Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

The meal, as usual, was excellent. When the two were having coffee and cognac, and Mrs Summers had left for her nearby home, the phone rang in the adjoining room where Roberts kept filing cabinets and records of his business affairs. He excused himself and hurried off into his office.

He came back rubbing his hands. “That was Gilda, drumming up business in New York. Twelve thousand for two fairly small oils.”

Kent gave a low whistle. “Congratulations. Perhaps Gilda could take me on as a client?”

Roberts shook his head. “Nothing doing. In any case, you’re very successful from what I read about your print runs. Twenty thousand a time, if my information is correct.”

The two men laughed conspiratorially and the talk passed to other matters.

V

From Roberts’ Personal Diary.

Kent was here tonight. We had a pleasant and a long conversation after Mrs Summers had left. But I dare not broach the subject which is now my main concern. I know I am alone here most of the time, yet it is not just the creaking and movements of ancient timbers that one gets in a mediaeval house. It is the constant rush of the water. My studio is directly above the mill-race and though it is a relatively small stream yet the constriction as it passes between the brick walls magnifies the sound. There is a huge hatch just above, about eight feet from the surface, and when I open it and look down it sounds as though I can hear voices. They seem to be calling me. Or is this just fanciful?

If I mentioned this to Kent he would question my sanity. And I dare not broach the subject to Gilda. She is so down-to-earth. It seems that I must face this thing alone.

I could, of course, move the studio upstairs. But there is this great window which lets in the northern light and which I must have when creating my canvases. It seemed to have been made for me. Perhaps I should have thick rubber covering installed over the floor and equally thick carpeting over that to muffle the sound? It is something I shall have to think about if this continues...

VI

When Kent had occasion to visit the mill a few days later to call on Roberts, he found the haggard face on the artist again.

The lunch had been cleared away and Mrs Summers was just leaving, though she would be back again at tea-time. It was a practical arrangement as she lived only a few hundred yards away.

“He is in the study, Mr Kent,” she said. “I should go up without ringing, if I were you.” She paused, a troubled expression on her placid features. “I’m sure I can speak frankly with you, Mr Kent, as you’re such an old friend.”

“Of course, Mrs Summers,” Kent said, hesitating with his hand on the great iron front door latch.

“Something is bothering your friend. I can’t just put my finger on it but he keeps looking around as though something is standing behind him. It’s a strange enough old place and full of atmosphere and odd corners but it’s cheerful enough, and that won’t account for it. I know he’s alone a lot and painters are queer folk anyway...” Here she broke off and gave Kent a wry look. “I’m sure you won’t take my remarks amiss, but as you’re his best friend and all, I feel I can be frank with you, as I’ve already said.”

“Naturally,” Kent said. “No offence taken and I’m glad you’ve spoken to me. Though I’m not here very often, I’ve sensed that there was something wrong. I believe he often does speak to himself when he’s wrestling with some weighty problem to do with his work. But I’ll have a talk with him now if it will set your mind at rest.”

The housekeeper’s face lit up immediately. “I’m glad to hear you say so, Mr Kent. We must all rely on our friends in this difficult world.” And to Kent’s surprise she wrung his hand effusively and went on her way down the garden path with a lighter step.

Kent had taken the gist of her remarks seriously and, after locking the front door behind him, he made sure of making a good deal of noise as he ascended the great wooden staircase.

Roberts waited on the landing to greet him and led the way into the study, evident relief on his features. “I saw you were talking to Mrs Summers,” he said. “I was watching from the window that juts out over the front entrance. She’s a good sort and I suppose she’s been telling you something about my strange behaviour.”

“She didn’t put it quite like that,” Kent said awkwardly. “But she is a little concerned about you. Isn’t it time we had a frank talk? You’ve changed in some subtle way since you’ve been down here and you can’t deny it.”

Dark shadows clouded the other’s face as he sat down at his desk and fiddled with a paperweight as though to control his nerves.

Now that he was up closer, Kent could see that Roberts’ eyes had dark smudges beneath them that hadn’t been there before. “Talking may help,” he told Roberts gently. “And it may do some good.”