Moira Baker's in-laws

From the diary of Mackie MacNamara

I am not really sure of myself, nor my surroundings. We had encountered these weird fish people, the “Deep Ones” of myth and legend, at Martin’s Beach, in Los Angeles, and now Punta Aguirre in Cuba. We had seen and read several references to the cult of Dagon as well as the Esoteric Order of Dagon, but I had never really conceptualized Dagon as a real physical entity. On the other hand, I may have been hallucinating. I recall all of a sudden having my mind abandoning me, like having a rug pulled away under one’s feet. Can I trust reality? What is reality? Why did I carry a fisherman’s net with me all the way back to the Cormoran?

 

From the diary of Jules Pollack

 

I may enjoy my antiques, my knick-knacks, and my odd items, but this shooting business is immensely satisfying, especially when firing at fish-men. Well, that is until that awful monstrosity broke a significant portion of my ribs when it grabbed me and seemingly wanted to devour me. I was disconcerting to see even dear but jaded and cynical Mackie shriek “Dagon” before dancing off away from our desperate struggle with that being. And what a being! Man, it must have been more than a hundred feet tall, although we only saw the upper body. It made awful, unearthly noises, perhaps a bit like high-preassured steam leaving steam engine, and its foul smell made me think of brine and rot, of the deepest chasms of the ocean, and of watery decay. Have we seen too many of the true horrors that are kept from mankind on this little island of false serenity that we call Earth?

The reflection in the roof of the cavern.

 

From the diary of Felix Jeremiah

 

I have absolutely no fucking clue of what just happened. I think I will have to keep a diary, or at least notes, to write down what the hell actually is going on with this insane group of people. Worth noting: they work really well together, even that professor broad Mackie.

 

From the diary of Howard Lake

The storm was raging over Punta Aguirre as we went up to the Faro Navidad lighthouse. The lighthouse itself seemed to be working, albeit with some form of glitch, but the living quarters were dark and seeming abandoned. The lighthouse keepers seemed to have been cooking rice and beans, judging by the somewhat stale scent of cooking, and it seemed as if their dinner plans had been interrupted by a struggle that had wrecked much of the furniture and left a pool of slime on the table. Mackie and I went up the spiral staircase to the actual lighthouse, while Jules started a fire in the potbelly stove to keep us warm during the night. Felix Jeremiah, that curious lad, decided to go through the loft, and he was soon preoccupied with, well, lard.

 

Up in the lighthouse we made a gruesome discovery: three men, hanged by the neck and mutilated in a most gruesome fashion. This was the glitch in the lighthouse beam as the reflector was interrupted by the bodies as it rotated through the stormy night. But the bodies would have to wait, as we all of a sudden heard Jules yelling “I’ll be damned if it isn’t Moira’s in-laws” before firing his .38 revolver. We did indeed have company of beings similar to the fish-men of Martin’s Beach and Los Angeles, although these ones seemed to be larger but slower. They also seemed to be overrunning Punto Aguirre, and the reflections from the lighthouse’s beam of light revealed. We barricaded the living quarters and shut the storm shutters, and yet we had to descend down that other staircase that led down into an abyss of despair.

 

It was a large cavern or grotto, clearly connected to the sea and with a lagoon covering a third or so of its surface, and with unearthly reflections from the pool lighting up the cavern in particularly unhealthy nuances of green, blue and taupe. A cliff projection jutted out over the lagoon, almost like a leaning tower, and three horrifying fish-men were dragging a shrieking elderly woman up this cliff. The remaining population of Punto Aguirre, perhaps some 40 men, women and children, were fettered to the side of the cavern by a mass of bulging tentacles, and seeming incapacitated. 

Several fish-men were seen celebrating some weird and inhumane with weird dances, hopping around like madmen. It was time to act. Jules starting laying down a barrage of particularly well-aimed gunfire, and several fish-men fell to his bullets as well as to fire from my trusty Luger. However, four or five of these monsters came close enough to engage us in fisticuffs, but being fine Americans, we were up to the task. We disposed of the creatures with our makeshift weapons (harpoons, fire bottles, etcetera), while Felix ran towards the fettered villagers at a most impressive speed followed by myself at a slightly more lumbering pace. Dodging fish-men, we started cutting away yard upon yard of slimy tentacle when we saw a hideous creature rising from the lagoon. 

