Sins of the Father

by JG Faherty

  With the massive book tucked under one arm and my gun at the ready, I moved forward, keeping a watchful eye for movements in the shadows. The book’s owner might return at any moment to retrieve it, and this time the results were likely to be far worse than a lump on the head.

  A few yards down, I came across the prone figure of a man. No blood stained the pavement, but his ice-cold flesh told me the poor fellow had drawn his last breath. It only took a glance to determine the man’s occupation. Rough hands and broken nails, combined with ragged clothing covered in grime, marked him as a dockyard laborer. Not the kind of person who’d typically be the target for a rolling. Or allow it to happen.

  Even worse, the man’s neck showed the same mottled bruises as the other murder victims. Which meant I’d been face to face with the waterfront killer and let him get away.

  “Hell and damnation.” There’d be no going home now. I’d have to get the police, which meant answering a hundred questions.

  And what kinds of answers could I give?

  A dead man. An attempt on my life. A deformed lunatic roaming the streets. All that and no witnesses. No copper in his right mind would believe me. With my already poor reputation, they might even accuse me of the murder and lock me away.

  Even if I didn’t end up in jail – or worse – my name would be in the paper, another black mark against me. While the real villain—

  My name.

  “Henry.”

  The whispered voice, just before I’d lost consciousness. I’d forgotten until that moment.

  “Henry.” Try as I might, I couldn’t convince myself I’d imagined it. The mysterious stranger had spoken as if he recognized me, had been surprised to see me. But how? We’d surely never met before, of that I was certain. No forgetting an awful visage like his. Heaven knew I never wanted to see it again.

  Which meant leaving the scene quickly before he returned, either for me or the book he’d lost.

  I shook my head at the still form.

  “Sorry, old sport. Nothing I can do for you now. Someone will find you in the morning.”

  The whole way home, I kept glancing behind me. An uncomfortable sensation sat between my shoulders, as if someone had me in their sights. Even after I was inside, doors and windows locked, curtains drawn, the tome safely locked away, I couldn’t shake the perception of being watched. I paced from room to room, my glass of port in one hand, gun in the other, peeking between curtains at the empty streets and wondering what lurked in the fog.

  The feeling followed me to bed, where I lay staring into the darkness until the harsh screech of a police whistle shattered the early-morning quiet.

  Looks like they’ve found you, old sport.

  Not long after, a police messenger arrived, requesting my services to cart another body.

  And so began another day in Innsmouth.

  Chapter Three

  “Good Lord, what happened to you?”

  Flora Marsh’s voice reached me over the din from the crowd at the Brass Rail. Next to me, Flora’s brother, Scott, snickered. Ben Olmstead, the third in our circle of four, patted my back in mock sympathy.

  “One of our local thugs had at me on the way here last night. That’s why I didn’t make it.” I sat down, Ben and Scott taking the other chairs at the table she’d saved for us.

  “What?” She set three mugs of ale in front of us and then leaned over to brush aside the hair at my temple. Even distracted by the delicate touch of her fingers against my bruised skin, I couldn’t help notice the narrowing of Ben Olmstead’s eyes in response to her attentions. The pose showed off her bosom most nicely, and it took me a moment to pull my eyes away and answer.

  “My own fault. I took the shortcut and stumbled onto a cutpurse plying his trade.” I hadn’t intended on telling them my story – after all, it didn’t paint my bravery in the best light – but it slipped out the moment I saw the look of concern on Flora’s face. Anything to keep her attention on me a little longer.

  “How’d you manage that?” Scott asked. Unlike Ben or I, Flora’s brother had come straight from work and his postal carrier blues stood out among the grays and browns of sweaters, peacoats, and woolen jackets. The Brass Rail was not the sort of place for smoking jackets or fancy suits. No Manhattans or Gin Rickeys. It did, however, serve decent food and ale at prices even a morgue attendant or ironworker could afford, and sat within easy walking distance. Once Flora took a job serving drinks there, the place became a second home for us.

