Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

VOICES IN THE WATER

by

BASIL COPPER

I

IT WAS LATE February when Roberts bought the mill. He was a successful artist and had long been trying to get out of London. The mill was a big place and one advantage was that it had already been partly converted into living accommodation. A lot more needed to be done in the way of renovation, but the price was right and Roberts snapped it up.

Another motivation was that his great friend Kent, an author, lived only a mile or so away. In earlier years Roberts had illustrated a number of Kent’s books and a lasting friendship had been formed during that period.

The estate agent, Cedric Smithson, a big, bluff man with an iron-grey moustache, who had first taken Roberts on a guided tour, was enthusiastic about the possibilities. It was not just the usual estate agent’s purchasing ploy, so Roberts was quick to catch the other’s reference points. It was also fortunate that central heating had already been installed throughout. Roberts had gathered that the previous owner had intended to make the mill his permanent residence, but his wife had left him for another man, and in the face of this personal disaster he had lost all heart in the project and had returned to London.

Another attraction for Roberts, apart from the size of the place, which would easily lend itself to further accommodation for friends as well as a large studio and another area which would provide an elegant gallery for viewing sessions for his wealthy clients, was the enormous north-facing window in the area he intended to create his studio. All in all, the facilities already existing would provide a cosy home during the bitter winters Sussex sometimes endured.

So the artist had speedily summoned his wife from their London flat and to his relief she also had become enthusiastic about the place. With its enormous beams and four-inch thick wooden floors it would become a showplace once time and money had been expended on its refurbishment.

Through the good offices of Smithson, Roberts engaged some excellent local craftsmen and stayed on to supervise the work which occupied several months, so that it was not until early July that the couple were able to take up permanent occupation.

Another major benefit for Roberts was that a large stream ran beneath the building, as might be expected as it had been a working mill until about thirty years previously. The stream—though it was more a small river—ran foaming between the massive piles and from a vantage point, obtained via an enormous wooden hatch immediately above the race, he could savour the roar and power of the clear white water which swirled through beneath.

He was told by Smithson that the enormous mill-wheel, which was still in situation, had been rendered inoperable for years and that gratings had been installed to prevent any driftwood or foliage that might come down the stream from causing any damage beneath the building.

Once the hatch was raised and Roberts was able to look down on his first visit to the place, he was impressed with the roar of the water and the great power it would have exerted on the machinery in its heyday. But once the hatch was closed the movement of the water was muffled and, in any case, the living quarters were far above so that the surge of the stream was quite unobtrusive.

During the early days of Roberts’ ownership, his wife, Gilda, who acted as his secretary and agent, stayed in London to supervise the business side of the artist’s work—keeping in touch with clients in New York, Paris and Amsterdam, for her husband was now becoming a sought-after and celebrated painter, after long years of struggle and relative penury.

At this time Roberts had made his studio in the largest lower room of the mill and installed himself in a living room above, where Kent often visited him for drinks and a chat. Or, as the weather got better, the pair walked the short distance to the local pub, The Three Horseshoes, for white wine and the occasional meal. Kent, a strongly built man with an open countenance and black, curly hair, was almost as enthusiastic as Roberts about the new project and gave his friend valuable advice on the conversion and guided him in the direction of reliable specialist craftsmen.

One evening, when the weather was a little warmer and Roberts had finished work for the day on his latest commission, the two men sat in the vast living room with its massive beams and huge stone fireplace.

Roberts suddenly said, “Do you remember that canvas I did some years ago—the one I called ‘Faces in the Fire’?”

Kent, who wore grey slacks and a tweed hacking jacket, was slumped with his legs over the huge arms of the chair opposite. He sat up and wrinkled his brow as he put down his glass on a small table at his side. “You mean the one that was featured in that Town and Country magazine? An oil wasn’t it? I think those people did a very good colour shot. The publicity couldn’t have done you any harm.”

