H. P. Lovecraft - The Shadow Over Innsmouth

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The Shadow Over Innsmouth
I
During the winter of 1927-28 officials of the Federal government made a strange and secret
investigation of certain conditions in the ancient Massachusetts seaport of Innsmouth. The public
first learned of it in February, when a vast series of raids and arrests occurred, followed by the
deliberate burning and dynamiting - - under suitable precautions - - of an enormous number of
crumbling, worm-eaten, and supposedly empty houses along the abandoned waterfront. Uninquiring
souls let this occurrence pass as one of the major clashes in a spasmodic war on liquor.
Keener news-followers, however, wondered at the prodigious number of arrests, the abnormally large
force of men used in making them, and the secrecy surrounding the disposal of the prisoners. No
trials, or even definite charges were reported; nor were any of the captives seen thereafter in
the regular gaols of the nation. There were vague statements about disease and concentration
camps, and law about dispersal in various naval and military prisons, inn nothing positive ever
developed. Innsmouth itself was left almost depopulated, and it is even now only beginning to show
signs of a sluggishly revived existence.
Complaints from many liberal organizations were met with long confidential discussions, and
representatives were taken on trips to certain camps and prisons. As a result, these societies
became surprisingly passive and reticent Newspaper men were harder to manage, but seemed largely
to cooperate with the government in the end. Only one paper - - a tabloid always discounted
because of its wild policy - - mentioned the deep diving submarine that discharged torpedoes
downward in the marine abyss just beyond Devil Reef That item, gathered by chance in a haunt of
Sailors, seemed indeed nether far-fetched; since the low, black reef lieu a full mile and a half
out from Innsmouth Harbour.
People around the country and in the nearby towns muttered a great deal among themselves, but said
very little to the outer world. They had talked about dying and half-deserted Innsmouth for nearly
a century, and nothing new could be wilder or more hideous than what they had whispered and hinted
at years before. Many things had taught them secretiveness, and there was no need to exert
pressure on them. Besides, they really knew little; for wide salt marshes, desolate and unpeopled,
kept neighbors off from Innsmouth on the landward side.
But at last I am going to defy the ban on speech about this thing. Results, I am certain, are so
thorough that no public harm save a shock of repulsion could ever accrue from a hinting of what
was found by those horrified men at Innsmouth. Besides, what was found might possible have more
than one explanation. I do not know just how much of the whole tale has been told even to me, and
I have many reasons for not wishing to probe deeper. For my contact with this affair has been
closer than that of any other layman, and I have carried away impressions which are yet to drive
me to drastic measures.
It was I who fled frantically out of Innsmouth in the early morning hours of July 16, 1927, and
whose frightened appeals for government inquiry and action brought on the whole reported episode.
I was willing enough to stay mute while the affair was fresh and uncertain; but now that it is an
old story, with public interest and curiosity gone, I have an odd craving to whisper about those
few frightful hours in that ill-rumored and evilly-shadowed seaport of death and blasphemous
abnormality. The mere telling helps me to restore confidence in my own faculties; to reassure
myself that I was not the first to succumb to a contagious nightmare hallucination. It helps me,
too in making up my mind regarding a certain terrible step which lies ahead of me.
I never heard of Innsmouth till the day before I saw it for the first and - - so far - - last
time. I was celebrating my corning of age by a tour of New England - - sightseeing,
antiquarian, and genealogical - - and had planned to go directly from ancient Newburyport to
Arkham, whence my mother's family was derived. I had no car, but was travelling' by train, trolley
and motor-coach, always seeking the cheapest possible route. In Newburyport they told me that the
steam train was the thing to take to Arkham; and it was only at the station ticket-office, when I
demurred at. the high fare, that I learned about Innsmouth. The stout, shrewd-faced agent, whose
speech shewed him to be no local man, seemed sympathetic toward my efforts at economy, and made a
suggestion that none of my other informants had offered.
