A long time back I wanted to write this kind of...well, it's hard to explain. I wanted to combine my love of Lovecraft with my own D Is For Damien storyline, at least peripherally. See, these two cop characters from the stories, Auguste Jourard and Carl Van Dusen, as well as a few other characters, were supposed to have their own spinoff series pretty much unrelated to D4D where they would go investigating weird things like voodoo cults and monsters and whatnot. I think the series was going to be called Hoodoo because I seem to recall the second part was going to be Hoodoo 2, which just sounds funny. Seeing as an earlier "case" involving voodoo is mentioned (this was to be the plot of Hoodoo), I take it this was then probably supposed to be the second in the series. It looks like this is all I wrote, thankfully. My characters might be really out of character seeing how long ago this was written and how things might have changed in the meantime.
A note, Jourard is supposed to be a Cajun transplant who moved north to Michigan--formerly just because, though Katrina in 2005 leads me to want to change his timeline so he moves up here then, giving him a damn good reason--so if he talks weird or anything, that's why. I apologize to all Cajuns. And to Lovecraft.
See my short stories "The Prisoner Of The Glass" and "The Stone From The Sea" for DECENT examples of my Lovecraft fanfiction. (You can see how I cannibalized my own idea of "New Innsmouth.")
Part 1
Ice-cold rain pattered down from a gloomy nighttime sky, the lights of some distant city casting a sickly orange glow on the bottom of the clouds. It struck the old creaking docks and tinked against the water in the harbor. A lone figure leaned against a post on the dock, trying futilely to force a flame from his lighter. When it finally, grudgingly popped up, he held it to the tip of his cigarette, lit it, then put the lighter away to look out over the water. The dim orange glow reflected there. It looked as if the wind were going to pick up soon.
Not a nice night to be out. No night was a nice night to be out, here.
Something splashed in the distance. He frowned and squinted, craning his neck and attempting to see what the cause for the sound might be. At first he could see nothing, his eyes not being completely adjusted to the dark after confronting the lighter flame. After a moment, however, whatever it was splashed again, and he caught sight of some--thing--slowly slipping beneath the water.
Finny. Fishlike.
He sighed and removed his cigarette, dropping it to the ground where it fizzed a bit in the puddles before his shoe came down over it.
"Great," he muttered, scowling out at the harbor. "They're here again."
Auguste Jourard examined his fingernails in the dreary light that managed to filter in through the window. The windshield wipers sloshed back and forth; whenever his driving companion, Carl Van Dusen, took his eyes off of the road to look at the map sitting between them, Jourard felt like cringing. It was one of those days where the cold and wet seemed to seep through everything; being from the South and more used to temperatures in the eighties and nineties, he'd never gotten used to anything below seventy-two. He sat back and shrunk down inside his jacket, scowling out the window.
"Why again, dear Deucie, do they call us of all people in?"
"Ah, remember, they think we know a lot about 'weird' things. Or something like that."
"And how is this weird again?"
"Some guy says it's something to do with a local legend or something. Wouldn't say much more 'cause he thought he might scare us off. We'll find out when we get there, promise."
"And why couldn't they shell out for a plane ride? This is hardly decent driving weather, in case you didn't notice."
Deuce shrugged. No matter how hard Jourard might try he never succeeded in getting underneath his partner's skin. "Too much for our department. They won't shell out if they don't know all the details. Besides, the nearest airport is miles away. We'd have to drive whichever way we took." He smiled at Jourard as if he were a petulant child. "Relax, I'm betting it's just the boogeyman and as soon as we take care of it we'll be right back on our way homey-womey."
Jourard bared his teeth.
"I thought you liked getting out of the ol' house anyway. What's the matter with a nice little trip? You always complain that Michigan's too cold for your blood."
"Like Massachusetts is any better?" Jourard griped. "I'd tell ya to wake me up when we get there, only it's too damn cold to sleep." He trailed off into a string of muttered curses and Deuce just smiled at the road and kept on driving.
