The Journal of Jack P. Walters

[lookslike_fishmen]

List of Journal Entries

September 6, 1915; Evening: A Local Disturbance

I guess I'm becoming a victim of my own success. After closing the last five cases so fast, the papers have been calling me a local hero. But I just had a run of lucky hunches, that's all. I'm just another cop doing his job.

So there's a disturbance at a local residence. It's probably just a bunch of kids hopped up on moonshine. Why call in a detective?

Maybe the uniform boys are sore at being out in this weather, and they want to share the joy with the "local hero." It wouldn't be the first good-natured prank I've had to take since those newspaper reports.

I don't know, though - something doesn't feel right. It's more than just a regular bad feeling - it's hard to explain, but it's strong.

I'm probably just tired. Those dreams don't help. I can't remember when I last got a good night's sleep - must be a month, at least. Right about the time I started my run of lucky hunches.

The dreams have been getting worse lately. I'm almost afraid to close my eyes.

Bourbon helped at first, but not anymore.

The lack of sleep must be affecting my nerves. Well, jitters or not, I better get going.

1916 - 1921: Missing Entries

I'm completely unable to recall what led to my confinement in the Arkham Asylum, or what happened to the six years between my two visits there.

They tell me I had some kind of personality change that night in Boston – they watched me for a while, decided I wasn't dangerous, and let me go. After six years, I switched back, just as mysteriously.

They admitted me again, found nothing wrong, and here I am. Among the personal effects they returned to me is a leather-bound journal - perhaps it will tell me what I've forgotten.

Looking through the journal, all I can find is my life as a police detective.

There is no hint of any illness, or mental strain, or anything else that could explain my change of personality - or the equally sudden recovery that still baffles my doctors. However, a number of pages have been torn from the journal. Who did it, or why, I can't tell. Did I destroy them myself, to suppress some horrific memory? Or did the asylum staff judge their contents detrimental to my treatment?

Why was part of my life erased? What is it that I can't remember, and who wants it to stay forgotten? Is it a precaution to protect my sanity - or the key to something I need?

February 6, 1922; Early Evening: A Shadowed Past

It has been more than 6 years since I entered that strange house in Boston.

But to me, it was just 5 months ago. Amnesia, the Doctors called it, probably brought on by acute mental stress.

I remember investigating the far side of the library, there was screaming.

According to the police report they had searched the house for hours, only to find me later, collapsed on the floor.

When my eyes opened and I spoke, my colleagues recoiled in fear; there was something unnatural in my voice and blank gaze.

They committed me to Arkham Asylum, where I was diagnosed with severe schizophrenia.

As it became clear that I presented no danger to either myself or others, I was released from the asylum's care.

I have learned little of my activities in the 6 years that followed.

The accounts I have been able to piece together, show much of my time was spent in travel and study. I maintained a fanatical infatuation with the occult; delving deep into volumes concerning witch-cults and dark legends, often in languages unfamiliar to my own.

When I reawakened 5 months ago, exactly 6 years after entering that house in Boston, no trace was left of what had been a second personality.

I was myself again, or at least what I believe myself to be.

Return to normal life has been a painful process.

In recent days my dreams have been plagued by cosmic landscapes, and I've become fearful of my own reflection. I am beginning to remember things from that day, more than six years past, that I have told no other.

February 6, 1922; Night: New Client

I have a new client: Mr. Arthur Anderson, the regional manager of the First National Grocery Store chain.

It appears that the First National Grocery Store in Innsmouth was recently burglarized, and its manager, one Brian Burnham, is missing.

From what I have been able to gather, Burnham is something of a young rogue. A friend of the family, Mr. Anderson gave him the job as a favor.

Burnham is looking like the prime suspect for the robbery, but there are a few things that don't add up - not to Anderson, and not to me.

For instance, why would Burnham force an entry into the store when he had a full set of keys, free access to the cash register, and the combination to the back-office safe? To misdirect any investigation? If that was his plan, why did he disappear?

Following my conversation with Mr. Anderson, I found out what I could about the ancient town of Innsmouth. For generations, the crumbling sea-port and its people have been shunned by neighboring communities.

Outsiders are unwelcome there, and there are superstitious tales of a strange element in the town's oldest families. They are of mixed blood, so the stories go. Whatever that's supposed to mean. The usual hick-town prejudice, no doubt.

After making a brief visit to Innsmouth, my client came away distrustful of the local authorities. He isn't buying their line that Burnham robbed the place, and wants to know what happened to him.

Only one bus goes to Innsmouth, and tomorrow afternoon I'll be on it. It feels good to have a purpose after five months trying to break through my amnesia.

I also feel a little apprehensive - maybe it's the wild stories about the town, or maybe it's just because I haven't had a case in so long.

February 7, 1922; Early Evening: The Gilman Hotel

Innsmouth turned out to be more dilapidated, depressed and unwelcoming than initially expected.

The stench of rotten fish fills the air, while poverty and disease lie festering in every cobbled back-street.

Only a few of the inhabitants have been at all co-operative; the others are evasive, and sometimes downright hostile.

