The Dark Somnium - This Town Has A Dark Secret, I'm Here To Uncover It | Scary Stories from The Internet

Episode Date: January 30, 2026

This is a new story from Nick Lowe, which is connected to another one of his that did, which you can find here: https://the-dark-somnium.simplecast.com/episodes/the-dark-secret-of-the-house-outside-of-town-x4_0BvTF Special thanks to DusklightRadio and RomNex for joining me in this video! Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See https://pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

The madness of the eyes is the lure of the abyss. Sirens lurk in the dark depths of pupils as they lurk the bottom of the sea. That I know for sure. John Lorraine, Monsieur de Foux. Hidden along the glooming northwest coast of England, where the churning grey waters of the Irish sea crash and break endlessly upon the ancient British sandstone, there can be found numerous isolated communities nestling in the lonely, cumbrian countryside. Many of these hamlets are little more than decaying farming communities maintained by clannish families, who bear names

that were still ancient when the first drops of ink were spilled onto the pages of the domesday book. One of the more prominent towns in Seascale, a former Victorian resort that has stubbornly dragged its feet towards modernity over the last century. Just 90 years ago, Cisclay, Scale was little more than a collection of farms, but the Furness Railway Company had come along in 1879 and connected Seascale to the larger port towns of Whitehaven in the north and the barrow and furnace to the south. The natural beauty that surrounded Seascale was ripe for development, and the railway company put plans in motion to convert the sleepy hamlets and farms into a bustling seaside resort. The huge crowds never came, however, and only a few large buildings. One,

being the impressive Schofel Hotel, that still stands today, had been constructed, though it sees fewer and fewer visitors each year. Most who come to sea scale were simply stopping by on their way to explore the beautiful valleys on their way to the Lake District, rather than the town itself. It was a little more than a convenience for travelers making their way to a more exciting part of the country. The Furness Railway Company had dissolved in the 20s, after which a few more rail firms then took over the lines, but these two dissolved, until nationalization brought them under the purview of the newly minted British railways. The state-run railways quickly gained reputation for neglecting the north, focusing instead upon the vast network of lines that connected

London to the rest of the south. When the lines started to be electrified, however, British railways finally looked north and rolled out a plan to upgrade the lines from London to Liverpool, crew and Manchester. The Cumbrian coastline was next. The last vital step in modernizing the tracks from London to Carlees. I was working as an inspecting officer for the British Railways during the first and so far the last time I set my sights on sea scale. I had never heard of the town until my supervisor told me that I would be needed there to check

up on the state of the lines. Two weeks earlier, a team of workers had been sent ahead to start repairs, and I was needed. needed to oversee the operation and make a report. British Railways wanted to roll out electronification as soon as possible, and sea scale was the next stop before the larger and more important Whitehaven. The line was indeed in dire need of restoration. I could almost feel the decay and rust as my rickety carriage rocked and swayed like a dying serpent as it reluctantly traveled north towards my destination.

The squeal of the train's brakes pierced my ears as I gathered my belongings. causing them to ring briefly. Then, with one sudden jolt, the train stopped, rocketing me off my feet and sending me crashing to the carriage floor. A light here for sea scale. The conductor almost half laughed as he saw me pick myself up from the floor and dust myself off. You okay, sir? He half-heartedly asked.

A smirk still stretched beneath his yellowed tobacco-stained mustache. I'll live. I replied. frowning. I had actually hurt myself quite badly, and I could just feel the inside of my trousers sticking to what must have been a bad scrape on my knee. I retrieved my hat and briefcase and hastily made my way off the train, pushing my way past the conductor and his sardonic grin. As I surveyed the gloomy station, I saw that I was the only passenger disembarking at sea scale. A half dozen or so travelers had been waiting at the station to board

the train, but I alone appeared to be the sole visitor to the town. I glanced behind me to see the Cumbrian coast in the thrashing waters of the Irish Sea that lay beyond it. From there, I can make out the famous sea-scale beach, popular tourist attraction in the summer, but at this time of year, at this time of day, it was nothing more than a loathsome stretch of clogging sands and brine-eroded stone. Around the beach, thick tufts of spiky grass jutted defiantly out of the sands. They swayed as I watched them dance in the sea breeze. But it was the waves that truly held me in the grip of fascination. Those foamy, writhing waves that ebbed and flowed eternally, crashing upon one another ceaselessly, each bearing the fury of Triton himself. There was something

about those gray waves that at once called to and repelled something deep inside my soul. I stood there for several minutes, transfixed. Before noticing that the wind gathering around me had brought with it all the hideous odors of the sea. Disgusted, I instantly pulled my jacket to my nose and left the lonely station behind. As I made my way towards town, I noticed the first heavy droplets of what would later become a furious storm strike the top of my hat as I hurriedly made my way up the station road. The sky was growing darker with every step, and I glanced upward once or twice.

to see the thick gray and greasy clouds converge in the heavens above me. The squawking of galls echoed in the distance, and the first rumblings of thunder rolled through the air. The streets were mostly deserted, save for a few furtive figures who had hurriedly running to cover from the rain. As I reached the top of the road, I noticed a large church across the street to the left of me and a curious stone water tower to my right. My destination, however, was the Scarfell Hotel, the largest and grandest of all the accommodations available in town. I had previously heard of the hotel, having been recommended to me by a young couple who

made it their habit to stay there every year in the summer. Thankfully, the hotel was close to the station, and I managed to avoid the worst of the storm as it unleashed itself fully upon the town. The Scarfell was a curious building, and not at all what I had expected when I had heard that it was a Victorian construction. It was an unassuming squad, a two-story rectangle with a washed-out gray exterior. Another larger red brick building was attached to the rear of the property, no doubt a later expansion on the original hotel.

There were lights emanating from the downstairs windows, as well as several of the upper rooms. I could hear the sounds of people inside, no doubt enjoying themselves at the hotel bar, with The lashing rain threatening to soak me to the bone, I hastily opened the front door and stepped inside. A middle-aged man with a neat, trimmed white beard, was talking with several people, whom I assumed were other guests. I removed my hat and coat and gave my boots a good wiping on the thick, bristly doormat. By the time I had removed the worst of the dirt from them, the man had finished his conversation

and was smiling at me expectantly. I returned his smile with a weak one of my own and walked. towards the reception. Hell of a day, isn't that? He said, gesturing at the torrential downpour that was hammering the windows outside. Indeed. I replied. I think I managed to avoid the worst of it, but it still gave me a good soaking.

He nodded before continuing. I have a towel behind you somewhere, I think. He bent down and started to rummage beneath the counter, before returning with a sandy-colored towel, which he offered me with another smile. That's very kind of you. I said, dabbling the tower on the back of my hair, and on the shoulders where the rain had soaked through to my suit. You'll be from the University, then, will you, young fella? Well, don't fret.

You've still got plenty of rooms left. University? I replied, confused. I'm not from the University, I'm afraid. I'm with the British Railways. Come to look at your tracks. Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I thought you were one of those academics

Come to help out with the exclamations, Noel. We've had a lot of them come to town in the last few weeks from all over Cumbria. Some kind of discovery? I asked, handing the towel back to him. Oh, you could say that, sir. To be honest, not a year goes by that they don't find something buried in the ground around here.

Roman, Saxons, Vikings, we've had our share of visitors to these shores. This one's got them all worked up, mind you. gold they're saying some sort of buried treasure by the beach I walked down yesterday and happened to take a glance at what they were digging up it don't look like any gold I've ever seen

it's sort of white silvery maybe it's silver or platinum or heaven knows what oh but never mind my ramblings Railway you said Yes that's right I'm an inspector for the lines They're looking at expanding electrification on the Cumbrian coast

I've come to see how the lines Look and see that the necessary repairs are done. Ah, that'll explain the workmen. I did wonder what they were up to at the station. I hope they've been behaving themselves. I smiled. I didn't see them when I got off the train, but with a day like today, I assume the foreman ordered them to pack up and wait out the storm. That'll be the lion.

I think I've spotted a few of them enjoying a couple of pints of old Fred's mild. It's not a bad drop, mind you, but not as good as the captain. basket ails we've got on here at our bar, sir, let me tell you. A brief but awkward moment of silence passed between us before he spoke again. Ah, but listen to me twittering on like an old fish wife, you'll be wanting a room, no doubt. As I say, we do have space, what would it be in off-season? How many nights would you be wanting, sir? I should think no more than five nights, though if this weather continues, I may be here for a while longer.

