The Dark Somnium - My Friend Discovered Something Terrifying in The Ocean | Scary Stories from The Internet

Episode Date: June 10, 2026

Do you enjoy my Creepypasta Readings, Scary Stories from The Internet and Original Music? then make sure to leave a comment and let me know what scary stories you would like to hear me read!  Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Gray rocks and grayer sea and surf along the shore. And in my heart to name, my lips shall speak no more. Charles G.D. Roberts. Gray rocks and gray or sea. God's curse you, wately! Curse you to Hades! Get back, you devils! Back, I say! Oh God! Oh, Lord! Help my poor soul! These were the final words of Howard Marsh, bellowed out in a feverish panic as he was dragged shrieking and pleading into the gloomy waters of the Irish Sea.

To this day, I can hear them clearly in my mind, as if he were screaming into my ears at this very moment. They haunt my every waking hour, but are especially repugnant at night. When the encroaching darkness diminishes my other senses, delivering the horrid utterances with an abominable maddening clarity, in dreams too I find no salvation. Where Howard's words and his awful face, twisted with shock and rage, assault my slumbering mind nightly. I've not slept a full, restful night since I witnessed my friend's demise, snatched as he

was from the jagged rocks beyond the lighthouse where we had met on that terrible night five years ago. The lighthouse is gone now. Its brine-soaked masonry scattered across the seabed, and destined to slowly erode into pebbles, and then sand, and then finally nothing until it joins the abyssal fathoms that lurk deep beneath the waves. Though Howard Marsh's end has been of his own doing, pulled away from this earth by the very cosmic forces that he had once sought to embrace, I cannot help but pity him. For I am not convinced that his physical ruin erased all trace of the man, nor that of the

other whore that had shared the lonely lighthouse with him. It is no simple endeavor to write an account of what I witnessed that forsaken night. My hands tremble with every vivid detail that I dare myself to recall, and what little courage remains in me is fragile and fleeting. I have tried every earthly prescription known to mankind in my quest to blot out that terrible night from my mind, especially the dreadful end that befell Howard Marsh, but nothing satisfies. Liquor does not help, it only makes things worse, bringing on fantastic dreams of things Howard had only hinted at during our final conversation.

I had some success with morphine, but the white lady's toll on mind and spirit only helps to erode away the memories I seek to retain while doing nothing to erase that evening of alien horror, and hopes that I can finally banish away the nightly terrors for good, as well as following the advice of Dr. Fleming at Byron House, I will now recount in full that lonely, wind-wrecked evening I shared with Howard Marsh in that doomed, crumbling edifice that was once the St. Michael's Lighthouse. I had known Howard Fnigh on two decades before driving out to that lonely stretch of coast to see him.

We had met on board the Lady Lenore, a rather poetic epithet for a dull North Sea oil rig, officially dubbed Ockfield Alpha by the Anglo and Nord Petroleum Company. I was Howard Sr. back then, and I remember him as an energetic young man in his early 30s with a family. He was eager to learn the ropes of working on an oil rig and possessed an insatiable knowledge for all things. When not working, he would sit up in his bunk until the early hours, pouring over historical texts and scratching down copious notes in his various journals. I will freely admit that during those early days, I could not stand the man, and on more than one occasion we had nearly come to blows over his incessant midnight scribblings.

Eventually, I did soften towards him. And after a few conversations over a bottle of rum, I discovered we had more similarities than differences, both being keen lovers of history. I felt sorry for him as well. Life as the new face on board an oil rig can be hard, and it can take a while to adjust to being away from one's family. The other roughnecks teased him ceaselessly, ridiculing his appearance, in particular his large watery eyes, small ears, and thick wide lips.

Despite this, he worked hard and was offered a promotion. in a relatively short time. Our foreman, Alan Bishop, was a man not easily impressed by others, but even he took a shine to Howard and his strong work ethic. One of Bishop's many habits was that he refused to use given names, instead barking out Marsh and Waitley whenever he needed our attention, which was frequent, given that we are part of the electrical maintenance team. This amused Howard, who also took to calling me Waitley and never by Doug, despite how many times I protested. Though he always displayed a diligence towards his work, I had the impression that Howard

was more interested in the seas around the Lady Lenore than the rig itself, and I would often catch him staring out across the crashing waves while on the platform, or gazing out the window in our bunk room whenever a storm interrupted our schedule. He wasn't on the rig for long, working less than 18 months in total across several long stretches of service. I remember our final day working together. He had expressed an interest to return home and to be with his love, Lavinia, whom I took to be his wife and mother of his children.

I was sad to see him go, and we exchanged details. He promised to write me as often as he could and kept me abreast of his future adventures. To give him his due, he kept his word, and every few weeks a letter from him would arrive from the mainland. I remember that first note distinctly, because I was taken aback by a little. its contents. Howard told me that he had decided to join the Merchant Navy. Hardly a career for any man who had a longing to be by his family's side, I thought. He explained that his service aboard one of Great Britain's commercial vessels would afford him the opportunity to visit

distant and exotic locations that he had always loved to see, including several islands in the South Seas that I had never heard of. After five years with the Merchant Navy, he informed me that he and his wife had sadly divorced, and that he had plans to immigrate to America, Massachusetts specifically. He explained that he had a family living on the East Coast, in particular in the towns of Kingsport and Innsmouth, and he had need of them to help unravel some mysteries in his own family tree that had so far evaded him. I lost contact with Howard not long after he left for the States, and to my great shame had put him far from my mind once I returned from the rig and set up a small newspaper agents in my hometown of Barton and Cheshire to help see me through

to my pension age. Compared to the rig, the work was easy, but painfully banal and dull. I would occasionally reminisce about my time on board the Lenore and look over old photographs of me, Howard, and the other lads. I did have an address for Howard, and on several occasions I started to pen a letter to him, but never managed to scribble more than a few lines before abandoning the endeavor, the more time the passed, the harder it became to write him. And so I resigned our time on the rig together as a fond memory and nothing more. As fate would have it, however, I unexpectedly received a letter from Howard, nearly twenty years since we had first met aboard the Lady Lenore.

It arrived with the first post and was marked with a Cumbrian stamp depicting the beautiful green valleys of the Lake District. Opening the letter, I was at first quite shocked, not so much for its contents, but for the way in which it was presented. The handwriting was sloppy, childish even, and it took me several attempts to read the first few lines. It was a stark contrast to the elegant penmanship that was characteristic of Howard's past correspondences. Though I did not know it at the time, the words written down upon the crudely folded piece of paper would alter the course of my life forever and plunge me into an endless void from which I am yet to emerge. The letter from

Howard Marsh reads as follows. Waitley, I hope this letter finds you in good health. I know we have not spoken for some years, and I apologise for my lack of due diligence to the friendship we once possessed. The offshore manager of the Lenore was kind enough to furnish me with your new address, and I am happy to see that you have returned to your home village. You spoke so fondly of Barton during our time on the Lenore, and I hope you are settled and happy. Interestingly, I had caused to visit the village a few years back. It is a cruel twist of fate that our paths did not cross then. But I believe you were still working aboard the rig at the time.

The gunner's cloth was everything you told me it was, with its tangled briars and bramble-clogged streams. I could see why it has captured the imagination of so many of Barton's residents. I must say, however, that despite the sinister reputation you attributed to the cloth, I felt at peace as I strolled beneath the canopy of its witch-elm trees. I am sorry to say that America did not work out quite as I had intended, and I returned to Britain some years ago, penniless and destitute. By some small shred of luck, I managed to secure a position as a wiki up north in Cumbria a few years ago, and had been working at the St. Michael's Lighthouse ever since.

Unfortunately, we have recently received word that the lighthouse is due to be decommissioned and demolished next week. Apparently, the maintenance for such a remote tower has become too costly to justify. I was wondering if you would care to join me here at the lighthouse. We have much to catch up on. So how about we share a bottle of something and talk about all that has transpired since we last spoke? I greatly miss our friendship, and the memories of our time together on the Lenora are among the few happy ones I have left to keep me company on these damnable, long and oppressively bleak nights. My last day will be this Sunday.

