THE HOUSE IN THE PORT:pt 5

by J.R. Torina

“Wait? Wait for what? And anyhow, what am I going to write? I write the facts about the unexplained--not fiction. If I were to write about seeing a crazy old man that lives on the coast, who has some wretched creature, part man, part fish--I’d be writing fiction, as far as my readers are concerned. The Gazette makes me walk a fine line concerning what I write. If I wrote of this…”

“I’m not talkin’ about ye writin’ anythin’ about this… I’m talking about after.”

“After? After what?”

“I got this one so I could get more information from ‘im. Where their city is out in the Pacific, how to get there… Ya see, they don’t trust me no more.”

“Don’t trust you…”

“When they took my Emma, and she went willin’ with ‘em, I vowed--I vowed to myself then and there, that I’d make ‘em pay. I’d make ‘em all pay. I tried to call the gover’ment, but they just thought I was some crazy ol’ fisherman. So I had to take matters into my own hands.”

“So, they took your wife… they took Emma… and because she went with them--willingly? She went with them willingly--you have vowed vengeance upon them. All of them? And how many of them are there?”

“Out here, on the west coast, they have a village too--I’m not sure where, see, cuz there ain’t no island out in the Pacific--none that I know of, anyhow. Nobody knows fer sure how many Deep Ones there are either, but there ain’t as many as there were off of Innsmouth. But they’s playin’ it smart now, not like they was off of ol’ Innsmouth. Then again, now that I think of it, there could be more of ‘em here than back east.”

“So, is there some port town here, too, that is infected by these creatures?”

“I ain’t seen a one, but there are rumors. Fer the most part, they are only here and there; they mostly stay under the water, from what I seen out here.”

“Anyhow, I come from that Marsh bloodline--so I got the blood of the Deep Ones in me, too; ye seen how I look.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

“Well, I caught this one, hoping he’d lead me to the underwater city. So far, nothin’. I figure, if I keep ‘im here long enough, he’ll eventually give in, and take me there. I’m just as much able to breathe underwater as they are.”

“So, you’re a Deep One as well…”

“No! And don’t ye go sayin’ that ever again. Ye hear me? Ever.”

“I’m sorry, but… you have scales… gills…”

“I got the “Innsmouth look”, like folks back east call it. But that’s what’s going to get me in to the city out here. But don’t ye ever refer to me as a Deep One--I ain’t one a them kind. And neither is… my Emma.”

“Mustus, you’re crazy. This one… this one is almost dead. Look at the pitiful thing.” I motioned down to the glistening, slime-coated creature in the pool. “And you think it’s going to thank you, by taking you to it’s domain? After you’ve imprisoned it so? Did you tell this beast of your plans for vengeance upon it’s kind?”

“If it don’t do what I want, I’ll just capture another, or just go lookin’ on my own, if I have to.”

“And do what, exactly? What are you going to do? Bring a gun, and shoot them? And how many are there? Hundreds…? Thousands?”

“If I kin find their leader--or high priest--then that’ll do,” the old man whispered.

That last was rather chilling, in particular, the odd look he gave me when he said it. “I want no part of this. You’re crazy. You want to drown yourself, looking for an underwater city full of mermen, then you go ahead, but I’m having no part of this, and I’m leaving.” I turned to ascend the filth-covered ladder, out of this hellish cavern.

“Ye can’t leave.”

I turned to face him.

“Excuse me?”

“Ye can’t--ye can’t leave.”

“Don’t try and stop me, you crazy old fool. Trust me, I’ll tell no one of this, but I most definitely have no further wish to stay. I’ll just have to change my story to flying saucers or something else; I think there was a sighting of a UFO over McMinnville.”

“No, no--ye have ta stay. Ye’r a part of my plan.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, and I’m not sure if I want to know, but…”

“I don’t mean ye no harm, I jis’ need yer help.”

“I thought you wanted me to write of this in the paper, expose them? At least to write about it, to generate public interest?”

“No, no, that’s not it.”

“Then what?”

“I need ye to take me there.”

This stopped me short. After all of the old man’s ravings on this day, I was suddenly starting to realize he was less crazy than he was dangerous.

“Me? Take you there?”

“Yes--ye don’t know it yet, but ye’re the Chosen One. Ye’re Vor’li’ka.”

I stepped down off of the ladder.

“Chosen One…? Tell me, Mustus--what is “Vor’li’ka”?”

“Not what--who. Vor’li’ka is the Chosen One. Their leader. The one these Deep Ones off the coast here, in the west, chose to spy out the land and make sure things don’t go wrong, like they did over in Innsmouth. Vor’li’ka will be the one that will bring the Deep Ones to “their rightful place”, so the legend says…”

“So why did this beast look up at us, and say that to me? Is this “Vor’li’ka” coming for us, or me, because of what you’ve done?”

“No, no… he ain’t comin’ here--he’s already here.”

“Is it that beast?”

“No. It is…”

His voice trailed off, and as it did so, he was just standing there, staring at me. He lifted his arm, pointing directly at me. “It is ye.”

It is me. I ran it over in my mind again and again… It is me…

“Me? Chosen by them?” I stammered, uttering some nervous laughter. Nervous, because even though I seemed to be sure of myself when I arrived here at this place, I had to cast out all certainty, and now entertained doubts--about everything.

“That’s what I’m sayin’. They…”

“But I don’t even know of these creatures. I’ve never seen or heard them before today. I’ve heard rumors of mermen off the coast, mostly older stories, and then there’s you--and I’m nothing like you. I don’t have scales. I don’t have gills.”

“Where did ye come here from?”

“Here? To Oregon? I moved here from Salt Lake City. That’s where I’m from, originally.”

“Mountains and a little lake. Desert land. Now, that ye are back here, ye’s ready to become.”

“Become what? A Deep One?” I asked sarcastically.

“Yes.”

The earnestness and sincerity with which he spoke kept me from leaving right then and there, and made me nearly believe him. “Mustus, I have been afraid of the water since being a child. I would never go near it. You’re telling me now that not only am I a merman that lives in the seas, but I am the leader of these creatures. You--you’re crazy, you old lunatic.”

