Innsmouth Nightmares

by Edited by Lois H. Gresh

  Now at the bottom Whitcomb was confused. He remembered how it had been when he was eight: a broad strip of grass with a fountain and a bordering walk that shimmered from all the sea shells embedded in the concrete, and beyond that the gleaming white beach. It would never look as good as it had on that first glimpse, and over the years he would wonder if his imagination had simply embellished it, because every day after that while they were there it had appeared a bit grayer, a bit shabbier.

  Now there was no grass at all—he had stepped off into sand. And a few feet away were the piles of rubble, broken concrete, and other rubbish. And looking around him, he didn’t see the rooms. Certainly the few closest to the staircase were gone, leaving only hollow dark cavities filled with more sand.

  He started walking parallel to the pilings, peering into the darkness for some sign of the old motel and finding none. It was hard to fathom how the young man up in that office at street level could believe he could get away with such a blatant con, taking money for rooms which no longer existed, but Whitcomb had his own eyes and the memory of what had once been here. He even ventured into the deeper shadows beneath the boardwalk thinking the rooms might have been set back further into the seaside structure than he remembered, but the area was wiped clean.

  Then he passed one of the thicker pilings and there was what was left of the old motel: a short stretch of rooms with battered screen doors and a single window each. He remembered the walls as a bright coral red, but these were a pale salmon color, repaired here and there with gray cement like disease spots or patches of dead skin.

  A small light glowed above each door along with a number. The first he saw was number six. He paused in front of eight before trying the key.

  He remembered following his father into the room all those years ago. He had no idea which number it had been—it hadn’t been important to him and they had all looked the same. There had been a bright multicolored oval rug inside, some blonde furniture, and one large bed. He’d gazed at that bed in dismay until he’d seen the rollaway they’d rented just for him. He’d sat on that bed and bounced, declaring it perfect.

  His mother had come in slowly, her face drawn. She was rubbing her arms. “This sand, the wind blows it everywhere. It’s burning my arms.”

  “It’s just ordinary sand, dear,” Whitcomb’s father had said. “You probably just have a sunburn.”

  “We’ve barely arrived, how could I—”

  “The drive in, all those miles. You had your window rolled down, remember? And your arm resting on the frame? I told you you should have put on sunblock when the trip began.”

  “I’m wearing long sleeves.” She’d said it crossly. She hadn’t wanted to come here at all.

  “Lightweight fabric. You can practically see your arms through the cloth.

  It doesn’t take much, a hot day like this.”

  His father had never thought his mother intelligent. That was why he’d always been explaining things to her, trying to explain why she shouldn’t feel upset, why she shouldn’t be disappointed or angry. Everything was always fine, the way his father had explained things, even when Whitcomb didn’t understand the explanations.

  Obviously his mother didn’t understand them either, because as far as Whitcomb could remember, they had never helped. He’d resented that sometimes. She could have at least pretended to be happy. She could have been a good sport. Part of being happy, as he remembered from his childhood, was being able to pretend.

  Whitcomb felt strangely hesitant to enter number eight. He was afraid to be disappointed in what he found inside. Sand as white, as pure-looking as snow, had drifted out of the shadowland fronting the ocean and up to the concrete step in front of each door. It required only the dim light above each number to bring out the sand’s unusual brilliance, its eerie luminescence. He looked down at his feet—of course, he was standing in it. There was no grass or sidewalk anymore. From above it looked oddly liquid, milk-like, rising and falling around his shoes—nothing like sand at all.

  But he was tired, and he was drunk with memory. He fixed his eyes on the door and stepped forward. It was late, and the world was always a different place in the morning.

  The key made a scraping sound as it went into the keyhole. It felt like there might be debris inside. He turned the key and tiny particles drifted out of the hole and down to the threshold, joining the fingers of sand that had already blown onto the recently-swept step. He pushed the door open.

  It was dark and chilly in the room, as if instead of going inside he’d actually gone out. He reached for a light switch and found it, coated in grit, so was not optimistic about the maid’s cleaning job. But when the lights came on he was pleasantly surprised.

  The room brought back vividly the one from decades before. The furniture was the same or of a similar style, blonde wood with clean lines, typical of the fifties. There was even a rollaway, although the mattress was grayish, the frame spotted with rust. But the floor was clean, and the rug, although it wasn’t the colorful one from years before. The colors were more muted, as were the colors throughout, he realized, shaded toward graying pastels. The blonde wood duller. The ceiling white less white. But there was a comfort in all that. After all, if it had been exactly the same he might have been terrified.

  But that was all quite enough. Whitcomb thought he could not bear to be awake any longer. He dressed into his pajamas quickly, turned off the light, and slipped into bed. The sheets didn’t feel crisp, but at least they weren’t sandy. He didn’t bother to set the alarm clock—he hadn’t even noticed if there was one. He was content with awakening whenever.

  He had no idea how long he had slept when he first awakened. It was still dark out, according to his window, but he hadn’t slept through the night in years, so that wasn’t surprising. Wind scratched and occasionally beat on the door. He thought it might be raining because he could hear the spray against the glass. Surely the ocean was too far away for it to be the advance spray of a wave, but he could not bring himself to check. Better not to know if he was about to drown.