Why don't you drive out here and join me? We can while away the evening with strong drink and talk of times past, and then head up to the tower to watch the sunrise one last time of the lighthouse. Yours, Howard Marsh. P.S. It would be remiss of me to not inform you of this, but I am afraid to say that during my time in America I have contracted a rare skin condition. Don't worry, it's not contagious in the least, simply a hereditary condition that has sadly been afflicted upon my family for many generations.

If you do decide to visit, please do not be alarmed by my appearance. I remain the same man you worked with on board the Lenore. Excited by the letter, I initially tried to call Howard and discuss his request over the telephone, but I quickly learned that there was no number listed for the lighthouse in any of the Cumbrian directories. Replying via letter was out of the question. As confident as I was in the Royal Mail, I'd received Howard's letter on a Thursday morning, and getting a reply to him before the weekend was going to be very difficult. I soon learned that it was just as difficult to locate exactly where the the lighthouse was on a map, and it was only by some small miracle that the local library

in Eastwich had an updated National Road Index that listed a St. Michael's Island near to the town of Seascale in Cumbria. I say near, but the term was largely relative, as I soon discovered, the island was far from any town or village on the Cumbrian coast. Seascale was simply the closest, but even that was a good twenty miles to the south of the island by car. With no way to respond to Howard's letter, I decided it best to send him to the same to the to simply travel to St. Michael's Island and see if there was indeed a lighthouse there.

The only other option would be to ignore Howard's request, but the thought of him sitting alone in that place, eagerly awaiting my arrival, only to be disappointed if I did not show, was unbearable. So, with the newsagents left in the capable hands of a trusted employee, I set out in my car early Sunday morning and made the long trip north. The journey was pleasant enough, and though the skies grew darker and more pendulous the further I traveled away from Cheshire. No doubt I was about to experience the stormy weather that the Cumbrian coast was famed for. On several occasions, I had to pull over in order to read the map I had brought with me, and it was during these times that I noticed just how nebulous

the clouds above me were becoming. In a little time, my car's headlights had to be turned on to assist in illuminating the darkening country lanes that my map had assured me would lead to my destination. By the time the lashing Irish sea finally came into view, The rain was hammering relentlessly on the roof of my car. The visibility in my fogged up windscreen had also grown perilously limited. And so I slowed the car down to a crawl as it maneuvered around each twisting bend and tight curve in the road. After what felt like a lifetime of cautiously navigating my way forward, I spied the flashing

light of a road sign up ahead, as my headlights swept feebly across the gloomy landscape. Slowing to a stop, I wound down the window, wincing its barrage of cold rain, Pelted my eyes and tried to make out what was written on the sign. Sea scale, two miles. The sign was pointing towards a narrow road that snaked its way to my left and closer to the churning gray waters of the coast. With the maelstrom above me, only threatening to grow worse, I decided a brief sojourn back to civilization would be welcomed.

Not to mention, I could pick up a few sundries for Howard to enjoy when I finally did manage to join him at the lighthouse later. The town came into view quickly as I followed the road down. towards the sea. Large empty fields, constrained by hedges that were little more than a tangle of bony briars flanked either side of me, and through the downpour I could make out the silhouettes of several crumbling and dilapidated properties, squatting along just beyond the neglected farmland. A small stone bridge appeared in the road ahead, and beyond this several more houses could

be seen. At first, the properties were spaced out, dotted on the left-hand side of the road, but as I drew closer upon the town, I could see more of them nestled together beyond a large sign that read, Welcome to Sea Scare. The town itself was wholly unremarkable, apart from the omnipresent sea and its crashing waves to my left, it did little to stand out from the hundreds of towns and villages I had visited across Britain. The storm had, of course, driven most of the locals out of the streets that bisected the houses and numerous B&Bs that faced the coast, turning right and following a road that led to a small tunnel beneath a railway or

bridge, I merged on either side, finding a large stone hall looming to my right and a local church perched on a hillhawk in front of me. Passing the church and traveling towards what I guessed must be the town proper, I spied what looked like some kind of ongoing restoration project. A large squat building appeared to be in the process of being torn down, though with the storm raging, the construction vehicles crowning the structure were naturally abandoned. It was a sad sight. Clearly it had been a prominent and important building, but was now little more than a skeleton

of rafters and beams, precariously held together by a husk of what little stone material endured. Passing by slowly, I could just make out a decayed sign still clinging stubbornly to one of the last remaining intact walls. It read, Scaffell Hotel, in a flaking, gold lettering. As I continued making my way to the town center, I could not banish the name, Scafell from my mind. I was convinced I had heard of such a place before, some residual memory or half-remembered conversation, perhaps. Skafell. I rolled the word around in my mouth a few times to see if I can invoke some kind of reminiscence,

but nothing came. The side of a newsagents and an adjoining sandwich shop up ahead quickly banished the hotel's ruins from my mind, however. And I pulled over eagerly, a sudden hunger gripping me as the various advertisements for homemade sandwiches and freshly baked pork pies beckoned. The woman behind the counter of the sandwich shop was friendly and pleasant, humming attuned to herself as she made me two large ham and cheese sandwiches. One for me and one for howl, which she filled to the brim.

The man working the counter at the newsagents, whom I took to be her husband, was less gregarious and appeared to be annoyed at having to put his newspaper down to serve me when I placed my basket on the countertop. He lugubriously packed my items into a paper bag. I learned from personal experience that working in a newsagent is hardly an exciting career choice, but I prided myself on always greeting my customers with a smile and some small talk. Not this fellow, however. Anything else?

He said. His words were impassioned and hollow. A bottle of violent gold. Will that be old, sir? He turned his head slightly downwards and glared at me through his bushy, furrowed eyebrows. Oh yeah, that's everything. Thank you. I said, pulling out a 20-pound note. Actually, you wouldn't have happened to have heard of the St. Michael's Lighthouse, would you?

Supposedly, it's not too far from here. The lighthouse? Aye, there's a lighthouse near here. Can't say I've had much call to visit there. It's out in the middle of nowhere. Why'd you ask? I'm visiting a friend of mine who works there, Howard Marsh. Do you know him? No, I don't.

And I don't care to. If he's a mash, he's not welcome here. How do you mean? Let's just say when it comes to Marshes, I ain't got time for him, and we'll just leave it at that. He handed me the change and nodded. Well, I hesitated.

I'll be going, picking up my items and turning to leave. He won't be getting to the lighthouse now. He said, picking up his newspaper. The tide's in. Won't be at again until, oh, around 8 o'clock this evening by my reckoning. I paused. Howard had said nothing to me about this in his letter.

I had assumed the lighthouse simply stood on the coast. So what they called the Tide Delio? He continued, not bothering to look up from his paper. There's a causeway that leads to it. You can only walk it when the tide's out, which at this time of year is either around 7 in the morning or at 8 at night. I glanced at my watch. It was barely one.

Eight o'clock, you say? He nodded slowly. How long is this causeway? I inquired, with the realization that my meeting was now at the tide's mercy. Not too long. I think it's just under a mile or so. He flicked to the next page of his paper, a small smirk starting to creep across his lips. A mile, but that's some distance. Is it safe?

He slapped his newspaper down on the counter and stared directly at me for a few uncomfortable seconds before answering. Should be, I guess. There's a handrail attached to it. Just make sure you use it. The causeway is bound to be slippery, especially in this weather. He gestured outside at the torrential rain. It's safer than it used to be anyway. Now that it's covered in concrete. Say for how? Before they covered it, it was the natural crossing to the island, or so I've heard the old codgers around they say. The devil's spine, they used to call it back in the old days.

