The Innsmouth Look

by Byron Craft

  "We are all blessed Detective. It is how we use that blessing in this world that counts." He stomped on the accelerator, made a hard right into the alley, spewing gravel as he left.

  Ian closed the two doors, and we went back inside. The decanter of sherry had been left on the small side table. It still held half of the wine. Picking it up, I declared, “A toast! Confusion to the enemy!” I started to chug it down but stopped before consuming it all. I handed the balance to Ian Woodhead. With a grateful smile, he siphoned off the rest of its contents.

  “Thanks,” he said wiping his mouth. "I'm beginning to like you, Detective."

  "You’re a good egg, Ian, but you're not my type."

  “What’s next on your itinerary police officer?”

  “Same as always. Get the perp and rescue the girl.”

  “Then I’ll walk with you,” he pledged.

  “Running will probably be more like it if any of the water-soaked citizenry spot us.”

  I left the lights on and locked the door, so the web-footed creeps would think that they were at home.

  ***

  I had pocketed a few of my belongings for a swift, duffle-less flight. I was still without a flashlight but the Padre, before he left, gave me an old railroad lantern. It was a bulky square thing with four large lenses. A blue lens on one side, a red one on the opposite face and clear ones on the other two surfaces. The lantern’s holding tank was full of kerosene, and a new wick had been installed. It was the lamp that the conductor or the fireman on a train would use for signaling. The Padre probably latched on to it when the railroad shut down. It was an antique and very heavy but I believed that it would come in handy later.

  We walked along deserted streets of gaping roofs and leaning houses, toward the waterfront. I stopped under one of the few working street lights, checked the clip in my automatic and saw that the round that I had chambered was still in the breach.

  “It’s best that I not conceal this anymore,” I announced. “If some of the creeps around here see me carrying this, they may think twice about bothering us. Are you packing heat?”

  Ian didn’t say a word. He just produced a 9mm Luger from his coat pocket and chambered a round.

  Everything was Jake for a while until we started to cross the intersection of Federal and Pain Streets. At the foot of the old bridge, which crossed the Manuxet River, were a couple of huddled forms. It was out of our way, but the bridge was a short walking distance from us. Under the moonlight, we could tell that neither one of them moved, not even an inch. Getting closer, holding our artillery before us, I could make out the bodies of two men. One of them was in shorts and an undershirt. The other was in a US Navy uniform. A .38 caliber Smith and Wesson lay next to them. Turning the Navy man over we recognized him right off.

  Ian put a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Chief Petty Officer Max Quimby’s last assignment before returning to the frigate was to take Jacob Polder into custody and bring him on board for further questioning.”

  Quimby’s breast coat was covered in blood. Kicking the other stiff on to his back, his webbed feet flopped about, it was Polder. There was a bullet hole in his forehead. He had been handcuffed. “Looks like Polder tried to make a break for it and the two fought over the Petty Officer’s gun.” Examining Quimby closer I could make out powder burns on his coat. “The freak must have shot him in the struggle, at close range, but Quimby here got off the last round before croaking.”

  Ian Woodhead was speechless. He just stood there staring down at the dead two. I think he was in shock at the death of his comrade. On the wooden planks of the bridge was a canvas bag, picking it up I was both repulsed and surprised at what was inside. It was that crazy “Al Azif” book, the “Necronomicon,” as the old Padre called it. That was the kick in the teeth that Ian needed to break him out of his trance, grabbing it out of my hand he announced in an authoritative declaration, “I’ll take that.”

  In my opinion, he could have the thing. I had no desire to latch onto a book that was wrapped in human flesh, not as evidence or for any future reference. Reclaiming his role of an OSS agent, a man of duty, Ian did the morbid task of removing Chief Petty Officer Max Quimby’s dog tags. We didn’t say anything to each other and resumed our trek towards the waterfront.

  ***

  An eternity elapsed, and the nauseous fishy odor of our environment increased suddenly, if not dramatically, as we came closer to the shores of Innsmouth.

