The Innsmouth Look

by Byron Craft

  In the decaying and half-unlit town, we ran by a deserted and ruinous state of adjoining buildings. A man’s felt hat perched on a shapeless thing that answered for a head stepped out in front of me. I backhanded him with the barrel of my Colt. In the days of the old west, it would be said that I, “buffaloed him.” He fell flat on his back and didn’t make an effort to get up. My fingers and knuckles felt greasy.

  Two more joined the frontal assault. One moved in a distinctly simian way, with long arms. His webbed fingers touched the ground; while the other figure progressed in a hopping fashion. I fired a warning shot over their heads, and they fled like frightened rabbits. I knew I couldn’t keep this up much longer. Especially after alerting the town with another gun shot. It probably wouldn’t be long before I would have an army of these stinking creeps on me, more than I would be able to knock down or shoot up before I ran out of ammo or the arms and legs to fight them.

  Besides the enormous number of crumbling, worm-eaten, and empty houses in town, there was a cluster of ancient spires and roofs of some of the more well-preserved homes of Innsmouth. They faintly gleamed enchanting and ethereal in the fading moon. A pale magic yellow light, filtered out of the third story and attic windows, as we ran along, and I fleetingly thought of how they must have looked in the old days before the Dagon infestation. Then, I detected several forms in the upper windows. I stopped, momentarily, and gazed just below their rooftops. There must have been over a hundred of them standing naked exposing their oily, scaly flesh to the night air. There were at least a dozen of these houses in the cluster, and all of them had their third story and attic windows flung wide. Each casement revealed two and sometimes three individuals standing on the sills with their arms out-stretched. They were all singing. They were the voices of the houses’ nocturnal tenants.

  It was a light and airy song. I didn’t recognize any of the words; they were not in any language I had ever heard. There were repeated phrases, but the exact nature of their meaning was lost to me. Abruptly the chorus changed their blithe ditty to a wailing crescendo of chants. By the end, they were screaming the alien words. It had to be the words from the Necronomicon that I was told all the local inhabitants had committed to memory. The verbal keys to the gate, “Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah-nagl fhtagn.”

  As if in answer to their alien screeching, the night sky screamed with twentieth-century ordinances. Artillery fire rained down on Innsmouth by the sea. The USS Alliance’s thirty-two guns were lobbing five-inch shells in a hail storm of explosive warheads. In a block to the east, a two story abandoned house exploded. The Model A Ford, parked in front, burst into flames, bounced, end over end along the cobblestones and came to rest up against a rusty fire hydrant.

  “What’s happening?” Allison cried out.

  “Nothing Sweetheart,” I yelled, “just some fireworks.” Then I ran like hell again. The houses across the street became an inferno. I just kept placing my two feet out in front of me as fast as I could. I don’t think it was more than two minutes into that firestorm of death and debris when the cluster of houses, with all of the chanting freaks, went sky high. The explosion was horrendous. Several of the artillery shells must have struck the target simultaneously. The desolation was complete, and I thanked God that we had gotten a safe distance from the blast.

  A legion of croaking, baying entities flopped noisily past, scarcely more than twenty-yards away from us. There were swarms of them, but they didn’t take any notice of us. They were attempting to flee the maelstrom. Buildings, by now, were exploding all around us. Plainly I had no time to lose. The Gilman House Hotel was straight ahead.

  I ran past the hotel’s front entry and couldn’t believe my luck. It was just sitting there as big as life. It was the Innsmouth Transit System’s one and only bus. I wanted to kiss its filthy windshield. The stoop shouldered driver was standing just inside the opened doorway staring at the ensuing carnage. “Hey Baldy, how ya doin’,” I said as I grabbed him by the ear and kicked his sorry butt out the door.

  I snatched up the pasteboard placard that read; ARKHAM-INNSMOUTH-NEWB’PORT and tossed it out after him. I laid Allison down on the bench across from the driver’s side and wished that I had something for her to eat. It had probably been forty-eight hours since she last ate anything, besides the one apple, but my concern soon faded when I noticed that she had fallen asleep. The kid could probably sleep in a war zone, I decided. In fact, she had, I smiled.