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"You could take that old bus, I suppose," he said with a certain hesitation, "but it ain't thought
much of hereabouts. It goes through Innsmouth - - you may have heard about that - - and so the
people don't like it. Run by an Innsmouth fellow - - Joe Sargent - - but never gets any custom
from here, or Arkham either, I guess. Wonder it keeps running at all. I s'pose it's cheap enough,
but I never see mor'n two or three people in it - - nobody but those Innsmouth folk Leaves the
square - - front of Hammond's Drug Store - - at 10 a.m. and 7 p.m. unless they've changed lately.
Looks like a terrible rattletrap - - I've never been on it."
That was the first I ever heard of shadowed Innsmouth. Any reference to a town not shown on
common map or listed in recent guidebooks would have interested me, and the agent's odd manner of
allusion roused something like real curiosity. A town able to inspire such dislike in it its
neighbors, I thought, must be at least rather unusual, and worthy of a tourist's attention. If it
came before Arkham I would stop off there and so I asked the agent to tell me something about it.
He was very deliberate, and spoke with an air of feeling slightly superior to what he said.
"Innsmouth? Well, it's a queer kind of a town down at the mouth of the Manuxet. 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. and M. never went through, and the branch line from Rowley was
given up years ago.
"More empty houses' than there are people, I guess, and no business to speak Of except fishing and
lobstering. Everybody trades mostly either 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 he a big thing, and old man Marsh, who owns it, must be richer'n
Croesus. Queer old duck, though, and sticks mighty close in his home. He's supposed to have
developed some skin disease or deformity late in life that makes him keep out of sight Grandson of
Captain Obed Marsh, who founded the business. His mother seems to've been some kind of foreigner -
- they say a South Sea islander - - so everybody raised Cain when he married an Ipswich girl fifty
years ago. They always do that about Innsmouth people, and folks here and hereabouts always try to
cover up any Innsmouth blood they have in But Marsh's children and grandchildren loot just like
anyone else far's I can see. I've had 'em pointed out to me here - - though, come to think of it,
the elder children don't seem to be around lately. Never saw the old man.
"And why is everybody so down on Innsmouth? Well, young fellow, you mustn't take too much stock in
what people here say. They're hard to get started, but once they do get started they never let
up. They've been telling things about Innsmouth - - whispering 'em, mostly - - for the last
hundred years, I guess, and I gather they're more scared than anything else. Some of the stories
would make you laugh - - about old Captain Marsh driving bargains with the devil and bringing imps
out of hell to live in Innsmouth, or about some kind of devil-worship and awful sacrifices in some
place near the wharves that people stumbled on around 1845 or there-abouts - - but I come from
Panton, Vermont, and that kind of story don't go down with me.
"You ought to hear, though, what some of the old-timers tell about the black reef off the coast -
- Devil Reef, they call it. It's well above water a good part of the time, and never much below
it, but at that your could hardly call it an island. The story is that there's a whole legion of
devils seen sometimes on that reef-sprawled about, or darting in and out of some kind of caves
near the top. It's a rugged, uneven thing, a good bit over a mile out, and toward the end of
shipping days sailors used to make big detours just to avoid it.
"That is, sailors that didn't hail from Innsmouth. One of the things they had against old Captain
Marsh was that he was supposed to land on it sometimes at night when the tide was right Maybe he
did, for I dare say the rock formation was interesting, and it's just barely possible he was
looking for pirate loot and maybe finding ft; but there was talk of his dealing with demons there.
Fact is, I guess on the whole it was really the Captain that gave the bad reputation to the reef.
"That was before The big epidemic of 1846, when over half the folks in Innsmouth was carried
off. They never did quite figure out what the trouble was, but it was probably some foreign kind
of disease brought from China or somewhere by the shipping. It surely was bad enough - - there was
riots over it, and all sorts of ghastly doings that I don't believe ever got outside of town - -
and it left the place a awful shape. Never came back-there can't be more'n 300 or 400 people
living there now. "But the real thing behind the way folks feel is simply race prejudice - - and
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I don't say I'm blaming those that hold it I hate those Innsmouth folks myself, and I wouldn't
care to go to their town. I s'pose you know - - though I can see you're a Westerner by your talk
- - what a lot our New England ships - - used to have to do with queer ports in Africa, Asia, the
South Seas, and everywhere else, and what queer kinds of people they sometimes brought back with
'em. You've probably heard about the Salem man that came home with a Chinese wife, and maybe you
know there's still a bunch of Fiji Islanders somewhere around Cape Cod.
