PLEASE TAKE NOTE! This is a RETYPING of the hardcopy of that file, as the disk itself has been lost. This has not been proofread so typos may be present. PLEASE point any out should you see them, and they will be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. Iah! Cthulhu fhtagn!
IT TOOK TREVOR Brandt about three days to drive to New Innsmouth, Massachusetts. He had no fears of having passed it on the way as when he did reach it it looked exactly like its pictures in the brochure he'd been studying. He stared out the window at the neat houses passing by as he drove down the main street. It certainly wasn't a big place, yet he'd heard it was a good place to settle down if you liked things quiet.
He located his new property. The house there wasn't exactly new, in the accepted usage of the word; New Innsmouth, as far as he knew, had been around for a while. He'd just never heard of it before because it was so small and on very few maps. It was by sheer luck that one of his relatives had told him about it a year or so before. Now he was going to live there.
He pulled into the drive, parked, and got out, stretching. Then he looked up at the house. A two-story, not too big and not too small, the perfect place to get some peace and quiet while he worked on his projects. He couldn't wait to get started on his newest. He had no idea what it would be--he never had any real idea what his projects would be until they were done--but he was sure it would be a whole lot better than most of the stuff he'd been putting out lately.
He spent the rest of the day unpacking his few belongings and transporting them into the house, examining the rooms, picking an old study with a big window overlooking the woods as his work area. After he'd unpacked he dug out what he'd bought for lunch earlier that day in Arkham, sat down in the window, and stared outside as he ate. He'd never thought a view of a wood could be so interesting. There was a small area of tall greenish grass behind the house, leading into a stand of squat, twisted trees. They were so thick back in there he couldn't tell if they were penetrable or not. It didn't matter. Not today. He was too tired to be thinking of walking around his property, and he was going to have a long day tomorrow looking for a place to buy supplies. He trudged upstairs to the bedroom, collapsed on the bed without even bothering to undress, and promptly fell asleep.
Outside, the wind picked up slightly, carrying a faint scent of salt far out over the twisted treetops. The leaves rustled.
Trevor set out early the next morning, still rather tired; he knew he'd had some pretty weird dreams last night yet he couldn't seem to remember any of them. He supposed it didn't matter as well. The main street led into an older section of the neighborhood he was told bordered on Old Innsmouth. He'd heard a lot of stories about that place, certainly none of them worth believing or repeating. The brochure had told of an old antiques shop somewhere in this area where he might be able to find some unusual glass he could use in his next project. He already had the necessary materials to build a stained-glass window yet he needed something extra to make sure it wasn't just a stained-glass window. Maybe the antiques shop would have something.
He finally found it, a tiny, rundown building along the edge of the street where it started to show signs of wear. There were practically chunks of asphalt crumbling at the edges, and some potholes big around as grapefruit pitting the middle. The store was on the right. Trevor looked for a lot and realized he wouldn't be finding anything like that for miles around. He parked at the side of the road and went inside, hoping he'd find something interesting.
The old man tending the counter was interesting enough, barring the tiny, cramped room filled ceiling-high with dusty books, lamps, hats, and other oddities. Trevor nearly coughed on entering, the air was so thick with dust. He turned his head and from behind a huge stack of books a head appeared, startling him with its huge round glowing eyes.
"Ah! A new face for once!" The voice sounded the way dust would if it could talk. When the head moved Trevor realized with some relief that those weren't eyes after all; they were large round glasses and though the eyes staring through them were huge they at least weren't glowing. The old man beckoned him closer, and Trevor obeyed.
"You won't believe how tedious this job gets seeing the same old faces day in, day out," he croaked, looking Trevor up and down, adjusting the glasses. "Huh. You don't look like a local. Where you from?"
"I'm new here," Trevor said. "Just moved in last night. The old Cartwright place on Main Street, down a ways from here."
"Ah, the Cartwright place. I knew them. Good family. Good roots." Trevor didn't quite understand what that was supposed to mean but let it pass. "What's your name again?"
"Trevor Brandt." He held out his hand; the old man glanced at it, appearing to quickly count his fingers, before taking it.
"Cyrus Welliver. Everybody calls me Old Man. I wonder why?" He cackled and the dust flew, seeming to exit from his mouth in an explosive burst. "What might I do for you today, Mr. Brandt?"
"I was wondering if you might have any kinds of glass to show me. I work with glass, you know; I make windows."
