Ch.97Ch.7 – Elegy to Reason (4)

# June 3, 1929, 5:30 PM

Innsmouth Police Station

Innsmouth

I headed to the police station to meet our player, Charles Klein. Members of the investigation committee were boarding the police bus. With innocent people getting their throats cut, it seemed no one wanted to spend the night in Innsmouth. Of course, remaining composed in such situations is what makes a protagonist.

“The others are moving their accommodations to Ipswich. There should be vacant rooms at the Gilman House, so you can stay there. The reviews aren’t great, but it’s Innsmouth’s only hotel. Just mention my name at the lobby.”

“Aren’t you coming with us?”

“I have a dinner engagement with the ‘Innsmouth Redevelopment Committee.’ Mayor Isaac Allen and members of the Innsmouth City Council will be there.”

The Innsmouth City Council and mayor are Patriot Party officials. As an aide to a Patriot Party senator, it’s not a gathering I can refuse. We agreed to meet at 9 AM in the Gilman House lobby and parted ways.

On the way to the police station parking lot, Crayfield nudged my side. A few children were huddled together in an alley. As we approached, the oldest-looking girl skillfully struck a match. When she held it to the ground, flames erupted from the bare earth with a whoosh.

“How did you do that?”

Crayfield asked with a smile, but the startled children backed away. The foreign detective put his hand in his pocket. When the jingling sound of coins was heard, the children’s attitude became more friendly.

“Would you show me how?”

“You just put it down and it catches fire.”

After Crayfield handed them some coins, the children disappeared, laughing among themselves.

“The ground is cracked. It’s slightly raised compared to the surrounding area. And this fire won’t go out easily.”

Despite stomping on it several times with his shoe, the fire wouldn’t extinguish. Only after filling the crack with soil from a nearby flowerbed did it finally go out. I wondered if there might be an oil field beneath Innsmouth. There’s natural gas above oil layers, and when gas escapes to the surface and ignites, it’s difficult to extinguish. Crayfield shook his head.

“Well, there have been several reports of gas rising from underground. There were even reports of collecting and sending the gas for research analysis. But I’ve never seen any report confirming it as natural gas. We should ask about this at the Innsmouth City Hall tomorrow, or perhaps our protagonist. This is serious, though.”

Crayfield rubbed the crack with his heel.

“Those local kids seemed quite familiar with it, didn’t they? That means these gas vents aren’t just isolated incidents. And gas emissions in a coastal town are never a good sign. According to Lovecraft’s stories, beneath Innsmouth lies a city of Deep Ones. That’s the Y’ha-nthlei that woman in the house mentioned. It’s the dwelling place of fully transformed Deep Ones, with the reef near Devil’s Reef known as the entrance. The question is whether that setting continues in this world as well, or if it’s been altered. In my experience, it’s usually the latter.”

I asked about his experience. Crayfield lit another Camel.

“On the day we first met, I mentioned the previous installment of this game, right? Call of C#thulhu 1. John Crayfield was the protagonist of that game, and in the ‘good ending,’ he becomes a Deep One and flows into the sea. The setting was right here in Innsmouth. The year was 1928. I remember the details clearly because I altered the ending.”

I asked how he changed the ending.

“Happy ending.”

Crayfield said only that much. I didn’t ask further. We headed back to the parking lot. The Gilman House wasn’t far away, but it would still take about 10 minutes by car.

* * * * *

# June 3, 1929, 5:43 PM

Hotel “Gilman House”

Innsmouth

The Gilman House was a building with a rounded ceiling located in an oval plaza. It was quite a tall building, with a gleaming nameplate that read “Gilman House.” But replacing a nameplate doesn’t make an old building new.

The yellow paint, almost completely peeled off, looked like fallen calluses. A river flowed along one side of the gravel-covered plaza, and the sour smell that reached even the hotel lobby seemed to come from there.

We entered the hotel. The female clerk who had been dozing off woke up with a start. She was a woman who strangely resembled a melancholy frog.

There were many vacant rooms, perhaps because the council members had canceled their reservations en masse. Crayfield and I unpacked and then went down to the restaurant on the first floor.

As soon as we entered the restaurant, it became clear why the Gilman House didn’t have the best reputation. A musty, stale odor permeated the air, and everything from tables to chairs felt sticky. There were windows, but they were covered with what looked like black grease stains, making one reluctant to open them. Despite this, furnace-like heat flowed from the kitchen at the back of the restaurant.

“Strange. It doesn’t seem like many guests would eat dinner here.”

No sooner had Crayfield’s words fallen than a small group of four or five people streamed into the restaurant. Among them, we engaged in conversation with a relatively kind-looking woman. She said she was from Boston and belonged to a civic group advocating for the “Anti-Racial Discrimination Movement.”

