Nocticadia: A Dark Academia Gothic Romance

The cadaver entrance was an old, brick tunnel with two points of entry. The door outside the university gate, which would’ve left me dealing with the tyrannical gatekeeper and made the whole point of remaining unseen pointless. Or the door leading to the incinerator room that was connected to the cadaver tunnel. Neither entrance had cameras. Both were creepy as hell, particularly at night.

A chill wracked my body, as I walked through the open space, carrying nothing more than the flashlight on my phone. To the left stood six steel doors, like old ovens, and beneath them, smaller sliding doors, which I guessed held the flames used to burn the bodies. A charred ash scent on the air told me one had been used recently.

Casting that thought to the back of my mind, I hustled through the room to a full-sized door, which spat me into the halfway mark of the cadaver tunnel–an arched brick tunnel, the ends of which were shrouded in darkness, like something out of a horror movie. The temperature inside the tunnel had to have been ten degrees cooler, the crisp bite of cold gnawing on my bones. A few more feet ahead, and the tunnel opened onto the autopsy room, with its stainless-steel beds, sinks, scales and white tiled floors, and a steel door to the left that led to the refrigerator, where med school cadavers were stored. If possible, the room was even colder than the tunnel with a sterile bleach scent that burned my sinuses and overpowered the faint whiff of formalin.

I only vaguely remembered the path based on the quick introduction I’d gotten when Professor Bramwell had whisked me out of there earlier that morning. The cells where I’d awakened were down some other obscure tunnel that I probably couldn’t have found again, if I’d tried.

I kept on through the autopsy room, to the lab door, where I punched in a code he’d given me on the keypad beside it. A red light on the keypad flicked to green, and the door clicked, allowing me to push through into a wide-open space, with wooden benches and microscopes, stacked books, and walls of bookshelves. Candles flickered in lanterns and large hurricanes throughout the room, and like in the Midnight Lab, tanks around the room gave off a soft purple glow. I passed one that housed dozens of worms squirming across the tank floor—far more than those in the lab upstairs. Rows of shelves housed specimen jars in which unidentifiable objects sat suspended in what I presumed to be formalin. Amidst the old, outdated echoes of a lab from the 1800’s were a few modern amenities sprinkled in–two large steel refrigerators, a centrifuge, incubators, scales and fume hoods. A strange clash of old and new that left me scratching my head. Surely, the university could’ve afforded to outfit such an important project, particularly given the extravagant gala I’d just attended.

Professor Bramwell breezed through the door at the other end of the lab, which led to his office, wearing a long, white lab coat, and a pair of goggles cocked up on his head. On seeing me, he skidded to a stop. The frown on his face gave me the impression that he hadn’t actually expected me to show up.

I cleared my throat, wearing a sheepish smile, and waved.

Grumbling to himself, he kept on toward one of the benches, and as I stepped in that direction to follow him, he pointed toward the door from where he’d just come. “My office.”

Nerves humming with intimidation, I obeyed his command and made my way toward his office. Through the door, I came upon another small corridor, with three closed doors and one ajar. At the end of the hallway flashed an exit sign, which I guessed led to the staircase that opened up on the midnight lab above us–a much more sophisticated laboratory.

With curious steps, I entered the moderately-sized office, where the scent of leather, polished wood, and old books mingled on the air along with the mouthwatering echoes of his cologne. If the lab was the heartbeat of his research, this room was the brain, given all of the medical and parasitology references that lined the bookshelves on each wall. Sketches of human anatomy lay scattered on the coffee table as I sauntered past it. My gaze fawned over the exquisitely carved, cherrywood desk gleaming in the dim light. Behind it, a vintage-looking record player in a wooden cabinet sat with the lid cocked open. And above that, on the wall hung a plaque with the Latin phrase: Mortui vivos docent. I recognized it from a forensics class I’d taken two semesters ago.

The dead teach the living.

Unlike his office in the admin wing, this one held more amenities, which gave the impression he spent more time here–a small refrigerator, a leather couch and ottoman with a blanket draped over the arm, a small fireplace radiating a cozy warmth, and a standing coat rack where an umbrella had been hooked. Like the lab, his office held skulls of various sizes, jars of strange objects–dissected organs and bones, from what I could make out. A full-sized human skeleton stood propped on a stand. Books claimed space everywhere I looked in perfect stacks. Two microscopes. Candles flickering in large hurricanes.

