Return of the Deep Ones: And Other Mythos Tales

by Brian Lumley

  A pair of large pipes just big enough to take two swimmers abreast showed their shiny white mouths in one of the sunken walls, and in my mind’s eye I could picture monstrous frog-shapes emerging, convening in the salty water of the pool and doing … what?

  What in hell was this place really for? What did the Deep Ones plan? The pool was a big one; why did they need a pool so large? Was Belton right in everything he suspected? Perhaps this was where I might find out.

  There were doors in the tiled walls of the room, each one bearing a name or title on a plastic plate. Moving round the pool (apart from the comparatively low ceiling and the absence of diving boards, it was for all the world like being in a small, deserted swimming-bath after hours). I paused to peer at the first nameplate. It said ‘Puth’uum-lahoie’! Was this really someone’s name? I tried the door, but it was locked. The next door, which had an as-yet-unmarked plate, stood slightly ajar. I entered a medium-sized room piled high with crates, boxes, and sections of metal shelving waiting for assembly. There was nothing there to interest me, however, so I quickly moved on.

  Then, at the far end of the pool, I came to a door with Semple’s name on it. I entered, put on the light … then stood gaping in astonishment at the veritable library of occult and esoteric literature contained within that small enclosed area. It would have been pointless even to attempt to remember more than half a dozen titles from those ceiling-high shelves, much less list them; they meant little enough to me, and would doubtless mean nothing at all to anyone but a student of such matters. While Semple had told me that he was just such a student, I had never thought of his obsession in terms of such magnitude. But, much as I would have liked to stay longer and look into some of these disquieting volumes, I still had to find Belton; and my position must surely have been growing more and more untenable by the minute.

  Hurriedly, I moved on, trying doors and briefly entering those that stood open, discovering nothing of any great importance and growing ever more aware of a rapidly thickening aura of hideous danger. Then, when I had almost returned to my starting point, after examining the rooms of several unrecognized human names—and one at least which I did know, that of “Dr Abraham Waite”, the same “doctor” who had so misused me—and those of true Deep Ones with names every bit as unearthly as the almost unpronounceable “Puth’uum—lahoie”, I was brought up short by a plate bearing a name which I immediately recognized.

  The plate said simply: “I. Zchaskov’—but the Igor Zchaskov I knew of was a Russian biochemist whose work in certain areas of biology—including cloning—had made him a fairly famous (and, in other quarters more concerned with ethics than results, an unprincipled and infamous) name in his field. He had defected from the Soviet Union in 1964, since which time he had gradually faded from the limelight. And now …?

  The door of Zchaskov’s room was open and I entered; and in less than a minute I had satisfied myself that indeed Belton was correct in all he suspected of Deep One ambitions and motivations. The room was nothing less than a small but extremely sophisticated and well-equipped laboratory, and to me it was abundantly clear what Zchaskov’s work was to be. This was the room where eventually he would attempt to manufacture an army of identical Deep Ones!

  I had seen enough. Now, without more ado, I must find Belton and get out of this monstrous place. I left Zchaskov’s laboratory, went to the main door, switched off all the lights except for the one small red bulb whose glow had led me to the place, and silently slipped out into the corridor. The oval door of the third tank stood before me, my last shot before attempting to discover a way out of this nest of evil.

  I stepped across the corridor, pulled the door open, and entered. The light was on, which was as well, for I would not have known where to locate the switch, and the tank was—empty?

  No, not empty, for Belton’s clothing lay in a disordered heap in one corner. Also, there were thick red smears on the metal floor …

  My flesh crawled as I froze, turned to stone by a movement glimpsed in the corner of my eye, a movement so slight as to be almost unnoticeable. Something was coming up over the lip of the sunken area, following a scarlet smear where it had dripped over the edge: a conch, one of those “unique” sinistral conches with which this entire nightmare had commenced.

  On legs which were suddenly weak as columns of jelly I moved to the edge of the sunken area. It was half full of water that was alive with conches. Directly beneath where I stood, a barrel-shaped knot of the slugs bobbed gently in the water on something which slowly revolved beneath their moving weight. Even as I watched, a cluster of them fell from the half-submerged object, fell bloated and red and … sated!