“I’ve traveled mostly through the eastern and southern United States, but I’ve never seen a town as peculiar as Innsmouth. There’s hardly anything to eat here. All they have are cod and shrimp dishes. Just grilled with salt sprinkled on top, that’s it!”

Crayfield stared in amazement at the large cod and shrimp dishes. Indeed, a single shrimp was half the size of a large plate, and the grilled cod was as big as a decent-sized man’s thigh.

“I suppose the Gilman House is the most delicious restaurant around?”

“There are no restaurants in Innsmouth. They said outsiders don’t come here, and now I see why. There’s literally no one walking on the streets. Do the people here all eat at home?”

No sooner had she finished speaking than a group of white men from across the room called out.

“Hey. Didn’t you say you were an anti-discrimination activist? Your words are extremely discriminatory. ‘Innsmouth people all eat at home! They must be too poor and have no cars to eat at restaurants!'”

A somewhat arrogant-looking young man mimicked the woman’s voice. The rest of the group snickered. The Boston woman’s group didn’t remain silent either.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, white trash!”

“Even trash has its levels, idealist friends.”

A young man with straw-like disheveled hair picked up the conversation.

“I thought human rights activists were doing something great, but all you do is go around sampling local restaurants! Are you planning to publish a guide like ‘Egalitarian’s Recommended Restaurants in This Area’?”

“At least we’re a hundred times better than people like you who go around with baseless paranoia. You know that?”

“Ha. Baseless paranoia? Just because we’re white, we receive fewer welfare benefits, get pushed aside in educational opportunities, and face difficulties in employment and promotion. We pay the same taxes, so why do we receive such treatment?”

“That’s because you,” the Boston woman smirked, “are losers who’ve been outcompeted by smart and capable white people. While successful white people are walking down Boston Heights, you’re just wearing pointy hoods and burning crosses!”

“You might find yourself tied to one of those crosses if you don’t watch your mouth.”

“Oh. Please do that. Nail me to a cross. Then my comrades will throw all of you in prison. If I can sacrifice myself to sweep all you trash out of America, I’d gladly do so. It would be quite a sight to see white judges looking at fellow whites with pitiful eyes as they pass judgment!”

“You’ve said enough!”

“Whoa. That’s far enough.”

Crayfield intervened politely. Of course, he had a revolver in his hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Innsmouth is American soil, and on American soil, there are laws that say you get arrested by the police for brawling. Though I’m not Innsmouth police, I am a private detective employed by a congressional aide, so I’ll temporarily act as a representative of judicial order.”

“You’re white too!”

An overweight white man shouted angrily.

“Well said, boy. I’m a ‘white man with a gun.’ And if I were you, I’d be very careful with my words. My revolver is the embodiment of indiscrimination, and it has quite a temperamental character. So I’ll give you a choice. What would you like in that greasy belly of yours? Shrimp, cod, or a bullet? The last option might help with your diet.”

Click. As the revolver’s drum rotated, even the fuming fat man calmed down. Crayfield bared his teeth.

“Let’s keep things civil, shall we? Boston lady, you too, please stop being so temperamental. Those well-cooked, plump shrimp are begging to be eaten. Come to think of it, we should have grilled shrimp too, shouldn’t we, assistant? Hey, two plates of grilled shrimp over here!”

I’ve never heard that Innsmouth people are friendly, but they did know how to appreciate someone who prevented a disturbance in their establishment. Three more shrimp, each half the size of a plate, were served. Crayfield placed his loaded revolver on the table, grabbed a shrimp tail with his left hand, and started eating from the head. He looked like a starved shark. We enjoyed our meal for quite some time, even after everyone else had left.

“What do you think? Has Dagon really withdrawn his blessing? I’ll bet my revolver on this, but I’ve never seen shrimp or cod this size before.”

Crayfield tapped a large shrimp head and tail.

“Yet the prices are extremely reasonable. Isn’t that peculiar? Even the townspeople say Dagon has abandoned them, yet Dagon still seems to be bestowing blessings. As far as I know, Dagon is by no means a benevolent deity.”

Crayfield lit a Camel cigarette. Like any restaurant of the time, this one had a “No Alcohol Service” sign, but nothing about “No Smoking.”

“What bothers me more are those ticking bombs. They seem to have had several previous confrontations. I’m not a cynic, but I know that civic groups have certain relationships with each other. Relationships of hatred. If hating someone can maintain internal cohesion and power, why not do it? But I’m curious. Those folks left after dinner. Where do they sleep?”

The answer came from an unexpected direction, from behind us.

“They sleep in empty houses.”

A familiar voice. It was Dr. Henry Armitage wearing a straw hat.

“Good to see you, Crayfield, assistant. Glad to see you’re well.”

