Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

Aurelia Blenheim shook her head. “Come now, Delbert. They have a lot of different ideas. That’s the fun of it. They don’t have a body of fixed beliefs. Attending one of their meetings is like sitting in on a First Century council of bishops and listening to them debate the nature of the mystical body of Christ.”

“I can’t think of anything less interesting.”

They had reached the San Francisco end of the bridge now and Marston manoeuvred the Cord through merging traffic and headed south. A rattletrap Nash sedan full of high school kids pulled alongside the Cord. The driver lowered his window and yelled at Aurelia, “Why don’t you put that submarine back in the water where it belongs, grandma?”

Aurelia Blenheim turned to face the heckler and mouthed some words that remained unheard and unknown to Delbert Marston. The expression on the face of the heckler changed suddenly. He raised his window and floored his gas pedal. The Nash sped away. Three kids in the backseat stared open-mouthed at the grey-haired professor.

“Aurelia,” Marston asked, “what did you say to them?”

“I just gave them a little warning, Delbert. Best keep your eyes on the road. I’ll get us a little music.” She reached for the radio controls on the Cord’s dashboard. Although the radio had added to the price of Marston’s Cord he had ordered it installed when he purchased the Phaeton.

The sounds of Franz Liszt’s ‘Mephisto Waltz’ filled the Cord’s tonneau.

A particularly dense sheet of rain mixed with a seeming bucketful of hailstones crashed against the Cord’s roof and engine hood, adding the sound of an insane kettle drum concerto to the music.

“There’s our exit sign,” Aurelia Blenheim shouted above the din.

Delbert Marston edged into the exit lane and guided the Cord off the highway and onto a local thoroughfare. Aurelia Blenheim navigated for him, giving instructions until she finally said, “There it is. You can park in the driveway.”

The house stood out like an anomaly. Curwen Street and its environs—still known as Curwen Heights—had once been among San Francisco’s more fashionable neighbourhoods. Victorian homes had reared their turrets and cupolas against the chilly air and damply cloying fog. Families who claimed the status of municipal pioneers, direct descendants of the leaders of the Gold Rush and survivors of the earthquake and fire of 1906, had erected gingerbread-encrusted mansions and filled them with children and servants. Carriage-houses and stables were discreetly placed behind the family establishments.

But the passing decades had brought changes to Curwen Street and Curwen Heights. Urban crowding had driven the wealthiest families to Palo Alto, Burlingame and other lush, roomy suburbs. The construction of the Golden Gate Bridge and Bay Bridge in the 1930s had opened the unspoiled territories and sleepy villages of Marin and Alameda Counties for the use of daily commuters. Key Route trains brought workers from Oakland and Berkeley into the city each day.

Marston switched off the engine and half-blackened headlights, and climbed from behind the steering wheel. He exited the car and helped Aurelia Blenheim to do the same. He carefully locked the vehicle’s doors and escorted her to the front entrance of the house. In the darkened street and with storm clouds blackening the sky it was difficult to see anything. Even so, the house had the appearance of a one-time showplace, long since fallen into disrepair. Blackout curtains made the windows look like shrouded paintings. Marston searched for a doorbell and found none. Instead, a heavy cast-iron knocker shaped like a gargoyle signalled their arrival.

The door swung open and they were greeted by a rotund individual wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He peered owlishly at Marston, then dropped his gaze to Aurelia Blenheim.

“Dr. Blenheim!” He took her hand in both of his and pumped it enthusiastically. After he released her she introduced Marston. The rotund youth identified himself as Charlie Einstein, “No relation,” subjected Marston’s hand to the same treatment Aurelia Blenheim’s had received, and ushered them into the house.

Voices were emerging from another room, as was the odour of fried food. In the background a radio added to the din.

Charlie Einstein led Marston and Aurelia Blenheim to a high-ceilinged parlour. Men and women sat on worn furniture, each of them holding a plate of snack food or a beverage or both.

Einstein clapped his hands for attention and conversations wound down. The radio continued to play. Einstein said, “Ben, would you mind?” He gestured toward a Philco console. “You’re the closest.”

A painfully thin and painfully young-looking man in a Navy uniform reached for the Philco and switched it off. “Nobody was paying attention anyhow,” he said. He turned toward Marston and Aurelia Blenheim. “Aurelia, hello. And you must be Professor Marston.”

Del Marston nodded.