Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

by Stephen Jones

  By the time we surfaced, there was no sign of the Deep Ones who had earlier swarmed over the hull. To the west, Innsmouth was burning. The shells of those Colonial houses built of stone would remain as smoke-blackened monuments to the night’s raid but almost all of the wooden structures would be reduced to ashes by morning.

  I must end this report on a warning note. Innsmouth must remain under close surveillance and a continual watch kept on the ocean just beyond Devil Reef. That which is merely injured, may rise again!

  BRACKISH WATERS

  by RICHARD A. LUPOFF

  DELBERT MARSTON, JR., Ph.D., D.Sc., was the youngest tenured professor on the faculty of the University of California. He was widely regarded as a rising academic star, not only on the University’s premiere campus at Berkeley but throughout the huge multi-campus system and, if the truth be known, throughout the national and international community of scholars.

  Tall and dark-haired with a touch of premature grey at the temples, he was regarded as a catch by female faculty members who competed vigorously for his attention. He dressed conservatively, held his tongue in matters of both public and campus politics, drank single-malt scotch whiskey exclusively, and drove an onyx-black supercharged 1937 Cord Phaeton. Perhaps it was Marston’s otherwise thoroughly conventional lifestyle that caused his vehicular preference to be regarded as a sign of high taste and acceptable self-indulgence rather than one of eccentricity.

  He had the Cord serviced regularly at an exclusive garage on the island of Alameda, the owner of which establishment catered to fanciers of the three marques formerly built in Auburn, Indiana— the Auburn, the stately Duesenberg, and the tragically short-lived Cord. The Auburn Motor Car Company, or what was left of it, was now producing Lycoming aircraft engines and B-24 Liberator bombers for the Army Air Forces. Once the war was over there was no predicting the future of the discontinued automobiles, but in Marston’s estimation their prospects were poor.

  On the night in question—the night, at any rate, that would initiate the series of events destined to lead to Delbert Marston’s apotheosis— the sky above the San Francisco Bay Area was black with a cold storm that had swept down from the Gulf of Alaska and attacked the Pacific Coast with fierce winds and a series of hammering downpours of pelting rain laced with occasional hints of sleet. Such weather was not uncommon in Northern California during the winter months, and the winter of 1943-44 was no exception; the onslaught of wind and water was regarded as anything but freakish. The Bay Bridge was swept by an icy gale but the Cord held the roadway with a steadiness unmatched by vehicles of lesser quality.

  Professor Marston was accompanied by an older colleague, one Aurelia Blenheim, Ph.D. Grey-haired and dignified, Professor Blenheim had served for some years as Marston’s mentor and sponsor. It was her spirited championing of his cause that had persuaded the Tenure Committee to grant him its seal of approval despite what was regarded as his almost scandalous youth. Marston’s intellectual equal, Aurelia Blenheim had found in the younger academic the friendship and platonic camaraderie that her lifelong celibacy had otherwise denied her.

  “I don’t know why I let you talk me into spending an evening with this squad of eccentrics, Aurelia.” Marston braked to keep his distance behind a superannuated Model A Ford that looked ready to topple over in the gale.

  “Why, for the sheer pleasure and mental stimulation of bouncing off some people with unconventional ideas. Besides, the semester’s over, most of the kiddies who have managed to stay out of the service have gone home to Bakersfield or Beloit or wherever they came from. What else did you have to do?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. The Oakland Symphony is doing an all-Mahler program, the San Francisco Ballet has a Berlioz show, and the opera is offering The Marriage of Figaro. And we’re going to meet a bunch of wackos who think—if you can call it thinking—as a matter of fact, Aurelia, what in the world is it that they do think?”

  Aurelia Blenheim shook her head. “Come now, Delbert. They have a lot of different ideas. That’s the fun of it. They don’t have a body of fixed beliefs. Attending one of their meetings is like sitting in on a First Century council of bishops and listening to them debate the nature of the mystical body of Christ.”

  “I can’t think of anything less interesting.”

  They had reached the San Francisco end of the bridge now and Marston manoeuvred the Cord through merging traffic and headed south. A rattletrap Nash sedan full of high school kids pulled alongside the Cord. The driver lowered his window and yelled at Aurelia, “Why don’t you put that submarine back in the water where it belongs, grandma?”

