Innsmouth Horror, 2

Silas whistled between broken teeth: “Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest, Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum…”

˜

He unbuttoned his fly to relieve himself.  His urine sourced an amusing miniature cascade, running down stairs to a basement flat. Muffled shouting and a rap-rap-rap focused his attention on a grimy window which was level with the steps. Staring at him, eyes popping and jaw working, was a granny wearing an awful wig. Silas directed his stream upon the window where it rumbled, like Niagara Falls, against the glass in a most pleasing fashion.

–Voices–a G-man and a bog-trotter with a monkey upon his shoulder. Silas heard something about “Odin’s sac” before they both vanished within a puff of smoke. He simply stared, astounded by what he had just witnessed, mouth agape and manhood dribbling on to his boot. “What the fu—”

A huge worm, the thickness of a sewage pipe and a hundred yards long, burrowed into the sidewalk’s paving slabs and then exploded back out. He gripped his Cavalry Sabre and thought about a suicidal charge, but instead he looked to the contents of his kit bag. He pulled out a cloak which had a peculiar colour, like oil on water. Wrapping it around his shoulders, muttering a prayer to Odin and whoever else might be listening, Silas crept away from the worm.

˜

Silas trampled reeds underfoot, sticking to the island’s marsh-like bank and avoiding the bulrushes which grew along the Miskatonic River and could entangle a careless man.  A bird burst forth from the undergrowth, curiously, it flew straight upward with terrific speed and disappeared beyond the clouds. “A daytime shooting star?”

Willow trees encircled a hollow and between each trunk grew a solitary purple iris. Silas paused in his march, his nailed boot poised above an exquisite flower, and then he trod upon it with unnecessary violence, snapping its stem. The hollow was partly filled by stagnant water–a soup of decaying leaves–and in its centre a menhir, like one from Carnac, Brittany. He waded into the water, seizing hold of the menhir. He lowered his forehead, resting it against the cold stone–it was as if he was trying to commune with time. He pushed himself away with his strong arms, laughing harshly at his schoolboy wish. He noticed that someone had scratched childish symbols on the menhir; who was the young vandal?

Silas Marsh (2) - Copy

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