Mackie shrieked “Dagon”, before dancing away from the scene, and we tried to dodge the enormous claws of the monstrosity while freeing the last villagers. That I remain sane after this encounter is truly wondrous, because this was being well beyond anything I have encountered so far. It radiated so much alien power, and the size was indescribable.

It was a close call, but we made it out of the cavern. That Dagon-creature may actually have wrecked the entrance to the cave with its fists, and I hope it remains closed forever. The fish-men and their master do indeed seem intent on acquiring those mysterious eggs that I found on the Santa Ana, but they seem to be safe on the Cormoran, perhaps due to the Elder Signs placed by Mackie.

The storm passed without further incident, but it was fortunate that Jules had made a fire in the stove up in the living quarters. Next morning, the sky was clear and the sea relatively calm. The Cormoran had survived as well. As for Punto Aguirre, the inhabitants were most grateful to be alive, but they had a difficult time taking in what had really happened. Was it perhaps a mass psychosis prompted by a particularly fierce storm? I’ll leave that to the villagers to decide.

 

Cursed Births

 It was still Friday, May 8, and the Three Amigos decided that they had some more questions for the Antahueca Apache and Chief Nascha Alonzo Ruiz. By now, the tribe was somewhat used to Cannon, Ashford and McCloud, and they had graciously accepted the plentiful gifts that Ashford had bestowed on their impoverished community. Chief Ruiz invited the Three Amigos into his back yard, and they were just going to have some coffee when a horrifying wail echoed through the small Apache settlement. They all rushed to a house, where Chief Ruiz said that Johanna Fast Bear was giving birth, although the terrifying cries seemed to reach far beyond even the rigors of natural childbirth. As they all stepped in, Johanna seemed to have passed out splattered with blood, and a child was bundled up by a terrified midwife. Frank Cannon demanded to see the offspring, and both he and his friends where horrified to see an abominable half-serpentine creature, a mix between infant and snake, writhing about in a wicker bascinet. It had rudimentary scales, a split tongue, and pearly white incisors that snapped after Cannon's fingers.

Contents to horrible to envision!

The abomination - for this creature truly deserved the term abomination - was secured in a papoose as Fran Cannon and Lotus Ashford started questioning the dumbstruck family. McCloud was sent to find Nurse Pettenkoffer, who'd recently returned from Arkham, so that the poor Johanna might get proper care. However, Johanna and her family seemed to live perfectly ordinary, if impoverished, lives, and they were also known as loving parents with two older children welcomed into their family. This entire situation did not match any of the more current items in the verbal legends handed down by the Antahueca Apace, but Chief Ruiz whispered that he could not help thinking of the myths of Yig and the decadent tribe that lived in the region before being vanquished by the brave Apache and that worshipped the serpent god named Ha-Yonig, Yiagath, or just Yik. Chief Ruiz and the Three Amigos subsequently decided to take a peek at the medicine man, Medah Old Horse's, cottage, and Chief Ruiz gave them each medicine bags to help then on whatever endeavor may come.

Then, finally, Nurse Pettenkoffer arrived with much of her medical equipment, and after a thorough examination it was determined that Johanna would live, although she would have to be taken to the small hospital in Carrazozo for further care. The Three Amigos realized that there was little more that could be done in the Apache settlement, but they decided to have a conversation with Father Bose. Perhaps he would have some other insights to contribute? 