  “The damned fog.” Not wanting to go too deeply into the details, I gave an abbreviated version of what transpired the previous night. When I got to the part about the disfigured man who’d attacked me, Flora let out a gasp.

  “You actually saw him? The demon?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Damn. Either the beer or Flora’s attentions had my mouth working faster than my brain. Now my friends would lump me in with the other crazies.

  “How could you not?” Scott raised an eyebrow. “Whole town’s been chattering on about some sort of apparition haunting the streets at night.”

  “Aye.” Flora gave a vigorous nod, her jet-black hair threatening to break free from the loose bun she’d tied it in.

  “Bosh. No such thing as demons.” I was beginning to regret the entire conversation. Images of that face hovering over me, the cold, wet noose settling around my throat….

  “Not according to what scuttlebutt I hear.” Ben sipped his beer and wiped foam from his thick, carrot-colored mustache. “Damn thing’s been seen all over. Down by the docks and warehouses ’specially. And that ain’t all.”

  “What?” I was intrigued to hear the latest gossip despite my desire to change the subject.

  “Where’s my damn beer?” A rough bellow cut through the general din of the pub. Flora frowned at the nearby table.

  “It’s coming! Mind yourself and give a girl a chance to fetch them. You boys need anything?” She glanced back at us. We nodded as one.

  “Hold that thought, then.”

  “I’d like to hold more than a thought.” Ben threw her a wink.

  “Sounds like perhaps you’ve had one too many, Ben Olmstead.” Flora’s retort came with a smile and she sauntered off to laughter from Ben and Scott.

  Unfazed by his friend’s inappropriate attitude toward his sister, Scott lit a cigar and leaned back, while Flora’s flirtatious smile sat like a cold stone in my belly. What did Ben have that made him so appealing to women? And why did it have to work so well on Flora?

  “You did go to the police, didn’t you?” Scott asked, pulling my attention back to the conversation.

  “Er, no, of course not. I’ve enough trouble in my life without adding the law to it.”

  “Smart man,” Ben said. “Can’t trust a copper. They like to hit first and ask questions after.”

  Ben’s words eased my shame a bit. Truthfully, I’d felt more than a little guilt over my actions. After all, by not reporting the attack and murder to the police I was just as bad as the people hiding behind their shutters in the alley that I’d railed against. However, self-preservation and fear were stronger motivations.

  Scott frowned but said nothing. His disappointment pricked me like a knife, as if he’d become the voice of my conscience.

  “Callie was disappointed when you didn’t show.”

  “What?” Ben’s change of subject threw me for a loop.

  “Callie,” Ben repeated. “She came by last night. She was rather put off that you weren’t here.”

  “I’m sure you’ll inform her of the extenuating circumstances, old friend,” I said, tipping my glass to Ben.

  Callie Olmstead was two years younger than the rest of us and the fifth wheel to our wagon. Fate had favored Ben’s sister with none of his burly size or square features; you had to look close to see any signs they were brother an
d sister. The quirk of their lips when they smiled, the slight dimple in their chins (Ben’s hidden by his thick beard), the streak of independence they both shared. She was fair where he was ginger, pale where he was ruddy.

  We’d courted for several months while I’d been attending Miskatonic University, and I’d genuinely enjoyed our time together. But through it all, my heart still pined for Flora, and when the troubles with my father caused me to leave school, I’d used it as an excuse to break things off with Callie, claiming the distance between Arkham and Innsmouth was not conducive to a relationship.

  “Of course.” He nodded back, the barest hint of a smile teasing the corners of his lips. Acknowledgement that once again we’d reached an impasse. He’d failed to foist his sister on me, but in the end he’d come out ahead due to my absence, which had left him alone to chat up Flora all night.

  “You might as well go on with your story,” Scott said, smoke dribbling from between his thin lips. “Lord knows we’ll forget what we were talking about if we wait for her to return.”

  “Eh?” Ben turned toward Scott.