  He leaned over the side of the bed to get a good view of the door—white had eased through the bottom, a few threads of it. Sand. But perhaps he’d just tracked that in when he first came inside.

  His mother had complained of the sand, the way it burned, the whole time they had been here. Whitcomb hadn’t understood—he’d loved it, couldn’t get enough of it, the way it squeezed between the toes. It frightened him that she should have such a strong reaction. For years afterward he would think of her when he met anyone with allergies or peculiar sensitivities. Some people lived in an unfriendly world. Certainly, no one lived in his world, and he was uncomfortable whenever he ventured out of it.

  “You’re supposed to drive your life, not let your life drive you.” Jane had shared that bit of insight the last time she’d consented to see him. “Do something spontaneous for once!” It was goodbye advice, but at least she had been sincere. She might have liked him more if he’d managed to be someone else.

  He might have pretended to her that his return visit to Innsmouth was a spontaneous act, but of course it was not—it had been coming for years. He’d just been gathering his nerve.

  Over the years, he’d tried to remember every detail of that vacation when he’d been eight, and although he’d recreated much of it, a great many moments were still missing. It angered him, the way the bits wore off, and he could not decide if it was the mind’s normal decay or the old realities themselves which were going away. Something about the process seemed deliberate, as if the universe didn’t want him to remember everything.

  He did not feel sorry for himself—he’d made his choices, but he realized not everyone had a choice. Eventually all the bits of a life wore off, and for some even the memories went away. His father had gone on with his life, using drink to wipe the memory. But Whitcomb would remember his mother until the end.

  He must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes again the wind
ow was burning up with sun. He dressed himself in the sweats he’d bought for the occasion—he’d never owned a pair before. The door refused to open. He supposed the dampness had made it swell. He kept pulling until it came loose with a pop sound. A rain of grit poured from the jamb.

  He stepped out into an intense scouring of sky and sand, so much blue and white he had to close his eyes, opening them slowly again using his hand as a shield. The beach looked ravaged, a churning of tiny white dunes and pitted places, black timbers and rocks showing ragged edges as if chewed. Streamers of rotting seaweed laced the beach, gulls landing to snatch tidbits, swiftly leaving as if the sand were too hot or corrosive to touch. Large amounts of fish flesh lay in partially digested chunks, the reek of it so foul his nose refused to process the smell. He gagged and turned to go back inside, but deciding he would not be so easily defeated, struck off down the line of pilings again, thinking he would see what remained here from his memories.

  There appeared to be no one else about, and given the unpleasant state of the shore here, he supposed that should come as no surprise. In bright daylight, he had a good look at what was left of the motel—eight units, with the last two missing numbers and doors. He couldn’t imagine who might rent such lodgings, unless they were beyond desperate or ignorant like himself. Perhaps they did all their renting after dark, when the extent of the damage could not be seen. He was curious if he had neighbors, but wouldn’t go out of his way to meet them.

  The place hadn’t been that busy when he’d been here before, when things were painted, in good repair, and at the height of summer. At best there had been five or six other family groupings, and a few isolated stragglers, tall figures in rain gear with large hats pulled down over their features, strolling the beach. And not all the family members made use of the beach—some, like his mother, made only rare forays past their motel doors or the grassy areas in front.

  But vacations weren’t for everyone, or so he had heard. There were always some who felt safer, if not happier, at home.

  He gazed down the beach to where it narrowed, eventually disappearing into a tumble of stone. There was the main part of Innsmouth, the old docks, the church towers and the sprawling meeting halls. Several buildings near the edge had actually tumbled into the sea, leaving a slope of woody debris soaking up the ocean salt and a splay of broken uprights. Surely he was mistaken, but he had a vague memory of the same ruins, the same collapse, present when he’d been here as a child.

  A broken chorus of voices rose with a sudden flight of black birds as if riding their backs into the air. The voices dissipated with the scattering paths of wings. Whitcomb had no desire to venture into that part of town, thinking it a far more dangerous place than this poor strip of sand.

  He caught sight of a familiar sign and, walking closer, caught himself in a tease of a smile. By the Sands: Miniature Golf. His family had discovered the place their second day there, and even his mother had seemed to enjoy herself. It appeared to still be in business. He found himself passing through the gate without considering.

  At first he thought the fellow taking money was the motel clerk from the night before. They might have been twins. Then he saw that this one was a little taller, not as fat, and he hid one arm inside a voluminous sleeve. He handed the fellow a dollar and was pointed to a rack of balls and clubs beside Hole #1.

  It was the usual layout of obstacles, ramps, windmills, passages through miniature buildings, and wide metal curves the ball could cling to for a left or right-hand turn. But there were local touches as well: a giant brass frog with a wide mouth—a ball entered the mouth and shot out the anus in some random direction. A water obstacle with leaping mechanical fish—periodically a fish would alter its trajectory by some mysterious means and snag the ball. An array of dilapidated buildings—he couldn’t really tell if the destruction was cosmetic and faked, or actual damage incurred by the miniature buildings because of exposure and lack of care. He didn’t remember many specifics about this miniature golf course from his previous visits decades ago, but it seemed that some of these features might be new to him—except for the frog. Now that he thought about it, the brass frog had been here before.