My detective's instinct tells me they're trying to hide something. Of course, I could simply be prejudiced by their look and manners - they're almost ugly enough to get me believing those local tales of the "Innsmouth Taint."

Even so, I've been able to make some progress. Finding Ruth Billingham was a lucky break. She's convinced lover boy is still in one piece, and being held in the town Jailhouse.

Rebecca Lawrence is clearly afraid of something. She doesn't come across as the type that scares easily - but then, I guess she's not afraid enough to leave. She seems more worried about me.

Then there's Zadok Allen, the old rummy. He was willing to talk, all right. I wish I knew whether he turned to drink because of what he saw, or whether he saw things because he was drinking.

The Order of Dagon some heathen religion, brought back from the South Seas by Obed Marsh? Rituals on Devil's Reef? Those who wouldn't join massacred by some kind of monsters in 1846? It's all so far-fetched.

But what else could explain the thing that charged out from Thomas Waite's attic? If I hadn't spoken with Thomas himself, I'd be sure I was seeing things.

Whatever's really going on, this place gives me the creeps. The dreams are becoming stronger. I seem to spend each night in weird, fantastic landscapes, with immense buildings like no architecture I've ever seen.

And my body in the dreams - it's so strange I can't begin to describe it. Maybe it's some buried memory of all the occult stuff I studied when I - wasn't myself.

And this spooky vision thing is acting up worse than ever. Used to be, I could kind of see what people were thinking sometimes, but now it's going crazy. It's like someone's watching me all the time, tracking me from the rooftops and the shadows.

I'm so edgy I can hardly think straight. If only I could get some decent bourbon in this miserable town.

I need to track down Brian Burnham, and fast - the sooner I get out of here, the better. I'll make an early start in the morning.

February 8, 1922; Night: Church Refuge

There's no going back now. The locals want me dead, that's clear enough, and they can't afford to let me get away now.

Even in the sanctuary of the church, I don't feel safe, though it looks like Rebecca was right - they're not making any effort to break in like they did at the hotel. I'm going to miss her.

Still, at last I have a lead on Brian Burnham. Rebecca was convinced he is alive, and being held the town's Jailhouse.

But where is the Jailhouse? According to Rebecca's directions, I need to find the Merchants' Bank, and then the Water Tower, in order to reach it. That's easier said than done, though - those things have me pretty much trapped in here.

Eventually one of them may think of burning the place down, or they may overcome their fear of the place and come busting in. I need to find that secret way out. Rebecca said her old man's postcard would help, but I don't know how.

I just hope I don't have to go back through those sewers. There's something down there, for sure. I thought it was just another tall tale at first, but I could feel it. And that slime... it was like a trail from something... something not natural. What did that hick call it? ... a shoggoth?

The Order's grip on the folk of this town is strong, and they'll stop at nothing. Rebecca's murder proves that. And old Zadok - looks like they beat him to death for talking to me. I should have left the poor old rummy alone.

February 8, 1922; Early Hours: Jailbreak

Everything in this god-forsaken town is out to kill me. Around every corner, some hideously tainted thug is searching. I've managed to avoid them so far, though poor Rebecca wasn't so lucky. It's starting to look hopeless.

Only Mackey doesn't seem to want me dead - and maybe he has an ulterior motive. His mention of investors in this town - and his knowledge of the Esoteric Order - clearly point to some level of involvement.

Still, he told me where to find Brian Burnham, and he seems to pose no immediate threat. Even so, his apparent understanding of things in Innsmouth is unnerving.

Am I becoming paranoid? After what I have seen and experienced, how could I know? The strain is certainly having an effect on my nerves. I'm beginning to hear and see things that can't possibly be real.

I need to ignore these distractions if I want to get out of here alive. My best chance is to find Brian and break him out of the Jailhouse. To do that, I'll need a plan.

February 8, 1922; Night: The Feds

During my interrogation, it became clear apparent that the FBI has been watching Innsmouth for some time. Mackey was the Bureau's inside man; now he's missing as well.

Hoover and his boys are going to mount a raid on the Marsh Refinery - and I'm invited whether I want to go or not. As if I haven't been through enough in the last twenty-four hours.

I tried to tell Hoover what's waiting for them in that refinery - what's lurking beneath the surface of the town - but he didn't believe me. I can't say I'm surprised; I wouldn't believe me either, if I hadn't seen it for myself.

And Hoover hasn't seen what I've seen.

From the questions Hoover asked me, the Bureau knows next to nothing about Innsmouth or the Refinery, even though the FBI has been watching Innsmouth for some time.

That's not surprising, since it cut itself off from the outside world more than fifty years ago and no-one outside of Innsmouth's been inside the Refinery since then.

I guess Mackey didn't tell him much - or he didn't believe Mackey any more than he believed me.

Hoover thinks the old gold Refinery is the main source of wealth for the Marsh family and is a base of some kind of criminal gang.

He figures that a lot more gold comes out of the mill than is possible from the amounts of raw ore they buy, and he wants to know why.

