The Innsmouth Nook

A. LEE MARTINEZ

A. Lee Martinez has published six novels, most of which involve either monsters or armchair metaphysics. Usually both. He has a reputation as a “humorous fantasy” writer that he’s not always comfortable with, but as long as the checks keep coming, he’ll keep cashing them. If you see him on the street, please, don’t call him zany. His first name is Alex, but he sometimes goes by Lee (presumably) to confuse and beguile his many enemies.

THE box held horrors beyond imagining, papers inscribed with hopeless-ness and pain. All men faced it on a daily basis, praying to whatever gods might be, cruel and indifferent to the suffering of mortals, that it would not be the end that they found when they reached into its darkened interior. That ever-present box, haunting every house, every apartment, every place where civilized men dwelt, reminding all that they were not masters of their fate, that no matter how much a man might want to deny it, the universe demanded its pound of flesh and would never be satisfied, would never stop sucking the life from a man, would feed on misery and sweat and blood until a man’s death. Sometimes, even beyond that.

Philip, like all civilized men, had learned to live with the box. Even become somewhat expectant of its demands. Lately, though, he’d realized just how much it had enslaved him. How he trudged to it every morning and bowed before it like a puppet without a will of his own. But even knowing that didn’t free him from its tyranny.

So this morning, like always, he walked to the box, that maddening box, and reached into its shadowy depths and withdrew its unholy commandments.

“Shit,” he groaned. “Bills.”

He slammed the mailbox shut ruefully. He thought about getting an ax and chopping the damned thing down. But you couldn’t kill the thing. The box wasn’t the beast, not even the head of the beast. It was just a tentacle, reaching out from the great unknown, from that horrible place where credit card bills, junk mail, and despair were spawned.

A chill wind swept up from the ocean below. The clouds parted to allow a glimpse of sunshine. But it was only a glimpse before the sky became that endless broiling gray.

Philip ran inside. Vance was making breakfast. The smell of eggs and bacon was the first encouraging moment of the day.

“It’s the last of the eggs,” said Vance, ruining the moment. “Anything good in the mail?”

Philip grunted, unable to articulate in words what Vance already knew. It was easier for Vance, though. He’d just come along with Philip on this venture, but it was Philip who’d thought of it.

Why the hell did he think anyone would want to visit a bed-and-breakfast in this chilly cultural wasteland? There were areas in New England, plenty of them, with quaintness to spare, with color-changing leaves and folksy folks full of folksy homespun wisdom accompanied by folksy accents.

And then there was Clam Bay. Cold even when sunny, gloomy even during the four weeks of “summer,” trees without leaves all year long, and full of weird people. And not in the quirky way. No, these were just weird. Quiet, not unfriendly, but wary of strangers. And anyone whose family hadn’t lived in the town for at least five generations was a stranger. It didn’t help any that Philip’s great- great-grandfather had been one of Clam Bay’s citizens. And that the house Philip had inherited had been a literal ruin until he’d invested thousands of dollars into fixing it up in hopes of attracting tourists. He was still an outsider.

It was kind of hard to hide. Not just because everyone in Clam Bay had a tendency to wear gray, shuffle slowly as if dragging themselves reluctantly across the land, and speak in a slow, halting, decidedly non-quaint, nonfolksy way. They also looked alike. It was a small gene pool in this town, and it hadn’t really worked out that well for any of the citizens of Clam Bay.

Also, the clamming was lousy in Clam Bay.

Philip and Vance ate breakfast in near silence. There was no need to remark on their growing pile of bills and the lack of tourists. Without looking at the budget, Philip estimated they had another four months before the all-consuming debt . . . well . . . consumed them.

The bell attached to the front door jingled. Philip and Vance jumped up and ran to greet the visitor. Their hopes were dashed by the sight of the Clam Bay constable.

“Hello,” said Philip halfheartedly.

The constable nodded and tipped his gray hat. “Mornin’, fellas. I’m afraid we have us a slight little problem here.”