“Maybe I am crazy--a little, anyways. But, I know what I know, an’ I know what ye are. And that’s why ye’re here--I want ye to help me, not them.”

Things suddenly started making a little more sense. I had tried for years while in school to get my work noticed. My work involving the supernatural and the macabre. It seemed that nobody ever took it seriously, or they treated it as a mere curiosity. It made sense now, that I should have suddenly received an offer from an official newspaper, instead of some digest magazine of science fiction or horror/supernatural stories.

“Mustus, who owns the Gazette? The paper that I write for.”

“Ye didn’ know?”

“Deep Ones…?”

“Silas Marsh--owner. Took over--so they say--from his father Jonas.”

“So they say? What do you mean?”

“Same fella. The Deep Ones, they live a long time. Some of ‘em so long, they gots to change their names from time to time, so nobody gets to figgerin’ out who or what they really are.”

I was through doubting the old man; it seemed now that everything he said was not only true, but made absolute, perfect sense. The offer of work and relocation, so far out on the coast…

“But how did they know? And why me? My family is as normal as anyone else’s. I was all the way back in Salt Lake City; a sleepy town if there ever was one.”

“Yer parents, they settled there, but they ain’t from them parts, now are they?”

“Well, no, my father was--” Curse me for a fool, why hadn’t I seen it?

“My father was from Rhode Island. Not too far from…”

“Innsmouth,” the old man finished for me.

“So, my father was… one of them?”

“Had ta be, but you--you’re somethin’ different. That’s why yer the Chosen One. Ye looks normal, ye can move around without anyone ever suspectin’.”

“No gills? No scales?”

“They’ve been getting more success with breedin’, They’re inta science an’ the like now.”

“So, what--they simply willed me to look--“normal”?”

“I can’t explain it myself--I’ll show ye. Come on, back up.” The old man started to ascend back up the stairs. I followed, looking back one more time at the ichthyic thing lying in the pool. The old man hung the lantern up, slammed the trap door in the floor shut, locked it, and hung the keys back up on their rusty hook in the nitre-streaked wall. We went back up the rotting steps and into the nightmarish kitchen and back into the study. The old man started rummaging through a stack of wormy old newspapers.


CHAPTER V


“Ah, here we are!” he exclaimed.

He shoved a yellowed, old newspaper in front of me. It was a copy of The Advertiser, a newspaper from Arkham, Massachusetts.

“TEST TUBE EMBRYO CREATION A SUCCESS”, read the headline.

Upon reading the headline, I scanned the following story. It concerned one Dr. Percival Alexander, making a breakthrough with the creation of a baby without intercourse, but involving the fertilization of female eggs with sperm from a donor.

“Here’s another,” muttered the old man, flopping another dusty old paper down on top of the one I was looking at.

“TEST TUBE EMBRYO AND SCIENTIST DISAPPEAR” read the headline.

Reading on, the story detailed how the eminent scientist Dr. Alexander had just disappeared, and with the embryo he created, as well as all of his research.

“Authorities suspect foul play from the Russians, or possibly even secret agent government involvement”, I read aloud.

“Heh, yeah, if ye believe that,” mumbled the old man.

“So what does this mean? What does this have to do with me? Surely you don’t mean to say that I am this man’s son, born in a laboratory, do you?”

“Ye kin’t deny it.”

“My name isn’t Alexander. My name is Ambrose. Ambrose Smith. If you’ve truly read my columns in The Gazette, you’d have known that.”

“Yer name is really Alexander. Yer first name--Ambrose--ye can look it up fer yerself. Check the meanin’ of yer name, and check yer background. Bet ye won’t like what ye find.”

“And just how do you know all of this?”

“I know the Deep Ones, an’ I knows what they know. And don’t forget,” he pointed down, indicating the piscine charnel house that held that pathetic, moaning creature that spoke (to me…?).

“I might do that, but I wish to borrow these papers, if I may.”

“Sure, sure--but give me yer word that ye’ll come back, and that ye will help me--not them.”

Wishing at this point not only to simply leave the company of the fishy old man and to delve deeper into this new mystery, I promised him.

We parted company then, and I got into my car and left--noticing that he was watching me from a window in the old house.

It was evening now, but something told me I would be up for a great deal longer tonight.

Click Here for Part 6 of THE HOUSE IN THE PORT
©by J.R. Torina

THE HOUSE IN THE PORT:pt 4

by J.R. Torina

CHAPTER III



The cellar door was located in the kitchen. The closer we got to it, the more oppressive the fish odor became. Mustus seemed not to notice it. If the front door to this rotting edifice was the passageway to a bizarre world, then this particular entrace--the cellar door--was surely it’s very gate to horrors hitherto unimagined. Could it be a doorway to Hell? Not sure if I wanted to delve any deeper into this, I hesitated.

“Come on, ye ain’t in no danger,” the old man called out from in front of me.

Somewhat curious, somewhat repulsed, I cursed myself for being so weak of will, and did as he asked.

He led me to the kitchen, which was in a filthy state of disarray. I noticed an even stronger presence of the smell of fish, as well as flies buzzing everywhere. The counter was covered in plates of old food, as if the dishes had been used once, then discarded there, some still with food on them. Maggots and flies wriggled in the rotting heaps of filth, and dried up fish bones lay strewn about.

I harkened back in my mind about my dear old grandmother Annie, and what a religious person she was. At this point I was given to abandon all her teachings, after all I had seen and heard today. I discounted with a derisive snort, almost a chuckle, that without Mustus’ “fish stories”, I would surely have thought this the entrance to the lair of Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies.

This was surely a sign of things to come.

We descended into the cellar on weak, creaking wooden steps, half-rotted with age.

I noticed that the walls were of bare stone; the cellar was obviously carved out of the ground and never finished. Whether this had been done by the builder of the house or by a former occupant, I couldn’t tell. “Did you dig this cellar out, Mustus?” I asked, more for my own voice to console my fears of this hellish place than anything else.