I guess I thought things were pretty simple too, when I first came to Innsmouth. Now, I envy him his ignorance.

I must have been a sight when they found me; they certainly loaded me up with sedatives. They've almost worn off now, but I'm feeling drained.

I wish I could blame the drugs for the dreams I had while I was out, but they were just like the dreams from the other night at the Gilman Hotel.

The dreams keep on getting clearer, more like memories. I'm getting fleeting images of other things, too - they just seem to pop up from somewhere in my mind for no apparent reason.

I have no idea what they mean - except that I need to keep a grip on myself. I don't want a return trip to the Arkham Asylum.

The raid is set for tomorrow. I'd give anything to avoid going back to that town. The Feds handed me back Ruth's brooch, which they found in the wreckage of the car crash... another painful memory.

February 9, 1922; Night: The Order of Dagon

That was one big explosion in the refinery. One moment I was running for my life, the next I was face down with a mouthful of dirt. I just hope everything inside was destroyed.

What the hell was that thing in there? Some kind of monster jellyfish? How could it move out of water? How could it even exist? My ears are still ringing with the screams of Hoover's men as the acidic slime engulfed them.

Despite the casualties, though, the raid hit paydirt. The Feds recovered a briefcase with some very incriminating papers. It seems that among other things, the Marsh family - Sebastian in particular - has been trafficking with enemies of the State.

He's been offering a contagion - some kind of germ weapon - to the highest bidder. This is in violation of all kinds of international treaties, but that didn't surprise me.

Even if the Marshes care about such things - which I doubt - I could well believe that news of the treaties hadn't ever reached Innsmouth.

But I know there's more to the story. Like that shrine on the lower floor of the refinery. The carvings of those hideous gods are one more thing that will probably haunt my dreams for some time to come. Why did they seem familiar?

In any case, the evidence of arms dealing gave Hoover the what he needed to bring in the big guns - literally. Innsmouth is now under martial law. A Coast Guard Cutter is stationed in the harbor, with a company of Marines on shore.

Led by Robert Marsh, the surviving members of the Esoteric Order of Dagon are holed up in the old Masonic Hall. I suggested pounding the place to dust with the Marines' artillery and the cutter's guns, but Hoover wants Marsh alive.

That's not going to be easy. The Marines who attacked the main entrance to the building went into some kind of psychotic seizure before they could reach it.

The brass thought Marsh had laid down some kind of gas in the area, but gas masks didn't help the second storming party.

That was when Hoover remembered a report of an old smugglers' tunnel, close by the banks of the Manuxet River, that was said to lead into the building from below.

It seems my good luck just never ends. With so many agents killed and wounded in the refinery, Hoover has decided that I'll have the dubious honor of representing the FBI in an attack through this secret entrance, in company with a squad of Marines.

I have to meet up with a Sergeant Carter and his men by the refinery gates; then we'll set out along the frozen river looking for the tunnel. I may never sleep again.

Not that it would make much difference - the waking sounds and visions are getting worse all the time. Though if they are linked with the events here in Innsmouth, maybe getting to the bottom of this horror will help me recover my lost memories.

February 10, 1922: The Cutter Urania

I've had a little time to recover since the Coast Guard Cutter Urania fished me out of the sea. I'm still shaking, but no longer from cold. Although I can think of a thousand better places to be, back in the freezing water isn't one of them.

But then, neither is the place where I think this boat is headed.

The crew seem like a good bunch. Commander Winter, the first officer, has gone out of his way to make sure I am well taken care of. They seem to have no idea where we're going, or why.

I have my suspicions, and I hope to God I'm wrong. I guess I'll find out for sure when I talk to Captain Hearst.

I don't know how much more I can take. Before today, I would never have believed that a human mind could stand up to the things I've seen and what I've been through. I should be insane; maybe I am.

I'm able to take some comfort in the fact that I'm still in one piece - physically, at least. Maybe some deep-seated survival instinct is keeping me going in spite of my weakening sanity.

February 10, 1922; Early Evening: The Reef of Satan

Did I really see what I think I saw, or was it another hallucination? I can't be sure any longer. Surely these things can't exist in any rational universe, but then, how could any human imagination - even an insane one - produce such horrors?

And why do some of the things - the shapes, the words they use - seem so familiar? That's the question that's eating at me.

Are they connected to my lost memories - and if so, what on Earth happened to me during the six missing years? Or was it even on Earth?

I need to get a grip on myself and look for any other survivors from the wreck of the Urania. I hope I'm not alone on this hellish rock, with these – these things. I must be careful, though. I've seen for myself what they do to unwelcome visitors.

February 10, 1922; Morning: The Dark Depths

I have no idea how I've made it this far. In fact, I'm no longer certain where "this far" is, or if it even exists outside my imagination. Every step I take, I question what I see and hear.

There's some kind of song traveling on the wind - like so much else, it seems familiar, and yet it fills me with such dread. I can't believe anything of this Earth could make such a sound.

I must be insane. Any sane person would have turned back by now, but I have passed that point. I have to see this through to the end. I have to know what has brought me here.

