by CW Hawes
The hotel was separated from the other buildings on either side by a walk and strip of lawn that led around to the back of the building. The lawn showed little grass and was largely a tangle of weeds. The concrete walks showed the damage of too many harsh winters with many sections heaved up and left at an angle. The front lawn, small though it was and full of weeds, had at least been cut somewhat recently.
“Come on,” Mostyn said. He mounted the short flight of steps to the covered porch, opened the door, and entered. His team right behind him.
The lobby smelled musty and was dimly lit. The team followed their leader to the registration desk.
The clerk was an older man. He had something of the Agate Bay look about him and emitted a slight fishy odor. Aside from the two people at the grocery store, he was the most normal looking native Agate Bayer any of them had seen.
Mostyn got right to the point. “I need to make a call and there’s no cell phone reception. May I use your phone?”
“Guests only,” the clerk replied.
“Would you make an exception?” Mostyn pulled out his wallet, extracted a fifty dollar bill and laid it on the counter.
The clerk didn’t even look at it. “Guests only.”
“Fine. How much for two double rooms?”
“Mostyn, we aren’t going to stay here. Are we?” Patel asked, a tremor in her voice.
He turned to her. “Do you want to be on the streets after dark? I have no idea how soon help will arrive.” He turned back to the clerk. “How much?”
The clerk looked down at the bill on the desk, took it, turned to the pigeon holes behind him, and turned back, placing two sets of keys on the counter.
“Now the phone.”
The clerk pointed across the lobby. Mostyn followed his hand and saw an alcove with a small desk and a chair in it. He walked over to it, sat, and picked up the receiver. In a moment he was back.
“It’s not working.”
“Storm knocked out line. Phone company hasn’t repaired.”
Mostyn eyed the man for a moment and the fellow took a step back from the counter.
“Good idea, pal.”
He stared at the man, moved right up to the counter, and leaned over. The man stepped back until the pigeon holes prevented any further retreat. Mostyn swept up the keys and marched to the elevator. The team piled in and they ascended to the third floor, where the door opened onto a dark hallway. The musty smell of decay assaulted them, Kemper complained about the headache she was going to get if she had to stay in the place overnight.
“I think we’re stuck here, Kemper,” Mostyn said, “unless you plan on walking back to Two Harbors in the dark.”
Kemper gave him one of those looks intended to kill, but Mostyn was already walking down the hall to their rooms and didn’t see it.
The others followed him and a disgusted Kemper brought up the rear. Down the corridor they went and at the end they found their rooms, next to each other, and by the bathroom, which was at the very end of the hallway.
Kemper walked over to the bathroom and flipped the light switch on. “What the hell is this?”
“It’s a bathroom, Dotty,” Baker said.
“I know that,” she shot back. “I can read.” She pointed to the sign on the door. “Does this mean we don’t have running water in our rooms?”
“Probably,” Mostyn answered.
“Oh, for the love of God.” Kemper rolled her eyes and shook her head. “This is it. I’m telling Bardon to find someone else. I’m sick of this.”
A smile touched the corner of Mostyn’s mouth. “Maybe the Defense Department will take you. You do enough complaining for all the soldiers and sailors combined.”
Patel failed to suppress a snigger.
Kemper flipped Mostyn and Patel the bird. “Come on, Mostyn, unlock the doors already.”
He looked at the keys and tossed one set to Kemper. “That room’s yours. Closest to the bathroom.”
“Is that some kind of sexist comment, Mostyn?”
“Only if you think so, Dotty,” he replied, unlocking his door and pushing it open. He turned on the light and walked in. Baker followed.
The room was plain. Dark wood, dark curtains, wallpaper in beige and dark green, peeling in spots. There was a dresser, a wardrobe, and a table with a ewer sitting inside a large bowl. There was a single, double bed.
Baker chuckled. “I guess a double room means we get cozy.”
“I guess,” Mostyn replied, his eyes taking in every aspect of the room.