I suppose it was like that in the Giants' Cores where they have an island. You know the one they made out of the columns shaped like, what do you call them? Hicksigans? I suppose it was like that. It's interesting, I replied. The devil's spine? That's certainly a colourful name. How did it come to be called that, I wonder?

Are that bugger should I know? Look, if you're that interested, there's a library up town on Gusford Road? Why don't you go there and ask? I got work to do. With that, he packed up his paper once more and shambled through a doorway behind the counter, grumbling to himself as he did so. Glancing at my watch again, I do have quite some time on my hands before the low tide, I thought. The talk of the causeway had intrigued me. It sounded just like the kind of thing Howard would have written about in his journal.

Perhaps a visit to the local library would help to whittle away a few hours at least. And if I could learn some more about the double spine, it would give me and Howard something to discuss. After all, my life had hardly been one of note since we last met. The rain outside was refusing to let up, so I quickly popped open the trunk of my car and threw the rum, cigars, and the rest inside, before jumping back into the driver's seat. Gosforth Road was relatively close by, and had the weather been anything less than tumultuous, I would have cheerfully walked there. By car, the library took less than a minute to reach, and thankfully, the lights illuminating the interior confirmed that it was open to the public. Running inside, I found the smell of the building to be earthy, smoky almost, with the unmistakable aroma of ancient yellowed papers and aged leather. Like many libraries, it was deathly silent, and I quickly realized that apart from a young woman sitting at the front desk, I was the only soul inside.

The gruff fellow at the store had given me enough to work with, and I busied myself stocking the shelves and browsing the card catalog, looking for any geographical or historical texts that mentioned St. Michael's Island, the lighthouse, or the devil's spine. After an hour, I'd managed to assemble a small pile of relevant texts, which I immediately started to skim through in hopes of finding any crumbs of information on my selected topic. The young librarian, whose name I learned was Annabel, was kind enough to bring me some coffee as I scoured through the assembled books, as well as point me towards other sources of information, such as the local newspaper archive.

Within a few hours, I had managed to piece together a small spider's web of fragmented stories, folklore, and historical documentation centered upon the St. Michael's Lighthouse and the surrounding island. The earliest mention of the aisle appeared in the Cumberland packet paper from 1776, which contained a reference to an angelic and vicar named Frederick Cooper. The paper reported that throughout the latter half of the year, Cooper had delivered a series of fiery sermons at the St. James Church in Whitehaven that addressed reports of blasphemers said to be operating in and around the devil's spine. The sermon spoke of strange noises, dancing lights, and unholy pagan rites that several

unknown residents of Cumberland had been engaging in whenever the tide was low enough to permit entry into the devil's spine and detached island, which at the time appeared to be named by the locals as the witch mound. The island's reputation was just as sinister as the spines, and from a tome dedicated to the geography of Cumberland, I learned that it once housed a curious arrangement of stone monoliths. Not unlike those in Salsbury, these, however, appeared to be strange in their form. They were not hewn or smooth, but geometric columns similar to the hexagonal shapes that formed the devil's spine, only reaching much greater heights and widths.

All manner of myth cycles and local folklore were attached to these columns, but the most prevalent was a legend of Long Polly, a spectral hag who was said to haunt the stones with her disciples. Her coven was said to call upon a terrible black demon but lived beneath the aisle, and there was talk of dark packs and sacrifices made to the stones at the times of Alpergus and Hollow's Eve. Frederick Cooper had warned his congregation on numerous occasions to avoid trafficking with the wicked spright of Long Polly and her hellish imps in his sermons, and he also condemned the use of pagan offerings made to false idols. In particular, he appeared to be greatly vexed by the locals' use

of a heathen hieroglyph, said to ward off evil, and ask that his flock looked to the Lord for their salvation from dark powers. There were later records of arrests made relating to these incidents. Though the details were scarce in the names of the perpetrators and the outcomes of the arrests were not published, and no other account of them could be found, At least not in the text I had at hand. The only other mention of the witch mound spoke of a local legend recorded in 1906 by the anthropologist and antiquarian Sir Robert Shaw in his book titled Cumberland Folklore and Devoury. Sir Robert had written of an account given to him by a sea-scale man who spoke of the strange

noises that could occasionally be heard emanating from the rocks around the witch mound, whenever the tide was out and the wind was strong. The sound was difficult to describe, for it resembled no known speech spoken in the region. Sir Robert had done his best to write down what the seascale man told him, recording the sinister sound as something resembling tecolili. Though he took great pains to assure the reader that even these queer letters failed to truly capture the haunting and morbid essence of the sound as described to him. At some point, around a century after Frederick Cooper was first warned of the ill omen surrounding the island,

the lighthouse had been commissioned and built upon the island. which had now been given the name St. Michael's. The stones must have been destroyed to make way for the lighthouse, and the devil's spine had reportedly been covered with steel-reinforced concrete around the same time. Apart from the strange whistling sound but could occasionally still be heard, no further reports of strange lights or devil worship persisted, and all later writings discussing the island and the lighthouse were painfully banal and mundane in scope. By the time I had finished my impromptu investigation, it was nearly six o'clock,

and the sun had vanished, giving way to the chilling shadows that accompanied the growing autumn darkness. The worst of the storm had mercifully passed, though it was still ferociously windy and hopelessly damp outside. With more than enough time to make it to the devil's spine for the low tide, I jumped once more into my car and made my way out to sea scale and back to the main road that led to the north. Though the rain had cleared, visibility was still poor due to the lack of street lamps beyond

the town, and my feeble headlamps struggled to banish away the perpetual gloom that enveloped the lonely road ahead. Reading the map was even more difficult in the oppressive dimness, and I struggled to pinpoint exactly where I was as I wrestled with it and a small pocket flashlight I had brought for just such an occasion. I was about to pull over, but as my car crested a small hillock in the road, I suddenly spied the St. Michael's Lighthouse, casting its beacon across the churning waves. washed over me.

With the lighthouse's aid, I could easily reach my destination, and I tossed the map and flashlight aside. Arriving at the coast, I found a small patch of flattened earth that was slightly elevated from the road and that served nicely for a parking spot, and so I pulled the car in, facing the lighthouse directly. From my vantage point, I could see that the bulk of the causeway was still submerged by the thrashing waves, though for a brief moment I thought I could spy the very top of the gray concrete structure breaching the water.

on the side closest to the coast. It was around 7 o'clock, and assuming that the store clerk had been accurate, with his title knowledge, I had an hour or so before the causeway emerged from the brimy fathoms. The beacon's light swept across my car as it made its languid sojourn across the waters, illuminating everything briefly in a cold, pale glow, before plunging me once more into the platonic depths of the lonely Cumbrian countryside. The signal from my radio offered little more than an incessant buzzing static, but I was I fiddled with the tuner in a vain hopes of finding something to help me pass the time.

As I strained to hear through the hissing and crackling, I suddenly became aware of a sound beyond of something outside the car. It was faint and distant, and I fancied that I had imagined it when I wound my window down, only to be greeted by the billowing winds and crashing waves. I was about to dismiss the matter and returned to the radio when I heard it again, a sort of whistling sound coming from the direction of the lighthouse. My mind struggled to form exactly what the sound was. It was almost like a voice whispering feebly into the night air.

But there was a whimsical melancholy to it, and it was oppressively stidging and lonesome. As I struggled to make sense of the odd notes, I felt a sudden rise in the air around me. It is difficult to truly describe that it was almost as if the air around me was vibrating, in unison to the whistle. I remembered Sir Robert's account of the sea-scale man's encounter with the strange noise. around the lighthouse, and that is when the words started to form before me in a horrid clarity. I cannot say if it was the sound that formed the words or the words that formed the sound, but it was unmistakable in its utterances.