If there's no answer to be found in this maze, I'll do what I can to assist the submarine in blowing this whole place to hell.

If there's no answer to this disease of my mind, if I can't find a way to understand what's happening to me, then I'm better off dead, buried beneath the sea forever

February 16, 1922: Suicide Note

Now... at my end... I can fully see. My last case opened in me a new fear... a real fear... a fear of myself, of what I am... and of what I have always been. All that I was, is now lost.

Hope? Purpose? Pleasure? All meaningless. I now walk in the shadows between worlds... and it is there I have finally glimpsed upon what lives in the dark corners of the earth...

List of General Evidence Documents

Podium Sermon

As I continue to translate the Pnakotic fragments, I become more and more eager to contact my Yithian masters. These beings truly are gods to us.

Their intellect and knowledge surpasses ours in ways impossible to comprehend.

I know now just how insignificant mankind is in the universe... a doomed and simple species thrown up as a side effect of an experiment by the Elder Things.

It is a blessing that such flawed creatures as ourselves have such a short and limited future.

Diary of a Cult Member

August 20, 1915

We have been watching him now for two months. I can feel my anticipation growing as the day of contact draws near. Victor has not yet divulged his final plan for bringing Mr. Walters to us; all I know is that we must succeed.

August 24, 1915

The sermon today was inspiring. Victor enlightened us with a story of The Great Race transcending the bounds of time to visit his dreams.

Of the conscious things on this earth, and in the ocean depths, we are but servants of a greater design. I can only hope that my faith during these last days will win me favor when our masters step through the gate.

August 29, 1915

The experiments below have claimed one more of our order. Another volunteer is needed, but many are willing. We are truly blessed through our faithful service, now that his coming grows so close.

September 3, 1915

The preparations are complete, and Victor's plan is in motion. He will arrive soon. Surely by now he must suspect his true nature, or at least question the nature of his gifts.

September 6, 1915

He has come. Finally, it begins.

The Boston Globe, 20th August 1909

Enlightened or Duped?

Inside Boston's Strangest Church

Those of our readers who live near its headquarters in an ordinary-looking Boston residence will need no introduction to the Fellowship of Yith (or whatever the cult's name is).

For those who have not encountered this mysterious, semi-religious group before, a few words of explanation are necessary.

Since our country's founding upon the basis of religious freedom, its shores have been home to many small religious groups outside the mainstream.

No small number are headquartered in the states of New England, where the Pilgrims themselves sought a new world free of religious persecution.

But the question must be asked: At what point does a religion become a cult, and its trusting adherents - not to mention its blameless neighbors – become victims? That is the question this journal poses in regard to the Fellowship of Yith.

In a month-long investigation, our intrepid reporters have diligently sought out the truth behind this so-called church.

Its origins are somewhat mysterious - the more so since the group's leaders declined to be interviewed, or to assist our investigation in any way.

However, it seems that the Fellowship was founded more than twenty years ago by one Victor Holt, based on a revelation he had received from beyond the confines of this world.

Holt has not been seen for almost six years; his followers apparently believe that he is communing with the mysterious powers behind his faith, and that he is shortly to return with new insights and teachings.

All this sounds like a harmless, if eccentric, spiritual group, little different from many others. However, those who make their homes near to the Fellowship's headquarters tell a different, more sinister story.

The adherents of this obscure sect are to be found loitering on street-corners, casting menacing glances at their innocuous neighbors and frequently engaging in acts of petty crime, which the local police seem powerless to prevent or redress.

Strange lights have been observed burning in the windows of the old house at all hours of the day and night. They change color unpredictably, and cast weird, unintelligible shadows.

Even more disturbing are the noises which have been heard to issue from within the mysterious building. They include chanting, unearthly music, and - worst of all - screams like those of lost souls in agony.

Many of the sect's neighbors are convinced that its services include human sacrifice or similar atrocities.

Those few who dared complain to the police were told that because the house is private property, and because there is no concrete evidence of any wrongdoing, the most they can do is file a noise complaint.

Are the horrors of Salem being re-enacted in our city, more than two centuries on? Is this Fellowship of Yith engaging in unspeakable - and criminal - acts of worship involving torture and sacrifice?

Why is nothing being done to ease the fear and distress they cause to the local community?

A source within the Police Department, speaking on the condition of anonymity, tell the Globe that the Fellowship is suspected of involvement in a number of local crimes but so far the lack of evidence and the reluctance of nervous witnesses to come forward have thwarted any official investigation.

Very well, we say. Where the police cannot - or will not - investigate, the Globe shall continue to act in the interests of Boston's citizens, fearlessly exposing the truth about this so-called church and its followers.

Our findings will be published in these pages over the following months, so that all may know the truth!

Editor's note: It is with great sorrow that the Globe announces the death of reporter Howard Addlestone, who was leading the paper's investigation into the Fellowship of Yig when he apparently drowned in Boston Harbor.

The Coroner has ruled his death a suicide. Our condolences go out to his family.