"Well, there must be something like that back of the Innsmouth people. The place always was badly
cut off from the rest of the country by marshes and creeks and we can't be sure about the ins and
outs of the matter; but it's pretty clear that old Captain Marsh must have brought home some odd
specimens when he had all three of his ships in commission back in the twenties and thirties.
There certainly is a strange kind of streak in the Innsmouth forks today - - I don't know how to
explain it but it sort of makes you crawl. You'll notice a little in Sargent if you take his bus.
Some of 'em have queer narrow heads with flat noses and bulgy, starry eyes that never seem to
shut, and their skin ain't quite right. Rough and scabby, and the sides of the necks are all
shriveled or creased up. Get bald, too, very young. The older fellows look the worst - - fact is,
I don't believe I've ever seen a very old chap of that kind. Guess they must die of looking in
the glass! Animals hate 'em - - they used to have lots of horse trouble before the autos came in.
"Nobody around here or in Arkham or Ipswich will have anything to do with 'em, and they act kind
of offish themselves when they come to town or when anyone tries to fish on their grounds. Queer
how fish are always thick off Innsmouth Harbour when there ain't any anywhere else around - - but
just try to fish there yourself and see how the folks chase you off! Those people used to come
here on the railroad - - walking and taking the train at Rowley after the branch was dropped - -
but now they use that bus.
"Yes, there's a hotel in Innsmouth - - called the Gilman House - - but I don't believe it can
amount to much. I wouldn't advise you to try it. Better stay over here and take the ten o'clock
bus tomorrow morning; then you can get an evening bus there for Arkham at eight o'clock. There was
a factory inspector who stopped at the Gilman a couple of years ago and he had a lot of unpleasant
hints about the place. Seems they get a queer crowd there, for this fellow heard voices in other
room - - though most of 'em was empty - - that gave him the shivers. It was foreign talk' he
thought, but he said the bad thing about it was the kind of voice that sometimes spoke. It sounded
so unnatural - - slopping like, he said - - that he didn't dare undress and go to sleep. Just
waited up and lit out the first thing in the morning. The talk went on most all night.
"This fellow - - Casey, his name was - - had a lot to say about how the Innsmouth folk, watched
him and seemed kind of on guard. He found the Marsh refinery a queer place - - it's in an old mill
on the lower falls of the Manuxet. What he said tallied up with what I'd heard. Books in bad
shape, and no clear account of any kind of dealings. You know it's always been a kind of mystery
where the Marshes get the gold they refine. They've never seemed to do much buying in that line,
but years ago they shipped Out an enormous lot of ingots.
"Used to be talk of a queer foreign kind of jewelry that the sailors and refinery men sometimes
sold on the sly, or that was seen once or twice on some of the Marsh women-folks. People allowed
maybe old Captain Obed traded for it in some heathen port, especially since he always ordered
stacks of glass beads and trinkets such as seafaring men used to get for native trade. Others
thought and still think he'd found an old pirate cache out on Devil Reef. But here's a funny
thing. The old Captain's been dead these sixty years, and there's ain't been a good-sized ship out
of the place since the Civil War; but just the same the Marshes still keep on buying a few of
those native trade things - - mostly glass and rubber gewgaws, they tell me. Maybe the Innsmouth
folks like 'em to look at themselves - - Gawd knows they've gotten to be about as bad as South Sea
cannibals and Guinea savages.
"That plague of '46 must have taken off the best blood in the place. Anyway, they're a doubtful
lot now, and the Marshes and other rich folks are as bad as any. As I told you, there probably
ain't more'n 400 people in the whole town in spite of all the streets they say there are. I guess
they're what they call 'white trash' down South - - lawless and sly, and full of secret things.
They get a lot of fish and lobsters and do exporting by truck. Queer how the fish swarm right
there and nowhere else.
"Nobody can ever keep track of these people, and state school officials and census men have a
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devil of a time. You can bet that prying strangers ain't welcome around Innsmouth. I've heard
personally of more'n one business or government man that's disappeared there, and there's loose
talk of one who went crazy and is out at Danvers now. They must have fixed up some awful scare for
that fellow.