Take your ear, I felt a chilling dread gripped my heart, freezing it momentarily, and I could feel the beginning of a panic creep over my skin. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, another sound bellowed out into the night, drowning out the winds, and then, and then, suddenly, and the waves and the strange musical whisperings. I physically jumped, striking the top of my head on the frame of the window as it roared out once more. It was the lighthouse foghorn. It took me a few minutes to appreciate that, although shocking, the booming cacophony was wholly mundane

in nature and did not warrant the alarm and panic that had briefly fostered upon me. What happened next, however, was remarkably abnormal, for almost as if in response to that second mournful dirge, the light of the beacon shifted in its composition, transforming from a pale white to chalcedonic green hue but slowly deepened in tone to a dark emerald. Absurdily, despite the obvious dimming, the beacon continued to give off a glow on the very outer edges of the beam in a nimbus of pinks, oranges, and blues. I was struck with the paradoxical realization that the light was somehow both dazzlingly bright and unfathomably dark at the same time. The closest comparison I can put into words is the remarkable displays of the Aurora Borealis,

with its shifting cosmic arcs and shimmering chromatic waves. After a few seconds, the bizarre display shifted once more, transforming into a cold green gold. I cannot say for how long I gazed at the light as it rotated slowly across the sea and the coast. By the time I managed to break its spell, I could see that the tide had fully retreated, and the gray, slimy concrete of the causeway was now clearly visible and accessible. I wasted no time and grabbed my belongings from the trunk of the car. I have no idea what possessed me to take the next item from the glove box of my car, but I did so decidedly once I remembered that it was there, be it paranoia or some unconscious awakening of survival instinct,

but just as I was about to make my way towards the devil's spine, I quickly returned to my car and retrieved the revolver. The gun had once belonged to my grandfather, who had brought it up, brought it back with him when the war ended and gifted it to my father, who in turn gave it to me, something of a family heirloom that was quite illegal. I had thought about handing it over to the police, but always decided against it. I had precious few memories of my grandfather, and this lone artifact was one of the few remaining pieces of him in my life. I had no idea if the thing even worked, but it was loaded with six brass shells, and the weight of the grip in my palm was reassuring. Making my way to the cause

I soon learned that the small set of steps leading down towards it were hopelessly slick with a disgusting, briny sludge that I assumed must have been deposited by the retreating waves. The slime was omnipresent and slippery, and I was forced to hold my flashlight in my mouth so that I could at least grasp onto the railing that jutted precariously out of the concrete. I managed to slowly pull myself along the railing, despite the ferocious October winds battering me incessantly. Once or twice I felt my feet slip on some horrid, jelly-pearl.

deposit, but I managed to stay steady as I progressed sluggishly forward and towards the sweeping beacon of the lighthouse. The whole scenario felt like a dream, as if I were trapped in one of those awful somnambulic shambles where the dreamer is unable to run or even walk without expending a Herculean effort. As I lumbered across the path, I could just about make out the patterns of hexagonal shapes in the ground where the gray concrete had eroded and thinned from years of title scorings. I wondered how many more waves the concrete could withstand before great chunks of it fell away to reveal the antique horror of the devil's spine that lay beneath. Every few minutes from the sickly green gold light of the beacon would wash over the causeway, briefly illuminating my way

before plunging me once more into Stygian blackness. These times were the most dreadful, as the beacon brought not only light, but also the deep shadows of whatever it cast itself upon. I half fancied all manner of strange sea-dwelling creatures crawling across the exposed seabed, disgusting crabs, floundering fish things, and strange jellies danced before my eyes whenever the light washed over me. The foghorns sounded again, causing me to physically jump in fright as its mournful dirge filled the air once more. Finally, after nearly forty minutes of struggling against the wind, I eventually reached the

island, where another set of steps leading upward greeted me. With one last burst of what little energy remained in my legs, I ascended them triumphantly. The island itself was small, with the lighthouse and adjacent stone cottage taking up the bulk of available space. Most of it was little more than black jagged rocks with a few slick cyclopean stones, which I half imagined to be remnants from the supposed hexagonal columns which once formed the witch mound mentioned in Sir Robert's book. There was little to nothing in the way of floor, except for an emaciated skeletal tree

that stood alone, anemic and withered to the east of the island. A small oil lamp was attached to the wall of the cottage, its iron frame clinging against the gray slate from which the cottage was made. The adjacent door, which appeared to be crafted from little more than driftwood, was gnarled and decrepit and slightly ajar, banging and slamming against its frame. The light of the cottage appeared to be on, though the shutters had been pulled across the windows, hearing whatever lay in the rooms beyond. Lashed by the winds and soaked to the bones, I wasted little time in approaching the door

and entering the cottage. A small hallway with two doors on either side greeted me as I entered. A fifth door, at the far end of the hallway, directly in front, was open, and beyond it I could see the spiral iron staircase, which I guess must lead to the lighthouse tower. There was a coat rack crudely nailed to the wall in my left, with a few scattered coats, caps, and scarves piled on the hand-carved pegs. Beneath them lay three sets of large boots, all of which appeared to be mud-clogged and sodden. I wiped my own boots on the coarse perlap doormat, expecting my friend to hear me and come out to greet me. I heard nothing, however,

save for the muted winds still billowing outside. The Howard? I shouted into the deserted hallway. Are you there, Marsh? It's Waitley. Nothing. Shrugging, I removed my boots and placed them next to the others. I also removed my soaked coat and hung it up on what little space remained on the rack. Not wishing to intrude, but also motivated by the possibility of a hot cup of coffee, I walked to the nearest door on the right, making sure my steps were loud and deliberate in hopes that my host would hear them.

The room beyond was the bunk room, confirmed by the presence of four large wooden bed frames, with a small chest position nearby for personal items. A small adjacent bathroom with a tin bath and an attached shower accounted for the next door. There was no toilet in the bathroom. The idea of braving the storm in order to make use of that particular facility did not appeal to me, so I made a lighthearted note to myself to take it easy on the rum I had brought. The doors on the other side opened into a combined kitchen, sitting room, and study. The kitchen was basic, consisting of little more than a stove and some cupboards.

I placed my bag and sundries upon the counter, again deliberately and with intent to alert Howard to my presence. When only silence followed, I instead decided to boil some coffee in preparation for my host's eventual appearance. The sitting room was dark, but looked somewhat cozy and comfy, with several large chairs positioned against the far wall with a log burner between them, which I was overjoyed to see was currently aflame and glowing with the lambent embers of several burning logs. Of the fire, I could see an old portrait depicting a beautiful woman with long, flowing black hair and deep green eyes.

I neared closer to warm my hands and take a better look at the painting, but instead noticed a small folded-up note with weightly scribbled in pencil sitting on the mantelpiece waiting for me. I picked it up and unfolded it, read it by the same atrocious handwriting I had seen in Howard's letter. Make yourself at home. Making adjustments to the lens. We'll be down shortly.

I had no way of knowing when the note had been written, but guessed that he had penned sometime in the evening, knowing that I had missed the morning's low tide and my opportunity to cross the causeway before nightfall. At least he was home, I thought. Glancing around the room, I could see the walls were resplendent with sagging bookshelves, crammed with various tomes, novels, manuscripts, and grimwar. The collection was eclectic and disorganized. of the books focused on topics such as geography, naval history, folklore, and ocean mythology.

This is classic Marsh, I amused. How little he must have changed since I last saw him. One manuscript in particular stood out to me. Yellowed and frayed, it looked hopelessly ancient and crinkled next to the various books and tomes. I reached out gently with both hands and pulled it from where I had been sandwiched between a small leather-bound book titled de Vermis Mysteries and a large wormy in text called On Auspressed Leitinklton. The manuscript appeared to have been well read, with notes scribed upon the cover haphazardly. The title, Things of the Water, was scrawled in a spidery handwritten script on the inside of the cover, with the words cathart aquedinion in parentheses underneath.

