Innsmouth Nightmares

by Edited by Lois H. Gresh

  David nodded, saying nothing. Ellen had a real obsession with Cassie. The legend held that it was some sea serpent originally sighted in Casco Bay near the city of Portland, Maine in the late 1700s, hence the “Cassie” nickname. It was like America’s version of the Loch Ness Monster. In intervening years, the alleged cryptid had been seen lurking offshore in several other parts of coastal New England, even as far south as Providence, Rhode Island.

  “You still don’t believe in her, do you?”

  “I will if she shows.”

  “Lots and lots of people have seen her over the years,” Ellen declared. “I’m sure she’s down there, deep in the water somewhere.” Ellen leaned over to kiss his cheek. “You’re a darling to indulge my dream of seeing her!”

  He glanced over at her. “Hey, maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll pop up for us.

  Even if she doesn’t show it’s been a great honeymoon.”

  “Better than great. Perfect.”

  And she kissed him again.

  Innsmouth, Massachusetts. Home.

  After everything that had happened, I simply wanted to put it all behind me—but recent events, namely my therapist’s admonishment to address my escalating night terrors, had finally convinced me to return to the city of my birth. That’s one reason why I began writing this journal, to track my nightmares, but the notes only forced me to realize I had to go back one last time.

  After all these years, I packed a bag and headed east. It was a several-hour drive to the coast, well over three hundred miles. The roads wound through small villages, along narrow avenues of trees, past lush green hills pushing skyward, but which grew bleaker and flatter as I approached the sea. Some of the trip was through visually rich country, but I had no eye for scenic splendors. Even after all these years, the place reflected only darkness for me. The shade of Ellen’s death had rendered the terrain stark and menacing.

  It was late evening when I arrived at the seaside just on the outskirts of Innsmouth. I rented a room for the night at a local hotel in town, the Gilman House, girding myself for the morning trip to Devil Reef, a small island not too far off at sea.

  The place where it happened.

  Where Ellen died.

  In the spectral silence of the hotel, I slept fitfully, her screams echoing in my mind.

  Distantly, thunder rolled.

  “I hope the weather holds,” she said. “There’s a ruin on the island we can explore, then I want to take a long boat ride along the coastline. They say the water near the island has magical powers.”

  David shrugged. “Fine with me. They have sudden storms here sometimes, but let’s have positive thoughts.”

  As I motored the boat across the narrow channel to the Reef, I recalled that fateful day, all those years before.

  She had planned our day at Devil Reef to the last detail. The only residence on the island—rumored by superstitious locals to be haunted by a very rich industrialist whose wife had drowned herself after the death of their son—was a ruined house. They claimed he later hanged himself. The place fell into disrepair, and was now apparently a dilapidated, robber baron-style mock Tudor château dating back to the late 19th century, at the southern end of the Reef; Ellen had insisted we explore every inch of it. To me, it sounded like little more than a huge, spooky old house with an overgrown yard, but Ellen said it was like taking a time machine back to a world of Damsels and Gentlemen.

  Now, standing on the boat, I regarded the menacing portico of the crumbling manor through the waning light of a cool autumn day with dread. My eyes teared as I remembered her girlish excitement that day, her beaming face.

  My therapist had been wrong: There was no closure to be found here—only sharp pangs of remembrance and regret.

  Ellen had packed a lunch to take with them when they set out for Devil Reef. The weather had held, but the sky was a cold slate gray, promising rain. A wind was rising, and had grown in strength by the time they were on the water.

  But it all went horribly wrong.

  Standing on the rock-strewn shore of the Reef, I was reliving each dreadful moment of that terrible afternoon anew. The long years melted away; I felt weak, my mouth dry…I could almost hear my darling Ellen on the wind.

  “Wind’s pretty severe,” said David. “Better let me take over.”

  They were nearly across the narrows, choppy gusts rocking the motorboat; Ellen fought the rising waves as she steered the craft.

  “No, no,” Ellen replied over the noise of the engine. “We’re almost there. I can make it.”

