_Unspeakable monstrousness over-hung
the crumbling, stench-cursed town of
Innsmouth ... and folks there had somehow
got out of the idea of dying...._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales January 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
During the winter of 1927-28 Federal government officials made a
strange and secret investigation of certain conditions in the ancient
Massachusetts seaport of Innsmouth. The public first learned of it in
February, when a vast series of raids and arrests occurred, followed by
the deliberate burning and dynamiting--under suitable precautions--of
an enormous number of crumbling, worm-eaten, and supposedly empty
houses along the abandoned waterfront. Uninquiring souls let this
occurrence pass as one of the major clashes in a spasmodic war on
liquor.
Keener news-followers, however, wondered at the prodigious number of
arrests, the abnormally large force of men used in making them, and
the secrecy surrounding the disposal of the prisoners. No trials, or
even definite charges, were reported; nor were any of the captives
seen thereafter in the regular jails of the nation. There were vague
statements about disease and concentration camps, and later about
dispersal in various naval and military prisons, but nothing positive
ever developed.
Complaints from many liberal organizations were met with long
confidential discussions, and representatives were taken on trips
to certain camps and prisons. As a result, these societies became
surprisingly passive and reticent. Newspaper men were harder to
manage, but seemed largely to cooperate with the government in the
end. Only one paper--a tabloid always discounted because of its
wild policy--mentioned the deep-diving submarine that discharged
torpedoes downward in the marine abyss just beyond Devil Reef. That
item, gathered by chance in a haunt of sailors, seemed indeed rather
far-fetched; since the low, black reef lies a full mile and a half out
from Innsmouth Harbor.
But at last I am going to defy the ban on speech about this thing.
Results, I am certain, are so thorough that no public harm save a shock
of repulsion could ever accrue from a hinting of what was found by
those horrified raiders at Innsmouth. For my contact with this affair
has been closer than that of any other layman, and I have carried away
impressions which are yet to drive me to drastic measures.
It was I who fled frantically out of Innsmouth in the early morning
hours of July 16, 1927, and whose frightened appeals for government
inquiry and action brought on the whole reported episode. I was willing
enough to stay mute while the affair was fresh and uncertain; but now
that it is an old story, with public interest and curiosity gone, I
have an odd craving to whisper about those few frightful hours in
that ill-rumored and evilly-shadowed seaport of death and blasphemous
abnormality.
I never heard of Innsmouth till the day before I saw it for the first
and--so far--last time. I was celebrating my coming of age by a tour
of New England--sightseeing, antiquarian, and genealogical--and had
planned to go directly from ancient Newburyport to Arkham, whence my
mother's family was derived. I had no car, but was traveling by train,
trolley, and motor-coach, always seeking the cheapest possible route.
In Newburyport they told me that the steam train was the thing to
take to Arkham; and it was only at the station ticket-office, when I
demurred at the high fare, that I learned about Innsmouth. The stout,
shrewd-faced agent, whose speech showed him to be no local man, seemed
sympathetic toward my efforts at economy, and made a suggestion that
none of my other informants had offered.
"You _could_ take that old bus, I suppose," he said with a certain
hesitation, "but it ain't thought much of hereabouts. It goes through
Innsmouth--you may have heard about that--and so the people don't
like it. Run by an Innsmouth fellow--Joe Sargent--but never gets any
custom from here, or Arkham either, I guess. Leaves the Square--front
of Hammond's Drug Store--at 10 A.M. and 7 P.M. unless they've changed
lately. Looks like a terrible rattletrap--I've never been on it."
That was the first I ever heard of shadowed Innsmouth. Any reference
to a town not shown on common maps or listed in recent guidebooks
would have interested me, and the agent's old manner of allusion
roused something like real curiosity. So I asked the agent to tell me
something about it.
He was very deliberate, and spoke with an air of feeling slightly
superior to what he said.
"Innsmouth? Well, it's a queer kind of town down at the mouth of
the Manuxet. Used to be almost a city--quite a port before the War
of 1812--but all gone to pieces in the last hundred years or so. No
railroad now--B. & M. never went through, and the branch line from
Rowley was given up years ago.
