Across the Reef and into the Sea

Across the Reef and into the Seas

by

Maonaigh

Those of you who have read the stories of the late US horror/fantasy writer H P Lovecraft (1890-1937) will be familiar with the benighted coastal town of Innsmouth, Massachusetts. If you don't know it, don't think of taking a vacation there. For one thing it doesn't exist and if it did, you'd be lucky to leave the place unscathed.

The sex in this tale is conspicuous by its absence but I hope this doesn't put you off reading the story. Anyway, you wouldn't enjoy sex in Innsmouth. The denizens are... strange...

All characters and places are imaginary--any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. Acknowledgements are due to H P Lovecraft and his imagination.

Copyright © 2022 to the author

* * * * *

Below the thunders of the upper deep;

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea...

The Kraken --Tennyson

Joshua Lomax had been in Innsmouth for no more than a few hours when he first saw the mermaid. There she was, perched on the rocks as large as life. Well, maybe not as large as life, for Devil Reef was a good mile or so out from the shore. But yes, Lomax's first impression was that he was looking at a mermaid...

It had started a week or two previously, at the opening of Lomax's latest exhibition in Boston, well-attended as usual. Lomax was noted for his sinister land- and seascapes, which, despite their heavy gloom and frequent hint of unseen horrors, invariably sold well. His paintings were bleak creations, thick daubs in black and varying shades of grey, depicting stark mountains and forests or lone sea-shores, often shrouded in strange mists. There were those who vowed that they could detect lurking, disquieting figures--unhuman and yet not animal--in Lomax's pictures.

A New York Times art critic had once written: "...with seemingly little effort, Lomax is able to tap into those strange, atavistic fears buried deep within the subconscious of us all. These potent, muted, monochromatic swirls, unrelieved by any colour other than the merest hint, can induce a choking sense of fear unlike that produced by any other painter of his generation. Those readers old enough to have seen the original, fearful works--now mostly and regrettably destroyed--of artist Richard Upton Pickman [see Pickman's Model by H P Lovecraft] will understand what I am saying. And yet the difference between the works of Pickman and Lomax is the difference between, say, the horror films of George A Romero and Val Lewton; the difference between the bludgeon and the rapier. The one assails you with his horrors; the other--with great subtlety--induces you to create your own..."

Or as a reviewer in a down-market tabloid put it: "...and if you don't feel like a large Scotch when you walk into Joshua's show, brother, you sure-as-hell will when you leave..."

Lomax had been getting bored as he did too easily at exhibitions these days, particularly so on opening nights, which were attended by the usual suspects: art-critics, academics, wealthy collectors with arm-candy, pseuds... And then he spotted, apparently absorbed in one of his paintings, someone who just might be a little more interesting, who was definitely not one of the usual suspects.

As the man's back was turned to Lomax, the painter could see only a tall, gangling shape clad in dungarees and a less-than-clean work-shirt, with enormous feet shod in worn sneakers. The stranger's head was oddly long and narrow, with sparse clumps of hair as if its owner was suffering from severe alopecia. As Lomax approached the other, he thought he could detect a faint aroma of cheap rye. The painting which seemed to hold the man engrossed was a typical Lomax seascape, harsh and desolate, with an intimation of vile things beneath the icy waves.

"What do you think of it?" Lomax asked as he came to the man's side.

The other grunted. "Must be a depressing son-of-a-bitch," he said. The elongated face he turned towards Lomax was oddly-featured: flat-nosed, pop-eyed, chin receding, skin rough and scaly as if he suffered some chronic disease. Faint scars or striations on his neck showed above the grubby shirt collar---for some odd reason the scars made Lomax think of gills. There was a flicker of embarrassment in the pale eyes. "Hey, you're the artist. Sorry, mister, no offence meant." He started to shuffle off.

Lomax burst out laughing. "Come back here. No offence taken, I promise. And I assure you, I'm not as gloomy as my paintings. Hell, it's good to hear an honest opinion that hasn't been dressed up fancy by some pretentious art-critic."

His new acquaintance assayed a half-hearted flicker of the mouth that suggested he was unused to smiling. "I'm Eli." The smell of booze was even stronger, wafting over Lomax. And there was another smell, underlying and unpleasant, slightly familiar and yet not readily identifiable. Perhaps something to do with the man's skin condition. Lomax casually took out and lit a pungent little cheroot. It helped.

