The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 17

by Stephen Jones

  “Innsmouth?” said the old man. “Yes, I believe I recall the occasion. But I also recall how nervous you were. And Jilly, in my opinion – from what I’ve observed of you, er, in my capacity as a doctor or ex-doctor – it seems to me that odd or peculiar subjects have a very unsettling effect on you. Are you sure you want to hear about Innsmouth?”

  “While it’s true that certain subjects have a bad affect on me,” she began slowly, “at the same time I’m fascinated by anything concerning my husband’s history or his people. Especially the latter, his genealogy.” She speeded up a little. “After all what do we really know of genetics – those traits we carry down the generations with us – traits passed on by our forbears? And I think to myself, perhaps I’ve been avoiding George’s past for far too long. Things have happened here, James . . .” She clutched his arm. “Weird alterations, alienations, and I need to be sure they can’t ever happen again, not to me or mine!” She was going full tilt now. “Or if they do happen, that I’ll know what to do – what to do about – do about . . .”

  But there Jilly stopped dead, with her mouth still open, as if she suddenly realized that she’d said too much, too quickly, and even too desperately.

  And after a long moment’s silence the old man quietly said, “Maybe I’d better ask you again, my dear: are you sure you want me to tell you about Innsmouth?”

  She took a deep breath, deliberately stilled the twitching of her slender hands on the arms of her chair, and said “Yes, I really would like to know all about that place and its people.”

  “And after I’ve gone, leaving you on your own here tonight? What of your dreams, Jilly? For I feel I must warn you: you may well be courting nightmares.”

  “I want to know,” she answered at once. “As for nightmares: you’re right, I can do without them. But still I have to know.”

  “Anne has told me there are some books that belonged to her father.” Jamieson tried to reason with her. “Perhaps the answer you’re seeking can be found in their pages?”

  “George’s books?” She shuddered. “Those ugly books! He used to bury himself in them. But when they were heaping the seaweed and burning it last summer, I asked Anne to throw them into the flames!” She offered a nervous, perhaps apologetic shrug. “What odds? I couldn’t have read them anyway, for they weren’t in English; they weren’t in any easily recognizable language. But the worst thing was the way they felt. Why, just touching them made me feel queasy!”

  The old man narrowed his eyes, nodded and said, “And do you really expect me to talk about Innsmouth, when the very thought of a few mouldy old books makes you look ill? And you asked the girl to burn them, without even knowing their value or what was in them? You know, it’s probably a very good thing I came along when I did, Jilly. For it’s fairly obvious that you’re obsessed about something, and obsessions can all too easily turn to psychoses. Wherefore—”

  “— You’re done with me,” she finished it for him, and fell back in her chair. “I’m ill with worry – or with my own, well, ‘obsession’ if you like – and you’re not going to help me with it.”

  The old man took her hand, squeezed it, and shook his head. “Oh, Jilly!” he said. “You’ve got me all wrong. Psychology may be one of our more recently accepted medical sciences, but I’m not so ancient that I predate it in its entirety! Yes, I know a thing or two about the human psyche; more than enough to assure you that there’s not much wrong with yours.”

  She looked bewildered, and so Jamieson continued, “You see, my dear, you’re finally opening up, deliberately exposing yourself to whatever your problem is, taking your first major step toward getting rid of it. So of course I’m going to help you.”

  She sighed her relief, then checked herself and said, “But, if that involves telling me about Innsmouth—?”

  “Then so be it,” said the old man. “But I would ask you not to interrupt me once I start, for I’m very easily sidetracked.” And after Jilly nodded her eager assent, he began . . .

  “During my time at my practice in Innsmouth, I saw some strange sad cases. Many locals are inbred, to such an extent that their blood is tainted. I would very much like to be able to put that some other way, but no other way says it so succinctly. And the ‘Innsmouth look’ – a name given to the very weird, almost alien appearance of some of the town’s inhabitants – is the principal symptom of that taint.

