Keyport Cthulhu

by Armand Rosamilia

  Bobby ran from the house and made his way across the lawn to the bay, but Harrison was already just a tiny speck, lights from a multitude of anchored boats behind him.

  He needed to get out of Keyport. The BMW was locked and he didn’t have the keys, anyway. He started to run. As he reached Broad Street for a straight shot out of town, he saw the procession heading his way.

  It seemed like the entire town held torches and chanted, marching toward him.

  Bobby cut over a side street and ran right past the charred remains of the church, the smell of burnt wood heavy in the air. His lungs were burning from the running and he stopped to catch his breath.

  They came from all directions, moving silently but carrying two by fours, metal pipes and garden tools. Bobby reached for his Ruger LCP 380 ACP but it was still gone.

  He fought with his fists until he was driven to the ground and overwhelmed.

  * * * * *

  Harrison sat on the chair on the porch as the motorcycles roared onto his driveway and parked next to his BMW.

  The misty morning was finally dissipating and the feeble sun was trying to break through.

  Six burly men got off their bikes and marched forward.

  Harrison pulled the Ruger LCP 380 ACP and aimed it at the lead biker. "I would stop right there."

  The man laughed. "We're looking for a brother of ours."

  "He left."

  The man turned to another of his colleagues. "Is it true?"

  The man closed his eyes and nodded. "He was here. The object is still here, but Bones is… no longer nearby."

  Harrison pulled the golden staff from the chair cushion and tossed it. The head biker caught it with a smile.

  "I assume that's what you were looking for? It's useless, you know."

  "Where did he go?"

  Harrison laughed. "Most likely to the bar on Broad Street. He hangs out there. Ask the bartender; that's who he's been friendly with. You can't miss the place; it's right near the water."

  "This place reeks of death. We need to leave," one of the bikers said quietly.

  "Thank you for our valuable, and the information." The head biker turned to leave but stopped. "You really should get out more often, dude. You're as white as a ghost."

  As they mounted their Harley's and drove off, Harrison put the pistol down on his lap and stared at his arms. He was indeed white, his skin like chalk.

  Earlier his hair had fallen out in clumps, white and dead. He pulled his body off the chair and went back inside. He'd need to get into the upper room his grandfather had lived in his last few days and hope the townspeople would lock him inside.

  Just like they'd done to his grandfather.

  CABAL

  Elizabeth Marsh parked in the lot across from the Keyport Fishery and smiled. Seagulls drifted on the slight wind, floating above the fishing boats, looking for scraps. She fought the urge to pull her camera and take a picture of the idyllic scene before her, like something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting. She didn't know any other painters, so he was the go-to name to drop when she was in affluent company.

  As a new reporter, trying to rise in the ranks of the Asbury Park Press, she knew the value of knowing as much about everything as possible. She just needed the real life experience, as her editor kept drilling into her.

  "You're only twenty-three. At that age I'd already done two tours of 'Nam and seen men die. You need to get out there and find your niche. See what moves you as a reporter, and what people respond to," he'd said over and over. It seemed to be his editor mantra.

  "This article will be life-changing," she said with a laugh as she picked up her camera, tape recorder and small notebook. She'd been handed yet another fluff piece: the Broad Street Pub in Keyport was going to be celebrating their 150th anniversary next month. She was assigned to get some interior and exterior shots of the building, interview some locals and the owner, and hand in two thousand words by next Monday.

  The smell of the salty air hit her when she got out of the car and she breathed it in. This was America to her: a little fishing village, cradled on the coast of New Jersey, men working with their hands while their wives stayed home and baked bread and chased the kids around.

  She walked up West Front Street, admiring the quaint mom and pop shops, so rare these days. While she didn't live in a huge city, Eatontown was big compared to Keyport. A young couple walked past her and she smiled. They put their heads down and cut across the street and away from her.

