We begin with his very first published work, from the October, 1928 issue of Strangest Tales.
The Doom Over Daemonsmouth
By Basil Winterbone
We were a fishing town from
the first day settlers set foot in the land that would be called
Daemonsmouth. Far up north, cut off from most of the world, it was
like a planet all it's own. I'd grown up here, only leaving during my
years at college, and deciding to return to write about this place.
While I enjoyed modern society, my home town held a certain aura that
I could find nowhere else. It inspired me in my youth, and I sought
to reclaim that inspiration in my adulthood. A pity that my only
story of Daemonsmouth, will be it's last story ever told.
It had begun before my
return home. Though I know little of all the events that transpired
before then. I can recollect but a few stories my friend Oswald told
me upon the evening of my return. Things first started with the fish.
Small at first, one out of a hundred would have some curious
deformity that made them look unappealing to try and sell. I know not
the specifics of these curious mutations, only whispers of limbs
growing from eyeballs, and bones contorting ways they were never
meant to. Most of it, I only briefly heard of in passing at the pub
among the fishermen.
At first, the small amount
made it little concern that an occasional fish would appear queer.
Then more and more fish began to arrive either rotten, or malformed.
What would appear fine and healthy on the outside, had been rotten
from the inside whenever the fish were cut open. This started
happening with the mutating fish as well. Many of the fishers around
here are superstitious, fearing whispers of old things that have a
hand in such strange happenings. So they would burn the fish,
thousands of dollars wasted, in the hopes to purge what little fish
they could muster that were still alive and healthy.
By a few months after my
arrival, over half the fish in the surrounding waters were tainted in
one way or another. The mayor ordered an investigation into it,
hoping to find someone's polluting responsible. Something rational to
quiet the nervous murmurs of the seamen around town. They found
nothing, at first. Search parties would meticulously scour the woods,
nearby waters, only finding the usual nature and occasional hermit
who kept to himself.
I grew unsettled almost
immediately after my return home. Daemonsmouth was not ever a bright,
cheery place. It wore it's gloomy New England weather with pride,
like a badge of honor that we barely saw the sun, and were blessed
with calm waters for good fishing. Now it's naturally dark days and
cold nights had become alien to me after my time away. I see the
looks in the fishermen eyes that I am not of them any longer. I have
become an outsider where once I was home. I am unsure if it is my
fault for leaving and returning after so long, or if the sense of
dread that overtook the town was what stoked the fears of distrust
among them.
I had only a few associates
at the University, even fewer who would write to me after I left. In
town, Oswald was the only companion I had for regular nights at the
pub and to discuss my writings. It was this feeling of isolation that
compounded the already intense dread overtaking Daemonsmouth for me.
Oswald was a company man for the fishing distributors, the people who
would come to take what little fish the town had to sell. Barely
enough to keep everyone fed. Oswald always lived fat and happy
though, thanks to his cushy desk job. He was unwelcome among the town
people as well, and this only strengthened our bond together in these
tough times.
I learned more and more of
what was happening throughout the town thanks to these regular visits
to the pub. Even if they would not speak with us friendly, the seamen
still shared their tales loud and drunkenly just as when I was a boy
at this same watering hole with my father. More fish were turning up
rotten every day, and the fishermen were growing nervous as to their
prospects in the coming months. Little did they know the strange fate
of the fish in these waters was only the beginning of what was
happening to our town.
In mid-Winter, yet another
of the Mayor's search parties were sent out. Most of the men had
little faith they'd ever find anything, but the mayor, desperate for
anything, clung to the hope that something was out there to explain
this all. That search party left January 23rd, and
vanished into the woods that very evening. Not a soul returned, and
not a soul has been found since. It was a full three days before
another search party was sent after them. They found the parties
clothes, bags, supplies, weaponry, everything, at the edge of the
forest. All neatly folded and placed, as if waiting for the next
group of searchers to find it. Seven men went into the woods and by
God, I have not a clue what could have taken them. What possessed
them to disrobe and leave all their things behind, or if something
forced them to do so.
This was when the town began
to slowly crumble in on itself. Losing most of their fish had been a
hardship, but one they were hardy enough to survive with some
belt-tightening. I myself was enjoying a modest salary from my
publisher for a few short stories I submitted while first home, so my
comfortable living made the townspeople resent me all the more.
