March 10. Evidently sleep-walked in the night, for some slight alterations had been made in “Sea Goddess”. Also curious indentations as if someone’s arms had been around the statue, which was yesterday far too hard to take any sort of impression not made by a chisel or some such tool. The marks bore the appearance of having been pressed into soft clay. The entire piece damp this morning.
March 11. A really extraordinary experience in the night. Perhaps the most vivid dream I’ve ever had, certainly the most erotic. I can hardly even now think of it without being aroused. I dreamed that a woman, naked, slipped into my bed after I had gone to sleep, and remained there all night. I dreamed that the night was spent at love—or perhaps I ought to call it lust. Nothing like it since Paris! And as real as those many nights in the Quarter! Too real, perhaps, for I woke exhausted. And I had undoubtedly spent a restless night, for the bed was much torn up.
March 12. Same dream. Exhausted.
March 13. The dream of swimming again. In the sea-depths. A sort of city far below. Ryeh or R’lyeh? Something named “Great Thooloo”?
Of these matters, these strange dreams, Corey said very little on the occasion of my March visit. His appearance at that time seemed to me somewhat drawn. He did speak of some difficulty sleeping; he was not, he said, getting his “rest”—no matter when he went to bed. He did ask me then if I had ever heard the names “Ryeh” or “Thooloo”; of course, I never had, though on the second day of my visit, we had occasion to hear them.
We went into Innsmouth that day—a short run of less than five miles—and it was evident to me soon that the supplies Corey said he needed did not form the principal reason for going to Innsmouth. Corey was plainly on a fishing expedition; he had come deliberately to find out what he could learn about his family, and to that end the way from one place to another, from Ferrand’s Drug Store to the public library, where the ancient librarian showed an extraordinary reserve on the subject of the old families of Innsmouth and the surrounding countryside, though she did at last mention two names of very old men who might remember some of the Marshes and Gilmans and Waites, and who might be found in their usual haunt, a saloon on Washington Street.
Innsmouth, for all that it had much deteriorated, was the kind of village that must inevitably fascinate anyone with archaeological or architectural interests, for it was well over a century old, and the majority of its buildings—other than those in the business-section, dated back many decades before the turn of the century. Even though many were now deserted, and in some cases fallen into ruin, the architectural features of the houses reflected a culture long since gone from the American scene.
As we neared the waterfront, on Washington Street, the evidence of catastrophe was everywhere apparent. Buildings lay in ruins—“Blown up,” said Corey, “by the Federal men, I’m told”—and little effort had been made to clean up anything, for some side streets were still blocked by brick rubble. In one place an entire street appeared to have been destroyed, and all the old buildings once used as warehouses along the docks—long since abandoned—had been destroyed. As we neared the sea shore, a nauseating, cloying musk, icthyic in origin, pervaded everything; it was more than the fishy odour often encountered in stagnant areas along the coast or, too, in inland waters.
Most of the warehouses, Corey said, had once been Marsh property; so much he had learned at Ferrand’s Drug Store. Indeed, the remaining members of the Waite and Gilman and Eliot families had suffered very little loss; almost the entire force of the Federal raid had fallen upon the Marshes and their holdings in Innsmouth, though the Marsh Refining Company, engaged in manufacturing gold ingots, had not been touched, and still afforded employment to some of the villagers who were not engaged in fishing, though the Refining Company was no longer directly controlled by members of the Marsh clan.
The saloon, which we finally reached, was plainly of nineteenth-century origin; and it was equally clear that nothing in the way of improvement had been done to the building or its interior since it had gone up, for the place was unbelievably rundown and shabby. A slovenly middle-aged man sat behind the bar reading a copy of the Arkham Advertiser, and two old men, one of them asleep, sat at it, far apart.
Corey ordered a glass of brandy, and I did likewise.
The bartender did not disguise a cautious interest in us.
“Seth Akins?” asked Corey presently.
The bartender nodded toward the customer who slept at the bar.
“What’ll he drink?” asked Corey.
“Anything.”
“Let’s have a brandy for him.”
The bartender poured a shot of brandy into an ill-washed glass and put it down on the bar. Corey took it down to where the old man slept, sat down beside him, and nudged him awake.
“Have one on me,” he invited.
The old fellow looked up, revealing a grizzled face and bleary eyes under tousled grey hair. He saw the brandy, grabbed it, grinning uncertainly, and drank it down.
Corey began to question him, at first only establishing his identity as an old resident of Innsmouth, and talking in a general fashion about the village and the surrounding country to Arkham and Newburyport. Akins talked freely enough; Corey bought him another drink, and then another.
But Akins’ ease of speech faded as soon as Corey mentioned the old families, particularly the Marshes. The old man grew markedly more cautious, his eyes darting longingly toward the door, as if he would have liked to escape. Corey, however, pressed him hard, and Akins yielded.
“Guess thar ain’t no harm sayin’ things naow,” he said finally. “Most o’ them Marshes is gone since the guv’mint come in last month. And no one knows whar to, but they ain’t come back.” He rambled quite a bit, but, after circling the subject for some time, he came at last to the “East Injy trade” and “Cap’n Obed Marsh—who begun it all. He had some kind a truck with them East Injuns—brung back some o’ thar women an’ kep’ ’em in that big haouse he’d built—an’ after that, the young Marshes got that queer look an’ took to swimmin’ aout to Devil Reef an’ they’d be gone fer a long time—haours—an’ it wan’t natural bein’ underwater so long. Cap’n Obed married one o’ them women—an’ some o’ the younger Marshes went aout to the East Injys an’ brung back more. The Marsh trade never fell off like the others’. All three o’ Cap’n Obed’s ships—the brig Columby, an’ the barque Sumatry Queen an’ another brig, Hetty—sailed the oceans for the East Injy an’ the Pacific trade withaout ever a accident. An’ them people—them East Injuns an’ the Marshes—they begun a new kind a religion—they called it the Order o’ Dagon—an’ there was a lot o’ talk, whisperin’ whar nobuddy heerd it, abaout what went on at their meetin’s, an’ young folk—well, maybe they got lost, but nobuddy ever saw ’em again, an’ thar was all that talk about sacreefices—human sacreefices—abaout the same time the young folks dropped aout o’ sight—none o’ them Marshes or Gilmans or Waites or Eliots, though, none o’ thar young folk ever got lost. An’ thar was all them whispers abaout some place called ‘Ryeh’ an’ somethin’ named ‘Thooloo’—some kin’t Dagon, seems like…”