  "Whatever," she mumbled under her breath. She wasn't going to let rude people spoil her time here, and her mind was already trying to picture future stories about Keyport. Maybe she'd get her blog back up and running and ruminate about small town life, with pictures and short essays about it. She liked that. As much as she wanted to be a star at the Asbury Park Press, she thought it would limit her career long-term. She needed to become a multimedia darling, someone who used the technology for her own career moves.

  She noticed another two people seeming to move away from her as she turned the corner onto Broad Street. The sidewalk sloped down toward the bay, another block of small stores and the breeze driving a fishy smell at her. It was strong, almost overpowering, and she covered her nose as she quickened her pace.

  Luckily the Broad Street Pub was only about halfway down the street; she was nearly jogging when she grasped the door with her free hand and stepped into the establishment.

  The door closed behind her, bumping her into the dark bar about a foot. The fish smell was gone, replaced by the strong odor of spilled beer, man-sweat and stale cigar smoke. It's like I walked onto a pirate movie set, she thought as she recovered her composure.

  Three men sat at the bar, cupping mugs of beer and staring intently at her. The small beaten tables and chairs in the rest of the bar were empty this time of day, and the only lights were above the bar, shining a sickly yellow light across the multitude of liquor bottles standing there, row after row.

  Elizabeth took a seat next to one of the men, the youngest (comparatively speaking: he looked to be about twice her age, while the other two looked to be three times) of the bunch, and smiled.

  All three gave a silent look before standing in unison and piling into the table farthest away from the bar, almost disappearing in shadow.

  "Can I help you?"

  Elizabeth turned to see a bald man, with muscular arms and a long graying goatee, standing behind the bar with a dirty rag in hand. He wasn't smiling.

  "Are you the owner?"

  He shook his head. "Can I get you a drink? Are you lost?"

  At the last comment, one of the men in the corner snickered.

  Elizabeth wasn't easily rattled, and she put on her best smile. "My name is Elizabeth Marsh, and I'm a reporter for the Asbury Park Press. I'm writing a piece on the upcoming 150th year anniversary of this bar. I was wondering if I could get in touch with the owner, and perhaps speak with you and the staff of the Broad Street Pub?"

  When she'd begun talking, his eyes lit up but she kept pressing on, not knowing if he was suddenly interested in what she had to say, or about to toss her out. Since getting out of her car, she'd had nothing but odd experiences in this town.

  The young one she'd originally sat next to walked up and slammed his empty mug on the bar next to Elizabeth. "I need another fill, Murph," he said but was staring at her. "What did you say your name was again?"

  "Elizabeth." Had he heard of her, maybe read her article about the feral cat problem in Sea Bright in last week's paper?

  He shook his head, clearly annoyed. "Your last name."

  "Marsh. Why?"

  Instead of answering her, he repeated the name to the two men at the table.

  The bartender put a cold beer in front of the man but he didn't touch it. Elizabeth thought he suddenly smelled like dead fish but she didn't cover her nose, even though she wanted to. No sense in being rude when she was close to getting some basic information so she could leave.

  "Can I g
et the owner's number or contact information?" she asked the barkeep. She didn't like this place; it gave her the creeps, but she figured she could fake the article by doing some basic online research and going over to the public library.

  "They aren't here right now," the bartender said.

  "Are you related to Jeb Marsh?" the other man asked her, now leaning in and staring at her face.

  "I have no idea. Why, is he the owner?"

  The man smiled, rotten teeth shaking in his mouth. "There is a definite family resemblance. Don't you think so, Murph?"

  "Yes. I do see it."

  Elizabeth had had enough. "Would you mind if I take some photos of the interior for the article?"

  The bartender shook his head. "Afraid not. Not without the owner's permission."

  "Can I talk to them?"

  He smiled, and she knew he was toying with her. "Afraid not."

  She left rattled, and was glad to smell the disgusting air rather than spend another minute with that motley crew. Elizabeth took three quick photos of the outside of the bar before jogging back to her car.