“No, but I digged out a little bit of the other one,” he said.

“Other one?”

I could just make out where he was pointing to; a wooden door, in the raw earth, heavily chained and locked with a heavy, ancient padlock, like the kind one would expect to find on a pirate’s treasure chest.

The dim light offered by the single bulb, hanging by it’s wire from far up into the ceiling, offered no further visual assistance.

Where my eyes met darkness, my other senses reeled. The smell of fish, yes. Stronger than ever now, but of something else. Dead things? I also could hear the sea, or a river of some kind. I could hear it, smell it, almost feel the water rushing… beneath me? I could taste the salt in the air. I hoped that is all that it was- and not fish, decay, or any other loathsome, noxious vapor.

Mustus produced a key from a rusty iron hook embedded in the wall. Hanging on another rusting hook was a lantern, ancient as well, all cast in black iron, with hewn glass panes inside it. With matches from his pocket, he lit the candle inside. A soft glow illuminated the area. I could see that the wood in the door was also wormy and rotten from the effects of the salty sea air down here. Unlocking the padlock, he lifted the ancient panel, it’s rusting iron hinges creaking in protest at being moved.

I heard from beneath what could only be described as a bellow. A set of stone steps, I would guess carved from the granite of the earth, descended into the darkness. Mustus went down first, holding up the lantern, its light only partially dispelling the gloom. “Mustus, what is this? Where are we going?” I called out.

“Are ye afraid?” he called up from the darkness that swallowed him.

“Well…” my voice trailed off, my pride a little wounded. I was now Portland’s foremost “ghost hunter” and “spook chaser”, wasn’t I?

“I take that as a yea’, I do. And ye should be.” This revelation did not do anything to improve my state of mind, which I will confess now, was somewhat fearful of this dark, reeking hole in the earth.

“Well, is ye comin’, or ain’t ye?” the voice called up.

After hesitating, I descended onto the first step. As I went down, I could make out more steps where he held up the lamp for me to see. We were in a small cavern, much like an underground sewer tunnel. This, though, was no man-made affair. “This all looks natural” I mentioned. “I thought you said you did some digging down here?”

“And ye’s right. The whole dang thing is a natural underground cavern; a small one, but natural, ‘cept fer my bricks over there.” He jerked his head towards the spot directly behind where I stood, on the last of the stone steps. Behind me I could see the area he referred to: a small plot, roughly the size of a bedroom, but laid out completely in bricks and stones. Some chunks of granite were strewn about in that section as well. The brownish bricks were glowing with phosphorescence from lichens and foxfire. There was brown slime and green moss all over some of them. Clearly, this structure was erected some time ago; but then, the old man had lived here now for years, at least since the mid-thirties.

Mid-thirties… Innsmouth, secret cults, government agents… These thoughts ran through my head as the old man headed over to the area, and picked up an iron pail that was set in the mud. He walked over to the side of the estuary, and dipped the bucket into the water. Carrying the bucket of water back to the bricked area, he stopped short just before the bricks began in the ground, and tossed the contents of the bucket--foul, somewhat oily water--into the bricked-up area.

Again, I heard the hoarse croaking or groaning. A damp chill pervaded the air, accompanying the stench of fish and rotting things. I heard the bellowing yet again. It sounded more like… a croaking? Yes, a croaking; as if some large-size fish or frog was out of the water, its lungs making an obscene sound for the first time against the air of the surface. Except, I could not get past one thing about this croaking. It seemed not only to belong to something larger than an average fish or frog, but it seemed… somehow… intelligent? I cannot explain why, but I felt very strange, then. I knew that any sane, rational man would undoubtedly feel fear--dread, even, in this place. However, I felt the fear slipping away. Perhaps it was the old man’s aloof manner while he mucked about down here. After all, I thought--what is really down here? Some filthy estuary, a cavern--and some cultist dungeon that a crazy old man from a town back east full of inbreds had built, probably to worship some island deity he had heard of during one of his fishing runs.

Yes, nothing to fear. Somehow, I wanted to believe the stories old Mustus had been telling me, but of course, how could I?

You may wonder about the photographs I had previously seen; I can liken them to optical trickery, or so much ritual tomfoolery. The old man, and others like him, they probably got involved in a cult from some faraway land and brought it back with them to the states. Curious members of his sleepy little town got involved, things were carried a little too far, then the authorities were called in…

I’ve heard it all before. Kids involved in supposed “Satanic” rituals. More just a form of rebellion against their parents, who made them go to church and school.

Mustus probably had become bored of his life, and needed some excitement. He cooked up this story, called me--the gullible young man with connections to a major newspaper--and I fall for it hook line and sinker. Well, I had had enough of this.

“Old man,” I called out. “Going to summon the Devil, are you? Going to bring forth Leviathan himself, from this filthy little underground river? Built yourself a little Satanic sanctuary down here, have you?” I walked over towards him, in his ridiculous little brick hideaway. “Old Nick going to swim up from Hell, is he? And what do you get? Some nubile, naked…” My mouth stopped moving.

The babbling nonsense I had previously been spouting off at the old man ceased, as if some great hammer of realization had smashed down onto my brain.

For there, in the center of those mossy, brownish-colored bricks, was an altar of sorts, hewn from the very granite out of the ground itself. It emerged from a stagnant pond, a shallow pool of water, clearly having been filled by Mustus. On top of the altar was a star shape carved roughly into it’s surface.

Great, thick chains caked with filth and slime emerged from two sides of the altar. What was held in those chains I found impossible to believe--yet, somehow, not impossible…


CHAPTER IV


the beast spoke. “Vor’li’ka,” it croaked


All thoughts of mockery towards the old man faded in an instant. For there, before me, writhing in those massive chains, was something that had the shape of a man… but that was where the similarities ended. It was, from what I could tell, about five feet tall, somewhat lithe, yet brutish. It was slender and well-muscled.