He walked over to a door next to the wardrobe and opened it, pulling it towards him into the room. “Connecting door,” he said out loud, more to himself than Baker. He tried the other door and it opened into Kemper’s and Patel’s room. Dotty Kemper was standing looking at the bed, balled fists resting on her hips.
Mostyn chuckled. “I hope you two keep it down in here so Baker and I can get some sleep.”
Kemper pointed to the door, her face rivaling a harpy’s with malevolence.
Patel was trying to suppress a smile and not doing so well.
“Get the hell out, Mostyn,” Kemper spat.
7
Mostyn laughed. “Follow me, you two. Team meeting.”
He went back through the connecting doors, the women following him into the room.
Baker had pulled open the curtains to let some natural light in.
“Alright, people,” Mostyn began, “we need a course of action. None of us are dressed for extended hiking in this weather. And it will be dark in another hour or so. I suggest we find a phone.”
“There’s the grocery store and the people who work there,” Patel volunteered.
“I think the store is the best bet,” Mostyn said. “Given the attitude of the Agate Bayers, they might not like Phil and Linda helping us and take some action against them. Besides, trying to find their house is going to take too much time.”
“So you’re going to break into the store?” Kemper asked.
“Yes. Any other ideas?” Mostyn queried.
No one had any.
“Okay. Let’s go. Patel, you know how to set the door to tell if anyone’s entered in our absence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Mostyn replied. “Go prepare your door. We’ll meet in the hall.”
Mostyn tore off a small strip of wallpaper and positioned it near the bottom of the door. Hopefully an intruder wouldn’t see it. There wasn’t much else he could do. As an added precaution, he measured the protruding end so it was the width of his left little fingernail. That way if an intruder did see it, the odds of him or her replacing it exactly would be highly unlikely.
Mostyn led the group down the hall, but rather than take the elevator he took the stairs. Down they went to the ground floor and out into the lobby. The clerk was sitting behind the check-in desk and watched them leave.
Once on the street, they walked north to 5th, turned right, proceeded to Main, turned right again, and made their way to the grocery store. The air was still and the sky clear. The early winter chill penetrated their coats and numbed gloveless fingers. Daylight was fading fast.
Mostyn looked over the front door. “What do you think, Patel? Alarm?”
She looked closely. “I don’t think so.”
He nodded. Even though the store building was new, it had been sandwiched between two other buildings, which were in an advanced state of decay. Walking to the building to the south, Mostyn tried the door and it opened on protesting hinges.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going to cut through here to the alley.”
They entered the dark building. Mostyn and Patel produced flashlights, which dispelled enough of the darkness so the group didn’t stumble over the debris littering the floor. Rats, when caught in the light, ran squealing for the darkness.
The place had once been a women’s clothier. Most of the outfits had long since rotted away into moldering piles of shapeless vermin nests. The few that remained
revealed a fashion that went out of style sometime prior to the First World War.
Mostyn and his group pushed through the main display, passed the deteriorating dressing rooms and lounge area, with its rotting sofas and chairs, and into the back storage area, which was a jumble of shelving that had rotted and dumped its wares onto the floor and hanging racks that no longer held the rotting fabric that lay in piles on the floor.
At the back wall, Mostyn and Patel played their flashlight beams along the bricks, from which the paint was chipping and peeling off. Patel found the door behind a pile of boxes. Mostyn and Baker cleared the way, unbarred the door, and entered the alley with the women right behind them.
A single lightbulb, in a metal bowl-shaped base with a metal cage around the bulb, cast a dull yellowish puddle of light around the door to the grocery store next door.
“How odd that they’d have a light on here and not one in the store or over the front door,” Patel noted.
“One of you going to pick the lock, or are we going to freeze our butts off out here?” Kemper complained.
The door was steel with a deadbolt. It opened out into the alley.
Mostyn looked at Kemper and then tried the door. It didn’t budge. “I don’t have a lock pick set on me. You, Patel?”
“No, sir.”
“Without something to force the lock or take the hinges apart, we aren’t getting in this way,” Mostyn said.
Kemper reached underneath her coat and behind her. When her hand came back to the front, a pistol was in it.