Nevertheless he still had to smack Jourard's shoulder to snap him out of a light doze by the time he caught sight of the first road sign indicating they were on the right path. "Hey, AJ. Take a look, tell me what that sign there says."
"Huh?" Jourard blinked and rubbed one eye, then squinted out the window. "Er--'New Innsmouth.' New Innsmouth? That where we're s'posed to be heading?"
"Right-o. At least that's what the guy said. Well, I guess it's not much longer now."
His partner heaved a huge sigh. "They better at least know how to use fire around here. I don't think I'll ever get this chill out of my bones."
The rising water splashed around the vehicle's tires as it continued down the road leading into New Innsmouth.
Their greeter bobbed first Deuce's, then Jourard's hand up and down as if he were bouncing on a Pogo stick. [Note--"Pogo" incorrectly capitalized.] Jourard practically had to force his hand free and stood off to the side rubbing it and scowling at the man as if he were nuts while their greeter--a slightly short, thin, almost hyperactive man calling himself Joel Devane--turned back to Deuce and grabbed his hand, shaking it a second time. When he spoke his mouth went a hundred miles an hour.
"I can't thank either of you enough for showing up when you did. Truly, this is a blessing. I never even would have thought of inviting either of you for such a case as this if Bill hadn't told me about that voodoo case the two of you worked on down in Louisiana a year or so back. Truly, that was amazing work. That was why I thought you two would be the perfect people to investigate our own little problem. You see, no one from our own police department is willing to look into the problem, and everybody at the surrounding departments just refuses to take our complaint seriously--it's really quite troubling--so of course we had to go with someone from out of state, and then when Bill mentioned that voodoo thing in Louisiana, and your names, well, I just had to call you in--you have no idea how grateful I am that you've arrived--"
"Yes--yes--yes--" Deuce managed to get out, gradually prying his hand free. As soon as he did Joel just smiled and bobbed and clasped his hands together, wringing them so hard the policemen thought they'd turn blue. "Well--thanks for thinking of us. We don't normally just pop out of state to look into every weird case that comes by--"
"But you did take the time for this one, this is such an honor!"
"--so we'd much appreciate it if you please fill us in on all that's been going on, as your friend left a lot to the imagination; our boss doesn't even know what we're doing down here, you know."
"That tends to make bosses antsy," Jourard added.
"Oh, yes, I understand completely. Well, perhaps Bill would better explain it. He's lived here a lot longer than I have, I'm merely a transplant and a recent one at that." A pause and one of the goofiest laughs Deuce or Jourard had ever heard. "Bill, please come here, please make yourself known and let these two good gentlemen know exactly what's up in our lovely little town, would you?"
The figure leaning against the wall half in shadows, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, snorted and came forward, in no big hurry. "'Lovely little town.' You definitely are a transplant, Devane, if you can call New Innsmouth 'lovely.' It's just as bad as old Innsmouth."
"Old Innsmouth?" Jourard frowned. "If this is New Innsmouth, whatever happened to old Innsmouth?"
Bill opened his mouth but it was Joel who spoke. "Horrible, just horrible things. Absolutely dreadful story. You see, the truth is, they blew it all up."
"Blew it up?" Jourard echoed, stupefied.
"Yes, yes. Dynamited the waterfront buildings, torpedoed the reef. Absolutely dreadful. You see, it was discovered a lot of the townspeople were into rather...um...unsavory activities, and so the government decided to step in and put an end to it. That was in the late Twenties, I believe. Absolutely horrid business, it all was!"
"Twenties?" Deuce this time. "That was quite a while ago, wasn't it? What could be up now?"
Bill frowned at them. "Why exactly did Joel decide to call you two in, again?"
"Oh! Bill, do excuse me!" Joel tittered. "This is Carl Van Dusen and Auguste Jourard. They're the policemen from Michigan. The two you told me about, remember?"