Philip tried to place the accent. It wasn’t New Englandish. Not quite. Clam Bay had its own special dialect. It really was a world of itself. Too bad it wasn’t in the charming Old World way, but the creepy, skin-crawling fashion. But for all their creepiness, the folks of Clam Bay hadn’t done anything to Philip or Vance.

And now there was a problem.

The constable led them outside and pointed to a hanging sign posted by the road. “Want to tell me about this?”

Vance said, “I found it in the attic. Thought it looked Old World. Kind of cool.”

The icy wind made the sign swing. The constable steadied it. “We’d like you to take it down, if you could.”

“Why?”

The constable made a snorting noise and spat up a wad of green phlegm. “We just would rather if you did.”

“Excuse me,” said Vance, “but this isn’t a police state, is it? We can have anything we want on our house, can’t we?”

The constable frowned. It wasn’t easy to detect, because the citizens of Clam Bay had mouths bent downward naturally. “Ehyah. It’s just, well, we don’t like to think about it. About the old town name, huh.” He worked his jaw as if testing to see if it still functioned properly.

“You can barely read it,” said Vance.

“It’s a memory,” said the Constable. “A bad memory that we would rather forget.”

He gazed out toward the ocean with a strange combination of yearning and dread. Nobody swam in Clam Bay’s waters. They were too cold. But sometimes, Philip would catch a citizen or two standing on the beach. Always with that same unsettling expression.

“We’ll take it down,” said Philip. “No problem.”

The constable nodded. “Ehyah.” He rubbed his face. “Ehyah.” He shuffled away, never taking his eyes off the sea.

“Why’d you agree to that?” asked Vance. “It’s a free country.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Philip. “Who really cares? We gotta live here, right? At least for another few months.”

“It’s censorship. It’s bullshit.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can fight the good fight when we go back to New York.”

Grumbling, Vance wrestled with the sign, stubbornly trying to uproot it with his bare hands.

CLAM Bay’s general store was large on the outside. But on the inside, it was half empty. The weird thing was that instead of splitting the store down the middle with empty aisles on one side and filled aisles on the other, the arrangement was seemingly random. There was the canned goods aisle, an empty aisle, the cereal aisle, produce, another two empty aisles, frozen foods, one more empty aisle, ethnic foods (which amounted to tortillas and taco shells), several more empty aisles, and at the very end, farthest from the entrance, the meat aisle. Even weirder, the lighting of the store was a murky twilight that refused to venture into the empty aisles, leaving them shadowy regions of darkness. Sometimes, Philip thought he saw something lurking in the aisle between frozen and ethnic. Not exactly saw, but sensed.

There was nobody ever in the store. He was sure that people shopped here. They had to. It was the only place to get groceries. But he never saw anyone other than the raggedy guy by the cash register. So Philip wasn’t really paying attention when he nearly plowed into the woman as he turned into the aisle.

They jumped simultaneously.

“Oh, jeez. I’m sorry,” he said.

She smiled. It’d been a while since he’d seen a smile like that. And she wasn’t wearing standard Clam Bay gray or black. No, she had on a blue sweater and some tan slacks, and Philip realized how cheery tan could be in these circumstances.

“Don’t worry about it. I should’ve been looking. It’s just . . . well, I’m just not used to seeing anyone else here.” She extended her hand. “I’m Angela.”

“Hi, I’m—”

“Philip,” she interrupted.

“Have we met?”

“Oh, no. I just arrived in town yesterday. But the village is buzzing with gossip about the two”—she made air quotes—“ ‘big-city fellows’ who moved into the Bay.”

He had a hard time imagining Clam Bay buzzing. The cashier was sitting slouched by the front of the store, motionless, staring out the window.

Angela moved past him and headed toward the register. He hadn’t finished his shopping, but he followed her. “So what brings you to Clam Bay?” he asked.

“Just visiting my mother.”

That surprised him. She didn’t have the look of someone born here. She wasn’t gorgeous. Or even especially attractive. In a different place, she might even be on the pretty side of plain. But here, in this place, she was a knockout. How the gene pool worked that one out, he couldn’t figure.

