Chapter Thirteen

With the morgue closed for the foreseeable future and nothing but an empty house waiting for me, I instead followed State Street to the center of Innsmouth and found a small pub that didn’t seem bent on robbing a man of all his wages for a plate of sausage and a pint of ale. One pint led to another and I managed to douse my anger while grousing to anyone who’d listen about so-called friends who’d as soon stab you in the back as help you. By the time I left, the hour was late and the streets dangerously empty.

Although I wobbled a bit on my feet at first, the brisk, damp air cleared my head soon enough and by the time I’d reached my neighborhood I’d regained both balance and enough mental alertness to keep an eye out for would-be cutpurses and other vermin of the shadows.

Which was why I paused before crossing the street to my house. Something about the building seemed…off. Through the intermittent breaks in the mist, I studied the two-story brick structure, trying to determine what had raised my hackles. Finally, I chalked it up to nerves and reached into my pocket for my key.

And stopped as I noticed the line of shadow at the door’s edge, where there should be none.

I let go of the key and instead drew my gun with a trembling hand. I had no doubt that I’d closed the door securely before leaving. I remembered clearly sliding the key into the lock and giving the handle a quick pull to make certain the latch caught.

Someone had broken in.

I started across the street and then came to a halt in the middle of the road. Whoever it was might still be inside. The prudent thing would be to call the police.

Bugger that, I thought, remembering the last time I’d been in need of assistance. The bastard would be long gone before the nearest coppers got their lumbering asses here.

My simmering anger caught fire again and burned away any fear. I raised the gun. Whoever had decided to burgle my house would suffer the consequences, be they man or demon.

Thinking to surprise the intruder, I strode around to the rear of the house rather than go through the front. I opened the back door and was about to step inside when a massive shape careened into me and bowled me over. I tumbled down the two short steps and rolled to my hands and knees just in time to catch a glimpse of a man-sized figure disappearing into the mist.

“Stop!” I felt around for the gun, found it a few feet away. I got up and gave chase, cursing my damned terrible luck and the double-damned fog that enveloped Innsmouth on a constant basis. My quarry never slowed, heading north on Fish Street toward the river. The moisture-laden air muffled the slap of our shoes against the paving stones, making it difficult to keep track of the burglar.

We continued that way for two blocks, my ghostlike quarry moving in unnatural silence. Glimpses of darker shadows and swirling currents in the mist were the only signs of his presence until he reached State Street and paused at the corner. In that moment of hesitation, I caught my first real look at him, the glow of a gas lamp revealing the barest glimpse of his features, hardly more than a silhouette. Yet still enough to inject ice into my veins and freeze me mid-step.

The suggestion of a pale face, a ghostly jellyfish in a sea of gray. Broad shoulders sloping down to arms that gave the impression of abnormal length, much longer than they should be. A coat or cloak of some kind that reached to his knees, fading away into the mist. When the figure turned right and hurried off again, there was a weird cast to his movements, almost as if the man had an extra limb.

Or a tail.

Dread gripped me with an icy hand. I clenched the gun tighter.

Him!

The demon had returned. Most likely to seek out the book again. The memory of that awful visage looming over me did its best to keep me rooted in place but I forced it away. This was what I’d wanted. My chance to take down the Fish Street Strangler and redeem myself with Flora by ridding us of the specter who’d brought so much darkness into our lives.

It won’t get away again!

Once more I gave pursuit, knowing I had to stay close or lose my quarry in the mists. At the end of the block I attempted to train my pistol at the fleeing target but I couldn’t aim straight enough to take a shot. Instead, I settled for keeping the gun in hand and putting all my efforts into my legs. Fueled by rage and ale, I ran faster than I ever had before, mist and buildings blending into a gray blur as I kept my eyes focused on the fuzzy outline of the demon.

I was several steps onto the Water Street Bridge before I realized the creature was leading me into Old Innsmouth. My pace slowed as I again considered abandoning the chase. Only fools or criminals crossed the Manuxet River. Especially at night.

This may be your only chance.

I had the demon on the run. I was armed. When would I have an opportunity like that again?

Imagine Flora’s face when she hears I not only killed the monster, but ventured into hell itself to do it. She’ll forget Ben Olmstead even exists.