The beast was a grayish-green color, with scant dull yellow highlights under the neck, and on its belly. It was covered in scales, and had fins emerging from its back, the hinds of its legs and arms, and a crest on its head. Some slight greenish-yellow hair was matted down under it’s chin with the filthy water in which it resided. Having no neck to speak of really, its head jutted from a mass of muscle that formed its shoulders. The head itself was elongated, like that of a fish. Huge, tuberous lips gashed from side to side. The creature had no real ears to speak of; only small holes in the sides of its head served as auditory organs of any kind that I could recognize.

Its eyes were large, about the size of saucers; dull and lifeless in color--like a fish out of water. A flash of an eyelid zipped over each eye as I stared, followed by oozing fluid of some kind, weeping out over the lenses. It seemed to me that this creature, as hideous and alien as it appeared, was to be pitied somehow.

The loathsome beast stared back at me, with a pleading look on it’s face. It turned its view to the old man, hatefully--I wondered if I had read that emotion correctly--when it lashed out at him, trying to grab him. Apparently I was correct. It seemed to not only resent the old man, but wanted desperately to hurt him or even kill him. I wondered if this was just due to the forced incarceration that Mustus had apparently bestowed upon this creature, or if there was more to it.

As if anything further could surprise me on this dark day, the beast spoke. “Vor’li’ka,” it croaked, in a voice--if one could call it that--that was more of a fish out of water, or a frog, than that of a man. “Vor’li’ka…” it whispered again.

Vor’li’ka… My mind reeled after all that it had been subjected to in this house of horrors. Vor’li’ka? What was that? A name? A plea? Was this beast speaking? If so, was that a word from it’s own language, asking for help? How is it that this creature can speak?

Surely this is just some anomalous thing that the crazed old man had somehow caught in one of his fishing nets? Surely… I mean, how, how can such a thing exist? I mean, really exist? Yet, I was looking at it--and I couldn’t believe it, but there it was.

The creature made one last desperate swipe of its taloned, webbed hand, which was stopped forcefully by the heavy manacles and chains adorning it. It was a swipe of pitiful rage, or loathing at the old man that stood before it. Then the strange beast fell, face down, into the slimy pool, seemingly unconscious.

I noticed that fish bones and crab shells littered the area surrounding it. Mustus had been feeding this thing, keeping it alive, yet imprisoned, for some sinister reasons of his own, which I now meant to find out.

The creature’s breathing was labored, but rhythmic. I watched as seawater bubbled from its gills, its face planted in the muck. The laborious breathing resonated loudly, and it took me a moment, as I was almost entranced by the rhythm of this horrid thing in the pit, to notice that Mustus had been speaking to me.

“That, my friend, is a Deep One,” the old man chortled, with almost a hint of excitement in his voice.

I was so overcome with emotion that I couldn’t quite come up with anything to say. “I… I…”

“Ye can’t believe, can ye. Well, yer lookin’ at it. It’s real, boy. Ye seen it; It’s real.”

“Yes, obviously… But…”

“Now, I have to tell ye--don’t go writin’ nothin’, not jes yet.”

“Writing?” I was still a ghost of a man, incoherent.

“Yeah, don’t go and write nothin’ yet, about what I been tellin’ ye, and what ye seen here today. Ye has to wait…”


Click Here for Part 5 of THE HOUSE IN THE PORT
a novella to be serialized in 12 daily installments
©by J.R. Torina

THE HOUSE IN THE PORT:pt 3

by J.R. Torina

“Well, no. Maybe if you gave me the right people to talk to…“

Interrupting, he cried out “But ye kint go there, ye kint! If ye go, they’ll take you too. Ye crazy or somethin’?”

“Well, I have this story I’m due to turn in for my paper, but believe me, I don’t wish to put anything of your personal life. But the rest--it sounds like a story to me, Mustus. What about here, in Portland?”

“Ye go near Innsmouth, even jis’ near it, you’ll be sorry. And they’re even worse out here.”

“Is that a threat, Mustus?” I was becoming a little worried.

“No, no threat--it’s a fact. People there don’t take to strangers. And it’s about that time o’ the year now, that the Deep Ones, they’ll be rising outta the sea, for more of…” His voice trailed off, as he cast another sorrow-filled glance down at the obscene photo of his wife and that piscine abomination.

“Alright, Mustus; you invited me here for a reason, and I gather it wasn’t to show me dusty old photographs, and it’s obvious now you don’t intend for me to write this piece for my paper. What, then, are we working towards here?”

“I wanted ye to come here so I could warn ye off of writin’ this story fer yer paper. I want ye to drop the whole matter--that’s why I called ye here. I figured if I showed ye enough stuff about what’s goin’ on over there, ye’d jis’ give up an’ forget it.”

Something didn’t add up. He originally asked me here, but now he was saying he asked me here to warn me off of the whole thing? I wanted to try something… So I asked him, “Obviously you’ve read my work before, right?”

“Of course, that’s how I came to ask ye here.”

“Well, being a what, a student? Yes, a student of the esoteric, the strange, even the macabre--you have to understand that I need to investigate this further. If anything, I can--or even we--can rip the lid right off of this whole foul situation. You can help me. You can help yourself. You can… you can have your revenge in this way.”

“Oh, I’m plannin’ my revenge, all right,” he said.

I should have just left then and there, like the voice in the back of my head was telling me to do, but… That damnable curiosity that led me to write accounts of the unexplained and the weird for my paper had a grip on me, as it always must. I wanted my first real job for The Gazette to be a doozie. “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Nuthin’, jis’ nuthin’. I’m thinkin’ that someday, someday I’ll go back, and maybe bring me a gun or two. They may take me down with ‘em, but at least I’ll take some of ‘em down with me.”

“Mustus, that’s ridiculous. Why let yourself get killed, when we could simply call the authorities? Especially after the public learns of this, if I could print the story?”

“Ain’t nothin’ the gover’ment kin do, boy.”

“How so? Surely the armed forces, the health department, the…”

“Back in the 1930’s, the gover’ment, they went out to ol’ Innsmouth, and they went out in force. They burned most of the village, the wharves--almost everything. Many of the people were rounded up--some say they was jis’ killed, in secret, or studied…
Then, they bombed the living hell outta that island out there off the coast.”