  “Acclimatization! … Immersion in a brine solution at a controlled temperature! … Fed with especially rich nutrients!”

  As God is my witness—if God there ever was—the eyeless, half-devoured, bloody gobbet of flesh in the water was all that remained of Jeremy Belton!

  VIII: Changeling

  The rest of it is a blur, a frenzy of memories seen now in my mind's eye like a stroboscopic nightmare. I remember finding a metal staircase that led upward, and a door that opened on to the beach on the southern side of the main building. I remember hugging the shadows beneath leering, peeping stars as I fled to the rocks of the southern promontory, and how I made my way around that tall tumble of boulders until I waded, then swam in the cool waters of the pool as the sea receded. I recall the way the moon silvered the water as I swam, adding its lustre to a fire of morbid excitement that burned in my veins. And for all that a greater passion drove me, there was a lure in the nighted ocean that was near—hypnotic.

  Then I remember stumbling from the water on the southern side of the bay arm, to be confronted by the thing which grew menacingly out of the shadows until it towered over me like a nodding stalagmite of sentient slime—the shoggoth, whose myriad eyes gazed at me, whose pseudopod arms reached out avidly to encircle me—before it shrank back in seeming consternation to stand mute and uncertain, though still vaguely threatening, beside an upright needlelike boulder large as itself. Then … a warning. As if to show me that my identity and loyalties remained in doubt, that the … creature … was far from satisfied with my authenticity, it turned on the rock standing up from the damp sands and enveloped it in an instant.

  This envelopment was simply that: the shoggoth flowed forward and enclosed the rock. Then … there followed a hissing, slight at first but rapidly increasing to a subdued, contained roar. I stood, trembling, dripping salt water, frozen in my terror, watching as the shoggoth’s outline seemed to vibrate where its protoplasmic body crushed the solid stone it enclosed.

  In some inexplicable way I was given to know the creature’s purpose: to demonstrate its power, its awesome strength. And like a whale blowing, suddenly the top of the shoggoth opened (I can explain it no other way: its upper surface developed an aperture or orifice) and from this palpitating opening reeking furnace gasses rushed upwards in a roaring jet, carrying with them small, charred, sticky fragments of stone which rained down spatteringly to steam and hiss upon the beach. I covered my head with my arms to avoid being struck by this superheated debris and backed away: and as I retreated, so the shoggoth ended its display and flowed back into its original position. Now, where so recently the boulder had stood, a black circle of tarry liquid steamed and bubbled: and of the great rock in its original form, no slightest shadow remained.

  Without more ado, as I continued to back away, the shoggoth melted back into the shadows of the beach and was gone. Just as poor Belton had done, this protoplasmic horror had finally accepted me for what I was rapidly becoming: a Deep One, and as such it could do me no harm.

  Released from my paralysis of fright, at last I turned and ran; and there followed my long, loping, low-panting flight along the beach beneath the cliffs, until at last I climbed Seaham’s old and crumbling sea-wall to the promenade, where I paused and drew breath as my eyes took in the silhouette of the seafront by night.
I looked closer, staring into the darkness, unable to believe my good fortune. A light was on in Sam Hadley’s window, and his battered old Ford stood on the pavement in front of his house.

  My one thought now was to get as far away from Seaham as possible, give myself a little time to think things out, and work out a sure means of presenting my case to the authorities. A long taxi ride into Newquay would allow me sufficient time to compose myself, and once there I could go straight to the police. My best approach would be to report Jeremy Belton’s death, which must surely be guaranteed to produce the desired result. Before morning, the place on the beach would be crawling with police, and the plans of the Deep Ones in England would be completely scotched, blown sky high!

  As to what would then become of me … only time would tell. I was not without influential friends. What could be done for me would be done. I could not, dared not believe that what had been started in me was truly without remedy; I had to cling to the belief that whatever else happened, I myself could be … put right.