Oh, it'll pass, sir, I'm sure. Now, five nights, let me see. That'll be two pounds and ten shillins. Board isn't included, but you'll find a lovely selection of food and drink on offer in the bar, or if you prefer, I know a good few local places you can eat. To be honest, and I said, pulling out my wallet. After the train journey I've just had, I think a comfy bed is all I want for now. As I said this, my wallet slipped from my grasp,

sending a small collection of shillings and half-grounds and pennies scattering across the floor. I said as I bent down to pick up the coins. Not do worry, sir. I'll get the register book sorted out for you. He produced a large red leather tone and opened it on the desk. Pulling out a pencil from his jacket pocket, he licked the lead tip and looked at me as I struggled to reach a shilling that had wedged itself under the reception desk. I'll fill in the particulars for you, sir. Oh, I'm Ted, by the way, Ted Slater. Now, what name is it?

But, Marsh, I replied with a strain, as the shilling finally relented and found its way back into my hand. Howard Marsh. Marsh? He said, the smile swiftly fading from his face. His brows were furrowed now, and there was an almost accusatory tone to his follow-up question. You visiting family in town? No, I replied with the half-laugh. What do you mean?

Oh, it's just there's a few marshes who make their home in sea scale, mostly down by the sea front. You know, look much like a marsh to me and you seem like a nice fella, so I'm sure they're no kin of yours. It's just that, well, between you and me, the name Marsh isn't spoken of highly around these parts. The old man had piqued my interest now. I knew only a few marshes in my home county of Kent, but the name was rare enough that

I had never encountered it in all my years travelling across Britain. Are they that bad? Well, they're queer people, if you don't mind me saying, sir. I'm not one to talk idle gossip about other folks, but the marshes ain't like any other folk in town. Keep to themselves mostly, probably for the best. Most are awful to look at. They age quickly, and those eyes of theirs don't seem too keen on confining themselves to their sockets. Huge, bulbous things they are

Makes them look like a toad or a cod or something Surly too and miserable Most folk would rather cross the street Than risk talking about one of them And that's on the rare occasion they ever leave the house I can only think of a couple that's spotted on a regular basis Old Eli Marsh and his sister Mary Come to think of it

I've not seen either of them for a few months now Some folk whispered that Mary is actually Eli's wife and not his sister. But from my experience, sir, some of the families round here don't bother to make that distinction. He shut the guest book with a large thud that caused a small cloud of dust to rise up from the reception table before placing it back where he had found it. Then he leaned forward. His elbows on the desk and spoke in a slightly quieter tone. Most of them are gone now. Not dead, mind you.

A large part of the family upped sticks and went down south a few decades ago, somewhere near Manchester from Y here. You just be careful, sir. Tell him folk you're a marsh isn't going to make you any friends in sea scale. Relation or no relation. Well, thank you for the warning. As I say, I won't be in town for long. If everything is settled, I'd quite like to go to my room.

There was a hesitation in the old man. He looked at me for a moment longer than I would care for, before returning and grabbing a key from the wall behind him. He placed it on the desk, his hands still covering it, and looked at me once more. I got a sense that he wanted to continue the conversation, though with a reluctance that I could not account for. Yes? I said, raising an eyebrow.

Forgive me, sir. But we did have another fellow by the name of Marsh Come by you. a few years ago. I said nothing, not wishing to interrupt the man and discourage him from continuing. I can't recall his given name, but he was definitely a marsh. We didn't speak too much. He wasn't one for chatter, but I got the sense that he knew the town well, almost as if he was a local himself.

He certainly looked like a marsh, if you understand me. All dry skin, big eyes and thick lips. He only stayed the one night mind because... He stumbled and swallowed home. hard before continuing. Early one morning, before even I or the missus were up, he left the hotel and walked down to the beach. Some of the fishermen saw what he did next, and they said he stripped his clothes off and walked

into the sea, naked as the day was born. Vanished, they said. Didn't even try to swim, but sort of bobbed on the water, and then sank down below the waves. Never found him. No hide or hair of the fella. They must have drowned, I guess, but they never found the body. I was unsure how best to respond to the strange story that had just been told to me. Certainly there are more expedient ways to end one's life, but who can say what logic persists

in a mind so set on self-destruction? Instead, I simply sighed and made a weak attempt at saying what a tragedy it must have to have a customer do such a thing, and that I hoped he wouldn't worry about me doing anything even remotely similar during my stay. He didn't seem at all sympathetic. He just nodded and released his hand from the key. You have a nice stay, sir. Those beds upstairs are comfy and warm.

Yours is the third door after the stairs. Pretty much above me, you're in the reception. With that, I picked up both my briefcase and the key and made my way to the staircase. I glanced into the bar area, which lay next to the stairs, past a double door of stained glass and brass frame. There were a few locals inside, drinking and playing what looked like dominoes. For a moment, I thought about heading inside and having a quick brandy to warm my bones, but decided against it.

I thought about what Ted had said about the Marsh name, and thought it best to leave them to their ale in their game. If anyone found out my name was Marsh, the news would spread quickly. quickly, if my experience working in small towns and villages was anything to go by. Instead, I ascended the stairs, each step creaking hollowly with every foot I put forward. The room was indeed where Ted had said it would be, and I opened the open door with a heavy clunk from the iron key. Both the door and the key looked old.

Probably originals from the hotel's early Victorian days, I amused as I walked into the room. If I was feeling generous, I would describe the room as cozy, but still wet from the rain, and with the gray is on my knee now stinging, I instead thought of it as pokey and cramped. The ceiling seemed a little too low and somewhat misshapen, with a sort of large dent on where the south and west walls meet. The rain was still pelting the windows, which seemed to be made of thinner glass than those in the foyer, amplifying the sound of the storm outside. There was little in the way of decoration, and the furnishing consisted of a single bed, a small writing desk with a chair, and a chest of drawers.

These two appear to be Victorian originals, as the same amount of stains and flecking confirmed upon closer inspection. Thankfully, the bed was as Ted described, and I sunk into the soft mattress as I sat down to tend to my knee. My trousers had unfortunately bonded with a sticky mess that was just forming a white liquid scab over the wound. And I was forced to peel it away, removing the repair work my body had started and causing it to bleed once more. It stung badly, and as I winced, the image of the train conductor's mocking face flashed before my eyes. Pillick. I settle out to myself. I hope you have a miserable day.

I pulled up my case to the bed and retrieved a small first aid kit, which I always carry with me. A quick, sharp sting of alcohol and plaster, and the knees started to settle back down. I finally laid back down in bed, sinking further onto the divay. Though I was deeply fatigued from my journey, the relentless rain battering down upon the hotel refused to let up. And each time I felt myself falling into the embrace of hypnosis. The ceaseless pitter-patter brought me back to awful consciousness. Unable to fall asleep, I sat up to retrieve a pulp magazine from my case that I had purchased from a newsstand a few days earlier.

That's when I noticed the discoloration on the wall above the chest of drawers. There was a distinct outline on the wall, a perfect rectangle around 12 by 20 inches. I could see a small, rusted hole a few inches above the top line. It was clear that a painting or picture must have hung there once. It was strange that wall wasn't repainted, I thought. On a hunch, I stood up and moved toward the drawers, glancing down the back of the chest. I could clearly see that whatever picture had once greased the wall above had fallen down and was still there. Unable to reach it as it was, I instead grabbed the chest and pulled it forward.

It made a loud grating sound against the polished floorboards, and I immediately thought that Ted, who was likely directly below me in the reception, would hear what I was doing. I paused for a few moments, expecting a knock at my door, but it never came. With enough room between the chest and wall to stretch my arm down, I grasped at the picture and retrieved it. It was upside down, but clearly a painting of some sort, rotating it to its correct position, I was immediately struck with awe as both the painting subject matter and the skill of the artist who had meticulously crafted it.

It was a portrait of sorts, though the background appeared to depict a scene or diorama. The subject of the portrait was that of a beautiful woman, with alabaster skin, long raven black hair, and large green eyes that seemed almost wet to the touch. Such was the talent of the painter. She was striking, and there was a smile painted on her face that was subtle, if not a little sardonic. There was a palpable longing painted into those large emerald eyes that almost cried out to me from the canvas. I guess you could say that the piece was Gothic, and it brought to mind works such as the Lady of Shlop by John William Waterhouse, as as well as Rossetti's Estare, Syriacca. The background of the piece appeared to show a storm at sea.