Arkham Advertiser, 6th February 1922

Grocery Store Robbed

Manager Missing

Thieves have robbed the First National Grocery Store in Innsmouth, breaking down the door and forcing open the cash register. The newly-appointed manager, Mr. Brian Burnham, has been missing since shortly before the robbery.

"This is a very disturbing turn of events," said Mr. Arthur Anderson, First National's regional manager, from his Arkham office.

"This branch had only recently opened, and First National Grocery had high hopes for its success, given the general lack of modern stores and amenities in Innsmouth. The robbery is a definite setback, and more worrying still is the fact that the branch manager remains unaccounted for."

Innsmouth authorities could not be reached for comment.

Diary of Brian Burnham

Well, I agree with the locals on one thing - I shouldn't be stuck in this miserable excuse for a town. I can see why nobody comes here, that's for sure.

Another slow day at the store. At first I thought people were staying away because First National isn't local, but I haven't seen anyone go into any of the other stores either.

Come to that, I haven't seen the other stores open for business. This place is deader than dead.

Still, it won't be long before I'm out of here - before we're both out of here. She's the one good thing about Innsmouth. We'll bust open Old Man Waite's safe, take a car - and then it's New York City!

Bright lights, nightlife, everything. I'll show her all of it.

Innsmouth Courier, 19th June 1846

Innsmouth Patrician Arrested!

Tales of Heathen Ceremonies!

by John Lawrence, Editor

Obed Marsh, the head of Innsmouth's wealthy and influential Marsh family, now sits in the City Jail accused of devil worship and other unspeakable practices.

The whole community is left in a state of shock by the horrifying revelations that accompanied the arrest.

The readers will no doubt be aware of the deep reservations expressed by the Courier's editorship and other decent citizens concerning the Esoteric Order of Dagon, which was founded by Captain Marsh after his return from the South Seas and is said to be based upon a primitive religion he encountered among the uneducated natives of certain distant Pacific Islands.

The Captain's arrest seems to lend strength to those suspicions, and a full investigation is expected to unearth more.

Arkham Advertiser, 7th February 1922

Innsmouth Robbery: Missing Manager Accused

In yesterday's edition, we reported on a burglary at the recently-opened First National Grocery store in Innsmouth.

The case took a new turn today as authorities in the town named Brian Burnham, the store's manager, as a suspect in the case. Burnham has not been seen since the robbery, and is thought to have left the area.

"It is a very straightforward case," said Chief Constable Andrew Martin in response to inquiries by the Advertiser. "This young man simply robbed his employer and fled. I imagine he's out of the county now, if not the state."

The Chief Constable dismissed concerns expressed by First National Grocery's regional manager, Mr. Arthur Anderson, that Burnham may have been kidnapped or injured.

Diary of Thomas Waite

The last entry in the diary is from today. It reads:

Another sleepless night. I lay awake, listening to the movements of that... thing... that I married pacing about her locked room. Damn the Esoteric Order of Dagon! Damn the oaths!

And damn the town fathers for not hanging Obed Marsh when they had the chance!

No, burning him - him and his whole filthy clan!

I wish I could just leave, abandon my sham of a marriage, leave the store to rot, and start a new life far, far away. But I'm trapped here.

Every time I look at Ramona I know it. Watching her sleep, in her beauty and innocence, my heart feels like breaking. She has no idea of what she will become.

Yesterday was her tenth birthday, the change cannot be far off. Her birth gave me such joy - so much that I still use the month, day and year as the four number combination for my safe: in that order, starting clockwise.

It is as though I am trying to preserve that date forever, and deny the inevitable horror.

I sometimes think of killing her - an act of mercy before she starts to manifest the horror. God forgive me. But she is my daughter, and I could never harm her. She is blameless in all this.

When the time comes, Innsmouth will be the only place for her, and until then, I must stay here to watch over her.

It is my penance, my atonement for creating her life with... her chosen mother. After she joins... them - if the grief does not kill me - my life will be my own once more. Not that I know how I will have the strength to go on without her.

Ramona Waite's Coloring Book

The drawings that fill Ramona's book are like things from a nightmare. It is hard to believe that a young child could imagine such horrors.

There are pictures of strange, unnatural creatures - crudely drawn, but still able to provoke visceral feelings of revulsion. One of them is captioned with the word "Mother" - what can it mean?

These profoundly disturbing images raise grave concerns about the girl's state of mind.

Post Mortem Records

She were a lively one and no mistake. I kept her going as long as I could, for the music she were making. Such a pair of lungs. And after she were done, I found those lungs on her look as good as they sounded.

Maybe I'll keep them. Her liver was particular sweet as well.

-

I never much wanted to go to New York, but if they all talk as much as this one I reckon I ain’t missing much. Soon as he woke and saw the knives, he was away talking and pleading and bargaining for his life.

All them words made me dizzy, and I had to take his tongue first to stop him. In future I better wait a while after they eaten dinner, for his innards stank awful.

-

The bones was nearly all out before he died. I was real careful around the arteries, so as he didn't lose any more blood than could be helped, and he lasted a lot longer for it.

