by Rachel Gray
—H.P. Lovecraft, “The Shadow Over Innsmouth”
Another seaside locale anchored in Mythos legends is the town of Innsmouth. Founded by Jebediah Marsh in 1643, Innsmouth rests on the mouth of the Manuxet River. The town thrived as a shipbuilding site and seaport prior to the Revolutionary War. Its success continued into the early nineteenth century, as factories sprung up, harnessing the great power of the Manuxet. But after the war of 1812, Innsmouth’s prosperity waned. Eventually, the town fell into a state of decay. And by the early 1900s, little of Innsmouth’s great industry remains, except for the Marsh Refinery, and the ever-abundant fishing industry.
To be quite honest, there is no need to visit Innsmouth. Avoid it if you can . . . the native population is far from friendly to outsiders. However, if you’ve recently noticed certain changes in your appearance, or your personality/demeanor, it may be time to visit the secluded seaside town (remember in the Cthulhu Mythos, always keep a sharp eye for changes in appearance and demeanor).
TRAVELING TO INNSMOUTH
Little is known about Innsmouth—the residents live in seclusion, shunning the outside world. These days, there is minimal travel to the seaport. However, a daily bus route runs from Hammond’s Drug Store in Newburyport, stopping in both Innsmouth and Arkham. Don’t stare too hard at Joe Sargent, the bulging-eyed, greasy driver. Sure he looks unusual, well. at least for someone outside of Innsmouth, but gazing at him for too long won’t bode well.
WHERE TO STAY
“The Shadow Over Innsmouth” is one of Lovecraft’s most popular tales. In the story, he describes the sleepy seaside town, and the woes of visiting it. Of course, if you’re insistent, and find yourself venturing to Innsmouth, then be sure to stay at the Gilman house.
Sure, it’s dingy, dirty, and shabby, but it is slightly better than sleeping on the street. At least, once you get past the dust, the permanent moldy smell, the cranky attendants, and the strange, creaking sounds in the middle of the night.
Also, security is light at the Gilman House (the door bolts keep disappearing). Make sure you bring a set of tools and padlocks for your door, ensuring a restful night of undisturbed sleep.
WHERE TO DINE
Not much can be said for the local Innsmouth diner, which doesn’t even serve a decent plate of fish and chips. However, you can rest assured that the First National Grocery chain has a store in Arkham, stocked with all manner of necessities that will get you through your visit. For a special treat, try their cheese crackers. For the most part, visiting Innsmouth means coming prepared.
INVESTIGATIONS IN INNSMOUTH
There’s not much to see in the decrepit, old town, except rickety factories and crumbling houses. The mystery of Innsmouth rests with the town’s inhabitants. Just remember—you’re best not staring at any of them for too long. Doing so is not only ill mannered, it might get you killed at the hands of an angry, suspicious mob. One might say, “What happens in Innsmouth stays in Innsmouth.”
Over the years, the town’s population has dwindled down to a mere 300-400 “people.” And in general, all of the locals look alike. No, this isn’t some sort of racist statement on my behalf (although some argue it was an idea Lovecraft had). Seriously, the folks in Innsmouth do look alike. It is termed the “Innsmouth look.” And it’s kind of hard to miss. We’re talking about oddly bulging eyes, webbed feet and hands, and flabby lips. There’s also some issues with scaly skin, but maybe that can be attributed to the salty air.
Although Innsmouth is a very closed-mouth town, rumors still stir about. And outside of Innsmouth, tales continually circulate about the town’s residents, and how they came to acquire “The Innsmouth look.” This has led several non-residents to conducting investigations. Robert Olmstead, antiquarian, traveled to the Miskatonic Valley from his native Ohio, in order to learn more of his genealogy. When the trail led to Innsmouth, he ventured upon a fateful side trip. (Someone in his past must have changed his last name; or there was a grave mistake made in Innsmouth).
THE SWAMPY MARSHES
With stern fish-eyed gazes of distrust, the residents of Innsmouth offered Olmstead little help. But the town drunkard, Zadok Allen, who decidedly lacked the signature “Innsmouth Look,” was his usual chatty, helpful self. Not that Olmstead much minded the residents’ “Innsmouth Look”—people always commented upon Olmstead’s slightly enlarged eyes, too, so he didn’t consider it a big deal.