Oswald and I could always afford as many beers as we could handle,
while most of the men around us had nursed half-empty glasses for
over an hour to stretch what little funds they had. We could feel
their disdain for us growing, becoming something tangible that would
only grow stronger the longer things went on.
The Mayor was now certain
something more was going on. He tried to keep everyone's attention
off Oswald, I, and the few other well-to-do members of town like
himself. Over time, his town hall meetings were beginning to sound
more like preaching sermons. Our own Man of the Cloth could not rile
up such fire and righteousness in his flock as the Mayor could. He
spoke powerfully and forcefully of an outside force, something out
there killing our fish, now killing our men. He used the seven men
who died as a boon to rile up more fear and hate in the town. Hoping
to weaponize it against whoever had attacked our home.
I attended many of these
meetings, and the continued feeling that I was more in a cult than a
community gathering became eerie. I eventually stopped going, though
Oswald would still attend, just as riled up as the rest of the town
to find whoever had done this and beating them to a bloody pulp. My
home was not far from the public courthouse where everyone met, and
each night I would hear the Mayor's loud professing of the Outsiders
that must be found and purged. I grew unsettled speaking with my own
friend, as our conversations became dominated with talk of violent
retribution on whomever had made the mistake of plaguing
Daemonsmouth.
In my hopes to pacify the
one comrade I had out here, I would nod my head along and agree to
all the disturbing ideas he would list off. Right in the middle of
the pub, as I tried to eat my food, he would go into grotesque detail
on how he wanted to hurt this man. By now our Mayor turned Priest of
sorts had convinced the town it was a man, a stranger from another
foreign land, poisoning our water, cursing it with some magicks from
a far-off land. He was referred to as the Devil Haunting
Daemonsmouth. At first, I was highly skeptical. Certain this was all
the ramblings of a madman who had whipped the town into his frenzied
logic of some mysterious source of our turmoil.
It was when the children
became ill that the madness began to boil over. Up until this point,
a veneer of civilization still permeated the town. The Mayor, crazed
as he was, still had a sense of control over the townspeople and the
talk of violence and anger remained contained to his nightly sermons.
When the Mayor's own youngest son fell ill, he grew more paranoid
than ever. Overnight, other children became seriously ill. But
parent's would refuse the treatment of doctor's, insisting they knew
the source of the illness: the Devil, he was out there, and he had
sank his poisonous fangs into their children. Infrequent search
parties had become constant, day and night, searching the woods, the
water, anywhere remotely near by. What few hermits were in the woods
were shaken down, one even supposedly beaten for any information as
to the Devil, but to no avail.
I saw one of the ill
children. Their illness was something so curious that the sight of it
remains deeply ingrained in my memory. Their skin lost all color, as
most sickness does. Their eyes became sunken in, glassy, almost
resembling a fish eye. They had difficulty breathing unless they had
constant water. Their skin was clammy, cold to the touch, and they
secreted some odd jelly like substance all over. A boy was on his
porch, guzzling water as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did,
for all I knew. He looked like in a dream when he finished drinking,
breathing steadily but for a moment before he needed to drink again.
I was disturbed at this, and did my best to avoid the children of the
town after learning of their mysterious illness.
Oswald became more
invigorated than ever, searching with every party, never returning
home for sleep, only for food. It was one of these frantic nights of
searching that he knocked at my door. They needed more bodies for the
hunting. Not searching parties any longer, they referred to
themselves as Devil Hunters. After the bastard in the woods. Oswald
had asked me a few times to join him and I would always feign a small
cold or make some half-decent excuse as to why I could not. But on
this night, well passed one in the morning, I saw the crazed look in
my friend's eye and began to grow concerned for him. So I agreed to
join, just to keep an eye on Oswald, try and convince him to get some
sleep. He looked haggard, as if he'd not slept in days. My once
portly little friend had shed much of his weight yet still wore the
baggy clothes. As if he cared not for his horrid appearance. Only the
Hunt.
On my night joining the
party, there were fifteen men and ten women all searching. The Mayor
was there, along with his wife and his oldest son. I carried my torch
but no weapon like everyone else. I figured the party was more than
well armed with pitch-forks, knives, guns and anything else they
could procure. Oswald himself brandished an ax with a gleeful glint
in his eye that seemed peculiar for one such as him at the promise of
violence.