The flesh moved on its own as he tried to work his arm, but with the bones gone there weren't nothing it could do, just twitch. I took it out the strap so it could move free and I watched. The new gag worked much better and he was more quiet than the last.

Diary of the Church Minister

Diary of the Church Minister

The evil began in 1846 - the same year Obed Marsh was first arrested, and the same year he founded his blasphemous order. It is hard not to assume a connection.

As the congregation here diminished, the townsfolk began to develop the unnatural characteristics that outsiders have to come to call "the Innsmouth look." It started in the Marsh family, but spread across the town.

For want of any other, I coined the name "ichthyosis" for the condition, and began corresponding with a few medical men I had known in my student days. I was unable to determine the nature of the condition, how it spread, and whether I was in danger from it.

Although my flock had deserted me, I could not desert them - I had to stay and fight this evil, or at least try to understand it. They do seem to avoid the ancient sigil that I discovered in one dusty tome, which called it "the Elder Sign."

Though it troubles me to rely on this instead of the Cross, it does appear to offer more protection.

Soon, it became apparent that the condition was regarded as some sort of blessing by the adherents of Marsh's ungodly faith.

I noticed that those most heavily disfigured by it commanded respect from the others, and from time to time I overheard snatches of conversation about "the pure blood" - which, from their context, seemed not to refer to the blood of those untainted and healthy-looking.

There was talk of marriages, but no-one came to me to be wed. Wives were sometimes mentioned, but never named. They seemed not to be from Innsmouth, and yet no-one has moved to the town since Marsh's reign began.

As I walk the streets at dusk - which I seldom do, except at great need – I seem to hear strange noises from unlit, curtained upper rooms in the town's houses. I hear of births, but conduct no baptisms.

Those few who shun Marsh's temple are fearful, and I am fearful too. We must be strong in our faith and in our lives, for we are all that remains of the true Innsmouth, and its only hope of awakening from this nightmare.

Postcard

On the back of the postcard there is a handwritten religious verse. It must be a coded message. It reads:

I ring the bells unto Thy glory, O Lord;

From the lowest unto the highest.

And by the sacrament of baptism

Shall I enter into your secrets.

The postcard must also serve some other purpose. It is pierced by four handmade holes, each circled with a number of arrows. The arrows seem to signify some sort of order.

Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages

1844

Births: 7; 6 baptized, 1 died.

Deaths: 6; 5 buried, 1 lost at sea.

Marriages: 5.

1845

Births: 9; all baptized.

Deaths: 7; 5 buried, 2 lost at sea.

Marriages: 3.

1846

Births: 12, all baptized.

Deaths: 243; 235 in the disturbances and the epidemic. 240 buried, 3 lost at sea.

Marriages: 2.

1847

Births: probably 7; no baptisms.

Deaths: 3 reported; 2 burials. One coffin upon being accidentally dropped broke open and was found to contain rocks and logs. This was not buried.

Marriages: none registered.

1848

Births: none registered, probably 10; no baptisms.

Deaths: 5 reported; 1 funeral, others not certain.

Marriages: none registered.

1849

Births: none registered, thought to be 7 or 8; no baptisms.

Deaths: none registered, 4 believed; no funerals.

Marriages: none registered.

Ship Logs of Captain Obed Marsh

March 6th, 1823

Still en route to China. Eastward from Otaheite, or Tahiti as it is also called, we have encountered an island that does not appear on our charts. I ordered the anchor dropped close inshore, and we sent the longboat for fresh water and supplies.

The islanders are not interested in trading for gold, of which they have apparently a great quantity. I asked after its source, in the hope of setting up a mining and milling operation on shore.

In response to my questioning, I was taken to a smaller island nearby, and shown some stone ruins, apparently of great antiquity. The designs carved upon them are like nothing I have ever seen, in all my travels.

This, they say, is the city of the sea-gods, who can be prevailed upon to give them gold for the asking. I suspect it is a remnant of a higher civilization, now lost; the natives evidently find gold among the ruins.

I questioned the island's chief elders at length about the ruins, and was answered with the retelling of legends so savage and fantastic that I wonder at them.

Perhaps, when the gold is secured and with it my own fortune, I shall reveal the island's location and open it to scholarship.

Having traded for a large quantity of gold in addition to the needed water and fresh food, we resumed our voyage. I impressed upon the crew the need for absolute silence about this island; for if word were to get out others would be sure to go there.

Shortly before our departure, Chief Walakea made me a gift of several small metal discs, evidently of the same workmanship as the ruins. By means of these and certain chants, he said, the sea gods could be summoned and induced to bring their gifts.

June 4th, 1838

Revisiting the mysterious island, we could find no trace of the people with whom we have traded for so many years. Their villages are razed to the ground, and no trace can be found of them.

It appears that some other tribe has attacked and destroyed them.

The men are so much dismayed that we shall no longer be able to obtain gold here, unless we discover its source for ourselves. A day's searching among the ruins availed us nothing, although certain of the crew were troubled by nightmares subsequently.