  More structures crumbled in flames less than a block away when I drew the bi-folding door on the bus shut and had its antique diesel running a few seconds later. Baldy must have just pulled up to the hotel because the engine was still warm and it started with hardly any coaxing.

  Many bulging, watery, unwinking eyes scurried out of the hotel and looked oddly at us as we pulled away. A narrow-headed man with a rifle waddled in front of the bus and motioned for me to pull over. Putting our vehicle into second gear, I ran over him. There was a heavy thump under the wheels of the bus, and I bounced in my seat. I glanced over at Allison. She was still asleep. We left behind us forever, the morbid and horror-infested fabric of Innsmouth.

  ***

  The squalid sea of decaying roofs was beyond us, and eventually, the bright beams of our headlights touched Arkham and home.

  I cannot think of Innsmouth by the sea, anymore, without trembling at the creatures that may, at this very moment, be crawling on its slimy bed, worshipping their ancient gods, contriving rituals to bring them into our world. I fear for the day when they might rise above the marshy countryside to drag down, in their gargantuan tentacles, the remnants of a war-exhausted mankind or of a day when the land sinks and the ocean floor will ascend amidst universal chaos.

  Humans, I read once, have a kind of relation to certain aquatic beasts. Everything that's alive, they say, came out the water once, and only needs a little change to go back again.

  Allison still wanted to cling to me after several days in safe surroundings. A lady, from Social Services, tried to put her in an orphanage. I told her that if she ever came near the kid again, I’d wring her neck. She ran off screaming. The Chief had to fix that one for me, but Arkham Social Services never knocked on my door again. The kid sleeps in my bed, and I have been sleeping on the sofa. I guess I am going to have to get a bigger apartment.

  Mrs. Trumble, my landlady, volunteered to take the kid in when I’m away at work. The kind old babe had her second bedroom made over into a playroom for Allison. I have been spending less time at the station house than I did in the past. Being a loner for so long, I used to hang out there when my shift was through, or afterwards, go with some of the fellas for several drinks at one of the many speakeasies in town. No More.

  That was five-months ago. Last night the kid had a nightmare. She more than likely was dreaming about that grotesque Elam Muskeg and the slimy boathouse. I held her tight and told her that there was nothing to be afraid of anymore. She looked me square in the face with tears streaming down her cheeks and said, “I love you, Daddy.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Byron Craft started out writing screenplays, moved on to authoring articles for several magazines and finally evolved his writing style into exciting, sci-fi, fantasy, horror novels.

  Craft has published two novels in a planned five-novel mythos series that reflects the influence of H.P Lovecraft. Byron Craft's first novel, "The CRY of CTHULHU," initially released under the title "The Alchemist's Notebook," was the reincarnation and expansion of one of his most memorable screenplays. Craft demonstrates he is as capable a novelist as a scriptwriter. Craft's second novel, “SHOGGOTH” continues with all the ingredients of a classic Lovecraft tale, with some imaginative additions.

  The Arkham Detective is a four book series, which includes “Cthulhu’s Minions, “The Innsmouth Look,” “The Devil Came to Arkham,” and “The Dunwich Dungeon.” All are available in Kindle format or soft cover either individually or can be obtained i
n the set: “The Arkham Detective Collection.”

  Craft enjoys writing full-length stories and would love to get feedback from his readers.

  If you would like to read more books by Byron Craft, please visit his website: www.ByronCraftBooks.com or go to Amazon.com

  The Mythos Project Series

  The CRY of CTHULHU

  (Originally published under the title: The Alchemist’s Notebook.) This novelization of The Cry of Cthulhu film project is about a shell-shocked Vietnam vet, and his wife. They inherit an old country estate in Germany around the time his company transfers him to the same area. The two soon discover that the coincidence is really too good to be true.

