Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

Elizabeth watches, biting her lip against the discomfort, and watches. It doesn’t horrify her the same way that the appearance of the gills and the change to her eyes does, but it’s much more painful. Not nearly so much as the greater portion of her metamorphosis to come, but enough she does bite her lip (careful not to draw blood). Within five minutes, the webbing has grown enough that it’s attached at the uppermost joint between each finger, and is at least twice as thick as usual. And the texture of the skin on the backs of her hands and her palms is becoming smoother and faintly iridescent, more transparent, and gradually taking on the faintest tinge of turquoise. She used to think of the colour as celeste opaco, because the Italian sounded prettier. But now she settles for turquoise. Not as lyrical, no, but it’s not opaque, and turquoise is somehow more honest. Monsters should be honest. Before half an hour has passed, most of her skin will have taken on variations of the same hue.

“Yesterday,” she says, “during my lunch break, when I said I needed to go to the bank, I didn’t.”

There are a few seconds of quiet before he asks, “Where did you go, Elizabeth?”

“Choate Bridge,” she answers. “I just stood there a while, watching the river.” It’s the oldest stone-arch bridge anywhere in Massachusetts, built in 1764. There are two granite archways through which the river flows on its easterly course.

“Did it make you feel any better?”

“It made me want to swim. The river always makes me want to swim, Michael. You know that.”

“Yeah, Betsy. I know.”

She wants to add, Please don’t ask me questions you already know the answers to, but she doesn’t. It would be rude. He means well, and she’s never rude if she can help it. Especially not to Michael.

All evidence of her fingernails has completely vanished.

“It terrified me. It always fucking terrifies me.”

“Maybe one day it won’t. Maybe one day you’ll be able to look at the water without being frightened.”

“Maybe,” she whispers, hoping it isn’t true. Pretty sure what’ll happen if she ever stops being afraid of the river and the sea. I can’t drown. I can’t ever drown. How does a woman who can’t drown fear the water?

There are things in the water. Things that can hurt me. And places I never want to see awake.

Now he’s running the sponge down her back, beginning at the nape of her neck and ending at the cleft between her buttocks. This time, the pain is bad enough she wants to double over, wants to go down on her knees and vomit. But that would be weak, and she won’t be weak. Michael used to bring her pills to dull the pain, but she stopped taking them almost a year ago because she didn’t like the fogginess they brought, the way they caused her to feel detached from herself, as though these transformations were happening to someone else.

Monsters should be honest.

At once, the neural processes of her vertebrae begin to broaden and elongate. She’s made herself learn a lot about anatomy: human, anuran, chondrichthyan, osteichthyan, et al. Anything and everything that seems relevant to what happens to her on these nights.

The devil you know, as her grandfather used to say.

So, Elizabeth Haskings knows that the processes will grow the longest between her third and seventh thoracic vertebrae, and on the last lumbar, the sacrals, and coccygeals (though less so than in the thoracic region), greatly accenting both the natural curves of her back. Musculature responds accordingly. She knows the Latin names of all those muscles, and if there were less pain, she could recite them for Michael. She imagines herself laughing like a madwoman and reciting the names of the shifting, straining tendons. In the end, there won’t quite be fins, sensu stricto. Almost, but not quite.

Aren’t I a madwoman? How can I possibly still be sane?

“Betsy, you don’t have to be so strong,” he tells her, and she hates the pity in his voice. “I know you think you do, but you don’t. Certainly not in front of me.”

She takes the yellow sponge from him, her hands shaking so badly she spills most of the salt water remaining in the bowl, but still manages to get the sponge sopping wet. Her gums have begun to ache, and she smiles at herself before wringing out the sponge with both her webbed hands so that the water runs down her belly and between her legs. In the mirror, she sees Michael turn away.