"That's why I wouldn't go at night if I was you. I've never been there and have no wish to go, but
I guess a daytime trip couldn't hurt you - - even though the people hereabouts will advise you not
to make it. If you're just sightseeing, and looking for old-time stuff, Innsmouth ought to be
quite a place for you."
And so I spent part of that evening at the Newburyport Public Library looking up data about
Innsmouth. When I had tried to question the natives in the shops, the lunchroom, the garages, and
the are station, I had found them even harder to get started than the ticket agent had predicted;
and realized that I could not spare the time to overcome their first instinctive reticence. They
had a kind of obscure sus-piciousness, as if there were something amiss with anyone too much
interested in Innsmouth. At the Y. M. C. A., where I was stopping, the clerk merely discouraged
my going to such a dismal, decadent place; and the people at the library shewed much the same
attitude. Clearly, in the eyes of the educated, Innsmouth was merely an exaggerated case of civic
degeneration.
The Essex County histories on the library shelves had very little to say, except that the town was
founded in 1643, noted for shipbuilding before the Revolution, a seat of great marine prosperity
in the early 19th century, and later a minor factory center wing the Manuxet as power. The
epidemic and riots of 1846 were very sparsely treated, as if they formed a discredit to the
county.
References to decline were few, though the significance of the later record was unmistakable.
After the Civil War air industrial life was confined to the Marsh Refining Company, and the
marketing of gold ingots formed the only remaining bit of major commerce aside from the eternal
fishing. That fishing paid less and less as the price of the commodity fell and large-scale
corporations offered competition, but there was never a dearth of fish around Innsmouth Harbour.
Foreigners seldom settled there, and there was some discreetly veiled evidence that a number of
Poles and Portuguese who had tried it had been scattered in a peculiarly drastic fashion.
Most interesting of all was a glancing reference to the strange jewelry vaguely associated with
Innsmouth. It had evidently impressed the whole countryside more thin a little, for mention was
made of specimens in the museum of Miskatonic University at Arkham, and in the display room of the
Newburyport Historical Society. The fragmentary descriptions of these things were bald and
prosaic, but they hinted to me an undercurrent of persistent strangeness. Something about them
seemed so odd and provocative that I could not put them out of my mind, and despite the relative
lateness of the hour I resolved to see the local sample - - said to be a large, queerly-
proportioned thing evidently meant for a tiara - - if it could possibly be arranged.
The librarian gave me a note of introduction to the curator of the Society, a Miss Anna Tilton,
who lived nearby, and after a brief explanation that ancient gentlewoman was kind enough to pilot
me into the closed building, since the hour was not outrageously late. The collection was a
notable one indeed, but in my present mood I had eyes for nothing but the bizarre object which
glistened in a comer cupboard under the electric lights.
It took no excessive sensitiveness to beauty to make me literally gasp at the strange, unearthly
splendour Of the alien, opulent phantasy that rested there on a purple velvet cushion. Even now I
can hardly describe what I saw, though it was clearly enough a son of tiara, as the description
had said. It was tall in front, and with a very large and curiously irregular periphery, as if
designed for a head of almost freak-ishly elliptical outline. The material seemed to be
predominantly gold, though a weird lighter lustrousness hinted at some strange alloy with an
equally beautiful and scarcely identifiable metal. Its condition was almost perfect, and one could
have spent hours in studying the striking and puzzlingly untraditional designs - - some simply
geometrical, and some plainly marine - - chased or moulded in high relief on its surface with a
craftsmanship of incredible skill and grace.
The longer I looked, the more the thing fascinated me; and in this fascination there was a
curiously disturbing element hardly to she classified or accounted for. At first I decided that it
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was the queer other-worldly quality of the art which made me uneasy. All other art objects I had
ever seen either belonged to some known racial or national stream, or else were consciously
modernistic defiances of every recognized stream. This tiara was neither. It clearly belonged to
some settled technique of infinite maturity and perfection, yet that technique was utterly remote
from any - - Eastern or Western, ancient or modern - - which I had ever heard of or seen
exemplified. It was as if the workmanship were that of another planet.