Eli gestured towards the seascape. "What do I think? Reminds me of home, that's what I think." His voice was a hoarse croak, his accent not exactly strange but somehow different.

"And where's home?"

"Place called Innsmouth." Eli's head shook a little. "You ever bin there, mister?"

"Innsmouth?" Lomax shook his head. "Can't say I ever heard of it. Where is it?"

"Upstate a way. Coastal town, used to be a fishin' an' tradin' port long time back." Eli shrugged, a small movement as if his shoulders were stiff. "Guess it's no surprise you don't know it. Not many folk do these days, not many maps show it, even. Anyway, mister, you paint stuff like this, then I reckon Innsmouth's the place for you."

"Do you miss it?" asked Lomax.

Eli's mouth turned down slightly. "I miss it and I don't miss it. Goddam place makes this painting look cheerful." He lowered his voice a little as if talking to himself, seeming to forget Lomax's presence for the moment. "Guess I'll have to go back sometime... soon maybe, afore it's too late..." He repeated the odd shrug and muttered again, another enigmatic comment: "...ain't no escape fer the likes o' me..." He continued to study the painting for a few moments then seemed to pull himself together. "Well, gotta get on, things to do. Nice speakin' with you, mister."

Lomax watched the man move off and then sought out Hauptmann, the gallery's chubby owner. "Just been speaking to a funny-looking guy called Eli," he said. "Know him?"

Hauptmann nodded. "Eli, yes. He's on the building's janitorial team. Name's Sarne, Sarnt...something like that. Unprepossessing, isn't he? Why, he been bothering you?"

"Far from it. We had an interesting little talk about one of my paintings." Lomax dropped his voice to a near whisper. "Is he a lush?"

"He drinks some," admitted Hauptmann, "and he could take a few more showers, but despite that he's the best janitor I can remember and I've had the gallery more than thirty years. And he doesn't bother anybody with his drinking, just gets on with his work, never complains, so there's no problem.

"Well now, Joshua, the opening's gone well. Several paintings have been sold already and I think others will go quickly. What are you going to do next?"

Lomax considered for a moment. "Next? I'm going to visit a town called Innsmouth, that's what I'm going to do next."

Hauptmann raised an eyebrow. "Innsmouth? Where's that?"

* * * * *

The morning bus for Arkham via Innsmouth was due to leave from outside Newburyport Public Library at ten. Lomax had consulted an area map and Eli was almost right---the town was barely shown, just a dark outline where a tributary river called the Manuxet met the sea and tiny letters 'I'mth'. His intention had been to drive all the way there but he had been persuaded otherwise by the proprietor of Newburyport's sole filling station.

"Road ain't too good, mister," the man had said, wiping his brow with the back of a greasy hand. He looked critically at Lomax's small Toyota. "Probably kick the shit outa this little beauty. Don't know why anyone'd want to go to Innsmouth, anyhow, ain't nothin' much there, but if you gotta go, best take the bus. My lot's mostly empty--you can park your car there free for a few days."

The bus driver was young, an Elvis look-alike. He grinned happily when Lomax climbed on board. "Hey, a passenger! Guess that makes about two or maybe three this year. Name's Richie." He extended a hand for Lomax to shake. Lomax didn't use buses much but he didn't think this was normal practice. However, he shook for politeness sake.

"Stow your bags anywhere you want. Ain't likely to be anyone else travelling." Richie pointed to Lomax's large portfolio and paints case. "You an artist? Tell you what, you sit down there near me and we can chew the fat on the road. Can't tell you how good it is to have someone normal with me." He switched on this engine bang on time and eased the bus out onto State Street, the main thoroughfare.

As they left Newburyport, Lomax asked: "If you don't get all that many passengers, how come the bus still runs daily? It can't be very cost effective."

"Beats me," Richie admitted, "Boss told me there's some kind of unbreakable covenant, goes back seventy, eighty years or more. Weather permitting, bus has to run every day, all year long, no matter what. I get paid, so I should worry." He pulled out a pack of Camels one-handed. "You mind?"

Lomax shook his head. "A while ago you said something about having someone normal with you. What did you mean by that?"

