II
Shortly before ten the next morning I stood with one small
valise in front of Hammond's Drug Store in old Market Square waiting for
the Innsmouth bus. As the hour for its arrival drew near I noticed
a general drift of the loungers to other places up the street, or to the
Ideal Lunch across the square. Evidently the ticket-agent had not
exaggerated the dislike which local People
bore toward Innsmouth and its denizens. In a few
moments a small motor-coach of extreme decrepitude and dirty grey colour
rattled down State Street, made a turn, and drew up at the curb beside
me. I felt immediately that it was the right one; a guess which the
half-illegible sign on the windshield - Arkham-Innsmouth-Newburyport -
soon verified.
There were only three passengers - dark, unkempt men of
sullen visage and somewhat youthful cast - and when the vehicle stopped
they clumsily shambled out and began walking up State Street in a silent,
almost furtive fashion. The driver also alighted, and I watched him
as he went into the drug store to make some purchase. This, I reflected,
must be the Joe Sargent mentioned
by the ticket-agent; and even before I noticed any details
there spread over me a wave of spontaneous aversion which could be neither
checked nor explained. It suddenly struck me as very natural that
the local people should not wish to ride on a bus owned and driven by this
man, or to visit any oftener than possible the habitat of such a man and
his kinsfolk.
When the driver came out of the store I looked at him
more carefully and tried to determine the source of my evil impression.
He was a thin, stoop-shouldered man not much under six feet tall, dressed
in shabby blue civilian clothes and wearing a frayed golf cap. His
age was perhaps thirty-five, but the odd, deep creases in the sides of
his neck made him seem older when one did
not study his dull, expressionless face. He had
a narrow head, bulging, watery-blue eyes that seemed never to wink, a flat
nose, a receding forehead and chin, and singularly undeveloped ears.
His long thick lip and coarse-pored, greyish cheeks seemed almost beardless
except for some sparse yellow hairs that straggled and curled in irregular
patches; and in places the surface
seemed queerly irregular, as if peeling from some cutaneous
disease. His hands were large and heavily veined, and had a very
unusual greyish-blue tinge. The fingers were strikingly short in
proportion to the rest of the structure, and seemed to have a tendency
to curl closely into the huge palm. As he walked toward the bus I
observed his peculiarly shambling gait and saw that his
feet were inordinately immense. The more I studied
them the more I wondered how he could buy any shoes to fit them.
A certain greasiness about the fellow increased my dislike.
He was evidently given to working or lounging around the fish docks, and
carried with him much of their characteristic smell. Just what foreign
blood was in him I could not even guess. His oddities certainly did
not look Asiatic, Polynesian, Levantine or negroid, yet I could see why
the people found him alien. I myself
would have thought of biological degeneration rather
than alienage.
I was sorry when I saw there would be no other passengers
on the bus. Somehow I did not like the idea of riding alone with
this driver. But as leaving time obviously approached I conquered
my qualms and followed the man aboard, extending him a dollar bill and
murmuring the single word "Innsmouth." He looked curiously at me for a
second as he returned forty cents change
without speaking. I took a seat far behind him,
but on the same side of the bus, since I wished to watch the shore during
the journey.
At length the decrepit vehicle stared with a jerk, and
rattled noisily past the old brick buildings of State Street amidst a cloud
of vapour from the exhaust. Glancing at the people on the sidewalks,
I thought I detected in them a curious wish to avoid looking at the bus
- or at least a wish to avoid seeming to look at it. Then we turned
to the left into High Street, where the going was
smoother; flying by stately old mansions of the early
republic and still older colonial farmhouses, passing the Lower Green and
Parker River, and finally emerging into a long, monotonous stretch of open
shore country.
The day was warm and sunny, but the landscape of sand
and sedge-grass, and stunted shrubbery became more and desolate as we proceeded.
Out the window I could see the blue water and the sandy line of Plum Island,
and we presently drew very near the beach as our narrow road veered off
from the main highway to Rowley and Ipswich. There were no visible
houses, and I
could tell by the state of the road that traffic was
very light hereabouts. The weather-worn telephone poles carried only
two wires. Now and then we crossed crude wooden bridges over tidal
creeks that wound far inland and promoted the general isolation of the
region.
Once in a while I noticed dead stumps and crumbling foundation-walls
above the drifting sand, and recalled the old tradition quoted in one of
the histories I had read, that this was once a fertile and thickly-settled
countryside. The change, it was said, came simultaneously with the
Innsmouth epidemic of l846, and was thought by simple folk to have a dark
connection with hidden
forces of evil. Actually, it was caused by the
unwise cutting of woodlands near the shore, which robbed the soil of the
best protection and opened the way for waves of wind-blown sand.