We searched for hours and
the usual amount of nothing was what I was sure would be our entire
evening of searching. But just passed four in the morning, we found
it. A small shed, mostly cloaked in trees. It would be easy to miss
no matter how many times you passed it, even in the dead of Winter it
was camouflaged perfectly. Everything changed. The party went
ferocious, the Mayor tearing the door open with his metal cane.
Bashing the lock on it and then exposing it's contents for all to
see. It was everything the Mayor had preached about, the books of
ancient spells, the strange circle of symbols, candles still burning.
We'd found the bastard.
Yet, I'd found it all too
convenient. It almost looked set up for us to find, as if someone had
listened to the Mayor's ramblings and constructed this place to fit
his narrative. There were far too many people to fit in the small
domicile, so I, Oswald, the Mayor and his son first entered.
Exploring it, my suspicion grew. Everything felt so fresh, even the
markings on the floor couldn't have been more than a couple hours
old. When I tried to discuss this with the Mayor, he was far too
ravenous for rational thought. At first planning to set up a trap for
the Devil, only to bump into something that changed his plans.
He happened upon a robe in
the corner. Hoping to find anything else he could learn about his
adversary, he searched it, finding of all things a wallet. Oswald's
wallet. I recognized it instantly, though the Mayor did not. Oswald
had a very unique dark crimson red wallet, embroidered with his
initials. When the Mayor opened it and saw my friend's
identification, the tables turned on Oswald. The Mayor grew angry
instantly, damn near foaming at the mouth. He pointed to Oswald and
screamed at the top of his lungs “I'VE FOUND THE DEVIL! HE'S HERE!
HE'S BEEN RIGHT IN FRONT OF US THE WHOLE TIME!” and last few
vestiges of sanity snapped in the group. They all filled the shack,
over-filling it's capacity to get at Oswald. His expression was wild
with fear, shock and not understanding what was happening. He made no
attempt to defend himself, merely a scream of fear as the masses
attacked.
I was pushed to the back of
the shack, forced to watch as the mob began to attack my friend. He
only got the one scream, as his own ax was buried in his throat by
the Mayor's son, barely sixteen, still a boy yet he'd struck the
first blow. From there, it was fists, knives, everything at once
coming down on Oswald. He was right in the center of the shack, in
the odd circle, beaten into the very floor. His blood, viscera
splattered along the symbols. He was already well dead, but they did
not stop. I heard them laughing, singing, screaming with joy that
their demon was destroyed and all would be well.
I must have passed out, for
I only awoke again when the shaking walls of the hut began to settle
down as the mob slipped out. I caught but one glance at Oswald before
I lost what dinner I had prepared myself that evening. He was
unrecognizable. I struggle even now to find the words. If you have
ever seen ground meat, so beaten and smashed that it appears more
like paste, than you know what remained of Oswald was a horrifying
sight. I rushed out, vomiting along myself and all over the forest as
I fled the scene.
I truly believe that this
was the final nail in the coffin of Daemonsmouth. When an innocent
man was beaten and ground down to mush by his compatriots, driven mad
by their leader. I stayed in, always locking my door, often watching,
waiting for them to come for me. But they never did. I received but
one knock at my door, a week to the date of Oswald's brutal murder.
It was the Mayor, at my door, around the same time Oswald had been
killed. He waited a while outside, then when I did not reply, he
began to speak.
“We know you're in there.
But everything is fine now, Mr. Melgrave. Our children are fine, our
fish is bountiful once more. Won't you come out and celebrate with
us?” When I still did not reply, he merely laughed and said “He's
watching right now, you know.” and took his leave, finally. I was
well shaken, desperately clinging to alcohol to maintain my own
sanity. But no reserves of wine could really clear the burden in my
head, the horror I had witnessed.
I was awoken late the next
evening. Not by a knocking, or any disturbances at my home. Instead I
was awoken with the screams of fear all over the town. Every home,
terrible screaming reverberated out and over the town. Screams of the
older, the younger, everyone but myself was screaming in terror. I
myself felt compelled to scream, but fought the urge. When I went to
my window, I saw why everyone in town was screaming with such intense
fear. The Thing had come, perhaps it was always here, or perhaps we
summoned it with Oswald's death, but whatever reason, it had come to
Daemonsmouth to complete the nightmare it unleashed over a year ago.
