Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

Chains extended from the winch unto a solid iron ring in the ceiling and then down into the Hole.

“This is an oubliette,” said Violet. “It’s from the French. You capture your prisonnier and jeté him into the Hole, then oublié them—forget them.”

Ernest, nervously, kept well away from the edge. He had been warned about falling into wells once, which meant that ever since he was afraid of them.

Violet tossed her rock-chunk into the pool of dark, and counted. After three counts—thirty feet—there was a thump. Stone on stone.

“No splash,” she said.

Up from the depths came another sound, a gurgling groan—something alive but unidentifiable. The noise lodged in Dick’s heart like a fish-hook of ice. A chill played up his spine.

The cry had come from a throat, but hardly a human one.

Ernest dropped his candle, which rolled to the lip of the pit and fell in, flame guttering.

Round, green eyes shone up, fire dancing in the fish-flat pupils.

Something grey-green, weighted with old chains, writhed at the bottom of the Hole.

Ernest’s candle went out.

Violet’s grip on Dick’s arm hurt now.

“What’s that?” she gasped.

The groan took on an imploring, almost pathetic tone, tinged with cunning and bottomless wrath.

Dick shrugged off his shiver. He had a moment of pure joy, the click of sudden understanding that often occurs at the climax of a case, when clues fit in the mind like jigsaw pieces and the solution is plain and simple.

“That, my dear Vile, is your French spy!”

V

OBDIJFBNTP GDMBQBGS

“Someone’s coming,” said Ernest.

Footfalls in the passageway!

“Hide,” said Dick.

The only place—aside from the Hole—was under the water-trough. Dick and Violet pinched out their candles and crammed in, pulling Ernest after them.

“They’ll see the door’s not bolted,” said Ernest.

Violet clamped her hand over her cousin’s mouth.

In the enclosed space, their breathing seemed horribly loud.

Dick worried. Ernest was right.

Maybee the people in the passage weren’t coming to this room. Maybee they’d already walked past, on their way to smash fossils or get a copy of Sellwood’s book.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

Maybee this person didn’t know it was usually bolted. Maybee this dungeon was so rarely visited they’d oubliéd whether it had been bolted shut after the last time.

Maybee…

“Fessel, Fose, Milder, Maulder,” barked a voice.

The Reverend Mr. Daniel Sturdevant Sellwood, calling his Brethren.

“And who’s been opening my door,” breathed Violet.

It took Dick long seconds to recognize the storybook quotation.

“Who was last here?” shouted Sellwood. “This is inexcusable. With the Devil, one does not take such risks.”

“En cain’t git ouwt of thic Hole,” replied someone.

“Brother Milder, it has the wiles of an arch-fiend. That is why only I can be trusted to put it to the question. Who last brought the slops?”

There was some argument.

Maybee they’d be all right. Sellwood was so concerned with stopping an escape that he hadn’t thought anyone might break in.

One of the Brethren tentatively spoke up, and received a clout round the ear.

Dick wondered why anyone would want to be in Sellwood’s Church Militant.

“Stand guard,” Sellwood ordered. “Let me see what disaster is so narrowly averted.”

The door was pushed open. Sellwood set a lantern on a perch. The children pressed further back into shrinking shadow. Dick’s ankle bent the wrong way. He bit down on the pain.

He saw Sellwood’s shoes—with old-fashioned buckles and gaiters—walk past the trough, towards the Hole. He stopped, just by Dick’s face.

There was a pumping, coughing sound.

Sellwood filled a beaker.

He poured the water into the Hole.

Violet counted silently, again. After three, the water splashed on the French spy. It cried out, with despair and yearning.

“Drink deep, spawn of Satan!”

The creature howled, then gargled again. Dick realized it wasn’t making animal grunts but speaking. Unknown words that he suspected were not French.

The thing had been here for over a hundred years!

“Fose, Milder, in here, now. I will resume the inquisition.”

Brethren clumped in. Dick saw heavy boots.

The two bruisers walked around the room, keeping well away from the Hole. Dick eased out a little to get a better view. He risked a more comfortable, convenient position. Sellwood had no reason to suspect he was spied upon.

Brother Fose and Brother Milder worked the winch.

The chains tightened over the Hole, then wound onto the winch-drum.

The thing in the oubliette cursed. Dick was sure “f’tagn” was a swear-word. As it was hauled upwards, the creature struggled, hissing and croaking.

Violet held Dick’s hand, pulling, keeping him from showing himself.