“What island?” I asked.

“Devil’s Reef. That’s where the real evil was takin’ place out there.”

“An island--called Devil’s Reef? They met there--these… Deep Ones?”

“Yes. Them gov’ment men, they bombed it to kingdom come, then they sent submarines out into the seas off the coast, but I dunno what they was doin’ out there; some say they torpedoed the island, some say they destroyed an underwater city. Other folks believe it may have been ol’ Dagon hisself they was shootin’ at.” His voice was reaching a fevered pitch talking of all this, as if he had really been there.

“Were you there at this time?”

“Yes I was. An’ I jis barely escaped with my life.”

From whom, the Deep Ones and their acolytes, or the government, I wondered to myself.

“And… Emma? Your wife?”

“She… She stayed… She… left with… them…”

Confused again, I pressed him for more.

“You mean, the government agents?”

“No, no. She went into the sea. With them. The Deep Ones. She’s one of Them now…”

“You mean, she was a willing vessel, for more of those obscene creatures? You mean, she sacrificed herself, for you, but then left with them? Into the sea? How? Why? I don’t understand…”

“They have ways, they do. They git in yer head. When they mesmerize ye, it’s hard--real hard--to break their spell.”

“And you… you’ve broken this spell? Only you?”

“Yes, I did--because of what they did.”

“…Emma?”

“Yes. They forced us--forced her to make the decision she did--to sacrifice herself for me. So she gave herself up. But, she was like ye--she was naïve, young. She thought if anything, she would be a prisoner, or killed; she prob’ly never dreamed she would turn into one of ‘em.”

“That’s as good a reason as any, I would say, for revenge, Mustus. But I still think that you should wait.”

“That’s not the only reason!” he yelled.

He took off his jacket, throwing it down on the dirty couch. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing scales on what was a strangely smooth chest. Upon looking upwards, I noticed for the first time what his shirt collar had covered earlier--gills. He had gills in his neck. Small ones, to be sure, but gills nonetheless. I couldn’t believe it. Now it all made sense--his grotesque appearance, the smell…

“You… you’re a Deep One? Or an offspring?” I asked.

“No, not a Deep One--never was, never will be. But they have been breedin’ off the coast an’ on the land, in Innsmouth, fer longer than either ye or I been livin’. My parents moved there ‘fore I was born. At least that’s what I was told. My grandfather told me the story, only he’s dead now. All I know is, I got Deep Ones' blood in me. Ye kin see, can’t ye?”

I nodded, saying nothing.

“My parents, they… had an accident.”

“Accident?”

“My mother and father, they was out off the coast, not too far from Devil’s Reef, fishin’ one day, when one of the deckhands yelled out he saw a mermaid.”

“Come on, a mermaid? How can you believe--“

“Believe it,” he blurted out, interrupting me again. It was obvious to me that Mustus needed to vent all of this information out, and that whether or not he deemed it to be in print was still unclear to me. But, of one thing I was now certain--somehow, I was to play a part, at least in the old man’s mind--in his “revenge”, or at least in some type of vindication he must be seeking.

“Believe it, young man. Only this weren’t no mermaid, not in the traditional sense. It weren’t no pretty girl with a fish tail. This were a true Deep One, scaly all over, sharp teeth, glossy eyes… you saw it in the picture.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I remembered something about my father saying he wanted to move to a different port other than ol’ Innsmouth; he had heard too many bad tales of that place, and would rather’ve moved his family elsewhere, like Cape Cod. But I remember, he said, that he went there against his better judgement, that it was my mother who insisted they go to Innsmouth.”

“So, your mother was already somehow under the influence of these Deep Ones?” I asked.

“Yes. She ended up much the same way my Emma did, only my father told me later, he told me, that she went willingly.”

“Went willingly? To where, to Innsmouth?”

“No. She went willingly--into the sea, when those mermaids--those Deep Ones--started calling. She jumped right over the side of the boat, she did.”

I was astonished.

“So, your mother leapt over the side of the boat, leaving your father there; and he apparently had no clue what was transpiring?”

“He knew only very little. Only rumors and stories about Innsmouth; nothing solid. No facts. At first he thought maybe she’d taken ill while out at sea, and for some reason jumped in. It wasn’t until she popped her head out of the water, surrounded by Deep Ones--her smiling back at him from the water, all glistening wet and naked--that he realized the truth. That somehow, not only were the stories he’d heard true, but he’d realized that he had been used. Used to make a new baby, and that his new baby, still in the belly of his pregnant wife, was now floating in the sea, surrounded by Deep Ones, those beasts from the depths.”

Fascinated by this tale, I had almost forgotten that Mustus was still before me, shirt hanging loose, exposing his offensive fish odor and ichthyic appearance. I must have been staring in disbelief and shock, because the old fisherman suddenly buttoned his shirt back up, and put his jacket back on.

“Come on, I got to show ye somethin’.”


Click Here for Part 4 of THE HOUSE IN THE PORT
a novella to be serialized in 12 daily installments
©by J.R. Torina

THE HOUSE IN THE PORT:pt 2

by J.R. Torina

Deciding to just sidestep this, I returned to the photo. “So, I don’t get it--exactly what is it? Fangs? A mask?”

“Yea, a mask. But not fangs… Think FISH,” he said, his voice raising in pitch.

Fish--again. “Uh, well…” Then it hit me. “Tentacles?”

“Yes--yes,” he exhaled, sounding relieved, as he slapped me on the back.

“So, we have here a very old photograph, of a church, or what was once a church, sort of a fog or mist in the area, with a few hunchbacks going inside. All this, and a man wearing a robe, and a mask with… tentacles? So, what’s the connection? What does it all mean?”

“Innsmouth, the whole village was once a fishin’ village,” the old man started.

“The Marshes, the Gilmans, the Eliots, and a few other families all lived there. For generations back, they was always a fisher folk there, til…” His voice trailed off.

“Until?” I pressed him.