"More empty houses than there are people, I guess, and no business to
speak of except fishing and lobstering. Everybody trades mostly either
here or in Arkham or Ipswich. Once they had quite a few mills, but
nothing's left now except one gold refinery running on the leanest kind
of part time.
"That refinery, though, used to be a big thing, and Old Man Marsh,
who owns it, must be richer'n Croesus. Queer old duck, though, and
sticks mighty close in his home. He's supposed to have developed
some skin disease or deformity late in life that makes him keep out
of sight. Grandson of Captain Obed Marsh, who founded the business.
His mother seems to've been some kind of foreigner--they say a South
Sea islander--so everybody raised Cain when he married an Ipswich
girl fifty years ago. They always do that about Innsmouth people, and
folks here and hereabouts always try to cover up any Innsmouth blood
they have in 'em. But Marsh's children and grandchildren look just
like anybody else so far's I can see. I've had 'em pointed out to me
here--though, come to think of it, the elder children don't seem to be
around lately. Never saw the old man.
"And why is everybody so down on Innsmouth? Well, young fellow, you
mustn't take too much stock in what people around here say. They're
hard to get started, but once they do get started they never let
up. They've been telling things about Innsmouth--whispering 'em,
mostly--for the last hundred years, I guess, and I gather they're
more scared than anything else. Some of the stories would make you
laugh--about old Captain Marsh driving bargains with the devil and
bringing imps out of hell to live in Innsmouth, or about some kind of
devil-worship and awful sacrifices in some place near the wharves that
people stumbled on around 1845 or there-abouts--but I come from Panton,
Vermont, and that kind of story don't go down with me.
"You ought to hear, though, what some of the old-timers tell about
the black reef off the coast--Devil Reef, they call it. It's well
above water a good part of the time, and never much below it, but at
that you could hardly call it an island. The story is that there's a
whole legion of devils seen sometimes on that reef--sprawled about,
or darting in and out of some kind of caves near the top. It's a
rugged, uneven thing, a good bit over a mile out, and toward the end of
shipping days sailors used to make big detours just to avoid it.
"That is, sailors that didn't hail from Innsmouth. One of the things
they had against old Captain Marsh was that he was supposed to land on
it sometimes at night when the tide was right. Maybe he did, for I dare
say the rock formation was interesting, and it's just barely possible
he was looking for pirate loot and maybe finding it; but there was talk
of his dealing with demons there. Fact is, I guess on the whole it was
really the captain that gave the bad reputation to the reef.
"That was before the big epidemic of 1846, when over half the folks
in Innsmouth was carried off. They never did quite figure out what
the trouble was, but it was probably some foreign kind of disease
brought from China or somewhere by the shipping. It surely was bad
enough--there was riots over it, and all sorts of ghastly doings that I
don't believe ever got outside of town--and it left the place in awful
shape. Never came back--there can't be more'n 300 or 400 people living
there now.
"But the real thing behind the way folks feel is simply race
prejudice--and I don't say I'm blaming those that hold it. I hate
those Innsmouth folks myself, and I wouldn't care to go to their
town. I s'pose you know--though I can see you're a Westerner by your
talk--what a lot our New England ships used to have to do with queer
ports in Africa, Asia, the South Seas, and everywhere else, and what
queer kinds of people they sometimes brought back with 'em. You've
probably heard about the Salem man that came home with a Chinese wife,
and maybe you know there's still a bunch of Fiji Islanders somewhere
around Cape Cod.
"Well, there must be something like that back of the Innsmouth people.
The place always was badly cut off from the rest of the country by
marshes and creeks, and we can't be sure about the ins and outs of
the matter; but it's pretty clear that old Captain Marsh must have
brought home some odd specimens when he had all three of his ships in
commission back in the twenties and thirties. There certainly is a
strange kind of a streak in the Innsmouth folks today--I don't know how
to explain it, but it sort of makes you crawl. You'll notice a little
in Sargent if you take his bus. Some of 'em have queer narrow heads
with flat noses and bulgy, starey eyes that never seem to shut, and
their skin ain't quite right. Rough and scabby, and the sides of their
necks are all shriveled or creased up. Get bald, too, very young. The
older fellows look the worst--fact is, I don't believe I've ever seen
a very old chap of that kind. Guess they must die of looking in the
glass! Animals hate 'em--they used to have lots of horse trouble before
autos came in.
