Innsmouth Nightmares Read online

  “Hey there, Skylark Tooms. The Gray Eminence loves your style. I’m Amanda Bole. Call me Mandy.” Her voice was androgynous. She gripped my small hand in her large, damp hand and brushed my cheek with cool, over-ripe lips.

  “Gray Eminence. Is that what you call…him?” Pleasure and terror made my heart skip, skip, skip. Sorry, Agent Tallen, but I think I’m in love.

  “It, Skylark. It. I usually call it G.E. Confuses anybody at the N.S.A. we haven’t bought.” Her wide smile revealed white, formidable teeth.

  I’m usually an ice bitch during introductions. Feels good to keep the opposition on the defensive. Her? I looked into her sparkling frigid eyes and couldn’t stop. Nothing in those shiny pebbles but my dopey face in stereoscope. “When will I meet it?”

  “Assuming your luck holds? Never, my girl. G.E. has big plans for you.”

  Mandy pulled me to my feet. We had tea on the front deck by the swimming pool. The deck has a view of the ocean, hazy and smudged in the twilight distance. Lights of town came on in twinkling clusters.

  “I think I’ve seen enough,” she said, setting aside her cup.

  She stripped and dove into the water. Reflections are funny—she kicked into the deeper end, her odd form elongating as it submerged. Ripples distorted my perspective and made her the length and width of a great white shark, gliding downward and gone as the tiles of the pool dilated to reveal a sinkhole.

  Tallen called later. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “Any reason I wouldn’t be?”

  “Ms. Bole told me that she’d decided to terminate your involvement. That would involve being shaken from a fish food can over the Atlantic. It seems she changed her mind.”

  “Uh, good, then?”

  “Convenient! Now we can begin.”

  Some of what comes next, you already know. The cold death mask of rage, the pistol in your hand, what comes next is why you’ve returned and looked me up. Here’s some context, some behind-the scenes magic:

  “Who gets to escape?” Mandy and I were revolving in the sex swing in the rumpus room. Mantooth hadn’t seemed completely comfortable installing the equipment. I love that repressed New England prudishness about him.

  “The narrator.” Mandy’s obsidian eyes reflected the light over my shoulder, or trapped it. Her eyes glazed, or shuttered (happened so fast), and reflected nothing from a patina of broken black vessels, a thousand scratches from infinitesimal webbed claws. “Our girl works for an amateur filmmaker. The source material is a trifle staid. Tallen made sure the filmmaker brought a camera crew, per G.E.’s request. Bubbly blonde, sensible, tough as nails brunette, strapping cinematographer, a weasel tech guy. That way there’s a bit of sex and murder to spice up the proceedings. Our heroine, the sensible brunette, will escape by the skin of her teeth. Over the next couple of years, we’ll shadow her, dangle the clues, and, ultimately, lure her back in for the explosive finale. Should be fun.”

  Hard to tell whether Mandy actually relished the impending climax. She remained disinterested regardless the circumstances. I relished it for the two of us.

  Earlier, she’d given me a tour of a factory that covered for a subterranean medical complex. Her scientists were busily splicing human and amphibian DNA with genetic material from the Gray Eminence and subjecting that simmering, somatically nucleated mess to electromagnetic waves generated by some kind of Tesla-inspired machine. They’d been at it since the ‘70s, moving the operation from South Sea lagoons to secret bunkers such as this one. According to the chief researcher, Dr. Shrike, the resultant test tube offspring teemed in the frigid waters along the coast. Allegedly, G.E. found them pleasing. It absorbed more and more fry every spawning cycle. That had to be a positive sign.

  A few days later, I received an email. Man, I watched the footage of the pursuit and slaughter of that film crew (all but one) like a jillion times. The only downer, little miss tough as nails brunette stabbed the clerk at the wine shop through the eyeball. Too bad; he was sort of cute, and my god, what exquisite taste.