Bolts of lightning and terrified gulls were painted in exquisite detail above large black waves that crashed down upon what appeared to be a sinking ship in the far distance. Some kind of ocean liner in distress. With the train and wind still howling outside my bedroom, the pictures of my hands seemed to come to life. Try as I might, I could not tear myself away for it. from those eyes. There was something so familiar, so haunting about those eyes, almost as if I had seen them before in a vision or a dream. Eventually, I snatched my sight back from the woman and turned the picture around. The back was bare, but I could just make out light pencil markings in the bottom right corner. Angling the picture towards a meager light, filtering

into my window from the storm, I could just make out the following. Vinia, John Pickman, 1905. Unsure as to what to do with the painting, I placed it back on the chest and positioned it so that it was standing and facing me. I'm not too ashamed to admit that I thought about putting it in my case, but decided against it. Still, it would look wonderful in my living room. I pondered, perhaps, Ted will sell it to me.

I tried once more to get some sleep, and this time was successful, whether it was because the storm had finally started to subdue or the fatigue had won its battle to hold me in its grip, I cannot say. The sleep, however, was far from restful. Though snatches of deep slumber came, they brought with them the most vivid and fantastic dreams. I dreamt of storms and of the sea. I dreamt of standing at the beach and watching those churning waves crawl towards me, enveloping me in their black embrace. Somewhere, out in the briny waters, I thought I saw the woman from the painting. She was bobbing and splashing playfully in the waters, unconcerned with the storm around her, for she was of the sea and therefore unafraid of it. I stripped off my clothes

in a mad fit of lust and desperation. I felt myself rushed forward towards the waves, waiting waist high in an effort to reach her. I called out her name, and she laughed in response. The waters grew deeper around me, and I could feel its icy chill crawl over my skin, pushing its way into my ears, my nose, and finally my mouth. With a terrible cold saltiness, the briny waves dragged me down. As I sank deep into the gloom of the waters, I could make out a terrible phantom glow emanating from beneath me. And then I saw those eyes, gleaming like jade idols in a night of tomb.

As those eyes grew closer, I could see that they belonged to no woman, not even anything that could be described as a human being. Still dancing and swimming playfully was a terrible watery fiend, something halfway between a fish and a frog, with only the most rudimentary and anthropomorphic features. I screamed, and as I did, more saltwater rushed down into my gullet, causing me to sink faster and closer to the terrible creature. I felt a slimy claw reach out and grab my ankle, pulling me down to meet the horrible entity. I shut my eyes tightly, unwilling to look into those glowing orbs any longer.

That's when I felt something long and rubbery lash across my mouth. Images of tentacles and lampreys flashed into my mind, then suddenly, with a disgusting muscular strength, the unknown appendage forced its way into my screaming mouth and attached itself vice-like to my tongue. More salt filled my mouth. But this time it was mixed with the awful copper taste of blood. I screamed and opened my eyes only to find my lips locked with those of Lavinia, who was human once more. The pain, fear, and confusion left my body, like the soul of a long, tormented prisoner fleeing its mortal coil.

Her slender white arms embraced me, pushing herself against my chest as I placed my hands on her silky hips. She was naked, we both were now. In the thrashing of the waves and the churning of the sea, and all the fury and doom of Poseidon's wrath was not compared to the endlessness of that embrace. She moaned as her bodies became one and wrapped her long legs around my waist. Her hair swayed and eululated in the water around us both like a great black cloud of squitting. Then out of the water came a deeper darkness.

The sea is around us dimmed and the lights below ceased their sparkles. She released me, before swimming away and fading from my sight, returning to the briny grotto from whence she had come, and she departed. I felt my lips part involuntarily to speak her name once more. Lavinia. I think it was the sounds of the gulls outside that awakened me. The shrieking and crying must have jolted me awake, and I winced as my eyes adjusted to the bright October sun that now streamed in through the windows and washed over me.

I leaned down and grabbed my watch. 11.30. I had overslept. I quickly leapt out of bed and made for the joining bathroom. I'd planned to check in with the foreman of the work team making rail repairs, but by the time I was ready, it was near lunch, and the workers would no doubt be making for the local bar. Not that I begrudge them in any way.

I understood the simple needs of a working man, and as long as they don't consume enough to impair their work, I didn't have a problem with them having a lunchtime drink. As I finished grooming my hair and straining my tie, I glanced over to the chest of drawers and laid my eyes once more upon the portrait. Strangely, the expression on Lavinia's face had shifted. To this day, I cannot say if it was a trick of the light or a mere misremembering, but at the time I could have sworn that the smile on her face was a little wider than it had been the night before, a little sharper and less mocking.

I approached the painting to get a better look, and as if possessed, I hastily grabbed it and placed it in my briefcase, unwilling to part from its company for even a few hours. I hurried down the stairs and strode through the foyer, determined to reach the lion before the work crew. But as I passed Ted, who was busy cleaning the counter, something made me break my stride, and I instead approached him. Upon seeing me, he smiled. "'Bornin' Mr. Marshie!'

He exclaimed. Winsing as the words left his mouth, he glanced around fervidly to see if anyone had heard him say my surname out loud, but happy that no one had, he continued. Oh, sorry about that, sir. Is there anything I can do for you? The breakfast is offered the bar, but I'm sure the missus could rustle up some scrambled eggs and toast, maybe a spot of bacon if you like. No, I'm fine.

Thank you, Ted. I was just on my way to the lion to meet up with the crew. I'll probably grab a bite there. No offense taken, sir, but if you change your mind, we have some fresh lobster that's just come in from this morning's all. Plump and juicy. He split his hands apart by a distance of around 12 inches, as if holding an invisible lobster out for me to see. I do like lobster, I said, putting my briefcase down. Maybe for some supper later, once my business in town is settled.

Actually, I was wondering if I could ask you something about my room. Is everything okay? I hope the bed was comfy. If not, I can always change the duvets over. No, everything's fine. It's the painting, the one of the woman. I found it behind the drawers in my room. I guess it used to hang on the wall. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you? He looked at me with an expression I can only describe as suspicious. The painting? I thought that was long gone, sir. I assumed a previous guest had stolen it for a memento, or one of the cleaners had perhaps broken it and chucked it in the fire.

But it's still there, you say? Well, I'll be damned. Do you know much about it? In a manner of speaking, sir. Yes, I do. He leaned in close again and dropped his voice to just above a whisper. You remember me telling you about that Marsh fellow who stayed here a few years back, the one who took a long walk down by the beach?

I nodded. Of course. Well, it was his. But him with him. him, I guess. Beautiful paint in mind. Not sure who the girl is. When I found out that he'd, you know, gone, I didn't know what to do with it, so I hung it in the room, the one where he'd stayed. Seemed only right to mark his passing in some way. It's not like anyone ever came to proclaim it.

He stayed in the room you gave me? I replied, unable to hide what must have sounded like shock. On purpose, sir. That room is one of our most popular. It has an adjacent bathroom, not to mention a lovely view of this town. If you're not happy, I could swap you over to a different room. No, that's quite all right. I reassured him. Just a strange coincidence, I guess.

There's a name on the back of the picture, Lavinia, as well as the artist's signature, John Pickman. Pickman, huh? He cocked his head and thought for a few moments. Hmm. Well, there's a Pickman who lives down on the seafront. Barry Drive, if I'm remembering, right? One of the old cottages.

Come to think of it. I think he's a painter. That's interesting. I wonder if your previous Marsh visitor bought the painting from him. The date says 1905 on the back. He'd have to be very old to be the same pickman. He is, sir.

Very old. After being his late eight-east, if not his 90s. Queer old duck mind. Where's an eye patch like you see in those pirate movies? He's not as strange as some of the folks around here, but he rarely leaves that cottage of his. You could sometimes catch him walking down by the beach, staring out across the waves. He's got no family as far as I know. If you ask me, and nobody is, I'd say he's not long for this world. I stood silent for a few moments before

making my excuses and leaving the hotel. The weather outside was the exact opposite of the day before, with an open blue sky and a bright autumn sun casting its golden hue over the town. The streets were naturally busier now that the rain had vanished, and a few locals greeted me with a smile as I passed them on the way to the vine. With the light crashing of waves in the distance, and the faint smell of fish and ships in the air, coupled with the general atmosphere of peace, I could finally understand what so many tourists saw in sea scale. The place must be idealic in summer.