  Their home rests near a timeworn door into the earth that is poised to open, exposing all to a horde of four-dimensional beings. Soon the line between our reality and that other space-time will be blurred forever, leaving mankind to be consumed by shrill, shrieking terror. Only one man has the slimmest chance to save our planet and, even though he has no place to hide, he prefers to run. [Book One]

  SHOGGOTH

  An accepted theory exists that millions of years ago a celestial catastrophic occurrence wiped out every living thing on the planet. This theory may be flawed. Fast-forward to the 21st century. A handful of scientists, allied with the military, discover a massive network of tunnels beneath the Mojave Desert. Below, lies an ancient survivor, waiting...and it's hungry! [Book Two]

  The Arkham Detective Series

  Cthulhu’s Minions

  A Novelette introducing the Arkham Detective. Cthulhu’s Minions are Pilot Demons. Nasty pint-sized legless creatures that crawl on their hands with razor sharp claws and fangs. The diminutive beings must be stopped before they conduct one of Cthulhu's Old Ones to the back alleys and streets of Arkham, likewise the entire planet. The story takes place during the Great Depression, a spot in time where H. P. Lovecraft and Raymond Chandler could have collaborated. Henceforth the narrative begins, through the eyes of an Arkham Detective.

  The Innsmouth Look

  The second story in the series that brings the detective back, investigating a murder and the kidnapping of a small child, which leads to Innsmouth by the sea, the frightful creatures that lurk there, and what they plan to call up from the depths.

  The Devil Came to Arkham

  Follow the Arkham Detective as he attempts to discover the source of a deadly epidemic. Is it the devil? Is it a Night Gaunt? Or both? Find out when you read about a soul sucking creature that is bent on turning Arkham, Massachusetts into a ghost town.

  The Dunwich Dungeon

  In this final chapter, a seven-foot tall man in black has caused the Detective's good friend to go missing. A woman is brutally murdered in a museum, and mysterious artifacts lead us on a trail to inter-dimensional horrors. This time the Arkham Detective is armed to the teeth, and determined to avenge murder with mayhem.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Byron Craft’s

  THE DEVIL CAME TO ARKHAM

  The Devil Came to Arkham

  Can anything good come from Arkham? Most doubt it. Arkham Massachusetts, in character, is neither virtuous nor depraved; it aspires to be Providence, but it comes closer to Salem when Corvus Astaroth is added. It is the Arkham Cycle. It not only attracts the lowest of all things living or dead, it is also a magnet for the strangest. Some cities grew while Arkham just festered. Maybe Arkham's aberrant culture was the ultimate power source for him. You know the saying: “In the long run, we’re all dead." Well, when it comes to Corvus Astaroth, sometimes evil is hard to kill.

  I first met him while I was standing on the bottom step to Station House 13 smoking my fifteenth Lucky of the day. I was thinking about this and that. Just looking at the asphalt between me and my problems, when he pulled up. There was this weird fella driving a beat-up Model T. The old Ford was bright red and looked like it was painted with a wet mop. The driver was clean shaven, with bushy white eyebrows wearing a sailor straw hat. Who the hell wears a hat like that nowadays? I asked myself. The back seat of the Model T was piled high with an array of heavily worn furniture and bulging canvas sacks. Long black candelabras hung halfway out the windows. Strapped to the top of the trunk were ominous looking wood crates. For a brief instant, I thought I detected movement in one of the sacks.

  The driver’s side door swung open and the shortest pair of legs I ever saw pivoted sideways and dangled over the running boards. He jumped down and stretched to his full height not quite making it to five-feet. He was also beyond plump. He had a girth on him that resembled the Hindenburg. The fat little fella strutted towards me with a swagger, extended his right hand and announced, “Hi, my name is Corvus Astaroth, friends call me Ash."

  I took the little guy’s hand, pumped it a couple of times and replied, “Hello Mr. Astaroth, what do you need with the Arkham Police Department?”

  “Police!” he said jumping at the sound of the word. “I thought this was the City Hall.”

  “Two blocks down, on the right.”

  “Oh my,” he answered. “I am truly sorry. I just arrived. I have decided to take up residence in your lovely town. I want to file for residency and enquire about any homes for sale in the area.”