  "How would you like to be living in a town like this, with everything rotting and dying all around you,” Ian carped, the first to break our self-imposed silence, melancholy dripping off of every syllable. “Monsters crawling and bleating and hopping around. The mutants all had to take the Oath of Dagon!”

  “Maybe Quimby should have just clunked Fish Face Polder on the head instead,” I answered attempting to bring a little brevity into the conversation.”

  “Why in the hell did you say that,” he challenged.

  "Ian, remember that they're kind of soft in the head?" He smiled and started to laugh. I guessed it worked, but then I thought better of it because laughter within our macabre surroundings did not seem to fit.

  “You want to know what the real horror is police officer?" he started in again. "It’s not what these fish Devils have done, but what they’re going to do! They are bringing things up out of the water. All of them in town have been working towards this evening for decades. The houses on both sides of the river from the Gilman House Hotel to here are full of the devils. And what they are about to bring up, when they are ready, oh when they get ready . . . ever hear of a shoggoth?”

  Before I could attempt to answer the man from OSS the air of death and decay became even more ghoulish, and the smell of rotting sea life was now insufferable. An evil-looking fellow on the beach shouted a few indistinguishable words. I could have sworn it was not English. We had come to a concrete bulwark at the beach-line that was there, I guessed, to act as a breaker in case the tide ever came in that far. The man’s lidless eyes looked oddly at me. He was a narrow-headed hunchback. A flat-nosed wench with unbelievably thick, ungainly hands joined in with the same clumsy speech. I didn’t understand a word, but I was certain that they were threatening the both of us. Ian and I, out of reflex, pointed our Roscoes’ at them and they quickly shambled off.

  I Glanced apprehensively at my watch, the time substantiated that the tide had turned and was coming in, stepping down to the sandy shore I started to walk in the direction of several boathouses. “This is where we part company Detective,” announced Ian Woodhead.

  “Where are you going?” I was dumbfounded by his declaration. “I thought we were in this together.”

  “Not anymore,” he asserted. “I have to finish what Max Quimby started. He held up the canvas bag, with that filthy old book inside, and jiggled it in front of my face. “I am sorry, but I have to get this to the appropriate people before it is too late. I have a boat waiting to take to me to the USS Alliance. You are welcome to join me if you like.”

  “No can do, Ian. I’ve got a job to do here. I have to finish this thing.”

  “I knew you’d say that, but I had to ask. We made a good team even if you did break my nose.”

  We shook hands, he feigned a punch to my left shoulder and sprinted off to my right towards the shoreline. Stopping halfway to his destination he turned and shouted, “You better hurry, the time of their bewitching hour is 3:00 am, and that’s when we start shooting.”

  “What!” I yelled back. He had just knocked me for a loop. “That’s less than a half-an-hour from now!”

  “Good luck, compadre,” he cried. He ran to the water’s edge and disappeared into a clump of bushes growing out of the coastline. I couldn’t believe that he just up and took off leaving me to hold down the fort. No more than a minute elapsed and I heard the sputtering of an outboard motor. The skiff he was in must have been painted black to camouflage it against the ebony sea because all I could make out was the white f
oam from its wake. Momentarily I caught a glimpse of something white bobbing in the air. It took me a second to realize that it was the canvas bag and Ian was waving it at me from the back of the boat. He must have turned and hunkered down in his seat because in an instant all had disappeared.

  ***

  I was going it alone again. The story of my life. Leaving my OSS buddy to ride the rough seas, to the frigate, I turned to my left, consulted the drawing that kid David made for me and headed north. Recently, my life seemed to be influenced by children. My son that my Ex took from me was beginning to haunt my dreams, I was on a quest to rescue an innocent child, and a youngster’s map was to lead me.

  A large portion of the beach had been excavated away, in the past, to allow deep water access to the boathouses. The sea bottom had silted back in, over the years, leaving the area too shallow to allow entry for the boats. Consequently, due to neglect, the boathouses were left to surrender their once heavy timber construction to grow moldy with decay and ruin. There were three of them, and according to David’s map, the second one was my destination. It was a crumbling wreck. Its foundation had begun to give way, and it leaned toward the sea. Where a doorway once was, many of the shiplap boards and framing members had fallen away leaving a gaping opening a good ten-feet wide.