“Until somewhere along the way, they took to worshippin’ fish-gods,” he said. His attitude was one of relief for getting all this off his chest, as well as one of fear, for telling me any of it at all.

“Well, when did this happen?”

“I’m thinkin’ it was somewheres around the early 1900’s at least, when the folk in Innsmouth were first visited by… them…”

“Them?”

“The Deep Ones.”

I am a practical and rational man, but the old man and his mysterious way of speaking was beginning to annoy me. He seemed as if he wanted to tell me some things about Innsmouth, but every small, cryptic nugget of information he gave me merely opened up more questions. I pressed him again for more information. “Mustus, who, or what, are Deep Ones? Are they deep sea fishermen? Pirates? What are you talking about, man?”

“No, no, Deep Ones ain’t no pirates, and they ain’t fishermen--they are fish-men.”

“You mean, literally?” I asked him, somewhat surprised, hiding the smirk that was creeping up the side of my mouth.

I reasoned that I came here for the Gazette, looking for some story information, but about devil worshippers; occultists. I had no idea about rumors of fish-men, or places where freakish looking people followed masked men into churches. I decided to get what I could from him, and see if I could possibly get a story out of it, or link the devil worshippers and cultist activities with the so-called fish men, or “Deep Ones”, as he called them.

“Fish men, yes,” he said, interrupting my thoughts.

“The people of Innsmouth are basically slaves--or… aco… acol…” he trailed off.

“Acolytes?” I finished for him.

“Yea, ye got it. Acolytes. They’s acolytes--servants--of the Deep Ones. The townsfolk do their bidding, whether it’s buildin’ temples, attendin' rituals, or…” again, the old man trailed off.

“Or?”

“Or… or…” Here he was stammering, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say whatever it was he was going to say.

“Mustus, you responded to my letter and invited me here to tell me what you know-- so spill it, man!” I barked.

“These acolytes, they work, worship… and breed… with the Deep Ones.” The look on his face was one of horror.

“Breed?” I asked him, incredulously. “How, exactly? I mean, you’re telling me that these fishermen, this entire town, they live in nocturnal obeisance to some supernatural belief that men--fish men--from the sea will come to them? Is that good or bad?”

“’Pends on yer point o’ view” the old man replied, his voice hushed now.

I was about ready to strangle him. The way he kept baiting me, then giving me so little information, was bothersome to say the least. I was about to remark to him on this and make my way to the door, when I noticed him staring at the next photo in the book, as if he were hypnotized by it.

I looked at it to see what it was that had him so mesmerized. A photograph, equally as old as the one before it of the cathedral exterior, but this one was evidently inside the place. From what I could see of it, it seemed as if there were strange gargoyle-type decorations and bas-relief carvings all along the wall of the place. There, in the center of the photo, was the man in the black robe, with the strange octopoidal mask on. He was standing to face what was obviously the congregation, arms in the air in some type of gesture. I commented to Mustus, “High Priest, of whatever this cult is?”

“Yes…”

“You seem distraught, Mustus--what is it?”

“Memories, jis’ memories…” he trailed off again.

I glanced over to the opposing page in the old man’s photo album, or whatever this book was. To my astonishment, I saw the unbelievable. There, in that second old photograph, was that same room I had just noticed, with it’s strange “fishy” decorations, and what appeared to be an altar of sorts. Upon this altar, a beautiful, nude woman was seated, staring as if into space, as if she were waiting for something. I noticed she wasn’t completely nude; she wore a necklace, which bore a small medallion. It must have been of some ritual significance, but it was too hard to make out in the picture. This photo was both beautiful yet repulsive. Beautiful, for the woman, her pretty face, her curves and soft, white skin; repulsive, that such a beautiful sight, a work of art at any other time, in any other place, should be found--willingly, I wondered--in a repulsive place such as where she'd been photographed.

As Mustus turned the page, breaking the spell we both seemed to have fallen under, I remembered what it was that I was here for--if that even mattered any more, after being exposed to some of the macabre wonders that the old man kept.

“So, Mustus--tell me. There is a cult--an Order--of someone or something called “Dagon”, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Apparently, they have some connection with the people in the fishing town of Innsmouth, whom are either members, or just followers. There appears to be a man in charge, a high priest, who is wearing a mask resembling some octopus thing. Now I see a beautiful woman sitting on a stone block, or an altar. Are you trying to tell me that there followed some sort of grisly ritual sacrifice? Was she killed, in sacrificial offering, to this “Dagon”?”

“No, no--she weren’t killed.”

I lost patience. Leaving my normal reserved character, I grabbed the man by the shoulders, brought my face to his, raising my voice--“Mustus. You agreed to talk to me, not give me bits and pieces of cryptic musings, not to answer questions with vague answers and more questions! You invited me here for answers that you assured me you had, about a suspected evil cult along the coast. You assured me you had ties to this cult, which you have severed, trying to shirk off that dark past life. Now I need to know, since we had a deal, as well as that it seems that you are trying to tell me something, but are having… reservations? Damn it, man, tell me what is going on! Tell me what has gone on.”

He seemed to be somewhat removed from his stupor, as well as a bit angered at my treatment of him. Straightening out his filthy jacket, he sat down, dust flying up from the wretched couch. “The church, well--it ain’t no church. It’s a grand cathedral from ancient times, but it ain’t no church anymore. It’s used by the followers of Dagon--The Esoteric Order of Dagon.”

“And who, what--is Dagon?”

“Dagon is a fish-god, from ancient times. If you look up in the bible, you’ll see. Dagon, He’s the Philistines’ god. A fish, but He walks like a man. He’s part of both, I guess. Don’t know much history, much less ancient times an’ such.”

I remembered the books on his shelf.

He continued, “Anyways, the pictures yer lookin’ at, they was taken inside the cathedral.”

“I had gathered as much”, I stated.

“Well, every so often, they would gather, have the fertility ritual. Other than that, there were nightly services. The music--if ye can call it that--that came outta that place… It frightened me to no end. Sometimes I’d hear screams.”