Something brushed across my ankles, and on a panicked jolt, I leapt onto Professor Bramwell’s desk. Twisting around showed a black little furball staring up at me with golden eyes. I blew out a relieved breath and chuckled, climbing off the desk. “Hello there,” I said, kneeling down to give the cat a pet. “What the heck are you doing in a lab?” I frowned the moment the words escaped me. “He better not be experimenting on you.” The cat leaned into the scratching, and I smiled, indulging the attention-loving rascal. “Strange, he doesn’t strike me as a cat person.”

Footsteps alerted me to his approach, and I abandoned the cat and scurried toward one of the chairs at his desk, plopping down just before he entered the room.

Crossing toward his desk, Professor Bramwell removed his lab coat and goggles, hung them neatly on the coat rack, and slid into his chair. The tight fit of his dress shirt certainly didn’t go unnoticed, as he sat forward, resting his elbow on the desktop. With an unreadable expression, he stared at me for a moment. “I understand you spoke with Dean Langmore.”

“I did.”

“What did you tell him?”

I shifted in my seat, because the man’s gaze felt like hot laser beams across my skin. “That you tried to help me, but I ran off. Humiliated for having thrown up in your car.”

“To the church, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Leaning back in his chair, he steepled his fingers, not bothering to direct his laser beams somewhere else. “You’ll don a lab coat every time you enter the lab. I’ll be sure to have them available to you in the autopsy room. Gloves and goggles are also required.”

“Okay. Can I ask you a question?”

Though he didn’t make a sound, his unamused expression told me he was inwardly groaning.

“Why does this lab look like something out of the dark ages?”

“The specimens you’ve worked with in the midnight lab are newly infected. Those in this lab are in the tertiary phase and happen to have a rather intense sensitivity to light. We’ll also be working with adult Noctisoma, which also possesses a very intense aversion to anything that isn’t natural light.”

“They can survive in sunlight, then?”

“They can, although they’re nocturnal and prefer night.” His comment brought an observation to mind.

“My mother, she hardly slept at night. Do you think the worms affected that?”

“I have no idea what may have caused your mother’s insomnia, seeing as you claim she wasn’t from the island, or had never been here, but yes, they can affect circadian rhythms. As for the outdated state of the lab, I’ve plenty of equipment in the three other labs throughout this building. I’d much prefer to concentrate funds into the actual study versus giving this particular lab a makeover. It suits its purpose.”

Definitely touchy about the lab. “Of course. I meant no disrespect.” The labs upstairs were certainly well-equipped, I just hadn’t expected to be working in a crypt. Probably fitting, though, for a moniker like Doctor Death.

“Have you ever worked in a lab outside of your degree requirements?” he asked.

“Um. Briefly. A mycology lab when I first graduated high school. It was basically just counting spores through a microscope.”

“Then, perhaps you have a very basic understanding of lab etiquette and safety.”

Except for the times my colleague and I would spray down the bench tops with alcohol that we ultimately lit on fire. “Sure.”

“No food or drink. Practice good hygiene. Do not sniff, or taste. And, for God’s sake, don’t use your mouth as a pipette.”

“No one actually does that. Do they?”

Brow cocked, he let out a sound of exasperation and reached for a to-go cup on his desk, with the infamous gold dragon label of the Dragon’s Lair coffee shop. “I’ll also have you assist in the occasional autopsy. Do you have any experience with cadavers, Miss Vespertine?” He kept his eyes on mine as he sipped his drink.

“No.”

“Then, you will follow my every direction without a fuck-ton of questions. I like quiet when I work. Observe, and you will learn.”

“Yessir.”

“I will give you two hours each night. You will be compensated in cash, as requested.”

I scratched the curious itch at back of my neck. “May I ask what the compensation will be?”

“Two hundred dollars a week. You will clean dishes and keep the lab tidy. You will not nose around.”

Jesus. Two hundred a week? I’d expected a meager fifty, at most. While I certainly appreciated the paycheck, the bigger benefit would be learning about the organism itself. I needed to understand its mechanisms better, the details that weren’t expected to be covered until next semester, according to his syllabus. By gaining knowledge on the worm, perhaps the progression of my mother’s sickness would make more sense. “I understand.”

