Return of the Deep Ones: And Other Mythos Tales

by Brian Lumley

  The line must have been down. No, I was fooling myself; the line had been deliberately cut against just such an eventuality as my return to the house.

  Now I looked about to see how best I might fortify the house, for I knew that it wouldn't be long before they came for me. Using hammer and nails and a stack of stout shelving from the garage, I set about systematically to barricade the ground—floor doors and windows. I worked all through what remained of the night, and at last, as dawn came up over the horizon, the task was completed to my satisfaction. Then, incapable of keeping my eyes open a second longer, I collapsed on my bed. My exhaustion was such that for once, mercifully, there were neither dreams nor nightmares; or, if there were, I could not remember them …

  Something brought me awake.

  I awoke with the sort of shock that often follows a heavy drinking bout—of which I had had my share after the death of my wife—when there is a feeling of dislocation and discontinuity: the sensation of having been stopped, like a timepiece, and then restarted. Then I recognized my own room, saw that I was still in my clothes (and noted how unkempt and full of sand they were), and the rest of it came back to me as a hideous kaleidoscope of memories.

  But what had awakened me?

  I sprang from my bed, then reeled drunkenly and almost fell as the searing pain from my now badly swollen ankle washed over me. But I knew that there was much more than a mere sprain wrong with me—indeed, my entire metabolism was now out of order. My brain seemed to burn, my eyes were on fire, every muscle of my body ached as if shredded, and I felt completely dehydrated. I stumbled into my study, starting spastically as the telephone jangled for a second time.

  The telephone? Perhaps the line had been down after all, and was now repaired. I snatched the handset from its cradle and said, “Yes? John Vollister here. Who’s calling?”

  The shock of hearing my own voice, so guttural, altered, debased, almost made me drop the telephone. The change must be speeding up in me … and I had wasted so much time. Sunlight flooded my study, and the absence of shadows outside the balcony window told me that it must be around noon.

  “John, is that you?” came Sarah's voice over the wire, a much deeper, coarser voice than I was used to. And, a moment later, there came a sound which at first I could not quite make out. Crying? She was crying! “John, John—why did you do it? Everything was going so well, for both of us, and now—”

  “Why did I do it?” I croaked, cutting her off, feeling rage rising in me at the thought of her treachery. “Me? I did something? Why in hell did you do it, Sarah? You knew what they were doing to me, yet you lied to me all along, right from the start. ‘Ambassador to the Deep Ones’, you said—but you didn't tell me that my duties would include this!”

  “The change?” she sobbed. “Is that what you mean? But that might have happened to you, anyway, John.”

  “And it might not!” I shouted.

  “But what if it had? What would you have done then, as a … a half-thing, like Sargent? Why, a man like you—you’d have gone mad!”

  “Oh? Would I?” I asked through grinding teeth, wishing I had her there with me, my hands about her throat and not merely the neck of this plastic, impersonal thing that spoke to me now. “I'd be like Sargent, would I? Oh, yes, I remember. He told me I was one of the lucky ones—and I didn’t understand what he meant. Lucky—my God!”

  “Listen, John,” her voice was calmer. “It’s not too late for you to square things, even now. There will be a penance, of course, but—”

  I listened no further, but slammed the phone down into its cradle, cutting her off. I wondered if they had found Hadley’s burned-out car yet; and, of course, they were totally ignorant of the fact that I had not taken the full course of the metamorphosis treatment. “Not too late,” indeed. Little she knew of it! And yet still I dared hope that the … damage … I had suffered might be repaired.

  Then, uselessly, I began soundly to curse the Deep Ones and all they stood for. Where had they been, I wondered, when the change began to affect my father? For surely there must have been far more of their tainted blood in him than there was in me.

  It all made sense now—all of the genealogical anomalies in my recent family history, which had always puzzled me—the record of strange deteriorations, suicide, and sudden madness. And perhaps it was that very record which had led them to seek me out in the first place. Poor Belton had said they were recruiting doctors, and through them it was doubtless easy to acquire access to records. It could only have been recently, after all, that they had really started to organize their activities again following the big operation against them in Innsmouth in 1928.

