all alone?

“Emily?”

“Huh?”

“Are you okay?”

I had been sinking into memories of despair. Helena’s voice snapped me out of it.

I nodded at her warm, dark eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“If it’s too hard for you, I can read it with you.”

“No, really. I’m okay.”

When I reassured her again, Helena, though still concerned, pulled the manuscript from the envelope and handed it to me.

“Thank you, Helena.”

She nodded and left the study.

After the door closed behind her, I stared silently at the title written on the manuscript: The King in Yellow.

“Randy… who does the King in Yellow represent?”

“Hmm, that’s…”

When I’d once asked what the title meant, Randolph hesitated for a long time before finally answering:

“The ruler of the worlds between the stars.”

“What is that, some mythological concept you made up?”

He had only smiled awkwardly in response… but remembering that now, I slowly turned the cover page.

The King in Yellow – Original Work by Almuq al-Asfar, Adaptation by Randolph Carter.

I didn’t know it was an adaptation.

I casually turned the page and saw the section titled “History of This Work.”

[The King in Yellow was originally written as a play in the 3rd century BCE by Almuq al-Asfar, an Arab writer. It was later translated into Greek in 830 CE by the poet Andronikos Mikellis and spread widely throughout Europe.]

[Those who encountered this work mostly met gruesome fates. The translator, Mikellis, went mad and died screaming that a “golden skull was trying to kill him.”]

[A monk named Francisco, who created the first Latin manuscript, was bitten to death by a stray dog he claimed was the “King wearing a pallid mask.” Later investigation revealed the dog had no teeth.]

[The content itself was disturbing and blasphemous. Coupled with the ominous rumors surrounding it, the Orthodox Church banned The King in Yellow as a forbidden book. Still, it survived, thanks to the curiosity of certain scholars.]

The rest of the document was the same—stories of people going mad or dying horribly after reading it.

At the end, a final warning:

[Do NOT turn the page any further!]
[The King in Yellow is not a typical play.]
[The adaptor solemnly declares that he bears no responsibility for any consequences resulting from ignoring the above warning.]

A chill ran down my spine, and I stopped reading.

Then I noticed Randolph’s handwriting just beneath that.