“I was adopted,” she said. “That’s what you were thinking, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, was it that obvious?”

“No, but it’s the first thought any outsider should probably have. So how about you?” she asked. “Why did you and your”—she broke out the air quotes again—“ ‘life partner’ decide to move to Clam Bay?”

“Not really a good reason for it, I guess. Just bad judgment on . . . Wait. What did you call us?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She blushed. “Was that the wrong term? I didn’t mean to offend.”

“You think . . . Uh, we’re not gay.”

She laughed. “Oh, it’s all right. Nobody here cares about something like that. We’re pretty tolerant of alternative lifestyles.”

“We’re not gay,” he said with a little more force than intended. “We’re just friends.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Girlfriends?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Confirmed bachelors?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Not confirmed,” he replied.

“So two single guys from the big city move to our little town and open a bed-and-breakfast. But you’re not gay.”

“We’re just friends,” he said.

“Right. Because straight men open bed-and-breakfasts all the time.”

“These straight men did.”

“Straight men named Philip and Vance.”

He wanted to argue, but he was suddenly beginning to question it himself. The thought was so distracting that he barely noticed when she ended the conversation and bid him farewell.

VANCE took the news of their “big-city fellows” status better than Philip. Probably because it turned out that he actually was gay.

“You’re what?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure,” said Vance, “but I’d say it’s seventy-thirty for it.”

“But I’ve seen you with women.”

“That would be the thirty part of the equation,” said Vance as he sipped his coffee.

“Oh my God. That’s why you agreed to do this with me. You think I’m gay, too!”

Vance chuckled. “Dude, you’re not gay.”

“I know I’m not, but do you know I’m not?”

“I’d say ninety-two-eight on the straight side,” said Vance.

“How the hell—”

“They’ve made some terrific advances in gaydar, dude.”

Philip laid his head on the table and thought about it for a while. “So eight percent gay?”

“Remember that week you went around humming ‘Hello, Dolly’?”

“That’s worth eight percent?”

“That, and the fact that you did want to open a bed-and-breakfast. Even I had my doubts when I first heard you mention the idea.”

“Bed-and-breakfasts are not an innately gay enterprise,” countered Philip.

“Fair enough,” said Vance. “But I wouldn’t lay odds on many single straight guys who start these things up.”

“But—”

“I don’t make the rules, dude. I just get them from the website.”

“So if you don’t think I’m gay, why did you agree to do this with me?”

“For the reason I originally said,” replied Vance. “I’d just lost my job, had nothing holding me in the city, and it sounded like something to do.”

“And that’s it?”

Vance shook his head. “Philly, I love you, buddy. I do. But you’re not my type.”

“I’m not?”

“What? Are you insulted?”

Philip was pondering that when the front door jingled. He didn’t know how he still managed to get excited at the sound. It never meant a tourist looking for a room. It had been raining for the last few hours, a slick, frozen rain that made the roads hard to travel. So maybe someone had to stop, and the Nook was the only place convenient. It was a long shot, but he peeked out into the foyer with a smidgen of hope.

It was Angela. Although she wasn’t a tourist, she wasn’t an unwelcome sight. He introduced Vance.

“This is my friend Vance,” he said, hitting the friend part hard. “My good friend Vance.”

Angela and Vance exchanged smirking glances. And he could see their point. Hitting friend too hard was a double- edged sword. It could be trouble.

“Don’t mind him,” said Vance. “He’s just discovering he’s homophobic, but otherwise, he’s a good guy.”

They gave her a quick tour. The rain started coming down harder, judging by the increasing beat on the roof. Lightning flashed, too. Lightning without thunder. Philip couldn’t remember hearing thunder once in Clam Bay, even in the heaviest storm.

“You guys did a great job. I hardly recognize the place,” remarked Angela when they completed the journey and ended at the kitchen. “Love the decorating.”

“That was mostly Vance,” said Philip. “I’m more of the carpentry and plumbing guy.”

“Yes, and I’m in charge of flower arranging and doilies,” said Vance with a perfectly straight face.