Roberts gave a short laugh. “You’re right about that. It was a bit of an experiment, but Gilda got me a thousand guineas for that one. A wealthy Dutchman bought it and thought it a bargain at the price. Gilda is a very smart girl when it comes to extolling my wares.”

Kent nodded. “She is that. But why do you ask about that work now?”

Roberts was re-filling his glass at a sideboard and didn’t answer for a moment. Then he came back to sit facing his friend. “Well, it’s more in your line than mine,” he began. “You’re the one with the fantastic imagination that you put into those novels of yours. I must have caught something of that from you. It was just a study—you know the sort of thing. In winter if you have a fire, you can stare at it and sometimes it seems as if you can detect faces in the flames.”

“Oh, that,” Kent said. “I quite understand. But I don’t know why you’re asking...”

Roberts held up his hand to interrupt him. “There’s something similar at work in my imagination here,” he said. “It’s to do with the movement of the water. Oh, not up here, of course, where we can’t hear it at all. But when you open the hatch down below, to look at the water, it can be quite fascinating.”

Kent shook his head. “I don’t get what you’re driving at.”

“Well, I know it sounds rather silly,” Roberts began haltingly. “But it sometimes seems as though I can hear voices in the water.”

“Oh, I see,” Kent replied. “I’ve noticed it myself when wandering along the stream in winters past. It can be quite hypnotic. Don’t tell me you’re going to try to paint something along those lines? Mighty difficult, I should imagine.”

Roberts shook his head, smiling. “Just a thought. Have another drink.”

And the conversation passed on to other topics.

II

As spring lengthened into summer so did the work on the house progress. Gilda came down from London for several weeks, supervising the delivery of their furniture. She took over one of the top bedrooms for her office, where telephone, word processor and fax machines were installed. There was a magnificent view of the village from there and the silver thread of the stream making its way down to the building, which they had decided to call The Mill House. Furthermore, she had obtained a very good price for their London flat, with the result that Roberts, perhaps for the first time in his life, was becoming quite an affluent person. Of course he realised it was all down to Gilda, for without her he would never have received such sums for his artwork.

The couple had become quite friendly with the Smithsons also, and on one memorable evening they came to the house together with Kent and his fiancée, and they had a great housewarming party which went on until 3:00 a.m.

Roberts was spending more time in the studio down below and the faint, though constant, fret of the water made a soothing background to his painstaking and meticulous draughtsmanship. They had had a telephone installed there, and Gilda would call him at 12:30 p.m. each day and he would ascend to the main house for pre-lunch drinks, and after the meal they would wander along the stream for an hour or so before Roberts resumed his work.

By this time they had a number of friends in the village, most of whom were extremely pleased at the renovation work, as they felt the mill in its new guise greatly enhanced the neighbourhood. Workmen were still putting finishing touches to certain rooms in the house, and the quiet tapping as they went about their business made a pleasing background to Roberts’ thoughts. His latest canvas was coming along well. An international financier had given him half-a-dozen preliminary sittings and now he was finishing off the portrait from photographs.

He had promised Gilda they would have a break in the autumn, when he had finished his current commissions; perhaps to Venice, where she had never been, but it all depended on his workload, which was growing year by year, thanks to her expert business training.

Kent came round to view progress shortly before the work on the building was concluded. He followed his host from room to room, entirely concurring with his friend’s enthusiasm.

“You certainly got a bargain here,” Kent said when the tour was over and they were settled in the huge living room. But he noticed, as he spoke, that a shadow seemed to pass across Roberts’ face and he realised that the artist was extremely tired.

Gilda was away again, doing a tour of major galleries, carrying with her colour slides of Roberts’ latest works, and he sensed that his friend had been working too hard. He caught the glance the other gave him. “Been overdoing it?” he said. “Not a sensible thing...”

Roberts gave a light laugh, which didn’t deceive his friend. “Not really. It’s just the long hours in the studio standing at the easel. It’s very tiring work, you know. Not like writers. Sitting on a soft cushion all day dreaming up impossible plots.”

Kent returned his smile. “There’s a little bit more to it than that,” he said good-naturedly.