The bar was only a short walk away, on the counter of Gosford Road, and just as I had expected, I found the foreman and the rest of the railway crew sitting in the far corner, eating and drinking, with a few of them playing darts on the nearby board. The bar was smoky, but not as dingy as I had expected, and I made my way over to the workmen and introduced myself. The foreman, a heavy-set Yorkshire man with a thick red beard, introduced himself rather gruffly as Jack Ellis. The rest of the men were not so quick to give their names, and continued with their games

and drinking while I got myself up to speed with the work they had been carrying out before my arrival. I can't say any of them were best pleased to see an inspector from the British Railways, but I assured them that I wasn't there to monitor their behavior or stifle their work in any way. All that I asked for was a report at the end of the day from the foreman, who, as far as the rest of them were concerned, was still the boss. Just a simple chat about the day's work and the state of the lines, along with any major repair

work needed, were all I required for him. We could even have the conversation in the bar, if you liked. This seemed to placate him and the others, and rather than hang around and have lunch at the bar, I decided it was best to give them the space, lest they see me as an unwelcome presence while they were off the clock. My stomach was grumbling furiously as I left the bar behind. my nose, I found myself at a nearby fish and ship shop and ordered myself rock, chips, and mushy peas for one shilling and six pence. I wolfed the meal down quickly as I made my way towards

the beach, determined to enjoy a little sunshine before heading to the station. By the time the sea was in full view, I had finished the meal and threw the scrunched-up newspaper that had been served in, discarding it in a nearby bin. It was then that I noticed him, a lone figure standing some thirty feet to my left. He was tall, strikingly so, and despite his obvious great age, he stood straight and proud, and appeared to have no need for a walking stick. I could make out his hawkish face, with its wild and thick gray beard and full head of hair, both of which billowed in the light sea breeze. He stood, transfixed upon the waves, clearly lost in his own thoughts. I started to walk toward him, and almost,

As if he were aware of my presence, he turned to look at me, and I saw that a black eye patch lay stretched across his left eye. This then must be John Pickman, the painter. Unable to resist the urge, I approached him. He kept his one solitary blue eye fixed upon me as I neared, and as I grew closer, his back appeared to straighten even more. Before I knew it, he was towering over me. He must have stood well over six feet tall, and I saw him.

I suddenly felt very small as I reached him. He looked at me intensely, that singular eye burning into my soul. I struggled to speak, and when I did, it was a stuttered mess of confused syllables. John? John Pickman? I finally managed to spit out. And what of it? What the hell do you want?

He barked back. My name is Howard Marsh. I'm staying at the Scarfell. Marsh? You don't look like any Marsh I am. Mars, I ever saw. So I've been told. I smiled weakly.

I don't know if you're aware of this, but I found a painting of yours up at the hotel. I was wondering if you could tell me about it. He looked me up and down, disgust, etched across his ancient and wrinkled face. I noticed his right hand tense and bunch into a fist, and I half fancied that he was about to strike me in the face, but his hand eventually relaxed. Then, with a dismissive sound, he turned and walked. walked away from me. I instinctively started walking after him, unable to let the matter of the painting be.

He noticed my following and spun around. Bougar off! He shouted at me, so loud that a few locals nearby turned to see what the fuss was about. Leave me be, you marsh devil! I've been surelod you lot, you fill of me! He then strode off, faster than before. Please! I protested.

I'm not a local marsh. My family aren't even from sea scale. I'm with British railways, here to look at the tracks. I just wanted to talk to you about the painting I found at the hotel, the one titled Lavinia. He froze in place at the mention of the name. Liv. He said, slowly turning to face me.

You saw my live. Yes, I replied, relieved I'd gotten through to him. Well, I think so. The painting is of a woman with black hair and green eyes. There's a shipwreck in the background. In fact, I have it with me. I reached into my briefcase and produced the painting. His mouth opened, almost as if he was about to address the picture directly.

His shoulders loosened and I could see his straight iron frame soften. Suddenly he didn't seem so tall or menacing. He looked like he was truly an old, tired man. I was wondering if you could tell me more about this picture. I said, holding it. It's incredible. I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life. Your artwork is astounding.

It was. He whispered, still staring at the picture. I'm sorry if I've upset or disrespected you, Mr. Pickman. I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your painting. I'm hoping the hotel will let me buy it. It's not theirs to sell. Looks like you've already claimed it. I assume the hotel doesn't know you took it.

Besides, if you knew the story behind that picture and that arpe, it spread on the canvas, You'd leave me well alone, Marsh. But if it's a painting you want, I have dozens more at home. Why don't you come back with me? I'll pour us a drink and I'll tell you all about that sea which you seem so fond of. Maybe then you'll drop the matter. Without hesitation, I agreed. And we both briskly walked down the seafront together without exchanging another word.

Pickman's home wasn't far. A quaint, whitewashed bungalow made of solid steel. stone and batched roof that looked like it was badly in need of repair. He pushed open the faded wooden gate, which protested with a loud creaking. The garden around the property was a tangled, feral mess. Whatever plants had once dwelt there had lost the battle with the tough grass, which must have blown in off the beach and taken root, strangling the life out of everything around it. We reached the front door to his home, but to my surprise, he did not pull out a key to unlock

the door but simply pushed it open. Aren't you worried about thieves? I asked. Leaving your front door unlocked like that. No one's got the stones to steal from me, lad. He replied, somewhat ominously. The interior was dark. There was a haze of dust floating through the air.

The smell of ancient tobacco clung to everything, and I could see that the walls were slowly turning yellow from what I imagined must have been decades of pipe smoke. Papers and debris covered every conceivable surface. My host shambled into what appeared to be an ancient kitchen, and I glanced around at the curious dwelling I now found myself in. As I explored, I happened to glance down at a bundle of crinkled newspapers, sitting next to a pile of tea-stained cups. The day on the first paper was Tuesday, 21st, September 1926. This paper is older than me, I said with chuckle. I've got warts of my ass older than you, boy.

He barked back from the kitchen. I laughed. Despite his prickly nature, there was something endearing about the old codger. He reappeared from the kitchen with a tray, upon which he had placed a pot of tea, a jug of milk, and two cups of saucers. I don't keep sugar. He said, setting the tray down on a small table that lay between the two rolling chairs in front of the fireplace. Bad for the teeth and bad for the art.

Sit down, lad. No point to being polite. Not with me anyway. I did as he said, choosing one of the dusty chairs. He almost threw the tray onto the table, causing the cups to clatter loudly. I'll put us a fire on. It's a nice day outside, but this place doesn't catch much sun. In a few hours it'll be colder than a witch's tit. He proceeded to light the fire, which had already been prepared with kindling and logs. I took the opportunity to inspect my cup, which, to my surprise, was clean and free of stains. I reached for the teapot, but he shot me a look

that froze me in place. After a few pokes of the flaming kindling, he reached for the teapot, pouring us both a cup. It's a good tea, this, strong. It's from Yorkshire. Gwen at the shop gets it in specially just for me. It'll do for now, but I'm already anchoring after something a little bit more medicinal, if you catch my meaning. He then proceeded to slurp his tea loudly, letting out as satisfied and setting the cup down. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a long wooden pipe. As he lit the first match, the small flame briefly flared,

illuminating his face, sitting there in the dark, taking languid pulls from the pipe. His hacus features and mad beard conjures up images of sorcerers and wizards in my mind. I must have been staring because he shot me a look with his one eye over the rising pipe smoke and grinned. So, you reckon you're not a marsh, at least not one of our marshes? Uh, my family is from Kent. I replied, taking a sip of the tea. I've never really met any other marshes, except from my close relatives, of course.

Any sailors in your family tree? He asked, taking another pull from his pipe. Uh, it's funny you should ask that. My father was in the navy, served during the Second War, and my grandfather was in the merchant navy before him. Aye, thought as much. I'd wager there salt water in your veins, marsh. Best you not go digging too deep into that.

I didn't understand what he meant, but I decided not to press any further. Now then, let's talk about this pains of mine. It's a long tail, lad. You best make yourself comfortable because by the time I'm finished, you won't ever want to set foot in sea scale again. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, but did not interrupt him. He then proceeded to tell me the most fantastic and horrifying story I'd ever heard.

Though his memory had clearly faded a little, his mind was sharp, and he was able to recount details from over 50 years ago and described them with the most vivid imagery, making them seem as if they had just occurred only that very morning. At times, I dared to interject, either pushing him for more details on certain topics or reminding him of where he had left the story when pausing for more tea, or to light the pipe, or to take a swig from a bottle of dark rum he eventually produced from the kitchen. As he unveiled the horrid chain of events to me, the sun in the sky rapidly vanished, giving way to the night in a terrible, ferocious storm that quickly descended upon us.