  “However, among the many myths and legends I’ve heard about that place and those with ‘the look’, some of the more fanciful have it the other way round; they insist that it wasn’t so much inbreeding that caused the taint as miscegenation . . . the mixed breeding between the town’s old-time sea captains and the women of certain South Sea island tribes with which they often traded during their voyages. And what’s more, the same legends have it that it wasn’t only the native women with whom these degenerate old sea dogs associated, but . . . but I think it’s best to leave that be for now, for tittle-tattle of that nature can so easily descend into sheer fantasy.

  “Very well, but whatever the origin or source of the town’s problems – the real source, that is – it’s still possible that it may at least have some connection with those old sea-traders and the things they brought back with them from their ventures. Certainly some of them married and brought home native women – which in this day and age mightn’t cause much of a stir, but in the mid-nineteenth century was very much frowned upon – and in their turn these women must surely have brought some of their personal belongings and customs with them: a few native gewgaws, some items of clothing, their ‘cuisine’, of course . . . possibly even something of their, er, religions? Or perhaps ‘religion’ is too strong a word for what we should more properly accept as primitive native beliefs.

  “In any case, that’s as far back as I was able to trace the blood taint – if such it is, – but as for the ‘Innsmouth look’ itself, and the horrible way it manifested itself in the town’s inhabitants . . . well, I think the best way to describe that is as a disease; yes, and perhaps more than one disease at that.

  “As to the form or forms this affliction takes,” (now Jamieson began to lie, or at least to step aside from the truth) “well, if I didn’t know any better, I might say that there’s a fairly representative example or specimen, as it were, right here in our own backyard: that poor unfortunate youth who lives with the Fosters, Anne’s friend, young Geoff. Of course, I don’t know of any connection – and can’t see how there could possibly be one – but that youth would seem to have something much akin to the Innsmouth stigma, if not the selfsame affliction. Just take a look at his condition:

  “The unwholesome scaliness of the skin, far worse than any mere ichthyosis; the strange, shambling gait; the eyes, larger than normal and increasingly difficult to close; the speech – where such exists at all – or the guttural gruntings that pass for speech; and those gross anomalies or distortions of facial arrangement giving rise to fishy or froggy looks . . . and all of these features present in young Geoff. Why, John Tremain tells me that the youth reminds him of nothing so much as a stranded fish! And if somehow there is something of the Innsmouth taint in him . . . well then, is it any wonder that such dreadful fantasies came into being in the first place? I think not . . .”

  Pausing, the old man stared hard at Jilly. During his discourse she had turned very pale, sunk down into her chair, and gripped its arms with white-knuckled hands. And for the first time he noticed grey in her hair, at the temples. She had not, however, given way to those twitches and jerks normally associated with her nervous condition, and all of her attention was still rapt upon him.

  Now Jamieson waited for Jilly’s reaction to what he’d told her so far, and in a little while she found her voice and said, “You mentioned certain gewgaws that the native women might have brought with them from those South Sea islands. Did you perhaps mean jewellery, and if so have you ever seen any of it? I mean, what kind of gewgaws, exactly? Can you describe them for me?”

&n
bsp; For a moment the old man frowned, then said, “Ah!” and nodded his understanding. “But I think we may be talking at cross purposes, Jilly. For where those native women are concerned – in connection with their belongings – I actually meant gewgaws: bangles and necklaces made from seashells, and ornaments carved out of coconut shells . . . that sort of thing. But it’s entirely possible I know what you mean by gewgaws . . . for of course I’ve seen that brooch that Mrs Tremain purchased from your husband. Oh yes; and since I have a special interest in such items, I bought it back from her! But in fact the only genuine ‘gewgaws’ in the tales I’ve heard were the cheap trinkets which those old sea captains offered the islanders in so-called ‘trade’. Trade? Daylight robbery, more like! While the gewgaws that you seem to be interested in have to be what those poor savages parted with in exchange for those worthless beads and all that useless frippery – by which I mean the quaintly-worked jewellery, but real jewellery, in precious golden alloy, that Innsmouth’s seafarers as good as stole from the natives! And you ask have I actually seen such? Indeed I have, and not just the piece I bought from Doreen Tremain . . .”