  The gloomy waters of the island were roiling around them, and a steady rain had begun.

  “Cassie’s not likely to show up in weather like this,” he joked, trying to lighten what was rapidly becoming a dire situation.

  “The storm’s getting worse,” Ellen admitted, “but we’ll be on the island soon.

  If things get too bad we can shelter in the mansion.”

  “Good idea,” he said, pulling the collar of his coat tighter. “Maybe we should have waited another day to come here.”

  “This storm isn’t going to last,” she said, tugging at the wheel. “Bet the sun’s out by the time we finish lunch.”

  David smiled. “A born optimist. Let’s hope you’re right.”

  “Consider it an adventure,” she declared, smiling back at him. “We’re like Washington crossing the Delaware.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, “but without the snow.”

  That’s when it happened. So clear…so horribly vivid…

  They were closer to shore now, the demonic wind shrieking, the rain slicing the water like swords.

  Ellen abruptly killed the motor. “Look!” she shouted, pointing ahead.

  A massive tree limb had snapped off in the storm; the current was driving it toward them. Like a rolling spear, it slammed into their boat, penetrating the hull, allowing the black waters to rush in.

  David yelled above the raging whitecaps and squall: “The boat’s going! We’ll have to swim for it!”

  As the crippled boat sank behind them, they swam desperately for the shore of Devil Reef. The wind struck hard, like a giant fist, pushing them back, deeper into the churn.

  “Exhausted…can’t…can’t go on,” gasped Ellen, barely able to keep her head above the raging ocean.

  She was flailing wildly when David reached her. “Just hold my belt! We’ll make it.”

  Ellen was reaching for him when another broken tree branch smashed into them. He heard her scream his name; then, still screaming, she was swept away in a lethal swirl of seawater.

  David blacked out.

  When he regained consciousness, he was lying on his back on the black sand beach of Devil Reef, not far from ruins of the old house. He was badly bruised, with a bleeding cut below his left knee, but he’d survived. The storm had abated, and the gray sky was clear of rain.

  Ellen was gone.

  Gone. Lost to me. My beloved Ellen.

  I was trembling, sweating; my hands were shaking as I relived her last agonized cry. But no…suddenly, her voice was here, with me, on the island. She was calling my name!

  I swung toward the sound of her voice. “Ellen…You’re alive! You can’t be!”

  “But I am,” she said. “Just believe it, David.”

  She was radiant, standing on the decayed porch of the weathered house, her milk-white body shimmering like spider silk. She seemed possessed of an inner fire.

  “Come to me, David.” She beckoned, urging me forward. “Hold me! We belong together.”

  Numbly, staring at her, I had crossed the distance from the shore to the porch and mounted the steps to take her lithe figure into my embrace. Her skin was smooth, like chilled marble.

  “Come, my darling.” Closing her hand over mine, she led me back to the beach. The waters of Devil Reef swirled around my ankles.

  “Where…where are you taking us?”

  “To our new home,” she whispered. “We’ll be together. Always.�
�

  I drew back. This creature was not, could not, be my Ellen. She was a ghost; a phantom conjured up by my need for her, my hunger. I pulled away, fearful of this glowing apparition—and as I did her arm jerked free of her body. Green, quivering tendrils of kelp wavered inside the bloodless socket.

  “Great God! Your arm!”

  She smiled at me as one might smile at a child. “It will grow back. The waters will restore it.”

  “You can’t be real,” I said. “None of this is real!“

  “Come with me, David and you’ll understand. I’m one with Cassie now— together at the bottom of the sea. She’ll be our guardian, make us immortal, as she is. Our life will be perfect!”

  “No…no!“ I twisted abruptly away from her and stumbled back to the waiting powerboat.

  She watched me from the shore, unmoving, unblinking, a luminous form framed by the ramshackle architecture of a bygone era. “Goodbye, David. We’ll always remember you.”