“You mean…” I was about to ask about ritual sacrifice, though he told me that didn’t occur.

“No, no--no one was killed, nothin’ like that. Them girls--they was brought in, fer the fertility ritual. I can only guess they screamed, when they realized what a mess they’d gotten themselves into.”

“What do you mean?”

The old man removed his hand from the second photo he was seemingly transfixed by-- to reveal something so horrid, so stupendously ghastly, that at first I simply didn’t believe what I saw.

“That’s what I mean.”

There was the beautiful woman from the previous photograph; but now, she lay on her back upon that stone block or altar. She lay spreadeagled, and between her thighs, obviously engaging in sexual intercourse with this poor woman, was a creature straight out of Greek--or Philistine-?-mythology.

It was shaped like man, but not shaped like a man. It was bipedal, with two legs and two arms; a grotesque parody of a human head jutted from it’s squared shoulders. It was darkly colored, wet and glistening in what could only be torchlight inside that hellish place. It’s skin appeared to be soft and baggy. The face was a vile distortion of some man and fish hybrid. Large, dull eyes, ears pressed into the sides of the skull, no real nose to speak of. The mouth--that ghastly, grotesque mouth… Large, fleshy tubes for lips, those small, sharp, numerous teeth; its mouth was agape in a rictus of pleasure, for all I could make out on that vile thing. But how could that be? Surely, this was some character in some ritual costume? Surely, this was a mask--wasn’t it? Mask or no, it struck me that despite being a foul beast, I had seen these types of features before; only too recently, in fact. Looking again at the picture, the woman in the photo seemed to be in a state of total complacency, almost as if she was willing for this to happen. “She seems… unfazed?” I asked.

“She done given herself over to them, freely, wholly,” he cried, with more than a hint of regret in his voice.

“Mustus, did you know her?”

“She was my wife!” he exclaimed.

Now things were starting to make sense. I wondered if I should press him further for information, and if I should still even consider any of this for my story in The Gazette. Not sure what to say, I simply asked him how she came to this obscene fate, and apparently, willingly so.

“They told ‘er, they told ‘er that they would come git us anyway, and that we couldn’t leave if we tried. They told us if we didn’t join them, they’d kill us. That was it. It was either join ‘em or be killed by ‘em. What would ye have done?” Before I could answer, he continued. “My Emma--my dear, sweet Emma--she realized the only way out was for her to sacrifice herself to ‘em, and she done it all jus’ to save me! She saved me… It shoulda been me savin’ her. But what could I do?”

“So, these people, these Deep Ones--they kidnapped her?”

“No, no--they ain’t the Deep Ones, and they didn’t kidnap ‘er exactly. They gave us the ultimatum, and at first we refused. The Deep Ones, they’s the fish-men, the beast like in this picture. I keep this picture--you would think Id’ve burned it first thing, but I kept it--to remind me of her sacrifice, and of my revenge. They ‘pregnated ‘er, so they could birth more Deep Ones. I wasn’t the only man in town that had to give up his woman.”

“So, you don’t think there were just a few extremists… in this… this cult?”

“Ye ain’t never been to Innsmouth. Ye ain’t never seen the folk there. They’re freaks, the lot of ‘em!” he cried.

Click Here for Part 3 of THE HOUSE IN THE PORT
a novella to be serialized in 12 daily installments
©by J.R. Torina

THE HOUSE IN THE PORT:pt 1

by J.R. Torina



the Diary of Ambrose Smith

OCTOBER 13, 1951

Here I am in Portland, Oregon. I can’t say I really miss Salt Lake City. There wasn’t much happening there, though I did make a few friends that I’ll surely miss. But the offer to come to the beautiful and dark coast of Portland, working in my dream field, was just too enticing to pass up. So far, I’ve had quite a time getting all of my things unpacked into Uncle Varley’s house that he willed me. Shame about the poor old man. Max is very excited. He already can’t wait every day to run down the beach and jump into the ocean. He even caught a fish once. A true hunting dog, if ever there was one. A dirty dog, too--I had to bathe and shampoo him twice already, and I’ve only been here for two weeks. The Portland Gazette had caught wind of my extra-curricular activities and interests; in particular, my (somewhat unhealthy, according to Mom and Dad) interest in the macabre. Oregon seems to be a hotbed right now for secret cults and their activities, as well as UFOs, martians, Bigfoot--you name it. I have already received a note from somebody here who has heard of my affairs. The Gazette had recently reprinted a few of my columns, those that I have already had published before in pulp magazines such as Fantastic Science Fiction. This fellow--whose name is Mustus Marsh, of all things--claims to have a plethora of insider information on a secret devil-worshiping cult from somewhere along the coastal towns; apparently they meet, have rituals, and even sacrifices. I’m sure it’s just some crazy old fisherman’s tale of people he just doesn’t understand, but--what the hell. I bet the “cult” in question is probably some religious sect, like the Mormons or Jehovah's Witnesses. But a good reporter can’t afford to turn down any leads now, can he?



CHAPTER I




“Innsmouth? I remember ol' Innsmouth, fer sure,” chortled old Mustus Marsh. “I remember them ol’ houses, all sagged and in disrepair, the Order’s new building… and them Innsmouth folk…” Here, his voice trailed away. His face seemed dreamlike and almost lost in time.

It was here that I first noticed the weird distorted features on Mustus’s face… His strangely… piscine? Yes, piscine features. His head seemed as if it was once as large as, if not previously larger than, a normal man’s; yet, it seemed as if it were pressed inwards from the sides. His ears also bore something of those strange qualities. They seemed flattened, almost pressed into the sides of his head.

But these were not the worst of it. His lips, or rather, his mouth; it was so very wide, almost as if it were a parody of a normal man’s mouth. It had to be at least five inches across; his lips were thick, ropey--unbelievably so. His teeth… Those terrible teeth… Small, like a child’s, but sharp… rather like a fish.

