Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

“Well, you got the box right there,” the woman says and now she’s pointing over the back of Lacey’s seat at the cardboard box with the Innsmouth fossil packed inside. “That makes you a courier, too. Hell, that almost makes you a goddamn holy prophet on Judgement Day. But you probably haven’t thought of it that way, have you?”

“Maybe it would be better if we talked later,” Lacey whispers, playing along, and the woman’s probably perfectly harmless, but she puts one hand protectively on the box, anyway. “They might be listening,” she says and nods her head towards the teenager and the priest. “They might hear something we don’t want them to hear.”

The woman makes an angry, hissing sound between her yellow teeth and runs the long fingers of her left hand quickly through her tangled white hair, slicking it back against her scalp, pulling a few strands loose and they lie like pearly threads on the shoulder of her black raincoat.

“You think you got it all figured out, don’t you?” she growls. “Put some fancy letters after your name and you don’t need to listen to anybody or anything, ain’t that right? Can’t nobody tell you no different, cause you’ve seen it all, from top to bottom, pole to pole—”

“Calm down, please,” Lacey says, glancing towards the other passengers again, wishing one of them would look up so she could get their attention. “If you don’t, I’m going to have to call the conductor. Don’t make me do that.”

“Goddamn stuck-up dyke,” the woman snarls and she spits on the floor, turns her head and stares furiously out the window with her bulging blue eyes. “You think I’m crazy. Jesus, you just wait till you come out the other side and then let’s see what the hell you think sane looks like.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Lacey says, standing, reaching for the satchel with her laptop. “Maybe I should just move to another seat.”

“You do that, Miss Morrow. Won’t be no skin off my nose. But you better take this with you,” and the woman’s left hand disappears inside her raincoat, reappears with a large, slightly crumpled manila envelope, and she holds it out to Lacey. “They told me you’d figure it out, so don’t ask me no more questions. I’ve already said too goddamn much as it is.”

Lacey sets her satchel down beside the cardboard box and stares at the envelope for a moment, yellow-brown paper and what looks like a grease stain at one corner.

“Well, go on ahead. It ain’t got teeth. It ain’t gonna bite you,” the white-haired woman sneers, not taking her eyes off the window, the farms and houses and “Maybe if you take it,” she says, “the crazy woman will leave you alone.”

Lacey snatches the envelope, hastily gathers her things, the satchel and the box, and moves quickly up the centre aisle towards the front of the car. The priest and the girl don’t even look up as she passes them. Maybe they don’t see me at all, she thinks. Maybe they haven’t heard a thing. The door to the next car is stuck and she’s wrestling with the handle when the train lurches, sways suddenly to one side, and she almost drops the box, imagines the fossil inside shattering into a hundred pieces.

Stupid girl, stupid silly girl.

And she forces herself to be still, then, presses her forehead against the cool, aluminium door. She takes a deep breath of air that doesn’t smell like dead fish, that only smells like diesel fumes and disinfectant, perfectly ordinary train smells, comforting familiarity, and the cadence of the rails is the most reassuring sound in the world.

Go on ahead. It ain’t got teeth. It ain’t gonna bite you, the whitehaired woman said, nothing at all but a crazy lady that someone ought to be watching out for, not letting her ride about on trains harassing people. Lacey looks down at the grease-stained envelope in her hand, held tenuously between her right thumb and forefinger.

“Do you need me to help you with that?” and it’s only the priest, scowling up at her from his newspaper; he sighs a loud, irritated sigh and points at the exit. “Would you like me to get the door for you?”

“Yes,” she says. “Thank you, Father. I’d really appreciate it. My hands are full.”

Lacey glances anxiously past him towards the back of the car, and there’s no sign of the white-haired woman now, but the door at the other end is standing wide open.

“There,” the priest says and she smiles and thanks him again.

“No problem,” he says, and as she steps into the short, connecting corridor, he continues speaking in low, conspiratorial tones, “But don’t wait too long to have a look at what’s in that envelope she gave you. There may not be much time left.” Then the door slides shut again and Lacey turns and runs to the crowded refuge of the next car.

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