"Nobody can ever keep track of those people, and state school officials
and census men have a devil of a time. You can bet that prying
strangers ain't welcome around Innsmouth. I've heard personally of
more'n one business or government man that's disappeared there, and
there's loose talk of one who went crazy and is out at Danvers now.
They must have fixed up some awful scare for that fellow.
"That's why I wouldn't go at night if I was you. I've never been there
and have no wish to go, but I guess a daytime trip couldn't hurt
you--even though the people hereabouts will advise you not to make it.
If you're just sightseeing, and looking for old-time stuff, Innsmouth
ought to be quite a place for you."
And so I spent part of that evening at the Newburyport Public Library
looking up data about Innsmouth. The Essex County histories on the
library shelves had very little to say, except that the town was
founded in 1643, noted for shipbuilding before the Revolution, a seat
of great marine prosperity in the early 19th century, and later a minor
factory center using the Manuxet as power. The epidemic and riots of
1846 were very sparsely treated, as if they formed a discredit to the
country.
References to decline were few, though the significance of the later
record was unmistakable. After the Civil War all industrial life was
confined to the Marsh Refining Company, and the marketing of gold
ingots formed the only remaining bit of major commerce aside from the
eternal fishing.
Most interesting of all was a glancing reference to the strange jewelry
vaguely associated with Innsmouth. It had evidently impressed the whole
countryside more than a little, for mention was made of specimens in
the museum of Miskatonic University at Arkham, and in the display room
of the Newburyport Historical Society. I resolved to see the local
sample--said to be a large, queerly-proportioned thing evidently meant
for a tiara--if it could possibly be arranged.
The librarian gave me a note of introduction to the curator of the
Society, a Miss Anna Tilton, who lived nearby, and after a brief
explanation that ancient gentlewoman was kind enough to pilot me into
the closed building, since the hour was not outrageously late. The
collection was a notable one indeed, but in my present mood I had eyes
for nothing but the bizarre object which glistened in a corner cupboard
under the electric lights.
It took no excessive sensitiveness to beauty to make me literally gasp
at the strange, unearthly splendor of the alien, opulent phantasy that
rested there on a purple velvet cushion. The longer I looked, the more
the thing fascinated me; and in this fascination there was a curiously
disturbing element hardly to be classified or accounted for. I decided
that it was the queer other-worldly quality of the art which made me
uneasy. It was as if the workmanship were that of another planet.
The patterns all hinted of remote secrets and unimaginable abysses in
time and space, and the monotonously aquatic nature of the reliefs
became almost sinister. Among these reliefs were fabulous monsters of
abhorrent grotesqueness and malignity--wholly primal and awesomely
ancestral.
At times I fancied that every contour of these blasphemous fish-frogs
was overflowing with the ultimate quintessence of unknown and inhuman
evil.
In odd contrast to the tiara's aspect was its brief and prosy history
as related by Miss Tilton. It had been pawned for a ridiculous sum at
a shop in State Street in 1873, by a drunken Innsmouth man shortly
afterward killed in a brawl.
Miss Tilton was inclined to believe that it formed part of some exotic
pirate hoard discovered by old Captain Obed Marsh. This view was surely
not weakened by the insistent offers of purchase at a high price
which the Marshes began to make as soon as they knew of its presence,
and which they repeated to this day despite the Society's unvarying
determination not to sell.
As the good lady showed me out of the building, she assured me that the
rumors of devil-worship were partly justified by a peculiar secret cult
which had gained force there and engulfed all the orthodox churches.
It was called, she said, "The Esoteric Order of Dagon," and was
undoubtedly a debased, quasi-pagan thing imported from the East a
century before, at a time when Innsmouth fisheries seemed to be going
barren. Its persistence among a simple people was quite natural in view
of the sudden and permanent return of abundantly fine fishing, and it
soon came to be the greatest influence on the town.
All this, to the pious Miss Tilton, formed an excellent reason for
shunning the ancient town of decay and desolation; but to me it was
merely a fresh incentive; and I could scarcely sleep in my small room
at the "Y" as the night wore away.