The drab weather had turned even worse as the Three Amigos rode up to St. Mary's church. The church bells were ringing, which was odd for a Friday late afternoon, and as Ashford, McCloud and Cannon entered the small church they realized that a funeral service was taking place. Two caskets, one very small, and one standard-sized, were displayed by the altar, and all Three Amigos felt an inescapable sensation of unrelenting dread. They waited for the mourning and bereaved to leave St. Mary's before they approached Father Bose. Their worst fears were confirmed. This was case of an aberration being born, although neither the mother nor the offspring survived the gruesome and gory birth. father Bose actually did not mind opening the smaller casket, This infant/serpent hybrid was even more deformed than Johanna Fast Bear's offspring. It had a fully developed tail, fangs, and slit-like pupils similar to the eyes of a snake. Father Bose quietly closed the lid to the casket and led the Three Amigos to the rectory. Many questions were asked, and although Father Bose himself had not experienced anything even remotely similar to the horrifying events of this accursed Saturday, he explained that there were myths of almost forgotten serpentine gods that predated the Bible, and he mentioned in a hushed voice the surviving fragments about the mythical snake-people of Valusia and how the justified and ancient inhabitants of Mu had struggled to defeat the Valusian snake people and their god, often mentioned as Yik, Jig, or Yig. Mention of snake-people could be found all over the world: in Asia, Africa, Australia, Europe, and both of the Americas.  

The Three Amigos were still struggling to figure out what was going on. Why were there so many signs of serpents everywhere? Did this have any connection with the solar or lunar cycle? Yet, one feature seemed to feature prominently: the Carrizo Mountain itself. This was one of the sites that the Antahueca Apache medicine man, Medah Mitchell Old Horse, preferred to seek out. This is where the Tabernacle Church of God was heading, and this is where they found the tomb of the man with the red right hand (and where Frank Cannon found the strange necklace around the neck of the corpse). Now, who could follow the cold tracks of Medah Mitchell Old Horse up Carrizo Mountain? The Three Amigos were planning on leaving that Sunday, May 10.

But first, the communication with Arkham had to continue:

 

The Tempest. A Short Story.

It was Sunday, June 7, and the battered M/S Cormoran sailed into Havana harbor. Captain Feargal Sharkey realized that repairs had to be made, and no questions asked, so he made for the mechanical shop of a certain Ricardo Villamonte, and old contact and fence. Villamonte did not not mind tensing to the Cormoran, especially if dollars were involved, and he told Sharkey that the Cormoran would be ready on Monday. The intrepid investigators were now the exhausted investigators, and there were wounds to tend to. Also, the fate of Irwin Bowers was a cause of great concern, and the investigators were increasingly convinced that something truly dreadful had happened. 

However, Mackie and Howard felt somewhat rested after a surprisingly good night's sleep: no night terrors, no spasms, no strange sounds in the middle of the night, just solid sleep. They went to check on the Cormoran before heading to the St. Agnes hospital with a sample of the mysterious egg-like things they had found in the ancient chest in the wreck of the Santa Ana. Mackie had carefully sliced off a sample and exposed it to Karen, but the hen was not impressed in any way. Mackie and Howard did leave for Villamonte's shop, and as they were gathering some personal items from the Cormoran they were approached by a young man, or possibly an older child. The youngster introduced himself with a New York accent, stating that his name was Felix Jeremiah, and adding that he was looking for a Henry Chester. Both Mackie and Howard were dumbfounded. What was youngster doing here looking for their disappeared friend? This required further inquiry, and they proceeded to the Bristol Hotel for refreshments despite Mackie being more than  a little wary of the young man, and taunting him incessantly. Once they were comfortably seated at the bar, Felix surprised everyone by ordering a whisky and soda. The waiter demanded some proof of age, and it turned out that Felix really wasn't a young man at all, despite his youthful looks.

Felix Jeremiah

Felix story was quite checkered, but he had clearly known Henry Chester. He finally convinced Mackie and Howard to let him join the MacNamara Expedition, if only as a tryout. He was told to report at Villamonte's shop on Monday morning. Mackie and Howard spent the rest of the Sunday at the St. Agnes Hospital as a lab technician analyzed the egg sample. It turned out that the lab technician couldn't properly identify the sample at all, but also that it was quite inert.

The Cormoran left Havana just after 9 am, and the seas seemed favorable. Captain Sharkey set course due west, and the intrepid adventurers relaxed on or below deck. After a couple of hours, Captain Sharkey noticed two things: there seemed to be a storm on the horizon, and the fuel gauge was showing a precariously low amount of fuel. Was the the fuel tank leaking, or was there some other issue? Captain Sharkey told the intrepid adventurers that he would be changing course to the small fishing village of Punto Aquirre, where he hoped to be able to repair or refuel the Cormoran.