“Of course, old chap. You know I was only joking. Stay to dinner. A nice lady comes in from the village when Gilda’s away.”

After the meal the two men sat smoking and talking in the great room that Roberts’ craftsmen had created from what had been two smaller chambers which had been roughly partitioned for some commercial purpose by a previous owner when the place had been a working mill. Apparently the building had been constructed as far back as the sixteenth century, and a vast beam which ran across the whole fireplace wall carried the roughly carved date by some long dead carpenter: 1545.

When Kent’s pipe had been drawn to his satisfaction and the whisky glasses had been filled, the two men were more relaxed and forthcoming than when Mrs Summers, who acted as the artist’s housekeeper, had supervised the meal.

“How long did you say?” Kent asked.

He was referring to the final stages of renovation of the mill. There were various finishing touches that would be carried out by specialist craftsmen, such as wrought ironwork and light fittings in period with the age of the house.

Roberts sat back in his big carved oak chair with a satisfied expression on his face. “About three months should see it through,” he said. “All in all there have been few problems. Far less than I had imagined.”

“I know it’s a delicate matter,” his friend said diffidently. “You mentioned it before, but has the cost over-run...?”

Roberts shook his head. “Most remarkable, really. Nowhere near as much as I had anticipated. More than covered by the income generated by Gilda on her travels around Europe and the States.

“That’s good to hear,” Kent replied. “I’m glad I steered you toward the purchase. You must be sitting on a small fortune here. I suppose you won’t ever think of selling?”

Roberts reached out for his glass. “No. I’ve discussed it with Gilda. I think we’ve settled here for life. I can’t imagine we would ever find such a place full of history and at such a reasonable price. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Only too glad to have such a close friend near at hand,” Kent said.

This conversation was to come back to haunt him.

III

The author was busy on a new collection of short stories and did not see Roberts again until three weeks later, when they ran into one another in the bar of The Three Horseshoes. Gilda was over for a few days, so it was a pleasant surprise for Kent and they decided to have dinner together at a local restaurant. It was a convivial evening, and when the three left the restaurant Kent had promised to visit the mill the following Monday to see some further improvements. Gilda was off on her travels again before then, so they said goodbye in the car park.

Kent arrived in the afternoon in question in a state of anticipation but, to his surprise, Roberts seemed withdrawn and vague regarding the invitation. He was, however, full of enthusiasm about a new painting he was engaged on, though when Kent questioned him further he remained tight-lipped about its subject and demurring whenever Kent questioned him more closely. But he did promise that he would reveal more about it at a later date. Roberts also gently declined Kent’s repeated requests to visit the studio to see the work in progress.

“Later,” he said. “It is something completely new for me, and I’m sure it will create a sensation when I first exhibit it.”

But after dinner that night, long after Mrs Summers had gone, he unburdened himself of a subject that had obviously been slightly troubling him. It seemed so trivial at first that Kent could not believe it.

“The water?” he said. “I don’t understand.”

Roberts interrupted him peremptorily. “The mill-race,” he said tautly. “It’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

Kent gave the other a deprecatory smile. “But you can’t hear it,” he said. “These walls are enormously thick. It’s a long way down, and it’s only a small stream...”

Roberts cut in abruptly. “I’m talking about the studio. It’s just above the stream.”

Kent just could not get his friend’s drift. “What are you driving at? The floor is made of very thick timbers. The stream runs eight feet underneath. And it’s not a very fast-flowing river, if one can call it that. I’m at a loss to know what’s troubling you. We’re old friends. You can be perfectly frank with me. You were so pleased and happy to have found such a wonderful place...”

Roberts gave him a twisted smile. “I know it sounds idiotic. It’s difficult to explain...”

“Try me,” Kent insisted.

Roberts gave a hopeless shrug. “It seems to depress,” he said. “I’m here alone most of the time. Half of my day is spent down there. And with Gilda away...”

Kent reached out and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. “I do understand,” he said gently. “But there’s something more, isn’t there?”