  I cleared my throat loudly enough to be heard over the general din. Trust Scott to remain oblivious to the interplay of our long-standing rivalry. “You were saying about the supposed demon.”

  “Oh, right. People claim it’s responsible for the disappearances. And the grave robbings.”

  “The what now?” That jarred me from my contemplation of Flora and how I might gain some edge against Ben. It was the first time I’d heard that particular theory. “I thought he was just to blame for the murders.”

  “That too.” Scott nodded. “But the more often he gets seen, the more things are being attributed to him. It can’t be coincidence that all the strange goings-on have occurred between the waterfront district and Old Innsmouth.”

  “People disappear all the time,” I said. “Especially in the slums.”

  “Happening more than usual, from what folks here been saying.” Flora set two beers on the table, took a quick sip from the third, and then placed it in front of me. “Coppers don’t pay no attention, they don’t know what’s really going on.” She patted my shoulder, her way of apologizing for sneaking some of my ale. Her hand felt warm and soft even through the rough cotton of my shirt, and I had to fight the urge to take it in my own.

  Someone called out for whiskey, and Flora rolled her eyes. As always, their deep blue brought to mind gas flames rather than summer skies.

  “Be back in a tail’s shake.” She straightened her short dress, which only served to tighten the material around her bosom even farther, and headed off. I reluctantly returned my gaze to my companions.

  “Bone orchard got robbed again last night.” Ben stared at us over his mug. “Second time this month.”

  A chill sprang to life in my stomach and spread to my legs and arms, raising the tiny hairs. I’d heard nothing about it, but then I’d had my own problems. The factory Ben worked at was right near the cemetery, so it was no wonder he’d learned the news so quickly.

  “Way I figure it, troubles started further back than anyone’s aware of.” Scott looked at us over his glass.

  “Not this old story again.” Ben shook his head. “Strange lights in the sky? My grandsire used to tell us that one when we were too young to know any better.”

  “Laugh if you want—”

  The crash of the pub door slamming open stopped Scott in mid-sentence. All heads turned toward the entrance, where two figures emerged from the night.

  My heart leaped into my throat at the sight of them.

  No!

  Deathly pale they were, almost ghostly in the flickering lamplight. My first thought was my mysterious attacker had somehow found me and this time he’d brought along an evil twin. Then someone shouted, “Shut the damn door,” and relief flooded through my body. No demons, no walking corpses. Just two men dressed in muddy…

  Suits?

  Cold fingers took hold of my innards and twisted them. Something wasn’t right.

  “What in hell’s that bloody stink?” Scott waved a hand at the air and the odor struck me like a fist, an odor I was all too familiar with from dozens of times hauling bodies from the ocean or out of tenement apartments. The foul stench of advanced death rolled off the two men in waves, causing patrons to turn and shout at them. Paying no attention to the curses flung their way, the strangers entered the pub, their motions erratic and clumsy, as if they’d already had a few too many pints.

  “God, that’s awful.” Ben stood up. “Hey, arseholes! You bloody reek.” Laughter erupted in the pub and several men tossed papers and scraps of food at the strangers, who ignored it all.

  No, Ben, please don’t draw their attention.

  The men moved forward, giving me my first good look at their features.

  I immediately wished I’d stayed home.

  Gray, cloudy eyes with no pupils. Fish-belly skin sloughing off to reveal bloodless sections of muscle and sinew. Lips and gums pulled back, exposing stained teeth and portions of jawbone.

  Dead. They’re dead.

  My hands clenched the arms of my chair. I wanted to stand, to run, but my body refused all mental commands to move.

  With each graceless step the men took, more of their true nature became evident. Mottled, loose skin on their necks and hands. Holes in their suits where insects and rot had destroyed the fabric. Patches of missing hair that revealed gray bone peering through scalp.

  The rank odor grew worse, contaminating my nose with each breath and coating my throat with an oily residue. Someone at a nearby table gagged and ran off. Others joined him, and then no one stood between me and the walking corpses.

