Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

My curiosity had been piqued in regard to the Outpost Mr. Standish had done his best to scare me away from. No longer tired (in fact, I was rejuvenated by the sea air and the prospect of a little adventure), I skipped on to the greensward and picked a route up through the broken collars of rock to a channel carved into the face of the cliff. Here it was that I saw the first barrier to my progress, but it was little more than a wire-mesh fence, unattached, and I was able to lift and reposition it to allow me through.

Warning signs: DANGER. STEEP DROP. DO NOT ENTER. The torch showed me where to put my feet. Suddenly I was there, standing before an arch that did little more than frame a precipitous drop to the fangs of rock below. The walkway connecting the Outpost to the mainland was gone, destroyed by nature most likely. I imagined it had existed as a crow’s nest kind of place—the view of the sea was unhindered.

Perhaps a radio operator would have spent time there, ready to send an urgent telegram to the Wolf’s Lair at the first sign of aggression from His Majesty’s fleet. From here it looked like a tiny space, enough for one man and a rickety little bunk. I wished I could get across to satisfy my curiosity, but it was impossible.

Reluctantly, I turned back, but I had been re-energised and I fancied I’d need more of a walk to coax tiredness back into my limbs. Also, I’d been somewhat unnerved by Alastair’s revelations regarding The Fisherman (not to mention the lascivious glee he divined from relating the story) and I wanted to erase it, or at least remove it for the time being, from my thoughts. No man could entertain the prospect of sleep with that kind of nastiness flitting around his head.

Making sure I had a key to the front gate, I let myself out on to the causeway, and angled down to the beach.

III

LATE-NIGHT CONSTITUTIONAL • A CURIOSITY • THE OLD MAN •

A BAD NIGHT’S SLEEP

Bliss! In all my time, even while I was courting Clarissa and we’d spent the odd weekend in Blackpool, I’d never taken a midnight stroll along the seashore. What I’d been missing!

I saw—or rather, heard—bats, and even felt their tiny wings changing the currents of the air close to my face. I saw phosphorescence in the waves—glimmering green beads of light strung out like a discarded necklace. I was convinced I felt the tremor of the sea as a whale crashed into it, playing deliriously and celebrating its freedom. I thought I might have heard it too, that wildly exciting, but strangely comforting sequence of moans and squeals, both mordant and uplifting in the same breath.

My feet crunched satisfyingly on the shingle beach, a melange of ancient pebbles, shells, polished fragments of glass and what have you, and my spirits were replenished. I trained the torch upon my intended route, to ensure I didn’t sprain an ankle on any rogue lengths of driftwood, but I needn’t have bothered—the ambient light cast by the concealed moon was sufficient to navigate by.

After a good half an hour, I was starting to feel properly tired, that good, ache-filled enervation that comes from honest endeavour. I knew I would sleep well, despite the oily smell of the Quarters and the thoughts of the ghosts of German soldiers who had visited any and all kinds of unpleasantness on the island’s prisoners. That was over seventy years ago

, I admonished myself. You’ve lived your life in the span since then. Spilled milk, and all that.

I was about to turn in when the torchlight picked something out that caused my mind to snag for a second. That’s funny, I thought. Some anomaly in the pattern of the beach. I know that sounds a little strange, given that a beach of shingle can’t really lay claim to any sort of pattern, or logic, but there you have it. I felt a difference in the stones. And there it was. A pebble that was larger than the others (about the size of a lime, but flatter), highly polished, and with a hole bored right through, off-centre. It looked like something you might wear on a length of chain or leather.

It was a handsome chunk of stone, and I pocketed it immediately. I poked around for a few minutes more, thinking I might find another like it, but the beach had retained its anonymity. It was then, as I began the slow march back up to the causeway, that I was given another surprise.

I saw thrashing limbs breaking the surface of the sea, and a furious foaming as something came fast towards the shore. I caught my breath and staggered backwards, almost tripping in the shingle. The limbs disappeared, submerging, and the relative calm returned, but then a great column of white rose as whatever it was resurfaced, this time head-first.

The water cascaded off it to reveal a naked man. I laughed out loud with relief and consternation. He seemed more stunned than I, however, and halted his progress from the water mid-stride, almost shying away from me as I padded through the shingle to greet him.