However, I soon saw that my uneasiness had a second and perhaps equally potent source residing in
the pictorial and mathematical suggestion of the strange designs. The patterns all hinted of
remote secrets and unimaginable abysses in time and space, and the monotonously aquatic nature of
the reliefs became almost sinister. Among these reliefs were fabulous monsters of abhorrent
grotesqueness and malignity-half ichthyic and half batrachian in suggestion-which one could not
dissociate from a certain haunting and uncomfortable sense of pseudomemory, as if they called up
some image from deep cells and tissues whose retentive functions are wholly primal and. awesomely
ancestral. At times I fancied that every contour of these blasphemous fish-frogs was over-flowing
with the ultimate quintessence of unknown and inhuman evil.
In odd contrast to the tiara's aspect was its brief and prosy history as related by Miss Tilton.
It had been pawned for a ridiculous sum at a stop in State Street in 1873, by a drunken Innsmouth
man shortly afterward killed in a brawl. The Society had acquired it directly from the
pawnbroker, at once giving it a display worthy of its quality. It was labeled as of probable East-
Indian or Indochinese provenance, though the attribution was frankly tentative.
Miss Tilton, comparing all possible hypotheses regarding its origin and its presence in New
England, was inclined to believe that it formed part of some exotic pirate hoard discovered by old
Captain Obed Marik. This view was surely not weakened by the insistent offers of purchase at a
high price which the Marshes began to make as soon as they knew of its presence, and which they
repeated to this day despite the Society's unvarying determination not to sell.
As the good lady shewed me out of the building she made it clear that the pirate theory of the
Marsh fortune was a popular one among the intelligent people of the region. Her own attitude
toward shadowed Innsmouth - - which she never seen - - was one of disgust at a community slipping
far down the cultural scale, and she assured me that the rumours of devil-worship were partly
justified by a peculiar secret cult which had gained force there and engulfed all the orthodox
churches.
It was called, she said, 'The Esoteric Order of Dagon", and was undoubtedly a debased, quasi-pagan
thing imported from the East a century before, at a time when the Innsmouth fisheries seemed to be
going barren. Its persistence among a simple people was quite natural in view of the sudden and
permanent return of abundantly fine fishing, and it soon came to be the greatest influence in the
town, replacing Freemasonry altogether and taking up headquarters in the old Masonic Hall on New
Church Green.
All this, to the pious Miss Tilton, formed an excellent reason for shunning the ancient town of
decay and desolation; but to me it was merely a fresh incentive. To my architectural and
historical anticipations was now added an acute anthropological zeal, and I could scarcely sleep
in my small room at the "Y" as the night wore away.
I I
Shortly before ten the next morning I stood whit one small valise in front of Hammond's Drug Store
in old Market Square waiting for the Innsmouth bus. As the hour for its arrival drew near I
noticed a general drift of the loungers to other places up the street, or to the Ideal Lunch
across the square. Evidently the ticket-agent had not exaggerated the dislike which local People
bore toward Innsmouth and its denizens. In a few moments a small motor-coach of extreme
decrepitude and dirty grey colour rattled down State Street, made a turn, and drew up at the curb
beside me. I felt immediately that it was the right one; a guess which the half-legible on the
windshield - - Arkham - Innsmouth - Newb'port - - soon verified.
There were only three passengers - - dark, unkempt men of sullen visage and somewhat youthful cast
- - and when the vehicle stopped they clumsily shambled out and began walking up State Street in a
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silent, almost furtive fashion. The driver also alighted, and I watched him as he went into the
drug store to make some purchase. This, I reflected, must be the Joe Sargent mentioned by the
ticket-agent; and even be-fore I noticed any details there spread over me a wave of spontaneous
aversion which could be neither checked nor explained. It suddenly struck me as very natural that
the local people should not wish to ride on a bus owned and driven by this man, or to visit any
oftener than possible the habitat of such a man and his kinsfolk.