I moved closer to the glowing log burner and angled the manuscript so I could see more of the text inside, noticing some signs of fire damage along its edges. The light, however, did little to illuminate the actual purpose of the manuscript, as it moved dizzingly from one topic to the next, with no discernible order. The best I could guess, it was some kind of a treatise on magic, with various formulas, sigils, and rituals scrawled upon it in various languages, most of which I cannot recognize. Various queer hieroglyphs were illustrated on many of the pages, auditors. arrangements of star-like shapes with ocular patterns inside.

One of the pages had an old charcoal sketch that had been crudely glued to the paper, that appeared to depict an image so alien that I simply could not understand what the artist's intent behind it had been. I turned the manuscript over in my hands at every possible angle I could, in vain hopes of making sense of the art. The best I could describe it was that it appeared to show a set of spherical shapes resembling bubbles, mounted upon what looked like a mass of writhing, shadowy tendrils. Curiosity consuming me, I gently peeled away the bottom right corner, pulling away enough

of the sketch to reveal some crabbed handwriting on the other side that simply read The Danforth Nightmare. The sound of boiling coffee disturbed my reading, and I quickly placed the manuscript back where I had found it before removing the pot from the stove. The smell of the coffee was warm and inviting as I strained the thick black liquid into two clay mugs I found on the counter nearby. I was about to call out to Howard once more, but the sounds of footsteps coming from beyond the kitchen made this unnecessary. Excitedly, I grabbed the two mugs and made my way into the hall, ready to surprise my friend. The sounds

were coming directly from the door at the far end of the hallway, or more precisely from the rickety iron staircase beyond. The footsteps were slow and heavy, but regular, and I guessed that Marsh was likely fatigued from a hard day of work. Still, there was something unaccountably off about the metallic budding that accompanied the sound as it echoed in the chamber around the stairs. It was almost like a slapping sound, as if each step was being struck by something wet and damp that momentarily clung to its surface before being peeled away. As I strained to hear the strange footsteps growing closer, I noticed a pair of large boots placed at the base of the staircase. Though it was dark and shadowed beyond the door, I could see that these boots were prodigious in size, almost comically so.

I couldn't make out their total composition, but they appeared to be perhaps as long as 15 inches with a vast broadness across the width. There was something so singular and odd about the craftsmanship of the heel and arch of the boots that made them look more like flippers than footwear. The only comparison I could make at the time was the bespoke shoes one sometimes sees being worn by those born with legs of varying lengths or perhaps a prosthetic of some kind. The sounds were growing nearer, however, and regardless of the oddness behind my host's movement, I was growing excited to finally see him after so many years apart.

That elation, however, swiftly left my body as Marsh finally appeared before me. I almost gasped as he rounded the staircase and came into sight. It was difficult at first to really understand just what it was that unnerved me enough to take a few steps back, spilling some of the scolding coffee on my hands. But as he came into view, it was painfully obvious that a great change had wrought itself upon him. He was tall, strikingly so. I had always been the taller of the two of us, but that was apparently no longer the case.

He must have gained something like a foot in height from the last time I'd seen him. And even then, I could tell he was stooped at the shoulder, leaning forward in a queer manner that made him look awkward and stiff. His legs were long, even accounting for his height. And there was something strange about the area around his knees that I could not readily identify. He was, thankfully, I thought, heaped in all manner of thick clothing, including a large overcoat, a thick knitted jumper that covered his neck and various scarves arranged around his face in a manner that suggested in ignorance of their true function.

A gray cap was perched precariously atop his oddly elliptical head, and a pair of leather Their gloves lay stretched upon his large, flat hands and pulled across his long, spiedry fingers. It was his eyes, however, that truly shocked me. Howard had always had large protuberant eyes, but by some cruel method, be it injury or the strange malady he had alluded to in his letter, the space between them had unaccountably widened, pushing them far away from each other like opposing magnets, until they lay almost on the side of his head. They glowed too, or at least they did so for a brief moment as they were illuminated by the light of the hallway as he bent down and sat upon the step, reaching out for his colossal

boots. With a great, awkward effort, he finally managed to fit his long, flat feet into the makeshift footwear, squeezing each other into their respective boot with an obvious strain. Though he had asked that I not be disturbed by his appearance, my reaction to him was uncontrollable, and for a brief moment I thought about the revolver in my own. pocket. I could not think of any disease or genetic condition that could account for so drastic a change in my friend's countenance, much less the prestigious changes to his height and the length of his limbs. Finally, he walked towards me, lowering his head and bending down slightly in order

to pass through the doorframe. Hypnotically, I reached out and passed him one of the mugs, which he took in his large hands, the size of which made the mug look like more than a child's teacup. Without saying a word, he gestured toward the kitchen with a nod of his misshapen head and shambled inside. Hesitating slightly, I reluctantly followed behind him as he lurched over to one of the two chairs. His crooked form was briefly illuminated by the glowing embers of the log burner, causing an amber nimbus to crown his body, making him appear even more alien and otherworldly. With a great flopping gesture, he awkwardly threw himself down into one of the chairs, causing

the leather to creak in protest at his cumbersome bulk. The chair barely managed to contain him, and parts of his clothing, or perhaps even parts of his body, seemed to ooze and flow beyond its confines. Once seated, he looked towards me with his large eyes, which shined like opals in the glow of the fire, and bid me to join him. As I neared closer, I detected an awful fishy smell that seemed to linger over him. That intensified with proximity, and I shuddered internally to think about. of what manner of uncleanness could be responsible for such a stench. Finally, I joined my host at the fire and sat down myself, taking a sip of coffee, which frankly helped to mask the odor emanating from him.

He said nothing, but continued to stare at me with those large, watery eyes, neither of which so much has twitched, let alone blinked, as we sat opposite one another in the shadowy dark. A few minutes passed, during which time he continued to glare at me in silence, ignoring the coffee in his hand. Unable to stand the oppressive quiet any longer, I pointed up towards the painting above the fireplace. That's an interesting piece, I said. It's very well done.

Is it yours? Without taking his eyes off me, he nodded slowly. Then from underneath the various scarves wrapped around the lower part of his face, I heard a guttural splutter, something halfway between a cough and a sigh. It was only by reluctantly leaning closer to him in the horrid stench that I was able to make out that he wasn't coughing at all, but speaking. Strange, choking words, hideously licoriceant, were spilling forth from his melting mouth. Yes, quietly, St. Bronx's ancestor, in smoth, Lavinia Marsh.

His words chilled me, each syllable causing my skin to crawl. Though there was nothing to at that particular moment to cause me to dread what he was saying, the way the words were punctuated with a disgusting, slimy emphasis unnerved me greatly. Waitly, Insmouth, and Lavinia in particular were spoken with a certain degree of clarity that gave me the impression that he was attempting to fight through the abundant phlegm nestling in his throat to attempt, at the very least, a particularly correct pronunciation. Oh, I replied numbly, not really knowing what to say. Well, she's very beautiful.

At this, his eyes did the impossible. They wandered even further and fixed upon me with an intensity that I could only describe as malicious. I've brought you some things. I stumbled, immediately changing the subject. I stood up and made my way over to the bag containing the tobacco and rum. The removal of my nostrils from that myasma of sickening fetter that surrounded me was a welcome to reprieve and reason enough to move. But the way he glared at me when I mentioned the painting.

had me in a panic. Regardless, I produced the cigars and liquor from the bag, ignoring the sandwiches, as the stench had killed any appetite I may have had. I turned to face him, goods in hand. Look, your favorites, Island Gold and Hamlets. He was standing up now, his back facing me. I could see that he was removing the portrait from the fireplace, reverently holding it in his hands before placing it down by the side of his chair. I pretended not to notice, and turned around once more to grab a box of matches from the bag, as well as two small glasses from the nearby cupboard. By the time I retrieved these, he had returned to his chair and was once more staring at me.