  And so I walked unsteadily along the promenade to Sam’s place, made my way down the garden path, and knocked on his door. There was movement within; the door opened, and Sam stood in the night—shadowed hall.

  “Sam.” I said, “you don't know how glad I am to find you up! I have a job for you that will pay four times your normal rate, if only you’ll—” And there I paused as I noticed the way he silently regarded me, his face white in the moonlight that flooded his doorway. “Sam?” I said. “Is something

  He stepped to one side, and a previously hidden form suddenly loomed in the darkness of the hall behind him. A great hand shot out, grabbed me by the shoulder, and jerked me forward. I threw up my own hands, but too late. In the moment before a massive, club-like fist struck me in the forehead, I recalled something old Jason Ridley had told me when last I had tried to enlist Sam Hadley’s services: that the people from the club “did a fair bit o’ trade wi’ um!” Then, as I reeled and fell into Hadley’s garden, the owner of the sledge-like fists stepped into view: Sargent. And the way he and Hadley stood over me told me that indeed the latter was in league with the Deep Ones, and that once again I was in their power …

  Somehow I held on to consciousness as I was picked up by Sargent and Hadley, carried down the garden path and out through the gate, to be bundled unceremoniously into the back of the old Ford. Then the car’s doors slammed and the engine started into life. A moment more, and the car was making a three-point turn in the narrow roadway.

  No need to wonder where I was being taken. Doubtless Semple’s body had been discovered where I had left it, and the Deep Ones had sent Sargent after me. The trip was a matter of minutes by car. They had phoned Hadley; he had gone to the place on the beach to pick up Sargent; then, returning to Hadley's place, the two had simply waited for me.

  As my head began to clear, I lay still and feigned unconsciousness, at the same time easing the rusty screwdriver out of my pocket. One thing was certain: come what may, I was not going back to Deep One headquarters. When the car turned left and picked up speed, I knew we were in Sea Lane, Seaham’s ‘main street’ that led to the coastal trunk road, and so to Newquay. At the top of Sea Lane, two hundred yards beyond the village, there was a ‘T’ junction where the car would once again turn left. There, directly across the bar of the T was an old, deep, and derelict quarry whose fenced side ran parallel with the road for a distance of some thirty yards. Picturing the quarry as I remembered it from my many walks in the area, a desperate scheme began to form in my mind.

  Carefully, moving my body as little and as slowly as possible, I eased myself up until I could see who was driving. It was Sargent, and that suited my scheme perfectly. I doubted if I could do what must be done to an entirely human person, no matter his affiliation with the horrors from the sea. Then I gathered my feet in beneath me and waited, crouching there in the dark interior of the car until Sargent began to apply the brakes as we approached the junction.

  Just as the car turned left and started to accelerate, Hadley casually turned and looked directly into my face. His eyebrows shot up in shock, and he yelled: “Sargent, he’s—”

  But I had already looped my right arm round Sargent's neck, lifting his chin while I used my left hand to drive the blade of the screwdriver into his throat. Then, as he choked and grabbed with both hands at his spurting neck, I dropped the screwdriver, shoved him against the door, grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it to the right. The car careened across the road in a screeching of tyres, and mounted the kerb.

  By now Hadley was trying to snatch my left hand away from the wheel. I obliged him, smashed the back of my fist into his face, and knew the satisfaction of feeling teeth give way under my knuckles. In the glare of the headlights as the car began to jounce on the uneven slope that formed the quarry’s rim, I caught sight of a white wooden fence and knew that time had run out. Falling back, I yanked frenziedly at the door handle and hurled myself out into the night.

  I bounced heavily through long grasses, tumbling halfwinded into the fence at the quarry’s very lip. As I grabbed wildly at an iron upright, the bottom rail of the fence gave way and my lower body slipped through into empty air. I hung on grimly as my arms took the full weight of my body. Below me there was only the darkness of the quarry's sheer depths—which suddenly erupted into a bright gout of fire as a loud explosion shook the night. My plan had worked: the car had plunged through the fence and fallen to the quarry’s boulder-strewn floor. Pulling myself to safety, I looked down at the scene below.

