- From the diary of Irvin Bowers:
Unintelligible.
- From the diary of Howard Lake:
The Sunday stroll through Martin's Beach showed us a very quaint little seaside town, but the weather made the fireplace at the Union Inn beckon. We socialized with the graduate students Emerson Lyle and Agda Gibson, who were polite, engaged, and just a bit overbearing. It turned out that while Agda Gibson was a an artist and painter in her spare time, while Emerson Lyle had a passion for genealogy. The afternoon was pleasant and cozy, but we overheard that some of the locals were suffering from ailments. We retired, but then the dreams hit us all again. This time they seem to have affected Agda Gibson to the degree that she walked out into the cold Atlantic Ocean, only to wake up and return, quite disheveled, to the Wavecrest Hotel. Her furious pounding on the front door woke us all up, and it was some time before we went back to restless sleep.
That Monday we made it out to Wyman's Hill to survey the proposed site for the archaeological dig. It was still cold and miserable, and I found myself walking around with a surveyor's pole and seemingly aimlessly placing the implement on various terrain features. We went back to the hotel, and this time I struck up conversation with Joe Zumwald and Brendan Hill, the locals who were concerned about ailments and bad dreams. It turned out that they had their own little occult society, The Most Enlightened Fellowship of the Star of the Sea, and the name was eerily familiar. But alas, they seemed quite harmless, and they had a small meeting room and library on Elm Street. We were invited, and tod that their friends Johanna Glover and Vernon Morrison were having fevers as well as weird and disturbing dreams. Moira Baker did make a house call, and nothing seemed wrong with them, except for severe sleep deprivation and a slight temperature. Something unnatural was clearly afoot, but what?
We spent the next day at Wyman's Hill, and the finds did indicate some odd similarities to Phoenician ceremonial sites, but all of this may also have a mere coincidence. Still, we all thought of the Dagon cult in Los Angeles, and the horrors that have haunted us since. When we came back, Emerson Lyle revealed some of his research regarding Arthur Bennet Saunders and his family, and queer things did emerge: Arthur was supposedly from old Kingsport stock. His father was Colonel Johnston Saunders (+1919), his mother Leah Digby (Waite) (+1901) of Kingsport and Martin’s Beach, or so we thought. She was actually from the backwards fishing town of Innsmouth, several hours north of Arkham, the half-sister of Asenath Waite’s father Ephraim. Leah left Innsmouth at a very young age, around 1875. Leah Waite did change her name to Digby, after her supposed mother, Yolanda, who was from Boston, but who died under unclear circumstances when Leah was two.
Then came that fateful early March Thursday. A day that almost cost me my very own life. A dreadful storm descended upon Martin's Beach, and it seemed as if someone, or something, beckoned to Moira to join him under the sea. She woke up abruptly and ran down to her husband, waiting in all his loving glory at the end of the pier, or so she thought...
We all rushed out to help Moira, but we were confronted by two of those dreadful fish creatures that we had encountered under Los Angeles as well as Vernon and Johanna, apparently in a somnambulatory stage . They were commanded by a horrifying fishman hybrid that once was Arthur Bennett Saunders. This lurid aquatic beast was about to embrace Moira in a most unnatural way in the raging storm, his long fish-skin tongue reaching out towards her pale neck. Was Arthur finally going to drag Moira into the sea to spawn more fish people? We were going to stop this, but wearing only our pajamas and overcoats, the odds seemed against us. Irwin Bowers dashed back to the hotel to pick up his shotgun, but the rest of us threw ourselves at the ungodly abominations, razor-sharp claws, jagged teeth and all. We were hacked, slashed and bitten by the abominations, and before long we were covered in our blood and their slimy, oily ichor. Moira was almost dragged into the dark, stormy waters, if it wasn't for redoubtable Mackie McNamara who pressed down a life preserver over the Arthur creature, pinning his arms to his side and allowing Mackie to get to work with the Pocket Knife of Doom. Although the creature's neck was penetrated to release a rivulet of foul-smelling fluids, the Arthur creature ended up dangling from the pier in the life preserver's rope, his wiry muscles contorting as he pulled himself out of the life preserver and up onto the pier.
