Innsmouth Horror, 1

hank-samson

“Pa?” said Hank, looking around. “Pa, where’d you go?” He stopped to think for a while. “Did he go to the Train Station?” he wondered. “How do I get there? I don’t really know this town.” He leafed through the two Old Journals he held, “Maybe these old books will have maps or something?”

˜

Hank regarded the two Old Journals which his father had just bought but had left behind with his son. He thumbed through the pages which seemed to be about Arkham, and while he wasn’t much for book learning Hank showed remarkable determination to read through them. “I just wish they had more pictures,” he muttered. In one of the books there was a very detailed map of Arkham… and now he knew how to get to the Train Station; in the other he learned much about the history and legends of the place. He began to understand what had interested his father and why he had chosen to come here.

“Bye, mister,” Hank said with a wave to the shopkeeper as he walked out the General Store. He found himself in the streets of Rivertown.  The fastest route to the Train Station was through the Merchant District, but he heard an inhuman moan coming from that direction. Remembering what he had read, legends about the walking dead, he decided to avoid that direction and instead go north to Easttown. Walking past a decrepit looking roadhouse Hank paused, he could hear hushed conversations going on inside and out of curiosity poked his head in the doorway.

˜

As Hank walked into the roadhouse everyone inside stopped talking. He suddenly realised that he hadn’t gone to toilet in quite a while; he hurried into the men’s bathroom. It was filthy and covered by unspeakable stains, so he took care not to touch anything. Luckily, he only needed to make number one and didn’t have to sit on the ichor-covered toilet seat. After he finished he washed his hands just like Pa always told him to. He was about to leave when another man walked in, he reeked of fish and had some sort of skin disorder—scales covered his face and hands. Hank knew there was something odd about this fellow but he couldn’t put his finger on it, nor did he want to do so.

“Excuse me, mister,” he said to the stranger, “you’re in my way.”

“No,” answered the fishy man with a burbling voice, “you are in my way. I can’t let you poke your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Hank scratched his head. “What do you mean?”

“I saw you reading those books so I followed you in here. You know too much.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Playing dumb will not save you.”

“Playing?”

“Enough, now you die!” The man grabbed Hank with his claw-like hands, but the strapping youth hauled off and punched him square on the nose. There was a crack of bone breaking. The man collapsed to the floor, his neck at a funny angle.

“Mister, are you okay?” asked Hank. He shrugged when there was no response. “Guess he’s sleeping.” He stepped over the body and left the bathroom.

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