  Before entering the breach on the side of the building, I set the railroad lantern down on the moldy floorboards and lit the wick in the kerosene fuel tank. I was surprised by how much light the antique contraption gave out. I turned the lantern so that one of the clear glass lenses shined inward, and blessed the old priest for giving it to me. If I had walked blindly into the dark interior I, most assuredly, would have fallen some twenty-feet to the shallow water and muck underneath the boathouse. I probably would have been impaled, as well, on one of the many wood framing members that stuck, straight up, out of the mire. Besides the sizable bullet-shaped opening below, originally built to accommodate the shape of a boat’s hull, at least half of the surrounding walkway had rotted and fallen below. In front of me were two twelve-inch wide scaffolding planks, several feet long, that spanned the open pit and led to a darkened corner.

  Walking slowly, keeping the beam of the lantern focused straight ahead I crossed the make shift bridge. With every creak of the boards, I was both consumed with the uneasy thoughts of the planks giving way or some aquatic nightmare sneaking up behind me.

  There was movement ahead. It was a scuttling. Something or someone was trying to back away from me. Then I saw her. It was the blond hair and the blue eyes that first caught my eye. She was wearing a pink and white dress that was badly soiled. Allison was sitting on the mildew encrusted deck. There was a leg iron fastened to her right ankle with a length of heavy chain leading from it that was bolted to a nearby wall. Her eyes were wide with fear. She was scrawny; the poor kid was probably half-starved. The core of an apple lay nearby along with half-a-dozen comic books. They were about a pulp hero its’ creators dubbed “The White Knight Avenger.” On one of the covers, I could see clearly, the character wore a tan trench coat and a medieval helmet.

  I holstered my automatic. Slowly squatting down next to the little girl, trying not to scare her any more than could be helped, I gently whispered, “Hello darling.”

  “Are you my white knight?” she whimpered.

  “Yes darling and we are going to get out of here.” She was shivering. The evening air had gotten pretty cold. I took off my trench coat and wrapped it around her. Rotating the lantern so that one of the white lights shone on her and the blue lens illuminated the area behind me I inspected the iron manacle. Luck was on our side. The shackle was held in place by a very ancient padlock. It had to be at least a hundred-years old and the best part of it was that the lock had a keyhole that looked like one of my skeleton keys might fit. The second try did the trick, and the chain fell away freeing the little girl. I picked her up, and Allison buried her face in my left shoulder. She didn’t cry. She was a tough kid. Standing upright and holding her tight I heard the scaffolding planks behind me creak.

  I turned on my heels in a flash. It was him. The azure blue lamp light glistened on his greasy flesh. He was shirtless. What I came to believe, that many of the Innsmouth residents had been inflicted with hunched backs due to interbreeding, was now obviously false because the man that confronted me had a dorsal fin protruding from his spine. Scales the size of two-bit pieces were growing out of his side. The most frightening aspect was his face. Below his buggy lidless eyes and his absent nose was a beard comprised of cilia and wriggling tendrils. Octopus man was the thought that jumped into my head. He was transforming, into to what, I was afraid to guess.

  He screamed at me with words that made no sense. It was more of a high pitched whistle followed by a rattle and a clicking. Then, what appeared to be a great effort on his part, his thin lipped mouth fringed with its wormy feelers started to form more earthly sounds. "She is to be our watery sacrifice to the Deep Ones," he was able to croak out.

  I had wondered why little Allison hadn’t been kept a prisoner in the Dagon Temple, eventually to be sacrificed on their stone altar. She was probably held captive in the boathouse waiting to be thrown into the sea as their final offering to Cthulhu. Maybe one of those shoggoths, I heard about, would get a hold of her. I was not well versed in the religion of the Esoteric Order of Dagon, and I wasn’t going to have time to discuss the philosophy of their wacko faith with him because he came after me with a big knife.