When the driver came out of the store I looked at him more carefully and tried to determine the
source of my evil impression. He was a thin, stoop-shouldered man not much under six feet tall,
dressed in shabby blue civilian clothes and wearing a frayed golf cap. His age was perhaps thirty-
five, but the odd, deep creases in the sides of his neck made him seem older when one did not
study his dull, expressionless face. He had a narrow head, bulging, watery-blue eyes that seemed
never to wink, a flat nose, a receding forehead and chin, and singularly undeveloped ears. His
long thick lip and coarse-pored, greyish cheeks seemed almost beardless except for some sparse
yellow hairs that straggled and curled in irregular patches; and in places the surface seemed
queerly irregular, as if peeling from some cutaneous disease. His hands were large and heavily
veined, and had a very unusual greyish-blue tinge. The fingers were strikingly short in proportion
to the rest of the structure, and seemed to have a tendency to curl closely into the huge palm. As
he walked toward the bus I observed his peculiarly shambling gait and saw that his feet were
inordinately immense. The more I studied them the more I wondered how he could buy any shoes to
fit them.
A certain greasiness about the fellow increased my dislike. He was evidently given to working or
lounging around the fish docks, and carried with him much of their characteristic smell. Just what
foreign blood was in him I could not even guess. His oddities certainly did not look Asiatic,
Polynesian, Levantine or negroid, yet I could see why the people found him alien. I myself would
have thought of biological degeneration rather than alienage.
I was sorry when I saw there would be no other passen-gers on the bus. Somehow I did not like the
idea of riding alone with this driver. But as leaving time obviously approached I conquered my
qualms and followed the man aboard, extending him a dollar bill and murmuring the single word "
Innsmouth." He looked curiously at me for a second as he returned forty cents change without
speaking. I took a seat far behind him, but on the same side of the bus, since I wished to watch
the shore during the journey.
At length the decrepit vehicle stared with a jerk, and rattled noisily past the old brick
buildings of state street amidst a cloud of vapour from the exhaust. Glancing at the people on
the sidewalks, I thought I detected in them a curious wish to avoid looking at the bus - - or at
least a wish to avoid seeming to look at it. Then we turned to the left so High Street, when the
going was smoother; flying by stately old mansions of the early republic and still older colonial
farmhouses, passing the Lower Green and Parker River, and finally emerging Into a long, monotonous
stretch of open shore country.
The day was warm and sunny, but the landscape of sand and sedge-grass, and stunted shrubbery
became more and desolate as we proceeded. Out the window I could see the blue water and the
sandy line of Plum Island, and we presently drew very near the beach as our narrow road veered off
from the main highway to Rowley and Ipswich. There were no visible houses, and I could tell by the
state of the road that traffic was very light hereabouts. The weather-worn telephone poles carried
only two wires. Now and then we crossed crude wooden bridges over tidal creeks that wound far
inland and promoted the general isolation of the region.
Once in a while I noticed dead stumps and crumbling foundation-walls above the drifting sand, and
recalled the old tradition quoted it one of the histories I had read, that this was once a fertile
and thickly-settled countryside. The change, it was said, came simultaneously with the Innsmouth
epidemic of l846, and was thought by simple folk to have a dark connection with hidden forces of
evil. Actually, it was caused by the unwise cutting of woodlands near the shore, which robbed the
soil of the best protection and open the way for waves of wind-blown sand.
At last we lost sight of Plum Island and saw the vast expanse of the open Atlantic on our left.
Our narrow course began to climb steeply, and I felt a singular sense of disquiet in looking at
the lonely crest ahead where the rutted road-way met the sky. It was as if the bus were about to
keep on in its ascent, leaving the sane earth altogether and merging with the unknown arcana Of
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upper air and cryptical sky. The smell of the sea took on ommous implications, and the silent
driver's bent, rigid back and narrow head became more and more hateful. As I looked at him I saw
that the back of his head was almost as hairless as his face, having only a few straggling yellow
strands upon a grey scabrous surface.
Then we reached the crest and beheld the outspread valley beyond, where the Manuxet joins the sea
just north of the long line of cliffs that culminate in Kingsport Head and veer off toward Cape
Ann. On the far misty horizon I could just make out the dizzy profile of the Head, topped by the
queer ancient house of which so many legends are told; but for the moment all my attention was
captured by the nearer panorama just below me. I had, I realized, come face to face with rumour-
shadowed Innsmouth.