At last we lost sight of Plum Island and saw the vast
expanse of the open Atlantic on our left. Our narrow course began
to climb steeply, and I felt a singular sense of disquiet in looking at
the lonely crest ahead where the rutted road-way met the sky. It
was as if the bus were about to keep on in its ascent, leaving the sane
earth altogether and merging with the unknown arcana of
upper air and cryptical sky. The smell of the sea
took on ominous implications, and the silent driver's bent, rigid back
and narrow head became more and more hateful. As I looked at him
I saw that the back of his head was almost as hairless as his face, having
only a few straggling yellow strands upon a grey scabrous surface.
Then we reached the crest and beheld the outspread valley
beyond, where the Manuxet joins the sea just north of the long line of
cliffs that culminate in Kingsport Head and veer off toward Cape Ann.
On the far misty horizon I could just make out the dizzy profile of the
Head, topped by the queer ancient house of which so many legends are told;
but for the moment all my
attention was captured by the nearer panorama just below
me. I had, I realized, come face to face with rumour-shadowed Innsmouth.
It was a town of wide extent and dense construction, yet
one with a portentous dearth of visible life. From the tangle of
chimney-pots scarcely a wisp of smoke came, and the three tall steeples
loomed stark and unpainted against the seaward horizon. One of them
was crumbling down at the top, and in that and another there were only
black gaping holes where clock-dials should
have been. The vast huddle of sagging gambrel roofs
and peaked gables conveyed with offensive clearness the idea of wormy decay,
and as we approached along the now descending road I could see that many
roofs had wholly caved in. There were some large square Georgian
houses, too, with hipped roofs, cupolas, and railed "widow's walks." These
were mostly well back from
the water, and one or two seemed to be in moderately
sound condition. Stretching inland from among them I saw the rusted,
grass-grown line of the abandoned railway, with leaning telegraph-poles
now devoid of wires, and the half-obscured lines of the old carriage roads
to Rowley and Ipswich.
The decay was worst close to the waterfront, though in
its very midst I could spy the white belfry of a fairly well preserved
brick structure which looked like a small factory. The harbour, long
clogged with sand, was enclosed by an ancient stone breakwater; on which
I could begin to discern the minute forms of a few seated fishermen, and
at whose end were what looked like the
foundations of a bygone lighthouse. A sandy tongue
had formed inside this barrier and upon it I saw a few decrepit cabins,
moored dories, and scattered lobster-pots. The only deep water seemed
to be where the river poured out past the belfried structure and turned
southward to join the ocean at the breakwater's end.
Here and there the ruins of wharves jutted out from the
shore to end in indeterminate rottenness, those farthest south seeming
the most decayed. And far out at sea, despite a high tide, I glimpsed
a long, black line scarcely rising above the water yet carrying a suggestion
of odd latent malignancy. This, I knew, must be Devil Reef.
As I looked, a subtle, curious sense of beckoning
seemed superadded to the grim repulsion; and oddly enough,
I found this overtone more disturbing than the primary impression.
We met no one on the road, but presently began to pass
deserted farms in varying stages of ruin. Then I noticed a few inhabited
houses with rags stuffed in the broken windows and shells and dead fish
lying about the littered yards. Once or twice I saw listless-looking
people working in barren gardens or digging clams on the fishy-smelling
beach below, and groups of dirty,
simian-visaged children playing around weed-grown doorsteps.
Somehow these people seemed more disquieting than the dismal buildings,
for almost every one had certain peculiarities of face and motions which
I instinctively disliked without being able to define or comprehend them.
For a second I thought this typical physique suggested some picture I had
seen, perhaps in a
book, under circumstances of particular horror or melancholy;
but this pseudo-recollection passed very quickly.
As the bus reached a lower level I began to catch the
steady note of a waterfall through the unnatural stillness, The leaning,
unpainted houses grew thicker, lined both sides of the road, and displayed
more urban tendencies than did those we were leaving behind, The panorama
ahead had contracted to a street scene, and in spots I could see where
a cobblestone pavement and
stretches of brick sidewalk had formerly existed.
All the houses were apparently deserted, and there were occasional gaps
where tumbledown chimneys and cellar walls told of buildings that had collapsed.
Pervading everything was the most nauseous fishy odour imaginable.
