Encounters with Enoch Coffin

by W. H. Pugmire

  “I am Adrianna Bishop. I have your Nesting Place oil in my bathroom.”

  “Ha, that should scare the crap out of your visitors.”

  “Your Father’s Shadow hangs in my library.”

  His smile to her was sloppy. “Let me kiss your hand, wench, I went to Prague on that sale. You must be loaded.”

  “Not as ‘loaded’ as you, my dear. Ah, here are the coffees, and here your heaps of sugar.”

  “Thanks. So, are you mother and daughter? Lovers?”

  “Nesa assists me about the house, and I occasionally sit for her. We have just spent an exhausting evening putting my bookshelves in order. Although petite, this young woman has the strength of a tiger.”

  “Pussy, pussy, burning bright,” the drunk man warbled. “Mmm, this coffee is good.” Raising his hand, he shouted. “Hey, waiter! More nectar, yo.”

  “You can stop the performance, Mr. Coffin,” the young girl told him. “You needn’t play the bad boy for us. It’s your work that impresses us, your affinity with the macabre and the inhuman. That painting of your father, for example…”

  “No, we ain’t gonna talk about that. Hell, all this sober talk…”

  The elderly woman was staring at Enoch with wide unblinking eyes. “We can none of us escape our heritage, Mr. Coffin. I think you are most fortunate to have had such a sire. He has molded you in ways you don’t wish to acknowledge.”

  “And I think you have the queerest gawd-dang face I’ve ever seen. Are you wearing makeup, or is your skin naturally so ashen and gray?”

  “I am as you find me, young man.”

  “Adrianna has been here all her life, since the holocaust.”

  “The what?”

  The older woman held the artist with her liquid eyes. “A devastation that happened long ago, a portion of my own personal heritage. A tarnish on Innsmouth, the ashes from which some few of us have risen. Something never to be forgotten.” A curious quality came into her weird eyes, a kind of wistful woe.

  “Something that’s remembered once a year. You’ve come at a convenient time, Mr. Coffin. Tomorrow night is the Surge.”

  Enoch, woefully, was waking up. He frowned. “The Surge.”

  The elderly woman shrugged as she lifted a hand to smooth the silk scarf wound around her throat. “A remembrance of past pain, mostly by persons who do not understand its meaning. It’s become a popular form of play for these innocent young things who visit Innsmouth so as to drink its decadence. These lovely young things, who help to bring life to a dead city.”

  Nesa’s eyes were bright as she replied. “It begins at the railway station, where we choose our – what is it?”

  How sinister, the ancient one’s smile. “Where you choose your Olmstead, Mr. Coffin – one puppet in the play.”

  Now this was a turn-on. Enoch sensed something potent here, something unnatural and significant. “Tomorrow night, at that Gothic Revival station that we passed on the bus, right?”

  “That’s it,” the lovely young girl responded. “Wear something old and tattered. Clothes are usually discarded just before the dash through moonlight. I heard it was wild last year.”

  “And will you be Surging, Miss…?”

  “Call me Adrianna. No, no – it’s for the young things. I ‘celebrate’ in other ways, alone. You look so sleepy, Mr. Coffin.”

  “Call me Enoch. Yeah, I’m suddenly dog-tired. Good-night, ladies.”

  He arose, more steady than before, and sauntered from the room. His bed, when finally he sat upon it, was very soft. Enoch reclined, still fully dressed, and thought about the things he had been told. They soon became the things of which he dreamt.

  III.

  Misty morning light greeted his eyes as he lay sprawled in bed fully clothed. “World, world, let me kiss you away and dream some mo’.” He then remembered that he was to meet the mysterious writer early that afternoon, and so he rose and went to the closet where his suits had been hung, chose the blue one and went to shower and shave. Dressed and groomed, he checked himself out in the bathroom mirror and nodded in approval. “Hullo Gorgeous.” Going to one suitcase, he found the satchel that contained a sketchpad, some pens, and his switchblade. Taking leave of the room, he made the journey outside and wrinkled his nose at the potent smell of sea. He sauntered down the lane and stopped at a liquor store to buy a quart bottle of whiskey, which he packed inside his satchel, and then he remembered Miss Katt’s suggestion that he have some old clothes to wear at the gathering tonight, the unexplained Surge. Continuing his stroll, Enoch saw a distant section of town that looked depopulated and decrepit, the sight of which aroused his aesthetic senses. “That place looks absolutely diseased,” he spoke to himself, as was his constant habit. He moved toward the area as he removed his coat, the weather being muggy and inspiring perspiration.