Those night hours were the worst. His story of horror and decay amplified a hundredfold by the howling wind, and the cataclysmic rumbling thunder and the heavy rain-drops that hammered the windows of his home like rusty iron nails. By the time his story was finished, the morning sun had risen and neither of us had slept. I immediately took my leave and made for the next train leaving sea scale. Despite the day being clear and bright once more, I could not bring myself to look out at the beach or the seas beyond it, and instead made my way inland as quickly as I could. I do not bother to return to Scafell and to recover my belongings, because the thought of

being anywhere near that place caused a sudden dread to grip me. Upon returning to my branch office, I tendered my resignation and left the employment of British railways for good. I had no desire to spend the next three years on the Cumbrian coast, helping with the government's plan to modernize the northern lines. I returned to my native, Kent, and then after a few years relocated to London coast. London, where I remain to this day. In the long years that have passed since that day in sea scale, I have made several inquiries

into the events described to me by John Pickman that have since added a terrible authenticity to certain details that I long thought too outlandish to have any base in reality. It all started with that damned ship. If it weren't for that particular storm, on that particular day, she'd have blown into another port or reached her destination, and we would have had our peace." The ship in question was the Miss Katonic, an ocean liner of the Blue Star Line bound for Dublin from Kingsport in the United States. She was modest, lacking many of the luxuries the other more famous passenger ships offered,

but she was famed for her great speed and had ferried countless Irish immigrants to the shores of America. No one was sure how she had come a cropper in the water. But whatever misfortune befell her was greatly aggravated by an unusual and uncharacteristically furious June-time storm. The call had gone out in the early hours of the morning that a ship was in trouble off the coast, and before too long a large crowd of sea-scale residents had assembled on the beach. There was talk among some of the more courageous men about taking out fishing vessels to pick up survivors, but they were wisely talked down by the more experienced seafarers.

All that crowd could do was watch helplessly as the waves enveloped the ship and pulled her down into the depths. In less than an hour she had vanished, taking nearly 1,200 souls with her. For whatever reason, the lifeboats had not been deployed, and for a brief, horrifying moment, the waves were dotted with men, women, and children, bobbing up and down helplessly. in the water, only to be swallowed up one by one by the infinite nightened bliss of the Irish Sea. All anyone could do was pray and hope that whatever gods were listening would have mercy on the poor souls cast to drift. When the morning came and the sea is calmed, the body started to be ejected onto the beach. Hundreds upon hundreds of bodies strewn across the sands

and rocks for miles. It took days to clear them away. and months to identify the remains in order to notify relatives in the States. Many of the victims remained unknown, however, and were given a burial at St. Cuthbert's Church, in a special area of the cemetery set aside for them that the locals started to refer to as Neptune's taken. Word reached the authorities that some bloated bodies had washed up as far north as Maryport, but a great deal were never recovered, forever claimed by the sea. There were wild reports that some of the bodies displayed signs of a shark attack, but this was

immediately discredited. Every expert and layman of the sea agreed that no shark found in British waters could ever have been responsible for the terrible wounds that several of the victims had suffered. As dismissive as they had been, however, not one of these doubters was able to bring forward a convincing alternative theory that could explain why so many physical material was missing for many of the corpses. There also washed up various personal items and parts of the broken ship. Many containers were marked with the seal of the marsh refinery out of Innsmouth,

which later helped with identifying some of the victims, as well as the sole survivor of that terrible day. She was found on the beach, surrounded by the bodies of those less fortunate. At first, the rescuers mistook her for another corpse, for she was still and unmoving. face down in the gently lapping waters. Curiously, she was naked. For what reason none could say. Perhaps she had the foresight to remove her clothes before going into the water, lest they assist the cold sea in dragging her down. Regardless, when a local fisherman removed his jacket in order to protect her modesty,

she suddenly started to splutter, and the frantic call went out that a survivor had been found. Her existence was declared nothing less than a miracle, for she alone appeared to be the sole survivor of the twelve hundred people thrown overboard, and many thought that her fortune was nothing less than divine providence. The fisherman who discovered her was Stephen Graham, a close friend of Pickmans, who was 28 years old at the time, and visiting family in town. Stephen carried the half-conscious girl to Dr. Trenton, the local physician, who examined her for any signs of trauma or injury.

Apart from her few cuts and bruises, however, she was unharmed. Her mind was not so fortunate, for the girl appeared to be suffering from shock in some form of amnesia. She knew her name, Lavinia Wattley, soon to be Lavinia Marsh, and she was 20 years old, stating that her date of birth was November 10, 1885. She could recall almost every detail of her life, with exception of how that final day aboard the ship had played out. She had traveled to Kingsport, Massachusetts, with her fiancée, Abner Marsh, the grandson of the famed Captain Oban Marsh and cousin to Barnabas, who now ran

the Marsh Gold Refinery in the neighboring port of Insmouth. The two had planned to relocate to Ireland and be wed in Dublin, though tragically this was now not to be. Abner, along with everybody else on board the Miscatonic, had been dragged into the watery fathoms of the Irish see, and like many of those poor souls, his body was never recovered. Dr. Trenton would later admit to those few locals, whom he kept within his confidence, that he found the girl to be evasive when questioned. Though she had done no wrong, she appeared to have an intense distrust of anyone in authority, and when government officials later attempted to speak with her about her and Abner's future

plans, as well as their reasons for leaving Innsmouth, she would suddenly fall under the spell of amnesia in a manner that Dr. Trenton would describe as being obviously feigned, she also refused any help from the embassy to inform her family and Insmouth of her survival, though she was powerless to stop them from contacting Abner's relatives. As the girl rested at the Trenton household, the cleanup on the beach continued. Police officers from around Cumbria, as well as hundreds of volunteers, assembled on the beach front each day to look for bodies and to recover what they could from the wreck in order to be returned to the families of the dead.

It was on one such morning, three days after the Miscatonic had been claimed by the waves, that a group of locals first stumbled upon this sinister article that would cause so much misery and terror to descend upon the residents of sea scale. The strange object in question had been boxed in a large, sturdy wooden crate, a sizable portion of which had been destroyed. likely by being repeatedly thrust into the rocks by the foamy tide. That it did not lie at the bottom of the sea, strewn across the seabed with countless other articles, was odd enough.

But it was the item's appearance that truly shocked the crowd that had assembled to watch several local strong arms haul the thing out of the water. Once the lid of the crate was pried open, there lay an object inside so bizarre and spectral that none who saw it that day could claim in all honesty of having laid their own. eyes on anything resembling its ilk before or sense. It was a large mirror. It lay some seven feet long and three feet wide. Its polished surface was immaculate, without so much as a hair fracture upon its oddly greenish-tinted

exterior. Those who ventured closer swore that the thing did not reflect any object held in front of it, and those who leaned over to take a look could only find darkness cast upon the green crystal plate, which was framed by a strange menagerie of golden figures. The frame was especially lustrous, and at certain angles appeared more like silver in appearance than true gold. It was unaccountably light, and it could be shaped and molded without tools.

As one man discovered, when he nearly pulled away a chunk of the strange plastic metal while lifting it from its crate, the frame was decorated with a bewildering display of carved sea creatures. Octopye and crustaceans appeared to be the most populous beasts, but the same. There was also several strange figures whose likeness bore no earthbound equivalent. They appeared to depict sea monsters, gods, half human and half fish-like frogs. They were depicted dancing and frolicing around the mirror in a horrid mockery of human gesticulations.

Many of the locals were familiar with tales of mermaids and sirens, but even they failed to place the awful creatures into any known cycle of folklore or mythology. It wasn't until several years later, when Pickman had shown paintings he had made of the mirror to some salty old codgers visiting from Whitehaven, that the name Dagon became attached to the strange object. These old-timers, who in their long careers had visited every known heathen port in Asia and Africa, recognized the fish frogs from their dealings with the very specific tribes, and told Pickman that the thing must have been inherently evil if it was associated with the worship

of that ancient sea devil. When Lavinia heard about the mirror, she was quick to lay claim upon it, stating that it was a family heirloom of the Marsh family and had been given to her and Abner as an engagement gift. There was no reason to doubt her claims, and given all she had lost in her fateful trip across the Atlantic, no one had the heart to contest or deny her claim. The mirror was moved to a room at the Scafell Hotel and was joined by Olivia once she was well enough to move without aid. The hotel mistress, June Sokald, had lost her husband a few years prior and had no children of her own.

