Had they been nothing more than amorphous masses, it would not have offended my sense of perspective to such a degree. But there were vast bulbous appendages and oddly truncated cones, which intermeshed in angles bearing no relation to Euclidean geometry and I felt my eyes twist horribly as I tried vainly to assimilate everything in my field of vision.
But even this outrage of nature was not the worst. Just before I removed my eye from the periscope, I saw something black and monstrous outlined against the flickering light of that vast city far below. To describe it as tentacled or winged would be to ignore completely the quintessential horror of that slowly ascending shape. I had seen pictures of giant squids reputed to haunt the midnight depths of the ocean but this was far larger, far more abnormal, to belong to that class of creature.
Hearing my sharp exclamation, Commander Lowrie thrust me hurriedly to one side and took my position at the periscope. Clasping the handles in a white-knuckled grip, he turned it slowly. Then, without moving his head, he barked, “Increase the angle of descent. Ready all torpedoes for immediate firing.”
Once his orders had been carried out, he turned an ashen face in my direction. He seemed to have some difficulty in finding the right words. Finally, he muttered, “What in God’s name is that down there?”
“Y’ha-nthlei, perhaps,” I replied. “I can’t think of anything else. God knows how old that place is. And don’t ask me what that— thing—is. All I know is that it’s coming this way and the sooner we get this over with and surface, the better.”
I could not analyse the reasons for my certitude that whatever that monstrous creature was, we were its target and there was not a moment to be lost if we were to extricate ourselves from this horrible predicament. From what little I had seen, I knew that monstrosity was ten, maybe even twenty, times larger than the submarine and if it succeeded in reaching us, it could drag us down into those alien depths with ease.
In front of me, Lowrie stood, tensed and rigid, at the periscope. I knew he was seeing exactly what I had seen and I firmly believed that the mere sight of that incredible horror might have driven a lesser man over the edge. But he did not flinch. His features set into a mass of grim determination, he waited until he judged the torpedoes would find their mark, then gave the order to fire.
From where we stood, there was little to indicate that the torpedoes were on their way. Five minutes passed with complete silence inside the submarine. Then there came a slight, but distinct, shudder as the detonation waves hit us.
When I stepped forward at Lowrie’s gesture to take my last look through the periscope, I was trembling all over. At first, my eyes refused to focus properly. Sucking in a deep breath, I forced myself to remain calm. Slowly, everything became clear.
That frightful distortion of nature I had seen only a few minutes earlier was gone although I thought I caught a fragmentary glimpse of something amorphous dwindling into the depths. As for that vast city, the torpedoes had clearly done their work for here and there were irregular patches of blackness like scars on the overall phosphorescence. Nevertheless, large areas still shone with that sickly radiance and it was evident that, although Y’ha-nthlei, like that creature which had risen to attack us, had been badly damaged, they had not been totally destroyed.
By the time we surfaced, there was no sign of the Deep Ones who had earlier swarmed over the hull. To the west, Innsmouth was burning. The shells of those Colonial houses built of stone would remain as smoke-blackened monuments to the night’s raid but almost all of the wooden structures would be reduced to ashes by morning.
I must end this report on a warning note. Innsmouth must remain under close surveillance and a continual watch kept on the ocean just beyond Devil Reef. That which is merely injured, may rise again!
BRACKISH WATERS
by
RICHARD A. LUPOFF
DELBERT MARSTON, JR., Ph.D., D.Sc., was the youngest tenured professor on the faculty of the University of California. He was widely regarded as a rising academic star, not only on the University’s premiere campus at Berkeley but throughout the huge multi-campus system and, if the truth be known, throughout the national and international community of scholars.
Tall and dark-haired with a touch of premature grey at the temples, he was regarded as a catch by female faculty members who competed vigorously for his attention. He dressed conservatively, held his tongue in matters of both public and campus politics, drank single-malt scotch whiskey exclusively, and drove an onyx-black supercharged 1937 Cord Phaeton. Perhaps it was Marston’s otherwise thoroughly conventional lifestyle that caused his vehicular preference to be regarded as a sign of high taste and acceptable self-indulgence rather than one of eccentricity.
He had the Cord serviced regularly at an exclusive garage on the island of Alameda, the owner of which establishment catered to fanciers of the three marques formerly built in Auburn, Indiana— the Auburn, the stately Duesenberg, and the tragically short-lived Cord. The Auburn Motor Car Company, or what was left of it, was now producing Lycoming aircraft engines and B-24 Liberator bombers for the Army Air Forces. Once the war was over there was no predicting the future of the discontinued automobiles, but in Marston’s estimation their prospects were poor.
On the night in question—the night, at any rate, that would initiate the series of events destined to lead to Delbert Marston’s apotheosis— the sky above the San Francisco Bay Area was black with a cold storm that had swept down from the Gulf of Alaska and attacked the Pacific Coast with fierce winds and a series of hammering downpours of pelting rain laced with occasional hints of sleet. Such weather was not uncommon in Northern California during the winter months, and the winter of 1943-44 was no exception; the onslaught of wind and water was regarded as anything but freakish. The Bay Bridge was swept by an icy gale but the Cord held the roadway with a steadiness unmatched by vehicles of lesser quality.
Professor Marston was accompanied by an older colleague, one Aurelia Blenheim, Ph.D. Grey-haired and dignified, Professor Blenheim had served for some years as Marston’s mentor and sponsor. It was her spirited championing of his cause that had persuaded the Tenure Committee to grant him its seal of approval despite what was regarded as his almost scandalous youth. Marston’s intellectual equal, Aurelia Blenheim had found in the younger academic the friendship and platonic camaraderie that her lifelong celibacy had otherwise denied her.
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into spending an evening with this squad of eccentrics, Aurelia.” Marston braked to keep his distance behind a superannuated Model A Ford that looked ready to topple over in the gale.
“Why, for the sheer pleasure and mental stimulation of bouncing off some people with unconventional ideas. Besides, the semester’s over, most of the kiddies who have managed to stay out of the service have gone home to Bakersfield or Beloit or wherever they came from. What else did you have to do?”
“You’ve got to be kidding. The Oakland Symphony is doing an all-Mahler program, the San Francisco Ballet has a Berlioz show, and the opera is offering The Marriage of Figaro. And we’re going to meet a bunch of wackos who think—if you can call it thinking—as a matter of fact, Aurelia, what in the world is it that they do think?”
Aurelia Blenheim shook her head. “Come now, Delbert. They have a lot of different ideas. That’s the fun of it. They don’t have a body of fixed beliefs. Attending one of their meetings is like sitting in on a First Century council of bishops and listening to them debate the nature of the mystical body of Christ.”