by Gafford, Sam
And still men prevailed upon the land with his machines and refusal to commit. Each time the event drew near, men would retreat or allow themselves to be defeated. That was when I saw that more direct intervention was needed. A firmer hand was required.
Despite their love of war, the imaginations of men were limited. An idea dropped into the unconsciousness of several individuals resulted in the first weapon capable of cracking the seals of reality. And yet, with the power within their grasp, men grew timid and retreated from what I had shown them to create. So the idea had to be spread further and amongst those whose emotions were more easily inflamed or controlled. A campaign was initiated.
The culture of man divided. There were those who worshipped science and embraced rational thought while those who worshipped gods, both light and dark, rejected science and clung to their faith and superstitions. Once again I walked amongst men and brought them the conclusions they needed. My followers, and the followers of those who waited beyond, grew—and then, quickly, the first stroke was made.
To others, it might appear as if the end of the world was random, chaotic, and without plan. But does the watch know the hand of its maker? Does the machine, once started, see the finger that pressed the button? They simply move along in their preordained paths without knowledge or lustre or name.
The dreamers, in their sleep, glimpsed the beginning. Many refused to awaken after that sight. The mad felt the presence of the others pressing on their minds and either screamed or tore out their eyes or throats. Men at sea in boats reported leviathan shapes on their radars or beneath their ships before falling silent in their watery graves. Like blocks in a child’s game, the bindings fell away rapidly once the bombs began to explode in an atomic chorus.
Each ignition pounded against the barriers, which began to crack and slowly give way. The ocean creatures, their bodies finally melting away to their true shape, congregated in the weak places in the seas and flung themselves against the wall like soldiers in an ancient war. They ran like acid into the cracks and pulled them open as they died.
Titans rose from the forgotten areas of the world.
I closed my eyes and spread myself over the globe. Voices rose up in fear and terror as dark, virulent creatures walked above ground for the first time in centuries. Cities crumbled as cracks opened in the earth. I heard my name cried by the faithful who were struck down as easily as the ignorant. I felt the wave pass through me, and the final vestiges of the barriers fell like trees before an autumn hurricane.
A vast shape the size of a mountain left his house at the bottom of the ocean to the symphonic screams of a million dreamers. The far-off sound of mad pipes grew closer and the beating of black wings flew through the air like raindrops. The pieces had all been perfectly placed and the players had given their last soliloquies. The civilization of man, built by accident or design, was nothing more than burnt embers on the wind. Those few who survived would be pets or fodder as needed. The earth shook to its core and broke apart into new and frightening continents of dark malevolence. The shapeless creatures from what had been the bottom of the world surged out like daemonic swineherds and took their place in the new hierarchy.
At last the deed had been done and I, the Dark One from Ancient Khem, walked the length and breadth of the world and surveyed what I had wrought. With those for whom I had paved the way, I charted new depths of depravity and monstrosity. My cruelty knew no bounds, and we cavorted across the tops of the new mountains that we had pulled from the interior of the earth. For a millennia I was one of them and rejoiced in what we had created.
But even for one as ageless as I, time passes and I felt the return of the inevitable ennui and listlessness. All things were transitory and, in the finality of the universe, there was no meaning. So I began planning again and, this time, I looked toward the species that had shown itself to be the most enduring and unchanging of them all. It might take another millennium or two, but eventually the cockroaches would reign supreme where the Old Ones reigned now and man had once reigned.
Or not.
“Good Morning, Innsmouth!”
“I’m Kelly Shapiro, reminding everyone that all next week we’ll be visiting the lovely town of Innsmouth. One of our ‘Forgotten Gems’! We’ll go to their lovely shoreline, take in the shops, and talk to local celebrities about the revitalization of this once-deserted town. That’s all next week on ‘Massachusetts Morning!”
At the last word, Kelly brought the microphone down from her lips, barely bothering to disguise her contempt. “How the fuck did I get this shit story?” she asked her cameraman.
Perry Langham sighed and brought the camera unit down off of his shoulder. “You know the drill, Kelly. Mandy got the co-host spot and you didn’t.”
“And you know how she got that chair, right?” Kelly flicked her bright red hair out of her eyes and fixed the cameraman in her gaze. Her perfectly tailored dress suit had been color-coordinated to match her hair and makeup while her freshly manicured fingernails shined in the sun. At twenty-eight, Kelly was already feeling that WCGB-Boston was too small for her. Particularly now that Mandy was sitting in the co-host seat with John Lohnes. She needed to set her sights higher.
Loading the camera back onto his shoulder, Perry languidly responded, “I don’t listen to office gossip, Kelly. Let’s do it again.”
“Again? What the fuck for?”
“You need to be more bubbly. You shut down before you ended the segment. This is morning TV, remember? ‘Upbeat! Lively! Happy! Moronic! News for idiots!’”
Kelly did the promo again and didn’t drop her smile until Perry shut off the recording.
* * *
They were standing on the Federal Street Bridge with the Manuxet River below them. In the distance, the waterfall was busily churning on its way through Innsmouth and out to the sea. Perry, ever the perfectionist, had scoped out the town earlier and chose this spot especially so he could get the waterfall in the background.