"Stained glass?"
Trevor nodded. "I've got plenty of that. It's more like art-glass windows, though. You see, I try to use different kinds, and I put it all together in a jumble. I never know what I'm going to get till it's done. It's more aesthetic than useful."
"Ah, don't put yourself down so, young man. Sometimes aesthetic is as useful as you can get." Cyrus came out from behind the counter, limping down two steps and into the main area. He was at least a foot shorter than Trevor was. "Follow me. Back here, I believe, way in the back. Not too many people around here look for glass; it's always books they want. Books, books, books. God knows why, what with the sort of reading material I carry."
Trevor only half listened as he allowed himself to be led to the back of the store. It was true, most of the merchandise was books, stacked high on rickety shelves; some of them looked like survivors of the witch scare. Cyrus finally led him into a back room even tinier than the front area, adjusting his glasses and squinting up at the shelves high above him.
"Glass," he muttered. "Well, don't count on getting just glass. Everything's more than 'just' around here. I got some good lamps, though, art-glass lamps; maybe you could recycle them or whatever it is you call it."
"Those are a couple of nice-looking ones," Trevor commented.
"You like them? Let me see if I can get 'em down for you." He pulled over a ladder.
"Oh, no, let me do that," Trevor interrupted, not wanting to be responsible for the old man falling on his head. "I can get them."
"You're sure?" Cyrus said, even as Trevor climbed the ladder to retrieve two of the lamps sitting on the top shelf. He brought them down and looked them over. Nice colorful glass. It would be a shame breaking them. He couldn't wait to get started.
"Yes, I'll take these. You have anything else?" He looked around.
"Well, nah, not really," Cyrus mumbled, shuffling his feet. Trevor looked up and now he could barely see a small box that had been hiding behind the lamps, high above. The side was marked SEA GLASS.
"What's that?"
"That? Oh, nothing, really. Just a buncha litter I found one summer along the beach. You wouldn't be interested. Innsmouth doesn't have very many good beaches."
Trevor ignored the old man's weak protests, heading back up the ladder to retrieve the shoebox. He brought it down and pulled it open. A bed of pale-colored, smoothed, frosted glass pieces greeted him.
"What's this?" he asked, surprised.
Old Man Cyrus sighed, obviously not wanting to discuss it. "Just some old glass. I'm sure someone like you's looking for something a little flashier. I got another few lamps in the front room, you saw them; I could give you a pretty good--"
"What's this stuff called?" Trevor pulled out a piece and examined it. It was the pale blue of the sky on a cloudless day.
Cyrus sighed again, giving up. "It's called mermaid's tears," he explained. "Pretty much it's just pieces of old bottles and stuff that fall on the beach and get polished by the waves. That smoothes it. The sand and stuff gives it that frosted look. People used to go along the beaches and carry it off. When it was safe, that is."
Trevor cast a look at him. "Safe?"
Cyrus shrugged. "Innsmouth, I'm sure you've heard, has a rather unsavory history. Especially around here. You're far too young to remember what happened back in the Twenties. So'm I. But this place really went to pot then."
Trevor didn't care to hear about it. He just wanted to buy the glass and get working on his new project. "How much for the lamps and the box?"
"Oh, the lamps, I'll take ten apiece. The box, it's not for sale."
"I'll give you twenty."
"Really, I don't want to part with it; sentimental value, you know..."
"I'd really like to use it in my work," Trevor said. "Thirty-five. Final offer."
Cyrus fell silent. Both of them knew the price was way too high considering it was just a box of broken bottles. Nevertheless, the old man sighed again, waving his hand.
"All right, you got yourself a deal. But that glass is bad, let me tell you now. Everything from Old Innsmouth is bad. Bad town, bad waters, bad history--"
"Listen, can I buy the stuff or not?"
One final sigh. "Yeah, sure, it's yours. But don't say I never warned you."
As soon as Trevor got home he took the lamps and shattered them with a small mallet. He watched the pieces of glass fall over the table, forming colored patterns that might or might not end up in his final creation. He scooped them up into a separate box, careful not to cut himself, and turned back to the box he'd bought at Cyrus's place.
"Mermaid's tears," he'd called them? Quite a name for little shards of broken bottles. Litter, anyone else would call it. Nevertheless the stuff held a certain fascination for him. It was as if the ocean had fashioned the glass simply for his use.