  What a contrast to the area in which he was staying! There was a stench not of the sea, or not wholly of the sea, that made him queasy. Rot was all around him, in those buildings that had not completely caved in, in the very air inhaled. Yet his finer senses detected something more, some unseen force that lurked among the debris of wreckage. Something untoward had happened here, something that had left remnants that yet breathed and waited. Enoch was suddenly aware of the ones behind him, the pack of infants clothed in shabby attire who moved the blades of their knives into the wood they whittled as they gazed at him with wide unblinking eyes. The artist smiled and knelt before the pack, reached into his satchel and took out his knife, which surprised the onlookers. Opening the knife, he clamped it between his teeth as he rolled up the sleeve of his right arm. The light of the pale sky fell onto the old scar that marred his flesh, the esoteric sigil. Removing the knife from his mouth, Enoch worked its blade into the scar, which soon was wet and red. “Flesh is easier to work with than wood, I find.” He smiled at the imps as he spoke, and then he lifted his arm to his mouth and sucked at blood. Moving the arm away, he blew a crimson-hued bubble of saliva that dissolved as bloodstained drool that coated his mouth and chin. Enoch reached out a hand to the nearest boy. “Come kiss me, pretty child.”

  The pack fled as laughter sounded behind him. Rising, he turned and smiled at the elderly woman he had sat with in the dining room. Seeing her in the light of day shocked him, for she was obviously gravely ill. Her grayish flesh clung tautly to her bones, and he had never beheld eyes so large and liquid. The silk scarf was still wound tightly around her throat, and he noticed for the first time her bracelets of white gold.

  “Have you a handkerchief? Give it to me, and I shall dress your wound.” She took the cloth he offered her and dabbed at his arm, revealing the wet scar. “Ah, the insignia of raising up. Rather a potent sigil to have etched into one’s flesh, Mr. Coffin. Here, let me just cover it with this and tie it, thus. There, now you can put on your jacket and all is well. You don’t want to spill much mortal fluid in this place, where the Outside is so near. You know, certainly, that the smell of mortal blood has a way of intoxicating They who linger between dimensions.”

  “You haven’t been to bed,” he informed her as he closed his knife and put it into a pants pocket.

  Her voice, when she replied, was thick and raspy, and he thought that she was rather intoxicated. “I’m never ‘to bed,’ young man.” She glanced around the area where they stood. “This is not a safe vicinity in which to wander.”

  “Yes, I can sense the delicious aura of danger. I like it. I was just scouting for a wee shop where I can get some old easily discarded attire to wear at tonight’s doing.”

  “Ah, you’re attending the Surge. I no longer do so, my old bones protest such leaping. Come, follow me.”

  Her stride was a little unsteady as she led the way around one corner and down a narrow lane of what looked like unoccupied buildings, and then she approached a door and stepped into a dusky place. The reek of sea and fish, already compelling, was alarmingly potent inside the dark shop into which he had been led, and Enoch covered his nose for a mome
nt as his eyes adjusted to the room’s dim lighting. They had entered what looked like a junk shop, with innumerable items stacked on floor and tables, and Enoch finally noticed the figure that stood among the disorder. Enoch’s eyes took in what he thought were Negroid features, but as his eyesight improved he saw that the fellow’s skin was the same shade as Adrianna’s, although of a rougher texture; and the fellow’s queer features were far more pronounced than the woman’s, the lidless eyes larger and the ears almost nonexistent. The hunched creature watched them and then brought the glass it held to its ungainly mouth.

  “Is that local?”

  “It is, Miss Bishop,” answered a low, coarse voice that reminded Enoch of large stone wheels grinding against each other.