It was a town of wide extent and dense construction, yet one with a portentous dearth of visible
life. From the tangle of chimney-pots scarcely a wisp of smoke came, and the three tall steeples
loomed stark and unpainted against the seaward horizon. One of them was crumbling down at the top,
and in that and another there were only black gaping holes where clock-dials should have been.
The vast huddle of sagging gambrel roofs and peaked gables conveyed with offensive clearness the
idea of wormy decay, and as we approached along the now descending road I could see that many
roofs had wholly caved in. There were some large square Georgian houses, too, with hipped roofs,
cupolas, and railed "widow's walks." These were mostly well back from the water, and one or two
seemed to be in moderately sound condition. Stretching inland from among them I saw the rusted,
grass-grown line of the abandoned railway, with leaning telegraph-poles now devoid of wires, and
the half-obscured lines of the old carriage roads to Rowley and Ipswich.
The decay was worst close to the waterfront, though in its very midst I could spy the white belfry
of a fairly well preserved brick structure which looked like a small factory. The harbour, long
clogged with sand, was enclosed by an ancient stone breakwater; on which I could begin to discern
the minute forms of a few seated fishermen, and at whose end were what looked like the foundations
of a bygone light. house. A sandy tongue had formed inside this barrier and upon it I saw a few
decrepit cabins, moored dories, and scattered lobster-pots. The only deep water seemed to be where
the river poured out past the belfried structure and turned southward to join the ocean at the
breakwater's end.
Here and there the ruins of wharves jutted Out from the shore to end in indeterminate rottenness,
those farthest south seeming the most decayed. And far out at sea, despite a high tide, I glimpsed
a long, black line scarcely rising above the water yet carrying a suggestion of odd latent
malignancy. This, I knew, must be Devil Reef. As I looked, a subtle, curious sense of beckoning
seemed superadded to repulsion; and oddly enough, I found this overtone more disturbing than the
primary impression.
We met no one on the road, but presently began to pass deserted farms in varying stages of ruin.
Then I noticed a few inhabited houses with rags stuffed in the broken windows and shells and dead
fish lying about the littered yards. Once or twice I saw listless-looking people working in barren
gardens or digging clams on the fishy-smelling beach below, and groups of dirty, simian-visaged
children playing around weed-grown doorsteps. Somehow these people seemed more disquieting than
the dismal buildings, for almost every on. had certain peculiarities of face and motions which I
in-stinctively disliked without being able to define or comprehend them. For a second I thought
this typical physique sug-gested some picture I had seen, perhaps in a book, under circumstances
of particular horror or melancholy; but this pseudo-recollection passed very quickly.
As the bus reached a lower level I began to catch the steady note of a waterfall through the
unnatural stillness, The leaning, unpainted houses grew thicker, lined both sides of the road, and
displayed more urban tendencies than did those we were leaving behind, The panorama ahead had
contracted to a street scene, and in spots I could see where a cobblestone pavement and stretches
of brick sidewalk had formerly existed. All the houses were apparently deserted, and there were
occasional gaps where tumbledown chimneys and cellar walls told of buildings that had collapsed.
Pervading everything was the most nauseous fishy odour imaginable.
Soon cross streets and junctions began to appear; those on the left leading to shoreward realms of
unpaved squalor and decay, while those on the right shewed vistas of departed grandeur. So far I
had seen no people in the town, but there now came signs of a sparse habitation - - curtained
windows here and there, and an occasional battered motorcar at the curb. Pavement and sidewalks
file:///G|/rah/H.%20P.Lvecraft%20%20-%20The%20Shadow%20Over%20Innsmouth.txt (7 of 32) [2/14/2004 12:29:11 AM]
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file:///G|/rah/H.%20P.Lvecraft%20%20-%20The%20Shadow%20Over%20Innsmouth. xtTheShadowOverInnsmouthIDuringthewinterof1927-28officialsoftheFederalgovernmentmadeastrangeandsecretinvestigationofcertainconditionsintheancientMassachusettsseaportofInnsmouth.ThepublicfirstlearnedofitinFebruary,whenavastse...

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