  Aurelia Blenheim turned to face the heckler and mouthed some words that remained unheard and unknown to Delbert Marston. The expression on the face of the heckler changed suddenly. He raised his window and floored his gas pedal. The Nash sped away. Three kids in the backseat stared open-mouthed at the grey-haired professor.

  “Aurelia,” Marston asked, “what did you say to them?”

  “I just gave them a little warning, Delbert. Best keep your eyes on the road. I’ll get us a little music.” She reached for the radio controls on the Cord’s dashboard. Although the radio had added to the price of Marston’s Cord he had ordered it installed when he purchased the Phaeton.

  The sounds of Franz Liszt’s ‘Mephisto Waltz’ filled the Cord’s tonneau.

  A particularly dense sheet of rain mixed with a seeming bucketful of hailstones crashed against the Cord’s roof and engine hood, adding the sound of an insane kettle drum concerto to the music.

  “There’s our exit sign,” Aurelia Blenheim shouted above the din.

  Delbert Marston edged into the exit lane and guided the Cord off the highway and onto a local thoroughfare. Aurelia Blenheim navigated for him, giving instructions until she finally said, “There it is. You can park in the driveway.”

  The house stood out like an anomaly. Curwen Street and its environs—still known as Curwen Heights—had once been among San Francisco’s more fashionable neighbourhoods. Victorian homes had reared their turrets and cupolas against the chilly air and damply cloying fog. Families who claimed the status of municipal pioneers, direct descendants of the leaders of the Gold Rush and survivors of the earthquake and fire of 1906, had erected gingerbread-encrusted mansions and filled them with children and servants. Carriage-houses and stables were discreetly placed behind the family establishments.

  But the passing decades had brought changes to Curwen Street and Curwen Heights. Urban crowding had driven the wealthiest families to Palo Alto, Burlingame and other lush, roomy suburbs. The construction of the Golden Gate Bridge and Bay Bridge in the 1930s had opened the unspoiled territories and sleepy villages of Marin and Alameda Counties for the use of daily commuters. Key Route trains brought workers from Oakland and Berkeley into the city each day.

  Marston switched off the engine and half-blackened headlights, and climbed from behind the steering wheel. He exited the car and helped Aurelia Blenheim to do the same. He carefully locked the vehicle’s doors and escorted her to the front entrance of the house. In the darkened street and with storm clouds blackening the sky it was difficult to see anything. Even so, the house had the appearance of a one-time showplace, long since fallen into disrepair. Blackout curtains made the windows look like shrouded paintings. Marston searched for a doorbell and found none. Instead, a heavy cast-iron knocker shaped like a gargoyle signalled their arrival.

  The door swung open and they were greeted by a rotund individual wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He peered owlishly at Marston, then dropped his gaze to Aurelia Blenheim.

  “Dr. Blenheim!” He took her hand in both of his and pumped it enthusiastically. After he released her she introduced Marston. The rotund youth identified himself as Charlie Einstein, “No relation,” subjected Marston’s hand to the same treatment Aurelia Blenheim’s had received, and ushered them into the house.

  Voices were emerging from another room, as was the odour of frie
d food. In the background a radio added to the din.

  Charlie Einstein led Marston and Aurelia Blenheim to a high-ceilinged parlour. Men and women sat on worn furniture, each of them holding a plate of snack food or a beverage or both.

  Einstein clapped his hands for attention and conversations wound down. The radio continued to play. Einstein said, “Ben, would you mind?” He gestured toward a Philco console. “You’re the closest.”

  A painfully thin and painfully young-looking man in a Navy uniform reached for the Philco and switched it off. “Nobody was paying attention anyhow,” he said. He turned toward Marston and Aurelia Blenheim. “Aurelia, hello. And you must be Professor Marston.”

  Del Marston nodded.

  “Ben Keeler,” the sailor said. His spotless winter blues bore the eagle-and-chevron insignia of a petty officer. He shook Marston’s hand. “We’ve been hearing about you for weeks now, sir. I’m so pleased that you could finally make it to a meeting.”

