Innsmouth Echoes

By Robert Poyton

Decaying New England seaport, creation of  iconic weird tale author HP Lovecraft .
But what if it were a real place? What if ripples from that accursed town were to spread out across the world?

Inspired by certain family documents and photos, this collection of thirteen original tales and poems reflecs the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Innsmouth Gold
• Release date: Jul 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781789263060

Book preview

by Robert Poyton

THIS IS AN INNSMOUTH GOLD BOOK

ISBN: 978-1-78926-306-0  Paperback

Copyright@ 2018 R Poyton.

Originally published 2018

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted. No part of this book may+ be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: Innsmouth Gold

Published by Cutting Edge on behalf of Innsmouth Gold.

www.innsmouthgold.com

CONTENTS

Foreword

The Confession of Brother Simon (first printed in Remnants, 2017)

Innsmouth Sonnet                               

Full Fathom Five                              

Fear at the Fitz                              

Return to Providence                        

U-837                                          

Innsmouth Acid                              

Shore Leave                                    

Innsmouth Marina                        

The Watcher                              

Urbex                                    

Do You Want to Live Forever?            

Vostock 5

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FOREWORD

I would imagine that after the mighty Cthulhu,  one of the names most associated with iconic horror author HP Lovecraft is Innsmouth. His tale The Shadow Over Innsmouth, set in the decaying New England seaport , regularly tops the lists of aficionado’s favourite HPL  tales.

Like most,  I believed Innsmouth to be purely a product of HPL’s fertile imagination, originating, perhaps, from one of those vivid dreams that so often informed his work.  Imagine my surprise, then, when the effects of a former long-lost Great Aunt recently came into my possession, following her passing away at the age of 108.

Included  with the usual  family documents and  personal effects, was a somewhat aged and battered tin box. Locked, yet there was no key to be found, search as I may amongst my Great Aunt’s meagre possessions. And so the box lay dormant, tucked away at the back of the wardrobe for many weeks, while my work took me on numerous trips overseas. It was only after my return, one cold January night, that I came across the box again. Truth be told, I had forgotten its very existence.

Now intrigued, I removed the box and placed it on my desk. Closer scrutiny revealed no markings and nothing beyond a simple lock between me and the mystery within. Putting down my whisky, I found and straightened a paper clip from the drawer and set to work on the lock. Within a minute, there was a satisfying click and I opened the lid to look inside.

I wish to God I hadn’t. Oh, what dark nightmares have plagued me since I tipped the contents of that cursed container onto my desk. For what tumbled forth was a sheaf of yellowed notes wrapped around a  bundle of photographs, many of them decades old and faded.  Each photo had writing on the back, in the hand of my Great Aunt, giving name, date and place of the subject. Each was a family member, part of my own lineage. And some of them came from Innsmouth!

Leafing through the papers gave me inspiration for this collection, spanning as it does many times and places... things past and things yet to come.  I also print some of those photos here so that you may see the family line from whence such tales have sprung. Perhaps you will also understand, and have some sympathy for, my terrible predicament. 

On the positive side, those notes spurred me to gather together these tales of people and places. Family is so important, don’t you think? For, after all, are any of us more than the sum of our previous generations?

However… I look less and less in the mirror these days.  Most of my time is spent at my desk, curtains drawn against the hurtful sunlight, repeatedly referring to my Great Aunt’s papers, delving deeper into my family history.  Make of this collection what you will but take heed that sometimes the past is a country best left unexplored. And remember… Innsmouth is not just a place, it’s a state of mind.

RP

THE CONFESSION OF BROTHER SIMON

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Tower Bruer Templar Preceptory, 29th October 1216

Abbot Thomas nodded to the gatekeeper who had let him into the courtyard and made his way swiftly to the preceptory. The journey from Kirkstead had been somewhat hurried and uncomfortable but Abbot William’s message had urged all possible haste, as well as discretion.  All Thomas knew was that he was to perform absolution for a person here at Tower Bruer. Once inside, he was led quickly into a side room and given some plain, but welcome, victuals. The room was small, lit by a few candles, furnished only with a table and two chairs. After a short time a young man came in to clear away the plate and cutlery. Almost as soon as he had left, a tall figure, dressed in white monk’s robes, entered and sat on the plain chair opposite. Thomas could see little of the person’s face, save something of the chin. The head remained bowed, hands held together within the long sleeves.