  The old man had seemed to be growing more and more excited, carried away by his subject, apparently. But now, calming down, he paused to collect his thoughts and settled himself deeper in his chair before continuing. And:

  “There now,” he finally said. “Didn’t I warn you that I was easily sidetracked? And wouldn’t you know it, but now I’ve completely lost the thread!”

  “I had asked you about that native jewellery,” she reminded him. “I thought maybe you could describe it for me, or at least tell me where you saw it. And there was something else you said – something about the old sea captains and . . . and things they associated with other than the natives? – that I somehow found, well, interesting.”

  “Ah!” the old man answered. “But I can assure you, my dear, that last was sheer fantasy. And as for the jewellery . . . where did I see it? Why, in Innsmouth itself, where else? In a museum there – well, a sort of museum – but more properly a shrine, or a site of remembrance, really. I suppose I could tell you about it if you still wish it? And if you’re sure none of this is too troubling for you?” The way he looked at her, his gaze was very penetrating. But having come this far, Jilly wasn’t about to be put off.

  “I do wish it,” she nodded. “And I promise you I’ll try not . . . not to be troubled. So do please go on.”

  The old man nodded and stroked his chin, and after a while carried on with his story.

  “Anthropology, the study of man’s origins and ways of life, was always something of a hobby of mine,” he began. “And crumbling old Innsmouth, despite its many drawbacks, was not without its sources – its own often fascinating history and background – which as yet I’ve so poorly delineated.

  “Some of the women – I can’t really call them ladies – who attended my practice were of the blood. Not necessarily tainted blood but native blood, certainly. Despite the many generations separating them from their dusky forebears, still there was that of the South Sea islands in them. And it was a handful of these patients of mine, my clients, so to speak, that led to my enquiries after the jewellery they wore . . . the odd clasp or brooch, a wrist bangle or necklace. I saw quite a few, all displaying a uniform, somehow rude style of workmanship, and all very similarly adorned or embellished.

  “But as for a detailed description, that’s rather difficult. Floral? No, not really. Arabesque? That would more properly fit the picture; weird foliage and other plant forms, curiously and intricately intertwined . . . but not foliage of the land. It was oceanic: seaweeds and sea grasses, with rare conches and fishes hidden in the design – particularly fishes – forming what may only be described as an unearthly piscine or perhaps batrachian depiction. And occasionally, as a backdrop to the seaweeds and grasses, there were hinted buildings: strange, squat pyramids, and oddly-angled towers. It was as if the unknown craftsman – who or whatever – had attempted to convey the lost Atlantis or some other watery civilization . . .”

  The old man paused again, then said, “There. As a description, however inadequate, that will have to suffice. Of course, I was never so close to the Innsmouth women that I was able to study their clasps and brooches in any great detail, but I did enquire of them as to their origin. Ah, but they were a close-mouthed lot and would say very little . . . well, except for one, who was younger and less typical of her kind; and she directed me to the museum.

  “In its heyday it had been a church – that was before the tainted blood had moved in and the more orthodox religions out, – a squat-towered stone church, yes, but long since desanctified. It stood close to another once-grand building; a pillared hall of considerable size, still bearing upon its pediment the faded legend, ‘Esoteric Order of Dagon’.

  “Dagon, eh? But here a point of great interest:

  “Many years ago, this great hall, too, had been a place of worship . . . or obeisance of some sort, certainly. And how was this for an anthropological puzzle? For of course the fish-god Dagon – half man, half fish – had been a deity of the Philistines, later to be adopted by the Phoenicians who called him Oannes. And yet these Polynesian islanders, thousands of miles away around the world, had offered up their sacrifices – or at least their prayers – to the selfsame god. And in the Innsmouth of the 1820s their descendants were carrying on that same tradition! But you know, my dear, and silly as it may seem, I can’t help wondering if perhaps they’re doing it still . . . I mean today, even now . . .

  “But there you go, I’ve sidetracked myself again! So where was I? Ah, yes! The old church, or rather the museum.