“There are three other rooms in this corridor. They are off limits.”

Which, of course, only piqued my curiosity.

Even so, I answered, “I understand.”

“Good. Let’s begin.”

For the first hour, I followed closely behind him, as he acquainted me with all of the different machinery throughout the lab. Some, I was already familiar with, like the microtome, centrifuge, and flow cytometer. Others, like the organ bath, were new to me. He also introduced me to a moderately-sized steel structure–the autoclave, where I’d be expected to sterilize instruments and agar.

As he led me toward the host of different microscopes out on a table, I paused at the shelf where I’d first noticed the strange specimens in formalin.

Chunks of unidentifiable dissections of meat and bone lined four shelves, each with tiny labels. Gaucher disease, staghorn calculus, fibrous dysplasia. Conditions that I made a mental note to look up once back at my dorm.

“Medical oddities I’ve stumbled upon,” Professor Bramwell said from behind. “The human body is a magnificent puzzle.”

“It must be fascinating to open the body and look inside.” It was strange, the way he collected from the dead in much the same way I did with trinkets. It made me wonder if he did so for the same reasons as my own. If harvesting a piece of them in jars as he did kept the nightmares away.

“You don’t find this grotesque?” he asked, staring off at his wall of trophies.

“Yes, of course, but that’s what makes it fascinating. I want to learn based on that curiosity.”

“You are a curiosity in yourself, Miss Vespertine.”

After a brief introduction to the histological exams I’d be studying, he set me to work on chores. Small petri dishes lined the bench as I poured agar into them while silently grumbling to myself. Although I appreciated an easy start, I’d hoped to get my hands dirty with the nitty gritty.

Across from me, Professor Bramwell sat with his back to me, peering into a microscope.

“May I ask a question?”

“That is a phrase that will echo in death,” he said, not bothering to look up, and I smiled.

“Why moths? Aside from them being the natural host, why use them to study a toxin in humans?”

“Because they’re cheaper than human beings, and it’s not considered murder when they die.”

I let out a snorty chuckle, spilling some of the agar onto the plastic mat beneath it.

“They also happen to have a similar immune response.”

“Really? What is it about the toxin and human response?”

“You’re delving into toddlerhood with all of these questions.” It was the flat tone of his voice that struck me as amusing. Not that I wanted to annoy him, by any means— it somehow seemed to come natural between the two of us.

“I’m just trying to understand the nature of the research I’ll be assisting with.”

“While you may be aware of the negative aspects of infection, Noctisoma happens to have a number of benefits.”

“Such as …”

He let out a huff, and I lowered my gaze to hide the smile cracking at the seams. “You claim your mother was infected. Tell me, prior to the week of her death, did she ever complain of illness, pain, or something as benign as indigestion?”

“Not that I recall, no. In fact, she’d suffered with arthritis in her hands for years. But I don’t recall her complaining much about it then.”

Lifting his face from the eyepiece, he swapped samples from those out on the bench and peered through the microscope again. “If that’s true, it’s interesting, particularly in the case of her arthritis.”

“Why?”

“The organism cleanses the body. It removes all other pathogens.” His voice carried the drawl of his trying to focus the lens as he talked. “And in the case of arthritis, it redirects the immune system and keeps it from attacking the joints.”

“So, it’s a possible cure for autoimmune diseases?”

“The possibility is there. The methodology is an endless maze. For now, my focus is more narrowly concentrated.”

I shook my head, imagining all of the diseases that would’ve fallen under that umbrella. “This project is huge.”

“An understatement.”

“Then, why do it yourself? It seems you’d require a team to carry that out.”

“As I’m sure you’ve discovered, I don’t get along well with others. And I first have to establish and prove that the toxin holds potential.”

I nibbled my lip, debating whether, or not, to ask the next question. “I understand your father was a professor and researcher, as well. Did he study Noctisoma?”

He twisted around in his chair, away from the scope. “Are you finished pouring the agar?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“Yes.”

“Good. You may leave.”

“I … I still have twenty minutes. Is there something else you’d like me to do?”

“No. That will be all. Careful walking back to your dorm.” With that, he turned back toward his microscope.

