Chapter 3:
This work, which should have been a play meant for the stage, was not so much a script for a theatrical performance as…
An ineffable entity.
A prayer, more than anything, offered to a divine and mighty being beyond comprehension.
“May your sacred radiance guide me…”
The longing, adoration, and even obsession of a mere mortal directed at their object of faith—beyond devotion, nearing madness.
It was a continuous stream of sentences so intense, so fervent, they seemed to drip with insanity.
“Did Randolph really write this…?”
Even as I was struck with doubt, an ominous premonition flashed through my mind.
“Thus shall this body become a true servant of the darkness…”
Yet I couldn’t stop reading.
As if bound by some immense, unknowable force, I continued on, seized by a terror and horror I could not name.
The room, just moments ago bright, suddenly dimmed into shadow.
A hallucination unfolded before my eyes.
All I could see was a golden cloak before me.
Beyond the fluttering yellow hem, I felt an overwhelming presence.
“That is…”
The moment I recognized it, my breathing grew ragged, and my heart started pounding uncontrollably.
A torrent of complex emotions surged within me toward the being beyond the cloak.
A vague dread toward the absolute ruler.
Reverence that made me want to kneel and surrender everything.
An impulsive, self-destructive desire to simply vanish from existence.
Even as all these contradictory emotions clashed and spiraled to extremes…
Even amid the luminous vortex of chaos…
My body steadily moved forward toward that.
Though my rational mind screamed not to go any closer…
My legs, as if under a powerful spell, advanced without hesitation.
And finally—
I pulled aside the golden cloak.
What lay beyond, exuding a pallor like death—
Startled, I opened my eyes to see a familiar ceiling.
“This is…”
My bedroom—my own bed.
As I tried to sit up, a splitting pain shot through my head.
“Agh!”
“Emily, are you okay?”
Turning to the side, I saw Helena. Her beautiful face filled with concern. I opened my mouth to ask—
“What… happened to me?”
Helena looked deep into my eyes before replying.
“You were unconscious all morning.”
“…I was?”
Startled, I turned my head to see a stack of manuscripts on the nightstand.
The title on the first page: “The King in Yellow.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t read it.”
“Helena…”
With a sigh, Helena explained what happened.
She heard a scream from my study and rushed in to find—
“You were staring into the air, muttering all sorts of things.”
She said I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the empty space, mumbling nonsense, then stumbling back in terror, clutching my head and shrieking.
“When I felt your forehead, you were burning up.”
She’d just stepped out to call the doctor when she heard a thud—turning around, she saw I had collapsed, unconscious.
“Emily, do you know how worried I was?”
Helena gently wiped the cold sweat from my forehead. Taking my cold hands in hers, she warmed them and continued.
“You reminded me of the old you. It’s been a while, but… back when you were so unstable.”
“Unstable? Me?”
Her unexpected words made me furrow my brows.
“You don’t remember?”
“When was this?”
“We used to fight all the time. Wasn’t it about three months before Randolph disappeared—?”
“Fight? That’s ridiculous.”
As far as I remembered, Randolph and I had never fought.
We shared similar values and ways of thinking—so much so we used to joke we were taste-twins.
Sure, like any couple, we had minor disagreements or spats, but nothing serious.
‘The only real fight we had…’
Was that single argument right before Randolph vanished, leaving behind only a note.
But Helena seemed to interpret my reaction differently.
“You always avoid this topic.”
“What are you talking about? I—”
“Never mind. Let’s drop it.”
Helena shook her head and changed the subject.
“You know, you never really rely on anyone around you.”
“When have I ever—”
“Am I wrong?”
She looked at me with something close to resentment.
“What are friends for? To lean on, to confide in when things get hard.”
“That’s…”
“You always try to handle everything yourself.”
With that, Helena let go of my hands. Thanks to her warmth, my previously cold fingers felt somewhat revived.
“Get some rest, Emily. Take a nap if you want.”
As Helena turned to leave the room, I barely managed to choke out—
“…Thank you.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Helena gave a small laugh and left, quietly closing the door behind her. The golden hue of the evening sun spilled in through the window.