  Point of fact, our heroine stabbed three guys, blew two major buildings to shit (with a few of our drone mercs inside), and steamrolled the Constable as she roared out of town in a wrecker. According to the goon in charge of the affair, at the end his minions weren’t even pulling their punches, they were trying to get the hell out of the chick’s way.

  I was tempted to tell Mandy, sorry, babe, I’ve got the hots for another woman. Two reasons I kept my mouth shut—one, Mandy scared me oodles and oodles, and two, I suspected she didn’t give a damn, which scared me worse.

  How do we arrive at this junction? The explosions, the chatter of machine guns, screams, and death? Innsmouth crashing into the sea in a ball of fire? All according to the master plan, the Punch and Judy show demanded by the torpid overlord in the deep. This is similar to what happened in the infamous story that HP wrote. I often wonder if he had help, a muse from the hadal zone, maybe.

  Who can say where art ends and reality asserts primacy? Mandy’s script, our script, called for you, our dark-haired girl, to return at the van of a fleet of black government SUVs. I hired a mercenary company to dress in federal suits and Army camo and swoop in here and blow the town and the reef to smithereens. Much as you did your first time through, except big enough to warm the heart of a Hollywood exec.

  And here we are, you and I.

  Certainly I believed my privilege would shield me, that I could gleefully observe the immolation of Innsmouth from the comfort of my mansion’s control room. I figured when the smoke cleared and the cry was over, I’d pack my designer bags and flit off to the Caribbean for a change of scenery. Fun as it has been, nine months of cold salt air a year has murdered my complexion and my mood.

  Guess you could say I was surprised when my guards were shot to pieces and an armor-piercing rocket blasted the front door. That’s what Mantooth said they hit us with before you waltzed in here and capped him. Through the eyeball, no less. Don’t you get it? All this destruction, Mandy and Tallen’s betrayal, you glowering down at me, poised to ram a dagger through my black little heart? A mix of prep and improv. Somewhere a dark god is laughing in delight, rapping his knuckles on the aquarium glass to get the fishies spinning.

  The question is, do you want to live to see a curtain call. You’re the heroine and if we’re following the original plot, you have an unpleasant reckoning in your near future. I don’t think this version of the tale will see you transforming into a fish-woman and paddling into the sunset. No, this is major league awful. G.E. awaits your pleasure. I doubt even God knows what’s going to happen in the monster’s lair. Got to be boring, lying there and emoting telepathically eon after eon. You’ll make a pretty dolly, for a while.

  Or, you could play it smart. My jet is fueled and idling at a strip just down the road. With my money, we can go damned near anywhere. Take your time and think it over. I’ll give you until I finish this cigarette.

  BANG! from a gun. A body thuds on the floor off-screen.

  GODDAMNIT, Andi! Why the fuck did you do that to the broad? It was under control. I had her in the palm of my hand. Shit. What do we do now? Mandy is gonna go nuclear. G.E. surely won’t be amused. Where do we find a metaphorical virgin sacrifice at this hour? Andi… ? Andi!

  You bitch. You almost had me going. No, I’m not sure if anywhere is beyond the reach of our friends. But let’s hit the friendly skies and see, huh? Shut that down. I want to watch it later.

  Click.

  Laird Barron is the author of several books, including The Croning, Occultation, and The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All. His work has also appeared in many magazines and anthologies. An expatriate Alaskan, Barron currently resides in upstate New York.

  THICKER THAN WATER

  Paul Kane

  Meeting the family, it was a big step: a watershed.

  Was there any wonder Naomi was getting cold feet now? In spite of the fact it had been her who’d insisted they make this trip? That it was a
bout time, after almost eight months of seeing Gerry? Only now the day was here, she wasn’t so sure. What if they didn’t like her? What if they hated her, in point of fact? Thought she was no good for him?

  Calm down, Naomi told herself. Look at the scenery and relax. All greens and yellows, rolling by the passenger window of the car as they drove along country lanes. In a year which had seen one of the harshest winters this country could ever remember (followed by devastating floods in its wake), Spring had finally arrived.