  * * * * *

  Elizabeth waited patiently as the old woman put on her reading glasses, pushing several large reference books off to the side of her cluttered desk.

  "What was it you are looking for, dear?" she asked with a smile.

  Elizabeth glanced around the small library, which was really just a single room stacked floor to ceiling with books. "I need to do some research and don't see the computer."

  "Here is the computer," the old woman said and tapped her head. "It's all stored right here."

  Great. This will take forever. "I'm looking for some information about the Broad Street Pub. I was hoping to go through anything you had on microfiche from your archived newspapers."

  "We don't archive things like that here, dear."

  "So you have no newspapers?"

  "I didn't say that." The old woman smiled. "I read and commit them to memory. It goes back to 1962, when I started. Before that my mother was head librarian."

  Elizabeth wanted to scream. She thought she could slip into the local branch, copy a few pages from the local paper, and be done. She was better off going back to her office and searching the Asbury Park Press database instead.

  "What information do you need about the Broad Street Pub?"

  Might as well humor the woman. "With the anniversary coming up, we'll be running an article very soon."

  The old woman nodded. "Before it was called the Broad Street Pub, did you know it was called The Murphy Bar? The family still owns it. All told, that spot has been a bar for nearly 250 years, and has been owned by the Murphy family since before the first brick was laid."

  "I met the bartender before, but he wouldn't give me any contact information about the owners."

  She laughed, a dry raspy sound like crinkling paper. "That's because you met the owner. That would be Dylan Murphy. The first-born son gets the bar and the name." She tapped her forehead with a bony finger. "If my memory serves me correctly, there have been nine owners since the beginning. I do have a great memory."

  Elizabeth was annoyed at the shoddy treatment she'd received from him. Even if he didn’t care to take part in the article or was embarrassed by the attention, there was no reason to make her look silly. And his cronies didn't help, either. Elizabeth remembered what the other man had asked her. "What information do you have on Jeb Marsh?"

  The librarian's eyes clouded over for a second but her smile never faltered. "He owns the only home at the end of Locust Street. Well, he did, anyway. Now his grandson, Harrison, owns the property. Why do you ask?"

  "One of the patrons in the bar mentioned his name, since my name is Elizabeth Marsh."

  She smiled. "I thought you looked familiar."

  "I've never been here."

  The old woman stood and walked slowly around her desk. She gripped Elizabeth with her skeletal arms and gave her a hug. "It's so good to see you've returned."

  "I've never been here," she repeated more insistently.

  The old woman released her. "How is your mother, Eileen? Your father, Jack?"

  "How do you know my parents?"

  "They were both born here, and so were you."

  Elizabeth shook her head. "I was born in Long Branch."

  "You were born in the house on Locust Street. As was your father and his brother, Jeb. He was your uncle."

  "What happened to Jeb Marsh?"

  "He returned to the water. We all return to the bay when our time is up and we receive the Call. Now that you're back in Keyport, you'll see."

  * * * * *

  Elizabeth was making the turn past Sandy Hook on Route 36 when she decided to call her mother. It rang three times before her answering machine kicked on. And her mother, bless her soul, still used an ancient device for her messages instead of simply using the one that came with phone access. Of course, she still had the bright red rotary phone hanging on the kitchen wall of her tiny apartment in Long Branch.

  "Mom, it's me. I have to ask you a question. Call me back when you get this, or I might just stop in. I'm heading into Sea Bright and I can be there in fifteen minutes."

  She put the cell phone on the passenger seat and rolled down her window, tasting the fresh ocean air. This wasn't the cloying, deathly scent from Keyport. This was clean, invigorating, and made her happy. She never wanted to live anywhere in the world where an ocean wasn't a quick drive away.

  Her phone rang just as she passed into Long Branch, making a left on Chelsea Avenue and parking in a sprawling lot overlooked by condos. "Hey, mom."

  "Are you close?"

  "I'm in Long Branch already."

  "Would it be too much trouble to stop and get me something from the store?"

