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Kafkaesque: of, relating to, or suggestive of Franz Kafka or his writings
especially: having a nightmarishly complex, bizarre, or illogical quality
this story will contain:
profanity and violence, a pretty strong MC who tries to solve the stories even if they have no clue what they're doing since they never read classic literature (spoiler alert! They'll probably fail), and might put some crossover between a few of the stories. discussion of: self-hatred, victim-blaming, emotional abuse, and other mature themes which you might've seen in the classics which I'm writing about. I don't recommend this story to the faint-hearted or under 14, but I can't stop anyone from reading, so go ahead.
other important notes
+ This is a reader insert, with the reader's gender not mentioned, but it is mentioned that they're queer.
+ If you skip a chapter, the story will have no sense (This is not a one-shot book, but a full-written story)
+ Not everyone will have a dark obsession with (Y/N) (Aka "yandere" how most would call them)
+ The characters in this fanfic are only inspired by the original source, but some will be completely different due to my creative liberty. All characters are 18+, due to the darker themes of this book.
+ However, even if the characters are over 18, that doesn't mean that I'll write smut. There will be ZERO sexually explicit content.
+ If you romanticize yanderes, this story is not for you
+ constructive criticism is always welcome, but please be respectful and kind in the comments.
+ For now, the stories I'm writing about are Jekyll and Hyde, Dracula, Frankenstein, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Phantom of the Opera, and Pride and Prejudice (+ some crossovers with other stories throughout the book). Please suggest more literature pieces you'd like to see in the comments, and I'll try reading them and adding them to this fanfic.
+ There will be both female and male love interests for (Y/N)
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My legs ached as I was running through the borough, muttering excuses to people walking by as I was trying to find a library so that I could finally prove a point to my friend Amalie.
The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the quaint town, and I found myself stopping from running when I passed by the entrance of an antique store tucked away on a narrow cobblestone street. The creaky sign above the entrance swung lazily, announcing the establishment as "Timeless Treasures." Intrigued, I pushed open the heavy door, and the musty scent of the store reminded me of my grandma's house.
The interior was a labyrinth of forgotten artefacts and aged wooden shelves filled with curiosities from bygone eras. The air was loaded with a subtle aroma of aged paper, invoking a sense of nostalgia that tickled my senses. The soft chime of a bell above the door marked my entrance, drawing the attention of the elderly woman behind the counter.
"Oh, a young man/lady/person! Welcome to Timeless Treasures. What brings you to my humble abode?" Her voice, warm and crackling like an old vinyl record, betrayed her age. I flashed a polite smile and replied, "I'm on a quest for a story, Mrs! An old copy of 'The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,' to be precise. Is there a book section in this antique shop?"
With a knowing twinkle in her eye, the woman gestured to the labyrinth of antiques. "Ah, the classics section is towards the back, dear. You might find what you're looking for amidst the forgotten tales." I nodded gratefully and began my journey through the maze of time.
As I ventured deeper into the store, I marvelled at the eclectic mix of trinkets and treasures that lined the shelves. Vintage typewriters, while dusty mirrors reflected the memories of those who once admired their own reflections in times long past.
Finally, I reached the literature section, where weathered spines and yellowed pages held the secrets of centuries. Amidst the Dickens and Austen, I spotted the elusive Stevenson. Next to the various children's books he wrote like "Treasure Island", I finally found the leather-bound edition of "Jekyll and Hyde" beckoned, its spine bearing the weight of countless interpretations.
I cradled the book in my hands, eager to delve into the narrative that had sparked a debate with my friend, Amelie, about the meaning of the story. Just then, the antique shop owner appeared, her steps light but purposeful. "Found what you were seeking, dear?" she inquired, her eyes glinting with curiosity.
"Yes, indeed," I replied, a triumphant grin playing on my lips.
"Not many your age read classics anymore unless it's for a college essay. I'm very glad you came to this shop!" The older woman smiled at me. I felt a little bad that I only came so that I could find a copy of Jekyll and Hyde for a stupid argument I had with my roommate. There were online PDFs of the book, but none of them could compare to an old copy of the book.
"Yeah. I heard the book is truly interesting, and it would be a joy to read it!" I laughed awkwardly. The Lady smiled at me, her wrinkles adorning her smile.
"You can read the book right here if you want. Not many customers come to this shop often, so you can sit here peacefully." She then motioned towards an old sofa. The wall had a cuckoo clock festooning it to tell the time. Jekyll and Hyde isn't a long novel to take all night to read, so I could finish it in a few hours before sunset.
"Thank you very much, ma'am!" I thanked the old lady, as I walked towards the sofa to read the book. Before I could sit down, she took my hand.
"Dearie, I'll just warn you to be careful with the books." She said. I nodded, understanding what she probably meant. She likely only wanted me to not accidentally rip a page or the book itself, as it looked quite fragile from all the years it endured.
