January 5th, 1823
It was the depths of nighttime when Martha and I arrived in the tiny seaside village of Innsmouth, madly in love, and despite her father’s strongest condemnation, intent on finding passage to a new life in Australia. As we reached the main street, a flicker of lightning tore across the heavens, illuminating an sky and casting for a brief moment an eerie white glow across the run-down store fronts. I can still remember the uncertainty and the dread I felt as the inky blackness returned, hiding the decrepit buildings and shrouding us once again like a blanket on a cold winter’s night.
Despite the late hour and fierce weather, we made our way to the docks, hoping to find a ship which might grant us at least part-passage. As we walked, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stiffen and a curious uncomfortableness with my own skin. I turned my head to every shadow, my ear to every unexpected noise, but found nothing out of place in the darkness. I wrapped a cloak around my beloved Martha, intent on shielding her not only from the weather but also the leering eyes of any wayward seamen or persons unknown prowling the dock.
We traversed the decaying promenade for almost half an hour, finding only shadowy hulks, battened down for the storm, their crews sheltered within, or perhaps making merry with loose women in the seaside taverns.
I had almost given up hope when over the blustery nighttime gale, Martha caught sound of a voice. We stopped, and listening, I heard a man shouting angrily. “Confound and blast you, Carter!” he roared, as far across the waves, a terrible flash of lightning lit the heavens and revealed an choppy and indistinct horizon. “I cannot stand this incompetence!”
The shouting came from a ship we had just passed, a square-rigged corvette named the ‘Miskatonic Mary’. Hearing the commotion, we doubled back and soon could distinguish the silhouettes of two men standing at an open doorway.
The shouter, who was tall and thin, wore a large tricorne, and waved his arms furiously through the air. Smoke drifted from the lit pipe in his hand.
“I’m… sorry sir,” his compatriot stuttered. “She just disappeared. Crewman Blake’s gone too.”
We reached their berth, and found the blasting wind did little to mask the toxic stench of rotting fish-meat emanating from the ship. I shouted to the men, “Ahoy there. We are botanists from Arkham in search of part-passage to Australia. Have you quarters?”
The men turned and studied us for a few seconds. The smoking man, whom I took to be the Captain, pursed his lips and exhaled, ignoring the dark smoke as it billowed from his pipe. “Passage, you say? This is a late hour to be seeking passage to such a distant shore.”
He cast his eyes towards Martha in a manner I must admit I found unnerving, and stroked his beard.
“I have been offered a fellowship at the University of Melbourne,” I said, unwilling to fully explain the uncertain nature of our situation. Then, for reasons of which I am still unsure, “We intend to marry.”
The Captain gave no reply but instead turned and whispered something to his companion who nodded in response. Eventually, he smiled back to us. “Our final destination is the South Pacific. If you want to stay aboard for the duration, perhaps we could find room for two… botanists.”
The crawling sensation beneath my skin had become difficult to ignore, and I felt my heart begin to race. Were we not seeking passage south? Was it not a stroke of fortune to find a ship sailing the entire distance? Why then did a cry from the back of my mind insist: “Do not board that ship?”
Overcome, perhaps with the stress of the situation and our pressing need of passage, I drove these thoughts from my mind and accepted the captain’s offer.
With surprisingly little haggling, we settled on two hundred dollars for passage, and he granted us a small room on his ship. The crewman, who introduced himself as Samuel Carter, hoisted my specimen case aboard, and placed it atop an enormous wooden container which sat obstructing the deck.
“I’ll… show you to your cabin then sir,” Carter said, his eyes darting from the deck to the wooden container. I nodded, and despite that feeling of unease, followed him down a hatch in the deck and into the heart of the ship. As we descended, the Captain bellowed after us. “Our finest quarters, Carter. And then bring the… cargo below deck.”
He referred to the container, and I thought nothing of it. H had I known then what it held, I would have fled the ship in an instant. Instead, I tried to dismiss the thought, and the bizarre phrase he spoke as we walked away: “Catulu wugah tag fon.”
Our voyage went smoothly for the first few weeks, and Martha and I soon fell into a rhythm of reading, conversing and passing the time as pleasantly as we could. In the mornings, we would eat a small breakfast of biscuits in the galley, then stroll the deck or retire to our quarters. In the evenings, we ate alone. I had expected an invitation to dine with the Captain but happily, none was forthcoming. Indeed the entire crew seemed wary of us, unwilling to engage in all but the most general banter.