  Until Ben stepped forward.

  “Here now, what’s your— God in heaven.” Ben stumbled back as one of the creatures turned his way. Ben’s leg connected with mine and broke the spell holding me in place. I stood up, grabbing Ben’s arm to keep him from falling.

  “Run.”

  Instead of heeding my advice, Ben pulled free and swung at the nearest of the two things. Propelled by years of hard labor, his massive fist connected like an iron hammer. Skin parted and yellowish fluids sprayed out. The creature’s head rocked back, bone and muscle showing along its jaw. The miasma of corruption intensified, a stomach-churning mix of rotten flesh and embalming fluids.

  Undeterred by the damage, the dead man clutched Ben’s shirt and snapped at him like a wild dog. Ben tried to pull away and the man lunged forward, pushing them both off balance. They crashed against the table, which tipped, sending them to the floor. I jumped out of their way and with my typical luck stumbled over a chair, ending up on my side with cold beer seeping through my shirt.

  The second corpse lumbered forward, its milky gaze never wavering from me. I tried to crawl away but my feet tangled in the damned chair’s legs. I scrabbled for my pistol, which was trapped between my hip and the floor.

  The dead man leaned over me. Its mouth opened and closed as if attempting to produce words. Polluted air rolled out of the dark hole. Emaciated lips rode high over yellowed teeth and fought to shape the tainted breath into meaningful sounds.

  All that emerged was a wet, gasping sound. “Whhhoochk.”

  Coughs racked my chest. My eyes watered from the rank waves drowning me. The monster moved closer and the contents of my dinner threatened to rise up.

  “Bhhook.”

  The explosion of a gun filled the air with thunder. The corpse jerked to one side but didn’t go down. Two more shots followed, and although the walking cadaver twitched and faltered momentarily each time, its forward motion never halted.

  Then I had my own pistol free. I raised it just as the monster reached for me, hands extended, clutching fingers close enough for me to see dark earth under cracked nails. I pulled the trigger without aiming. The first shot took the creature in the shoulder. I f
ired again and a chunk of flesh and bone flew away from the thing’s skull.

  Still it came at me!

  Gritting my teeth, I gripped the gun with both hands and pulled the trigger over and over, firing until the chambers clicked empty.

  Skin and bone rained down on me, accompanied by a shower of vile fluids from what remained of its head. The body collapsed at the knees and fell atop me, pinning me to the floor. I cried out and kicked at it, desperate to be free of the thing. With a final push, I squirmed away and crawled to a nearby table.

  A chorus of shouting reached me through the ringing in my ears. I pulled myself up and staggered over to where a crowd of people stood watching Scott and Ben fight a losing battle against the other dead man. Several of the men had their guns drawn, trying to get a clear shot through the tangle of arms and legs.

  Ben cried out as the creature grabbed his arm and twisted. He battered his other fist against the thing’s head and it snapped at him with a sound like two rocks struck together. Scott grabbed it by the shoulders and pulled. It turned, foamy saliva dripping from its mouth, and with surprising speed wrapped its hands around Scott’s throat. The two of them rolled off Ben, who clutched his injured arm to his chest and cursed.

  “Shoot it!” I shouted. No one moved. No one even looked my way. Cursing, I pushed to the front and raised my gun.

  Click-click.

  Empty!

  I shoved a burly dockworker forward. “Shoot the damned thing! Aim for the head.”

  The man glanced at me with wide eyes but didn’t raise his arm.

  “Blast you all to hell.” I grabbed the pistol from his hand, raised it up.

  Just in time to see the creature dig its nails into Scott’s face and tear it away.

  Scott howled in agony, his cries quickly degenerating into choking coughs. Blood sprayed in a wide fan that painted his attacker in shades of red. The sudden drenching didn’t slow it. Bony fingers found Scott’s eyes, which popped like half-boiled eggs. Scott’s body gave a massive shudder and went still.