_Two popular writers of weird fiction join forces to produce one
of the eeriest sea-stories ever written--a story of the thing that
swam in the black waters off California, and called itself Morella
Godolfo._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales June 1937.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea,
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be.
--Chesterton: _Lepanto_.
_1. The Thing in the Waters_
Graham Dean nervously crushed out his cigarette and met Doctor Hedwig's
puzzled eyes.
"I've never been troubled like this before," he said. "These dreams are
so oddly persistent. They're not the usual haphazard nightmares. They
seem--I know it sounds ridiculous--they seem _planned_."
"Dreams planned? Nonsense." Doctor Hedwig looked scornful. "You, Mr.
Dean, are an artist, and naturally of impressionable temperament. This
house at San Pedro is new to you, and you say you've heard wild tales.
The dreams are due to imagination and overwork."
Dean glanced out of the window, a frown on his unnaturally pale face.
"I hope you're right," he said, softly. "But dreams shouldn't make me
look like this. Should they?"
A gesture indicated the great blue rings beneath the young artist's
eyes. His hands indicated the bloodless pallor of his gaunt cheeks.
"Overwork has done that, Mr. Dean. I know what has happened to you
better than you do yourself."
The white-haired physician picked up a sheet covered with his own
scarcely decipherable notes and scrutinized it in review.
"You inherited this house at San Pedro a few months ago, eh? And you
moved in alone to do some work."
"Yes. The sea-coast there has some marvelous scenes." For a moment
Dean's face looked youthful once more as enthusiasm kindled its ashy
fires. Then he continued, with a troubled frown. "But I haven't been
able to paint, lately--not seascapes, anyway. It's very odd. My
sketches don't seem quite right any more. There seems to be a quality
in them that I don't put there----"
"A quality, did you say?"
"Yes. A quality of _malignness_, if I can call it that. It's
indefinable. Something _behind_ the picture takes all the beauty out.
And I haven't been over-working these last weeks, Doctor Hedwig."
The doctor glanced again at the paper in his hand.
"Well, I disagree with you there. You might be unconscious of the
effort you expend. These dreams of the sea that seem to worry you are
meaningless, save as an indication of your nervous condition."
"You're wrong." Dean rose, suddenly. His voice was shrill.
"That's the dreadful part of it. The dreams are _not_ meaningless. They
seem cumulative; cumulative and planned. Each night they grow more
vivid, and I see more of that green, shining place under the sea. I
get closer and closer to those black shadows swimming there; those
shadows that I know aren't shadows but something worse. I see more each
night. It's like a sketch I'd block out, gradually adding more and more
until----"