“You look even better, Doctor. You could easily catch a Chthonian now, I’d say.”

“I’m not sure about a Chthonian, but I could catch a Serpent Priest. I’m hungry, by the way. If you haven’t had dinner, would you join me for some more?”

We said we had already eaten, but we didn’t refuse another delicious shrimp each.

# 6:30 PM

Armitage’s Room

Dr. Armitage was working as an assistant to Katherine Scully. Suspicious characters had been harassing the doctor. After finding a decapitated chicken corpse placed in front of his entrance, Armitage evacuated his family to a safe place.

“I’ve been caught up in some nasty business lately.”

Armitage wiped sweat from his forehead.

“What kind of nasty business?”

“Priests who worship Yig, the serpent god, have been following me. I plan to settle things soon, but I need time to prepare. So I came to Innsmouth quite openly, as if to taunt them. This is still Dagon’s territory. Even Yig, for all his hissing and anger, wouldn’t openly antagonize Dagon.”

Armitage rubbed his hands together with amusement.

“I had a very valuable experience on Pollard Island. I knew that evil gods weren’t in cooperative relationships, but I learned they could be used to check each other if handled correctly. The price would be terrible, of course, but now is not the time to worry about such things.”

“Dagon’s territory, you say. The residents don’t seem to think so.”

Crayfield told him about our encounter with Penny’s parents. Dr. Armitage rose from his seat, opened a drawer, took out a pipe, and filled it with tobacco.

“Do you know that saying? A blessing too great to bear becomes indistinguishable from a curse.”

“I do.”

“That’s what Dagon is doing to this town now.”

Armitage exhaled smoke.

“Hardly any outsiders visit Innsmouth. They can’t mate with Dagon’s children. It’s like a declining birth rate. Without even priests to spread Dagon’s faith. Decisively, Dagon’s position continues to diminish. As you know from the Pollard Island incident, his wife Hydra has left Earth. She doesn’t respond to any summons, and Hydra’s followers are being rapidly eliminated.”

“Yet Dagon still bestows blessings.”

“He’s forcing debt upon them, that’s how I see it. Making them take on unwanted debt, then collecting it with interest. Dagon’s time is running short.”

“Why do you think so?”

“The ground subsidence incident around the temple. No one was hurt, but several houses collapsed. And what about the gas leak incidents? Even street children know where the gas is leaking from.”

We had seen the newspaper clippings too. But we still didn’t understand how the gas leaks and ground subsidence were connected to Dagon.

“It’s just speculation. Dagon is among the gods who better understand human interests. He knows you have to pay money to buy things, and that destroying a factory means goods disappear. Yet such a being is allowing Innsmouth, practically his front yard, to collapse. And as you pointed out, Crayfield, Dagon isn’t responding to his followers’ calls. That’s why they say the god has abandoned them.”

“I don’t understand his intentions at all.”

“There’s an even more terrible story. Annette Cole.”

At the sudden mention of the senator’s name, Crayfield and I looked at each other.

“You mean our client’s senator? Why bring up that name suddenly?”

“Yes, those suspicious congressional people. The Cole family has traditionally served as priests on Pollard Island. In a theocratic society, priests were the guardians of knowledge. And Annette Cole maintains her Senate seat despite various scandals. This Cole character is so cunning, it’s impossible to track them.”

“Which god does the Cole family worship?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“They certainly know approaches to various gods. But they don’t seem to worship any particular deity.”

“But wasn’t it Annette Cole herself who dispatched the congressional investigation team to Innsmouth?”

“Ah. How dirty politics can be.”

Professor Armitage lamented.

“Working with the Federal Security Bureau brings joy and sorrow, but also no small amount of disillusionment. Not just me, but Agent Katherine Scully feels the same way. The FSB Director is planning to enter politics and is in opposition to Senator Cole. So when Cole announced sending an investigation team to Innsmouth, the FSB attached an agent.”

“Why did Senator Cole send an aide here? Was it really out of concern for the people of Innsmouth?”

“Nominally, yes. In reality, no. Have you seen the news about the discovery of Salem witch trial records?”

“Yes. They were in a cave connected to the basement of Dagon’s temple, filled with toxic gas that caused insomnia and mental disturbances in the entire investigation team.”

“That’s a curse.”

Armitage emphasized.

“A very powerful protective curse. Much of the Salem witch trials has been lost or damaged. And if you examine various circumstantial evidence and grounds, the Cole family has a very close relationship with Salem. The reason for sending an aide was probably to secure those records.”

“Weren’t they already secured? That’s what the news said.”

“No. They didn’t secure everything. The Salem church Bible and ledgers were just part of it. The real records are deeper inside, but there’s too much toxic gas to approach them. Your client’s real purpose is to secure those records.”