She took pity on the strange American girl and gave her a room at the hotel in exchange for some light duties around the property. Nobody knew exactly what Lavinia's plans were, and nobody wished to push the girl on the subject. A few months after the wreck, she had grown to become a fixture in the town and was typically seen walking to the various stores on errands for June. At other times, she was seen standing at the sea front, gazing out at the troubled waves longingly. Many of the townsfolk soon warmed to her, and the novelty of having an American was something that kept the bars gossip busy.

Most who saw her agreed she was a beauty second to none. Her long black hair, porcelain skin, and large green eyes were all that most men and boys in town could talk about. Despite her loss, it wasn't long before several suitors attempted to woo her, but she rejected them all. The only man she seemed to have eyes for was Stephen Graham, whom she appeared to have a great affection for, only natural, many would say, seeing as he was the one who had found her on the beach that day.

The two were often strolling together along the sea front. And Stephen would make up any excuse he could to visit the Scothel, offering to help out with the various chores around the hotel. He was like any other man in town, besotted with the girl, and his friends, including Pickman, would often tease him at the bar over a few pints, justing that he had fallen for a siren of the deep. When June decided to take him on permanently at the hotel as a sort of handyman, a rumor soon started to spread that he and Lavinia was sharing the same room.

This marks the beginning of a gradual but steady decline in the favor that many of the townsfolk had shown towards the girl. As the weeks passed, some of her more peculiar characteristics started to grate upon the residents, especially the bedlums and old codgers, who are quick to find fault with the younger generation. A point of contention that was raised several times among the sewing circles was the girl's strong reluctance to attend church. She was absent from the funerals and vigils that were held at St. Cupboats for her drowned countrymen. But that was understandable, given that Dr. Trenton had advised that she rest up and avoid any potential source of stress, lest it further inhibit the recovery of her fragile memory.

But now that she had healed and was apparently staying in sea scale, her absence from the Sunday service was starting to set tongues wagging across the town. Some thought that she may have belonged to some exotic American denomination, a more Mormon, perhaps, or an evangelical of a group not yet known in Britain. Regardless, she refused to take part in either the Angelican or Catholic services, and whenever broached about the finer details of her faith, she would utter vague allusions about transcendence and transformation that left many baffled and wishing they hadn't raised the subject.

Life and death, she had said, were intrinsically lied together in an endless cycle that resembled the turning of the seasons, and it was not healthy to imagine either as distinct states of existence. When pressed further on these beliefs during a peculiarly heated exchange with the local Catholic priest, Father Hodgson, she simply smiled and said, No one truly dies, Father. They simply return. Several of the old-timers declared that there was something distinctly pagan about the

girl, though they failed to justify this claim with anything other than a vague collection. of half-forgotten fairy stories and old wives tales. The growing resentment towards the girl did nothing to dissuade Stephen from pursuing her, and as the two grew closer, the less Pickman saw of his friend. Stephen had once been a regular fixture at the local bar, was once becoming a rare visitor, and one that his former Cotier friends was growing less and less happy to see. All agreed that there was something off about Stephen, though it was difficult to our articulate just what it was that first started to repel others. Some of the locals reported

that he could be seen muttering to himself while sitting alone in the corner of the bar. On other times, he would appear to be gripped in some form of mania and would start to preach the same strange talk about transformations that Lavinia was prone to sharing. His appearance, too, was starting to decline. His former youthfulness and vigor, giving way to a fragleness, usually reserved for someone several decades older. Great dark rings were forming under his once-vibrant hazel eyes, and his skin was growing pale and transparent. On one occasion, he collapsed outside the newsagents, and Dr. Trenton had to be called out to

attend him. The doctor had insisted that Stephen be transported by horse and coach to the hospital in Whitehaven, but he refused, and instead spent a few days at the local surgery to recover. Trenton, never one for maintaining the confidentiality of his patients, was heard telling others that Stephen's body had been covered in curious, small circular wounds, as if punctured by dozens of tiny needles. These sparked all manner of rumors and gossip about his and Lavinia's private life. Pickman stated that he hadn't seen Stephen for at least two weeks before the incident, but

took the opportunity to visit him at Trenton's surgery. He did this not only because he wished to check in on his friend, but because he knew that Lavinia would likely not be present, for Trenton had kept most visitors on a strict leash, only allowing one into the surgery at a time, and for no more than 30 minutes. Pickman described the terror state that Stephen appeared to be in, disheveled, exhausted, but still a marked improvement on how he had been before the collapse. Trenton assured that Stephen was on the mend, and his health would be restored with a few weeks of rest and hardy eating.

It wasn't Stephen's physical condition that unnerved Pickman, however. It was his mental state. During his brief visit, Stephen talked incessantly about Lavinia. Had Pickman seen her? Was she talking with any other men in town while she was at the surgery? Where was she last seen in town? And so forth. Pickman quickly discerned that Stephen's inquiries were not born.

born of any longing or concern, at least not for Lavinia, but of fear, fear that he would soon be released by the doctor and once more fall under her spell. I can't help myself. I know she isn't good for me, isn't good for this town, but it's those eyes, those beautiful eyes. They change color the longer you stare into them. Green is kelp one minute, then deep blue like the morning sky of the nils. Sometimes they're black. Black as the dark ocean. I can feel myself drowning in those eyes. I can taste the salt of them as I sink down into their depths. I can't pull myself away. Those eyes. Those beautiful, terrible eyes.

Pickman had called Dr. Tranton into the room, once Stephen's rambling started to break from a hushed whisper and erupt into a feverish babbling. A sedative was administered, and Pickman was told. told that it was best to leave Stephen to rest. Reluctant to leave his friend, Pickman had suggested that he stay and keep watch over Stephen, but Trenton did not budge and insisted that he leave the surgery, assuring him that he could come back and visit in the morning. It was the last time he would see his friend alive. The news traveled quickly the next morning. A body had been found at first light by fishermen preparing for the day's catch. The naked pale thing found gently bobbing against the slimy bee. beach rocks had once been Stephen Graham, but any resemblance that had once shared with the

living man had been twisted and deformed in ways unaccountable. The corpse was quickly removed from the beach before a large crowd could gather to Gok, but the rumors of the terrible state that the body had been found in circulated rapidly. Some said that his eyes had been removed, but there was no sign of damage to the flesh around them, either by surgical or animal means. It was almost as if they had been sucked clean from their sockets. His face was distorted in an awful manner, so much so that all who had seen it agreed, the expression upon it had no business being a human face. The nakedness was difficult to explain, and no clothing was ever found.

The strange circular wounds that Trenton had discovered a few weeks earlier were scattered over the white flesh of Stephen's body. Most looked old, and some had even started to scar. But there were several that looked angrily red and fresh. One of the old codgers remarked that they looked similar to the marks left behind from a lamprey or hagfish bite, though the creature in question would have had to have been a large unknown specimen that had somehow managed to evade categorization by modern science. A funeral for Steve was held the following week in Whitehaven,

after Stephen's family had claimed the body and taken it back home. Many of the Seascale residents, who felt that Stephen was one of their own, made the journey north to see him shepherd into the cold ground of the cemetery at the St. Nicholas Church. Upon returning to Seascale, Pickman and the others held a private wake for their friend in the line, where they spent the night drinking, sharing memories of their departed friend, and cursing Lavinia. The girl had not bothered to attend the funeral, something that Pickman had begrudgingly admitted was likely for the best.

Stephen's family had no idea that he had been entangled with the girl, and things being as they were back then, he had no wish to blacken their son's name with a salacious gossip. Lavinia had been wise enough to keep to herself for the best part of a month since Stephen's death, but she was soon spotted around the town once more, often in the local bar where she attempted, unsuccessfully to seduce several of Stephen's friends. Though still alluring, there had been a noticeable change in her appearance. Some said she was aging prematurely, with strands of silver appearing in her raven black hair, and the first signs of crow feet dancing around the outer corners of her eyes. None of this was the reason that the men of seascale refused her, however.

No. It was less about how she looked and more about how she looked at them. There had been a predatory cast to her face, coupled with the desperation that had mercifully acted as a deterrent. On several occasions, she had been successful, however, managing to corrupt a younger lad whose family had recently moved to town, and later a sailor visiting sea-scale from barrow and furnace. But these were fleeting victories. The men of the town swiftly formed a group that kept watch for Lavinia and warned any visitors from speaking with her. The girl's behavior had grown so repugnant to the locals that she stopped leaving the scoffel, except for in the most extreme of circumstances.