One night, as I lay opposite Martha in our cabin, I awoke in a cold sweat and was unable to return to sleep. My beloved remained unconscious and so I decided to take a walk on deck. As I strolled towards the aft of the ship, I heard two sailors conversing in hushed tones. I am usually a polite man, and would never eavesdrop, but something about their bearing struck me as odd, and so I stepped into the shadows and listened.
“It’s tonight then,” the rotund sailor said. He had a coarse English accent. “I hope her man puts up a fight. Should be fun.”
My heart thundered against its cage. Martha and I were the only couple on board, which meant they were talking about us.
“I wouldn’t mind getting into a scrap. Or getting physical with the girl.”
They both laughed, and I retreated further, my heart hammering in my chest. My mind raced with ideas of what the men planned for Martha and a stinging bile rose in my throat. I should never have boarded this ship.
I ran straight to our cabin, unsure of what I would do when I arrived, but before I could conjure a plan, I discovered the room was empty. They had taken her, and only I could attempt a rescue. I scoured the area for something to use as a weapon. As a botanist, I had no gun, and so improvised. I unclasped the buckle of my specimen case, lifted back the leather cover and removed a small glass vial.
As I did so, I heard a noise in the gangway. The same two sailors walked past the cabin, their boots stomping on the wooden floor. I elected to follow them, and placing the vial inside my coat pocket, crept out the door.
Soon, I heard a riotous roar from up ahead. The two men were going to meet the rest of the crew. They turned a corner into the armory, and I waited, listening for anything which might give me an advantage.
“We have arrived,” the Captain boomed. “As prophesied. Tonight, the stars are right. Tonight, we sacrifice the soul of this innocent and descend beneath the waves to Relyah, to the waiting arms of our dead master!”
The crew roared in response. I had run out of time. I reached for my pocket, removed the vial and rushed inside. The room was large, but even so it appeared cramped, as the wooden crate I had seen earlier now lay open here, tons of gunpowder spilling across the floor. The entire crew were gathered around a wooden altar on which my beloved Martha lay dazed. The Captain stood before her, a long dagger raised in his hands.
At the very moment I entered the room, he looked up, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He roared, “Seize him!”
The crew turned, but before they could react, I uncorked the vial and threw its contents towards them. Concentrated bhut jolokia – the hottest pepper known to man – dispersed through the air in a red haze. My opponents drew their weapons, but as they did, the pepper began to take effect. They stumbled, and I rushed past them to grab Martha. All around me, the blinded seamen cried out in pain as their eyes reddened and nostrils burned.
Having spent twenty-one years studying the plant, I had some immunity, and managed to lift Martha and make for the exit. Suddenly however, a hand grabbed my shoulder and I lost hold of my beloved. “To the lifeboats!” I cried and with a look of confused terror, Martha nodded and fled.
I turned around and found an opponent twice my weight and a foot taller, but with red eyes wet with tears. “You’re just food for the Old Gods,” he grunted, but as he spoke, I jabbed at his face and he fell, already off-balance from the effects of the pepper. As the cultist hit the floor, I glanced around and saw the Captain clambering back to his feet. He had drawn his pistol, and perhaps insane from his demented ritual, seemed oblivious to the danger of the spilled gunpowder.
I turned to flee and he fired. The sound of the shot never reached my ears, but I felt a searing pain in my left shoulder and stumbled through the door. Behind me, the Captain fired again and again, roaring in pain and anger. I climbed the steps to the main deck and heard Martha calling to me. Before I could reach her, the gunpowder ignited. My next memory is of lying drenched and semi-conscious in the lifeboat.
The following morning, I awoke once more, this time on a rocky island beneath a dark blue sky. My beloved held my head upon her lap, and brushed her fingers through my hair. For a moment, I could have thought it all a dream, but as I moved to kiss her, my shoulder seared in agony and I gritted my teeth.
“I thought you would die,” she said, reaching down to touch the exposed fresh.
I winced and turned to look across the sea, to where the Miskatonic Mary still drifted, half submerged, with dying flames licking her hull.
“There will be survivors,” I said.
“I know,” she replied.
“If they get to shore, they’ll try to kill us again.”
“I know.”
She took my hand in hers and squeezed as she looked out at the listing ship. Together then, we waited for the coming of the cult.