Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

by Stephen Jones

By this time they had a number of friends in the village, most of whom were extremely pleased at the renovation work, as they felt the mill in its new guise greatly enhanced the neighbourhood. Workmen were still putting finishing touches to certain rooms in the house, and the quiet tapping as they went about their business made a pleasing background to Roberts’ thoughts. His latest canvas was coming along well. An international financier had given him half-a-dozen preliminary sittings and now he was finishing off the portrait from photographs.

  He had promised Gilda they would have a break in the autumn, when he had finished his current commissions; perhaps to Venice, where she had never been, but it all depended on his workload, which was growing year by year, thanks to her expert business training.

  Kent came round to view progress shortly before the work on the building was concluded. He followed his host from room to room, entirely concurring with his friend’s enthusiasm.

  “You certainly got a bargain here,” Kent said when the tour was over and they were settled in the huge living room. But he noticed, as he spoke, that a shadow seemed to pass across Roberts’ face and he realised that the artist was extremely tired.

  Gilda was away again, doing a tour of major galleries, carrying with her colour slides of Roberts’ latest works, and he sensed that his friend had been working too hard. He caught the glance the other gave him. “Been overdoing it?” he said. “Not a sensible thing...”

  Roberts gave a light laugh, which didn’t deceive his friend. “Not really. It’s just the long hours in the studio standing at the easel. It’s very tiring work, you know. Not like writers. Sitting on a soft cushion all day dreaming up impossible plots.”

  Kent returned his smile. “There’s a little bit more to it than that,” he said good-naturedly.

  “Of course, old chap. You know I was only joking. Stay to dinner. A nice lady comes in from the village when Gilda’s away.”

  After the meal the two men sat smoking and talking in the great room that Roberts’ craftsmen had created from what had been two smaller chambers which had been roughly partitioned for some commercial purpose by a previous owner when the place had been a working mill. Apparently the building had been constructed as far back as the sixteenth century, and a vast beam which ran across the whole fireplace wall carried the roughly carved date by some long dead carpenter: 1545.

  When Kent’s pipe had been drawn to his satisfaction and the whisky glasses had been filled, the two men were more relaxed and forthcoming than when Mrs Summers, who acted as the artist’s housekeeper, had supervised the meal.

  “How long did you say?” Kent asked.

  He was referring to the final stages of renovation of the mill. There were various finishing touches that would be carried out by specialist craftsmen, such as wrought ironwork and light fittings in period with the age of the house.

  Roberts sat back in his big carved oak chair with a satisfied expression on his face. “About three months should see it through,” he said. “All in all there have been few problems. Far less than I had imagined.”

  “I know it’s a delicate matter,” his friend said diffidently. “You mentioned it before, but has the cost over-run...?”

  Roberts shook his head. “Most remarkable, really. Nowhere near as much as I had anticipated. More than covered by the income generated by Gilda on her travels around Europe and the States.

  “That’s good to hear,” Kent replied. “I’m glad I steered you toward the purchase. You must be sitting on a small fortune here. I suppose you won’t ever think of selling?”

  Roberts reached out for his glass. “No. I’ve discussed it with Gilda. I think we’ve settled here for life. I can’t imagine we would ever find such a place full of history and at such a reasonable price. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Only too glad to have such a close friend near at hand,” Kent said.

  This conversation was to come back to haunt him.

  III

  The author was busy on a new collection of short stories and did not see Roberts again until three weeks later, when they ran into one another in the bar of The Three Horseshoes. Gilda was over for a few days, so it was a pleasant surprise for Kent and they decided to have dinner together at a local restaurant. It was a convivial evening, and when the three left the restaurant Kent had promised to visit the mill the following Monday to see some further improvements. Gilda was off on her travels again before then, so they said goodbye in the car park.

  Kent arrived in the afternoon in question in a state of anticipation but, to his surprise, Roberts seemed withdrawn and vague regarding the invitation. He was, however, full of enthusiasm about a new painting he was engaged on, though when Kent questioned him further he remained tight-lipped about its subject and demurring whenever Kent questioned him more closely. But he did promise that he would reveal more about it at a later date. Roberts also gently declined Kent’s repeated requests to visit the studio to see the work in progress.

  “Later,” he said. “It is something completely new for me, and I’m sure it will create a sensation when I first exhibit it.”

  But after dinner that night, long after Mrs Summers had gone, he unburdened himself of a subject that had obviously been slightly troubling him. It seemed so trivial at first that Kent could not believe it.

  “The water?” he said. “I don’t understand.”

  Roberts interrupted him peremptorily. “The mill-race,” he said tautly. “It’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

  Kent gave the other a deprecatory smile. “But you can’t hear it,” he said. “These walls are enormously thick. It’s a long way down, and it’s only a small stream...”

  Roberts cut in abruptly. “I’m talking about the studio. It’s just above the stream.”

  Kent just could not get his friend’s drift. “What are you driving at? The floor is made of very thick timbers. The stream runs eight feet underneath. And it’s not a very fast-flowing river, if one can call it that. I’m at a loss to know what’s troubling you. We’re old friends. You can be perfectly frank with me. You were so pleased and happy to have found such a wonderful place...”

