The
structure's once white paint was now gray and peeling, and the black
and gold sign on the pediment was so faded that I could only with
difficulty make out the words "Esoteric Order of Dagon." The door of the church basement was open, revealing a rectangle of
blackness inside. And as I looked, a certain object crossed or seemed
to cross that dark rectangle; burning into my brain a momentary
conception of nightmare which was all the more maddening because
analysis could not show a single nightmarish quality in it. It was a living object--the first except the driver that I had seen
since entering the compact part of the town--and had I been in a
steadier mood I would have found nothing whatever of terror in it. Clearly, as I realized a moment later, it was the pastor; clad in
some peculiar vestments doubtless introduced since the Order of Dagon
had modified the ritual of the local churches. The thing which had
probably caught my first subconscious glance and supplied the touch of
bizarre horror was the tall tiara he wore; an almost exact duplicate
of the one Miss Tilton had shown me the previous evening. This, acting
on my imagination, had supplied namelessly sinister qualities to the
indeterminate face and robed, shambling form beneath it. A very thin sprinkling of repellent-looking youngish people now became
visible on the sidewalks--lone individuals, and silent knots of two
or three. The lower floors of the crumbling houses sometimes harbored
small shops with dingy signs, and I noticed a parked truck or two as we
rattled along. The sound of waterfalls became more and more distinct,
and presently I saw a fairly deep river-gorge ahead, spanned by a wide,
iron-railed highway bridge beyond which a large square opened out. Then
we rolled into the large semicircular square across the river and drew
up on the right-hand side in front of a tall, cupola-crowned building
with remnants of yellow paint and with a half-effaced sign proclaiming
it to be the Gilman House. I was glad to get out of that bus, and at once proceeded to check
my valise in the shabby hotel lobby. There was only one person in
sight--an elderly man without what I had come to call the "Innsmouth
look"--and I decided not to ask him any of the questions which bothered
me; remembering that odd things had been noticed in this hotel. Instead, I strolled out on the square, from which the bus had already
gone, and studied the scene minutely and appraisingly. For some reason or other I chose to make my first inquiries at
the chain grocery, whose personnel was not likely to be native to
Innsmouth. I found a solitary boy of about seventeen in charge, and was
pleased to note the brightness and affability which promised cheerful
information. He seemed exceptionally eager to talk, and I soon gathered
that he did not like the place, its fishy smell, or its furtive people. His family did not like him to work in Innsmouth, but the chain had
transferred him there and he did not wish to give up his job. There was, he said, no public library or chamber of commerce in
Innsmouth, but I could probably find my way about. The street I had
come down was Federal. West of that were the fine old residence
streets--Broad, Washington, Lafayette, and Adams--and east of it were
the shoreward slums. Certain spots were almost forbidden territory, as he had learned at
considerable cost. One must not, for example, linger much around the
Marsh refinery, or around any of the still used churches, or around the
pillared Order of Dagon Hall at New Church Green. Those churches were
very odd--all violently disavowed by their respective denominations
elsewhere, and apparently using the queerest kind of ceremonials and
clerical vestments. As for the Innsmouth people--the youth hardly knew what to make of
them. Their appearance--especially those staring, unwinking eyes which
one never saw shut--was certainly shocking enough--and their voices
were disgusting. It was awful to hear them chanting in their churches
at night, and especially during their main festivals or revivals, which
fell twice a year on April 30 and October 31. They were very fond of the water, and swam a great deal in both river
and harbor. Swimming races out to Devil Reef were very common, and
everyone in sight seemed well able to share in this arduous sport. It would be of no use, my informant said, to ask the natives anything
about the place. The only one who would talk was a very aged but
normal-looking man who lived at the poorhouse on the north rim of the
town and spent his time walking about or lounging around the fire
station. This hoary character, Zadok Allen, was 96 years old and
somewhat touched in the head, besides being the town drunkard. He was a
strange, furtive creature who constantly looked over his shoulder as
if afraid of something, and when sober could not be persuaded to talk
at all with strangers. He was, however, unable to resist any offer of
his favorite poison; and once drunk would furnish the most astonishing
fragments of whispered reminiscence. After all, though, little useful data could be gained from him; since
his stories were all insane, incomplete hints of impossible marvels and
horrors which could have no source save in his own distorted fancy. Nobody ever believed him, but the natives did not like him to drink
and talk with any strangers; and it was not always safe to be seen
questioning him. It was probably from him that some of the wildest
popular whispers and delusions were derived. The Marshes, together with the other three gently bred families of the
town--the Waites, the Gilmans, and the Eliots--were all very retiring. They lived in immense houses along Washington Street, and several were
reputed to harbor in concealment certain kinsfolk whose personal aspect
forbade public view, and whose deaths had been reported and recorded. Warning me that most of the street signs were down, the youth drew for
my benefit a rough but ample and painstaking sketch map of the town's
salient features. After a moment's study I felt sure that it would be
of great help, and pocketed it with profuse thanks. Thus began my systematic though half-bewildered tour of Innsmouth's
narrow, shadow-blighted ways. Crossing the bridge and turning toward
the roar of the lower falls, I passed close to the Marsh refinery,
which seemed oddly free from the noise of industry. This building
stood on the steep river bluff near a bridge and an open confluence of
streets which I took to be the earliest civic center, displaced after
the Revolution by the present Town Square. Re-crossing the gorge on the Main Street bridge, I struck a region of
utter desertion which somehow made me shudder. Collapsing huddles of
gambrel roofs formed a jagged and fantastic skyline, above which rose
the ghoulish, decapitated steeple of an ancient church. Fish Street was as deserted as Main, though it differed in having many
brick and stone warehouses still in excellent shape.