I crossed the river and kept going.

With each passing block, with each glimpse of an abnormal, slinking stride, my resolve weakened. I wondered if I’d made a monumental error. Sane folk avoided Old Innsmouth like the very plague that had rendered it inhospitable decades earlier.

Except my damned pride wouldn’t allow me to quit. If I turned back I’d forever be the man who lost his nerve, who’d gone yellow when things got dangerous. Instead of being a hero to Flora, I’d be less than nothing, a failure as a man and a friend.

And wouldn’t Ben love that? I could hear my supposed chum now. “Poor old Henry. Turned out to be quite the Sally, didn’t he?” All the while wearing that simpering grin of his. No, dammit, this was something I had to see through to the finish. No turning back. No going for the police.

Not that I wouldn’t appreciate assistance at the moment. Extra eyes and fists would definitely be of benefit if it came down to a physical encounter. There’d be no aid forthcoming, though, so no sense dwelling on the impossible. No police patrol had crossed the bridge in years, not since the people of Innsmouth had, through action if not official decree, abandoned the northern side of the town and allowed it to become a wasteland populated by vermin of both the four- and two-legged variety.

Hike up your britches and get on with it.

Something my father used to say when I didn’t want to do my chores. I’d cease lollygagging, having learned the hard way those words meant there’d be no more warnings. Now that memory spurred me on in a different fashion. If I brought in the demon, it would mean more than just a place in Flora’s heart. There’d likely as not be a change in the attitude of the whole town toward me. Wipe away the stain my father’s actions had left on the family name.

I’d finally be my own man, a respected citizen, rather than the son of the worst criminal in Innsmouth’s history.

There. Something moving amid the gray eddies and darker shadows, up at the next corner. I put on a burst of speed, desperate to close the distance between us. My hand tightened around the handle of the pistol, fighting against the damp air and sweat that threatened to steal the weapon from my grasp.

I rounded the corner and my foot slipped on the slick paving stones, a reminder that Old Innsmouth held dangers besides those of the criminal variety. Thanks to decades of neglect, the buildings and streets had surpassed disrepair and reached a state of crumbling decay that made it hazardous just to walk among them. Only one in four streetlamps still fought a losing battle against the fog. Feral dogs and other wildlife prowled the barren neighborhoods, some with a taste for flesh and all potential carriers of deadly disease.

I regained my balance and regarded the broad width of a once-grand avenue, its tall square buildings monuments to a different time. Behind the curtains of mist, the bricks would be deteriorating and the windows all broken. The stench of decay filled the moisture-laden air, a stomach-churning stew of rot, black fungus, and something worse, an indefinable stink that raised the hairs on my neck.

Which way? The fog had thickened, as if emanating from the buildings themselves, reducing visibility down to mere yards. A muffled sound to my left made me turn, just in time to catch a glimpse of darker black at the entrance to a side street. An impression of something long swinging to one side past two legs.

A coat. Only a coat, you fool. You’re not a child, hiding beneath the bedcovers from the boogem-man.

Still, the image of a tail remained in my head and my heart beat faster than my exertions accounted for. I resumed my pursuit, a tad slower now, wary of my quarry lying in wait within the stygian depths.

I needn’t have worried. At the next corner, the shadow materialized again, turned right, and vanished into the soupy vapors. He continued to lead me along, taking corners in seemingly random fashion, never close enough for me to get a decent look, never so far ahead that he disappeared for more than a few seconds.

After several minutes, I arrived at yet another intersection and found my way blocked by a gaping chasm in the ground where a huge section of road had collapsed. I stopped a few feet from the edge and paused to catch my breath while I regarded my surroundings.

Dark edifices loomed to my left and right. Once stately, they’d devolved into deadly traps, capable of swallowing a careless visitor unlucky enough to step on a weakened floor or fail to see a missing stair.

A muted thud emerged from the atmospheric shroud, leaving me with the impression of a door closing nearby. I eyed the obscured buildings, unsure of which direction the noise emanated from. Nothing moved. The idea that I’d been lured into an ambush returned to me, bringing with it a shiver that had nothing to do with the damp sea air.