I made my way back to my seat, sitting down and showing him the bottle of rum, before twisting the cap off and pouring us each a small glass of golden liquid. Once more, he reached forward with a giant hand and took what I offered him. Raising my glass, I attempted to cheerfully toast. May the best of your yesterdays be the worst of your yesterdays be the worst of you. your tomorrows, but before I could finish, he had already thrust the glass underneath his scarf and drained the glass of its contents. The residue that remained on the glass after he had drunk from it momentarily caused bile

to build up in the back of my throat, but I managed to conceal this from him. As revolting as he was, I felt pity for him and wondered just how horribly loathsome it must be to have such a dreadful affliction. Little wonder, I thought, that he chose to work alone in such a remote place. For some reason, this thought stuck in my mind, as if it had been incorrect in its assumption somehow. I quickly banished the thought, however, and finished my own drink, pouring us each another, ignoring the sticky mucus that clung to the lip of Howard's glass.

He greedily slurped the second down quickly, just as he had the first, before thrusting his glass towards me and silently demanding a third. I knew the island gold had always been his drink of choice and happily refilled his glass. I then produced two cigars and offered him one, but to my surprise, and admittedly relief, he refused, pointing to his neck area and shaking his head. Given his labored breathing, I wondered if his condition would only be exacerbated by the smoke, and I asked if he would mind if I still lit one. He made a simple gesture that I took for confirmation, and striking a match, I lit my cigar

and took a few deep puffs, sending a cloud of smoke into the air that mercifully masked the fishy smell marinating my host. So, I said, taking another pull of the cigar. This is the final night for you then? This place is getting demolished next week? The final night. Yes. He replied.

His voice, still is sickening molasses. And then what? Do you have anything else lined up? Wichai. The sea? I would have thought you'd have had enough of that, Howard. What with Lenore and your stint in the Navy? Is there no work on dry land that interests you? None. He flatly replied, gesturing for the bottle of rum by my side. I handed it to him, and to

my horror, he shoved the whole bottle underneath his scarf and drank greedily and directly from it. No more rum for me, I lamented. Another period of silence passed between us, albeit It one punctuated by the occasional slurping that accompanied each swig of rum my host took from the rapidly emptying bottle. In an effort to drown out the hoard sound, I attempted to resume conversation. You mentioned in your letter that you visited Barton a few years ago. I'm curious. What caused you to visit my neck of the woods?

I can't think of much in Barton that would attract outsiders. Family. Kin in Barton. Marcius. Oh, really? That's interesting. I knew a few of the Martians living in town, and not personally, mind. Always kept to themselves.

I remember old Sebastian Marsh, poor fellow, how the children tormented him. Sad, really. I remember going down to the Gunner's Clough as a kid and seeing that strange cottage he lived in. It's not there anymore. I think some of the hooligans burned it down a few years back on Halloween, nearly took the whole woodland with it. I wonder what ever happened to him. Returned sea. He replied again.

His words now even more slurred now that the rum had hit him. How do you mean? Returned to C-scale. He replied, and I realized that he had simply stumbled on his words, and I had interjected too soon. Oh, I see. Of course. I passed through C-scale in my way here, actually. enough place, though it seems a little run down. I can't say I heard a good word of the marshes

there. Strange, Barton is the same. To hear the old codges tell it, you'd think the marshes had come straight out of hell. As the last word left my mouth, I suddenly became aware once more of my friend's shocking physical appearance, almost as if I had forgotten about it during my ramblings. Those sinister, unblinking eyes gazing directly into mine and that hideous, labored breathing, and those awful, sputton-soaked words. He did look like something that had crawled out of the pit, and I shuddered as I half imagined what he must look like beneath the layers of clothing he was clearly wearing

for the sole purpose of concealing his true face. Almost as if to banish the thought from my mind, I continued talking, desperate to maintain the illusion that I was talking to a fellow human being and not some alien entity that had come from the greater beyond. I seem to recall Sebastian having a nephew, A boy around my age. Went insane from what I hear.

They locked him up in Byron House. Did you remember me telling you about that place? Filled to the brim with Loonies. His nephew, I can't remember his name, I seem to have developed an intense phobia of reflective surfaces. The spectrophobia, I think they call it, or isotrophobia? Robert. Yeah, Robert.

His name wasn't Marsh, but his mother. She was a Marsh for sure, especially with those eyes. I winced internally, but continued. You know, us waitlies are related in some way to the marshes. At least that's what my grandfather used to say. Distant cousins, perhaps. I guess most people in Barton are related on some level, if you go back far enough. Bertels, slaters, quilts, duncafs, they're all intertwined in some way.

My host continued to stare, not once acknowledging my words, or nodding in agreement, or asking a question. His reticence was beginning to unnerve me, but I chalked it up to the great effort he needed to muster in order to speak. I switched topics, instead bringing up the research I had done at C-scale Library before joining him. As I sat in the dark and talked about the devil's spine, the witch mound, and the legend of Long Polly, he leaned in closer.

Though he said little, occasionally nodding or grunting, I could tell that he was listening intently to every word I said. I couldn't help but feel like he was somehow growing suspicious of me in some way, as if I were discussing matters that should remain unsaid and buried forever in the annals of history. When I finally reached the topic of the strange whistling sound, Teckli, that had occasionally been reported by locals, he shot up from his seat with alarming salarity and placed one of his hands towards me in protest. The gesture shocked me, and I watched in horror as he tilted his head towards the door of the room, angling at it as if waiting for him.

to hear something echo from the corridor beyond. When no sound came, he slowly sat back down into his chair and resumed his silent glaring. I decided to put some more coffee on the boil, which my host refused with a simple raising of one of his monstrous hands. I could feel the rum making me drowsy, and the thought of sleeping in the lighthouse was not one I wished to acknowledge. As I stood, waiting for the coffee, I happened to glance out the window close by. The tide had returned, and the whole island was now surrounded by black, church.

turning waves that crashed and sprayed upon the sharp rocks beyond the cottage. The lighthouse beacon, still displaying that strange green gold beam occasionally swept over the waves as I watched. As it passed by, I could swear that for a brief moment I can make out some other kind of movement out in the water. It appeared to be something in the undercurrent, and as a wave crashed and settled upon the surface, I can make out ripples of something else beneath the surface, something moving. The closest approximation my mind could conjure at the time was that of a large school of fish

swarming under the water, and I turned to ask Howard about the phenomenon, but found that he was rising from his chair once more. He stood up, his head almost touching the cottage ceiling, and with one of his hands, reached down and took the portrait of Livinia that he had so oddly removed from the mantel place. Is everything all right? I asked, attempting to hide the discomfort in my voice. He pointed up to the ceiling. The beacon must check.

And with that, he left the room, stooping and shambling out of the door. I heard those flat, slapping footsteps make their way towards the entrance of the lighthouse door and then slowly fade out of my hearing range with a few soft echoes on the stairwell. Somewhat relieved by his absence, I returned to my seat, but not before retrieving the manuscript marked things of the water from where I'd left it. For whatever reason, something in that odious tome had lodged itself in the back of my mind, something that I had perhaps skimmed past but refused to leave me in peace. Sitting down and lighting another cigar, I reasoned that my host's tale-tale footsteps would quickly alert me to his presence, and I could simply put the

manuscript back where I had found it without him realizing. I could not say exactly why I was so reluctant for him to see me reading it. It was, after all, simply an odd collection of texts. But I found myself loath to be caught with it in my possession. He had acted so strangely towards my retelling of Cumbrian folklore that I worried he would react even more aggressively should he discover me reading the manuscript. Flicking through once more, careful not to let the cigar ash collect in the central crease, I came across several hideous pages of forgotten lore that chilled me as I sat alone in the dark.