Meanwhile, Vernon and Johanna were dragging the now fully conscious Moira towards the very end of the pier, but Jules Pollack was in hot pursuit, having tackled his way past a fish man. Despite his valiant efforts, the foursome ended up in the raging Atlantic, but this woke up Vernon and Johanna, and with the help of Moira they were all helped up onto the pier again.
By now, I was down for the count together with Mackie, and things would have looking bleak indeed if it wasn't for the timely arrival of Irwin Bowers, a fire axe, and a shotgun. He dispatched of one fish man who was munching on Lake, and then fired at the other, but the shotgun ended up on the pier for a variety of complicated reasons. Arthur the fish creature was just about to dispatch of Bowers when Pollack grabbed the wet and slippery shotgun, cocking it and firing the last shell into He Who Once Was Arthur, who was dissolved in a greenish-red explosion of goo, just leaving a lower torso that stood up for mere seconds before toppling over. Moira Baker's superb first aid skills were much in demand after this most dreadful scrap, and next day saw the intrepid investigators returning to Arkham for much needed rest.
* * *
A conversation between Baker, McNamara, Lake, Bowers and Pollack, all residents of Arkham, and some even long-time residents. The conversation took place on March 10, just two days after the near-fatal encounter in Martin's Beach, and after a solid dinner cooked by Mrs. O'Flaherty. The party has moved into the drawing rooms, and Jules Pollack is just opening a new box of cigars, fresh from Nicaragua, while the guests are enjoying an after dinner cocktail:
- So, tell me more about fantastic Innsmouth-on-the-sea, Moira! You seem to be getting into deep waters every now and then. McNamara was chuckling at her own snarky comment, albeit with the best of intentions.
- You know, I really know very little about the place. I think there's a bus line to the place, Moira replied.
- Yes, that is quite true. Hand me a cigar, will you, Jules? Howard Lake reached out for one of the Nicaraguans as Irwin Bowers handed Howard a strip of cedar wood and a matchbox.
- Innsmouth used to be a fairly prosperous place. Now, it’s a queer kind of a town down at the mouth of the Manuxet. It used to be almost a city—quite a port before the War of 1812—but all gone to pieces in the last hundred years or so. No railroad now—B. & M. never went through, and the branch line from Rowley was given up years ago.
Mackie decided to add to the description, now fully equipped with a glass of champagne and an obscenely sizeable cigar.
- There are more empty houses than there are people, I guess, and no business to speak of except fishing and lobstering. Everybody trades mostly here or in Arkham or Ipswich. Once they had quite a few mills, but nothing’s left now except one gold refinery running on the leanest kind of part time. That refinery, though, used to be a big thing, and the Marsh family - the owners - seem to be quite wealthy. Mr. Marsh, the head of the family, is supposed to have developed some skin disease or deformity late in life that makes him keep out of sight. He is said to be the grandson of Captain Obed Marsh, who founded the business.
- So what about the Waites? I haven't heard any mention of that family? Irwin Bowers was next to dig into the ample cigar box.
- Old Ephraim Waite is a bit of the Arkham village looney, if you ask me. Jules started slowly pacing around the drawing room while drawing luxuriously long puffs from his cigar.
- He's been in my store looking for weird items, but he seems to always be lacking in funds. Ephraim is a horrible haggler as well, so he rarely buys anything. Haven't seen him in a bit, though, and that may be as well. The old man seemed to be in perpetual need of a bath. Lake nodded in agreement. Waite had visted his store as well.
It was now Moira's turn to add to the conversation.
- Mr. Waite has been seen at Miskatonic U., and I remember him being a bit, well, annoying, or even downright creepy. He tried to get a library card once, but Ms. O'Brien just laughed at him.
- He has a daughter, Asenath. Mackie put down her cigar before continuing.
- I have heard that she's quite ambitious and a rather good undergrad, according to professor Freeborn. Also, she's bit of a lush. Mackie picked up her obscenely sizeable cigar again, wrapping her fingers around the end of it.
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