She reached out and put her hand on Philip’s. “I believe you.”

He breathed a sigh of relief.

“Actually, I believe Vance. We had a talk when you were making the espressos.” She took a drink of hers. “You make a great espresso, by the way.”

Things were looking up in Clam Bay just then.

The front door jingled again, just as the lights flickered on and off. It wasn’t uncommon during a fierce storm.

“You two stay put,” said Vance. “I’ll check who it is.”

“Thanks,” said Philip.

Vance left as the lights continued to flicker.

“Wiring,” said Philip to Angela. “We’re still working on it. So I’m glad you stopped by.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

They shared a smile.

The lights went out. Given the darkness of Clam Bay nights, he expected nothing but black. But there was a soft green light coming from the foyer.

Vance screamed, but the sound was cut short. Philip and Angela ran to see what had happened.

It was hard to discern details. Vance was on the floor, groaning. And something stood over him. Something with large eyes that radiated an unearthly emerald glow.

“What the—” started Philip.

Silent lightning flashed, and the person, the creature because there was no other word for it, was illuminated, just for a moment. The thing was hunched, gray-skinned. It had a huge head with a gaping mouth. And frills on the side of that head extended as a strangled hiss rose out of its throat. Philip didn’t hear the sound, though. He was too busy looking out the windows, where shadows lurched. At least four or five of them. And each one sported those same unearthly eyes.

He stood transfixed, unable to move. It wasn’t terror that held him. Terror was too tangible. Terror was overwhelming. But this strange creature, even mostly hidden in shadow, was simply the unknowable. It was the intangible made real, and there was no easy way to absorb it. So he just stood there and gaped, even as the creature menaced Vance.

Angela rushed forward. The monster lurched at her. She seized it by the hand, spun into it, and did some kind of kung fu move that happened so fast, the creature was thrown to the ground before Philip even knew it happened. The fish creature shrieked, flopping around on its back. The creatures outside joined in on the gruesome dirge.

She yanked Vance off the ground and dragged him back to Philip.

The front door pushed open, and the bell jingled as several more creatures entered.

“Is there a back door?” asked Angela.

When neither Philip or Vance replied, she grabbed Philip by the shirt and shook him. “Your back door, Phil!”

“Uh . . . in the back,” he replied.

She pulled both the men with her as she moved toward the exit. They didn’t get far. Three other creatures must have slipped in the back and blocked the way. There was no way out. The creatures’ raspy breathing and eerie green glow alerted them in time to avoid stumbling into an ambush. In the foyer, something was smashed to the floor.

“My vases,” said Vance.

But he said it the fancy way, the way Europeans did. Philip wondered why it had taken him so long to figure out Vance was gay. Then he wondered about the stereotyping and how absurd it was. Then he realized how absurd it was to think about this while the creatures from the Black Lagoon were about to eat him alive. But that was kind of the point. It was easier to think about something stupid than about the alternative, pressing as it might be.

“The cellar,” whispered Vance. “We can hide in the cellar.”

Philip had always hated the cellar. It was musty and dank. But it was the only choice as the creatures closed in on the kitchen. They went down. Angela had the good sense not to let the trap door slam. Vance had spent a week organizing the cellar, so even though it was dark, there was little to trip over. Vance moved like a cat. At least, Philip assumed Vance did. It was hard to tell in the darkened cellar. But Vance managed to retrieve a flashlight without making a lot of noise. He flicked it on, covering it with his hand to keep the light low.

They said nothing as the creatures trod over their heads. They watched the trap door, waiting for it to open, waiting for the monsters to come down and devour them. But after a few minutes, the creaking stopped and the raspy breathing faded.

They still didn’t speak for another five minutes after that.

“What the hell are those?” Vance finally asked, so softly Philip almost didn’t hear him. “Are those monsters?” His voice rose. “Are those fucking monsters?”

“Deep ones,” said Angela.

“What the hell is a—”

“Just a story,” she said. “Not even that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She wiped her brow. “It’s hard to explain. You know how every small town has a story? Clam Bay is no different.”