  Charlie Einstein set out to fetch beverages for Marston and Aurelia Blenheim. Keeler pointed out the others in the room, giving their names. Marston nodded to each.

  One of them was a thirty-ish woman whose mouse-brown sweater was a perfect match for her stringy hair. She was sitting next to the fireplace, where a log smouldered fitfully. “This is Bernice,” Keeler announced. “Bernice Sanderson.”

  The woman looked up at Marston and Aurelia Blenheim. It was obvious that she knew Blenheim; they exchanged silent nods. “So you’re the famous professor.” She glared at Marston. “The sceptic who doesn’t believe in anything he can’t see for himself. You’ve got a lot to learn, Professor.”

  She turned away.

  Keeler took Marston by the elbow and steered him away. “Sorry about that, sir.”

  Marston interrupted. “Please just call me Del.”

  “Fine.” The sailor grinned. “You know, I was an undergrad at Cal until we got into this war. I’m accustomed to calling professors, Sir.” He reddened. “Or, Ma’am, Professor Bleinheim.”

  “Aurie.”

  “Yes.” Keeler turned a brighter shade of red. “Anyway, once the war is over I plan to go back and finish up my degree.”

  Marston nodded. He saw that Keeler wore an engineer’s rating on his uniform sleeve. “Good for you,” he said. “There will be plenty of need for good engineers in the post-war world.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Keeler. “In fact—”

  He was interrupted by Charlie Einstein carrying a tray with two steaming cups on it. “I know Aurie likes these things and she told me that you did, too, Professor.”

  “Del.”

  “Right. Hot rum toddies. Good for a night like this.”

  When Einstein went on his way, Ben Keeler resumed. “I’d hoped to have you as my faculty adviser when I get to grad school. If I’m not being too pushy, that is.”

  Marston shook his head. “I’m flattered. Sure, come and see me when the war’s over. I envy you, Ben, serving in the Navy. You just went down and enlisted when Pearl Harbor was attacked?”

  “I thought it was the right thing to do. In fact, I’d have thought that a man with your credentials would have a commission. If you don’t mind my saying so, Professor. Del.”

  Marston sipped at his rum toddy. “They turned me down. Said I couldn’t march right, and besides, they wanted me to hang around and lend my expertise when they had problems for me to play with. Said I was more valuable as a civilian than I would be in the Navy.”

  Keeler nodded sympathetically.

  Marston breathed a sigh of relief. The rum couldn’t be that strong and fast-acting, it was just careless of him to mention not being able to march right. He’d been born with minor deformities of both feet. They’d never kept him from normal activities, in fact he felt that they helped him as a swimmer. But the Navy doctors had taken one look at his feet and told him to go home and find a way to contribute to the war effort as a civilian.

  Still, the Navy had accepted him as a consultant, calling upon his expertise as a marine geologist and hydrologist. He’d received a high security clearance and worked with naval personnel whenever he wasn’t busy teaching. He looked around, observing that nearly everyone in the room was young. Aurelia Blenheim had persuaded Marston to attend a meeting, but this looked more like a party. There were plates of snack food scattered around the room and bottles of soft drinks. There was a low, steady hum of conversation. Marston spotted only two girls among the crowd, discounting the acerbic Miss Sanderson. Outnumbered as they were by males, they were twin centres of constant attention and manoeuvring.

  A fireplace dominated one end of the room. A young man of neurasthenic appearance wearing a baggy suit and hand-painted necktie had stationed himself in front of it. He held a brass bell and miniature hammer above his head and sounded the bell.

  “The twelfth regular meeting of the New Deep Ones Society of the Pacific will come to order.” He looked around, clearly pleased with himself. Conversation had ceased and he was the target of all eyes. “We have a distinguished guest with us tonight, Professor Marston of the University of California. If anyone can shed light on the problem of the Deep Ones, I’m sure Professor Marston can.”

  Now attention shifted from the young man to Del Marston. What a farce this was turning into. Marston mulled over suitable forms of revenge against Aurelia Blenheim.

  “Professor Marston,” the young man was babbling on, “perhaps you’ll be willing to address our little group?”