He pulled a few pieces out of the box, experimenting with different combinations. The shards came in all different colors of bottle there were, some he'd never seen before. Most were the colors of the sea--blue, green, white. There was a red or brown piece here and there. Some pieces hadn't been sanded as much as the others so they still carried a slight shine.
He pulled out a few pieces of his own glass and juxtaposed the two, turning them around and around on the table until he hit what appeared to be the perfect combination. At least, it stuck in his head that way. He literally felt inspiration strike.
He cut out his shapes that night, working in the little study with the big picture window, bending down over the table and standing up each time he tapped a shaped piece out. he kept all of his cuts curved, trying to mimic the swell of the ocean as he saw it in is head. He knew that's what his window would be about, it would be about the ocean; yet that didn't mean he'd know exactly what it looked like till he was done.
He set the fitted pieces out on the table and retired to bed as soon as it got too dark to work, an old lamp being the only source of light in the little room. He couldn't sleep very well that night; he could swear he kept dreaming about swimming in the ocean, only the water would turn to glass, and he'd be swimming through his window. And if he looked down he'd see, through the royal blue of the glass, strange shapes swimming up toward him from below, shapes he could never quite make out. He always woke up before he could even try.
With the first dawning of light he was back at it again, fitting the pieces and securing them with strips of copper. He followed no plan. He used up the glass from the lamps as well, at least that which was the right color; when he'd used that up he went back into town.
"Back already, I see?" Old Man Cyrus commented when Trevor stepped in the door, looking tired and disheveled. "Been working over that thing all night from the looks of it."
"You have any more lamps I could use?"
"Sure do, one right over there, and another I think in the back... Hey, what you been doing with that mermaid glass? You haven't said anything about that yet."
"I haven't used it yet," Trevor replied, running a hand through his hair in what might have been a nervous gesture. "I'm going to start mixing in the pieces after I get the main body built."
"You still sure you want to use that stuff? I told you it's bad. The people around here don't like it too much, they say when they look at it real hard they tends to see things--"
"Look, I'll buy your lamps. However many you've got. I don't really care what the people around here think about Innsmouth. It's a bunch of superstition, okay?"
Cyrus squinted at him but went to collect the lamps, muttering something under his breath: "Silly young kids...think they know the world...don't know Innsmouth...nothing good comes outta Innsmouth..."
Trevor ignored him again, fidgeting slightly until Cyrus finished collecting the lamps, four more of them. "Ten apiece," he muttered. "'Cept that one, that's five. I'll give you a deal."
"Yeah, okay." Trevor counted out $35 and handed it across. "Thanks again." He paused on his way to the door and turned back. He knew he shouldn't have snapped at the man like that, they were probably all superstitious around here. He had to admit, there was something about the salt scent of the air that was getting to him.
"Hey, listen," he called. Cyrus looked back at him. "When I finish the thing, would you like to see it? It's going to be about the ocean, you know; all white and blue and green. When I use the mermaid's tears--"
"Nah, you go on home," Cyrus muttered, waving a hand. "No offense to you but I don't really wanna see whatever you make outta that stuff. Make something outta good glass and maybe I'd be interested..."
What a superstitious bunch these natives are, Trevor thought with some irritation, turning again to leave.
He stayed up all night this time attaching all the pieces of glass he'd cut out. He added some fragments from the broken lamps which soon turned into rocky crags and hovering seagulls; for some reason he put off adding the mermaid's tears until the very last. When he finally came to them he paused and stared into the box. Even with just the one light in the room they seemed to shimmer up at him, through their frosted surfaces. The longer he looked at them the more it seemed they were alive with something, like they were the tops of the waves and if he looked carefully enough he might be able to see what was shimmering beneath the surface. However, he blinked and the illusion was gone.
When I'm finished with this project, he promised himself, I'm going to be taking a very long nap.
He finished the main body of the work--the top third was light pink and represented sky, the bottom two-thirds dark blues and purples and greens, depicting the ocean; there was a large crag of black in the middle which he'd felt compelled to add along the way, even sacrificing some other glass he'd cut that would have originally been in its place. He didn't know if it was an island or a reef or what. Whatever it was, it seemed to belong. He turned to the box of mermaid's tears and started digging through it, selecting the pieces he thought looked right for the window. He picked the biggest ones he could find. He'd wanted to place a few up in the sky as clouds, yet it didn't seem like they would go along. They were mermaid's tears; they belonged in the water.