  The car was standing on its flattened nose in a sea of fire, its interior already a blazing inferno. Sam Hadley’s ten-gallon tank must have been full to the brim. Even so, it was unlikely that anyone in the village had heard the crash. The nearest house was two hundred yards away, and the quarry's walls would have deadened the sound of exploding gasoline.

  I fought my way through long grasses, gorse, and brambles to the road, crossed it, and started back down Sea Lane. My left ankle was sprained, causing me to limp badly, but other than that I seemed unhurt. For once, good fortune had been with me. I was thinking much more clearly now, and knew what I must do. The house of the village constable stood directly behind his tiny police station midway down Sea Lane. In this sleepy little village of less than six hundred inhabitants, there was no such thing as a twenty-four hour watch. I would have to wake the elderly constable, William Hearst, and if I knew “Billy” he’d be sleeping soundly.

  In less than five minutes I was leaning against the wall of the police station and giving my ankle a moment’s rest. The police station—humble symbol of sanity—I had thought never to see so glad a sight again. And still my luck was holding, for in all the village only one light shone out: a yellow ray of hope from the crack where the door stood ajar beneath the old blue lamp. Billy must be up working late on some report or other.

  Then I remembered my last conversation with the ageing policeman: how he had told me he was due for retirement in only a few short weeks. There would be a new man in the job, now. But no matter; a policeman is a policeman …

  Despite all I had been through, I was conscious of the hour and of my own wild appearance. But surely my condition would only substantiate what I had to say. So I entered that friendly building and crossed to the counter, behind which I knew stood an old oak desk. At the desk, his head bent low over a sheaf of papers, William Hearst’s relief kept his lonely vigil. If he heard me enter, he gave no sign.

  “Constable,” I said, my voice strange and strained even in my own ears. “Constable, I wish to report—” And at last he looked up.

  His eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth fell open. Then, slowly rising to his feet, he regained his composure. He was a big man of about my own age. I didn’t recognize him, but I knew his looks at once!

  “Wasn't really expectin’ you, Mr. Vollister,” the constable drawled. “And you got somethin’ or other to report, ’ave you?” His eyes bored into mine, unblinking eyes
that were too big and round above a narrow nose and fleshy lips that curved upward now in an emotionless smile.

  Another one of their “friends” in the village—a changeling who hadn’t quite made it!

  I backed away, strangled noises rasping from a throat suddenly grown dry as a desert, groping behind me until I found the door where it stood open. Then I turned and leaped out into the street, bounding and floating in a mindless panic-flight over the ancient cobbles, down Sea Lane to Front Street and the promenade, leaping like a madman across the tumbled debris of the old sea wall, knowing the biting agony of my twisted ankle and caring not a bit, until I felt the soft sand of the beach beneath my flying feet and turned them homeward.

  Homeward, yes, for there was nowhere else to run. How many more of the villagers were part of the Deep One plot to establish themselves in England? I had no way of knowing. And in any case, no matter whom I called on for help, once the ‘constable’ caught up with me he would soon put an end to any ‘wild claims’ I might make. And so I could only run.

  Nor did I stop until I reached the foot of the steps where they zig-zagged up the cliff face, and only then because I feared that if I did not stop I must surely fall dead from my exertions. But even there, so close to home, still I was full of fear.

  Gone now the man of action who had escaped in such spectacular fashion from Sam Hadley’s taxi. Now I was in the grip of terror! Terror whispered in a thin wind that sprang up unbidden off the sea, gloomed from the shadows at the foot of the cliffs, stared blindly down from the pale face of the old moon.

  Hopping where I could and trailing my injured foot, I somehow managed to climb the precipitous stairs and make my way to my lonely refuge. There I found my door key in its secret place and let myself in. There was evidence that the house had been visited, and I knew that the Deep Ones would not have found too much difficulty in gaining entry, but a quick search of the premises satisfied me that they were not there now. Then I went straight to the telephone … a futile hope.