"God, what I seen senct I was fifteen year' old--_Mene, mene,
tekel, upharsin!_--the folks as was missin', an' them as kilt
theirselves--them as told things in Arkham or Ipswich or sech places
was all called crazy, like you're a-callin' me right naow--but God,
what I seen--they'd a kilt me long ago fer what I know, only I'd
took the fust an' secon' Oaths o' Dagon offen Obed, so was pertected
unlessen a jury of 'em proved I told things knowin' an' delib'rit ...
but I wudn't take the third Oath--I'd a died ruther'n take that--

"It got wuss araound Civil War time, _when children born senct
'forty-six begun to grow up_--some of 'em, that is. I was
afeard--never did no pryin' arter that awful night, an' never see one
o'--_them_--clost to in all my life. That is, never no full-blooded
one. Barnabas Marsh that runs the refin'ry naow is Obed's grandson by
his fust wife--son of Onesiphorus, his eldest son, _but his mother was
another o' them as wa'n't never seed aoutdoors_. "Right naow Barnabas is abaout changed. Can't shet his eyes no more,
an' is all aout o' shape. They say he still wears clothes, but he'll
take to the water soon." ... The sound of the incoming tide was now very insistent, and little by
little it seemed to change the old man's mood from maudlin tearfulness
to watchful fear. He would pause now and then to renew those nervous
glances over his shoulder or out toward the reef, and despite the wild
absurdity of his tale, I could not help beginning to share his vague
apprehensiveness. Zadok now grew shriller, and seemed to be trying to
whip up his courage with louder speech. "Hey, yew, why dun't ye say somethin'? Haow'd ye like to be livin' in a
taown like this, with everything a-rottin' an' a-dyin', an' boarded-up
monsters crawlin' an' bleatin' an' barkin' an' hoppin' araoun' black
cellars an' attics every way ye turn? Hey? Wal, Sir, _let me tell ye
that aint the wust_!" Zadok was really screaming now, and the mad frenzy of his voice
disturbed me more than I care to own. "Curse ye, dun't set thar a-starin' at me with them eyes--I tell Obed
Marsh he's in hell, an' hez got to stay thar! Heh, heh ... in hell, I
says! Can't git me--I hain't done nothin' nor told nobody nothin'--

"Oh, you, young feller? Wal, even ef I hain't told nobody nothin' yet,
I'm a-goin' to naow! Yew jest set still an' listen to me, boy--this is
what I ain't never told nobody.... I says I didn't get to do no pryin'
arter that night--_but I found things aout jest the same_! "Yew want to know what the reel horror is, hey? Wal, it's this--it
ain't what them fish devils _hez done, but what they're a-goin' to
do_! They're a-bringin' things up aout o' whar they come from into the
taown--ben doin' it fer years, an' slackenin' up lately. Them haouses
north o' the river betwixt Water an' Main Streets is full of 'em--them
devils _an' what they brung_--an' when they git ready ... I say, _when
they git ready_ ... ever hear tell of a _shoggoth_?.... "Hey, d'ye hear me? I tell ye I _know what them things be--I seen 'em
one night when_.... EH-AHHHH--AH! E'YAAHHHH...."

The hideous suddenness and inhuman frightfulness of the old man's
shriek almost made me faint. His eyes, looking past me toward the
malodorous sea, were positively starting from his head; while his
face was a mask of fear worthy of Greek tragedy. His bony claw dug
monstrously into my shoulder, and he made no motion as I turned my head
to look at whatever he had glimpsed. There was nothing that I could see. Only the incoming tide, with
perhaps one set of ripples more local than the long-flung line of
breakers. But now Zadok was shaking me, and I turned back to watch the
melting of that fear-frozen face into a chaos of twitching eyelids and
mumbling gums. Presently his voice came back--albeit as a trembling
whisper. "_Git aout o' here!_ Git aout o' here! _They seen us_--git aout
fer your life! Dun't wait fer nothin'--_they know naow_--Run fer
it--quick--_aout o' this taown_--"

Another heavy wave dashed against the loosening masonry of the bygone
wharf, and changed the mad ancient's whisper to another inhuman and
blood-curdling scream. "E-YAAAHHHH!... "YHAAAAAAAA!..." Before I could recover my scattered wits he had relaxed his clutch
on my shoulder and dashed wildly inland toward the street, reeling
northward around the ruined warehouse wall. I glanced back at the sea, but there was nothing there. And when I
reached Water Street and looked along it toward the north there was no
remaining trace of Zadok Allen. IV


I can hardly describe the mood in which I was left by this harrowing
episode--an episode at once mad and pitiful, grotesque and terrifying. The grocery boy had prepared me for it, yet the reality left me none
the less bewildered and disturbed. Puerile though the story was, old
Zadok's insane earnestness and horror had communicated to me a mounting
unrest which joined with my earlier sense of loathing for the town and
its blight of intangible shadow. The hour had grown perilously late--my watch said 7:15, and the Arkham
bus left Town Square at eight--so I tried to give my thoughts as
neutral and practical a cast as possible, meanwhile walking rapidly
through the deserted streets of gaping roofs and leaning houses toward
the hotel where I had checked my valise and would find my bus. Studying the grocery youth's map and seeking a route I had not
traversed before, I chose Marsh Street instead of State for my approach
to Town Square. Near the corner of Fall Street I began to see scattered
groups of furtive whisperers, and when I finally reached the Square I
saw that almost all the loiterers were congregated around the door of
the Gilman House. It seemed as if many bulging, watery, unwinking eyes
looked oddly at me as I claimed my valise in the lobby, and I hoped
that none of these unpleasant creatures would be my fellow-passengers
on the coach. The bus, rather early, rattled in with three passengers somewhat
before eight, and an evil-looking fellow on the sidewalk muttered a
few indistinguishable words to the driver. I was, it appeared, in very
bad luck. There had been something wrong with the engine, despite the
excellent time made from Newburyport, and the bus could not complete
the journey to Arkham. No, it could not possibly be repaired that
night, nor was there any other way of getting transportation out of
Innsmouth, either to Arkham or elsewhere. Sargent was sorry, but I
would have to stop over at the Gilman. Probably the clerk would make
the price easy for me, but there was nothing else to do. Almost dazed
by this sudden obstacle, and violently dreading the fall of night in
this decaying and half-unlighted town, I left the bus and reentered
the hotel lobby; where the sullen, queer-looking night clerk told me I
could have Room 428 on next the top floor--large, but without running
water--for a dollar.