"Of course. I'll be cautious!" I smiled at her. She smiled back and walked away, "Heartaches" by Al Bowlly playing faintly on the old radio that the older woman owned in this shop.
I opened the book, dust particles floating in the air, making me cough.
"Mr Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile; cold and embarrassed in discourse; backwards in sentiment; lean, dreary and yet somehow lovable..." I began reading. Suddenly, an inexplicable dizziness overcame me, and the words on the page started to waver. Even so, I continued reading, yawning a lot in the meantime.
"He had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove...." I yawned, my eyelids slowly closing down on me. 'Maybe a little sleep won't hurt anybody...' I said to myself, my head falling on my shoulder as I finally gave up to the hands of slumber. After all...I'm only sleeping for a few minutes, I'll wake up soon.
Blinking groggily, I found myself in a room bathed in the warm glow of a crackling fireplace. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls adorned with heavy drapes. As my senses slowly acclimated, I realized I was no longer in the antique store but seated in a leather armchair near the comforting hearth.
The surroundings were Victorian in nature, the air tinged with the faint scent of old books and the distant echoes of a bustling London street. A glance down at my body made me realise that I was dressed as a Victorian gentleman.
Perplexed by the surreal shift, I took stock of my surroundings. The room exuded an air of antiquity, with dark wooden furniture and shelves laden with leather-bound tomes. I immediately opened a journal that was near me to see what date it was. Did I travel back in time? As I opened the journal, I noticed the date: 4/IX/1885
It dawned on me that I had indeed travelled back in time, but how? It was barely 202x, yet somehow I'm in 1885?! I began rummaging through the things in the room, trying to find more things to help me understand what was happening. Maybe I'm just dreaming or-
*BANG*
I was alerted by the sound of a loud gunshot in the background. The echo of the sound shattered the dreamlike atmosphere, jolting me back to the reality of this world. Panic seized me as I rushed towards the source of the disturbance, my heart pounding in sync with each hurried step. The air crackled with tension as I navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the Victorian residence.
I found a man, dressed as a butler, a distressed expression etched on his face, standing beside a trembling young boy clutching his injured arm. The metallic scent of gunpowder hung in the air, mingling with the coppery undertones of fresh blood.
"What in God's name happened?" I demanded, my voice reflecting authority. The butler stammered out an explanation, his eyes darting nervously between me and the injured boy. "It was an accident, Mr/Miss/Mx Utterson. We heard rattling and thought there was an intruder in this home, but I realized it was just a poor lad!"
As I assessed the situation, my gaze fell upon the wounded lad. His features were gaunt, his clothes tattered, his fair hair dishevelled, and his pale eyes wide with a mixture of pain and fear, as if I caught him committing a crime. I ripped a part of the brown coat I was wearing, and wrapped it around the young boy's arm, as a sort of gauze.
The gravity of the situation intensified as I instructed the butler to fetch a doctor immediately. Meanwhile, I knelt beside the young boy, no older than 10, attempting to offer reassurance amid the chaos. "You're safe now, lad. We'll get you the help you need," I assured him, my words laced with a strange blend of responsibility and empathy.
"I'm so sorry sir/ma'am/mx!" He simply cried in pain, and I just hugged him, trying to calm him down, patting his back. I oddly felt like a parent to this strange boy, my sense of being in an abnormal environment becoming the least of my worries.
Now that I was thinking about it, did the butler just call me Utterson? Wasn't that the name of the protagonist in Jekyll and Hyde? Wait so does that mean that...
No, this has to be some kind of dream. After all, nothing like this happened in the original story. There was no young boy who was shot at the beginning of the book. From what I remember from the summary I read with Amalie that began this whole argument, there was a young girl who was trampled by Mr Hyde at the beginning of the book, but there wasn't any young boy who was shot.
The weight of the boy weighed down on me, making me realise that the boy had fallen asleep in my grasp, as he was still breathing and his heart was still beating. I decided to carry the young lad in my arms as if I were a parent carrying their sleeping child out of the car after a long road trip.
I looked through the doors upstairs, trying to find the room where I, or should I say, "Mr Utterson" slept in. After walking through the labyrinthian hallways for what felt like forever, my arms feeling sore from carrying a child, most likely a young preteen, I finally found Mr. Utterson's room. I laid the boy down on the bed, making sure to not touch his arm accidentally since it was still wounded.
"Master, Mr Enfield is waiting for you downstairs!"
(A/N): Hello dearie! Thank you so much for reading this story. I know it's kind of ironic that the chapter is called "Kafkaesque", even when Franz Kafka isn't even mentioned in this book.
Ah yes, a good way to begin this story is with good ol' Jekyll and Hyde. I forgot to mention that this book will be split into parts, each having an emoji at the end to present what story the part of the book represents as to keep it organised. Please ignore the (A/N), I woke up late at night to write the (A/N) to this book.
Anyways, have a swell day!~Luce