Richie lit his cigarette with an old Zippo, dented in several places. "Mostly, any passengers I do get are old Innsmouth folk. They can be real strange, mister. Weird-looking, too, a lot of them. Round here we call it the 'Innsmouth look'. Don't feel too comfortable driving with them sitting behind me."

Lomax took out one of the small cheroots he favoured. "I met someone from Innsmouth recently. I guess you could say he was odd-looking." He described Eli briefly.

Richie laughed. "That's it, that's the 'Innsmouth look'. Know what his name was?"

"Eli something... Sarne or Sarnt, I was told."

"Sargent, most likely," Richie nodded, "One of the old Innsmouth families. Anyhow, there ain't so many of them left now. Used to be Sargent men ran these buses but they just stopped coming in to work years back. Then the company I work for was contracted to take the route over. You'll still see a few like this Eli character around Innsmouth but most have maybe moved away or just plain disappeared."

"Why's that, do you know?"

"There're stories." Richie took a final drag on his cigarette and flipped the butt out of the cab window. "Said to have been some kind of disaster in Innsmouth in the Twenties. My grandpa told me a few tall tales he'd heard from his pa but he was only a small kid at the time. I reckon his pa must have been yanking his chain."

"So let's hear them," Lomax said, "I like tall tales."

"Ah hell, they're just crazy stories." Richie looked sheepish. "One is that back in the South Seas trading days---early 1800s maybe---those old Innsmouth people, sailors mostly, mixed in and mated with some kind of sea monsters and that's why their descendants look the way they do. Story was they got worse and worse as they got older until they looked more like fish or frogs than humans. Then they're supposed to leave the land and take to living in the sea. Me, I reckon their looks're nothing more than too much inbreeding---town always was pretty isolated. Mostly nobody but real close cousins to marry. And then they were supposed to be devil-worshippers and the Feds moved in and blew half the town up. That was during Prohibition, just before the Depression. Seems a bit drastic. Devil-worshippers? Bootleggers more likely. Hell, Grandpa sure could spin them."

Lomax ground the stub of cheroot under his heel. The bus was filthy enough so a little more dirt wouldn't hurt. "You say a lot of the old Innsmouth people either moved away or went missing. What's happened to the place since?"

"Well, it's not exactly a ghost town," Richie said, "but then again it's not much better than one. Property's really cheap there, so in recent years quite a few outsiders moved in. They're finding it hard going, though, many of them. Warm welcome's in short supply in Innsmouth. Most tried to set up small businesses, but what's the good of a business if there ain't any customers around? The old Innsmouthers usually only deal with their own kind and there ain't so many incomers as to make a business go. The only successful one is the liquor store. Anyway, mister, if I ain't poking my nose in, what do you want in that godforsaken place?"

Lomax nodded at his portfolio. "As you guessed, I'm a painter. That fellow I met, Eli Sargent, he said that I might like to do some work in Innsmouth. Reckoned it suited my style of painting. "

"Takes all sorts," Richie grimaced.

They travelled in silence for a while. Lomax began to look out of the window at the passing countryside and realised that Richie had turned off the main turnpike and was now driving more slowly and carefully along what seemed to be a pretty poor stretch of road. The bodywork of the old bus rattled almost constantly and every now and then there would be a lurch as the driver twisted the steering-wheel to avoid a bad pothole. Lomax silently thanked the filling station guy for recommending he take the bus rather than use his car.

Although the day had been moderately fine when they had left Newburyport, leaden cloud had moved in from the east and a fine drizzle had started, slanting on a stiff breeze against the windscreen, the wipers on which were now clacking madly. On either side of the bus Lomax could see great stretches of marshland, the only vegetation being massed reeds and rushes, pallid in colour, with the occasional bare, stunted tree. Richie's cab window was still partly open and Lomax kept getting rank whiffs of salty water and rotting plant-life, as if the whole area was stagnating.

"You see this lot, pal?" Richie spoke for the first time in about ten minutes, waving a hand at the wetlands. "All deserted, open land, unsuitable for anything. Easy to see why. Well, seeing that, wouldn't you think it would be one great big nature reserve?"

"Guess so," Lomax acknowledged.

