Ch.101

Further exploration was impossible. Dr. Hartwell was visibly struggling to breathe. It’s dangerous when breathing becomes labored while wearing a respirator. While Assistant Klein took the doctor to a secluded corner to calm him down, the graduate students sketched the altar and surrounding landscape. They decided to take notes for parts that were too difficult to draw. While waiting for the sketches, Crayfield and I carefully examined the altar and its surroundings.

The jelly monster’s body was nearly translucent, and when we shined our flashlights on it, its internal organs were clearly visible. It felt like observing an amphibian with transparent skin. Inside its body, we could see parts of the poor victims and a detached leg from a Moriarty replica doll. The victims’ bodies showed no signs of wire cuts or surgical marks—only the monster’s slime. The Moriarty replica dolls, however, had both wire marks and slime on their bodies.

Upon discovering these traces, we formed a hypothesis: the victims had descended into this underground cave with the Moriarty dolls, were attacked by the jelly monster, and then the wire killer cleaned up the scene before leaving. If the Moriarty dolls had been using the depths of the Dagon chapel basement as a kind of operating room, it would explain why they had come down here.

We walked into the cave behind the altar. A pool of water large enough to be called a lake appeared before us. It was bubbling, but fortunately, we felt no heat. The unidentified toxic gas filling the cave seemed to be rising from beneath the lake. Each time bubbles rose, seawater rippled and flowed into the cave.

Not far away, we spotted a wooden box with military markings. It appeared to be resting on solid rock. When we opened it, we saw several cylindrical metal containers—the explosive canisters we had seen many times before. When Crayfield picked one up, seawater dripped out, suggesting they had been deliberately thrown into the water to render them useless.

“…!”

A sound like wind. Like whistling. Like shouting, or perhaps speech. But we couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Crayfield frowned, but we had to turn back when three flashlight blinks came from where we had left our companions. It was the signal that the sketching was complete. The sound didn’t return.

Click.

Awakening <3/12> / Doom <3/12>

* * * * *

The climb back up was not smooth. Two graduate students kept collapsing as their legs gave out, and Dr. Hartwell had to stop walking to fight back nausea. Assistant Klein also repeatedly stopped and started. Despite this, he tried to search for traces of the Salem witch trials. But it was too late. The lock on the chest was smashed, and the inside was empty. Dust had accumulated everywhere except for an area about the size of a book, evidence that the thief had taken the contents not long ago.

As soon as we removed our protective gear, the two graduate students burst into tears and fainted. Their courage in drawing sketches while enduring disgust and fear deserves high praise. Dr. Hartwell also huddled in a corner, hugging himself and trembling.

Crayfield and I received the sketch materials from the graduate students. Even after discarding the foul-smelling equipment and putting our coats back on, the smell lingered in our nostrils. We picked up our coats again and went out to the square in front of the chapel. The square was equally chaotic.

An angry crowd was already facing off with the Innsmouth police. The crowd demanded to know why they had trespassed on the congregation’s private property, while the police maintained that it wasn’t private property and their investigation was lawful. Assistant Klein tried to mediate, looking exhausted, but it didn’t seem to be working.

Amidst the commotion, a familiar face approached us. It was Agent Catherine Scully. She briefly examined the two graduate students and Dr. Hartwell, offered words of comfort and encouragement, then took their statements. Eventually, she approached Crayfield and me. Crayfield shook the metal canister, which was still dripping water. When Scully reached out, Crayfield pulled it back toward himself.

“You still have energy to play games?”

“Agent, I’m not sure if I mentioned this before, but I prefer having just one mystery to deal with—two or three is too much. Innsmouth alone is giving me enough headaches, and now we have time bomb terrorists? Is the Security Bureau just sitting on its hands?”

“That’s excessive.”

“Even Jesus got angry sometimes. Do I always have to use pretty, nice words?”

Crayfield shook the waterlogged bomb. Scully didn’t respond. She just quietly looked at him. Her gaze was subtle—neither looking down nor up, just a steady observation. They seemed to lock eyes for a moment before Crayfield finally turned away.

“Tell me what you saw down there.”

Crayfield handed over the sketches. Scully seemed shocked as she examined them for a long time and carefully read the notes.

“What makes me angry, Scully, is that the guys who died at the altar were garbage. The kind who look down on others and criticize them without lifting a finger themselves. But no matter what, they’re human. They didn’t deserve to be eaten by whatever beast or monster that was.”

Crayfield pressed his fingers between his eyebrows.

“I’m not angry at you, but I admit my words were excessive. Agent Scully, I apologize.”

“No.”

Scully smiled.

“They say anger arises when we meet our limits. I’m glad to know you can’t stomach injustice either.”

“Ah. Like you?”

“No. Like someone I used to know.”

As if it were nothing, Scully changed the subject.

“The civic groups will be under surveillance too. Of course, in plainclothes to avoid criticism. But since they’re good at noticing such observation, I wonder if being obvious about it might be better.”

“You know this won’t end with just surveillance, Agent Scully.”

Crayfield growled.

“Look, even a hick from Pollard Island like me can see that someone is deliberately stirring up conflict in Innsmouth. But I can’t accept that you, a psychology PhD and federal agent, are taking such a passive stance instead of preventing the situation. What on earth is the Federal Security Bureau thinking?”

“Why are you being so cynical?”

“Because a capable agent like you is just twiddling her thumbs.”

“Listen, Crayfield.”