Roberts turned a suddenly haggard face toward him. “Yes,” he said simply. “There’s something in the water.”

IV

Kent went away an hour later greatly troubled at his friend’s state of mind. His first thought had been to make a joke about taking more water with it, but he realised there was something far more serious than was evident. Roberts would not enlarge on the subject that was troubling him, and Kent did not like to probe any further.

However, things had apparently returned to normal toward the end of June when Roberts threw a party on the lawn of his restored property for friends, neighbours and the craftsmen who had worked so hard and expertly on the project.

Mingling with the guests were the local vicar and the librarian of the village Arts Centre, Roberts’ London agent and a sprinkling of local notables. Some of the artist’s canvases were on display in a conservatory erected as an adjunct to the mill house, and the local press had sent a reporter and photographer to cover the event.

All in all it was a most successful gathering, Kent thought. The only notable absentee being Gilda, who was still negotiating terms with purchasers in Holland, though she did make a phone call during the celebrations, which was relayed by loudspeaker to the assembled guests.

When Kent came away he was considerably reassured as to Roberts’ state of mind. His friend was almost ebullient and greatly looking forward to a very successful future. Though Kent did not question Roberts about the things that had obviously been worrying his friend—he was far too tactful for that—he was greatly reassured by the artist’s restored balance and felt secure in the knowledge that he had now recovered his normal state of mind.

But two things came back to Kent long afterward. When the vicar was at the garden party he expressed a wish to bless the house. He was about to anoint the huge crown post with holy water when he gave a sudden exclamation and dropped the vessel on to the floor before he was able to perform the ceremony. He explained that he suffered from arthritis of the hands and had received a sudden twinge of pain and the incident passed off.

The other occurrence was of a lighter nature and concerned Roberts suddenly spotting a young couple, who had evidently come down the stream in a canoe and had been prevented from making any further progress by the mill building. They were standing on the bank watching the party with great interest. Roberts immediately invited them to join in and they were soon the centre of interest. The wife was a very beautiful blonde girl of about twenty-five, with her husband equally handsome. Kent was vividly reminded of a famous classical painting of a Greek god and goddess whose title he had forgotten.

But some while afterward, the canoe had been found floating upside down in the stream several miles further up and there was no sign of its occupants. There were several boat yards in that area with various craft for hire and, as so many people congregated there in the summer months, no one was able to assist the police in their inquiries. The river was dragged but nothing was found. It eventually transpired through further press reports that the girl was a married woman who had run off with her lover. People in the village were extremely interested, but when the couple were last heard of in Canada the matter was soon forgotten.

Kent was busy on the new short story collection for some weeks, though he and Roberts kept in close touch by telephone. Gilda was back temporarily anyway, and whenever they did speak Roberts seemed relaxed and happy.

Gradually Kent began to lose the faint feeling of anxiety he had felt about the house, transmitted, of course, through Roberts’ uneasiness and one or two strange remarks he had made about the constant fret of the water beneath the building. But that was only to be expected of a property of that age and size. Though it was true that the rushing of the stream beneath was obtrusive on the lower level, it was completely quiet on what might be termed the ground floor and on the upper levels, where bedrooms and living accommodation were situated.

Things went on in their usual placid fashion in the quiet surroundings of the village and it was almost the end of July when Kent arrived once more for an evening of conversation and an excellent dinner prepared by Roberts’ housekeeper, Mrs Summers.

It was a beautiful evening and the two men sat drinking white wine while comfortably settled in window seats, thoroughly at ease with one another. There was a purple haze over the neighbouring fields, and that sort of absolute stillness one finds towards nightfall in late summer.

The silence was broken only by the occasional sound of birdsong, as the flocks returned to the far stands of trees, and now and then the contented lowing of cattle on their grazing grounds.

“A touch of Thomas Gray here,” Kent observed at length.

The other’s answering smile showed him that the poetic allusion had not been lost. “Worth all the sweat and turmoil,” Roberts said as he refilled his friend’s glass.