"Oh." Bill nodded. "Sorry. Never saw your pictures or anything before."
"Quite all right." Jourard cast him a look. "Mind letting us in on why you wanted us here in the first place, now?"
Bill looked the two up and down, chomped on his cigarette, then snorted and leaned back against the wall. "All right. If you promise not to laugh."
Deuce and Jourard waited outside in the rain as a scrawny old man fumbled with his keys before finally managing to unlock the huge house's front door. Jourard popped inside the house as quickly as he could, almost hopping up and down, chattering with cold and rubbing his hands together. Deuce merely looked around at the walls, adorned with old tapestries, big stained-glass windows letting in muted multicolored light.
"Jee-eez!" Jourard gasped. "Shut the door, shut the door already! I'm freezing my behind off here!"
"Sorry," the old man muttered. He shut the door, putting the rattling keys into his pocket and waving his hand for them to follow. "This way."
The two policemen followed him down a hallway that seemed to go on forever. The walk allowed them to gather their thoughts. And they had a lot of thoughts to gather after what Bill had told them.
He'd reiterated that the old "New" Innsmouth had had a disreputable history. He wouldn't quite say what it was, only that many of the town's inhabitants had been involved, and that many of them had been arrested or had disappeared before the government's startling action in the late Twenties. They'd even gone so far as to blow up Devil Reef, far out in the harbor, in case any of the townspeople had taken up residence there. Bill had said he wouldn't have doubted it if they had.
"They were sneaky folk," he'd said. "Whatever they were up to, it was no good. They'd use that reef for a lot of their...'stuff.' I think it's good the government finally did right by blowing it all up."
"And what exactly was it that they were into?" Jourard had prodded. "Drugs, smuggling, kidnapping, what?"
"A little bit of a lot of things. I don't know enough to say." The two had sensed he did know, but wasn't speaking. "Anyways that's over now. Or at least everybody thought it was. 'Cause I think it's all getting ready to start up again."
"And what leads you to believe this?" Deuce had asked.
"Because I saw one of 'em." Bill's eyes had lifted, met theirs directly. "I saw one of the old townspeople out in the water."
They passed several rooms with closed doors, coming to a high narrow stairway and following their guide upwards into the second story of the house. Outside distant thunder grumbled.
"Townspeople?" Jourard had given Bill an odd look. "You saw one of the townspeople in the water?"
"Drowning, you mean?" Deuce had suggested.
Bill had shaken his head. "No. Anything but. He was swimming pretty well from the looks of it. Probably came from what remained of the reef."
"I got a little info on this place before we came," Deuce had countered. "That reef was over a mile out. You're saying this guy was taking a leisurely swim a mile out in the rain, in the middle of the night? What kind of townsperson is that?"
"A screwy one," Bill had started, when Joel had cut in, waving his hands and laughing in an overly polite way.
"Bill's lived here his whole life so of course he's grown up hearing some...'stories' about Innsmouth. Old Innsmouth, that is. I apologize, this is most difficult to believe. According to the old stories though, there were some...ahem...queer folk living in the town."
"Queer?" Now Jourard. "Ahm...mind clarifying there, friend?"
"Oh. Yes. Apologies!" Another titter. "Not queer...more like strange. Not quite right. To put it bluntly, some of these people were rather odd looking, it was said they had skin on their hands and feet, almost like they had fins..."
"Like fish?"
"Ah--well--yes, sort of--not quite--"
"Just like fish," Bill had cut in.
"Well--once again, you have to remember, Bill's lived here his whole life, so he doesn't quite have the--the objectivity that's needed to assess the true situation. It's believed there may have been some inbreeding going on in old Innsmouth. Dreadful, I know, but most likely true...in any case, many of these people were involved in some illegal activities...and when the government moved in a lot of them disappeared. Some stories go that they went out to the reef to save themselves, only to have it blown up as well. Only supposedly, some of them survived after all..."
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