Soon cross streets and junctions began to appear; those
on the left leading to shoreward realms of unpaved squalor and decay, while
those on the right shewed vistas of departed grandeur. So far I had
seen no people in the town, but there now came signs of a sparse habitation
- curtained windows here and there, and an occasional battered motorcar
at the curb. Pavement and
sidewalks were increasingly well-defined, and though
most of the houses were quite old - wood and brick structures of the early
19th century - they were obviously kept fit for habitation. As an
amateur antiquarian I almost lost my olfactory disgust and my feeling of
menace and repulsion amidst this rich, unaltered survival from the past.
But I was not to reach my destination without one very
strong impression of poignantly disagreeable quality. The bus had
come to a sort of open concourse or radial point with churches on two sides
and the bedraggled remains of a circular green in the centre, and I was
looking at a large pillared hall on the right-hand junction ahead.
The structure's once white paint was now gray
and peeling and the black and gold sign on the pediment
was so faded that I could only with difficulty make out the words "Esoteric
Order of Dagon". This, then was the former Masonic Hall now given
over to a degraded cult. As I strained to decipher this inscription
my notice was distracted by the raucous tones of a cracked bell across
the street, and I quickly turned to look out
the window on my side of the coach.
The sound came from a squat stone church of manifestly
later date than most of the houses, built in a clumsy Gothic fashion and
having a disproportionately high basement with shuttered windows.
Though the hands of its clock were missing on the side I glimpsed, I knew
that those hoarse strokes were tolling the hour of eleven. Then suddenly
all thoughts of time were blotted out
by an onrushing image of sharp intensity and unaccountable
horror which had seized me before I knew what it really was. The
door of the church basement was open, revealing a rectangle of blackness
inside. And as I looked, a certain object crossed or seemed to cross
that dark rectangle; burning into my brain a momentary conception of nightmare
which was all the more
maddening because analysis could not shew a single nightmarish
quality in it.
It was a living object - the first except the driver that
I had seen since entering the compact part of the town - and had I been
in a steadier mood I would have found nothing whatever of terror in it.
Clearly, as I realised a moment later, it was the pastor; clad in some
peculiar vestments doubtless introduced since the Order of Dagon had modified
the ritual of the local churches. The
thing which had probably caught my first subconscious
glance and supplied the touch of bizarre horror was the tall tiara he wore;
an almost exact duplicate of the one Miss Tilton had shown me the previous
evening. This, acting on my imagination, had supplied namelessly
sinister qualities to the indeterminate face and robed, shambling form
beneath it. There was not, I soon
decided, any reason why I should have felt that shuddering
touch of evil pseudo-memory. Was it not natural that a local mystery
cult should adopt among its regimentals an unique type of head-dress made
familiar to the community in some strange way - perhaps as treasure-trove?
A very thin sprinkling of repellent-looking youngish people
now became visible on the sidewalks - lone individuals, and silent knots
of two or three. The lower floors of the crumbling houses sometimes
harboured small shops with dingy signs, and I noticed a parked truck or
two as we rattled along. The sound of waterfalls became more and
more distinct, and presently I saw a
fairly deep river-gorge ahead, spanned by a wide, iron-railed
highway bridge beyond which a large square opened out. As we clanked
over the bridge I looked out on both sides and observed some factory buildings
on the edge of the grassy bluff or part way down. The water far below
was very abundant, and I could see two vigorous sets of falls upstream
on my right and at least
one downstream on my left. From this point the
noise was quite deafening. Then we rolled into the large semicircular
square across the river and drew up on the right-hand side in front of
a tall, cupola crowned building with remnants of yellow paint and with
a half-effaced sign proclaiming it to be the Gilman House.
I was glad to get out of that bus, and at once proceeded
to check my valise in the shabby hotel lobby. There was only one
person in sight - an elderly man without what I had come to call the "Innsmouth
look" - and I decided not to ask him any of the questions which bothered
me; remembering that odd things had been noticed in this hotel. Instead,
I strolled out on the square,
from which the bus had already gone, and studied the
scene minutely and appraisingly.
