Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

“Albert Hartley, Dr. Marston. I’m the President of the New Deep Ones Society of the Pacific. Our members are dedicated to unravelling the mystery of the Deep Ones. Hence our name.” He giggled nervously, then resumed. “And Dr. Blenheim says that you’re the leading marine geologist in the region.”

“Dr. Blenheim flatters me. But tell me about your New Deep Ones Society. Does the name refer to the fact that you are all deep thinkers?”

“Now you flatter us,” Hartley replied. They had settled onto chairs and sofas by now, the boys clustering around the girls while Albert Hartley tried to hold their attention. “The Deep Ones,” (Marston could almost hear the capital letters) are strange creatures who live on the sea-bottoms of the world. People have known about them for thousands of years. They’re in Greek mythology, Sumerian mythology, African mythology. And in modern times authors keep writing about them. But nowadays they have to disguise their books as fiction.”

“Why?”

Hartley looked startled. The room was silent.

Then somebody else made an ostentatious demand for the floor. Del Marston recognised the new speaker as Charlie Einstein. The ponderous Einstein blew out a breath. “There are people in the government who don’t want us to know about the Deep Ones. People in every government. You wouldn’t think that the Nazis in Germany and the Reds in Russia and the Democrats in Washington could agree on anything while they’re fighting this huge war and all, but they have secret meetings in Switzerland, you know. The Japs are there, too.”

“You mean the war is a front for something else?” Marston asked. “Cities getting blown up, soldiers dying in foxholes, aerial and naval battles, people suffering all over the world—it’s all a put-up job?”

Einstein shook his head, his too-long, dirty-blond hair falling across his face. “Oh, the war is real enough, okay. My brother is in the Army, he was at Tobruk in North Africa and was wounded and he’s back in England now, in the hospital. The war is real, you bet, Dr. Marston. But the big shots who are running things still have their secret agreements. You’ll see, when it ends, nothing much will change. And they really don’t want us to know about the Deep Ones. Lovecraft wrote about them, too. In fact, he was writing about them even before that Czech guy, Karel Capek, wrote his book War with the Newts. They’re everywhere. Lovecraft was a New Englander and he knew about them, they have a big base at Innsmouth, in Massachusetts.”

“But that was just fiction.” Marston tried to calm the excited youngsters. “Foolish stories about monsters. As silly as Orson Welles’ radio play about Martians. There are problems enough in this world without having to invent more.”

“Oh, no. Oh, no.” Einstein shook his head. His fleshy jowls shook with emotion. “And another thing. There’s the 1890 Paradox.”

“The what?” Marston could barely keep from laughing.

“The 1890 Paradox,” Einstein repeated. “Karel Capek was born in 1890 in Bohemia, in what is now Czechoslovakia. Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born in Rhode Island. And Adolf Hitler was born in Linz, Austria. You can’t call that a coincidence, can you?”

“Of course I can.” Marston frowned. “Millions of people are born every year. You can pick any year out of history and find musicians, authors, politicians, scientists, generals, philosophers, all born that year. Of course it’s a coincidence.”

“Then what about their deaths? Lovecraft and Capek both wrote about the Deep Ones, both exposed their intentions, and both died within a matter of months! Explain that for me, if you can, Dr. Marston.”

“I can’t explain it. There’s no explaining to do. Out of all the millions of people born in 1890, I imagine that tens or hundreds of thousands would have died in—what year was it that your two writers passed on?”

“Lovecraft died in 1937, Capek in 1938.”

“And Hitler?”

“You know he’s still alive. That’s because the stars were right for those births in 1890, and they were right for the two deaths in 1937 and ’38. As for Hitler—he’s no menace to the Deep Ones. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s in league with them. Malignant beings have a long history of making alliances with humans willing to sell out their species for personal gain, like vampires offering their sort of undead immortality to their human servants. And the Deep Ones have a lot to offer their allies. Long, long life for one thing. And incredible pleasures obtained through their unspeakable rites. That’s what the Deep Ones have to offer.”

“And we believe they’re here, Dr. Marston.” This from Albert Hartley, taking back the centre of attention. He was interrupted by a middle-aged woman who entered the room wearing a housedress and apron. “There’s coffee and cocoa on the stove for anybody who wants them,” she announced.

Hartley looked exasperated. “Thanks, Mom. Not right now, please.”

The woman withdrew.