  Roberts gave him a twisted smile. “I know it sounds idiotic. It’s difficult to explain...”

  “Try me,” Kent insisted.

  Roberts gave a hopeless shrug. “It seems to depress,” he said. “I’m here alone most of the time. Half of my day is spent down there. And with Gilda away...”

  Kent reached out and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “I do understand,” he said gently. “But there’s something more, isn’t there?”

  Roberts turned a suddenly haggard face toward him. “Yes,” he said simply. “There’s something in the water.”

  IV

  Kent went away an hour later greatly troubled at his friend’s state of mind. His first thought had been to make a joke about taking more water with it, but he realised there was something far more serious than was evident. Roberts would not enlarge on the subject that was troubling him, and Kent did not like to probe any further.

  However, things had apparently returned to normal toward the end of June when Roberts threw a party on the lawn of his restored property for friends, neighbours and the craftsmen who had worked so hard and expertly on the project.

  Mingling with the guests were the local vicar and the librarian of the village Arts Centre, Roberts’ London agent and a sprinkling of local notables. Some of the artist’s canvases were on display in a conservatory erected as an adjunct to the mill house, and the local press had sent a reporter and photographer to cover the event.

  All in all it was a most successful gathering, Kent thought. The only notable absentee being Gilda, who was still negotiating terms with purchasers in Holland, though she did make a phone call during the celebrations, which was relayed by loudspeaker to the assembled guests.

  When Kent came away he was considerably reassured as to Roberts’ state of mind. His friend was almost ebullient and
greatly looking forward to a very successful future. Though Kent did not question Roberts about the things that had obviously been worrying his friend—he was far too tactful for that—he was greatly reassured by the artist’s restored balance and felt secure in the knowledge that he had now recovered his normal state of mind.

  But two things came back to Kent long afterward. When the vicar was at the garden party he expressed a wish to bless the house. He was about to anoint the huge crown post with holy water when he gave a sudden exclamation and dropped the vessel on to the floor before he was able to perform the ceremony. He explained that he suffered from arthritis of the hands and had received a sudden twinge of pain and the incident passed off.

  The other occurrence was of a lighter nature and concerned Roberts suddenly spotting a young couple, who had evidently come down the stream in a canoe and had been prevented from making any further progress by the mill building. They were standing on the bank watching the party with great interest. Roberts immediately invited them to join in and they were soon the centre of interest. The wife was a very beautiful blonde girl of about twenty-five, with her husband equally handsome. Kent was vividly reminded of a famous classical painting of a Greek god and goddess whose title he had forgotten.

  But some while afterward, the canoe had been found floating upside down in the stream several miles further up and there was no sign of its occupants. There were several boat yards in that area with various craft for hire and, as so many people congregated there in the summer months, no one was able to assist the police in their inquiries. The river was dragged but nothing was found. It eventually transpired through further press reports that the girl was a married woman who had run off with her lover. People in the village were extremely interested, but when the couple were last heard of in Canada the matter was soon forgotten.

  Kent was busy on the new short story collection for some weeks, though he and Roberts kept in close touch by telephone. Gilda was back temporarily anyway, and whenever they did speak Roberts seemed relaxed and happy.

  Gradually Kent began to lose the faint feeling of anxiety he had felt about the house, transmitted, of course, through Roberts’ uneasiness and one or two strange remarks he had made about the constant fret of the water beneath the building. But that was only to be expected of a property of that age and size. Though it was true that the rushing of the stream beneath was obtrusive on the lower level, it was completely quiet on what might be termed the ground floor and on the upper levels, where bedrooms and living accommodation were situated.

  Things went on in their usual placid fashion in the quiet surroundings of the village and it was almost the end of July when Kent arrived once more for an evening of conversation and an excellent dinner prepared by Roberts’ housekeeper, Mrs Summers.

  It was a beautiful evening and the two men sat drinking white wine while comfortably settled in window seats, thoroughly at ease with one another. There was a purple haze over the neighbouring fields, and that sort of absolute stillness one finds towards nightfall in late summer.

  The silence was broken only by the occasional sound of birdsong, as the flocks returned to the far stands of trees, and now and then the contented lowing of cattle on their grazing grounds.

  “A touch of Thomas Gray here,” Kent observed at length.

  The other’s answering smile showed him that the poetic allusion had not been lost. “Worth all the sweat and turmoil,” Roberts said as he refilled his friend’s glass.

  Kent nodded, and the two men stretched out their legs and looked out through the big picture window at the distant view, in one of those rare moments of contentment. But shortly they were roused from their reverie by the shrill bell Mrs Summers used when announcing that the meal was ready.

  “Come along, gentlemen,” she said good-naturedly, peering around the door lintel. “I’m sure you don’t want it to be spoiled and neither do I.”

  “That woman’s becoming quite a slave-driver,” Roberts said with a short laugh as soon as she had withdrawn.

  “A treasure, you mean,” Kent rejoined. “You’ve now got two in your life.”