Father forgive me, for I have sinned. I would make my confession, came a whispering but steady voice from the cowl. 

But of course Brother. Where would you like to begin? The Abbot leaned forward attentively.

By first saying, Abbot, that I am no Brother. I am not a monk, I am a Templar Knight. Forgive the deception, but it proved necessary for my task. 

And this task, the reason for this deception, it was some undertaking of great import my son?   

Indeed it was Father - it was in order to murder King John!

Croyland Abbey, 8th October 1216   

As he nudged the pony across the narrow bridge and into the marketplace, Abbot William noticed at once the two burley, cowled figures ahead who moved towards him. While outwardly dressed as monks, it was clear they bore weapons and armour beneath the plain robes.

Abbot William? I’m…  Brother Simon. The lead figure took the pony’s reins, while the other glanced about. I’ve been asked to meet you and take you into the abbey. 

Very well… Brother. Please lead on. William nodded and allowed himself to be led through the small market and into the grounds of the abbey. Dismounting and handing his horse to a young monk, William followed the two figures through an archway and along a short corridor, which ended in a stout wooden door. Brother Simon knocked sharply and the door opened a fraction. After a short pause, it was opened fully and William was ushered into the room, followed by Brother Simon. The other monk took up position outside the door.

Ah Abbot William, such a pleasure to see you again! A  grey haired, elderly monk rose to greet William, black robes contrasting with his own white. He advanced, grasping William’s hands. Elderly perhaps, but the grip and twinkle in the eye showed no sign of age or infirmity.

Abbot Geoffrey, William smiled.  I see the years have been kind to you! Why the last time we met must have been in Cyprus, do you reme-

Harrumph! coughed a corpulent figure seated at the room’s large table.  Much as I enjoy hearing old tales of derring-do, might I remind you that we are here for important issues and that this meeting is extremely hazardous to all!

Apologies Milord, Geoffrey made a shallow bow. You must forgive an old soldier. Allow me to introduce Abbot William of Swineshead Abbey. 

William stepped forward and bowed his head.  Abbot Geoffrey gestured to each in turn, beginning with the corpulent nobleman. 

Robert de Gresely, Baron of Manchester. Abbot Adam of Croxton. This to a tall, thin monk. Sir Simon of the Templar order, this to the cowled figure who had brought William in.  Hugh Bigod, a fresh faced young man half rose and bowed.  And his father, Sir Roger Bigod.

This towards the lean figure dressed in fine hose leant against the narrow window ledge at the far end of the room. This man turned and bowed slightly to William, then stepped forward to the head of the table to address the conspirators.

Let us begin, gentlemen. Firstly, I’m sure I need not remind you that no word of what passes here today shall leave this room, many of us have already suffered enough at the King’s hand. We wish to put an end to such suffering and tyranny. I’m sure we all have our own reasons for wishing the King were.… gone 

I’ll say, huffed de Gresely. He’s already threatened to increase the price of bread forty fold in order to fill his tax coffers! Outrageous! 

Indeed, agreed Abbot Geoffrey. And let us not forget what he has already done. Both Peterborough and our own Abbey here at Croyland were cruelly sacked by the tyrant, even the sacred vessels were carried off!  

The Guthlac Roll? interjected Abbot Adam.

We were fortunate to save that, by the grace of God, replied Geoffrey. The looters were more inclined to earthly rather than spiritual treasures.                                                         

Many local estates have suffered in similar fashion. spoke the young Hugh.  Raids, punitive measures, taxation. It really is beyond the pale!

I understand the King is not even beyond base blackmail concerning more delicate matters? Geoffrey inclined his head towards the reddening Adam, who busied himself with the large bag at his feet.  Few people knew of his dalliance with a certain noblewoman of Croxton Kerrial.

In any case, continued Sir Roger, Dauphin Louis has landed in Kent and is moving towards London. King Alexander once again moves south from Scotland. If we make our play correctly, we will have the support of much of the nobility. However, if the King is very obviously murdered, then who knows how the people will react? We know not where Marshall will stand, nor any of those other powerful men who currently waver. Father Adam, you have some thoughts on this?   