  Marston was holding a thick sandwich in one hand and a soft drink in the other. He put them on a table and said, “I’m afraid I’m not quite prepared for that. Maybe you’ll tell me a little bit about your group, starting with your name.”

  “Albert Hartley, Dr. Marston. I’m the President of the New Deep Ones Society of the Pacific. Our members are dedicated to unravelling the mystery of the Deep Ones. Hence our name.” He giggled nervously, then resumed. “And Dr. Blenheim says that you’re the leading marine geologist in the region.”

  “Dr. Blenheim flatters me. But tell me about your New Deep Ones Society. Does the name refer to the fact that you are all deep thinkers?”

  “Now you flatter us,” Hartley replied. They had settled onto chairs and sofas by now, the boys clustering around the girls while Albert Hartley tried to hold their attention. “The Deep Ones,” (Marston could almost hear the capital letters) are strange creatures who live on the sea-bottoms of the world. People have known about them for thousands of years. They’re in Greek mythology, Sumerian mythology, African mythology. And in modern times authors keep writing about them. But nowadays they have to disguise their books as fiction.”

  “Why?”

  Hartley looked startled. The room was silent.

  Then somebody else made an ostentatious demand for the floor. Del Marston recognised the new speaker as Charlie Einstein. The ponderous Einstein blew out a breath. “There are people in the government who don’t want us to know about the Deep Ones. People in every government. You wouldn’t think that the Nazis in Germany and the Reds in Russia and the Democrats in Washington could agree on anything while they’re fighting this huge war and all, but they have secret meetings in Switzerland, you know. The Japs are there, too.”

  “You mean the war is a front for something else?” Marston asked. “Cities getting blown up, soldiers dying in foxholes, aerial and naval battles, people suffering all over the world—it’s all a put-up job?”

  Einstein shook his head, his too-long, dirty-blond hair falling across his face. “Oh, the war is real enough, okay. My brother is in the Army, he was at Tobruk in North Africa and was wounded and he’s back in England now, in the hospital. The war is real, you bet, Dr. Marston. But the big shots who are running things still have their secret agreements. You’ll see, when it ends, nothing much will change. And they really don’t want us to know about the Deep Ones. Lovecraft wrote about them, too. In fact, he was writing about them even before that Czech guy, Karel Capek, wrote his book Wa
r with the Newts. They’re everywhere. Lovecraft was a New Englander and he knew about them, they have a big base at Innsmouth, in Massachusetts.”

  “But that was just fiction.” Marston tried to calm the excited youngsters. “Foolish stories about monsters. As silly as Orson Welles’ radio play about Martians. There are problems enough in this world without having to invent more.”

  “Oh, no. Oh, no.” Einstein shook his head. His fleshy jowls shook with emotion. “And another thing. There’s the 1890 Paradox.”

  “The what?” Marston could barely keep from laughing.

  “The 1890 Paradox,” Einstein repeated. “Karel Capek was born in 1890 in Bohemia, in what is now Czechoslovakia. Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born in Rhode Island. And Adolf Hitler was born in Linz, Austria. You can’t call that a coincidence, can you?”

  “Of course I can.” Marston frowned. “Millions of people are born every year. You can pick any year out of history and find musicians, authors, politicians, scientists, generals, philosophers, all born that year. Of course it’s a coincidence.”

  “Then what about their deaths? Lovecraft and Capek both wrote about the Deep Ones, both exposed their intentions, and both died within a matter of months! Explain that for me, if you can, Dr. Marston.”

  “I can’t explain it. There’s no explaining to do. Out of all the millions of people born in 1890, I imagine that tens or hundreds of thousands would have died in—what year was it that your two writers passed on?”

  “Lovecraft died in 1937, Capek in 1938.”

  “And Hitler?”

  “You know he’s still alive. That’s because the stars were right for those births in 1890, and they were right for the two deaths in 1937 and ’38. As for Hitler—he’s no menace to the Deep Ones. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s in league with them. Malignant beings have a long history of making alliances with humans willing to sell out their species for personal gain, like vampires offering their sort of undead immortality to their human servants. And the Deep Ones have a lot to offer their allies. Long, long life for one thing. And incredible pleasures obtained through their unspeakable rites. That’s what the Deep Ones have to offer.”