  The last few holes had been invaded by sand. But that fit the golfing theme, did it not? Sand traps designed to defeat even the most professional of golfers. At hole fifteen the sand trap moved, and the ball dissolved amidst a swirl of greedy silvery grit, ending his game.

  As he left the golf course, he found himself staring at the ocean, the endless repeating waves, the long curving edges of foam, that meandering line where dark gray sea met an only slightly softer sky. As a boy, he’d thought that line dividing the air and water impossibly high, an instability that threatened everything he held dear. Now it seemed worse, and he thought he could detect structures inside it, only vaguely covered by the water—long reticulating lines, horizontal and vertical edges, the boxy shapes of some lost city drowned beneath the waves.

  It made him feel empty, void of substance, and he realized he hadn’t yet eaten and had gone to bed without dinner the night before. There had been a few small cafés, he remembered, accessible only from the beach, and he continued walking in the direction of that denser part of Innsmouth, hoping one might still be in business.

  He closed his eyes at one point, having walked far longer than he had hoped, and near to exhaustion. He did not remember finding the restaurant, or sitting down, or ordering. But the next thing he knew he was blinking rapidly, and he was holding a large spoon, and warm and slippery things were washing down his throat. He almost choked when he realized it, and had to down a large glass of water which tasted a bit too salty and whose color was less than assuring. His teeth felt unstable, his tongue sore, the inside of his mouth scraped.

  He only vaguely remembered the meals he’d had when his parents brought him here as a child. He remembered feeling ravenous the whole time, and devouring hotdogs and something else—some sort of pita-like concoction— from beach-side stands. His parents ate hardly anything at all. His father had been drinking, not as committedly as he would after that vacation, but enough that it made him quiet, grumpy, and without appetite. His mother—he was never sure if his mother ate anything during that trip. He vaguely remembered sitting with them in a small restaurant like this one, only cleaner, brighter, and watching her dab at her mouth with a cloth napkin, always dabbing, touching her lips with it, her teeth, and a redness coming away on the cloth.

  He looked down into his soup, or stew. Very little was left, a small bit of tail sticking out of a thick, gray broth. He pushed the bowl away, looked around him. There were other patrons in the small café. This shouldn’t have surprised him, except that he had seen no one except the motel clerk and his near—doppleganger, the golf attendant, since his arrival the night before.

  There were five, no, six others, huddled over their food. Thickly dressed in layers, high collars, some with weedy mats of hair slapped on top their heads. Some with stocking caps, despite the warm day. All looked vaguely ill or hung over, here to recover, perhaps, from the night before. The fellow closest to Whitcomb had a similar soup bowl in front of him, filled with gray. Periodically he jabbed his fork into the liquid as if attacking.

  The walls looked greasy, with large spots by the tables along the perimeter, as if people had rested their heads there, soiling the dingy green paint. He saw a tall man in a muscle shirt asleep at one of those tables, perhaps a sailor given the theme of his tattoos—fish and whales and frogs and waves and some things tendrilled, perhaps vegetation, perhaps not. His torso leaned against the wall, one arm pressed beneath his chest, his head lolling, cheek smeared flat.

  The sailor suddenly woke up, startled, glared at Whitcomb, and pulled his head and arm away from the wall. Sticky pale threads ran from his flesh to where bits of him still clung to the wall, including part of a bluish anchor design.

  Whitcomb stumbled out of his chair and went through the door. Had he paid? No one shouted, no one chased
him. But he stopped himself out on the beach, thinking that if he hadn’t paid, the proprietor would catch up to him and he could apologize, explain that it was a mistake, and pay what he owed, pay double what he owed. But no one came.

  He looked back down the beach searching for his motel. He had no idea how far he had come. He also hadn’t realized that he’d been walking up a slope, this part of the beach being noticeably higher than from where he’d come. From here he could see the entire stretch of it, hundreds of yards, and the way the waves came in, taking greedy nibbles. And all that had been ruined. And how the sand moved, minutely, but seeing it all together like this, multiplied, so that for the first time he could be sure, all that sand, everywhere, was moving.

  He must have fallen quite hard, because he was suddenly on the ground, eyes and mouth gaping. The sand edged around him. He shut his eyes, trying to force it out.

  He’d awakened that night, all those years ago, because of a noise or a dream of a noise. Someone crying, someone lost. Bits of his memory from that time had wandered off, but this memory, at least, he had found.

  His father lay passed out on the bed. Whitcomb was on the rollaway, shivering—he’d always been so skinny as a boy, and easy to chill. As he sat up he’d realized it was because the motel room door was open, and the ocean breeze was coming in, and the sand. He’d looked around for his mother then, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  He’d wandered out. His feet must have been damp, because he could remember the sand sticking to them. He remembered looking down, all that clinging sand making his feet look frosted, sparkling in the moonlight.

  Out on the beach there was a tall, thin form. He’d recognized his mother’s pale yellow gown. She was swaying, and the wind was lifting her gown, and he’d thought he should turn away because he shouldn’t be seeing this.