As I looked around the now-orange room, I fell into thought.
“Unconscious for half a day…?”
The manuscript—The King in Yellow. After reading it, I’d clearly had some kind of hallucination.
Even now, when I close my eyes, I can see those golden folds fluttering before me.
And beyond them—
“Who was it?”
Something terrifying. Horrific.
Reeking of death and decay, dissolving into…
“Urgh.”
Just trying to recall it made me nauseous. My heart started to race, and my fingertips grew cold.
“Enough. Stop thinking about it.”
So I buried what I’d experienced deep in my mind.
As time passed, I was able to dismiss it as nothing more than a strange incident. A few months went by without issue—until one day, an anonymous letter arrived, addressed to me.
“I witnessed a monster feeding on corpses in the crypt of an abandoned church.”
It wasn’t sent to the magazine office—it was addressed directly to me, Emily Carter.
“A monster that feeds on corpses?”
The phrase immediately brought one thing to mind.
A creature from Arabic myth, known to dwell near graveyards and feast on human remains—often referred to as a ghoul.
‘A popular creature in modern fantasy, too.’
The bizarre tale piqued my interest.
Though the editorial office frequently received tips, rarely were they this detailed, with the exact location and context.
“It does feel a bit suspicious, but…”
At the time, I was struggling with writer’s block. Though the letter’s timing was odd, I saw it as a possible spark of inspiration.
So I set out for York City, hoping the investigation would rekindle my creativity.
That was three years ago.
And if you think about it—this incident was, in fact, the true beginning of all the tragedies that followed.
After a long four-hour train ride, I arrived to a dismal gray landscape.
The air was heavy, sodden like a wet blanket. The weather had looked ominous all morning—and now, a torrential downpour lashed from the sky.
“Please take me to Saint Paul’s Church.”
As I hailed a carriage and gave my destination, the driver’s face turned pale.
“Why are you going to that cursed church?”
Once a thriving place of worship, the church had been closed for decades and was now little more than a ruin. None of the coachmen wanted to go near it.
After being rejected by three of them, I finally bribed the fourth with an absurdly generous tip.
Patter, patter.
Rain pounded on the carriage roof, sounding almost like a warning.
Saint Paul’s Church sat on the hillside. It was a tough climb on any day—and in this weather, horses often slipped.
Eventually, the carriage reached the main gate. Beyond the wide-open doors stretched a desolate garden nearly two hundred yards long.
‘Still have to walk quite a ways from here…’
As I stared ahead in a daze, the carriage suddenly halted and the driver flung the door open.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to walk from here.”
“What do you mean? You want me to carry my luggage through this storm?”
He looked flustered, but replied quickly, as if rehearsed.
“Well, ma’am, among us coachmen, entering that abandoned church is basically forbidden. To be honest, I only came this far out of kindness.”
He babbled, claiming his motives were noble and had nothing to do with the hefty tip.
Then he started rattling off the eerie rumors about the place.
The ghost of a young man unjustly murdered, mysterious deaths of the last congregants…
“Lately, they say a terrifying monster has been appearing. One that feeds on corpses…”
Accepting defeat, I handed him his tip. He unloaded my bags and quickly took off.
The sound of hooves faded into the distance.
“…Phew.”
I began walking, resigned.
Under the storm-darkened sky, the church looked thoroughly cursed.
My feet sank into the muddy ground, shoes ruined long ago. The rain was so fierce I could barely see.
By the time I reached the building, I was soaked from head to toe, and the hem of my skirt was caked in mud.
‘I look like a mess.’
Catching my breath, I knocked on the church door.
Thump, thump.
I knew it was abandoned, but still—just in case.
Hearing no reply, I grasped the handle and pulled.
Eeeeech.
With a high-pitched screech, the unlocked door swung open.
A musty odor wafted out—not just the stale scent of disuse, but something more foul. Something rotting. Faintly metallic…
“What is that smell?”
Anxiety clenched my chest.
I picked up my oil lamp and camera, left the rest of my luggage at the entrance, and stepped inside.