Kent nodded, and the two men stretched out their legs and looked out through the big picture window at the distant view, in one of those rare moments of contentment. But shortly they were roused from their reverie by the shrill bell Mrs Summers used when announcing that the meal was ready.

“Come along, gentlemen,” she said good-naturedly, peering around the door lintel. “I’m sure you don’t want it to be spoiled and neither do I.”

“That woman’s becoming quite a slave-driver,” Roberts said with a short laugh as soon as she had withdrawn.

“A treasure, you mean,” Kent rejoined. “You’ve now got two in your life.”

“True,” agreed Roberts, getting up and putting down his empty glass. “The only snag is that Gilda’s away so much, and you’ll be settled by September, don’t forget.”

He was referring to Kent’s impending marriage, and his guest got up also, giving him a mock-rueful expression. “Bound and shackled, like yourself,” he said. “Goodbye to the carefree bachelor life.”

Roberts laughed. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he said.

The meal, as usual, was excellent. When the two were having coffee and cognac, and Mrs Summers had left for her nearby home, the phone rang in the adjoining room where Roberts kept filing cabinets and records of his business affairs. He excused himself and hurried off into his office.

He came back rubbing his hands. “That was Gilda, drumming up business in New York. Twelve thousand for two fairly small oils.”

Kent gave a low whistle. “Congratulations. Perhaps Gilda could take me on as a client?”

Roberts shook his head. “Nothing doing. In any case, you’re very successful from what I read about your print runs. Twenty thousand a time, if my information is correct.”

The two men laughed conspiratorially and the talk passed to other matters.

V

From Roberts’ Personal Diary.

Kent was here tonight. We had a pleasant and a long conversation after Mrs Summers had left. But I dare not broach the subject which is now my main concern. I know I am alone here most of the time, yet it is not just the creaking and movements of ancient timbers that one gets in a mediaeval house. It is the constant rush of the water. My studio is directly above the mill-race and though it is a relatively small stream yet the constriction as it passes between the brick walls magnifies the sound. There is a huge hatch just above, about eight feet from the surface, and when I open it and look down it sounds as though I can hear voices. They seem to be calling me. Or is this just fanciful?

If I mentioned this to Kent he would question my sanity. And I dare not broach the subject to Gilda. She is so down-to-earth. It seems that I must face this thing alone.

I could, of course, move the studio upstairs. But there is this great window which lets in the northern light and which I must have when creating my canvases. It seemed to have been made for me. Perhaps I should have thick rubber covering installed over the floor and equally thick carpeting over that to muffle the sound? It is something I shall have to think about if this continues...

VI

When Kent had occasion to visit the mill a few days later to call on Roberts, he found the haggard face on the artist again.

The lunch had been cleared away and Mrs Summers was just leaving, though she would be back again at tea-time. It was a practical arrangement as she lived only a few hundred yards away.

“He is in the study, Mr Kent,” she said. “I should go up without ringing, if I were you.” She paused, a troubled expression on her placid features. “I’m sure I can speak frankly with you, Mr Kent, as you’re such an old friend.”

“Of course, Mrs Summers,” Kent said, hesitating with his hand on the great iron front door latch.

“Something is bothering your friend. I can’t just put my finger on it but he keeps looking around as though something is standing behind him. It’s a strange enough old place and full of atmosphere and odd corners but it’s cheerful enough, and that won’t account for it. I know he’s alone a lot and painters are queer folk anyway...” Here she broke off and gave Kent a wry look. “I’m sure you won’t take my remarks amiss, but as you’re his best friend and all, I feel I can be frank with you, as I’ve already said.”

“Naturally,” Kent said. “No offence taken and I’m glad you’ve spoken to me. Though I’m not here very often, I’ve sensed that there was something wrong. I believe he often does speak to himself when he’s wrestling with some weighty problem to do with his work. But I’ll have a talk with him now if it will set your mind at rest.”