But Olmstead wanted to glean more about the mysterious town. With a bit of whiskey for lubrication, tales freely flowed from Zadok’s mouth.
HOW TO TELL IF YOU’RE ACTUALLY FROM INNSMOUTH
People often tell you, “My, what big eyes you have.”
Constant, insistent cravings for seafood platters (not necessarily to eat them, but to frolic in them).
You find a drink of salt water refreshing.
You spend more time in the water than out of it.
A visit to the beach is the most exciting part of your year.
When you speak, it always sounds like you have a frog caught in your throat.
Your last name is Marsh.
Your last name is Gilman
Your last name can somehow be related to fish or water (see 7 & 8 for reference).
They don’t make glasses large enough for your eyes.
The elderly drunkard elaborated upon the history of Innsmouth’s most famous family. Particularly, Captain Obed Marsh, descendent of town founder Jebediah Marsh. During his sea travels, Obed stumbled across a peculiar Polynesian island. It sported an unusually high abundance of fish. Regardless of the season, or the scarcity of fish in the area, the natives’ fishing prospered. And the island’s inhabitants strutted about wearing loads of gold trinkets—bracelets and amulets—the glint of gold promptly catching Obed Marsh’s eye.
Sensing his interest, the local chief explained how these great fortunes could belong to Obed’s as well. That’s right, gold trinkets and abundant fish for everyone. And all Obed had to do was perform a few human sacrifices—a meager two times a year—to the frog-fish creatures, known as “Deep Ones,” that dwelled in the depths of the sea.
Obed contented himself with trading instead. Much less messy than sacrifices. After returning home, Obed sold the islanders’ strange, gold trinkets to the folks of Innsmouth—at a hefty profit. Business prospered, until one day when Obed returned to the island to find the natives had been mysteriously wiped out. But Innsmouth’s demand for gaudy gold trinkets never abated. Forced to keep up with demand, Obed had few options. He stealthily rowed out to Devil’s Reef twice a year, offering sacrifices to the greedy Deep Ones. And again, Innsmouth prospered. Fish practically leapt from the sea and onto the residents’ plates—not that they cared to eat them. Eventually, Obed founded a new religion to worship the great sea deity, Dagon. Some might call it a “club” more than a cult, but either way, it was named “The Esoteric Order of Dagon.”
SOMETHING’S FISHY
Residents eventually connected Obed’s sea ventures with the periodic disappearances of young people around town. Decidedly angry, the townspeople tossed Obed and his cohorts into jail, to the great dismay of the local, watery Deep Ones. The frog-fish folk, fat and happy due to Innsmouth’s supply of human sacrifices, decided to lend Obed a webbed hand.
DAGON
There have been only a handful (webbed and otherwise) of people who have reported sightings of the sea-god, Dagon. Really, Dagon is the sort of omnipowerful critter you don’t want to lay eyes on. One of the few known accounts is a suicide note found in the residence of a morphine-addicted soldier of the Great War, described in Lovecraft’s story “Dagon.”
In the soldier’s note, he told of an unfortunate adventure at sea when his ship was overtaken by a German sea-raider, and he, along with others, was taken prisoner. He managed to escape on a small boat with some provisions, drifting aimlessly. But when he fell asleep for the night, he later awakened to find his boat beached, stuck in a sticky black mire.
T
he soldier traveled on foot, finally reaching a great canyon. On the opposite side, a huge monolith rose from the ground, covered with inscriptions and crude sculptures of humans—or half-humans—with those same, flabby lips, webbed feet, and bulging eyes as the inhabitants of Innsmouth. As the soldier watched, a gigantic creature—with enormous, scaled arms—wrapped itself around the monolith.
At this point, the soldier, naturally, went a bit crazy. Seeing Dagon, and many other Mythos creatures, has this affect on people. Singing and laughing, he traipsed back to his boat. Next thing he remembered, he awakened in San Francisco. Wow.