It appears that this voyage is destined to be without profit, and we must return to Innsmouth with both hands and pockets empty - a most troubling turn of events.

The town has come to rely upon us, and the gold that we bring back, to make up for the trade that was lost when the War of 1812 ended. What shall become of our home port now, and us along with it?

August 18th, 1838

While looking over the souvenirs and curiosities I collected on my Pacific voyages, seeking some comfort in happier memories, I happened upon the strange metal discs given to me by old Walakea and his people.

I had quite forgotten them, and the stories he told about the gold-bearing gods from the sea. But now, an idea is stirring within me. I do not know whether to embrace it as Innsmouth's last hope, or to concede that desperation has driven me insane.

Am I mad? The gold we brought from the island was real enough; perhaps the sea-gods are real also. A sailor to far ports sees many strange things, and learns to keep an open mind.

After much effort in recollection, I have remembered the chants Walakea taught me. Tonight, I shall row out to Devil's Reef and try them, along with the discs.

Perhaps the sea gods will save us - or if not, I shall acknowledge my folly, and retire to the asylum.

Later that night: The sea gods are real. I have seen them, and spoken with them. I carry some of their gold - a token of more to come, I am assured.

But the price - yet can any price be too high, when one's home is at stake? Innsmouth shall rise again

July 23rd, 1846

This is a day of crisis for Innsmouth. I, and those loyal to me, have been seized and thrown in jail by our pious neighbors.

Ready enough to enjoy the prosperity I have returned to the town, they scruple at the means I use, and the power I wield. They must be taught a lesson.

They have no idea of the powers they seek to defy. The terrible bargain I made was irrevocable, and by locking me up they bring great peril to the town – the very town that they would "save" from my influence. But it is too late for salvation.

As surely as I know the morning tide will rise, I know that those from the reef will come to Innsmouth. They will come in search of those things I have been prevented from giving them, and they will come to punish those who have prevented me.

Little do the righteous dream of the horror that will visit Innsmouth this night. There will be great destruction; 1846 will be recorded in the town's annals as a year of unparalleled calamity.

I shall make certain that 1846 also marks the beginning of a new age - an age in which no threat to our pact is tolerated. From this year on, I shall play the tyrant, and my descendants shall do so after me - but we do so to avert a greater evil.

Letter from Sebastian Marsh

My dear family,

I expect to return home shortly. I look forward to seeing you all again.

I believe my trip has been a fruitful one. I have met with many potential buyers for our product, and as I predicted, met with few concerns. All are aware that history is written by the victor, and that treaties and laws must bow to the fact of conquest. And what, indeed, is so moral about a bullet or a bomb, that sets them above other means of death?

I shall speak with you all further upon my return. I shall have much to say to Robert, in particular; it is of the utmost importance that our personal beliefs and agendas remain subordinate to the overall good of the family and the town. As the time draws ever closer, it becomes more imperative that we act as one.

If he is unwilling to do so, he must be compelled, for all our sakes. In particular, he must remove his beast to another part of the refinery without delay.

My love and blessings are upon you all.

I'a Dagon! I'a Hydra! I'a! I'a!

Sebastian

Diary of Robert Marsh

The translation of the tablets is progressing well. Soon, the Word of Father Dagon shall be known to us in its entirety, as it is to those below in Y'ha-nthlei.

Then, armed with knowledge of the Divine Purpose, we shall be able to take our place beneath the waves on equal terms, and the Great Design set in motion more than eigthy years past shall draw toward its completion.

I'a Dagon! I'a Hydra! I'a! I'a!

Poor Darwin - to be so completely wrong! For the higher forms of life are those who return to the sea, not those who forsook it for the land!

And in generations to come, as the last remaining taint of human blood leaves our strain, we shall ascend to true knowledge, and true power, in the love and service of Father Dagon and Mother Hydra.

But there is much still to be done, before that glorious future is assured. The outsiders could still ruin everything. The one will be sacrificed, but the other who has come looking for him must be dealt with.

Innsmouth must remain undisturbed until everything is complete. That which eluded my ancestor Obed on his death in 1878 shall not escape me.

If only Sebastian understood things as I do. His science - his meddling in the surface world - how meaningless they all are! Once we take our place alongside the Elder Ones, how small his endeavors will seem!

But he has been deaf to the word of Dagon, no matter how I have tried. Perhaps upon his return, with the translation so much further advanced, I can make him see the truth.

Diary of one of the crew

This isn’t the usual kind of run – everybody says so. We’ve been running down rum runners for so long, it’s easy to tell when things feel different.

Whatever’s up, the Captain isn’t telling. Maybe he has some kind of top-secret sealed orders, and we’ll find out what our mission is when we arrive on station. Nobody’s sure where we’re going or why, but there’s no shortage of rumors.

Where they don’t like outsiders – that’s a lot of the country around here, at least to this boy from the Bronx – but witches and weird cults? Salem was a long time ago.

Mind you, as I watch the coastline slide past, with the dark woods and dark little towns, I can almost catch myself believing him. New York harbor would sure be a welcome sight, if only for the change of scenery.