  “Two glasses, Suresh.” The fellow bowed to her apparent authority and exited the room as she turned and smiled at the artist. “Innsmouth brew, such a heady tonic. It will make you dream. Ah!”

  The man returned, and Enoch thought he must have a slight hunchback, he seemed so malformed.

  “Oh, it’s the celebrated artist come to paint old Gerhard’s portrait. There’s some of his books over there.” He pointed to a cluttered table. “Here, drink up, this’ll put fur on your palms.”

  Or remove all hair, Enoch thought as he noticed that both these creatures seemed entirely hairless. He was certain that the woman was bald as a billiard ball beneath her stylish wig. Nodding his thanks, he took the glass as he nonchalantly studied the man’s odd face, with its reptilian features and deep scar at one corner of the mouth.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “He needs disposable clothing for tonight.”

  Enoch tried to suppress his annoyance at having the woman answer for him and took a sip from the glass he held. Adrianna, laughing, caught him with one hand as he reeled slightly.

  “Um, yeah – something I can discard during the orgy or whatever.”

  “During the ecstasy, Mr. Coffin, the delirium of the chase,” the other fellow corrected him. “Come look at these, I think they are your size. And here are some old loafers, if you decide to run barefoot, as is the custom.” Enoch followed the man to a table where a lamp shone its brittle light, and it was then that he noticed the fellow’s large hands, which had a kind of growth between each finger.

  “Um, yeah, they’ll do. Don’t matter if they’re a bit loose, since I’ll shimmy out of them eventually. Hey, I’ll take that hat, too. I dig hillbilly hats.”

  “Put it on my account, Suresh. After all, I’m loaded.” She winked at Enoch as the clothes were placed into a sturdy paper bag. Enoch took the hat and placed it on his head. “Let us go,” the woman commanded, setting her glass on the table where the artist had placed his.

  Enoch followed her outside and held out his hands to her as she stumbled. “You’re drunk,” he informed her.

  “And shall be more so before the day is done. Come, here’s my driver. I need to walk near water and quaff its essence. You’ll join me, and then my driver can take you to your appointment with the novelist. Don’t stand there looking dense, young man, get in.” She indicated the long black car where a young man stood next to an open door.

  “You’re used to getting your own way, wench.”

  “I am one majesty of this realm, sirrah. In.”

  They drove through the section that wore its ghoulish air of death and desertion, past a grassy area that led to the sea between crumbling brick walls. The vehicle stopped and its door was opened by the normal-looking young man. Adrianna got out first and waited for her new acquaintance, and then she led the way to a place where large moss-covered stones sat on the earth near an antique wharf that reached into the sea. Enoch saw the low distant line of Devil Reef, to which he pointed as he and the woman sat on two of the bulky stones. “What’s that?”

  “Hmm? Ah – that’s where it all began. The portal from which the leagues ascended so as to congregate with mortality. Am I a sphinx you cannot comprehend? Do you know nothing of our history? It was long ago, of course, but I would have thought that someone who is intrigued by arcane mystery would know of Innsmouth. We are more isolated from the world than ever before, that’s it I suppose. A species unto itself, as we were at the time of my birth, just before the holocaust. The history of those events is like a brand burned onto my brain, although I remember none of it, of course. My family was in Europe during the epoch of bayonets and bombs. We returned to devastation. Friends and relations had been taken from Innsmouth and placed into camps or prisons or such. The government did not like our breed, you see. They did not like the webbing on our hands, see here? They were perplexed by the more inhuman manifestations of my race. Innsmouth had been a place of neglect and ruin for ages, of course, because it is such a temporary home for we Immortals – we of the Deep. You’ve no doubt perused our legends in the tomes that you have obviously read – yes, obvious because of your work. Your art, Enoch, reveals so much about yourself. Those little arcane touches, those titles of books that are so often displayed in background. Of course, the history of Innsmouth isn’t inscribed into any tome; I suppose it’s to be found in official records that have been set aside and forgotten, if it exists at all.” She shrugged. “It’s rather recent history as it is. The record of the discharges that were dropped from Devil Reef so as to destroy that which will eternal lie. What fools. We could have seduced them with Innsmouth gold and bought security, I suppose; but vengeance has a sweeter taste, and we have that within us that could exterminate your race if we so chose. We do not. We are rather fond of your clownish caste.”