  Fish Face, Octopus Man or Toad-looking Guy, whatever, take your pick, had a Bowie knife raised in his right hand. The damn blade must have been eighteen-inches long. Shrieking in that high-pitched wail, he lunged. I drew my 1911 Colt. The jerk walked right into it. Jamming the barrel into his gaping yap, he froze in his tracks. "Elam Muskeg I presume?” I inquired. “Say hello to Cthulhu jackass." I pulled the trigger.

  ***

  That we survived was a miracle, but survive we did, and I returned to Arkham with my nerves in shreds. Before Elam Muskeg’s blood had soaked into the moldy floor boards of the boathouse, we were out of there!

  I kept the blue lantern light at my back and ran along the scaffolding boards and into the rotten smelling night air. I held Allison tightly. Her face was still buried against my left shoulder when we reached the outdoors. “Is the ugly man gone?” she asked, her voice muffled between the folds of my shirt.

  “Yes Sweetheart,” I answered. “He took a powder.”

  I turned back to stare at the waterfront, the long commanding view out to sea and the distant black reef. The moon was heading for the horizon, even so, it still faintly reflected across the coastal waters. The sea was as black as the sky, and the tide was coming in. Somehow the knowledge of high tide made me feel very uneasy. I saw intermittent flashes of light on the distant reef. The lights were high above the reef, much higher than a fishing boat or dory would make. It had to be signal lights from the USS Alliance. Maybe they were beckoning to Ian's approaching boat?

  Still gazing at the ocean, dimly lit by the fading summer moonlight, the flashing beacon created a strobe effect that briefly illuminated the area between the reef and the shore and I could see that it was far from empty. The expanse was alive with a teeming horde of shapes swimming inward toward the town; and even at that vast distance and between my flashes of perception, I could make out bobbing heads and flailing arms that were alien and aberrant. They never seemed to stop pouring out from that cursed reef of Satan.

  A heavy wave dashed against the loosening masonry of a bygone wharf followed by a mad ancient’s watery whisper to another inhuman, and then the blood-curdling scream of a hundred aquatic voices rang out, "Eeeeeeee! Eeeeeeee! Wawk Wawk Wawk Wawk!” came the elder cry. Under the next flash of light from the frigate, I realized that the cry did not emanate from the Innsmouth multitude. A bubbling mass of eyes and mouths with tentacles the size of tree trunks rose out of the sea directly behind the approaching throng. It was the collection of mouths from the thing that emitted t
he alien wail. The horrible assemblage was heading towards the beach. I looked at my watch; it was 2:45. I had to get out of there tout de suite.

  When had running ever worked? When you run as fast as I did that night. I fled the beach and headed west, straight into town. There was a wind, a breeze, that was gusting in and out from the area of Devil’s Reef that seemed more like the breathing of a large animal. I knew what it was but couldn't bring himself to admit it.

  I ran at breakneck speed past the intersection of Pain and Federal in an effort to find quick transportation for us out of the festering, and soon to be dead, city of decay. A battered Model A Ford was parked at the curb. I opened the driver’s side door. The key to unlocking the ignition was not in it. I could have hotwired it, but I didn’t have time because a large crowd of unsavory shapes was swarming out of Dagon Hall heading for the intersection. “Is this our car?” Allison asked weakly with me still holding her fast.

  “No Sweetheart,” I answered slamming the car door. Lanterns bobbed in the darkness, and horrible croaking voices exchanged low cries in what was certainly not English. Their crouching, shambling gait was terribly repellent.

  I dashed westward again. In the darkness, every faint noise of the night seemed magnified, and a flood of unpleasant thoughts swept over me. The obvious hoarse barking and loose-syllabled croaking bore so little resemblance to familiar human speech, all I could think of was what Ian Woodhead said, that the residents of Innsmouth were not human. I thought it was an over exaggeration, at the time, on his part, of their malformed condition but I realized then and there that these creatures living in this isolated seaside village were truly alien. I turned forty-years old last month, but the thought of the shuffling horde made me run as if I was twenty.