by Byron Craft
A shadowy and somewhat magnificent sitting room was illuminated suggestive of a priest's antechamber. Maroon draperies hung about the windowless apartment. A dark Victorian bookcase stood next to a matching chair that had been upholstered in crushed velvet. But what drew my attention right off were the contents on that round table. There was this big book. It was definitely vintage, an antique. Carved into the cover were the words, “Al Azif.” There were open pores with hair follicles in what, at first, I thought was a leather binding. A dark brown spot in the left corner caught my attention. It was no larger than the eraser on the end of a pencil. I touched it, and it was supple. The electric shock of revulsion passed through my hand. It was a mole! I had no doubt that the hide covering the book was human. Not wanting to touch the repulsive book again I directed my attention to a half written letter lying next to it. It was to some guy in Germany by the name of Ernst Todesfal. It was filled with some godawful gobbledygook about the coming of the Great One and the stars being in alignment and such nonsense. What did give me a chill though was a half-finished closing paragraph that wished the recipient of the correspondence good luck in training his nephew to the ways of opening the gateway in case their efforts here, in Innsmouth failed. Not being completed, the letter, of course, was not signed. I folded up the single sheet and placed it in the inner pocket of my jacket.
A pair of hands that were large, heavily veined and had a very unusual greyish-blue tinge reached out from behind me and snatched up the foul book. His wide, thin lipped and coarse-pored, grayish cheeks were almost beardless except for a few sparse yellow hairs that straggled and curled in irregular patches. His greasiness turned my stomach. He was passing his webbed hand over the human skin book cover as gently as an old maid strokes a cat. You could have slapped me with a trowel. He caught me totally off-guard. I never heard him approach. A lamprey-mouth wide and drooling started to form words
"History is moving to a glorious climax brother,” he said in a watery gurgle. “The term is almost over and the time has come."
I realized right then and there that what he was babbling about was probably a fraternal greeting, similar to the secret handshakes and passwords that lodge brothers use. I hit him over the head with my .45 automatic as my response. He fell to the floor like a wet rag. Unconscious, he laid there with a yellow ooze bubbling between his skinny lips. I made a mental note that his head felt awfully soft when I clobbered him. He was wearing a man's undershirt and swim shorts. The big toes of his bare feet were also joined by the netting of skin. They were an oversized parody of a frog's feet. I, of course, made the connection, right off, to the wet footprints on the hallway carpet. Was this typical of their kind?
Even though I found the old book disgusting, still, there was probably much in it to pique my curiosity. I bent over to pick it up. Something clunked against the back of my skull. My Ex used to say that I was hard headed. She was right. Starting to see stars I turned to face my attacker. It was Fish Neck, the guy who gave me directions to the temple, he had a club. Before I could bring my .45 around to shoot the mug, his right arm moved in what I perceived to be slow motion and he thumped again. I was beginning to lose my balance when he clocked me a third time. I don’t remember falling.
***
I was standing on the Manuxet bridge. The heaviest fog I had ever seen swirled around my legs, eddied over the guardrail and obscured everything beyond a few feet of distance. Someone was calling my name. The voice was faint. I could tell that it was a child’s. I turned and started to walk into the pea-souper but stopped when I heard the voice again. The vocal sound barely seeped through the haze. I thought I heard it say, “Daddy.” Turning in the direction, I faced before; I headed towards the end of the bridge that I believed the sound was emanating. Hearing it call out again, I questioned my judgment as the voice was all mixed up in the vapor and I could scarcely ascertain its source. My head ached something fierce. Then I saw her. She was walking away from me. It was my ex-wife, and she was holding the hand of our son. My little boy peered at me with a helpless look. I ran after them and placed a hand on my Ex’s shoulder. She turned to face me. Staring, unwinking eyes bore down upon me. The air of death and desertion was ghoulish, and the smell of rotting fish almost insufferable. That was when I woke up.