“I’d say it’s different,” whispered Philip through clenched teeth. “I’d say it’s very goddamn different.”

The floor creaked, and they were quiet again.

Angela leaned forward, the flashlight casting eerie shadows on her face, making this seem like a ghost story told around a campfire. Except the ghosts were real, and it wasn’t some dumb kid ready to jump out and yell “Boo” when you got to the scary part. No, it was an actual monster that was going to jump out.

“A long time ago,” she said in a low, low voice, “back before Clam Bay was Clam Bay. Back when it went by another name, the people made a pact with the ancient god who waits in the depths of the ocean.”

“What’s he waiting for?” asked Vance.

“Nobody knows,” replied Angela.

“Then how do they know he’s waiting?”

“That’s hardly important at this moment,” said Philip.

“Well, she brought it up,” said Vance.

“Will you just shut up about the waiting?”

Vance glared. “You don’t have to raise your voice at me like I’m the asshole.”

“You’re right. Sorry.”

“If anything, you’re the asshole. If you hadn’t come up with this Band-B idea in the first place—”

“I know,” said Philip.

“I’m just asking a question, trying to get a handle on the situation—”

“Holy hell, Vance. I’ve already apologized. What the hell more do you want from me?”

“Are you sure you two aren’t a couple?” asked Angela.

“Just finish your story,” said Philip.

“There’s not much more to tell. The deep ones came as servants of the sea god. They offered secrets of power and immortality, and the people took them up on it. I’d rather not get into the details.”

“What details?” asked Vance.

Angela paused. “They’re not important.”

“Maybe there’s a clue to what these things want,” said Philip.

“I hope not,” she mumbled to herself, though they both heard. Caught, she was overpowered by their intent stares. “Okay, but you aren’t going to like it. They . . . uh . . . I believe the term used is mingled their blood.”

“You mean, they cut themselves?” asked Philip. “Like when kids make themselves blood brothers?”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Oh my God. Don’t tell me that they ate people.”

She shook her head.

“Then how did they . . .”

“They fucked the fish monsters.”

“They what?” asked Philip.

“Yeah, how does that even work?” added Vance.

“I don’t know,” she replied, “but they figured it out. And the deep one DNA eventually started turning people into fish monsters, too, and more and more citizens swam out to sea, never to return. Probably would’ve happened to everyone, except at some point the government got wise and stepped in. Raided the town, using Prohibition as a pretense, killed everyone who had too much fish in them.

“But they left some behind, people who were still more human than not. The town renounced the deep ones, and everyone tried to forget about it. Most of the citizens left. But there were still some who had enough deep one in them that they couldn’t leave the bay, couldn’t abandon the sea. They stayed behind, trying to move on as best they could. Waiting for the deep ones to return. Anticipating their return, but dreading it at the same time.”

“And now they’re back,” said Philip.

“To have sex with us,” said Vance.

An ominous silence filled the cellar.

“We were all thinking it,” said Vance.

“That didn’t mean you had to say it,” said Philip.

The cellar door creaked as it slowly opened. They searched for a place to hide, but there was none. A pair of deep ones lumbered down the stairs. They moved with the same shuffling gait the citizens of Clam Bay possessed. The flashlight and their glowing eyes mixed to form a putrid illumination, allowing Philip his first clear glimpse of the monsters. The resemblance to the citizens of Clam Bay was rather obvious. From the walk to the slack-jawed expression to the only slightly more scaly skin. If anything, the deep ones seemed less monstrous because they were fully monsters, not caught in some halfway genetic dead end.

Despite his best efforts, his glance fell across the lead creature’s groin. They seemed to lack the necessary equipment for blood mingling, but maybe they were more fish than human. He was no expert, but he thought fish reproduce by laying eggs and then the male would come along and deposit his contribution. If that was the way this was going to work, he supposed he could handle it.

A thunderclap rattled the house. The first thunderclap Philip had heard in Clam Bay. And possibly the last. The lights flicked back on, revealing the deep ones, in all their briny, mottled-green glory.

