Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

Sellwood stood over the wriggling man-fish. He weighed his hammer.

“You’re devilish hard to kill, demon! But how would you like your skull pounded to paste? It might take a considerable while to recover, eh?”

He raised the hammer above his head.

“You there,” said Violet, voice clear and shrill and loud, “stop!”

Sellwood swivelled to look.

“This is an important scientific discovery, and must not be harmed. Why, it is practically a living dinosaur.”

Violet stood between Sellwood and the pinned man-fish. Dick was by her side, arm linked with hers. Ernest was in front of them, fists up like a pugilist.

“Don’t you hurt my friend the Monster,” said Ernest.

Sellwood’s red rage showed.

“You see,” he yelled, “how the foulness spreads! How the lies take hold! You see!”

Something snapped inside Milder. He rolled off the creature, limbs loose, neck flopping.

The sea-ghost stood up, a two-handed grip on the last of Sellwood’s Brethren, Fessel.

“Help,” he gasped. “Children, help…”

Dick had a pang of guilt.

Then Fessel was falling into the oubliette. He rattled against chains, and landed with a final-sounding crash.

The sea-ghost stepped around the children and took away Sellwood’s hammer, which it threw across the room. It clanged against the far wall.

“I am not afraid of you,” announced the Reverend.

The creature tucked Sellwood under its arm. The Reverend was too surprised to protest.

“Shouldn’ a’ ki’ ’Ooth a’ Joh-jee, Sellwoo’. Shouldn’ a’ ki’.”

“How do you know?” Sellwood was indignant, but didn’t deny the crime.

“Sea tol’ mee, sea tel’ mee all ting.”

“I serve a greater purpose,” shouted Sellwood.

The sea-ghost carried the Reverend out of the room. The children followed.

The man-fish strode down the passage, towards the book-room. Two dead men—Maulder and Fose—lay about.

“Their heads are gone,” exclaimed Ernest, with a glee Dick found a little disturbing. At least Ernest wasn’t picking up one of the heads for the office wall.

Sellwood thumped the creature’s back. Its old whip-stripes and poker-brands were healing.

Dick, Violet and Ernest followed the escapee and its former gaoler.

In the book-room, Sellwood looked with hurried regret at the crates of unsold volumes and struggled less. The sea-ghost found the steps leading down and seemed to contract its body to squeeze into the tunnel. Sellwood was dragged bloody against the rock ceiling.

“Come on, detectives,” said Dick, “after them!”

VII

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They came out under Ware Cleeve. Waves scraped shingle in an eternal rhythm. It was twilight, and chilly. Well past tea-time.

The man-fish, burden limp, tasted the sea in the air.

“Tanks,” it said to the children, “tanks very mu’.”

It walked into the waves. As sea soaked through his coat, Sellwood was shocked into consciousness and began to struggle again, shouting and cursing and praying.

The sea-ghost was waist-deep in its element.

It turned to wave at the children. Sellwood got free, madly striking away from the shore, not towards dry land. The creature leaped completely out of the water, dark rainbows rippling on its flanks, and landed heavily on Sellwood, claws hooking into meat, pressing the Reverend under the waves.

They saw the swimming shape, darting impossibly fast, zigzagging out into the bay. Finned feet showed above the water for an instant and the man-fish—the sea-ghost, the French spy, the living fossil, the snare of Satan, the Monster of the Deep—was gone for good, dragging the Reverend Mr. Daniel Sturdevant Sellwood with him.

“…to Davey Jones’s locker,” said Ernest.

Dick realized Violet was holding his hand, and tactfully got his fingers free.

Their shoes were covered with other people’s blood.

“Anthropos Icthyos Biolletta,” said Violet. “Violet’s Man-Fish, a whole new phylum.

“I pronounce this case closed,” said Dick.

“Can I borrow your matches?” asked Violet. “I’ll just nip back up the tunnel and set fire to Sellwood’s books. If the Priory burns down, we won’t have to answer questions about dead people.”

Dick handed over the box.

He agreed with Violet. This was one of those stories for which the world was not yet ready. Writing it up, he would use a double cipher.

“Besides,” said Violet, “some books deserve to be burned.”

While Violet was gone, Dick and Ernest passed time skipping stones on the waves. Rooting for ammunition, they found an ammonite, not quite as big and nice as the one that was smashed, but sure to delight Violet and much easier to carry home.

INNSMOUTH CLAY

by H. P. LOVECRAFT AND AUGUST DERLETH