Forever tortured by his brief glimpse of Dagon, the soldier tried morphine to ease his anxiety. No luck. Instead, he thought he’d have better luck with suicide. This really comes down to how one defines “luck.”
Whether he was lucky is difficult to say, since all news of the event was submerged beneath paperwork and cover-ups.
But the last tortured words of the suicide note offered the best indication as to what had happened—”God, that hand! The window! The window!”
Okay, maybe it wasn’t the best indication, but it was better than nothing.
They launched a counterattack, killing many Innsmouth residents, and freeing the cranky leader. Then, drunk with power, or something else, Obed Marsh forced the survivors to take the Oath of Dagon. Worse, he granted the Deep Ones’ request to start breeding with the locals—monsters never can keep their webby hands off humans when it comes to mating. However, there was a bright side to things—the Deep One hybrid offspring were guaranteed immortality. Even so, the “Innsmouth look” promised some seriously ugly family photos.
A DUBIOUS OLMSTEAD
But all of that was in the past, a tipsy Zadok explained to Olmstead. Now the Marsh family ruled over the town. Barnabas Marsh—aka Old Man Marsh—oversaw the Marsh refinery. But his time above water was dwindling—his increasingly bulgy eyes (not to mention the horrid fishy smell) guaranteed Barnabas would soon take to the water. It was the fate of all hybrid Deep Ones.
Not being familiar with the Cthulhu Mythos, and being engaged in a conversation with a drunk, and not having a name in any way related to water or fish, Olmstead was skeptical. But when the bus to Arkham mysteriously broke down, forcing Olmstead to stay overnight at the Gilman House, he quickly had a change of heart.
In the middle of the night, a crowd converged upon the Gilman House. But before they could seize Olmstead, he escaped through a window. The terrified man fled his pursuers, and found his way out of town, but not before witnessing the backup search party—slimy, gray-green creatures with white bellies, croaking as they flopped their way toward town.
Olmstead’s escape likely would have ended the matter—if Olmstead hadn’t been so nosy. But Olmstead had originally trekked to the Miskatonic Valley to learn of his genealogy. So he couldn’t let sleeping fish lie.
Inquiries at the Arkham Historical Society, and his continuing research back in Ohio, eventually unearthed the truth—there was a reason why everyone commented on his large, bulbous eyes. He was a descendant of the great Obed Marsh (I knew it, I was right about the name change).
Olmstead took it rather well. He decided being a Deep One hybrid wasn’t so terrible—what with the immortality and all. So he set off for the great, underwater metropolis of Y’ha-nthlei, right next to Devil’s Reef. Y’ha-nthlei was Deep One hybrid friendly. And, being underwater, the real estate prices were a steal.
WHAT TO DO IF YOU’VE
GOT THE INNSMOUTH LOOK
So, based on your new Mythos knowledge, you may suspect you’re a Deep One hybrid. Perhaps you’re not quite ready to take the plunge and move underwater. Or even move back to Innsmouth (although the place hasn’t been the same since the government raid). So here are a few tips to hide your creepy “Innsmouth Look”:
Try oversized glasses. If you don’t need glasses, use plain lenses (this is optimal, since people will assume your larger eyes are due to lens magnification).
If you’re looking a little green, try tanning spray.
Flabby lip problem? No worries—these days, people will just assume you’ve had Botox injections.
A good hairdo can hide almost any flaw in your appearance! Talk to your stylist about the best way to hide fish-like features.
Webbed hands and feet are harder to conceal. Keep poolside trips to a minimum. Wear gloves as much as you can, but only when it makes sense (for example, fluffy winter mittens at the beach, in the middle of summer, are not recommended).
Once again, friends always come in handy. Recruit ugly friends. If your friends are weirder-looking than you, no one will notice your frog-like face.
Be wary of snoopy people. If someone says, “Say, how do you pronounce, “Y’ha-nthlei,” don’t blurt it out. Instead, do what you should be doing right now—sound out the word and ask who the heck came up with that spelling (if you’re expecting me to provide a pronunciation table for this word, re-read this paragraph; you’re not going to catch me).