Cursing myself for a fool, I moved toward the closest building, shuffling my feet to avoid tripping over any unseen obstacles. For the first time since entering Old Innsmouth, I wondered how I’d get back to the other side of the river. Three bridges joined the two sections of the town, but at the moment I had no idea which was closest or which direction it lay in. The idea of being lost seemed absurd; I couldn’t be more than a few minutes’ walk to safety.

Or could I? If the fog could play hell with my sense of direction when it came to pinpointing a sound, I might be just as confused about distance and not even know it.

Give it up. Go home before you are well and truly lost.

The time had come to admit defeat. Personal pride no longer mattered; now the only important thing was to get home again with my skin intact. I turned and stared back the way I’d come.

Which way led home?

Moisture ran into my eyes and I blinked it away. Wary of anyone sneaking up on me, I put my back against the building for safety’s sake. This far into the dead heart of Old Innsmouth, weeds and lichen had a firm hold on everything, not only overgrowing the paving stones but sprouting through gaps in the mortar of walls and stairs. Cold, fetid air wafted down from the empty holes where windows once looked out onto bustling streets.

I moved a few steps to my right and stopped, halted by indecision. Was it the correct direction? Spending the hours until dawn wandering decrepit streets held little appeal. That’s if I lived to see the dawn. Who knew what depraved scoundrels might be eyeing me even now, ready to take my life and wallet with a flick of a blade.

Think logically. As it so often did, my mind provided the advice in my father’s voice.

I took a deep breath to calm myself. Logic, yes. All I needed was to locate one point of reference. And all the ones I knew would be near the river. So, if I could determine which direction the river lay, it would be a simple matter of just heading east toward the harbor until I came to either Federal Street or Water Street and followed them to their bridges.

Keeping my back firmly against the wall, I inched toward the front of the building while doing my best to ignore the slime fouling my coat. The street signs that once stood at the corner were long gone, thanks to the anarchy and looting following the town’s descent into chaos in the aftermath of the plague. Bemoaning my decision to pursue the demon, I edged around the building and slowly followed the wall until I came to a rusted iron railing and a wide set of brick stairs that rose crag-like from the vapors. At the top, a dark rectangle showed at the entrance to the manmade edifice. Above it sat a faded sign, only the first part still legible: Marsh Canning and

My attention returned to the open door. The entrances to all the other buildings I’d passed were either closed or the doors missing; none had stood ajar.

I remembered the sound I’d heard earlier. Perhaps someone pulling open a warped door rather than closing one? The stranger could be inside, prepared to waylay the man imprudent enough to forego the safety of Innsmouth on a wild goose chase.

As if in response to my thoughts, a muffled clattering broke the silence, followed by a hoarse grunt and then a single word.

“Damn.”

My jaw tightened. What demon cursed like a man? Shame burned my cheeks. How stupid I’d been! ’Twas not a monster at all. In my head, the pale-faced creature with the inhuman tail morphed into something completely different and far less terrifying. A mad scientist in a dank underground laboratory, performing twisted experiments on corpses until he discovered a way to reanimate the dead.

A fellow who deserved to get his arse kicked – or shot! – for the trouble he’d caused.

Science, not magic, lay at the heart of things, as I should have known it always did.

With renewed determination, I climbed the stairs. Cracks, some several feet long, created mosaic patterns in the brick and made the footing treacherous. I avoided the worst of them and stepped inside, where an offensive odor slapped my face in greeting. Waving in vain at the rank stench, I moved carefully through an enormous space. A warehouse or factory, abandoned like so many others in the days of the plague’s aftermath. On the second floor, rows of large windows, most of them empty of glass, allowed in just enough light so that I wasn’t completely blind.

Ahead, a stack of crates loomed like a miniature pyramid in the murk. One of them had fallen over.

The sound I’d heard before the muttered curse? Perhaps someone watching me, someone who’d gotten careless?

A series of obscure marks in the grime caught my eye, leading from the door to the crates and then into the depths of the building, where the darkness claimed them. From the looks of the tracks, either more than one person had entered or the building was frequented on a regular basis.

I moved forward, my feet kicking up filth and spores that turned into malignant clouds. With each step, the stink grew worse, a fetid mix of dead fish and human waste that soon forced me to cover my nose with my arm to block the stench.