Following a pattern in his head, he placed the fragments seemingly randomly over different spots in the ocean. If he placed them just right it gave the glass an almost three-dimensional look. The waves almost undulated with white glass at their tips. The deepest areas were almost pulsating with deep blue and purple.
Trevor stepped back to look at the whole window. All he had to do now was glue the pieces in place, atop the stained glass. The blue on blue would just make it deeper. For some reason, though, the white on blue didn't seem to be affected that much; it still resembled foam.
He'd remembered reading somewhere a long time ago that, when mermaids died, their bodies turned to foam.
What a stupid thought. I'm getting as superstitious as these Innsmouth folks.
Shoving the thought out of his head, he proceeded to glue the pieces down. The job took about an hour and a half yet in his altered state--he saw only the glass as he went along, the room disappearing around him--the minutes stretched on forever. When he'd finally finished he had to stretch, his arms and legs were so tired. He took a breath, let it out, and stepped back again to look at his creation.
Above, the evening sky, and below, the ocean, vast and blue and dark. In the middle, that dark craggy rise. And deep within the water, rising toward the surface...
Trevor blinked. What had that been? He could have sworn he'd seen something moving in the water, under the waves, making its way up to that dark crag. Yet when he looked again it was gone. When he thought about it long enough, though, he supposed it had looked a lot like a mermaid.
Jeez, I am going nuts.
He decided it was more like a lack of sleep that was making him see things. He pulled out an old sheet and draped it over the window to protect it from dust. Yawning tiredly, he then turned off the lamp and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Trevor's dreams were troubled that night. Just as soon as he dozed off he dreamed something; he was swimming in a cold black ocean, trying desperately to reach the shore, only there was no shore in sight--just that ugly black crag looming out of the water like the bloated, scarred back of some hideous sea monster. He looked down into the water, below him, and even through the darkness he could see shapes swimming up toward him, shapes that had huge, bulging eyes and webs between their fingers. He started swimming for the crag only to notice them emerging from that also, waiting for him to come closer. He tried to swim away again only he ended up banging his fists against something hard and smooth, and found himself staring out into the darkened study. He was trapped in his own window.
Trevor sat up with a start. What a weird dream that had been! He supposed it must be this place. Even before he'd come here he'd heard all kinds of weird things about neighboring Old Innsmouth, weird stories about fish people in the sea and the government blowing up some kind of reef and bizarre secret ceremonies. It was all a bunch of nonsense, he knew; yet there was just something about this place...
He threw off the covers and climbed out of bed. Maybe if he walked around a little, stretched his legs, he'd be able to get back to sleep. Maybe he should go check out that window, just to convince himself the whole dream was a bunch of nothing. Then he'd get back to sleep, and get back to work moving it tomorrow.
He went into the study and turned on the lamp, removing the sheet, staring down at the window. His eyes widened.
There were shapes moving down beneath the ocean! Strange, malformed shapes; the same things he'd seen in his dream. If he squinted he could catch flashes of them shimmering deep within the mermaid's tears, the glint of a webbed foot here, a flicker of gill there. Once he even saw one's face, and the look it gave him was so malevolent he shivered.
He whipped the sheet back over the window. This was going a little too far. He was awake, wasn't he? Shouldn't he not be seeing things anymore? So why was he seeing things now?
Relax, Trevor. You're just tired, and the light is playing tricks on you like it did last night. And you're only thinking of what that old man said to you.
He suddenly remembered what Cyrus had started to tell him when he'd bought the glass: "The people around here don't like it too much, they say when they look at it real hard they tends to see things..."
He paused. Other people saw things? Not just him? Maybe the old man was right, maybe the glass was bad...
That's just hooey and you know it. Get to bed and forget about it till morning. Then you can wonder about it all you want.
Just to be sure, he lifted the corner of the sheet again. This time the window was back to normal. He sighed shakily, running his hands down his face. After he'd gotten a drink of water he went back to bed, though this time sleep didn't come nearly as easily as it had before. Every time he shut his eyes he could swear those weird fish-things were swimming behind his closed lids, but when he opened them they would simply disappear.
As soon as he could Trevor returned again to Cyrus Welliver's shop, finding the old man busy dusting the big books on his shelves. Cyrus didn't look too happy to see him yet waved him to the back room, where he poured them both a mug of hot tea. Trevor didn't feel much like drinking yet did so to be polite. He knew he'd been rude enough already.