  Yes, and that was where it had all started for me, too: in New England …

  It had been following a trip to America to visit a distant cousin that my grandmother, a young woman, had “gone into seclusion”. She was still unwed when my father was born at the home, and she died giving him life. This was as much as I had ever known about her, told to me by my mother before her own decline. As for my father: I never knew him. He killed himself when I was a very small child: and that, too, had been following a brief period of severe mental and physical deterioration: “the change”, of course. No wonder my poor mother, who had never been strong, had followed him in the space of so few years to the grave. She must have seen the horrible thing come over him.

  But, damn it all, the blood of the Deep Ones had not been strong in me! I would have lived out my life in total ignorance of them but for their meddling. And now, here I was, with the morbid seeds they had awakened in me blossoming into hideous life, trapped like a rat in my own home. Trapped here, yes, for when I went out on to my balcony I could see them where they waited for me: the big American car along the track that led to the coast road, the little knot of ‘picnickers’ along the clifftop, the silent watcher who waited at the top of the stairs that wound down to the beach.

  To venture outside now would be to give myself into their hands, when they would surely kill me rather than let me carry my story to the authorities. And yet somehow I must make the world aware of what was happening. And so my plan took shape and I started work on this manuscript, work which has been continually interrupted but which, nevertheless, I have now almost managed to complete. A few pages more, and … But that is to jump ahead of myself.

  Scribbling desperately all through the afternoon, I first paused at around 6 p.m. to take a drink and a bite of food, and to tend to my ankle, which was now causing me constant pain and crippling my every movement. I did not want night to descend and find me completely immobilized.

  It was then, as I searched for bandages for my sprained ankle, that I heard raised, angry voices from beneath my balcony windows. I had deliberately left the windows ajar in the forlorn hope that someone—some completely human person—might pass my way. Since my house is so out of the way, this was highly unlikely, but there was always a chance, however remote. Now it seemed that good fortune was with me. The male voice I heard was that of my newspaper delivery boy, Graham Lane, and I could only assume that the other voice, female, belonged to his fiancee.

  I crept out on to the balcony, keeping well down and out of sight of who or whatever might be watching the house, and raised my head until I could look down. There stood Graham, his shoulders drooping, abjectly watching the haughtily retreating figure of a young woman who hurried back along the lane towards the main road. Twice he called after her, and twice her head lifted a little higher as she stalked jauntily off. Patently they had been out walking, there had been an argument—a lover’s tiff—and now she was going off on her own.

  “Graham!” I called down. And then, quickly, as he began to turn his head upward: “No, don’t look up. It’s me, Mr. Vollister. Now listen! Don’t turn around. Just stand there, looking after your young lady. I’m being watched, Graham, and I need help. No! For God's sake, don’t look round! Nod your head, just a little, if you can hear and understand. Good! Now listen:

  “I
’m in bad trouble, Graham, and it’s government business. You see those people up the path there? In the big American car? Those are some of them. There’s also a bunch of picnickers on the clifftop—except they’re not picnickers. And there’s a man at the top of the steps. Don’t speak to anyone if you can possibly avoid it. There may well be others. Can you hear me?”

  Again the slight nod of his head.

  “Good! Now, Graham, there’s a hundred pounds in this for you if you can get my message out. Use the public telephone in the village, or maybe the phone in your father’s shop. Get the police, Graham, but whatever you do, don’t go to the police in Seaham! I can't explain now, but the new constable's not to be trusted. OK?”

  Once again the nod. And his whisper, floating up to me: “Did you say a hundred pounds, Mr. Vollister?”

  “Two hundred,” I answered, “if you can pull it off. Make it as dramatic as you like. Counterfeiters, a drug ring—whatever you like. Only get the police here. As many as possible, and as quickly as you can.”

  “But what is it?” he whispered. “What’s going on?”