The housekeeper’s face lit up immediately. “I’m glad to hear you say so, Mr Kent. We must all rely on our friends in this difficult world.” And to Kent’s surprise she wrung his hand effusively and went on her way down the garden path with a lighter step.

Kent had taken the gist of her remarks seriously and, after locking the front door behind him, he made sure of making a good deal of noise as he ascended the great wooden staircase.

Roberts waited on the landing to greet him and led the way into the study, evident relief on his features. “I saw you were talking to Mrs Summers,” he said. “I was watching from the window that juts out over the front entrance. She’s a good sort and I suppose she’s been telling you something about my strange behaviour.”

“She didn’t put it quite like that,” Kent said awkwardly. “But she is a little concerned about you. Isn’t it time we had a frank talk? You’ve changed in some subtle way since you’ve been down here and you can’t deny it.”

Dark shadows clouded the other’s face as he sat down at his desk and fiddled with a paperweight as though to control his nerves.

Now that he was up closer, Kent could see that Roberts’ eyes had dark smudges beneath them that hadn’t been there before. “Talking may help,” he told Roberts gently. “And it may do some good.”

Roberts moved awkwardly in his swivel chair so that a great bar of sunlight fell across his features, enabling Kent to see more clearly the effects of nervous tension on his friend’s face.

Roberts made a hopeless gesture with his hands. “I hardly know where to begin.”

“Just tell it as you remember it,” Kent said.

“I’m a pretty sane, strong-willed person, as you know,” the artist said. “And this is something completely outside my experience. I don’t believe in the supernatural, but some while back I started hearing voices. I work a great deal in the studio, as you know, and the faint fret of the water beneath the building was very soothing at the beginning.”

Kent leaned forward in his chair as his friend broke off. “Yes?” he prompted. “And then, after a while, something happened?”

Roberts nodded. “You won’t believe this, but I started hearing voices, as though coming from the water.” He caught the other’s disbelieving glance. “I don’t mean actual voices. But they were sounding in my head. They were asking me to come down.”

“Down where?”

“Down below. Into the water. I know you will think me mad and that my experiences are the result of some mental aberration, but it isn’t so. I’m as sane you are.” He stared at Kent grimly. “You don’t believe me?”

Kent inclined his head. “Of course I believe you. But the strain of your long hours of work... Might it not be some mental stress...?”

“It’s not a mental problem. I went to see an eminent specialist in London, one of the most highly recommended in Europe. He gave me the most exhaustive tests and I spent several hours with him. He could find nothing wrong—no trace of pathological disease—and gave me a clean bill of health in every way.”

“Then what is the problem?” Kent asked slowly.

Roberts’ face was set in a hard mask. “Something terribly real. There’s something evil in this house which is reaching out to claim me for some purpose.”

Kent rose from the chair. “You can’t really mean that?” he said incredulously.

Roberts got up too. “I certainly do. This constant repetition in my head. Come to us. An invitation to what? It will really drive me mad if something isn’t done.” He sat down again abruptly. “Several times I opened the hatch and stared down into the water. There was nothing, of course, but the constant rush seemed like distorted laughter.”

Kent felt a sudden frisson of something he couldn’t clearly define. Not fear, but coldness as though his friend’s words had struck a chill to the soul, if such a thing were possible. Then he became businesslike. “Let’s go down below and look at this sinister hatch of which you speak.”

Roberts became agitated. “Please don’t say that. It may sound like provocation.”

Kent chose to ignore this extraordinary statement. He said nothing further, but followed his host down to the studio.

The room was a huge chamber and Kent had not seen it before in its final form. Though it was in close proximity to the water, it was quite warm as Roberts had installed central heating here also in case damp from the stream might affect his canvases.

There was an enormous wooden hatch, bound with iron bands, about six feet square, in the far corner. Owing to the huge weight, it was raised by a steel cable fastened to a metal ring, which ran through a pulley block bolted to a massive beam above and raised by a small metal windlass secured to the floor. The cable ran almost noiselessly through the pulley block as Roberts turned the handle of the windlass and then secured it with the brake as soon as it was fully open.