Scully put her hands on her hips.

“Provoking me won’t make me say, ‘My goodness, look how hard we’re working!’ So stop wasting your time. To use your expression, I’m also someone trying to work for world peace, but what can I do with only two hands?”

Crayfield, about to retort, looked at Scully with suspicious eyes. Scully was clearly exaggerating her anger. Perhaps it was because of the police officers glancing at her from around them.

“What did you say?”

“Why are you playing dumb after hearing everything? Did you forget I’m a civil servant too? Do you think a civil servant can wander around between Water Street and Main Street in the middle of the night like you private detectives? I also work under orders. Who’s more frustrated here!”

Then she suddenly stormed off, huffing.

“Unbelievable.”

But Crayfield was smiling brightly. He quickly hardened his expression when Assistant Klein approached us.

“I don’t know how to thank you both. After seeing such an ugly thing…”

“You should visit Pollard Island sometime. You’ll find what we saw here is only haunted house level.”

“Well, I heard Pollard Island is starting a tourism business—with horror as the theme, I suppose?”

Klein smiled tiredly.

“I’ll try to convince the congressional investigation committee first. And the mayor too. My goodness, to think something like that exists beneath an American city—it’s unacceptable. We need to act immediately.”

“Then we’ll attend to our business. If you have anything to tell us, please leave a message at the Gilman House desk.”

Klein hurried away. Crayfield and I left the noisy street. Angry citizens were rushing out of their homes. Civic group members appeared from somewhere, chanting slogans. We walked until the shouts and chants faded into the distance.

“The situation is going to hell.”

Crayfield put a Camel cigarette in his mouth and leaned against a wall. I asked what his conversation with Scully meant.

“Scully said it all. She’s too busy right now. So busy that she laments ‘having only two hands.’ On top of that, she’s under pressure from above. Because she’s a ‘civil servant working under orders.’ That’s why she can’t wander around ‘between Water Street and Main Street in the middle of the night.’ What does that mean? She’s telling us to go there.”

I asked where that was.

“Simply put, it’s the northern part of Innsmouth. According to our esteemed Mr. Lovecraft’s records, that area was already occupied by things that ‘crawled up from the sea’ back in 1927. By now, it’s probably empty streets. Oh, how do I know so vividly? Anyone who’s played the previous edition would never forget those damn alleys.”

Crayfield chewed nervously on the end of his Camel cigarette. Such a nervous display was rare from him.

“It’s also where you first encounter that slime monster. It doesn’t take damage from pistol bullets. It even ignores torches easily. Running and hiding is the best option, but in unavoidable cases, explosives might cause meaningful damage. Or you could hack it to pieces like that wire killer.”

A chill ran down my spine. Innsmouth was very familiar to Crayfield. To face a nightmare he had barely escaped, now in an even more terrible and cruel form. It seemed miraculous that Crayfield maintained his sanity. I honestly shared my thoughts.

“You think so too?”

Crayfield dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it with his heel.

“I’m telling you this because it’s just you and me. I’m confident I can solve this. It’s just that I know what we’ll have to see before we solve it, and that’s what sucks. Truly, I… I never thought I’d have to face the Deep Ones who shed their skin like clothes, and the Shoggoths that dissolve people layer by layer starting from the skin. What’s worse is that back then, there weren’t many humans here. Now there are too many.”

Crayfield leaned his head against the wall.

“Too many. If I could, I’d drive them all out. No matter how capable Agent Scully is or how much you and I run around, we can’t protect all these people.”

Crayfield muttered as he took out a new cigarette.

“What the hell is our client so busy with? He should just finish the investigation committee work and leave. And what’s with the Salem trial case…”

The Camel cigarette slipped through his fingers. Crayfield’s mouth fell open. Then he clenched his teeth so hard they made a clicking sound.

“This son of a bitch…”

Crayfield was furious.

“It was him. Assistant. Klein the assistant. He’s the problem. This bastard is deliberately dragging things out. Politicians are characters who treat others like chess pieces. How did I miss that? I wondered why he wasn’t doing anything…”

I asked what he meant. Crayfield looked around.

“Let’s go back to the beginning. What did Professor Armitage say? Senator Annette Cole was looking for records related to the Salem witch trials, and we know it’s a book. Maybe a ledger, but anyway. And Klein, this bastard, is Cole’s assistant. Did you see how desperately he insisted on opening that chest even in the middle of all that chaos? But Senator Cole’s ambitious plan was thwarted by two troublemakers from Great Britain.”

He must be referring to Clarice Holmes and James Moriarty. Professor Armitage said he didn’t know why they were carrying out terrorism in Innsmouth. Suddenly, I remembered what Crayfield had said about thinking of the results.

Could they have fallen this far? Even so, could they have gone to this extent? The terrible question of what Innsmouth meant to these people echoed in my mind. Crayfield seemed to have already read the answer in my expression.

“Those two troublemakers were brought in by the Federal Security Bureau. James Moriarty and Clarice Holmes are engaged in a meaningless war of attrition. Maybe Moriarty is just playing with her one-sidedly. The important thing is that Catherine Scully is reluctantly tolerating them. What else could she mean by saying ‘like someone I used to know’ who can’t stand injustice? She knows something is wrong but is looking the other way. And now even Shoggoths are crawling up.”

Crayfield clenched his fist.

“Assistant, let’s go. I need to show these bastards exactly who John Crayfield is.”