Several yards in, the tracks grew more distinct. I lit a match and knelt close to examine them as best I could. Something about them seemed…odd.

Definitely footprints, with an occasional smudge between them that sometimes obliterated part of the tracks. A man, walking fast, the hem of a long, wide coat touching the ground now and then. A large foot for sure, much wider in the front, with strange protuberances. Almost like….

The claws of an animal.

Once the thought took hold, I couldn’t shake it. A flattened, paddle-shaped, webbed foot, with five claws extending out. The creature’s tail swinging behind it, occasionally bumping or dragging….

Somewhere ahead, the unmistakable slam of a door echoed through the cavernous space. I looked up. The tracks continued on, leading deeper into the unknown.

Man or demon, I’m coming for you.

Pistol aimed forward, I continued on, alert for any signs of movement. I did my best to avoid looking too closely at the prints after that. When they faded back into obscure smudges, blending in with all the others on the floor, a sense of relief came over me and I increased my pace.

The trail ended at a small door with a broken window. To my left, an entire section of wall had collapsed, which earned my gratitude as it allowed fresh air to dilute the omnipresent reek of death and decay. It also provided a touch of light, which enabled me to see what lay beyond the door: a small landing that led to a downward staircase. As I reached for the knob, a whisper of voices drifted up. Indistinct, but most definitely spoken words.

I hesitated, my hand in midair. It would be much darker at the bottom of those stairs, and therefore more dangerous. I only had a few matches in my box. And who knew if one of the voices belonged to the Fish Street Strangler or just some common cutthroat and his cronies?

It doesn’t matter. This thought, more than anything, broke my paralysis. I had to see this fool’s errand through to the end. I pushed open the door just enough to squeeze through and crept across the landing to the stairs. Halfway down, the last vestiges of light disappeared. Rather than give myself away by striking a match, I descended the rest of the way like a blind man, keeping my free arm against the wall as a guide. When both wall and stairs came to an end, I stopped and slowly spread my arms out.

Nothing.

Once more, I considered using my matches and chose not to, having no desire to make myself an obvious target. With no idea of what kind of space I stood in, I settled for shuffling forward three steps, wary of holes in the floor or objects blocking my way. I repeated this tedious strategy twice and then stopped again.

Now what? My eyes had not grown accustomed to the dark at all; the lightless cave extended in unknown distances around me. Moving in tiny increments, it could take me all night to explore the space, and even then, what would I learn? Unless the demon allowed me to walk right into it, the damned thing could be right beside me and I’d never know.

That thought immediately brought to mind visions of dead men and women lined up just out of arm’s reach, waiting their master’s command to fall on me and rip me to pieces.

I strained to hear any sounds but all I perceived was the thump-thump-thump of my own heart and a high-pitched whistling from my nose as I breathed. Nothing overly loud, but I assumed any self-respecting demon – or criminal – would hear me a mile away. Not to mention smell me, as I took in the nose-wrinkling odor of sweat from beneath my raised arms. The pungent reek informed me I’d not be wearing this particular suit again anytime soon. My man-stink was so strong it nearly overpowered the odors of the long-vacant building, a mix of sour mold and dead fish that—

Dead fish? No!

My heart banged against my ribs as I recognized that particular odor. I turned to run for the stairs. If I could make it back to the relative brightness of the upper level—

A heavy blow struck my back and I fell forward, landing hard on rough wood that scraped my arms and face. I tried to twist around and aim my pistol but an unseen hand stripped the weapon from me. I crawled forward, scraping my arms in the process. Splinters dug into my flesh, the stinging pain barely registering in my terrified state. I collided with the bottom of the staircase and grabbed at the first step. Something coiled around my leg. A pinprick stabbed my calf and a wave of dizziness overcame me. I tried to lift my hands to reach the next stair but waves of nausea tore conscious thought away and brought forth a maelstrom of confusion in my skull.

“I knew you would come, Henry. It’s been too long, my son.”

The deep voice pinned me in place like an insect pegged to a board. The world shrank around me until all that remained was the echo of those words in my brain.

No! It can’t be – supposed to be—

The whirlpool grew stronger, pulled me down into a warm, black sea, deeper, deeper, until nothing remained but a single word.

Father?

And then even that was gone.