"I've been thinking about that glass I bought," he said to start the conversation. Cyrus cast a glance at him and took a sip of his own tea. "The mermaid's tears, that is."
Cyrus nodded. "What about them?"
"Well, I just added them to my window, and I was wondering...about something I thought I saw last night."
The old man's eyes glinted behind his glasses. "What kind of something?"
Trevor shrugged. "I'm not sure. I know I didn't really see it, but I got to thinking about what you said, about other people seeing things; I wondered if you could tell me just what it is that they claim to see?"
Cyrus could evidently hear the skepticism in his voice, yet nodded and replied, his voice guarded. "Well. It's mostly just stories I hear from other people, mind you, 'cause I don't get out much; but after a while of hearing the same thing repeated over and over, you start thinking..." He drifted off, looked into his tea, and started again.
"I'm sure you've heard some of the stories going around about Old Innsmouth, right?" A nod. "Well, they're more than just stories, let me tell you. Don't give me that look; there was something to some of 'em. How much I'm not sure. Seems the people over there were getting into some things they shouldn't have, I'm not too sure what; some people tell me it was inbreeding, some others say they were worshipping strange things in the sea. I couldn't tell you straight 'cause I wasn't even born back when it happened. When the government men came, I mean," he clarified, noting Trevor's look. "Back in the Twenties, like I said. Some guy comes running outta Innsmouth screaming about fish people getting ready to kill him or something, I dunno. The thing is, Innsmouth was such a dump yet they were pretty big in the fishing business. It was the only thing they had going for them. Nobody knows how or why, they just started raking 'em in by the netload. My ma used to say it was some kinda bad bargain they made over in the South Seas, some island called Ponape or something. Some kinda bargain with these people's god that they'd catch more fish." Trevor snickered but let the man continue. "And in turn some of these people could come back with them, intermarry and stuff, but like I said there was bad blood in 'em. Even if you don't believe it they all got a weird look to 'em. Fishy, like. And I really mean fishy. Big eyes. Webs between their fingers and toes. And these gills behind their ears. Gills, can you believe it?"
Trevor's face had gone pale at the mention of the eyes and webs and gills. He could still picture the weird figures in his dream last night, the same things he'd seen in the glass...
"Anyways, they're called the 'Deep Ones' or something other like that. Strange stuff. Fish people in the sea. Sacrificing so they can get their share of fish over in Innsmouth. Like I said, I dunno just how much of this is actually true or not, but I hafta tell you, it's all so weird that we stay outta Old Innsmouth pretty much all we can, and as you can see New Innsmouth isn't that well off, either; I guess the name itself is bad enough..."
"What's this about the government?" Trevor prodded. "You said something about them coming in."
"Oh, yeah; after this one guy comes running out yelling about fish people the government swept right in. Set off some depth charges just off Devil's Reef. That's where these fish people were supposed to have some kinda headquarters or something. That was about seventy years ago now. I guess they thought that did it, but from the looks of it there's still some kinda thing going on over there..."
He trailed off again, staring into his drink and muttering about "bad blood." He's just a senile old man, Trevor thought, anything to avoid believing that what he'd seen could possibly have been real. It was true, the things Cyrus had described had matched what he'd dreamed about and seen in the glass; but Trevor had done some reading up on the place, and he could've picked up the description anywhere. The fish people were probably Innsmouth's answer to the Loch Ness Monster for all he knew. Just some quaint local superstition. A ploy to bring the tourists in.
So how come there aren't any tourists around here?
He shrugged it off. No use wondering about a pointless thing. Thanking the old man a little too politely for the tea, he scooted out of the tiny room and out the door, glad to be able to breathe in some fresh air once he got out.
However, it still made him shiver, that slight salty taste. He knew it came from the ocean, the same place as those pieces of glass and those--fish people. He was breathing in the same air.
Quit thinking about it. He turned away and started on the walk home.
Trevor spent the next couple of days trying to avoid the big window in the study. He kept it covered with the sheet as he attempted to work on a new project; yet however hard he tried to forget about it, at least until that stupid fish story was out of his head, he kept finding his new window taking on a resemblance to the former. Halfway through he swept the loose pieces of glass aside and thumped his elbows on the table in exasperation. Why wouldn't that stupid story get out of his head? It was just the word of some weird old man, some weird old story he'd heard from the weird old people of Innsmouth. There was nothing to it.