June, for whatever reasons, had refused to renounce the girl, and soon the most indecent rumors started to spread that Lavinia was offering herself to the male clientele who stayed at the hotel. The true horror of what had come to sea scale, however, was still to make itself known. The following spring, on May Eve, Henry and Margaret Spencer reported that their young son, Michael, had not returned home after leaving to pick up a fish supper for the family. The boy was only ten years old, but he had been trusted to make the trip on several occasions. Not once had he ever given his parents' cause for concern and mistrust.

The boy's father, Henry, frantically ran through the streets of town, calling out for his son, while Margaret visited every mother to see if Michael had called upon their children. Henry was quickly joined by several other residents, who split up and formed small search parties to better locate the missing child. Once the town was thoroughly canvassed, the searchers turned their attention to the seafront and beach. The late spring sun lingered in the sky well past 9 p.m., but eventually it started its inevitable descent and submerged into the horizon of the Irish Sea, and soon, torches were the suners.

were needed to continue the desperate hunt. The beach yielded no success, and there was talk of heading onto the moors in case the boy had wandered into them and become lost. However, the encroaching darkness made a search of the moors a futile endeavor, and with great reluctance, the search was called off until morning. At first light, word was sent to the other communities around Seascale, and police from neighboring towns joined in on the search, which expanded in scope beyond the town, with one party combing the coast to the north and south and another larger group heading inland towards the moors. Both of these groups became unnecessary, however, as the unfortunate news of a body being discovered inside a derelict farmhouse outside of town

rapidly spread. The police were quick to secure the scene, but Henry Spencer, possessed as if the old Nick himself sprinted to the farmhouse and barged his way inside, pushing the officers out of the way in a fit of hysterical strength. Inside that ancient and crumpled farmhouse, not too far from the fireplace, lay the body of young Michael. The howls of pain and rage that echoed forth from the devastated father were nothing less than inhuman. Once Henry had finally exhausted himself with his grief, the officers escorted him away.

Margaret fared a little better, becoming a shell of the woman she once was. The whole town turned out for the funeral, and the school was. was closed for several days. Most parents forbid their children from leaving the home near to or after dark, a measure that stayed in force for several months. Henry and Margaret separated a few years later, and both left Seascale, never to return. The town was shaken to its foundation by the tragedy and strangers visiting Seascale soon discovered, and the locals were less than welcoming than they had once been, and many found themselves eyed with a deep suspicion. Few, if any details about the condition of Michael's body were ever disclosed to the public.

Officially, Dr. Trenton, then acting as the county coroner, ruled the death as uncertain. But in secret, he certainly had his suspicions. Pickman, who by now had harbored his own suspicions on the matter, confronted the doctor and managed to wrangle from him the terrible truth that Michael had drowned. How he had come to such a fate in a place so far from any large body of water. Water was a mystery. Adding to the enigma was the fact that Michael had, unmistakably drowned in saltwater, as its presence was confirmed to be in the boy's lungs. Trenton had noticed that when he performed his autopsy, and while the scientific and medical justifications for such

a conclusion were lost on Pickman, the doctor assured him that the boy had in fact drowned in the nearby sea. Why his body had been taken to the farmhouse was unknown. Certainly, it had not made itself there unaided, and had likely been left there until the perpetrator could return to properly conceal it, either on the farmhouse grounds or, more likely, upon the moors. More disturbingly, Michael's body had also displayed the same curious circular wounds and injuries that had been present on Stevens, and there was no single drop of blood left in the boy. Something had attached itself to him, pulled him down into the water, and sucked the life out of him. That was Trenton's theory. A theory only pulled from him after a few glasses

of strong scotch. Something had to be done. Pickman growled at me as he recalled that terrible day. I knew it was her, that she-doll from the sea. Me and some of the other fellows we went on to the bobbies and told them what we knew. What the doctor had told me. Those marks on Stephen's body, same as on Michaels, as she drained the life out of both of them. But all they did was laugh and call us fools believe in such nonsense. They laughed and threw us out of the station, told us to take our wild stories back to the pub and drown them in the booze in which we had dreamt them up. Lovitya had rarely been seen since the boy's death.

She had no cause to attend the funeral, and her absence from it had not caused anyone outside of Pickman's alliance any concern. In fact, beyond Pickman, Dr. Trenton, and a few others, it seemed as if the majority of C-scale residents failed to make any of the sinister connections between Lavinia and the deaths of Stephen Graham and Michael Spencer. And why would they? Most were ignorant of the similarities between the wounds of the bodies, and even if they were, who in the right mind would attribute such marks to a young woman.

But Pickman was adamant that Lavinia had been the root cause of both deaths, and the police were unwilling to do anything about the great evil that. that now stalked the town. He was determined to do something about it himself. For the next few weeks, Pickman started to watch Lavinia, from a distance at first, but gradually he voluntarily decided to be drawn closer into her orbit, making sure he was present at the various stores that the girl would visit while running chores for June. He then started to frequent the public bar at the Scarfell, giving up the line as his local

drinking spot. A few of Pickman's friends who had started to vigil with him could not bring them themselves to abandon the local pub. And so, by the time he started to drink at the Schaafel, he was largely alone in his investigation. Only Dr. Trenton had stuck with him, joining Pickman for a brandy twice a week when both of them knew that Lavinia was present, working behind the bar. Pickman made a conscious effort to soften towards Lavinia, even going as far as to flirt with her on occasion. How much of this was truly an act is something that he claimed not to know, But whenever he spoke to her during this part of his story, he would stare into the distance

and a relaxed and enjoyed expression would creep across his otherwise stony face. He would catch himself as he grew misty-eyed talking about the girl and do his best to reiterate what a vile sea-harpy she was. But it was clear to me that he had once labored upon Lavinia's spell. Pickman was careful to note that Lavinia's previous bout of premature aging had mysteriously reverted, By whatever methods available to her, the girl was youthful and beautiful once more. Pickman would watch on occasion, as an out-of-towner staying at the Skowwell would fall under her spell, and he soon learned the rumors that her entertaining guests were at least partially

true. It is perhaps from jealousness that he decided to try and court the girl himself, though he took pains to explain that this was simply a ruse to uncover the truth about her involvement in the strange death of his friend. The closeness to which he felt towards Lavinia was rapid, and within a month or two they were engaged. This was of great shock to the rest of his friends, and to Trenton, all of which distanced themselves from him, but to Pickman, this did not matter. So enraptured he was in both the girl and his quest that he failed to notice that his former comrades had turned on him. It was during this period of engagement that the whore finally occurred.

It had caused Pickman to not only break off his engagement to the girl, but to flee. sea-scale altogether, and keep his distance from the town of his birth for several decades. Once Europe became involved in the Great War, he was already signed on with the Merchant Navy and saw his fair share of horrors, all of which he claimed paled in comparison to that singular terror he had seen that fateful night in Scoffell. After the war, he had settled in East England and found a job working in Scunthorpe at the steel mill. When World War II broke out, he was too old to serve in the Navy, but the mill became

an important site for arms manufacturing, and he stayed on to do his part for King and Country. He likely would have stayed there, but an accident at the mill had left him with only one eye, and the compensation offered to him had allowed him to retire early. For whatever reason, be it of nostalgic longing or a sense of closure, he had decided to return to sea scale. As Pickman neared the completion of narrating his long story to me, the storm outside had already passed, and the first rays of dawn were struggling to rise over the town. Though I had stayed awake the entire night, listening to his account, fatigue had failed to find its hold over me, and I remained enraptured by his tale. Though I dreaded what was coming, I had no choice but to remain in his presence

to hear the truth. The dream of Lavinia from the night before had been so real and so vivid, and his entire account had been so disturbingly affirming in its details that I felt hopelessly entwined within it. And so, I listened to him, listened to the final details that had caused him to abandon C-scale, just as I did as soon as his tale was finished, fleeing in a panic from that place with no intention of ever returning. The horror had come, Pickman said, with the disappearance of another child. This time, an infant belonging to a young couple who had come to C-scale on vacation. Despite being outsiders, the townsfolk rallied around the couple, and everyone who could joined in on the search.

Pickman could not recall the name of the baby or its parents, for he had left town on the very day the disappearance had occurred. This had, of course, cast a dark shadow over him. For a few of his former friends, bitter over how he had abandoned them in favor of Lavinia, were quick to make accusations, some of which have stuck to this day, making it clear to me why Pickman had such a strange reputation in town, and many avoided him.