More monstrous wood-print images and sketches of strange creatures and beings danced on the yellowed pages, illuminated by the dying embers of the fire, freakish entities with names like Ubal Sathwa, the Unforgotten Source, Pastor, the unspeakable, the great Cthulhu, the last of which was said to slumber eternally, dead but dreaming in the phantom city of Rylea, deep beneath the gloomy waters where no light can penetrate. Again, I returned to the horrid sketch marked the Danforth nightmare, but this time I found a cross-reference to the image on another page that was titled, Shogh Goth of the Lost City. This too was a disgusting mass of black tendrils and ocular spheres with no discernible central structure to make sense

of the ungodly arrangement of eyes, mouths, and less obvious organs. Another reference on This page led me to the section marked, Dagon's Mere, which was accompanied by an ancient woodblock image of what I guessed must be the eponymous ornament. At first, the picture appeared to simply depict an ornate mirror, baroque in style and decorated with intricate carvings upon its frame. But closer inspection revealed that most of the images were disgusting hybrids of human and fish and other oceanic creatures, the likes of which I had never seen. I cannot help but think that some of these carvings were attempts to give form to the strange

names I had read in the manuscript, and wondered if the queer amalgamations of octopi, anima, and crustaceans were meant to depict Ubu Sathwa or Great Cthulu. It was then, after turning the page, that I came across the item that unnerved me far greater and with an awful intensity than any of the previous drawings, incantations, and rituals combined. It dropped onto my lap as I angled the manuscript closer with the light of the fire. It was a small folded-up piece of paper. Placing the rest of the tone to the side, I unfolded the object, expecting to be greeted by another monstrous sketch, but instead found it to be a letter.

Dear Mr. Elliot, the Ubo formula you sent me did indeed work, and through it I was able to glimpse the depths of Yohannath lay, and beyond even that, to the Corp City of Ralea. I cannot say where I will make the trip to first, providing of course that that the rest. the sign works as intended. As you are already aware, my time on this plane is fleeting, and the transformation has only been accelerated by my use of the formula. The mirror is indeed a conduit between this earth and those who dwell outside. Its original purpose, as far as I can tell, was to call them down from the stars as well as spy upon those who dwell in different times and different spaces. Its creator is believed to be none other than Ubdo

Alhazred, the author of that dread tome we call the Necronomicon. I have also read, however, that it is even older than this, with some text stating that it hails originally from some unnamed city of brass domes and rubied spires that once dominated the southern plains of the lost Heborian age. The Order of Dagon, fearing that the mirror could be used to summon the dread protoplasmic horror from beyond the six thousand steps, had the thing removed from insombed. where it eventually found its way into Dunnich. They could not destroy it, you understand? For even the deep ones fear the reprisals of he who was not to be named.

My grandmother, Lavinia Waitley, through her inhuman father, inherited the mirror and fled Insmith with that rogue warlock, Abner Marsh. I cannot tell you exactly how I came to acquire the mirror. There are of course other parties involved in this matter who wish to remain nameless. However, as promised, should you find time to attend the next Walpurgus Sabbath, I will introduce you to Mr. Pendle's latest form as well as that extraordinary painter of nightmarish canvases, the immortal Mr. Bickham. This will be my last letter to you. For now, recite the incantation of the black goat every seventh night, and you will know the faceless things of the air who take their body from human blood, and you may call upon them to take you to Sabbath, should you choose. choose to join me there. It is likely that by this time my transformation will be complete,

and I will be in a much stronger position to show you the final seal that will awaken the Shogoth. I am yours in the name of Father Dagon and Mother Hydra, Sebastian Frederick Marsh. I reread that several times, stunned by the name that only a few hours ago I had discussed with Howard. Could this really be the same Sebastian? Surely it must be. for the coincidence was too great to consider. Howard had mentioned that he had visited Barton, he even spoke of the Gunner's Clough. Could it be that this very manuscript once resided in that crumbling cottage? Its frog-faced owner pouring over the incantations and formulas to commit some kind of hellish witchcraft?

I cannot say for certain how long I sat there in the dark with the manuscript in that terrible letter. There was no sign of my host, and the coffee I had made had long since grown cold. The fire had almost died, and I hastily threw a few more logs onto the umbers, determined that the darkness would be kept at bay by its light and warmth. The roaring of the waves outside had intensified, and they were now accompanied by a howling wind that blustered around the cottage, rattling the windows and driftwood doors like dry bones. Despite the waves and the wind and the occasional cracking of fresh logs, I must have somehow

managed to drift off, for my mind was carried away into the blissful oblivion we call slumber. It was the last restful sleep of my life. It was the blast of the fog-horn that woke me suddenly from the dreamless sleep, jolting me as if I had been struck by a thunderbolt. It bellowed out again from the top of the lighthouse tower, so close and so loud that it caused the very walls of the cottage to shake. The waves outside were crashing with an intensity I'd never heard before, and when I peered out from the window,

the black rolling mass was now only 20 or so feet away from the cottage. They had somehow risen to engulf most of the island, leaving behind only a small patch of rocks upon which the lighthouse and cottage now stood precariously. Again, the foghorn roared, so loud this time that I covered my ears with my hands. Frantically, I left the room and made my way towards the lower staircase, determined to see if I could find my host and ask him to cease the infernal bellowing, or at the very least, find something to cover my ears. Upon reaching the doorway to the stairs, I was once more greeted with that god-awful,

fishy stink that seemed to cling to Howard and all that he touched. I could see that his large, misshapen boots had once more been placed at the base of the stairs, and I made my way over, producing the flashlight I had brought with me. The feeble beam managed to penetrate the darkness of the stairwell, but not so much as to banish the oppressive darkness of the tower base. I stepped over the boots, covering my nose from the stench that was covering them. Slowly, flashlight in hand, I began my ascent up the brickety staircase. which spiraled upwards and into the shadowy blackness above. I can make out a glow at the very top, the same phantom golden green that had emanated from the beacon.

It was then that I noticed the first piece of discarded clothing on the stairs. It was one of the scarves how it had worn around his face. The torchlight revealed that it was covered in some translucent jelly, something akin to frog spawn, I thought. I did my best to avoid coming into contact with whatever disgusting organic mass it may have been. only to find more clothing articles as I continued my journey upwards. A coat, some more scarves, a knitted jumper, a cap, even a pair of trousers. Each was either dripping with a gelatinous mess or encrusted with a stale yellow green deposit that resembled fish scales.

The last article, a stained vest, was found just outside the service room at the very top of the stairs. The glow from the beacon was now more intense, creating a nimbus of light that faintly illuminated the workbench and various boxes stacked against the walls of the cramped room. A small wooden ladder led to a trapdoor above, through the cracks of which the strange light shined even more intensely. I paused at the base of the ladder. The foghorn had not sounded again since I started my ascent, and I prayed that it would not do so. At this proximity, it was likely to deafen me. There were, however, several other sounds coming from beyond the trapdoor. One was that awfully familiar slapping sound of Howard's large beat pacing back and forth above me.

The other were voices. One, a croaking, coughing, guttural sound that I took to be Howard, and the other was a softer, feminine voice, seductive and gentle. Making out what they were saying was difficult, and so I gingerly took the ladder and made my way up, slowly pushing the trapdoor just enough to see and hear what lay beyond. The glow was blinding. The lighthouse lens appeared to have ceased revolving and was instead now fixed in place. Attached to the lens by means both mechanical and electrical was an object that almost caused

me to cry out and panic, for it was the mirror, Dagon's mirror. That loathsome device illustrated and discussed by Sebastian Marsh in that dreaded manuscript replicated before me with abominable accuracy. Though I could only make out part of the mirror through the glow, it looked even though. more hideous, resplendent in its full ornate whore and oceanic regalia. The light casting from its surface was impossibly radiant, making it difficult to see who or what was also in the beacon chamber with me. I could see a figure which I took to be Howard, given the odd proportions and contours of his body that I was now fearfully familiar with. He was indeed pacing back and

forth, each movement and jerk of his body a blasphemous mockery of human gesticulation. Mercifully, I could not see his face, only the outline of his elliptical head, and each time he spoke, he turned to face the surface of the mirror. The woman's voice I cannot place. However, it almost appeared to echo around the chamber with no obvious source. I cannot tell if it was something that existed only within the confines of my own mind, or if it was some kind of floating specter all around me. It was only Howard's voice that repeated certain words or spoke in response to the woman's

voice that convinced me that what I was hearing was real and not imagined. The stars are right. The blood of this last offering will awaken the spawn of Ubu Sathala, of Ubuzafla, the blasphemous abomination without form from beyond the six thousand steps. It will awaken Father Dagon and Mother Hydra from the fathomless depths, and we will dance and frolic for all time. But he is my friend. Howard's voice replied, somehow clearer and more human than before. I gave you the keepers here.