It was in the center of
town, barely even moving, almost as if a statue. It was composed of
so many limbs that I dare not say where it begins or ends. The Thing
was covered from head to toe in grotesquely long arms, far too long
and withered to appear human. They swayed and swirled in the oddest
spiral pattern, never staying still long enough to discern it's form
fully. These arms were turned into makeshift legs it stood upon, with
a lower half that appeared more like a centipede of all the various
limbs that kept it upright. Among the maddening display of arms
reaching every which way, several orifices covered The Thing. All of
them gasping, gnashing at the air with teeth that were too crooked to
ever have fit symmetrically in it's mouths. There were no eyes, no
nose to distinguish a face, and there were too many mouths to guess
which was the primary one.
Many people began to flee,
running from their homes covered in a strange fire. It was unlike a
typical flame, not orange and yellow as we know it, but luminescent.
It glowed a bright variety of colors, never holding on one for long.
Some seemed in pain from the fire, running, screaming to try and
escape it as it enveloped them. Others walked out, their heads on
fire,but they made no show of pain. They were calm, approaching the
Thing single-file to address it. While the runners would reach the
water, and as they touched it, the fire seemed to shine around them
and their bodies vanished. With their clothes falling to float off
into the sea.
I watched this all from my
window, just as mesmerized by it was I was horrified. At first my
attention was on those still screaming, the ones attempting to escape
but still captured by this Thing. When I turned my attention to the
calm ones approaching the Thing, my terror intensified greatly. It's
various arms would grab the calmly waiting townsfolk, then deposit
them in one of the gasping hungry mouths. As they were devoured
alive, the teeth crushing bone and muscle, they made no sounds. No
sign of pain, they looked at peace as they were eaten whole.
By now, a powerful
compulsion was all that kept me watching. I desperately wanted to
tear my eyes from this sight, but was not allowed to. I truly believe
it was the Thing, that hellish monster wanting me to clearly see
everything it did. I felt compelled to open my door, to leave my home
and watch with more clarity what would happen next. It had made it's
way through most of the people awaiting it's hungry maws, now the
children came out to join the horror. They stumbled out slowly from
their homes, heavily breathing, I had to cover my mouth not to scream
when I saw them. Their head had flattened, and gills had sprouted
along their thin necks. Scales were clearly growing and piercing
their ways out of the skin. They were fish-like now, gasping for air,
heading towards the water to find the oxygen they desperately needed
now. The fish had indeed returned to Daemonsmouth, just not as
expected.
As the children cleared out
and made way to their new homes beneath the sea, the Thing had
finished the last of the complacent townsfolk. I stood before it in
awe and terror, unable to move, unable to even consider fleeing. Even
without eyes I felt it's gaze upon me. The Mayor's words coming back
to me, how he was always watching us. No words would come from my
throat, and no rational thought carried for more than a second in my
mind before the terror overloaded it. The multi-colored fire began to
surround the creature, only the very tip of one long finger remaining
untouched as it reached for me. It touched my forehead once, then
made a strange motion with the same finger before the fire wrapped
around that too. Once it was covered in flames, the flames shimmered
brightly, brighter than any light I think mankind will ever make, and
the Thing was gone. Daemonsmouth gone with it.
So now here I am, the last
one alive in town. I have so many speculations. Was someone
responsible for the Thing coming to our town, or had it always been
here? I would rather forget this whole ordeal, leave town and never
think on these terrors again. But it will not let me leave. Whenever
I attempt to pack my things, my clothes are all unpacked seconds
later. As I attempt to write correspondence for help, all my pens go
dry. Unless I write of the Doom that came to town, of the nightmare
that unfolded and swallowed us whole. I am not allowed to forget this
horror, it will not let me. I must record the story, for whatever
reason it wants me desperately to write and share it with you all. I
do not know if I am spreading this creature's mad will, or merely
serving it, trapped in my own Hell, never allowed to leave. I can
only write, and hope that Death comes swiftly when my task is done.
- Cyrus Melgrave,
Daemonsmouth, 1921
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