Disappointed, I let out a huff and I slinked past him, toward the autopsy room.

“Miss Vespertine. Wait.”

Midstride, I turned back around.

“I’ll walk you to the campus bus stop. It’s a fairly dark path at night.” He pushed up from his seat, and I had to turn back around so he wouldn’t see the alarm flashing across my eyeballs.

“I can handle it. I’ve walked worse.”

“I’m certain you have. But as you are now a liability for me, I insist.”

A liability. What the hell did that even mean?

Even if I refused to admit it, I was a bit relieved to not have to walk solo through that creepy incinerator room. As he removed his coat, it seemed to catch on his shirt, pulling the collar down just enough that I managed a peek of the grisly scars across his collarbone and shoulder. The ones that still held the raw, pink coloring of a recent wound. I tried to wrap my head around what had given his attacker the balls to throw acid, of all things?

The abrupt pause of his movements caught my attention, and I glanced up to see him staring back at me. Clearing my throat, I removed my own coat, and after hanging it with his own on the hook outside the lab, he strode ahead of me, like he was leading me out instead of accompanying me.

I jogged to catch up, walking alongside him through the dark tunnels. “How are you not creeped out when you leave at night?”

“I’ve a reputation as Doctor Death. Seems most would be frightened of me.”

“I suppose. Though, I don’t find you all that frightening. Grouchy, but not frightening.”

He slid me an unamused glance. “My grouchy nature serves a purpose, Miss Vespertine. Unfortunately, you seem to have some inexplicable resistance.”

I smiled, ignoring the crematory ovens as we passed by them en route to the exit. “I like to arrive at my own conclusions about people.”

“Admirable, though not entirely wise when the warnings are legitimate.”

Legitimate? Like, murder legitimate, or just a play on the fact that he hung out with corpses? “Are you confessing something, Professor?”

He skidded to a halt, the exit just up ahead of us. “Ask me.”

“What?”

“You’re dying to ask me. You were staring at my scars just a moment ago. If I wanted to kill one of my students, I certainly have all the tools at my disposal.” He glanced over his shoulder toward where the ovens stood as an ominous reminder of how quickly he could eliminate the evidence.

“Am I foolish for thinking you didn’t kill her?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

“What I’ve learned doesn’t point to you killing her. But you did invite her to your lab.”

“I did not invite her. She apparently came in through the incinerator room, while I was in the upper lab gathering some samples. I suspect she realized there was no getting past the code to the lab and abandoned her quest, whatever it may have been.” Arms crossed, he let out an exasperated breath. “It wasn’t until the next morning that I learned of her disappearance, and by then, I’d already been labeled a murderer.”

I didn’t know Jenny Harrick, but based on the interactions I’d had with Professor Bramwell, that story sounded like the most plausible of any I’d heard so far. It was sickening to think how quickly everyone had arrived at the conclusion of murder. Particularly without any evidence that she’d been killed, at all. “I don’t believe you’re a murderer.”

His brow winged up, and he strode off in the direction of the exit. “And so the moth befriended the flame.”

“Huh,” I said, falling into step after him. “I didn’t think the flame was capable of being friendly.”

“You assume I’m the danger to you.”

Smiling, I lifted my bag up onto my shoulder. “Well, I suppose you would’ve locked me in that cell, if that were true.”

“I suppose I still can. But it’d be a shame to cage a specimen so …”

“Intriguing?”

“Annoying. Truly, you’d make the worst captive in the history of kidnappings. A pack of howler monkeys would cause less headache.” He pushed the door open, allowing me to exit first. The heavy door slammed behind us as we made our way over the small hill toward the open yard where the road stood about a hundred yards away.

“Is it wrong that I’m insulted by that?” I let out a laugh and turned to see a smile stretch his lips. A true and genuine smile, and holy shit, it was the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen. Straight, white teeth, and a dimple in his cheek. I wished I could’ve captured it, but it faded as quickly as it arrived, and I watched as his brows tightened and a look of panic claimed his face.

He bent forward, his hands balled into tight fists, and he let out a grunt.

When he collapsed to the ground, adrenaline exploded through my veins, and I dropped my phone, collapsing next to him. “Professor!”

Teeth clenched, he trembled and shook, but it wasn’t like the seizure he’d had a while back. His eyes locked on mine, pleading in a way that clawed at my heart.