***
It took me a while to figure out which way was up or down. I thought I was paralyzed until I cleared the cobwebs from my brain and realized that I was sitting in a chair and my hands were tied behind my back. I was in a saloon or what used to be a saloon. The place looked like it hadn’t been touched with a feather duster in centuries and all of the shelves were bare. Leaning against the bar was my new friend, the one that clobbered me.
“Hiya Fish Neck,” I said, almost politely.
“Don’t get funny,” he answered. “Or you’ll get more of this!” he emphasized slapping the palm of his hand with a sap, a short and flat leather-covered Billy Club.
“You’re real brave sneaking up behind a fella, knocking his brains out and then threatening him after he’s all tied up,” I tossed the insult at him, just to get his goat, secretly hoping that his threat was shallow. The mug just smiled, and it was about then that I noticed that there was someone else in the room. He was wearing a dark blue uniform. Navy, I guessed.
“From now on we will do the talking, and you will only talk when questioned,” said Navy blues. “What are you doing here?”
“I came here for my health, doctor’s orders.”
“What were you doing with this?” asked Fish Neck. He was holding the letter I took from the Dagon Temple.
“I collect autographs,” I said and smiled when he frowned.
“We’ve got several hours to kill, and we can make them very unpleasant if you don’t start cooperating,” he threatened.
“Now fellas,” I answered. “That won’t be necessary. I can be very obliging, just untie me.”
“No can do,” interjected the guy in uniform.
“How about an aspirin? I’ve got a terrible headache?”
Blue Boy looked over at Fish Neck, and he nodded the ok. “Go ahead,” he said. I didn’t notice it at first, but I realized then and there that Fish Neck’s voice was normal. It no longer had that watery quality synonymous with all the Innsmouth inhabitants. On the bar was a small reed encased in aluminum. Smaller than the smallest mouth organ, I considered that, if placed under the tongue, and with a little practice one could make sounds that would resemble any of those creeps with a puss like a trout.
The guy in uniform opened a small valise and produced a bottle of aspirin. Still becoming aware of my surroundings I realized that the joint had electricity. At the end of the empty liquor bar was a lamp missing its shade, the bulb in its socket shone brightly. It made me squint. A few feet away stood a water cooler. All the comforts of home. Blue Boy shook a tablet into the palm of his hand. “Better make it two,” I directed. “I’ve got a whopper.”
These Jokers weren't very bright. They hadn’t tied my feet to the legs of the chair. It was a bentwood and very fragile. There must have been fifty of them in the place used undoubtedly when the establishment, at one time, served refreshment to thirsty sailors and fishermen. I could have easily jumped up and landed backward shattering the rickety thing, but that would have given enough warning for the two against one that I would probably get hit over the head again or worse. Instead, I just kept flexing my left forearm loosening the adhesive tape that held my stiletto in place. Dumber still was the fact that, when I was out, and they frisked me, they failed to find my .22 revolver concealed in my ankle holster. I knew that I had been searched because they had the letter and I could see my duffel bag along with my 1911 Colt on the bar top.
Fish Neck filled a paper cup from the water cooler, took the two aspirin tablets from Blue Boy and sauntered confidently towards me. In the meantime, I had freed the stiletto from the tape, and it neatly slid down my forearm into my opened left hand. I coughed real loud to conceal the “
click” it made when I released the automatic telescoping blade. I keep the baby razor sharp, and after two quick turns of the wrist, I sliced through my bonds.
Fish Neck bent over in front of me with the two pills between his thumb and forefinger and the cup of water in the other. I could have knocked him on his sweet behind right then and there, but I really had a headache, and I wanted the aspirin. “Open,” he ordered and plopped them in my mouth. He held the cup to my lips, and I drank its contents down with one gulp. I was parched, and the water tasted sweet. That’s when I slugged him.
I bopped him on the end of his snout, with all my muscle. I heard bone crack. Fish Neck and the paper cup flew backward. He cried like a baby. In a flash I was out of my chair and, in one well-practiced move, I had the .22 drawn from my ankle holster with the hammer drawn back. Standing there with the stiletto in my left and the .22 in the other I eyeballed my two opponents. The guy in the blue uniform reached for my Colt on the bar top. “Don’t try it pal,” I recommended. This was one helluva standoff. My buddy with the busted beak was mopping up the blood that ran down his kisser with a handkerchief. Blue Boy was standing stiffly in his tracks wondering what to do next.
