Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

It was circular and in the shape of a coronet or diadem, but if it was a sort of crown, then the head it had enclosed was monstrous, at least twice the size of an ordinary adult human head. The pattern was one of intricately entwined whorls and concentric circles which, when you looked closely at them, resolved themselves into the coiling limbs of strange creatures whose bulging eyes were represented by some sort of milky-white semiprecious stone. They were not pearls, but could have been white jade, though this seemed unlikely for England. The lowest band or border was composed of the interconnecting key pattern of swastikas that we had seen on the walls above us.

While Bertie was babbling on about how he had found King Arthur’s crown, I took out the camera from my knapsack and put a flash bulb into the attachment. I only had a few bulbs so I had to choose my subjects carefully. I took one of the area we stood in as a whole to give an impression of the remarkable structure we had found. I took another, at Bertie’s earnest request, of him holding the giant diadem. I then decided that I should point the camera down the two tunnels that projected from our central chamber.

I took one without any effect, but when my camera flashed down the other tunnel I thought I saw through my viewfinder something move at the end of the passageway I was photographing: a pale grey-green something that was smooth and glistening. The next moment I heard a noise, halfway between a groan and a retching cough, but cavernous and hugely magnified. I turned sharply round to see if it was Bertie playing some stupid joke, but he was staring back at me, white and horrified.

The next minute we were storming up those spiral stairs as fast as we could go. Bertie, who was ahead of me, stumbled several times. Each time I picked him up and on we went. By the time we had reached the end of the steps and the rope ladder we were both gasping for breath. It was at least five minutes before we made the final ascent.

As we came out of the well the sun was setting in a clear evening sky, but for a few seconds it seemed impossibly bright to us. I ordered the rope ladder to be drawn up and the lid of the well to be replaced.

I had my camera with me. I turned and asked Bertie if he still had the crown with him, but he said he had dropped it on the way up. I believed him; I think I believed him, but he had his arms folded across his jacket in an odd way.

Bertie had recovered from his fright amazingly quickly and was soon chattering away to the Clerk of Works about the well’s “amazing archaeological importance”. I noticed, though, that he was very unspecific about our discoveries and for that, I suppose, I should be grateful.

I returned to the Deanery exhausted, and at dinner, I am afraid, proved very unforthcoming about the day’s events. Fortunately the Dean was in a very talkative mood. He was full of Mr. Chamberlain’s flight to see “Mr. Hitler” and pacify him over the Sudetenland Crisis. He sees the Prime Minister’s mission as the epitome of modern statesmanship and diplomacy. I am too weary and confused to agree or disagree openly, but I do not share his confidence in a peaceful outcome. Mrs. Dean remained entirely mute and he barely looked at her.

The Dean then told me he had just heard the melancholy news that during the previous night the Archdeacon, the Venerable Thaddeus Hill, had died, of a “seizure”. When the Dean said the word “seizure” I noticed that his wife looked at him very sharply indeed, and I think I saw the Dean’s pale skin flush with embarrassment.

SEPTEMBER 23RD

In the early hours of this morning I was rudely awakened by the Dean. No, not like the night before. He entered my room and shook me awake. There were intruders in the Cathedral, he said: lights had been seen in the cloisters. I told him to alert the police; it was nothing to do with me, but he was insistent. I had never seen the Dean so animated.

I dressed rapidly and grabbed my torch. The Dean was waiting for me downstairs in the hall with a heavy old revolver and some cartridges. Handing me the gun, he said: “Take this, my boy. My old service revolver from the Trenches. We have not a moment to lose.” I thought he must be mad.

From the top of the stairs his wife in her night-gown stared down at us, wild and bewildered.

We gained access by the West door but, finding nothing amiss in the Cathedral itself, we hurried on to the cloisters. There, by the light of our torches we could see the lid had been removed from the well and we could hear distant cries. Once we got to the well we could hear the cries clearly, albeit distorted by the well’s weird echo. Someone was screaming for help and I could swear the voice was Bertie’s.