  "Of course not. Bread? Milk? Coffee? Eggs?"

  Her mother laughed. "I don't want to put you out. I'll give you the money when you get here. Make sure they give you a receipt this time."

  "How about lunch?"

  "I couldn't impose."

  "Not at all. It gives me an excuse to go to The Windmill and get a hot dog or three."

  "And fries?" her mother asked with a chuckle.

  "Of course. See you in ten minutes."

  * * * * *

  Over a quiet lunch, mom and daughter talked about the weather, television shows and other small-talk. Elizabeth finally steered the conversation back around. "Oh, guess what I'm doing a story on? A bar that is 150 years old."

  Her mom smiled. "That's interesting. I'm sure you'll knock your editor out of the water with it, as usual."

  "It's called the Broad Street Pub."

  Her mom just smiled.

  "It's an old bar in Keyport."

  Her mom's smile wavered for a second before she stood. "That's nice, dear." She began cleaning up the remnants of lunch.

  Elizabeth put a hand lightly on her mom's. "We need to talk."

  "About what?" her mom asked but refused to look at Elizabeth.

  "About Keyport."

  "What about?"

  Elizabeth could see her mom was trying desperately to keep her composure but it was quite obvious she was troubled. "Where was I born? Where were you and dad born?"

  Her mom seemed relieved. "Give me a second and I'll find the birth certificates."

  "That's not what I asked." Elizabeth stared at her mom. "I want the truth."

  "We got out," her mom whispered, looking around like they were being watched. "We got away from that evil place. Don't go back." Her mom was getting excited now, her eyes frenzied. "Promise me you won't go back there."

  "You're confusing me."

  "I can't say anything more and neither should you."

  Elizabeth was confused. "Why can't you tell me the truth?"

  "Even I don't understand the truth, dear. It's for your own good, though. You need to stay out of that town before it consumes you like it did Jeb. It will consume anyone from the family, don't you see? Of course, you don't. Your father and I
kept you as far away from Keyport as we could. But Jack was a stubborn man and refused to leave the area."

  "Why couldn't he leave?"

  "It was the pull of the water. He needed to be close, but not close enough to get sucked back in. Your father used to fish when he was a boy, and he was a fishing boat captain in his twenties."

  "I never knew dad fished," Elizabeth said. She was trying to keep her tone casual and keep her mom talking. Her Reporter Mode had kicked in and she was taking mental notes as they moved along in the conversation.

  "Not after you were born, though. He decided…" Her mom closed her eyes. "We decided life there wasn't for us anymore, and we got out. Barely."

  "Barely?"

  "The Marsh family is a prominent one in Keyport, but over the generations other longstanding families have married into us. Grandon, Reynolds, Murphy, and Pike are just some. But don't let the last name alone fool you."

  "I won't." Elizabeth had no idea what her mom meant.

  "Promise me you won't go back to Keyport. Promise me," her mom said with teary eyes. "I knew we should have moved to the Midwest. I told your father. Somewhere without the ocean. But he wouldn't listen to me. He couldn't help it, you see? He was a Marsh through and through."

  Elizabeth didn't push as her mom suddenly stood and began cleaning up the remains of lunch, hustling into the kitchen. All her mom had managed to do was make her more curious about Keyport and her newfound family history in the little sea village.

  * * * * *

  Locust Street was a dirt road, with gnarled trees pressing in and brushing against the car as Elizabeth crawled down the path. She could picture it being all but impassable if there was a heavy rain or snow.

  The trees gave way to a huge, unkempt lawn that fell away to her left and met a slight drop into the bay. You couldn't call what was growing grass. It was more like a blanket of browning weeds, stuck in the sand.

  When Elizabeth got out and stared at the ancient house before her, she let out a gasp. Even though it was early morning, she got the eerie feeling the house was alive and pictured what it would look like on a dark, rainy night with lightning bolts shattering just over the roof of the two-story behemoth, thunder breaking over the water.