One side of the cobblestoned open space was the straight
line of the river; the other was a semicircle of slant-roofed brick buildings
of about the 1800 period, from which several streets radiated away to the
southeast, south, and southwest. Lamps were depressingly few and
small - all low-powered incandescents - and I was glad that my plans called
for departure before dark, even
though I knew the moon would be bright. The buildings
were all in fair condition, and included perhaps a dozen shops in current
operation; of which one was a grocery of the First National chain, others
a dismal restaurant, a drug store, and a wholesale fish-dealer's office,
and still another, at the eastward extremity of the square near the river
an office of the town's only industry -
the Marsh Refining Company. There were perhaps
ten people visible, and four or five automobiles and motor trucks stood
scattered about. I did not need to be told that this was the civic
centre of Innsmouth. Eastward I could catch blue glimpses of the
harbour, against which rose the decaying remains of three once beautiful
Georgian steeples. And toward the shore on the
opposite bank of the river I saw the white belfry surmounting
what I took to be the Marsh refinery.
For some reason or other I chose to make my first inquiries
at the chain grocery, whose personnel was not likely to be native to Innsmouth.
I found a solitary boy of about seventeen in charge, and was pleased to
note the brightness and affability which promised cheerful information.
He seemed exceptionally eager to talk, and I soon gathered that he did
not like the place, its fishy
smell, or its furtive people. A word with any outsider
was a relief to him. He hailed from Arkham, boarded with a family
who came from Ipswich, and went back whenever he got a moment off.
His family did not like him to work in Innsmouth, but the chain had transferred
him there and he did not wish to give up his job.
There was, he said, no public library or chamber of commerce
in Innsmouth, but I could probably find my way about. The street
I had come down was Federal. West of that were the fine old residence
streets - Broad, Washington, Lafayette, and Adams - and east of it were
the shoreward slums. It was in these slums - along Main Street -
that I would find the old Georgian
churches, but they were all long abandoned. It
would be well not to make oneself too conspicuous in such neighbourhoods
- especially north of the river since the people were sullen and hostile.
Some strangers had even disappeared.
Certain spots were almost forbidden territory, as he had
learned at considerable cost. One must not, for example, linger much
around the Marsh refinery, or around any of the still used churches, or
around the pillared Order of Dagon Hall at New Church Green. Those
churches were very odd - all violently disavowed by their respective denominations
elsewhere, and apparently
using the queerest kind of ceremonials and clerical vestments.
Their creeds were heterodox and mysterious, involving hints of certain
marvelous transformations leading to bodily immorality - of a sort - on
this earth. The youth's own pastor - Dr. Wallace of Asbury
M. E. Church in Arkham - had gravely urged him not to join
any church in Innsmouth.
As for the Innsmouth people - the youth hardly knew what
to make of them. They were as furtive and seldom seen as animals
that live in burrows, and one could hardly imagine how they passed the
time apart from their desultory fishing. Perhaps - judging from the
quantities of bootleg liquor they consumed - they lay for most of the daylight
hours in an alcoholic stupor. They
seemed sullenly banded together in some sort of fellowship
and understanding - despising the world as if they had access to other
and preferable spheres of entity. Their appearance - especially those
staring, unwinking eyes which one never saw shut - was certainly shocking
enough; and their voices were disgusting. It was awful to hear them
chanting in their churches at night, and
especially during their main festivals or revivals, which
fell twice a year on April 30th and October 31st.
They were very fond of the water, and swam a great deal
in both river and harbour. Swimming races out to Devil Reef were
very common, and everyone in sight seemed well able to share in this arduous
sport. When one came to think of it, it was generally only rather
young people who were seen about in public, and of these the oldest were
apt to be the most tainted-looking.
When exceptions did occur, they were mostly persons with
no trace of aberrancy, like the old clerk at the hotel. One wondered
what became of the bulk of the older folk, and whether the "Innsmouth look"
were not a strange and insidious disease-phenomenon which increased its
hold as years advanced.
Only a very rare affliction, of course, could bring about
such vast and radical anatomical changes in a single individual after maturity
- changes invoking osseous factors as basic as the shape of the skull -
but then, even this aspect was no more baffling and unheard-of than the
visible features of the malady as a whole. It would be hard, the
youth implied, to form any real conclusions
regarding such a matter; since one never came to know
the natives personally no matter how long one might live in Innsmouth.
The youth was certain that many specimens even worse than
the worst visible ones were kept locked indoors in some places. People
sometimes heard the queerest kind of sounds. The tottering waterfront
hovels north of the river were reputedly connected by hidden tunnels, being
thus a veritable warren of unseen abnormalities. What kind of foreign
blood - if any - these beings
had, it was impossible to tell. They sometimes
kept certain especially repulsive characters out of sight when government
and others from the outside world came to town.