“Now suppose you two fellas tell me who you are,” I instructed while pointing each of my weapons at each of them.
“Stand down everyone,” a voice commanded from behind me. I quickly glanced over my shoulder still pointing my knife and gun at the other two. This one was dressed in blues too, wearing a yachting hat with a chest full of ribbons. He walked to my right with an imposing air and stood between my ex-assailants. Blue Boy came to attention, Fish Neck looked peeved, and I saw that the new guy was holding my badge and wallet.
“Those won’t be necessary Detective,” he said with an authoritative voice nodding at my weaponry. Turning to the other two he decreed, “His identity checks out. He’s a police detective from Arkham here on an assignment. I just got off the horn with his chief of operations.”
“Sorry that your cover was blown, Detective,” apologized Fish Neck. “We had no way of knowing.”
“Yeah, well, my head still aches from your apology.”
“And my . . .” he pointed to his busted schnozzola.
“Oh yeah, I guess we’re even. Look,” I challenged, “before we all become friends here I need some answers.”
“Fair enough,” answered a chest full of ribbons. “I am Bartholomew Asmoday, U.S. Navy, Captain of the frigate USS Alliance. This is Chief Petty Officer Max Quimby,” he announced pointing at Blue Boy.
“Naval intelligence,” newly identified Quimby piped in.
“You don’t look too intelligent to me pal,” I countered not being able to resist the barb. “And who’s the guy with the busted beak? Since when does our government get palsy walsy with the Innsmouth types?”
Busted Beak’s nose stopped bleeding, he smiled and started to peel some skin off of his neck. He was tearing it away in sheets the size of his hand. I almost got sick until I realized that he wasn’t ripping away his flesh. It was makeup putty. He wasn’t a gill-man. It was all appliance makeup that had been skillfully applied to both sides of his neck to make him look like one of the Innsmouth fish men.
“Ian Woodhead,” he said with a big grin peeling off the last remains of his disguise. “OSS, Office of Strategic Services.”
“I’ve heard of you guys,” and that was no malarkey. After Schicklgruber, the house painter, took over Germany, FDR and J. Edgar decided that it was time for the good old U.S. of A. to have its own intelligence agency, thus the OSS. Ian Woodhead was a spy, on our side, I hoped. “Ok, we have all been properly introduced, now what’s all the rough and tumble about?”
“Allow me, detective,” answered the Captain. “Quimby, Ian, the Chief of Arkham Station House number 13 informed me that the Detective here is on the trail of a murder suspect. Did I get that right detective?”
“Mostly,” I answered. “A guy carved up a lady in Arkham and took a powder to Innsmouth. He’s a local. His name is Elam Muskeg.” I retracted the blade of my stiletto, pocketed the shiv, but kept the .22 in a wide, threatening arc. I grabbed my Colt off of the bar and slipped it into my shoulder holster. Opening the duffel bag, I pulled out a photo. I had a copy of the police artist's rendering of the perp. I showed it to them and they all just shrugged. All these fish people look alike to me; maybe it was the same for them.
“Sorry,” said Woodhead, his voice sounding muffled because he was applying adhesive tape across the bridge of his snout while he spoke.
“You and me both.” Drawing my Colt automatic from its holster, I did an impression of Two-Gun Pete. “Ok, boys you’ve got my confession, now what’s yours?”
“Again,” implored the Captain of the Alliance, “the guns aren’t necessary Detective.”
“That’s for me to decide Skipper. If your story pans out all right, then I’ll put the Roscoes’ away, and we’ll play a nice game of checkers. . . proceed.”
He nodded the go ahead to Blue Boy Quimby and in reply he protested, “But Captain it is classified.”
“In a couple of hours it won’t matter anymore,” he directed.