The river essentially split the town into two sections. At one time, most of the buildings were decrepit except for a few old family mansions. After the gentrification of the ’80s, most of the inferior buildings were simply demolished and replaced with condos or townhouses. Where there had been squalor before, now there was affluence and opulence. It cost a pretty penny to live in Innsmouth today unless you had inherited the land.
Kelly lit a cigarette and stood by the WCGB van, out of the wind. On the side of the van were large stickers of Mandy and John, smiling vapidly. The sight of them was more than Kelly could bear. “How quickly can we wrap this up?”
Shrugging, Perry loaded the equipment back into the van. “Depends how long you take. We can do a couple of promos down at the shore. I assume you don’t want to go on the whale watch?”
Kelly looked at him with contempt.
“Yeah, didn’t think so. Well then, we go do the interview with the Mayor at 3 p.m. After that, we talk to Richard Gilman, who’s the real estate developer responsible for all this. His office is over at Marsh Landing.”
She stamped the cigarette out with her heel and climbed into the van. “Let’s just hurry up and get this over with.”
“What’s your rush?” Perry asked as he got into the driver’s seat and started the van. “You usually love rich, fancy places like this.”
The van drove down Federal Street and took a left onto State Street, heading for the shore. Kelly looked at the line of expensive townhouse façades, which all looked the same. They could have been from Boston’s Back Bay or Portland’s downtown area. Well-dressed people walked happily, calmly, in the streets as they talked and texted on their cell phones while children played cheerfully on the sidewalk. The streets were lined with BMWs and Audis and SUVs.
“I don’t know,” Kelly said, “it just feels fake, you know? Like it’s just a covering.”
Perry shrugged. “No faker than any other of WCGB’s ‘Forgotten Gems.’”
* * *
; “Innsmouth had quite the struggle many years ago,” Mayor Vincent Waite said with a smile. “Back in 1928, the town was practically destroyed due to a Federal raid on some bootleggers. And, like so many other towns and cities in New England, Innsmouth had been dependent upon a manufacturing base that eventually collapsed.
“Um . . . you are taping this, right?”
Kelly smiled her ‘morning news reporter’ smile. Vapid and empty. “Of course, Mr. Mayor. Don’t worry, we’ll get everything.”
Mayor Waite smiled happily. He was a pudgy man with virtually no hair anywhere on his body. When he shook Kelly’s hand, she had the definite impression of something clammy. They were standing on one of the docks in the harbor. Behind them stood the towering mammoth that was ‘Marsh Landing.’ It was a massive condominium complex that looked to have been built from the remnants of an old factory, part of the current ‘gentrification’ methodology. It was fancy and expensive and built over the Manuxet River. The view from the penthouse must have been amazing, and that was where the man who had revitalized Innsmouth lived—the legendary Richard Gilman.
“Excellent! Well, as I was saying, the town was suffering and came very close to becoming completely deserted. Many of the people had moved away and there was no industry here to speak of until we started the Innsmouth Foundation.”
“When was that?”
“Back in 1984. A few of us, descendants of the original town families, formed a corporation to promote and rebuild the town. Of course, it was mostly due to Richard Gilman that we succeeded. He bought up most of the deserted properties and spent his own money developing them into the thriving town you see here today.”
What that really meant, Kelly thought, was that Gilman bought up everything cheap and is now selling it off to the rich. Soon they will be the only ones who can afford to live in Innsmouth.
“What about the manufacturing?”
“Well, the only industry here now is tourism. Back in its day, of course, Innsmouth had been a major center for shipbuilding and even gold refining. But, as you know, the jewelry industry isn’t what it was. What you see behind me, Marsh Landing, is where the old Marsh gold refinery used to be. Gilman used as much of the foundation as he could in the rebuilding to preserve that old New England flavor.”
Suddenly, Mayor Waite got intensely serious. “One of our longterm goals, you see, is to bring people back to Innsmouth. After 1928, so many of our townsfolk left Innsmouth and spread out over this land far and wide. They’re our children and we want them to come back home. Believe me, once you come here, you never want to leave. Innsmouth gets in your blood!”
“Isn’t that your PR campaign?”
“Oh, my, yes. ‘Innsmouth: the town of your dreams!’ It’s been quite successful. We’ve had many families come back home.”
“And one can easily see why! In Innsmouth with Mayor Waite, I’m Kelly Shapiro for ‘Massachusetts Mornings Forgotten Gems.’”
The camera came off Perry’s shoulder. “And we’re clear.”
Kelly sighed. “Great. Can you send that off to the studio, Perry?”
Without waiting for a response, Kelly turned back to the mayor. “What was that you were saying about ‘bootleggers,’ Mr. Mayor?”
“Please, call me Vincent,” he replied, slipping into politician mode. “Oh, that was just some foolishness. Supposedly back in ’28, when they still had Prohibition, the Feds raided the town. Massive thing, I guess, big operation. They took away a lot of people and blew up several buildings, including the Marsh Refinery. Wasn’t much left of it before Richard rebuilt it. Now it’s a lovely building, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, it is. You mean the Federal Government blew up a large portion of the town? Are they allowed to do that?”