  I groped desperately in my mind for an answer he would be able to accept, finally saying: “Atom spies—sabotage—the new power station at Gar Fell. But don’t tell the police that. Tell them it’s kidnapping or something. A drug ring would probably do the trick. You’d better get going now before they suspect. Call out after your girl, then run after her.”

  He moved to obey as I whispered one last instruction. “Tell no one else. And remember: don’t go to the police in Seaham! Good luck, Graham. You’re my one chance …” Then he was gone, down the lane, around a bend, disappearing in trees and hedgerows. Without more ado, I crept back into my study, moved away from the windows, and stood up. So far, so good. Providing the lad followed my instructions, I should be safely out of this in the space of a few hours. Perhaps by nightfall. Then—a doctor. The best doctors in the land. What drugs had done to me, perhaps other drugs might reverse. And, by God, wouldn't I have a story to tell when these vile creatures from the sea were brought to book? Indeed I would …

  On the other hand … Suddenly it occurred to me that I might well have placed young Graham Lane in the most terrible danger. What if something should go wrong with my plan? But what could go wrong? Nothing, as long as he followed my instructions …

  With all of these jumbled thoughts and worries revolving in my head, I removed my clothes to shower before tending to my ankle. It was then, in the clear light of day, that I noticed for the first time the alterations in my feet: the tough webbing of skin that now extended half-way down the length of my toes. This led me to an immediate examination of my hands, which in turn proved to be growing a webbing of toughly elastic skin between the fingers. The bathroom mirror, which until now I had avoided, showed all too clearly how quickly my metamorphosis was taking place: the ichthyic coarsening of the pores of my skin, the toughening of my now near-functional gills, my hideously enlarged eyes, and my rapidly receding hairline.

  The sight of these monstrous changes and the knowledge of how they had been wrought in me brought on a seething rage that lasted until I took my shower. And only then did I realize the importance of water to my new state of being, for of course I was rapidly becoming one with the amphibia, beginning to share their traits and characteristics, and while certainly I might live on dry land, I now found the sheer joy of bathing almost unbearable! The water took away all my aches and pains, eased the constriction of my throat, softened my gills, and soaked into my skin, making it pliable and slick to the touch.

  My God! At last the horrible implications of my position—my condition—drove stunningly home, particularly the inescapable fact that I was no longer completely human. I had known it for some time, of course, ever since discovering myself to be gilled in the cramped confines of the tank, but only now did the real horror of my position truly dawn on me. Even the strongest of men might weep in my predicament, and I am not ashamed to state that I, too, wept.

  Afterwards, I sat for a while, and gradually my mood of utter hopelessness began to lift. I could still strike back—must strike back—before this thing went any further. And though I had already started to lose faith in my plan of escape (that rescue I had arranged through Graham Lane), still, even in the event that the worst should happen, I could at least leave a documentary warning behind me when finally they came for me.

  For certainly to rely solely upon my secret messenger would be a great mistake. Graham might be stopped, might not even begin to carry out my instructions. What if he had reconsidered, perhaps suspecting himself to be the would-be victim of some sort of practical joke? In his place I myself would be extremely wary, cautious, suspicious. And what if he in some way attempted to verify the facts of what I had told him? Just suppose he completely ignored my warning and went straight to the police station in Seaham? The short hairs at the back of my neck stood up straight at the thought of that, then slowly subsided as I began to plot along the lines of Graham’s possible failure to make my plight known to the authorities.

  For if indeed anything should go disastrously wrong, still I could not simply let the Deep Ones win so easily. No, I must leave evidence against them, something which would be found after my passing, a clear indictment of their activities. And so it was that as the light began to fail and evening crept in I donned my dressing-gown and returned to working on my manuscript, writing as quickly as possible. It was imperative that the tale be told fully, that as much light as possible be shed upon the hellish activities of these invaders from the deep.