But he cared little for this. He had seen the truth, and a lifetime of ostracization was little when compared to what he had seen that night. Before he revealed to me that final horror, he stood up abruptly from his chair, so much so that it shocked me and caused my heart to beat erratically. He left for the kitchen, and when he returned, it was not a tray of tea he was carrying, but a stack of canvases under both arms. Slowly, he placed them around the living room as he spoke, knocking off ornaments.

and various bric-a-brac as he slammed them down on the table, the chairs, the mantel place, and anywhere else they would fit. Each one had a crude replica of the painting I had brought him the day before, the painting I had found at Scaffel. Upon each canvas, he had vainly tried to recapture Lavinia's likeness, but it was clear he was painting from memory, for although the subject of each was unmistakably obvious, each bore strange flaws and blemishes, but caused them to pale before the original. When he was done, I found myself surrounded by the gleaming green eyes of over a dozen imitators,

all arranged around me and staring at me with an intensity that made my head swoon. This is what I've been doing all these years. I've been back coward. He said, his one eye now wide and fixated upon me. The terrible truth is that even though I dream of her name, Nightly, her face fades from my memory. But the eyes, I always recall those eyes with horrid clarity. To think that even now, after all those years, all those horrid things she's done, I cannot escape her. His voice was trembling with every word, and the threat of hysteria was slowly expanding as he continued.

Once I heard about the child, it was as if the same. scales had finally dropped from my eyes. Maybe it was the Lord Almighty that gave me the clarity. Maybe it was old Neptune himself was so fit to grant me the strength to confront one of his own fiends. Whatever it was, be it desperation, be it courage, be it madness, I raced to the score fell after spending the day searching for the child with the other men of the town. It was dark, dark like it is now. The sun was setting and the sun was setting and the the shadows were coming in to drown out all hope of finding the child. Into the scoffel I ran, ran up those stairs and straight full of ideas chambers.

It was then I seen the glow coming from under the door, a strange, sickly green glow, unlike anything I'd ever seen before or since. There were voices coming from beyond the door, Howard, but not voices like yours and mine. slopping wet voices Words that spilled out of frog lips covered in salty slime And rotting kelp Voices that sounded like a drowning sailor gurgling at his last prayers

Then I heard it The moaning of a child An infant cry beyond that door In a fit I kicked it down and raced inside What did I see, Howard, if only my words, could do the thing any justice? The glow was everywhere, bathing the rum in its fathomless horror. She stood there, naked before it, before that mirror, the one she had been so quick to claim when it first washed upon the beach.

But the reflection staring back at me from the surface of that blasphemous mirror with baleful fish frog eyes was not that of Lavinia. A terrible beast called up from the depths of Lightless Rylia. Pish things dance and hold court up a countless scions. Oh, that's right, Howard. I done my reading once I left sea scale. I learned the terrible truth about the marshes and the haunted port of Innsmouth that spawned them. I know where she was from originally, Howard, and it wasn't any a rotting town in New England.

She's always walked upon us, and she always will. In time, more Marshes came to sea scale than though no one ever saw her again, I knew that she was the fountain from which they sprung. Sebastian Marsh, that terrible devil, took up their work, said his prayer spells and kept vigil over those unholy nights when the fish frogs frolic. Riny, bastard! How many more, Howard? How many more were taken? They're gone now. The marshes, gone from sea scale.

Hell knows where they ended up. But mark my words, Howard, she's still here. Still here in this town. Still up there in the depths of the sea. Calling, calling, calling, calling to any fools she thinks may answer. That mirror! I was frozen, unable to move. Those terrible eyes looking back at me.

from its watery surface, that terrible smirk etched across her face and those eyes, so familiar yet so alien. I ran. God forgive me, Iran. How I would like to stand here and tell you I'm some kind of hero who put their stop to the evil of her. I can't. I can't. I ran and I never looked back!

The man was frantic. gripped by a feverish rage. He wasn't even looking at me now. He was looking past me, out of the window of his cottage that faced the beach. Suddenly he reached forward, grasping my shoulders with his claw-like hands and sinking them deep into my flesh.

You belong to her now, Howard, to Dagan's daughter, to that terrible goddess of the drowned of the deep. She'll come for you, just as she came from me, and for the countless others before. Oh, I've seen so many of them go in my time I would drag down into the salty gloom. Oh, that awful, panicked expression as they go.

How they thrash and they scream and they gurgle and they pray to every sea, God and devil they can name, begging that just one will hear them and save their miserable soul. but it's all for naught Howard despite the praying and the pleading and the screaming up rises the dread king's waves and it's down into the brandy depths you go only

you won't be dead Howard because you're a marsh you'll be living living for eternity living but you're wishing you was dead living with the awful fish frogs that were once your human kin. Your ma and papa and your great granddaddy, he whom you thought was dead and rotting in the earth for decades.

But he lives, Howard. Oh, how he lives! He dances and cavorts with his own forefathers, and his before his, and his before his! He was screaming now. He pulled me up from my chair and pushed me back. towards the front door of the cottage. Get out, Howard!

Leave this place while you still can. Leave it before it awakens the soul water in your blood, and you cannot resist its calling no more. Get out. Forget about her. Forget about C-scale. Erase this evening from your memory and go back home. Marry a pretty girl.

One whose maiden name is in wait or weight or weightly or bishop or guill. or Elliot! Marry a pretty girl who's never seen the sea and never wishes to! Leave Howard before she comes for you! I never even told you the worst part of that dreaded night, did I? Tell you how, cradled in her white arms, she bore the mewing, crying and terrified form of that child. A babe, still fat and chubby from suckling on its mother's teeth. mother's teeth.

She held the poor infant in her outstretched arms, and from out of the mirror that terrible fish phantom reached out and grabbed the child. Reached out, I say, for it wasn't Lavinia's reflection that stared back from the mirror. It was her husband, he whom we all thought had drowned in the bay that night. It was Abner, Abna Marsh. That bastard grandson of Obed! He did not drown when the Miscatonic went down, for he was never on board. He had made that trip back up to the depths long before Lavinia set foot aboard that

a cursed vessel. Followed her, he did. Followed that ship like a shark follows a bleeding sailor. She had brought him with her to sea-scale to feast upon the blood of Englishmen the way that they have feasted upon the blood of the Edsworth folk. Cast out they had been, exiled from that crumbling place for crimes that even the order of Dagan thought blasphemous. He was terrible, Howard, for all the scales and the fangs and the webbed hands, I could see the face of what was once a man staring out at me from that mirror. That was what looked back at me, a twisted son of

Father Dagan and Mother Hydra. Grab the child he did. And with one last cry for its mother, sucked it into the watery surface of the mirror. He raised his hands to his face, tears streaming from his eyes. Oh, how many went down into that mirror? How many to feed that beast? I could have stopped her, Howard. Don't you understand?

I knew what she was. What she was doing. But my lust for that porcelain skin of those chalky white thighs blinded me to the devilry she wrote up on this town. The blood of those lost salt is on my hands too! He drew closer to me, so close that I could feel his rum-soaked breath on my face. You want to know the terrible truth, Howard. Even after all these years and all that are and all those drowned dead.

She called to me now, called to me this very instant. I would answer her. Go to her I would. And all this, this earth and these people and their beauty lives would mean nothing to me. Dance and gamble I would and I would live forever. He started laughing hysterically and, pulling away from me, shouted his final command. Go, you fool!

Go! And so I ran. Ran out of the cottage and up the street, Pickman's laughter still echoing from the darkness beyond his door. I ran straight for the C-scale train station. I can't recall if anyone reached out to me to ask why I was frantically sprinting through town, sweat pouring for me. I was fortunate enough to catch the first train leaving for Bar and Furness,

jumping on board and throwing myself down into a seat. I think I passed out. Because when I opened my eyes, I was far from Seascale, far from Pickman, and the terrible night of revelations. As I sat, waiting for the train to reach its destination, I then noticed that there was an object next to me on the train seat. Whether I had grabbed it myself as I fled from Pickman's cottage, or whether he had thrust it under my arm before I ran, I cannot say, for sitting on the seat next to me was Lavinia,

At least, in her painted form, the picture I had found in the Scafell, that very room where she had offered the blood of children to her and human husband, the room where Sebastian Marsh had stayed before returning to the sea. I still have it. It hangs in a secret corner of the attic that I keep hidden from my wife and children. I visit her every evening, after making excuses to my family. She is family too, after all. We speak, we dance, we talk of times that once were and will be again.

The mirror. I must find Dagon's mirror.