  “I don’t do real estate. Two blocks down, on the right.” I ground the Lucky out on the pavement and turned to walk up the steps.

  He raised his voice to a high pitch and called after me, “I am so sorry again. I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Detective,” I answered back as the door to Station House 13 slowly closed behind me.

  ***

  That was three months ago. A lot has changed in Arkham. From my third storey apartment window, I could barely make out the clock tower at Miskatonic University. Closer was the Church Street Park. Three or four years ago it looked like acres of spinach when viewed from up high. A place of bridle paths, a lake and at one time a zoo. There used to be a quaint bridge spanning a narrow outlet over the water with happy children sailing model boats. After the stock market had crashed, the city turned off the water and stopped maintaining the place. The Great Depression left little money in the city coffers for up-keep. Now it is desolate with brown grass, a mud hole where the lake used to be, crumbling bushes and dead trees. It has also become a home for muggings and rapes. I always wondered what happened to the zoo animals.

  These days crime has escalated to the highest in the town’s history. There is the Devil's Playground, a foul slum and brothel district north of Arkham Commons, most of which was now owned by Corvus Astaroth, hence the name some say. By rough estimates, as many as a hundred prostitutes plied their trade there. If there was trouble after dark in Arkham, it was nearly always in the Devil's Playground.

  The disfigured body of a cop was found concealed in one of the bordellos. The victim was twisted all up resembling a gross parody of a contortionist; every bone in his body had been crushed. A violent retaliation by a number of uniformed officers occurred the next evening. They went on a rampage, tearing to pieces the saloon where the murder had taken place. Some days later, the remains of a past her prime floozy was discovered ditched in a privy, so long dead that she was disintegrating.

  Months after Astaroth rolled into Arkham the cool breezes of spring were gradually replaced with a searing heat wave. Maybe it wasn't him, but it had seemed to happen following his arrival. I didn’t want to think about the implications, but I couldn't help it. It wasn’t that it was just hotter than usual; it had killed the crops within the surrounding farms and almost depleted the town reservoir. Arkham had been through many a year with the heat, but not at this time of the year and for so damn long. Now it was considered an adversary that simply came to visit and overstayed its disagreeable sojourn.

  Murder runs rampant when it becomes hot. More people are snuffed-out at ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit than any other temperature. At lower temperatures, people are easy-going, but at ninety-two, they just get irritable. Currently, the thermometer looked as if it was stuck at one-hundred deg
rees, and that is in the shade, which only makes matters worse.

  Then there was that dark thing that Willie Mack and Enoch Wells shot one night, which they never wanted to talk about. They had been hunting in the woods south of the Christ Church Cemetery. All I could get out of them was that it took three rounds, in the torso, from a .30-30 Winchester and, "it walked off as if nothin' happened." After that, they clammed up. Either they thought that people in town would think them crazy or drunk or, then again, maybe they were afraid of retaliation by someone or something they didn't want to get chummy with.

  Mr. Astaroth had risen to prominence within Arkham in a very short time. He came here without a plug nickel to his name, and within a few months owned one of the biggest houses in town, was chauffeured in a fancy set of wheels and was now considering a run for mayor. Epiphanies don't come naturally to me, but when I do have one, I usually get a wrenching in the pit of my stomach. That could, of course, be caused by a combination of chili dogs and black coffee, nevertheless, not including an overdose of excessive consumption, I was sure that everything was going to happen for the worst and that spelled; “Corvus Astaroth, friends call me Ash.” Deep down inside, I believed that I was going to be tasked with being the Bromo-Seltzer.

  That was when the telephone jingled. It was Sunday, and I wanted to let it ring off the hook, but my cop-sense told me to answer. “Go ahead, it’s your nickel,” I said after picking up the receiver.

  It was Esther Vinebeam, the dame that operates the switchboard at the Arkham Station House. She didn’t wait for me to say anything else. “Chief needs to see you right away. Says it’s an emergency,” her piercing voice rang out across the horn and irritated my right eardrum.