  Twice when I paused to rest my eyes, I thought to try the telephone, but on both occasions, as soon as I picked up the handset, guttural enquiries made it obvious that I might only speak to the Deep Ones. Thus I learned to leave the telephone alone. Then, as evening deepened …

  IX: The Unending Nightmare

  A sound outside brought me bolt upright from where I had slumped at my desk. I must have dozed off, for my study was now shadowed and gloomy, and the roll of the sea had grown quiet with the hush of encroaching night. Quietly I went out on to my balcony. Figures, looking human enough in the dusk, were down below me in the shadow of the house. If only I had a rifle … whatever they were up to, I would soon put an end to it. I had no weapon, however, so I went back inside to find my flashlight. Its batteries were weak, but still it should give some light.

  Armed with the flashlight, once more I crept out on to the balcony. There, aiming the light downward, I switched on its beam. For a moment, the uncertain shaft of light trapped a pair of startled round-eyed faces that stared up at me, then the furtive figures melted into shadows and moved away around the corner of the house. As they went, I heard a jingling of keys. Well, they’d have little luck in that direction; in addition to being boarded up, my doors were bolted on the inside. But at least this attempted intrusion illustrated the determination of the Deep Ones to get in at me, and I was glad I had taken the precaution of securely barricading the house.

  Then, as I was about to return yet again from the balcony to my study, I heard my name softly called from below: “John—John Vollister—why don’t you give in, John Vollister? You can’t win, you know.”

  Though I had never heard this particular voice before, by its uneven texture I knew its owner for a Deep One. Flashing the beam of light into the shadows of trees that bordered the path to the cliffs, I dimly illuminated a small group of figures. There were four of them, one of whom was—Graham Lane!

  His hands were bound behind him and his face seemed to be bloodied. A dark gag (dark with blood, I suspected) filled his mouth, and his hair was awry. His jacket was badly torn, and he stumbled weakly between the three Deep Ones where they kept him in their midst. How he had fallen into their hands I could not say, but certainly he had been badly beaten.

  One of the three Deep Ones turned his face directly into the beam of my flashlight and, in that same previously unknown voice, said: “You should come out now, John Volli
ster. Already you have incurred grave penalties—and there will be penances in plenty—but nothing you can’t endure. If you continue to be awkward, however …” The figure shrugged.

  “And what do you intend doing with … with him?” I finally, hoarsely answered, shining my beam on Graham where he staggered between them. “He’s of no use to you, and he’s certainly no threat. Why don’t you let him go?”

  A chuckle, deep and evil, sounded in the night. “Come now, John. We all know better than that, don’t we? Now listen, it's high time we came to an understanding. You’re fairly important to us, and that's why we’ve been lenient with you—so far. There will be penalties, however, as I’ve said, and the longer you defy us the worse it will be for you. Indeed, it’s not entirely impossible that you might yet incur the ultimate penalty … which is why we’ve brought along young Mr. Lane, here. After all, we can’t allow him simply to sabotage our programme, now can we? So we’ve decided to make an example of him …” The voice faded into a hideously suggestive silence.

  “What do you mean?” I croaked. “Who the hell are you, to threaten and—”

  “Be quiet!” the voice hissed, its feigned affability disappearing in a moment. “Be quiet—and watch!”

  The three Deep Ones stepped away from their stumbling captive and left him isolated on the path. My light faltered where it fell upon the bound, beaten youth, then strengthened momentarily as an overwhelming stench of seaweed and foulness welled up from the darkness. I nearly dropped the flashlight then, as I recognized that deep ocean smell. It was the monstrous stench of a shoggoth—and I immediately guessed what the “ultimate penalty” would be!

  Caught in the trembling beam of light, Graham Lane also smelled that fatal fetor and stumblingly turned towards its source. Swelling out of the shadows came a greater blackness glinting with myriad eyes, all of them fixed upon its victim as the shoggoth flowed and squelched with sea—squirt sounds along the path towards him. At first frozen to the spot, finally Graham turned to flee. He stumbled, fell, somehow struggled to his feet … and the thing was upon him!