“Aye, aye, Sir.” Quimby took a deep breath, stood at attention and started to jabber, “We are working with Mr. Whitehead and we are anchored just off Devil’s Reef with our guns trained on the town.”
“One step at a time Max,” interrupted Ian Woodhead the tape now firmly adhered to the bridge of his nose. “Ever since Hitler took over Germany, building up the country’s military resources, he has been obsessed with the black arts. We know, from intelligence, that he has Gestapo agents scouring the globe in search of ancient artifacts and writings that might give Hitler unlimited occult power to dominate the world. In retaliation, FDR created a special division within the OSS to investigate and to take any measures necessary to stop the despot’s nefarious plans. That’s my division.”
“Cute fish story Ian, but what does that have to do with you guys being in Innsmouth?” I challenged.
“Our men in decoding have intercepted radio transmissions from a German sub off the coast, somewhere near here. It has been going on for several months. The Nazis are supplying and financing a covert operation within Innsmouth.”
“What kind of operation?”
“It is the coming,” interjected Max Quimby. “The Deep One is going to be called forth from its exile.”
I gave Quimby a double take, “The deep one?”
“Dagon,” answered Woodhead.
“That’s the kind of psychobabble the guy with a face like a frog was goin’ on about just before I clunked him on the noggin.”
“Jacob Polder,” added Woodhead. “We have him in custody, thanks to you.”
“Don’t mention it. Wait a minute! Polder is a pal of the guy I’m looking for. If I knew then, what I know now, I wouldn’t’ve knocked him out before questioning him.”
“Not to worry Detective, he’s singing like a canary,” Quimby supplied enthusiastically. “He hasn’t given us any names yet, just rambles on about the Gatekeeper.”
“Dagon, the Gatekeeper, you guys aren’t making much sense?” My head still hurt, and they were beginning to get my goat.
“I’ll explain, Detective,” offered the Captain. “We know that something drastic is going to happen. The Nazis want to bring down our country from within, and the residents of Innsmouth are in full accord. Their reason, we are pretty sure, from what Mr. Woodhead was able to learn by posing as one of them, is not in harmony with the Germans. They, nevertheless, have been planning this for years while Hitler’s boys have just come along at the opportune time for them. We have ascertained that these Innsmouth folk believe that they will be able to open a doorway between our world and another unleashing an invasion of interstellar creatures. Creatures that are, somehow akin to them, and most likely deadly to us. The Gestapo supplied them with a cache of old documents that will help them to complete their ritual.
“You fellas haven’t
been drinking some of that torpedo juice have you?” All three of them sounded nuts to me.
“It’s the truth Detective,” said Woodhead. “I know that it sounds screwy but I’ve spent a lot of time with these Innsmouth folks and I can tell you, for a fact, that they are dead serious. All I know is that they have spent decades in dories and fishing boats out by Devil’s Reef dropping metal artifacts overboard to their God Dagon. The Nazis got them the big book you found in the temple and in it are the words needed to call forth the demons. This is not my first assignment of this type. There was a cult within a group of nineteen islands off the Malabar Coast that was very close to raising their Great Old One. We had to dynamite the place to eliminate all of them.”
Their oddball story was starting to make sense. I had seen some pretty strange stuff all my years on the Arkham Force, but this one took the cake. Although, somehow, I knew that what they were telling me was the truth; I could feel it in my bones.
“I was a skeptic myself Detective,” rejoined the Captain. “Until I had my crew of the USS Alliance investigates some unusual characteristics of Devil’s Reef. We sent three divers down, and only one came up. The cables and hoses of the two missing divers, after careful scrutiny, we were certain had been chewed through. The diver that did come up became a raving lunatic. He kept screaming about eyes and tentacles. He is American Indian by birth, and he reverted to his native language. After a while, we couldn’t understand a word he was saying. He kept screaming, ‘shoggoth, shoggoth,’ over and over again. We keep him sedated down in sickbay.
The part about the divers got to me. I looked around the room at all three of them. Nobody was laughing, not even a smirk.