I didn’t know what to do!

“I’ll call for help.” I said, scrambling for my fallen phone.

“No!” He reached out and grabbed my arm, his warm palm crushing my forearm as he held onto me. Eyes screwed shut, he kept hold, as his body shook and trembled and he grunted and gasped. His lips moved as he whispered something I couldn’t hear at first, until his face twisted up and his body bowed as if he’d been struck by a jolt of electricity. “Impervious!”

That word again. I’d heard it the last time he’d suffered one of these seizures.

I didn’t move, or try to wriggle from him. There’d surely be a bruise there tomorrow, but I didn’t care, as I watched him suffer through whatever had hooked itself into him.

Call someone, my head urged, his refusal for help echoing the times my mother had refused. Call now!

As I lifted my phone to dial campus emergency, the grip of my arm loosened. I looked back to see the tension in his face softening. His body trembled less as he exhaled through his nose. Eyes still closed, he seemed to calm, and the brush of something on my forearm was his thumb stroking me. Back and forth, back and forth. When he opened his eyes, there appeared an almost intoxicated serenity, before it morphed before my eyes. The laxity in his face hardened again, and he released me, kicking back as he jolted upright.

Gaze diverted from mine, he scowled, patting his chest and slacks, and fished out a silver case that housed cigarettes.

“Are you okay?”

Shoving the cigarette between his lips, he patted again and pulled out a lighter, igniting the end of his smoke. One long drag, and he rested his elbow on his bent knee, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I suspect you’re good to walk the rest of the way to your stop.”

“I’m not leaving until I know you’re all right.”

“I’m fine.” He waved me off. “Now, please. Go.”

“No.”

The look he shot me was one I’d have expected if I slapped him.

“I’ll wait a few minutes. For my own peace of mind.” Dropping my bag beside him, I plopped down on the grass that’d gotten significantly colder in the last few hours. “You have a condition.”

“No shit,” he said, and took another drag of his smoke.

“What is it?”

“Voneric’s Disease. A rare congenital disorder. Happy?”

“An autoimmune disease.”

“Yes.”

Just like that, it became clear to me why the man was so dedicated, so single-mindedly passionate about a bunch of freaking worms. “That’s why you’re working on the toxin. But I thought you said your work focused on diabetes. Is this a diabetic complication?”

“No. It so happens the mechanism is similar. Unfortunately, no one gives a fuck about a disease that only affects one in five-hundred-thousand people.”

I wanted to ask him if his father had set out to study the same thing, but didn’t want him shutting me out again. “Is it …” I clamped my mouth shut, not wanting to say it.

“Deadly? Yes. If it reaches my heart, it’s game over for me.”

God, the sound of that had such a swiftness to it. The thought that I’d almost witnessed his death, twice, had my stomach flipping on itself. “What is impervious?”

His brow flickered. “It’s nothing.” Cigarette dangling from his fingertips, he rubbed his face against his outstretched bicep. “My apologies for putting my hand on you.”

“No need to apologize. I’m happy my arm was here.” Flinching, I shook my head. “God. Scratch that comment all together.” What a stupid thing to say. “So, this toxin … how do you know it affects autoimmunity like that?”

“It’s been demonstrated in mice.”

“You said earlier that you have to prove the toxin holds potential. Doesn’t its effect in mice prove it?”

“It does.” Another drag of his cigarette, and he smashed it into the grass. “Unfortunately, death is a major fucking potential side effect. Until I can isolate a stable toxin variant, I’m stuck studying moths.”

“Here, I thought you liked studying moths, the way you carry on in your lectures.”

“Depends on the moth I’m studying.” Eyes on me, he pushed to his feet, stumbling back a step.

Head winding through whether or not he’d just flirted again, I absent-mindedly reached out for him. When he jerked his arm away, I recoiled. Right. He didn’t like to be touched.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s not my intent to be–”

“You’re not. Not at all. Please don’t feel the need to explain. I shouldn’t be touching you. God, I didn’t mean that to sound weird. Or creepy.” Ugh. Just stop already. Shaking my head, I gathered up my bag. “I’m gonna go. I think the last bus is in about ten minutes.”

“Miss Vespertine.” At his call, I swung back around. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With a smile, I nodded.