"Right!" Richie slapped a hand on the steering-wheel in emphasis. "And yet nothin'll live here. No birds, no animals, nothin' except goddam frogs, millions of 'em. And I tell you, it's real creepy driving along here evenings, hearing all them damn things croaking. Know what's strange? Sometimes they all stop croaking at the same time like something nasty and evil..." Richie paused for a moment, seeming to ponder, "...yeah, guess that's the right word... like something real nasty and evil has turned up in the marshes and scared the bejesus out of them. Now that is creepy. Can't get out of here fast enough when that happens and to hell with the lousy road surface!"

Gradually the terrain began to change until the marshes were behind them. Now on either side of the bus were heaped sand dunes with great clumps of sedge-grass and clusters of sickly-looking shrubs. The road began to rise in a slight incline, steepening slowly until at last the bus reached the crest. Richie stopped the vehicle and pointed. "Innsmouth," he said.

* * * * *

Lomax looked ahead with interest. His destination was perhaps half a mile further on. The road descended rather more steeply towards the town, flattening out almost abruptly at the outskirts. By now the drizzle had all but ceased and he had a fairly clear view of Innsmouth and its environs. At first glance, it was not an appealing outlook. What was it Eli had said? "Goddam place makes this painting look cheerful..." Lomax thought that a reasonable assessment.

Even at a distance, his initial impression was one of disorder and decay. Ancient gabled houses huddled together as if unwilling to admit light, with gambrel roofs in a sad state of repair, sagging and apparently likely at any time to cave inwards. Here and there amid the clutter of buildings stood what were obviously more modern constructions but they too looked downtrodden and demoralised by the general shabbiness of their surroundings.

From what Lomax could see of the waterfront, that too appeared derelict and forgotten, wharves and warehouses and jetties collapsing into a state of disrepair. Tumbling shore-line cabins and rotting hulks of boats hinted at a fishing industry long defunct and forgotten. Some little way beyond the docks, Lomax could see the sweep of a long stretch of sandy beach--backed by ranks and hillocks of dunes--curving into the distance where it merged into a headland and a succession of cliffs. Lomax was mentally composing a picture even as his eyes moved on.

Beyond the town and shoreline, some way out at sea, was a dark line, choppy waves breaking on it to send columns of spray into the air. Lomax pointed. "What's that?"

"Devil Reef," Richie told him, "There's another of my Grandpa's tall stories about the reef. Water's plenty deep out there past the reef and Grandpa swore that at the bottom there's a city full of monsters plotting to take over the world. Some big-wigs must have believed that one 'cos when the Feds were bombing the land, the navy was out beyond the reef dropping torpedoes and depth-charges. Used to give me bad dreams, some of Grandpa's tales, until my mom made him quit. But, hell, nightmares or not, I missed those stories when they stopped." The driver put the bus in gear and moved off once more.

Within minutes they were passing through the outer streets of Innsmouth, narrow twisting thoroughfares, dingy and overwhelming. For reasons he could not fathom, Lomax shuddered suddenly. Richie noticed. "Gets to you, don't it?" he said. "I've been coming through here maybe three times a week for several years now and it still gives me a chill. Maybe there was something to Grandpa's old tales after all... I don't know... But at least I don't have to stay here. Ten minutes or so and I go on to Arkham, then the return journey and that's it for another couple of days. Another driver does the trip tomorrow--he don't rate the place much, either."

The bus passed through a large square bordered by several churches--all of which looked abandoned--and a number of Georgian-style houses which had deteriorated into a slum-like condition. Ahead was a derelict building with a columned façade, now largely crumbling into rubble. The remains of a sign hung down by one corner, its lettering totally obliterated. Lomax looked queryingly at the driver. "Some kind of old Masonic hall," Richie obliged. "The weirdos called it after some old god in the Bible, Dagon I think. Reckon Grandpa would have had a story about that too."

"It's odd," said Lomax, "this has got to be the first town I've ever been to where I've not seen anyone on the streets."

"That's Innsmouth," Richie shrugged.

An iron bridge took them across a river which Lomax guessed must be the Manuxet and he could hear the roaring of several small waterfalls. Moments later they stopped in another square, its surface still cobbled as it must have been a century and more ago. There were some signs of life here. Small groups of loungers were hanging about, exchanging desultory chat and passing bottles in brown paper bags between them. Even at this comparatively early hour, several men were collapsed in the gutters. Lomax noticed that a majority of the drunkards were very much like Eli to look at. With some, the 'Innsmouth look' was not so pronounced; with others it seemed to be worse.