Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

I’d already put my empty Beretta away out of sight. “You better go quickly if you want to pull your buddy out,” I told them, jerking my thumb up at the warehouse. “He’s gonna need medical help.”

The first of them swore, speaking urgently into his mobile phone.

“What about Zeitsheim?” another of them growled, almost in my ear.

I looked down. A smear of something dark had oozed out from under the door. I was about to comment, when a small tongue of fire licked out and covered it possessively. There was a brief crackle, like fat on a fire, then it was over.

“He’s all yours,” I told them.

They were far too interested in their quarry to pay the cop and me any more attention. So we simply walked away.

The Feds had parked their car along the wharf. Just behind it, another cop was leaning against the bonnet of a patrol car. “What’s all the fuss, sarge?” he said to the cop beside me. “I heard shooting, but the Feds told me to keep my nose out of it.” It didn’t look like it had bothered him.

The cop with me just shook his head, like a man in a dream.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just leave you boys to it,” I drawled, making a move to do just that.

But the cop beside me finally came to. “Hold it, pal. You’re not going anywhere until we’ve cleared this mess up. We have arson—two fires, dammit—we have Feds crawlin’ about the place—we have that… thing in there. There’s a whole lot of questions that need answering, down at the precinct.”

I shrugged in resignation. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

The cop looked out again at the river, shaking his head. “I know what I saw, Ed. It’s just like Stone says on the tape. He didn’t make that up. Not the last bit anyway. Damn

, I saw it!”

“We can’t hold him forever. We have to charge him, or let him go.”

“What about the Feds?”

“If they found any trace of this illegal immigrant, they’re saying nothing. And they’re not filing any charges against Stone for shooting up their pal. And by the time that fire’s finally done with, there’ll be nothing left of that warehouse worth sifting through.”

“So all we have is that tape,” said the cop, eyeing the audio dubiously, “and my statement. Joe didn’t see anything. First sound of shooting and he’d have ducked under the dashboard. The Feds’ll deny all knowledge of involvement. They’ll want this covered up, whatever the hell was goin’ on. And I’ll tell you what else. I for one don’t want to go snoopin’ round that Innsmouth place. Back of hell and beyond.”

“You got that right. And I’ll tell you another thing, Hal. This is one case that ain’t gonna win you promotion.”

Hal nodded slowly. “So what the hell did I see?”

“Beats me. But maybe setting it alight was the best thing for it.”

Hal took the tape, considered it for a moment, then flung it far out into the river. “Let Stone go. No charges.”

“A wise decision, Hal.”

“What was it that dick called himself?”

“Stone?”

“Nightmare. Nick Nightmare.”

“That about says it all.”

Hal nodded again, watching the river. Suddenly he felt very tired.

FISH BRIDE

by CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN

WE LIE HERE together, naked on her sheets which are always damp, no matter the weather, and she’s still sleeping. I’ve lain next to her, watching the long cold sunrise, the walls of this dingy room in this dingy house turning so slowly from charcoal to a hundred successively lighter shades of grey. The weak November morning has a hard time at the window, because the glass was knocked out years ago and she chose as a substitute a sheet of tattered and not-quite-clear plastic she found washed up on the shore, held in place with mismatched nails and a few thumbtacks. But it deters the worst of the wind and rain and snow, and she says there’s nothing out there she wants to see, anyway. I’ve offered to replace the broken glass, a couple of times now I’ve said that, but it’s just another of the hundred or so things that I’ve promised I would do for her and haven’t yet gotten around to doing; she doesn’t seem to mind. That’s not why she keeps letting me come here. Whatever she wants from me, it isn’t handouts and pity and someone to fix her broken windows and leaky ceiling. Which is fortunate, as I’ve never fixed anything in my whole life. I can’t even change a flat tyre. I’ve only ever been the sort of man who does the harm and leaves it for someone else to put right again, or simply sweep beneath a rug where no one will have to notice the damage I’ve done. So, why should she be any different? And yet, to my knowledge, I’ve done her no harm so far.

I come down the hill from the village on those interminable nights and afternoons when I can’t write and don’t feel like getting drunk alone. I leave that other world, that safe and smothering kingdom of clean sheets and typescript, electric lights and indoor plumbing and radio and window frames with windowpanes, and follow the sandy path through gale-stunted trees and stolen, burned-out automobiles, smouldering trash-barrel fires and suspicious, under-lit glances.