It would be of no use, my informant said, to ask the natives
anything about the place. The only one who would talk was a very
aged but normal looking man who lived at the poorhouse on the north rim
of the town and spent his time walking about or lounging around the fire
station. This hoary character, Zadok Allen, was 96 years old and
somewhat touched in the head, besides
being the town drunkard. He was a strange, furtive
creature who constantly looked over his shoulder as if afraid of something,
and when sober could not be persuaded to talk at all with strangers.
He was, however, unable to resist any offer of his favorite poison; and
once drunk would furnish the most astonishing fragments of whispered reminiscence.
After all, though, little useful data could be gained
from him; since his stories were all insane, incomplete hints of impossible
marvels and horrors which could have no source save in his own disordered
fancy. Nobody ever believed him, but the natives did not like him
to drink and talk with strangers; and it was not always safe to be seen
questioning him. It was probably from him
that some of the wildest popular whispers and delusions
were derived.
Several non-native residents had reported monstrous glimpses
from time to time, but between old Zadok's tales and the malformed inhabitants
it was no wonder such illusions were current. None of the non-natives
ever stayed out late at night, there being a widespread impression that
it was not wise to do so. Besides, the streets were loathsomely dark.
As for business - the abundance of fish was certainly
almost uncanny, but the natives were taking less and less advantage of
it. Moreover, prices were falling and competition was growing.
Of course the town's real business was the refinery, whose commercial office
was on the square only a few doors east of where we stood. Old Man
Marsh was never seen, but sometimes went
to the works in a closed, curtained car.
There were all sorts of rumors about how Marsh had come
to look. He had once been a great dandy; and people said he still
wore the frock-coated finery of the Edwardian age curiously adapted to
certain deformities. His son had formerly conducted the office in
the square, but latterly they had been keeping out of sight a good deal
and leaving the brunt of affairs to the younger
generation. The sons and their sisters had come
to look very queer, especially the elder ones; and it was said that their
health was failing.
One of the Marsh daughters was a repellent, reptilian-looking
woman who wore an excess of weird jewellery clearly of the same exotic
tradition as that to which the strange tiara belonged. My informant
had noticed it many times, and had heard it spoken of as coming from some
secret hoard, either of pirates or of demons. The clergymen - or
priests, or whatever they were called
nowadays - also wore this kind of ornament as a headdress;
but one seldom caught glimpses of them. Other specimens the youth
had not seen, though many were rumoured to exist around Innsmouth.
The Marshes, together with the other three gently bred
families of the town - the Waites, the Gilmans, and the Eliots - were all
very retiring. They lived in immense houses along Washington Street,
and several were reputed to harbour in concealment certain living kinsfolk
whose personal aspect forbade public view, and whose deaths had been reported
and recorded.
Warning me that many of the street signs were down, the
youth drew for my benefit a rough but ample and painstaking sketch map
of the town's salient features. After a moment's study I felt sure
that it would be of great help, and pocketed it with profuse thanks.
Disliking the dinginess of the single restaurant I had seen, I bought a
fair supply of cheese crackers and ginger wafers
to serve as a lunch later on. My program, I decided,
would be to thread the principal streets, talk with any non-natives I might
encounter, and catch the eight o'clock coach for Arkham. The town,
I could see, formed a significant and exaggerated example of communal decay;
but being no sociologist I would limit my serious observations to the field
of architecture.
Thus I began my systematic though half-bewildered tour
of Innsmouth's narrow, shadow-blighted ways. Crossing the bridge
and turning toward the roar of the lower falls, I passed close to the Marsh
refinery, which seemed to be oddly free from the noise of industry.
The building stood on the steep river bluff near a bridge and an open confluence
of streets which I took to be the
earliest civic center, displaced after the Revolution
by the present Town Square.
Re-crossing the gorge on the Main Street bridge, I struck
a region of utter desertion which somehow made me shudder. Collapsing
huddles of gambrel roofs formed a jagged and fantastic skyline, above which
rose the ghoulish, decapitated steeple of an ancient church. Some
houses along Main Street were tenanted, but most were tightly boarded up.
Down unpaved side streets I
saw the black, gaping windows of deserted hovels, many
of which leaned at perilous and incredible angles through the sinking of
part of the foundations. Those windows stared so spectrally that
it took courage to turn eastward toward the waterfront. Certainly,
the terror of a deserted house swells in geometrical rather than arithmetical
progression as houses multiply to form a city
of stark desolation. The sight of such endless
avenues of fishy-eyed vacancy and death, and the thought of such linked
infinities of black, brooding compartments given over to cob-webs and memories
and the conqueror worm, start up vestigial fears and aversions that not
even the stoutest philosophy can disperse.
