When I heard Linda scream, I knew the truth. After all, as Lovecraft once said, “the strangest and maddest of myths are often merely symbols or allegories based upon truth.”
My children had been marked for sacrifice from the moment I’d read the forbidden Necronomicon. The true mark of the beast was the fevered dream that consumed me, not the singed man-made costumes Linda had salvaged from the remains of the pharmacy fire. If I hadn’t been a true believer, none of this would have come to pass. I, the madman, not the fabled Brown Jenkin nor Nyarlathotep nor even Great Cthulhu caused this tragedy to occur. I, alone, am to blame.
For I am alone. From this moment forward, I shall always be alone, a true outsider.
I raised the axe and stilled Linda’s screams.
And then I began hunting small, furry, sharp-toothed things wherever I might find them.
“Cthulhu fhtagn!” I shouted, as I hefted the bloodied axe onto one shoulder and disappeared into the darkness.
Waters Strangely Clear
Alan Baxter
Under grey skies threatening rain, Howard Bloch drove east. Behind the wheel for hours already and still Skye’s voice echoed through his mind, biting, mocking him.
“So you’re really going?”
“I have to!” Infuriated at her refusal to understand.
“A Halloween party? You’re a grown man!”
“It’s our conference. It’s my job.”
“The conference,” disdain drooled from the word, “is a lame excuse for grown adults to act like children.”
“I’m a regional sales manager. The year’s targets and strategies are laid out over three days.”
“As an excuse to then have the lame-ass party.”
So much more hung off that phrase. Lame-ass job, lame-ass husband, lame-ass man. He had shrugged, no idea how to respond.
“You’re really going? To talk about tacky Halloween decorations instead of staying to save us.”
“Is there us any more?” he’d asked.
“I guess not.”
Her eyes were wet with hurt and anger as she’d turned away. Without another word, he’d wheeled his suitcase out to the car and driven off.
On I-95 somewhere north of Boston, Howard’s eyes were wet too. He loved Skye… Had loved her more than life itself. His breezy, beautiful songstress. She’d loved his stability after a childhood with commune-living parents who spent their days stoned, talking about permaculture farming and the spirits of the wind. But her spirit had been like the wind too and perhaps it was inevitable she would grow bored of him. But was that all it was? Boredom? Their life lacked adventure, that was one constant complaint from Skye. You’re so pragmatic, there’s not an esoteric bone in your body! Isn’t that why she married him? Maybe they should have had kids, but that was something she resisted. Their slight misalignment on so many things seemed to have widened through the years until now all the gaps appeared insurmountable.
He took the Yankee Division Highway off I-95, squinted at his phone’s GPS as it directed him towards Essex Bay. The leaden skies broke, rain bucketing over the windscreen as he finally spotted the sign directing him north: Innsmouth, 6 Miles.
“Backwater place for the conference,” Howard muttered as the day grew unseasonably dark, even for the end of October.
Head Office had sung the virtues of the location, old world charm and a powerful sense of the macabre, like a town that time forgot. “This year is an auspicious one for the company,” the memo had said. “And we’re returning to the source for a very special conference.” Perfect for the best Halloween party yet devised, apparently. Always in place of a Christmas celebration, Day & Gohn Inc. made its fortune from Halloween merchandise, so that holiday was its central focus. Until now the annual conference had always been in Pittsburgh, much nearer to Howard. Why the CEO, Geoffrey Day, had insisted on the change was a mystery.
Howard drove past Essex Bay, out of sight in the darkness somewhere east of him, and entered Innsmouth. He was exhausted, eyes red and gritty from the long journey, strained from staring through the downpour. All he wanted was a hot bath and a soft bed, tomorrow would be better. He missed Skye already.
The rain fell, hard and heavy, and he slowed, staring past the swiftly whipping wipers at a town of wide extent and dense construction. Everywhere seemed dark and still, though it was only just before seven o’clock. Few lights shone in the windows, chimney pots stood inert on sagging gambrel roofs. As the road descended towards the harbour, the sense of broken down decay became stronger, some roofs fallen in entirely, some walls missing windows like skulls with black, empty eye sockets. Other buildings were in better condition, Georgian houses with cupolas and widow’s walks guarded by curlicued iron railings. Three tall steeples stood out against the ocean horizon, black against the dark of night. Howard drove past a factory built of brick, sturdier looking than most buildings he had seen, though the majority of the rest of the waterfront bore structures seemingly uninhabitable due to decay.
Not so much old world charm but a derelict, forgotten ghost town. Where was everyone? He passed the sand-clogged harbour surrounded by stone breaker walls and there, on a slight rise above the small port, was the Deepwater Hotel. That, at least, was well-lit, an air of vibrancy about it. He turned onto Maron Road to access the lot and parked, the hammer of rain the only sound after he killed the engine. Cold permeated the car, as though the turning of the key had swung wide some unseen refrigerator door behind him.
With a shiver, he got out, hunched against the rain, to smell a sharp, briny tang of saltwater and old seaweed on the icy breeze. He dragged his case from the trunk and ran to the hotel lobby. No one greeted him at the door, the reception desk unmanned. From somewhere distant he heard the quiet murmur of voices and the chink of glasses. He realised a stiff drink before his bath and bed would be most welcome, assuming it didn’t involve too much socialising. He wasn’t yet ready for people, Skye’s disappointment still raw and smarting. Had she really finished with him right there by the front door? The chasm between them finally whole? Surely there was a way to find common ground again if they tried.
“Help you? Conference is it?”
Howard jumped, the disembodied voice sudden and sibilant. He turned, no one to be seen. When he returned his gaze to the desk he jumped again, a man waiting as if he had been there all along, looking with one eyebrow raised. Had he been there all along? Surely Howard would have noticed. The man’s face was pale, almost grey, his mouth flat and wide, eyes too large as he stared.
“Yes, conference,” Howard managed, unsettled by the cold perusal. “Howard Bloch,” he added, and spelled out his surname. People always assumed a CK.
“Three-fifteen, third floor. No lift, broken. Stairs are that way.” The pointing finger was greyer than the man’s face, long and trembling slightly as it indicated dark wooden stairs, highly polished, with a thick bannister and intricate balusters like kelp weed twisting upwards.
Howard glanced down at his heavy case, fatigue sinking deeper into his bones. He opened his mouth to speak and the clerk said, “No bellboy. Finished for the day.”
“Right.” Howard took the offered key, careful not to touch the pale hand, and turned away.
“Dagon’s eyes see you.”
Howard turned back. “Pardon me?”
“I said have a nice stay.” The man’s expression was unchanged, without any apparent emotion.