  I scrambled into the anchored boat as rain began to pummel the acrylic deck of the vessel. The cloud cover had dropped very low, creating a patchy froth of cold fog. The sun was on the horizon, detached, wan. Far away, I thought I heard a low rumble, as of some huge creature rousing from a deep slumber. As I watched, Ellen—her arm now almost completely refashioned— pointed just above me, tears streaming down her face. I turned to look. Through the fog, I could just make out the dim silhouette of—something. Something huge. Rising from the water, it moved with serpentine grace, but was largely obscured in the fog and darkness.

  I don’t remember anything after that except waking up in a chilly sunrise, still inside the modest cabin of the boat. On the Reef, the house had vanished, with only a few pieces of chunky gray foundation breaking through the loamy earth.

  As the sun dawned, I saw no trace of Ellen, and the golden light was a relief as it warmed my body from a cloudless sky. I started the boat, my hands steady. I’d had no nightmares. I felt at peace. As I made my way back toward Innsmouth and away from Devil Reef, I knew two things: One, that I would never be back again…

  And two, Christ help me, that I’d love Ellen forever.

  William F. Nolan writes mostly in the science fiction, fantasy, and horror genres. Though best known for co-authoring the acclaimed dystopian science fiction novel Logan’s Run with George Clayton Johnson, Nolan is the author of more than 2000 pieces (fiction, nonfiction, articles, and books), and has edited twenty-six anthologies in his fifty-plus year career.

  A GIRL’S LIFE

  Lisa Morton

  Fishing with Father.

  The sea was vast, impenetrable, its surface rolling dark gray hills. White mist connected directly to water, no land to be seen in any direction. Their boat felt impossibly small. The motor’s fumes combined with the rocking motion to make her nauseous.

  But none of that mattered now, because something was tugging at Ammie’s line. She began reeling, and it was so hard—how big was this fish? She cranked the line, her small girl muscles straining, her right hand going round and round, the distinctive buzzing sound of the reel louder than either the boat’s engine or the sea. She wondered where Father was; what if she couldn’t keep reeling? What if her arms gave out before the fish did?

  She saw something coming up, something pale flashing just beneath the translucent top of the ocean, and she felt a wave of relief…but as she kept reeling, she saw the catch was pink and not fish-shaped. When Ammie realized what was on the end of her line, relief turned to terror.

  It was a severed human hand.

  She gave the line a tug and the thing flipped up onto the deck of the boat. Where was Father? What was she supposed to do? She looked down at the hand and saw the deck of the boat was awash in blood. She felt sick, and she—

  Ammie woke up.

  For a moment she really thought she might be sick; but after a few seconds she was able to shake off the dream’s queasiness.

  She’d had the dream off and on for years, with slight variations. Sometimes she never actually saw the thing on the end of the line, but she knew. Sometimes it was a head, or a foot. But there were constants, too: The gray water. The first sight of pale skin flashing through the water. The grind on her muscles. Her missing father.

  Ammie debated trying to go back to sleep, but her tablet showed that it was almost six, and the sun was already painting the sky. She pushed aside her window blinds and glanced out; unlike her dream, today would be clear and hot, the water of Innsmouth Harbor clear and quiet. A mile beyond the shore, she could just make out the tiny black line that marked the top of Devil Reef.

  The semester had ended last week, Ammie had graduated elementary school, and now she had six weeks to herself. Her best friend Martin was off on a trip with his family, or she would have hung out with him, watching movies and going down to the convenience store for ice cream. She decided she wanted to go to the library today. It was on the other side of town, along Federal Street, and meant a two-mile walk, but Ammie didn’t mind. She liked walking through Innsmouth; she liked looking at the old Victorian houses and the old people who lived in them. Sometimes she saw them, the aged ones, with their skin like crumpled paper and their glasses and canes, and they saw her. They never smiled or waved; some of them gazed at her sadly.

  Ammie had once asked her mother about Innsmouth’s senior citizens. “Why are there so few couples? I always see just one old man or woman around the houses, but never both.”