But, most terrible of all--those eyes. The eyes appeared glassy and very moist. In fact, almost dripping wet. The eyelids, what there were of them, shrunk back almost completely behind the orbs of his eyes. Upon this inspection, I noticed something peculiar about his skin, even around the shock of mane he called a beard, which was ragged and coarse looking. Were those… scales? Surely my imagination was playing tricks on me. Scales… on a man?


"Ain't no devil a Christian man kin make up that rivals the devils I’ve seen"

The hoarse sound of the old man’s voice brought me out of my serene investigations of his fish-like features, and back to the moment, sitting on his rotting porch, surrounded by refuse and filth.

“The Order o’ Dagon, they had themselves a buildin’ that was all new and such, while the rest of the town went to hell.”

To hell indeed, I thought--but not, most likely, in the same way Marsh was referring to.

“Well, the Order’s buildin’ their church, and the Refinery,” said the old man.

“Refinery?”, I asked him.

“Yep, they--the Marshes, I mean--had themselves a refinery they ran, refinin’ oils and salts from the sea.”

“But, surely, that was just the cover story, right? I mean, they just used that refinery as a front to make money for their real activities--didn’t they? The Marsh family, I mean? They were really actually devil worshippers--weren’t they?”

Here the old man shot me a look. “Ye think so, boy?” he asked. It was almost a challenge.

I simply froze, not knowing what I had unlocked here.

“Best ye come see. Ain’t no devil a Christian man kin make up that rivals the devils I’ve seen. I’ll show ye.”

Cursing myself for a being a fool for even coming here alone, I stood up to leave. Before I could muster up an appropriate lie to just get the hell out of there, the old man’s gnarled hand was on my elbow firmly.

He opened the front door.


CHAPTER II



The old door was warped and rotted. Its paint was flaking and peeling off all over; the knob, a rusted antique, was loose and rickety, barely hanging in the door itself. The first thing to assault me was the unbelievably oppressive stench of fish. As if reading my thoughts, the old man called out in front of me, “Don’t mind that stink, I jis’ been doin’ some night fishin’. Fishin’s always better at night. Ain't done cleaned anything yet.”

I found it curious to note that there was no fish to be seen anywhere, nor were there any freezers to keep said fish in. Thinking it best to keep this observation to myself, I said nothing.

After an awkward moment, I offered some paltry conversation, lest the old man suspect my observations or discomfort in this filthy den of decay. “What were you fishing for? Cod?”

“Heh, well, jis’ about anythin’ I kin catch, ye see," the old man laughed.

He rummaged through a few stacks of musty old tomes lying about on a pitted and scarred oaken table in the den. Some of them literally spewed dust as he opened them. He continued peering inside to glean their contents.

“Ah, here we are!” he exclaimed. Slapping the old leather-bound book onto the smaller but equally ancient and battered coffee table, he motioned me to sit down next to him, on what was one of the filthiest, dirtiest couches I had ever seen. A myriad of stains colored it here and there, and the dust of centuries enveloped the thing.

I looked up, and saw various plaques on the wall of animals he had pulled from the sea. Some of them, like the occasional trout or cod, were rather large, but somewhat normal; normal, mind you, compared to some of the other things he had. Whether or not they were real, I don’t know. There were plaques with deep sea anglers--both male and female. There were blow fish, porcupine fish, barracudas, and a few other varieties that I just didn’t recognize.

The shelves along the other wall contained a carny’s dream. Preserved fish, a shrunken human head, a human skull, various occult trinkets (they appeared to be of an occult nature, anyway; at any rate, they were esoteric, to be sure), and an arsenal of books, most of them dealing with magic, the occult, or ancient civilizations.


“The guy in the doorway--he’s got… fangs?”

Again, the old man’s voice me away from my attentions to the details of this bizarre rookery of occult books and objects. “Ye can see here the hall itself”, he said, pointing to the picture on the first page. The paper was yellowed, curled, torn; the picture contained therein was a black and white photo, in relatively decent shape, considering the weathered condition of the book it was kept in. The photograph was of a church, or cathedral, ancient in design. Even though it was night in the photo, I could clearly read the sign in front of the building, declaring it as “The Esoteric Order of Dagon”.

Before I could ask the old man who or what “Dagon” was, or what “the Order” was about, he asked another of his cryptic questions: “Notice anythin’ strange?”

I noticed two or three dark figures in front of the edifice in the photograph, as if making their way inside. From the distance the picture was taken from, one could not ascertain who exactly these figures may be. “Well, it’s very… old?” I asked him, not sure what he was getting at.

“No, no, well, yeah, it’s old, fer sure, but what else do ye notice?” he asked.

I looked again. “Give me a hint,” I asked.

“Lookit them, the folks--what do ye see?”

I looked yet again--more closely this time. I noticed that two figures, somewhat slumped, were heading up the steps of the cathedral. One from the right, similarly bent over, was also heading in that direction. “So, some of the people here, they seem to be… deformed?”

“Yea, yea, and--?” he asked excitedly.

I looked at the fourth figure in the photograph. It was a man, a person--a being… wearing a robe, but--what was that? He seemed to have… fangs protruding from his lips?

“The guy in the doorway--he’s got… fangs?”

“Not fangs.”

“Well, what?” I asked.

“Remember what ye heard, why ye were investigatin’…”

“I am investigating rumors of purported devil worshippers and human sacrifice in the coastal towns out here,” I exclaimed. I wondered why he asked me something he already knew.

“No, ye’re not.”

“Oh?”

“No. Ye’re gonna be investigatin’ fish men. Deep Ones.”

“Who?”

“Fish men, that come from the sea--they look like a man--two arms, two legs--but that’s all. They have scales, fins, webbed fingers and toes. They been breedin’ with people here--and back east, on the coast there too--for years.”

“Excuse me…?”

“Yes, yes, ye gotta believe me.”

“Piscine creatures--that walk upright, like a man--in the villages of men, off of their coasts; and worst of all, intermingling… and breeding with… men.”

“Yea, yea, you got it so far,” the old man carried on.



Click Here for Part 2 of THE HOUSE IN THE PORT
a novella to be serialized in 12 daily installments
©by J.R. Torina