Adam brought forth a collection of  vials and jars from his bag.

I have some experience with herbal matters. Here are a range of substances which will, if ingested, bring about death. There are two difficulties, though. The first is in administering such a poison to the King. Each of these has a strong taste, which would be difficult to mask, for one thing. And let us not forget that the King is never without his taster! Another problem is that the effects of these herbs are widely known. Belladonna, hemlock, it would be obvious to even a half-trained eye that the King has been poisoned. We can only wonder what repercussions may fall on those in close proximity to the King at the time.

Why not more direct means? the young Hugh stood, grasping the hilt of his dagger. Get in close and finish it! 

You forget Sir Savaric,the King’s bodyguard, responded Simon. An armed person would not get within ten feet of the King, especially given his current state of mind. And if they did succeed, that brute Savaric would immediately cut then down!

A person in disguise may be able to get close. Geoffrey arched his eyebrows, motioning to Simon’s robes.

True, but it is still a mission whose outcome would be certain death. We could not expect anyone to sacrifice themselves so, however just the cause, said Sir Roger.

Perhaps an ambush? suggested de Gresely. We know the King may well travel across the Wash from Lynn, surely this is an opportunity for a small band of brave men to waylay him en route? There will be no-one to see, the King might be assumed to have been lost in the marsh, Lord knows the area is treacherous enough!

An attack in the marshes? Impossible! replied Sir Roger. There is no concealment for ambush. Furthermore, the tracks only allow single file for horses and to step off the track in armour is to invite certain death in the mud. The area will be as dangerous to us as to the King’s men. Consider also, the King will have a strong force with him to guard his train. Besides we cannot be sure the King will travel with the baggage train, he may take some other route that will provide the luxury more befitting his station.

We are at impasse then gentlemen, sighed Adam. Will no-one rid us of this troublesome King?   

The room lapsed into thoughtful silence. William sat pondering, his face troubled, then he spoke up.

There is another way, he ventured. But it is fraught with peril and may even endanger our immortal souls. 

Explain, asked Sir Roger. A this stage I would sign a deal with the Devil himself! Forgive me Father, he hastily added noting Geoffrey’s disapproving scowl.

I was born and raised in a small village not far from here, William told them. Lutton, a remote hamlet on the coast. There was a local woman living out away from the rest of us; she was called Mother by the locals. There were many rumours and legends about her. I saw her once, when I was a small boy. The catch had been bad that season, we faced the prospect of a hungry winter, so the village elders approached Mother and asked her to perform  a certain ritual. This is an old country, gentlemen; before the coming of the Word of Our Lord there were many old ways practiced here. Some say there are… others… those who were here before us, who can be turned to for help. So it was that one day at the water’s edge, Mother carried out her pagan ritual. My father took me home early, so I saw very little. True to Mother’s word, the catch increased the next day and the following day. In fact, we had an overabundance for many weeks after.

Well, that’s all well and good, interrupted de Gresely. But how do witches by the sea help our predicament? 

By this, Milord. The witch, as you call her, may have some method of striking at the King, many spoke of the curses she used against enemies. If she has access to such powers, then mayhap she can persuaded to help us. Assuming she still lives, of course; she looked old when I was a boy, though many village elders spoke of her being there when they were but children themselves. 

Good God, have we come to this, asked Geoffrey. Shall we turn to pagan devils to do our work? 

Some might say it is already the Devil’s work, said Simon. What matter the instrument if the intent be good? Do we condemn the sword for cutting down the disbeliever? The rope for hanging the traitor? 

Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man.… quoted Geoffrey , placing his head in his hands. Very well. Speak to your witch, Brother William, then let us reconvene  and make further decision.

The group nodded assent and one by one the conspirators left, furtive and cloaked.

Lutton, The Wash, three days later

Abbot William nudged the donkey along the narrow track. Tall reeds obscured the view to each side and did something to protect him from the chill breeze blowing in off the sea. He had spent the night at Sutton St Mary’s, though had said nothing of his mission to the clergy there. As far as anyone was concerned, he was merely revisiting his boyhood home and family.

The donkey was slow but steady - and steady counted for a lot in this region. A horse that skittered due to a marsh fowl being put up may well run straight into the water, or worse, the mud. Although