  “True,” agreed Roberts, getting up and putting down his empty glass. “The only snag is that Gilda’s away so much, and you’ll be settled by September, don’t forget.”

  He was referring to Kent’s impending marriage, and his guest got up also, giving him a mock-rueful expression. “Bound and shackled, like yourself,” he said. “Goodbye to the carefree bachelor life.”

  Roberts laughed. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said.

  The meal, as usual, was excellent. When the two were having coffee and cognac, and Mrs Summers had left for her nearby home, the phone rang in the adjoining room where Roberts kept filing cabinets and records of his business affairs. He excused himself and hurried off into his office.

  He came back rubbing his hands. “That was Gilda, drumming up business in New York. Twelve thousand for two fairly small oils.”

  Kent gave a low whistle. “Congratulations. Perhaps Gilda could take me on as a client?”

  Roberts shook his head. “Nothing doing. In any case, you’re very successful from what I read about your print runs. Twenty thousand a time, if my information is correct.”

  The two men laughed conspiratorially and the talk passed to other matters.

  V

  From Roberts’ Personal Diary.

  Kent was here tonight. We had a pleasant and a long conversation after Mrs Summers had left. But I dare not broach the subject which is now my main concern. I know I am alone here most of the time, yet it is not just the creaking and movements of ancient timbers that one gets in a mediaeval house. It is the constant rush of the water. My studio is directly above the mill-race and though it is a relatively small stream yet the constriction as it passes between the brick walls magnifies the sound. There is a huge hatch just above, about eight feet from the surface, and when I open it and look down it sounds as though I can hear voices. They seem to be calling me. Or is this just fanciful?

  If I mentioned this to Kent he would question my sanity. And I dare not broach the subject to Gilda. She is so down-to-earth. It seems that I must face this thing alone.

  I could, of course, move the studio upstairs. But there is this great window which lets in the northern light and which I must have when creating my canvases. It seemed to have been made for me. Perhaps I should have thick rubber covering installed over the floor and equally thick carpeting over that to muffle the sound? It is something I shall have to think about if this continues...

  VI

  When Kent had occasion to visit the mill a few days later to call on Roberts, he found the haggard face on the artist again.

  The lunch had been cleared away and Mrs Summers was just leaving, though she would be back again at tea-time. It was a practical arrangement as she lived only a few hundred yards away.

  “He is in the study, Mr Kent,” she said. “I should go up without ringing, if I were you.” She paused, a troubled expression on her placid features. “I’m sure I can speak frankly with you, Mr Kent, as you’re such an old friend.”

  “Of course, Mrs Summers,” Kent said, hesitating with his hand on the great iron front door latch.

  “Something is bothering your friend. I can’t just put my finger on it but he keeps looking around as though something is standing behind him. It’s a strange enough old place and full of atmosphere and odd corners but it’s cheerful enough, and that won’t account for it. I know he’s alone a lot and painters are queer folk anyway...” Here she broke off and gave Kent a wry look. “I’m sure you won’t take my remarks amiss, but as you’re his best friend and all, I feel I can be frank with you, as I’ve already said.”

  “Naturally,” Kent said. “No offence taken and I’m glad you’ve spoken to me. Though I’m not here very often, I’ve sensed that there was something wrong. I believe he often does speak to himself when he’s wrestling with some weighty problem to do with his work. B
ut I’ll have a talk with him now if it will set your mind at rest.”

  The housekeeper’s face lit up immediately. “I’m glad to hear you say so, Mr Kent. We must all rely on our friends in this difficult world.” And to Kent’s surprise she wrung his hand effusively and went on her way down the garden path with a lighter step.

  Kent had taken the gist of her remarks seriously and, after locking the front door behind him, he made sure of making a good deal of noise as he ascended the great wooden staircase.

  Roberts waited on the landing to greet him and led the way into the study, evident relief on his features. “I saw you were talking to Mrs Summers,” he said. “I was watching from the window that juts out over the front entrance. She’s a good sort and I suppose she’s been telling you something about my strange behaviour.”

  “She didn’t put it quite like that,” Kent said awkwardly. “But she is a little concerned about you. Isn’t it time we had a frank talk? You’ve changed in some subtle way since you’ve been down here and you can’t deny it.”

  Dark shadows clouded the other’s face as he sat down at his desk and fiddled with a paperweight as though to control his nerves.

  Now that he was up closer, Kent could see that Roberts’ eyes had dark smudges beneath them that hadn’t been there before. “Talking may help,” he told Roberts gently. “And it may do some good.”

  Roberts moved awkwardly in his swivel chair so that a great bar of sunlight fell across his features, enabling Kent to see more clearly the effects of nervous tension on his friend’s face.

  Roberts made a hopeless gesture with his hands. “I hardly know where to begin.”

  “Just tell it as you remember it,” Kent said.

  “I’m a pretty sane, strong-willed person, as you know,” the artist said. “And this is something completely outside my experience. I don’t believe in the supernatural, but some while back I started hearing voices. I work a great deal in the studio, as you know, and the faint fret of the water beneath the building was very soothing at the beginning.”