  She always did this, Naomi reminded herself. Built things up, imagined the worst case scenario. Couldn’t allow herself to think things might work out, because of all the crap she’d been through before. All the heartache…

  The abandonment.

  Losing both parents at an early age—one to a debilitating disease and the other to suicide—shook your confidence in the world. Then orphanages, foster carers (no real homes, no real families), and she was out there being battered by the cold, harsh reality of the world; always the outsider at university, then at work. Never getting into the madness of nightclubs, drink and drugs…or casual sex.

  Saving herself, they used to call it. But she was also scared of the consequences of letting go, of losing herself, of opening up—opening her heart—to someone. There had been boys, naturally, but none had waited until she was ready to be with them; to give herself to them. And the few times she had been stupid enough to almost—

  Let’s just say she’d learned her lesson, but good. Life wasn’t a fucking Disney movie. You put your trust in people, they invariably let you down, deserted you.

  Until she’d found Gerry.

  She looked across at him now, sitting there in the driving seat of his sporty silver BMW, shifting gears as they crested a hill, and Naomi couldn’t help smiling. He’d been good for her, Gerry. Was perfect for her. Naomi’s smile faded at the thought of that word. Nobody was perfect, let alone someone who might be interested in her…

  Might be interested? He adores you, you idiot!

  Still, nobody was perfect…but he was just so, so…perfect! She couldn’t think of another word that adequately described him. The fine blond hair, which matched his eyebrows. Perfect cheekbones, pouting lips any male model would think themselves lucky to be blessed with, such penetrating eyes. And that body of his…

  It had been the first thing she’d seen of him. Sleek and lean, yet well-muscled, he was the only person Naomi had actually noticed as she’d walked out through the back doors of the hotel at the tail end of last summer; part of the holiday she’d promised herself and saved up for after another miserable few months.

  In front of her was the pool she’d been intending to read and sunbathe beside—though she was hardly likely to get a tan when she was mostly covered by that sarong and floppy hat. When she looked up, she’d been expecting to see the usual gaggle of children messing about, the older folk splashing around as they did their lengths for exercise. But instead she’d seen him, Gerry, gliding through the water arm over arm, as fluid as the liquid he was immersed in; flesh glistening in the sunlight, making him look as oiled as those strippers she’d witnessed once at a colleague’s bachelorette party. But as impressive as those guys had been, they had nothing on Gerry—as she soon saw when he reached the other end of the pool and climbed out.

  She’d continued on to a seat nearby, distracted, trying not to make those glimpses through her sunglasses so obvious. Stealing glances at Gerry (not that she’d known his name then), aware that many other ladies were doing the same. A woman walked past him with breasts that looked like they’d been pumped up at a garage, barely contained in that minuscule bikini top. But he’d hardly noticed that bimbo—continuing to towel himself down after the dip.

  Naomi had settled down with her book, looking up a few times to see what the man was doing—sighing when she saw him heading to the bar on the other side of the pool. Resigning herself to the fact that he was probably meeting someone: girlfriend; fiancée; wife. Especially when she saw him with those two green cocktails.

  But then he’d walked over in her direction. Oh no, she thought, please don’t be one of those cheesy chat-up guys…Don’t ruin such a perfect fantasy for me, that inside you’re something more. That beneath the surface you’re—

  Then he’d walked right by her, and it had actually physically pained Naomi. She felt that loss so deeply…Worse than finding out he was a dick, would be not knowing him at all. So, when he’d skirted around, doubling back and placing one of the cocktails on the table beside her, she let out another sigh— this time of relief. When they talked about this afterwards, Gerry would always say that he’d been aware of her as soon as she appeared—though she knew he couldn’t have seen her. But that was his story and he was sticking to it.

  During that first conversation, she’d found him confident but not overly so. Charming, though not to the point of nauseating. But, most importantly, very easy to talk to—and an extremely good listener. Hadn’t used any lines, hadn’t overly flattered her, he’d simply been Gerry. And Gerry had been lovely.

