Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

Even better, Dennis reorganised the company—issuing a new catalogue to promote the existing stock and creating an online retail presence for the first time—while also looking around for new projects to publish.

During the course of our correspondence, I happened to mention that Philip and I had envisioned the “Innsmouth” books as forming a loose trilogy, and Dennis immediately asked if I would be willing to put together a third volume under the Fedogan & Bremer imprint.

Two years later, this present compilation was the result. Thankfully, this time nothing went wrong. Even better, Titan Books started reprinting the trilogy in handsome paperback editions, and the publication of this title from them marks the first time that all three volumes will have been in print in uniform editions at the same time.

Overseas reprintings of the earlier books continue to appear, and although this series was always envisioned as comprising only three volumes, it has subsequently been suggested that I should consider adding a fourth instalment entitled Weirdest Shadows Over Innsmouth…

But for now, once again taking Lovecraft’s original story as inspiration, prepare to be introduced to the Massachusetts seaport and its ichthyoid denizens years before that fateful FBI raid in February 1928. From there, Dagon’s blasphemous spawn spread out across the globe as the offspring of that decaying fishing town undergo their own, often bizarre, metamorphoses.

While the world changes, so through eldritch rituals and human sacrifices the Deep Ones’ masters—the terrifying Great Old Ones themselves—make ready to escape their prisons throughout space and time when the stars are right, so that they may once again reclaim the Earth as their own.

As the final shadows gather and the waters continue to rise, mankind begins its ultimate struggle for survival against a pantheon of dark gods and their batrachian foot-soldiers…

Iä-R’lyeh! Cthulhu fhtagn! Iä! Iä!

Stephen Jones

London, England

THE PORT

by H. P. LOVECRAFT

Ten miles from Arkham I had struck the trail

That rides the cliff-edge over Boynton Beach,

And hoped that just at sunset I could reach

The crest that looks on Innsmouth in the vale.

Far out at sea was a retreating sail,

White as hard years of ancient winds could bleach,

But evil with some portent beyond speech,

So that I did not wave my hand or hail.

Sails out of Innsmouth! Echoing old renown

Of long-dead times. But now a too-swift night

Is closing in, and I have reached the height

Whence I so often scan the distant town.

The spires and roofs are there—but look! The gloom

Sinks on dark lanes, as lightless as the tomb!

INNSMOUTH BANE

by JOHN GLASBY

I AM WRITING this narrative in the sincere belief that something terrible has come to Innsmouth—something about which it is not wise to speak openly. Many of my neighbours, if they should ever read this account, will undoubtedly assume that any accusations I make against Obed Marsh are based upon jealousy since there is little doubt that he, alone, is prospering while those of us who lost much during the years of depression are still finding it difficult to profit from this strange upturn in fortune which is his alone.

My name is Jedediah Allen. My family left Boston and settled in Innsmouth in 1676, twenty-one years after the town was founded, my grandfather and father being engaged in trade with the Orient, prospering well following the success of the Revolution. The war of 1812, however, brought misfortune to many Innsmouth families. The loss of men and ships was heavy, the Gilman shipping business suffering particularly badly.

Only Obed Marsh seemed to have come out of the depression successfully. His three vessels, the Sumatra Queen, Hetty and Columbia still made regular sailings to the islands of the South Seas. Yet there was, from the very beginning, something odd about these voyages. From the first, he returned with large quantities of gold trinkets, more treasure than anyone in Innsmouth had ever seen.

One rumour had it that this hoard of gold had been discovered by him concealed in some secret cave on Devil Reef, left there by buccaneers more than two centuries earlier—that he covertly ferried it ashore on nights when there was no moon. Yet having seen some of these artefacts for myself, for Obed displayed many of them quite openly, I was more inclined towards the former explanation as to their origin.

Certainly, the objects were beautiful in their intricate workmanship and design but this was marred by an alienness in their imagery. All of the objects appeared to have an aquatic motif. To my eye, they had disturbing suggestions of fish or frog symbols, totally unlike any of the Spanish trinkets from the West Indies.

There was also something strange about the metal from which they were fashioned, which indicated a non-European source.