Mostyn shook his head. “You aren’t shooting the lock. A ricochet could hit you or one of us. Not to mention the sound it will make. We’ll go back around to the front and break the window.”
“You’re a spoilsport, Mostyn. You know that?” Kemper said.
“Fine. You stay here and shoot your own ass off — after we leave. And deal with the local citizenry when they come running,” he replied.
Muttering something incomprehensible, Kemper put her pistol away and followed Mostyn and the others back into the abandoned clothier. But when they reached the front of the old shop, a surprise was waiting for them. Across the street they saw, in the waning daylight, three Agate Bayers, one in each of the three doorways, across from the store.
“That can’t be good, sir.”
“No, Patel, it isn’t,” Mostyn replied.
The cough made every one of them jump. Mostyn and Patel, guns drawn, played their flashlights in the direction of the sound. There, buried in a pile of moldering and disintegrating clothing, was a person, arm thrown over his eyes to protect them from the bright flashlight beams.
“Who are you?” Patel demanded.
The arm came partway down. “Caleb Peterson. You ain’t gonna shoot me, are ya? I only came in here ta get some sleep. Didn’t mean ta trespass or nothin’. Didn’t know anyone still owned this dump. Thought they all was dead. Or gone over ta the Deep Ones.”
Mostyn jumped on his comment. “Did you say ‘Deep Ones’?”
“I did.”
Mostyn and Patel lowered their flashlights and without the light in his eyes, Caleb Peterson lowered his arm and looked them over.
“You folks is strangers, ain’t ya?”
“Yes,” Mostyn said. “Do you know of the Deep Ones?”
“Can’t live in Agate Bay and not know o’ the Deep Ones. No sirree Bob.”
Mostyn hunkered down next to the man. “What can you tell me of them?”
“I can tell you all about ‘em, but I sure could use a drink ta wet my whistle. My throat’s mighty dry, it is.”
“We don’t have a bottle and the store is being watched,” Mostyn said.
“They’s always a watchin’ strangers. Don’t like ‘em. Hope you folks ain’t stayin’ in the hotel. Not good for a stranger’s health, that place.”
“What do you mean?” Patel asked.
“Sure am thirsty. Could use a drink.”
“We can’t get into the store,” Mostyn explained again, “it’s being watched. The front door.”
“The store? Next door?”
Mostyn nodded.
“Aw, hell, they don’t sell nothin’ potable like. Gotta go ta the liquor store.”
“For God’s sake, Mostyn, what do you want with this old coot?”
“Look, Kemper, didn’t the store people say Caleb could tell us what’s happened here?”
“Him? He couldn’t tell us the time of day with a clock staring him in the face.”
“Could too,” Caleb protested. “I may be old and a drunk, but I know all about them things and what’s been goin’ on here since they came. I never gave in. Never took one o’ them horrors ta wife. Nope, I didn’t. Cost me, but I didn’t.”
“Patel, Kemper, you two are armed. Go out the back and pick up a couple bottles from the liquor store. If you encounter any trouble, defend yourselves. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No problem on that score, Mostyn. I’d love to put a little lead into these weirdos. Even things up for Templeton.”
“Nothing crazy, Dotty.”
“Me? Do something crazy? I’m a doctor of forensic anthropology. I don’t do crazy. We’ll get the booze and be back in a flash.”
The two women left. And Mostyn turned back to old Caleb.
“We’ll get you something so you can quench your thirst. How long have you lived here?”
Caleb looked at him. “You ain’t tourists.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Cuz tourists don’t pack no guns, that’s why. You guvmint?”
“Yes, we’re with the government,” Mostyn affirmed.
“You gonna clean out this nest o’ vipers?”
“Depends on what you can tell me about the disease.”
“Disease?” Caleb broke out into peals of laughter. When he finally settled down, he shook his head and chuckled. “Disease? Is that what you think’s goin’ on here? You guvmint folks is livin’ up ta your reputation.”
“How’s that?”
“Damn dumb. That ain’t no disease those people got. God, sure am thirsty. You gettin’ me a drink? My throat’s parched.”