  She smoothed the scarf around her throat and looked thirsty, and so Enoch reached into his satchel and brought forth the quart of whiskey. Adrianna laughed as she accepted the bottle and tipped some of its golden nectar down her throat, and then she handed the bottle back to Enoch, who gulped a bit as she continued her converse.

  Her eyes, as she turned them to him, glinted mischievously. “Ever hear of a shoggoth?”

  “In Alhazred.”

  “Ah – the ‘mad’ poet, whose madness was part pose, methinks, and partial authenticity. To see beyond dimension and taste the Outside dents your mortal sanity. I can see it in your eyes.”

  The artist chuckled. “What, that I’m dented?”

  “More so than most. You, like Alhazred, have been tainted by the knowledge that haunts your little brain, the lines of muttered alchemy that you cannot quite stop formulating in your sleep, the tugging of foreboding things, the tools of alchemy.”

  “You mentioned shoggoths.”

  “Aye. Such sleek yet viscous tools of desolation, lethal and unstoppable. Not easy to command, but our kind have their ways. Thus was holocaust visited upon those places where our race was held captive, where fire consumed the prisons of my nation. The paltry pygmies who would hold us became our burnt, our melted offerings to the Lord of R’lyeh. Some few of us returned here to dwell in secret places, as of old; but now we mostly dwell beneath the waves, or on islands near to other portals. We swarm, on moonlit nights, to Devil Reef and sing to the splendor of many-columned Y’ha-nthlei, to which I shall soon descend. Give me that bottle.”

  “Keep it. I need to split and see the mysterious novelist.”

  “I’ve prattled incomprehensibly, I fear.”

  “No, I understood more than you may imagine. I’ve read the old books, after all. So much of what they record is little more than legend or drug-delirium. I recall some few hints concerning the myths of the Deep Ones, a race of aquatic immortals that sometimes mate with humans and from which legends of mer-folk supposedly materialized. But I thought they were a species whose legend is found on other continents. I didn’t realize that Innsmouth was one bed of breeding. That’s what you are, you of the Deep?”

  But she wasn’t listening to him. The whiskey was having its effect, and her bleary eyes ignored him as they peered out to sea. Quietly, Enoch rose and went to the driver and slipped into the car, in which he was driven to the home of Gerhard Speare, wh
ich was built on a high hill that overlooked the posh section where Enoch’s hotel was situated. The artist stood on the gravel path as Adrianna’s car sped away, and he was still examining the fantastic mansion when one of the two gigantic doors opened and a young woman stepped out to greet him.

  “Mr. Enoch Coffin. Welcome. Master Speare is in his private room. Follow me, please.” He followed the lithe woman into the house and up a flight of stairs, and then down a dusky hall to a huge oak door, upon which she tapped before opening it and escorting the artist inside. One thick and fragrant candle provided the dark room’s only light, and Enoch could not make out anyone else in the room as the woman shut the door on exiting. Other smells came to him, of books and age and the sea – but then the smell of the sea pervaded all of Innsmouth. Still, it seemed especially pungent in this room.

  “Will you have a seat, or do you prefer standing?” The whispered voice could have been a death rattle, and Enoch had to strain to understand each word. “There is a chair near you, do sit. Bring the candle closer if you must.”

  “That’s okay, my eyes will adjust.” He sank into a chair and placed his bundle of second-hand garments on the floor, then removed his hat and dropped it onto the pile of clothing.

  “Excellent. I have just been for a deep swim, and my eyes dislike bright light after the darkness of the depths. The fragrance of the sea still lingers on my flesh. Do you enjoy Innsmouth?”

  “I find it more captivating than I expected.”

  “I thought you would. Monstrous haunts give you keen aesthetic pleasure, as is revealed by your magnificent oils. I have noticed that you preserve your most suggestive works for the grand paintings and imbue them with intriguing touches in background and such. Your oil of Sentinel Hill, in Dunwich, which I have hanging there on the wall behind you – the directions in which the tall stones tilt is most indicative. And the shaping of the dark cloud – very subtle and probably missed by most.”