Fish Street was as deserted as Main, though it differed
in having many brick and stone warehouses still in excellent shape.
Water Street was almost its duplicate, save that there were great seaward
gaps where wharves had been. Not a living thing did I see except
for the scattered fishermen on the distant break-water, and not a sound
did I hear save the lapping of the harbour tides
and the roar of the falls in the Manuxet. The town
was getting more and more on my nerves, and I looked behind me furtively
as I picked my way back over the tottering Water Street bridge. The
Fish Street bridge, according to the sketch, was in ruins.
North of the river there were traces of squalid life -
active fish-packing houses in Water Street, smoking chimneys and patched
roofs here and there, occasional sounds from indeterminate sources, and
infrequent shambling forms in the dismal streets and unpaved lanes - but
I seemed to find this even more oppressive than the southerly desertion.
For one thing, the people were more
hideous and abnormal than those near the centre of the
town; so that I was several times evilly reminded of something utterly
fantastic which I could not quite place. Undoubtedly the alien strain
in the Innsmouth folk was stronger here than farther inland - unless, indeed,
the "Innsmouth look" were a disease rather than a blood stain, in which
case this district might be held to
harbour the more advanced cases.
One detail that annoyed me was the distribution of the
few faint sounds I heard. They ought naturally to have come wholly
from the visibly inhabited houses, yet in reality were often strongest
inside the most rigidly boarded-up facades. There were creakings,
scurryings, and hoarse doubtful noises; and I thought uncomfortably about
the hidden tunnels suggested by the grocery
boy. Suddenly I found myself wondering what the
voices of those denizens would be like. I had heard no speech so
far in this quarter, and was unaccountably anxious not to do so.
Pausing only long enough to look at two fine but ruinous
old churches at Main and Church Streets, I hastened out of that vile waterfront
slum. My next logical goal was New Church Green, but somehow or other
I could not bear to repass the church in whose basement I had glimpsed
the inexplicably frightening form of that strangely diademmed priest or
pastor. Besides, the
grocery youth had told me that churches, as well as the
Order of Dagon Hall, were not advisable neighbourhoods for strangers.
Accordingly I kept north along Main to Martin, then turning
inland, crossing Federal Street safely north of the Green, and entering
the decayed patrician neighbourhood of northern Broad, Washington, Lafayette,
and Adams Streets. Though these stately old avenues were ill-surfaced
and unkempt, their elm-shaded dignity had not entirely departed.
Mansion after mansion claimed
my gaze, most of them decrepit and boarded up amidst
neglected grounds, but one or two in each street shewing signs of occupancy.
In Washington Street there was a row of four or five in excellent repair
and with finely-tended lawns and gardens. The most sumptuous of these
- with wide terraced parterres extending back the whole way to Lafayette
Street - I took to be the
home of Old Man Marsh, the afflicted refinery owner.
In all these streets no living thing was visible, and
I wondered at the complete absence of cats and dogs from Innsmouth.
Another thing which puzzled and disturbed me, even in some of the best-preserved
mansions, was the tightly shuttered condition of many third-story and attic
windows. Furtiveness and secretiveness seemed universal in this hushed
city of alienage and death,
and I could not escape the sensation of being watched
from ambush on every hand by sly, staring eyes that never shut.
I shivered as the cracked stroke of three sounded from
a belfry on my left. Too well did I recall the squat church from
which those notes came. Following Washington street toward the river,
I now faced a new zone of former industry and commerce; noting the ruins
of a factory ahead, and seeing others, with the traces of an old railway
station and covered railway bridge beyond,
up the gorge on my right.
The uncertain bridge now before me was posted with a warning
sign, but I took the risk and crossed again to the south bank where traces
of life reappeared. Furtive, shambling creatures stared cryptically
in my direction, and more normal faces eyed me coldly and curiously.
Innsmouth was rapidly becoming intolerable, and I turned down Paine Street
toward the Square in the hope
of getting some vehicle to take me to Arkham before the
still-distant starting-time of that sinister bus.
It was then that I saw the tumbledown fire station on
my left, and noticed the red faced, bushy-bearded, watery eyed old man
in nondescript rags who sat on a bench in front of it talking with a pair
of unkempt but not abnormal looking firemen. This, of course, must
be Zadok Allen, the half-crazed, liquorish nonagenarian whose tales of
old Innsmouth and its shadow were so
hideous and incredible.