Punto Aguirre was sighted just after 4.30 pm, and the village looked quite quaint in the distance. A lanky dog could be seen crossing the street, but as the adventurers came closer to Punto Aguirre, they could not help notice the entire village, including the church and the Faro Navidad lighthouse, seemed quite deserted. It might have been that the villagers had sought refuge from the approaching storm, but the situation still seemed a bit weird.  

Faro Navidad

Meanwhile, the winds preceding the storm was already making sizeable ways, and securing the Cormoran to the jetty at Punto Aguirre was rather difficult. Lake, MacNamara and Jeremiah ventured ashore, and the village was indeed deserted. Yet, Lake, MacNamara and Jeremiah could not shake off the feeling that they were being watched. There also seemed to be traces of fighting and struggling in several of the buildings, but as they were looking trough the village, they heard the engine of the Cormoran roar into life. The three compatriots rushed back along the jetty, but it only seemed as if Feargal Sharkey was taking the precaution to arrange for a storm anchor to avoid smashing his vessel against the jetty in the increasingly bad weather. Back on board the Cormoran, Jules Pollack was starting to feel both worried and a bit queasy. He managed to jump from the Cormoran to the jetty just before it was too late as Captain Sharkey pulled out to sea. This left Captain Sharkey on the Cormoran together with Johnny and Dorothy Gale, a worried Moira Baker, and Franz Alter, who was missing his mother quite a bit.

The four compatriots continued searching through Punto Aguirre, and they were examining the church and its surroundings when they saw a dark figure dash across the main village street. A wild chase proceeded in between gusts of wind and the first rain drops, but the compatriots eventually cornered a disheveled and insane-looking elderly individual in a clergyman's robes. The person seemed terrified, and almost entirely incoherent as he babbled:    

-        "They came. Just like that showed up... they have a healthy appetite. The young go first. The young! The young! All sizes. So small! So big...  They took them all... the tower! The tower with the all-seeing eye. -        Deep caverns, deep under the all-seeing eye...

-        You! It is you! You have something they have wanted for a long time. A very long time...t hey watched the undersea boat for soooooooo long. How funny (insane laughter). We are just bait! Like worms, we are like worms. Or breadcrumbs. Wormy bread…. I have seen God, and he is dead..."

Mackie was getting quite wet from the rain, and she seemed rather unhappy as she looked at Howard Lake and Felix Jeremiah: "Fuck. We might as well go up to the fucking lighthouse." 

nn  

From the diary of Dr. Evan Sinclair, Deputy Head of the Department of Archaeology and de facto organizer of the MacNamara Expedition.

Dr. Evan Sinclair

I received a telegram from Professor Armitage on Sunday, May 10. It was indeed strange to receive a telegram on a Sunday, but once I read it, the urgency became obvious. I was to arrange the practical aspects of the MacNamara Expedition to the jungles between Guatemala and Mexico, the exact location to be revealed. Professor Armitage was going to send detailed instructions by regular mail, but that Monday I proceeded to hire a small steamer with crew, since the expedition seemed to require a significant amount of equipment and several qualified expedition members. I mentally went through the profiles of several graduate students and placed a few telephone calls to ensure availability for some potential members of the expedition as well as inquiring about certain key pieces of equipment. 

It was hard work, but on May 31 we were ready to load in Boston harbor. I had been in intermittent communication with Dr. MacNamara, as she had travelled in advance via Cuba and Jamaica to Mexico, and although there seemed to be hints at some odd events occurring, I trusted that Dr. MacNamara would be able to handle most, if not all, issues. We rented the small steamer S/S William Alexander, which is captained by Paul Hardee, a native of Kingsport. Captain Hardee is a hard-working man, and quite amusing. He runs a tight ship, though, and the Billy Alex (William Alexander) is in pretty good shape.