Well, it looks like a storm’s blowing up – a proper New England nor-easter, so they say. I’d better get up on deck and see if I’m needed. Maybe that detective fellow we fished out of the water will know something.

Lab Notes of Esther Marsh

Blue Tinfiblia: Further Observations

The petals have some acidic properties, which are yet to be fully investigated. They are especially harmful to the beloved of Great Cthulhu, as tests with the prison tender's "pet" have shown.

Although exposure was strictly limited, considerable skin disfigurement resulted.

Because of this, all laboratory samples are to be removed. However, I will keep the specimen in the garden for now. It promises to be a fruitful object for further study.

List of Mythos Tomes and Manuscripts

Pnakotica

This manuscript looks medieval, but claims to be a translation from classical Greek of a far older work from before the time of the first humans.

The pages are stained, faded, and even burned in some places, making reading difficult. The legible sections tell the history of unthinkably distant antiquity.

They speak of races so strange as to be beyond human comprehension, and wars fought across vast gulfs of time and space.

There are concepts so utterly alien that they sound like absolute madness. Time travel, Flying Polyps, mental projection, Great Race of Yith - it makes you dizzy just to read it.

Book of Dagon

This book is hand-written, and heavily bound. Its cover is embossed with the title "The Book of Dagon." It seems to be a religious work, translated from a series of ancient tablets.

It tells of an entity called Dagon - apparently some kind of sea-god - and his consort Hydra.

They are the greatest of an underwater race called the Deep Ones, who worship them with sacrifices and other rites. The descriptions of the sacrifices are particularly shocking, and there are details of magical spells and other strange rituals.

If this incredible manuscript is to be believed, their history stretches back beyond the remotest human origins, into unthinkably remote antiquity.

A few individuals are so incredibly old that they have seen continents rise and fall, for they do not die of old age as humans do. Father Dagon and Mother Hydra are such individuals, and are greatly revered for their age and size.

Their greatest awe, however, is reserved for a dark god named, Great Cthulhu, who is said to sleep and dream in the underwater city of R'lyeh.

The book seems incomplete. The last chapters tail off, as though the translation has not been finished.

Oaths of Dagon

THE PROVISO TO ALL OATHS

I'a! Dagon! I submit to the authority of the Esoteric Order of Dagon. If I should betray these sacred oaths, I am theirs to try, and to punish, according to the ancient laws and the extent of my transgression. I'a! Dagon!

THE FIRST OATH

I'a! Dagon! I swear that I shall keep faith with the Deep Ones in all things. I shall not resist their will, nor shall I betray their secrets.

THE SECOND OATH

I'a! Dagon! I swear that I shall serve the Deep Ones in all things, as they shall command me, to the furthest extent of my ability.

THE THIRD OATH

I'a! Dagon! I'a! Hydra! I take this child of Dagon and Hydra as my (wife or husband), to take into my home, to beget and raise children; so that the race, and the faith, shall continue to prosper.

I’a Dagon

This scroll of paper holds a prayer to Dagon, translated into English. It reads:

'In thy name let us behold the father.

From the depths of the waters I come,

And from the depths the Deep Ones also have come.

Hail to the ancient dreams.

Hail to Dagon.'

Ponape Scripture

This heavy, bound manuscript is embossed with the word "Ponape." It claims to be a reprinting of an original manuscript written by Captain Abner Ezekiel Hoag in 1734, describing his encounters with a strange cult in the islands of the Pacific.

Hoag claims that the islanders worship - and even interbreed with – strange beings from the sea, and reproduces much of the lore of this unspeakable religion.

There are harrowing passages that tell of unspeakable sacrifices by which these "Deep Ones" are appeased, and of objects cast into the sea to summon them.

By means of the correct rituals and offerings, they can be induced to bring fantastically-worked jewelry of gold for the islanders, although this conforms to their own strange anatomy rather than that of any human being.

Hoag recounts the islanders' tales of fantastic underwater cities constructed according to some obscure and inhuman laws of geometry and architecture.

Some legends tell of islanders transforming into sea-creatures as they grow old, and going to live forever beneath the sea. The greatest of the Deep Ones, Father Dagon and Mother Hydra, are said to be fantastically old, hailing from a time before the first human walked upright.

Strangely, he stresses that these stories are not primitive metaphors for an afterlife, like similar tales from other island cultures, but recounts them as actual fact. He claims to have seen and conversed with these creatures himself, and witnessed several of the islanders' ceremonies and offerings to them.

Tablets of Dagon

These ancient tablets are written in the strange glyphs of the Deep Ones. They include the final passages that are missing from the translations in the Book of Dagon.

They seem to be a prophecy; further study would be needed to produce an exact translation, but the passage reads roughly as follows:

'And the time shall come when the stars are right, and lo, we shall raise up that which has been sunken;

So shall lost R'lyeh be lifted from the deep, and the waters shall recede from its palaces

And the One Who Dreams shall be awakened, Great Cthulhu shall arise;

And fear and madness shall be upon the face of the world.'