“Back then the Feds could do anything they liked. No one with cell phones or digital cameras or YouTube watching. Anyway, there weren’t many people left here after all that, and most of those left soon after. So when we started the Innsmouth Foundation, we really wanted to bring people back here, back to their roots. Of course, having such prime real estate so close to Boston didn’t hurt either!”
The mayor laughed.
Waiting until he was finished, Kelly asked, “So most of the people here now are ‘transplants’? From other places?”
The mayor nodded. “There’s still some old families left. They’re mostly in the ‘old town’ section.” He gestured off to the north side of town. “But I’d say that a goodly part of our residents now are from somewhere else. Probably about 75%. But, after all, isn’t everyone from ‘someplace else’? Innsmouth is a ‘melting pot’!”
* * *
“What the fuck do you mean, Gina?” Kelly snarled into her cell phone. “I can’t make the footage any more exciting! This place is fucking boring! It’s full of a bunch of rich old farts that probably haven’t had a good bowel movement since 1979. What do you want me to do? Give the fucking mayor a blow-job on camera?”
Kelly listened and nodded her head. She clearly wasn’t liking what she was hearing. Off to the side, Perry checked his watch. Their day was running late and they still had the interview with Innsmouth’s ‘savior’ to do. Finally, Kelly swore some more into her phone and jabbed it into her pocket.
“What’s the deal?” Perry asked.
“Stupid, fucking Gina is the deal. She thinks the footage we shot is too boring. She wants us to talk to some locals. Christ! I hate talking to fucking locals. Damn editors. Why the hell did they pick this place anyway?”
Perry shrugged. “Way I heard it was that someone from the town called the head of WCGB, Mr. Wayne Eliot himself. I guess some money changed hands somewhere. You know these things are nothing but PR for the towns.”
“And where the fuck am I going to find locals to interview?”
Perry smiled. “I know just the place.”
* * *
The van pulled to a stop outside a large building that, at one time, might have been a church. The building, like much of Innsmouth itself, had the air of something that had been decaying for decades and then hidden behind a mask of new paint and fixtures. A fancy wood carved sign was above the door. It read simply, “Esoteric Order of Dagon.” The sign was expensive and new. Next to the door were two smaller plaques. One designated the place as an historic building while the other said “Social Club” and listed hours of operation.
As they got out of the van, Kelly was already unimpressed. “’Esoteric Order of Dagon’? What the hell is this?”
Lugging out the camera, Perry replied, “I saw it when I did my scout-out last week. It’s some kind of social club or something. They have a website.”
Kelly looked at him, disbelieving. “Are you shitting me? I can’t even get a good signal out here. How do they have a website?”
Perry pointed at the door. There, a small sticker proclaimed, “Wi-Fi.”
“Fuck you, okay?” Kelly said as she walked up to the door.
It took a few minutes for their eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Inside was a small hallway with closed doors on each side and a stairway on the right leading upwards. Typical New England Church design. At the end of the hallway were two bay doors with the customary nine small window panes in each door. Through it, they could see a larger room with tables and chairs. Some people were milling about.
When they opened the doors, a few people turned around but not many. There was a bar on the right side of the room with a large television tuned to the Red Sox game. More were watching the ball game than paid any attention to them. Kelly walked up to the bar where an older man was rinsing glasses. He looked up and smiled. “Afternoon, folks. You do know this is ‘members only’ time, right?”
Kelly put on her ‘news reporter’ smile again. “Hi, I’m Kelly Shapiro from WCGB’s ‘Massachusetts Morning’ show. We’re doing a segment on Innsmouth for the ‘Forgotten Gems’ portion of the show. Mind if ask a few questions? Maybe film a few interviews with your members?”
The bartender
laughed. “‘Forgotten Gem’? Ain’t that a laugh? Hey, Harry!” The man motioned to one of the others sitting at the bar and watching the game. “We’re a ‘forgotten gem,’ whaddaya think about that?”
Everyone laughed. “Sorry, Miss,” Harry said, “but Innsmouth is a town better left forgotten. All of us here? We’re old folk. Some of us got family going back generations in this place. When everyone else up and ran, we stayed put. And what do we have to show for it? Rich bastards who bought up our homes cheap, knocked them down, and put up houses none of us could afford to live in. They been pushing us out of here for the last thirty years, so excuse us if we’re not too anxious to bring more of ’em here.”
“But the mayor said that they want the old families to come back.”
The bartender smirked. “Sure they do. But only certain ones. Ones with the right blood and money. The rest of us? They’d rather we just die off. Make more room for their rich friends. Make no mistake, Miss, they’re remaking this town into a playground for the wealthy. They’re all the same, you know. Deep down.”
The Red Sox scored another run against the Yankees, which brought the room to a cheer and grabbed everyone’s attention. The bartender took a piece of paper out from under the bar and started writing on it. “Look,” he said when no one was watching, “I probably shouldn’t do this, but if you want to be a real reporter for a change, go to this address and talk to the man there. He can tell you more about what’s really going on in Innsmouth. Unless you just want to report about things like ‘the world’s largest whoopee pie’ for the rest of your life.”