  “Old people die, honey,” her mom had told her. “It’s rare to find an elderly couple anywhere.”

  But Ammie spent a lot of time on the computer, talking to friends she hadn’t met in faraway places she’d never been to, and she saw lots of old couples. Sometimes they posed with grandchildren; they looked happy.

  She also saw lots of people her age who knew what their parents did for a living. Martin’s father drove a truck, and his mother taught kindergarten. Ammie knew only that her mother didn’t work. She had no idea what her father did. He was gone for days or weeks; he said he was fishing. He brought home fresh salmon and crab as if to prove that. He talked about adventures wrangling big ones, or spotting a shark, or a whale that bumped the boat.

  But they had a big two-story house in a small town. Ammie knew their house was huge compared to a lot of houses around the country; most of the houses in Innsmouth were big. She’d never seen a house for sale in Innsmouth, but she knew they must be valuable, worth more than a single fisherman with a thirty-foot cabin cruiser could make.

  Her father had never actually told her that he made his living as a fisherman; it was simply all he ever talked about, on the rare occasions when he was home. She’d asked her mother what he did for a living, and Mother had told her that Father’s family had money and he didn’t have to work.

  Ammie wondered why he was gone so long, if he didn’t have to work.

  “Maybe he’s a spy,” Martin had told her once, when they were playing videogames at his house. “That’s why he can’t talk about it.”

  Ammie tried to imagine her father as James Bond or Jason Bourne, a fast-thinking man of action.

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t, in fact, imagine him as anything.

  She’d been fishing with him, at least. He’d taken her out several times a year for as long as she could remember. He’d almost been like a normal father, then, showing her how to bait her hook, helping her lower her line, teaching her how to watch for the giveaway snap that meant a fish was on. And then, when she’d reeled her fish in, she’d tried not to watch as he’d hauled it up with the cruel gaff, then clubbed it senseless and thrown it into the catch box while fish blood and sea water swirled around her tiny sneakers. Later, he’d clean the fish, swiftly scraping aside scales and tossing aside glistening pink innards.

  It wasn’t until she’d posted photos of herself with Father and dead fish to her circle of unmet friends that she’d realized most children hadn’t grown up surrounded by blood. “Gross,” one had posted. “Why aren’
t you hurling?” asked another.

  She didn’t know. It had never occurred to her that other kids thought all fish naturally looked like Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks. They hadn’t been raised to accept that death and blood were part of their lives.

  Sometimes they asked about Innsmouth. “Is that place as weird as they say?” Ammie had heard some of the rumors, old stories about things that had happened in the town long ago, but she thought things she saw in New York or Los Angeles were much weirder.

  Ammie checked her tablet for e-mail, and then left her bedroom at just after 6:30. Father had been gone for three days, and Mother would probably be up in another hour. She went into her own bathroom, having decided to shower quickly and leave the house on her library expedition before Mother could come up with chores for her instead.

  She pulled her pajama bottoms down—and stared at the red spots that dotted the crotch.

  Red spots?

  Mother had taken her aside a few months ago and given her “The Talk”, about the differences between boys and girls, and how babies were made, and how she would soon bleed for five days a month. “Menstruation,” it was called. Or “having a period.”

  Was that happening to her now? She searched her body for other signs, and remembered the dream. She’d never been nauseous from it before; she was still unsettled now. And the blood around her feet…

  She felt something warm and looked down. A trickle of red appeared on the inside of one thigh.

  “Mom!”

  Ammie ran out of the bathroom, no longer caring whether Mother kept her home with housework or not. She opened the door of the master bedroom and saw the form of her sleeping mother beneath the covers.

  “Mom!”

  Her mother stirred and looked at her, bleary-eyed but concerned. “What’s the matter, Ammie, what’s -?”

  Ammie thrust her stained pajamas out. “Is that…am I…?”

  Mother squinted at the pink flannel, and she turned ashen. She stared until Ammie asked, “Am I okay, Mom?”

  “Oh, yes, honey, it’s just your first period. Let’s get you cleaned up.”