I gave you my wife, my children. How many more? You promised that when this was over I could go back. I don't want to be this thing anymore. And you shall, my child. The old ones have that power. They can reverse the process if that is what you truly desire. It is, Howard replied, stopping before the mirror.

I don't want to go back to the sea. I don't want to dance forever in the dark. Pickman was right. I don't want to live forever. Then give me this man, this. Allow him to take your place. His blood will open the final seal And awaken the Shogoth

You will be free You will return to the wretched world of men Yes How it proclaimed excited now Yes What I desire The guttural flemy tone had returned to his voice now Drowning out the humanity that had briefly surfaced within him

Then bring him to me Bring him and you will be free of your great burden. I sensed movement, and then suddenly he was upon the trapdoor. I cannot tell if he had heard me or was simply on his way to claim me from where he thought I must be in the study, but his motions were too fast for me to react to. The light from the mirror struck me as the trapdoor flew open, and I shielded my eyes from the blinding glare. I heard a terrible sound.

Something akin to a mix of shock and ravenous excitement came from Howard's inhuman lips, and then I felt a gnarled claw reached out and grabbed me, pulling me off of the ladder and up into the chamber above. The glow was now overwhelming, and I couldn't make out much beyond the mirror. I couldn't see his face, but I knew it was the Howard Fish thing that had a hold of me. Fool! They want you, weightly. They are taking you, not me, down to the depths you go. Down the six thousand steps to the sugar!

I fumbled frantically, desperate to retrieve the old service revolver from my pocket, praying to whatever God would listen to me that when I find it, it still worked. My other hand, I used to hopelessly try to wrangle free from his vice-like grip, but it was too strong. I felt my fingers move across his awfully wet and scaly arm as he lifted me higher, and I can now feel the top of my head glance across the chamber ceiling. He was taking me towards the mirror, and closer to the sounds of the unseen woman's sardonic laughter.

Howard! I screamed. If you're in there's somewhere, please just let me go. I don't want to hurt you. Hurt me. You cannot hurt me. I am a turtle. He laughed once more, but by this time I had found the revolver.

The feeling of its grip in my palm, a blessed relief. I pulled the gun free and unable to truly see what I was firing at. I cocked the hammer back and pulled the trigger. The shot boomed in the chamber, causing the sharp ringing to spike in my ears. I must have struck something if I heard him cry out in pain, though his grip on me did not cease. I fired again, another shot ripping through the air, and this time he mercifully let go, roaring with an inhuman cry. Now on my knees, with no time to stand, I fired a third shot.

This one missed, instead ricocheting off the iron window frame and striking the surface of the mirror. I heard a deep and low cracking sound. like a whaler breaking through the thick Arctic ice, followed by a crystalline shattering sound as the brilliant radiance around us vanished, plunging the entire chamber into blackness. I heard the faint cry of a woman scream out in pain as a million shards cascaded to the floor. No! Howard screamed, his bulk floundering on the floor. I wasted no time, and mad with panic, leapt down through the trap door and towards the staircase.

I heard something heavy dropped behind me, followed by the frantic slapping of inhuman feet. I did not have a plan. I just knew that I did not want to stop running, even if it meant drowning in the waves outside, for the merciful embrace of Titan was preferable to facing the horror behind me. The speed at which I descended the stairs must have been prestigious, as each article of Howard's discarded clothing caused me to jump several steps of stairs in one bound. I think I injured my ankles, but the adrenaline coursing through my body allowed me to continue. I heard my pursuer roar behind me, spitting out all manner of curses and threats as I reached the bottom of the staircase.

I could see the driftwood door at the other end of the corridor that led to freedom and hobbled forward, hearing something heavy hit the ground directly behind me. In one last burst of mad hysteria, I quickly turned heel, and with my eyes closed, fired the remaining two shots in the direction of the stairs. The first two must have missed, but the last found its mark. I heard another scream of rage and pain. I turned and sprinted as fast as my legs would allow towards the door, slamming into it with my shoulder. The wind outside was howling madly, and the black waves were now even closer to the cottage than before.

Barely ten feet of jagged rocks stood between me and the briny depths. It was then that I saw the sight that mercifully permitted me to pass out and escape from this nightmare scene. For the waves around me were frothing and foaming, not from the wind, but from the mass of hideous creatures breaching the surface. A nightmare legion of unblinking eyes and slimy mouths, a horde of batrachian monstrosities resembling nothing less than the awful fish frogs carved onto the frame of what Sebastian had called Dagon's mirror. They bleated and croaked, hopping in and out of the lapping waters in a ghoulish frenzy. I thought of the gun in my hand and cursed that I had no shots remaining.

If only I had saved one for myself, I thought. Behind me, I heard Howard suddenly cry out in a panic. Turning, the waves and the wind battering me from all sides, I could see the waters surround the entrance of the cottage. Dark waves crashed and smashed upon the outer walls, breaking the windows and flooding the inside. The horde was upon Howard now, clawing at him, pulling him into the water. A dozen flabby claws clung to a scaly body, dragging him into the briny depths where he belonged. No! He screamed in panic, his human voice returning to plead with his captors.

I don't want to go. Take him. Leave me be! The sight of Howard and all his whore was enough to send my mind reeling into oblivion. Although his body was identical to that of the fish frogs pulling him down into the waves, there was a vestigial likeness of the man I once knew still stretched across that monstrous face. He looked at me with all the malice he could muster. As I felt the sweet embrace of nothingness consumed me,

those final words cried out in the coming darkness. that I happily welcomed. God's curse you, Waitley! Curse you to Hades! Get back, you devils! Back I say! Oh God! Oh Lord! Help my poor soul! It was morning when I finally awoke, and the side of the amber sun rays

breaking over the Cumbrian countryside was nothing less than glorious. I picked myself up. I gazed out at the now calm waters of the Irish Sea and the lapping waves gently breaking upon the shore. There was no sign of the lighthouse, the island it had once sat upon, and the causeway leading to it were barely visible over the morning's retreating tide. But the tower, along with the adjacent cottage, were no more, lost forever and scattered across

the seabed, home to nothing more than clinging barnacles and skittering crabs. They never found Howard's body, nor the bodies of the three men who had worked at the lighthouse. I later learned that Trinity House, the authority responsible for maintaining the St. Michael's Lighthouse, had no record of a Howard Marsh in their employ. Though he has gone, I think of him often. I have dreams, vivid, terrible dreams, in which he is forced to eternally dance and frolic in the forgotten and fathomless depths of the Corpse City, forced to live forever as one of the fish things, longing for the day when he and the rest of his kind shall rise up out of the ocean

and reclaim the earth in the name of the Father Dagon and the Mother Hydra. Though the whore he and Lavinia had sought to unleash upon the world had been dispelled, I cannot help but wonder what became of the mirror. Surely it is gone. Its thousand shards swept out across the seabed, and its hideous frame bent and warped by the waves ceaseless crashing. I wonder if such a thing can ever truly be destroyed. And what have Shogha Gauth?

Has that formless whore been returned to its atop? eternal slumber beneath the six thousand steps that lay deep below the witch mound? I can only pray that it has, and yet every night I hear it, whenever Howard creeps into my dreams and I see his awful face and hear his awful voice, there is something else, something outside, something beyond. I can hear it now as I write down these words.