S/S William Alexander

Captain Hardee

We were not able to leave until after lunch on June 4, though, Loading and coaling took more time than anticipated, and it was really difficult to find longshoremen who were willing to work for us. Strange indeed, since Captain Hardee seemed to enjoy a good reputation in the port of Boston. There was some talk about political agitation ashore, but there was no way for me to ascertain this. Nevertheless, we left Boston harbor on a fantastic Thursday afternoon, and the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean soon surrounded us as we steered first east, then south. I had a very small cabin, and although it was comfortable, I preferred to spend time on deck, enjoying the warm spring air and the many impressions of the ocean itself. I had a stack of relevant books, and the first days gave me ample amounts of time to read and prepare for the tasks ahead of us when we'd reach Mexico. I was often up late was well, since we were indeed enjoying great weather, and I was fascinated by the lights from seaside communities and various cities that we passed, not to mention the probing and blinking lights from lighthouses and other navigational markers. 

It was on the evening of the third day at sea, on Saturday, June 6, that I started noticing the signaler of the Billy Alex, young Georg Koszlowski, a lanky, blonde man of Polish extraction. He was undeniably a hard worker, but did the radio sets of the Billy Alex require such an amount of constant upkeep? He was tinkering with the switches and dials for hours on end! Since I have had some interest in radio waves and such after having taken classes with Dr. Emmett Brown, I could not help knocking on the signal cabin to ask him about the receivers and transmitters, but although Koszlowski answered my questions with some degree of patience, true conversation did not spring forth. I left him to his own devices after half an hour so, and he immediately returned to his receiver set. For some reason, the transmitter did not seem to be as interesting to young Koszlowski, which was odd. 

Besides this awkward attempt at conversation, the trip proceeded gently with calm seas that made the preparations for the MacNamara Expedition so much easier. We studied maps, checked equipment, and read about both Egyptian and pre-Columbian history and archaeology. Miss Amanda Bowman was particularly helpful, as she had studied with Dr. MacNamara previously and had a very decent knowledge of hieroglyphs, and, as I found out, Spanish.

However, the following night, as I went outside to smoke my pipe and look at the constellations, at around 11 pm, I heard strange sounds from the signal cabin. It was a dirge-like and unpleasant mix of static and undulating, bizarre, sounds switching between high-pitched treble and low, rumbling staccato. It was most unpleasant to listen to, but yet I could not help myself as I looked towards the faint light from the signal cabin. It was almost hypnotic, and at times it almost seemed as if one could discern syllables of gibberish in the strange transmission. I ended abruptly after ten or so minutes, and I eventually made it back to my small cabin.

Next evening, being the evening of June 8, I once again went out on deck to enjoy some tobacco and my fine Brinkmann briar pipe. It was a gift from my dear wife Catherine, and she had ordered it all the way from Bremen some years previously. I almost dropped it when I all of a sudden heard a very loud burst of static from the signaler's cabin followed by a lash of what almost seemed like lightning. Rushing in to the captain, I found Georg Koszlowski lying with his back to the floor, convulsing heavily and frothing from the corner's of his mouth. The radio set was smoking, but not burning, and I assumed that Koszlowski had been electrocuted, suffered a seizure, or both. I pinned him down and forced a notepad in between Koszlowski's gnashing teeth, while several other members of the crew joined me to secure Koszlowski and take care of the smoking radio set. Koszlowski did seem to relax after a couple of minutes, and I leaned over him to remove the notepad from his mouth and provide some comfort. He seemed to whisper something, and as I leaned closer, and without any warning, Koszlowski suffered a massive spasm that arched his back in a most unnatural position. The paroxysm only lasted for mere seconds, but he was quite dead afterwards. Doctor Ricci, the nearly deaf ship's doctor, could not do a single thing to save poor Koszlowski.

The funeral was held at sea next morning, just as we were off the tip of southern Florida. The sea was steel grey, a fitting accompaniment to the somber affair. Captain Hardee said a couple of words that were supposed to be uplifting, but they only seemed to contribute to the ominous mood on board the William Alexander. I was not even sure I really could take in what had happened last evening. It may be a product of my own at times admittedly vivid imagination, but I could have sworn that Kozlowski's last whisper before suffering the spasm was identical to the dirge-like staticky gibberish I had heard two nights ago.