Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

Watering the thing in the Hole was all very well, but Dick wasn’t sure how he’d feel if it were up here with them. If he were the creature, he would be very annoyed. He ought to be grateful to the children, but what did anyone know about the feelings of sea-ghosts? Violet had told them the legend of the genie in the bottle: at first, he swore to bestow untold riches upon the man who set him free, but after thousands of years burned to make his rescuer suffer horribly for waiting so long.

It was too late to think about that.

Slick and wet, the man-fish moved faster than anything its size should. No sooner had it grasped the chains than it had climbed them, deft as a sailor on the rigging, quick as a lizard on the flat or a salmon in the swim.

It held on, hanging just under the ring in the ceiling, head swiveling around, eyes taking in the room.

Dick and Ernest were backed against the door, taking Violet with them.

She was less spooked than the boys.

“Bonjour, Monsieur le Fantôme de la Mer,” she said, slowly and clearly in the manner approved by her tutor, M. Duroc. “Je m’appelle Violette Borrodale… permettez-moi de presente a vous mon petit cousin Ernest… et Rishard Riddle, le detective juvenile celebré.”

This seemed to puzzle the sea-ghost.

“Vile, I don’t think it’s really French,” whispered Dick.

Violet shrugged.

The creature let go and leaped, landing frog-like, knees stuck out and shoulders hunched, inches away from them. This close, it stank of the sea.

Dick saw their reflections in its huge eyes.

Its mouth opened. He saw row upon row of shark-like teeth, all pointed and shining. It might not have had a proper meal in a century.

“Scuze mee,” it said, extending a hand, folding its frill-connected fingers up but pointing with a single barb.

The wet thorn touched Richard’s cheek.

Then it eased the children aside, and considered the bolted door.

“Huff… puff… blow,” it said, hammering with fish-fists. The door came off its hinges and the bolts wrenched out of their sockets. The broken door crashed against the opposite wall of the passage.

“How do you know the ‘Three Little Pigs’?” asked Violet.

“Gur’ nam ’Ooth,” it said, “ree’ to mee…”

“A girl read to him,” Dick explained.

So not all his captors had been tormentors. Who was ’Ooth? Ruth? Someone called Ruth fit into the story. The little girl lost with the Sophy Briggs. Sellwood’s niece.

The sea-ghost looked at Violet. Dick deduced all little girls must look alike to it. If you’ve seen one pinafore, you’ve seen them all.

“ ’Ooth,” it said, with something like fondness. “’Ooth kin’ to mee. Ree’ mee story-boos. Liss in Wonlan… Tripella Liplik Pik… Taes o Eh Ah Po…”

“What happened to Ruth?” Violet asked.

“Sellwoo’ ki’ ’Ooth, an’ hi’ bro tah Joh-jee,” said the creature, cold anger in its voice. “Tey wan let mee go sea, let mee go hom. Sellwoo’ mak shi’ wreck, tak ever ting, tak mee.”

Dick understood. And was not surprised.

This was the nature of Sellwood’s villainy. Charges of smuggling and espionage remained unproven, but he was guilty of the worst crime of all—murder!

People were coming now, alerted by the noise.

The sea-ghost stepped into the passage, holding up a hand—fingers spread and webs unfurled—to indicate that the children should stay behind.

They kept in the dark, where they couldn’t see what was happening in the passage.

The man-fish leaped, and landed on someone.

Cries of terror and triumph! An unpleasant, wet crunching… followed by unmistakable chewing.

More people came on the scene.

“The craytur’s out o’ thic Hole,” shrieked someone.

A very loud bang! A firework stink.

The man-fish staggered back past the doorway, red blossoming on its shoulder. It had more red stuff around its mouth, and scraps of cloth caught in its teeth.

It roared in rage and threw itself at whoever had shot it.

Something detached from something else and rolled past the doorway, leaving a trail of sticky splashes.

Violet kept her hand over Ernest’s eyes, though he tried to pick at her fingers.

“Spawn of Satan, you show your true colours at last!”

It was Sellwood.

“Milder, Fessel, take him down.”

The Brethren grunted. The doorway was filled with struggling bodies, driving the children back into the cell. They pressed flat against the wet cold walls.

Brother Milder and Brother Fessel held the creature’s arms and wrestled it back, towards the Hole.

Sellwood appeared, hefting one of his fossil-breaking hammers.

He thumped the sea-ghost’s breast-bone with all his might, and it fell, sprawling on the flagstones. Milder and Fessel shifted their weight to pin the creature down.

Still, no one noticed the children.

The creature’s shoulder-wound closed like a sea anemone. The bruise in the middle of its chest faded at once. It looked hate up at the Reverend.