Vance seized a wine bottle and smashed it over the leader’s head. The bottle shattered. Red dripped down the deep one’s body, but it was wine, not blood. The creature itself appeared unharmed. It didn’t even move with the blow. But it did turn its fish head slowly, degree by degree, in Vance’s direction.

He smiled and laughed nervously, as if trying to pass the whole thing off as a bad joke.

The deep one opened its mouth. A horrible gurgle bubbled up from its throat. Its body twitched in a spasm. Its gills throbbed. It retched, spewing a black stew of seaweed and fish bones all over Vance.

Philip hoped this wasn’t foreplay. The last time he’d been willing to have sex while covered in vomit, he’d been in college. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough tonight.

“Excuse me.” The deep one pounded its chest while clearing its throat. It was a horrible scraping sound.

The humans all took a moment to analyze the creature’s apology. There was an accent. The same not-quaint, vaguely New Englandish accent as the good citizens of Clam Bay. The voice was raspy but decipherable. It had less to do with what the deep one said and more to do with that it said anything at all.

A fit of coughs racked the creature. Seawater dripped from its open mouth. It wiped its lips and sucked in a scraping breath.

“By Dagon, the air is dry. Could we trouble you for something to drink?”

PHILIP sat on the porch overlooking the beach. The rain came down in a fine mist. His beach umbrella protected him from the worst of it, but he zipped up his jacket as a stiff breeze swept across Clam Bay.

“Hey,” said Angela. “Vance said I’d find you here.”

She leaned over and gave him a kiss, then sat in the chair beside him.

“They’re coming,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“The beach,” replied Philip, taking her hand. “When the sand turns to a light brown mud, that’s when you know.”

“How’s the remodel coming?”

“Good. We finally got the bigger bathtubs installed. Now we just have to rip out the rest of the carpeting.” He took a sip of his soda. “They drip. A lot. Easier to mop up hardwood than fight a never-ending battle against mildew.”

They watched the tides go in and out for a few minutes until the deep ones appeared. Strange how quickly Philip had gotten used to the sight of fish monsters lumbering from the ocean. Sometimes, there was just one or two. Never more than five. They trudged up the beach, toward Philip and Angela, and the lead creature spoke.

“Is this the Innsmouth Nook?”

“Yes, sir.” Philip could tell by the gills that this was a male. The females had a more elaborate fringe.

“We have a reservation for three,” said the deep one.

“Just follow this trail up to the house. My partner, Vance, is ready to check you folks in.” Philip jumped to his feet and saluted casually. The deep ones didn’t shake hands, and he didn’t mind that.

They deposited a mound of fresh fish at Philip’s feet. Rusty bits of dull metal were mixed within. Philip spotted a couple of doubloons and several jewels. The deep ones shambled away.

Tourism had come to Clam Bay. Cold even when sunny, gloomy even during the four weeks of “summer,” trees without leaves all year long, and full of weird people. But for the right kind of people, creatures from the depths looking for a chance to revisit the old country, there was a certain charm to the place.

A customer was a customer. And aside from the dripping and the rasping, the deep ones were polite and easy to please. They brought their own food, and cooking was easy. Just throw a raw tuna on a plate, garnish with seaweed, and serve with a tall glass of seawater. For the most part, the deep ones were quiet and undemanding. The only danger was getting caught in an extended conversation with the more fervent fish folk. They could talk for hours upon hours about the glory of R’lyeh and the beautiful oblivion destined to sweep up from the ocean’s depths to consume the surface world. But that was more tolerable than when that Scientologist guy spent the night.

Things were looking up at the Nook. It wasn’t what Philip had in mind when first embarking on this endeavor, but life called for flexibility. He was making a tidy profit, and Clam Bay, still dreary, wet, and cold, had more to offer than he’d ever imagined.

He took Angela in his arms and gave her a long, deep kiss.

“Okay,” she said. “I get it. You’re not gay.”

They shared a chuckle.

“So up for a little . . . mingling?” he asked.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Smiling, she took him by the hand and led him toward the Nook.