There was a sudden rush of cold air, mingled with various odours that Kent found difficult to place. It was true that the stream which ran foaming and clear about eight or ten feet below made a disturbing sound as it raced through, and such was its power that Kent could feel a faint vibration beneath his feet, as the water swirled round the piles which supported the building. He guessed that in the dim past flat-bottomed barges had rested beneath to take sacks of corn on board. Sunlight filtering through made a dappled surface of the wavelets below, and now and then the silver belly of a small fish slid in and out of view on its way downstream to the distant sea.

He turned to Roberts, the latter surveying him with a hopeful expression on his face. “I can see nothing unusual. A powerful surge round the building from time to time, but that is quite normal.”

“Ah, but you are never here at night,” Roberts said.

Kent gave him a blank look. “You don’t mean to say that you paint down here at night? I thought natural light was necessary for all artists?” He broke off at the expression on the other’s face.

“I do some of my best work at night,” Roberts said. Then he changed his manner to one more placatory. “What I mean to say is that I retouch portraits and so on, and make plans for future canvases.” And with that he turned on his heel and led the way upstairs.

Kent declined his friend’s invitation to tea. When he left the mill house he was a very troubled man.

VII

From Roberts’ Personal Diary.

Is Kent right and that I am becoming over-imaginative in being alone so long in this huge house?

Or am I going mad? God forbid. But these events, though somewhat intangible, are nevertheless real in the still of the night. Still of the night? I use the term loosely for, goodness only knows, the house is never silent. The creaking of the beams, the furtive movements as though there are muffled footfalls in various rooms, and the distant trickle of water. For in truth one can hear the stream quite clearly, especially at night as we sleep with the windows open in this current hot weather. And the voices! Dear God, the voices! For these insistent whispers in my ears seem to say: Come to us! The water is beautifully clear and cool. Stay with us in the rippling embrace of the flow, which has existed throughout all eternity. Iä! Iä! Cthulhu fhtagn!

I put my pillow over my ears, but the voices still continue, which proves that they are inside my head. Sweet Jesus, where will it all end? We could leave this place, but I am convinced these cursed voices would still continue to plague me. For I have heard them when staying in my London hotel. This agony cannot continue much longer...

VIII

For a fortnight Roberts worked furiously on a new painting, and his labours completely absorbed him for his dread fantasies seemed to fade away. He was more cheerful altogether when he met Kent for lunch at The Three Horseshoes, which was a great relief to his old friend.

In addition, Gilda had rung several times, once from Chicago and on another occasion from Washington. She was making the rounds of private art galleries and dealers and the prospects were extremely good.

Mrs Summers had also noted the change in her employer and was greatly relieved when Kent ran across her in the village one afternoon.

Kent had a book launch in London the following day, so he was not present when certain events unfolded. He stayed on for three more days with his fiancée and her family in St. John’s Wood.

The night he arrived back in the village it was quite late so he did not call on Roberts. Not that it would have made any difference to the outcome. Roberts had been in a good mood that brilliantly sunny day and had even attended a cricket match on the village green. But after dinner he felt some of the old malaise creeping over him. The housekeeper had long gone home and he could not settle to his accounts in the study.

It was a bright, clear night with the moon riding high, and he had the windows open to the faint breeze. Then suddenly, without warning, he felt the same insidious voices in his ears. Come to us! There is deep peace below. You are one of us and we are reclaiming you! It is good and peaceful where we are. We have slept for countless aeons and now we are gathering strength. Come down and be at peace for all time... Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah-nagl fhtagn!

Roberts felt cold sweat pouring down his cheeks, despite the heat of the night, and although he clapped his hands over his ears the persistent coaxing went on as though inside his head.

Mechanically and blindly Roberts found himself descending to the ground floor, walking like a drunken man. Then he found himself in the studio and the insistent susurration of the water had now assumed a more soothing aspect. The voices in his head went on, caressingly, insistently, as though a lover was welcoming a long-awaited partner.