  “The place was gothic in its looks, with shuttered windows and a disproportionately high basement. And it was there in the half-sunken basement – the museum proper – that the ‘exhibits’ were housed. There under dusty glass in unlocked boxwood cases, I saw such a fabulous collection of golden jewellery and ornaments . . . why, it amazed me that there were no labels to describe the treasure, and more so that there was no curator to guard it against thieves or to enlighten casual visitors with its story! Not that there were many visitors. Indeed, on such occasions as I was there I saw no one – not even a church mouse.

  “But that jewellery, made of those strange golden alloys . . . oh, it was truly fascinating! As was a small, apparently specialized library of some hundreds of books; all of them antiques, and all quietly rotting away on damp, easily accessible shelves. Apart from one or two titles of particularly unpleasant connotation, I recognized nothing that I saw; and, since most of those titles were in any case beyond me, I never so much as paused to turn a page. But as with the exotic, alien jewellery – and if I had been a thief, of course – I’m sure I might have walked out of there with a fortune in rare and forbidden volumes under my coat, and no one to stop, accuse or search me. In fact, searching my memory, I believe I’ve heard mention that certain books and a quantity of jewellery were indeed stolen from the museum some twenty-odd years ago. Not that gold was ever of any great rarity in Innsmouth, for those old sea captains had brought it home in such large amounts that back in the 1800s one of them had even opened up a refinery in order to purify his holdings! I tried to visit the refinery, too, only to find it in a state of total dereliction . . . as was much of the old town itself in the wake of a . . . well, of a rumoured epidemic, and subsequent government raids in 1927–8. But there, that’s another story.”

  And fidgeting a very little – seeming suddenly reticent – Jamieson brought his narrative to an abrupt halt, saying, “And there you have it, my dear. With regard to your question about the strange jewellery . . . well, I’ve tried to answer it as best possible. So, er, what else can I tell you? Nothing, I fear . . .”

  But now it was Jilly White’s eyes searching the old man’s face, and not the other way about. For she had noticed several vague allusions and some major omissions in his narrative, for which she required explanations.

  “About the
jewellery . . . yes, I believe I understand,” she said. “But you’ve said some other things that aren’t nearly so clear. In fact you seemed to be avoiding certain subjects. And I w-w-want . . . I wan-w-w . . .!” She slammed her arms down on the arms of her chair, chair, trying to control her stammering. “I want to know! About – how did you put it? – the associations of those old sea captains with something other than the island women, which you said was sheer fantasy. But fantasy or not, I want to know. And about . . . about their beliefs . . . their religion and d-d-dedication to Dagon. Also, w-w-with regard to that foreign jewellery, you said something about its craftsman, ‘who or whatever!’ Now what did you mean by that? And that epidemic you mentioned: what was all that about? What, an epidemic that warranted government raids? James – if you’re my friend at all – surely you m-m-must see that I have to know!”

  “I can see that I’ve upset you,” he answered, reaching out and touching her hand. “And I believe I know what it is that’s so unsettling for you. You’re trying to connect all of this to George, aren’t you? You think that his blood, too, was tainted. Jilly, it may be so, but it’s not your fault. And if the taint is in fact a disease, it probably wasn’t his fault either. You can’t blame yourself that your husband may have been some kind of . . . of carrier. And even if he was, surely his influence is at an end now? You mustn’t go on believing that it . . . that it isn’t over yet.”

  “Then convince me otherwise,” she answered, a little calmer now that she could speak openly of what was on her mind. “Tell me about these things, so that I’ll better understand them and be able to make up my own mind.”

  Jamieson nodded. “Oh, I can tell you,” he said, “if only by repeating old wives tales – myths and rumours – and fishermen’s stories of mermaids and the like. But the state of your nerves, I’d really rather not.”

  “My nerves, yes,” she said. “Wait.” And she fetched a glass of water and took two of her pills. “There, and now you can see that I’m following doctor’s orders. Now you must follow my orders and tell me.” And leaning forward in her chair, she gripped his forearms. “Please. If not for my sake . . . for Anne’s?”