Then why had he seen those--things in the window?
It's just my imagination, he told himself. Artists have overactive imaginations. To prove it, he decided to spend some time staring at the window. That would show him there was nothing to it.
He stepped over and pulled off the sheet. The window glinted back up at him, normal as ever. He noticed again that big black crag he'd put in the middle, and was forced to wonder what it was. What had Cyrus been talking about? Some kind of reef? Devil's Reef. Was that what that thing was supposed to be?
But that was impossible too. He'd never even heard of Devil's Reef until now.
With a sigh he pulled up a stool and sat down. I'll sit here and stare at it for a while, just to show there's nothing to it and I'm not nuts. There, he was covering all his bases. If nothing happened within fifteen minutes, he'd cover it up again and call the whole thing off.
So he sat and stared at the dark part of the glass, the lower two-thirds representing the sea. The longer he stared the more it seemed the separation between the different pieces of glass began to dissolve and disappear altogether, blending together in one vast expanse of blue and purple and deep green; the waves in the water began to swirl, forming whorls and whirlpools out of which started to form tiny dim shapes, swimming closer.
Trevor blinked. I've just been staring too long. I need to clear my eyes, and when I look again it'll be gone.
But when he looked again it wasn't gone; if anything the swirling shapes had come closer, grown bigger; as they did so he could make out more details of them, from the webs between their fingers and toes to the glint in their wide, bulging eyes.
He felt a squeezing in his chest, making his heart struggle to pound. It must be just his imagination, nothing like that could be real--
The fish-things swam closer, closer, their wide flat mouths opening, reaching up their thick ugly fingers as if to grasp at him, splashing their heads out of the water--
Trevor jumped up, throwing his arms in front of his face with a scream.
"I saw the old Cartwright place is empty again," the visitor to the little antiques store commented as she waited for Old Man Cyrus to figure the price on each of the items she was purchasing, add them up, and put them in bags.
He glanced up at her through those big round glasses of his. "Eh? Oh, yeah, the Cartwright place. Yeah, there was a fella living in there not too long ago, he didn't last very long; was there only a week or two before he decided to ship out. Left in quite a hurry, too. Didn't even clean up after himself as far as I'm told."
"Why'd he leave so soon? It looks like such a nice house."
"Ah, I wouldn't be thinking of moving in there, Miss. He was a stubborn fellow himself, woulda only left if he'd had a good enough reason. He was an artist, you know; made art-glass windows. Came here asking for some supplies."
"Did you get to see what he was working on?"
"Nah, didn't want to. I'm sure it musta been pretty enough, but he used this bad glass he got from me, mermaid's tears it was called; I told him it was from Old Innsmouth and he shouldn't use it, that stuff does weird things to your head. Like the people say they can see things in it if they stare hard enough. Bad things. Weird fish-things in the ocean."
"How's that?" the woman asked, helping him along with the packing.
"I dunno. I'm no science student, you know, but I have my theory. You know how they talk about those newfangled psychics and stuff? How they can pick up old impressions? Well, what if they can leave impressions too? Seems to me they might be able to do that if they tried hard enough."
"That's one of the explanations for ghosts," the woman said.
"Yeah, you don't say! Well. If I read more I'd probably know that. But maybe that's what these Deep Ones or whoever they are did; maybe they left some kind of impression on this glass before it was picked up, and that's what everybody's seeing."
"But I thought these Deep Ones--if they were ever around, mind you--weren't supposed to be anymore. I thought the government took care of that or something."
"Yeah, we all did, didn't we? Apparently they didn't try hard enough, though. I always said there was something bad about Innsmouth..."
"So what about this man who lived in there--what happened to him?"
"Oh. That Trevor guy. Well, like I said, he hauled tail not too long ago. It's a shame about that window of his, too. A couple people from town went to check the place out to see how he was doing. They told me about it afterwards. All they found there was this big window in shards all over the floor. Poor guy musta broken it before he left. The window was just a big picture of Old Innsmouth, with Devil's Reef and everything. It was all wet, too. And you know what the funniest thing is? He'd put himself in the picture--there he was screaming with those Deep Ones pulling at his legs, dragging him under the water. Hideous thing! No wonder the guy broke the window and ran!"
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