“We’re getting you something to drink, Caleb. Just takes a little time. That’s all. So it’s not a disease at work here?”
“Not the kind you folks is thinkin’ of. No germs, or bacteria, or viruses, or anything like that. No sirree Bob. Nothin’ like that at work here.” When he’d finished speaking he looked around, put one hand next to his mouth, and motioned for Mostyn to come closer. When he complied, Caleb whispered, “It’s the work o’ the devil. That’s what it is. The work o’ the goddamn devil.”
“So what exactly is going on here?” Mostyn asked, and waved for Baker to join him.
“Who’s this young fella? Say, I never got your name either. I done give you mine. Not polite not ta give me yours.”
“Sorry,” Mostyn said. “This is Willie Lee Baker and I’m Pierce Mostyn.”
Caleb stuck out his hand and the two men shook it in turn. “Pleasure ta meet ya both.”
Introductions over, Mostyn pressed Caleb for an answer to his previous question. “So what work of the devil is going on here?”
At that moment, Kemper and Patel returned. Each one had a bottle.
“Any trouble?” Mostyn asked them.
“The clerk didn’t want to sell to us,” Patel said.
“So I persuaded him by demonstrating he’d get a thirty-eight in his brain if he didn’t,” Kemper added. She turned to Caleb. “Got you whisky and…” She held up a big jug of Muscatel, “…wine. Take your pick.”
Mostyn interrupted, “That, by the way, is Dotty Kemper, and this is Biyanka Patel.”
“Please ta meet ya. The whisky. I’ll take the whisky, thank you. Wine is fine, but liquor’s quicker.” He laughed merrily at his own joke.
Patel gave him the whisky bottle and, to Kemper, mouthed, “Told you.”
Kemper set down the jug of wine a
nd gave Patel the finger.
Caleb grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long pull. Afterwards, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and held out the bottle to the others. When no one accepted, he took another long pull. When done, he screwed the cap back on.
“Mr Peterson, you were going to tell me what devil’s work was going on here,” Mostyn quietly said.
Suddenly Caleb Peterson became wary. “Why do ya want ta know?”
“I need to determine if what’s going on here poses a threat to the security of America.”
The old man burst out laughing. A high insane-sounding cackle. “America?” he wheezed. “Those monsters are a threat ta the universe! Ta God Hisself!”
8
“He’s crazy,” Kemper blurted.
“Crazy, am I? You, young lady, hasn’t seen them. The Deep Ones, have ya?” He paused and when Kemper didn’t reply, he said, “I thought so. But I have. And I’m here ta tell ya they are a spawn worse than the devil. Those hideous, bloated and croaking monstrosities… Well, no sane living being should have ta endure the sight o’ them.” He unscrewed the cap of the whisky bottle and took a long pull.
Mostyn’s voice was soft. “How did they get here?”
Caleb took another pull on the bottle. “Brinnell. Alfred Brinnell. He was some shirttail relative of Obed Marsh of Innsmouth, Massachusetts. Came here in eighteen eighty. A little afore my time, seein’ as I was born in twenty-two. I was the last o’ the normal ones. By the time I was born the mixin’ was in full swing — those monsters wantin’ ta eliminate the entire human race with their noxious seed.”
He took another pull on the bottle and screwed the cap back on.
“Mr Peterson, how did they get here. The Deep Ones.” Mostyn’s voice was soft and gentle.
Peterson looked at him. “You believe. Doncha?”
Mostyn nodded.
“Well, as I said, it was Brinnell. He’d had hisself a fallin’ out with ol’ Obed Marsh and was kicked out o’ Innsmouth. Eventually ended up here on the North Shore, the backside o’ nowhere. Times was hard then. Food wasn’t always so plentiful. Brinnell told ‘em, the folks livin’ here, he knew a way ta make Agate Bay prosperous. Back then it wasn’t even a proper town. Just a cluster of shacks and shanties. Folks was poorer than dirt. They swallowed his story hook, line, and sinker. Yes sirree Bob. Just had ta start worshippin’ that devil, Dagon. That’s all they needed ta do.