Don’t hang around aquariums with your new hairdo and gloves, whispering to the fish that “you’ll get them their freedom and revenge.”
Many Deep Ones also worship Cthulhu. This means you need a good explanation if you’re reading this book and you have the Innsmouth look.
Keep the bling to a minimum. Okay, if you’re a hybrid or a Deep One, there is no shortage of gold trinkets for you. But wearing too much gold is bound to set off alarms.
Providence
Old Providence! It was this place and the mysterious forces of its long, continuous history which had brought him into being, and which had drawn him back toward marvels and secrets whose boundaries no prophet might fix. Here lay the arcana, wondrous or dreadful as the case may be, for which all his years of travel and application had been preparing him.
—H.P. Lovecraft, “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward”
A HISTORY OF PROVIDENCE
When it comes to the Mythos, Lovecraft’s hometown of Providence, Rhode Island, has a complicated history. “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward” offers details of Providence’s infamous resident, Joseph Curwen.
In the early 1700s, Joseph Curwen settled in Providence. He quickly grew powerful in the shipping business, involving himself in numerous town activities and civic improvements. By the mid-1700s, everyone in town knew of Curwen. But not because of his great wealth and community service. Rather, people noticed strange, coffin-shaped boxes, appearing at Curwen’s home. They chattered in town about the way he never appeared to age. He was obsessed with occult matters and rituals. And rumors swirled about stinky alchemical experiments performed in the lean-to on his Pawtuxet Village farm.
When Curwen realized he had an image problem, he decided to fix it—by permanently weaseling his way into the society’s upper crust. He married eighteen-year-old Eliza Tillinghast, daughter of the well-known Captain Dutee Tillinghast. Much to the annoyance of her current fiancé, Ezra Weeden.
THE INVESTIGATIVE TEAM OF WEEDEN AND SMITH
After being cast aside, the estranged fiancé, Ezra Weeden, swore vengeance upon the man who stole his bride. Weeden vowed to unearth the scandalous details behind the strange stories surrounding Curwen. With the help of Elezear Smith, Weeden sneaked about and spied upon Curwen at his residence in Olney Court, and at Curwen’s farm in Pawtuxet.
Soon, Weeden’s investigations bore results—the young man discovered a series of catacombs, snaking beneath the farm. One night, Weeden and Smith staked-out the farm, hearing screams, chants, and mumblings, rising up from the ground. Tortured wails also echoed from Curwen’s lean-to laboratory. Clearly, Curwen was planning something most nefarious.
With an arsenal of detailed notes, Weeden approached the prominent residents of Providence with his findings. It didn’t take much. Marrying Eliza hadn’t altered Curwen’s creepy status around town. The town elders decided to organize a raid on the Pawtuxet farm.
The raiding party consisted of three teams, converging silen
tly and quickly upon the Pawtuxet farm. It conveniently worked out that Curwen was in the middle of a particularly nasty experiment when the teams arrived. Later, the raiders refused to speak of the events of that night and what they’d discovered. But rumors abound of inhuman creatures, seemingly made of flame, witnessed at the Pawtuxet farm.
Curwen died in the raid, and the matter was laid to rest along with his body. At least for one-hundred years or so.
THE CASE OF CHARLES DEXTER WARD
When young antiquarian Charles Dexter Ward stumbled across town records, indicating the enigmatic Curwen was his great-great grandfather, he was keenly interested in discovering more about his most notorious relative. A visit to Curwen’s house uncovered a portrait of Curwen—painted directly on the wall paneling. The resemblance to Ward was uncanny, and the young antiquarian decided to bring it back to the Ward family home. But hidden behind the wooden paneling, Ward discovered the secret diary of Joseph Curwen.
Ward, fascinated by all things historical, dove into the journal. But as his interest in the diary grew, his personality and demeanor changed (please refer to What to Do if Family/Friends Exhibit Changes in Personality or Demeanor in the Arkham chapter). Ward grew increasingly quiet and secretive. The long, exploratory walks around Providence, for which he was well known, halted. He obsessed upon his long-lost relative, eventually dropping out of school so he could travel abroad, hunting down additional clues about Curwen.