  Between parting and the dinner date they’d arranged for later, she’d worried about all the things that might be wrong with him. He was cheating on a girlfriend, fiancée, wife—had kids, a neglected family. He was a rapist, a multiple murderer with a string of convictions to his name…He worked in the seedy underbelly of the city, pimping out his women to slavering perverts and was going to get her hooked on heroine so she could be next!

  All ridiculous, as she’d discovered. Gerry worked in shipping, imports and exports, everything above board. He negotiated deals, traveled a fair bit—and was also doing very well for himself, thank you very much (she saw how well with that first piece of jewellry he eventually gave her, a gold necklace—an unusual design, but she liked it). He hadn’t needed to save up for the hotel, no siree! Naomi had never been impressed by wealth, though; it was simply a bonus that he might be a good provider.

  She’d found out then that Gerry had been determined to succeed, to help out his family who—in a reversal of his fortunes—hadn’t been doing so well of late.

  “Only just keeping their heads above water, in fact,” Gerry had told her sadly after finishing his salmon en croûte, staring down into his glass of Perrier as if to further illustrate his statement.

  “Oh, I’m…I’m really sorry to hear that,” she’d told him, at the same time envious of this connection he had to them. That closeness when he talked about his mom and pop, his older brother. His childhood, being taught to fish from the jetty off the side of their house—it sounded idyllic. But she also felt his sadness when he’d had to go out into the world to make ends meet.

  “You must be happy that you’re now in a position to help them out though, surely?” Naomi had said, starting her dessert of chocolate torte, and he’d nodded.

  “Yeah, I guess…” But he’d shaken his head at that point and moved the conversation along, asking her more about herself; her life, her job, her hobbies. “I want to know everything about you, Naomi Jackson.” His smile spoke of genuine interest. Nobody had ever wanted to know everything about her. Nobody had ever been that bothered. So she’d talked, figuring what did she have to lose…

  Hope? She could lose the hope that was starting to build inside of her, the hope that had continued to build all this time. Since she’d found Gerry; since they’d found each other.

  Girlfriend, fiancée…wife? (Family?)

  The hope she still had as she sat in the car, traveling towards their destination. But all that could be dashed if Gerry’s folks didn’t take to her. It could leave everything in ruins. She asked herself again, why had she insisted on this trip? Especially when Gerry had been so uncertain himself.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have asked him what was wrong when he’d looked so down that day. But Naomi had to know, wanted to make sure it wasn’t something she’d done or said. “No, no…it’s just that…Well, my folks have been in touch and…Naomi, I hadn’t told them abou
t you yet. I just wanted to keep you to myself a bit longer. Now they want to meet you.”

  She’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel hurt by the first bit, but figured she could sort of understand it. All this time together, just the two of them, had been wonderful—the best of her life.

  “I didn’t want to…Not till I was absolutely sure about you. About how I felt.”

  “And…” she’d asked, biting her lip.

  He’d looked at her blankly then, questioning.

  “How do you feel?” she’d clarified.

  “Oh…” He’d smiled. “That’s easy. I worship you, Princess—you know that.” The use of his nickname made her melt inside (just like Disney), especially used in that context. “You should do. I’ve never…well, I’ve never felt this way about anyone else.”

  Anyone else, all the others she’d been instantly jealous of as soon as he’d told her. There had been girls before her, but Gerry promised they hadn’t really meant anything to him. Not like this. Now he was with her exclusively—which made her happy. She didn’t want to share him with anybody. And it had been his idea to wait, not rush her—though they’d come close a few times, really close; her closest yet—because, as Gerry said, they were about more than that.

  Never felt this way about anyone else.

  Now she just wanted to feel that connection to his family as well, that belonging. Wasn’t too much to ask, was it? But, as Gerry had warned her, meeting them would definitely “change things.” The next big step (girlfriend, fiancée…wife; giving her that family), which could go either way.

  “It’s just that they can be a bit set in their ways,” Gerry had informed her again only the other day. “Old fashioned, holding on to the past.”