Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

Roberts sat back in his big carved oak chair with a satisfied expression on his face. “About three months should see it through,” he said. “All in all there have been few problems. Far less than I had imagined.”

“I know it’s a delicate matter,” his friend said diffidently. “You mentioned it before, but has the cost over-run...?”

Roberts shook his head. “Most remarkable, really. Nowhere near as much as I had anticipated. More than covered by the income generated by Gilda on her travels around Europe and the States.

“That’s good to hear,” Kent replied. “I’m glad I steered you toward the purchase. You must be sitting on a small fortune here. I suppose you won’t ever think of selling?”

Roberts reached out for his glass. “No. I’ve discussed it with Gilda. I think we’ve settled here for life. I can’t imagine we would ever find such a place full of history and at such a reasonable price. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Only too glad to have such a close friend near at hand,” Kent said.

This conversation was to come back to haunt him.

III

The author was busy on a new collection of short stories and did not see Roberts again until three weeks later, when they ran into one another in the bar of The Three Horseshoes. Gilda was over for a few days, so it was a pleasant surprise for Kent and they decided to have dinner together at a local restaurant. It was a convivial evening, and when the three left the restaurant Kent had promised to visit the mill the following Monday to see some further improvements. Gilda was off on her travels again before then, so they said goodbye in the car park.

Kent arrived in the afternoon in question in a state of anticipation but, to his surprise, Roberts seemed withdrawn and vague regarding the invitation. He was, however, full of enthusiasm about a new painting he was engaged on, though when Kent questioned him further he remained tight-lipped about its subject and demurring whenever Kent questioned him more closely. But he did promise that he would reveal more about it at a later date. Roberts also gently declined Kent’s repeated requests to visit the studio to see the work in progress.

“Later,” he said. “It is something completely new for me, and I’m sure it will create a sensation when I first exhibit it.”

But after dinner that night, long after Mrs Summers had gone, he unburdened himself of a subject that had obviously been slightly troubling him. It seemed so trivial at first that Kent could not believe it.

“The water?” he said. “I don’t understand.”

Roberts interrupted him peremptorily. “The mill-race,” he said tautly. “It’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

Kent gave the other a deprecatory smile. “But you can’t hear it,” he said. “These walls are enormously thick. It’s a long way down, and it’s only a small stream...”

Roberts cut in abruptly. “I’m talking about the studio. It’s just above the stream.”

Kent just could not get his friend’s drift. “What are you driving at? The floor is made of very thick timbers. The stream runs eight feet underneath. And it’s not a very fast-flowing river, if one can call it that. I’m at a loss to know what’s troubling you. We’re old friends. You can be perfectly frank with me. You were so pleased and happy to have found such a wonderful place...”

Roberts gave him a twisted smile. “I know it sounds idiotic. It’s difficult to explain...”

“Try me,” Kent insisted.

Roberts gave a hopeless shrug. “It seems to depress,” he said. “I’m here alone most of the time. Half of my day is spent down there. And with Gilda away...”

Kent reached out and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “I do understand,” he said gently. “But there’s something more, isn’t there?”

Roberts turned a suddenly haggard face toward him. “Yes,” he said simply. “There’s something in the water.”

IV

Kent went away an hour later greatly troubled at his friend’s state of mind. His first thought had been to make a joke about taking more water with it, but he realised there was something far more serious than was evident. Roberts would not enlarge on the subject that was troubling him, and Kent did not like to probe any further.

However, things had apparently returned to normal toward the end of June when Roberts threw a party on the lawn of his restored property for friends, neighbours and the craftsmen who had worked so hard and expertly on the project.

Mingling with the guests were the local vicar and the librarian of the village Arts Centre, Roberts’ London agent and a sprinkling of local notables. Some of the artist’s canvases were on display in a conservatory erected as an adjunct to the mill house, and the local press had sent a reporter and photographer to cover the event.

All in all it was a most successful gathering, Kent thought. The only notable absentee being Gilda, who was still negotiating terms with purchasers in Holland, though she did make a phone call during the celebrations, which was relayed by loudspeaker to the assembled guests.