Roberts sank to his knees on the heavy wooden floor, found his hands operating the windlass. The hatch opened silently and then he was gazing down into the dark stream, which seemed to fascinate him.

Come! Eternal life awaits! Iä-R’lyeh! Cthulhu fhtagn! Iä! Iä! The words rose to a crescendo, and then it happened.

The darkness of the water parted and something white and obscene floated to the surface. Roberts found himself staring into a loathsome visage, neither human nor fish. A pair of large unblinking eyes glistened in the dim light as the thing surveyed him with an alien stare. Its huge slit mouth lined with jagged green teeth opened in an obscene smile. Then two webbed claws reached up and plucked him effortlessly down into oblivion. The water boiled white and Roberts let out scream after scream as the torrent turned briefly scarlet and the surge swept him under.

IX

Kent was roused from a deep sleep by the insistent jangling of the telephone on his bedside table. As he came to full consciousness he glanced at his wristwatch and saw it was 3:00 a.m. Thinking it might be Gilda, he picked up the phone, but it was a man’s voice, full of urgency.

“Carson here, Mr Kent. Something terrible has happened at The Mill House. I know it’s an unearthly hour, but could you come over here right away? It really is imperative.”

At first Kent could not place the voice, but then he remembered it was a CID Inspector based at Lewes, who had read a number of his crime novels and had given him invaluable advice about police procedures. From that a friendship had evolved. “The Mill House?” Kent said, still half-asleep. “Is Roberts...”

Carson interrupted him. “It’s about your friend,” he said gently. “I understand his wife is in New York, so I thought of you. I hope you don’t mind?”

“No, of course not, but I still don’t understand.”

“A local man was walking past the place at midnight when he heard terrible screams coming from the building,” replied Carson. “He tried the bell and there were lights on in the house, but no one answered. The local police had a list of key holders and they had to get his housekeeper to open up. What they found was so shocking that they contacted us. You really must come. Now.”

Kent was already out of bed. “I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour,” he said grimly.

X

When Kent arrived at the mill the place was a blaze of light. There were three police cars with their headlights on and an ambulance. Several police officers in uniform were clustered around the open front door, smoking.

After Kent had identified himself, he hurried upstairs and was met by Carson coming down. The Inspector was a big, impressive-looking man in his early forties, broad-shouldered and athletic.

“A bad business, Mr Kent,” he muttered. “A bad business.” He put his hand on the other’s shoulder as they went up to Roberts’ study. “I’m afraid your friend is dead.”

At first Kent could not take this in and stammered something banal and fatuous.

“It’s true,” the CID man said, ushering Kent into the study and motioning toward the whisky bottle and glasses on the desk. “You’d better have a peg. I’m afraid you’re going to need it.”

“I can’t understand it,” Kent said bewilderedly. “He was all right when I last saw him a few days ago, though a little troubled in his mind.” Now that the whisky was beginning to take effect, his faculties were beginning to function normally. “It wasn’t suicide?”

Carson shook his head.

Kent gave him an incredulous look. “Not murder?”

“Not that either. At least not as we understand it,” Carson said grimly. “As I said, you’d better drink the rest of that glass. You’re going to need it.”

Half-dazed, Kent was led downstairs. As they descended to the last level, just above the mill-race, cold damp air was on his face.

The place was full of light, from portable lamps set about the floor, which was wet and interspersed with reddish stains. The hatch was wide open and gaping, but it was the huddled mass under the green canvas sheet that arrested his attention. A police surgeon, a small sandy-haired man with gold pince-nez dominating his face and wearing a dirty white smock, was kneeling by the shrouded mass.

Two other plain-clothes men sat on stools at the far side of the room, smoking and with stolid expressions on their faces. Nobody spoke for a moment.

Kent licked suddenly dry lips but Carson’s strong hand was beneath his elbow and steered him to the high stool that Roberts sometimes used when spending long hours before his easel. That too was in the far corner, its surface covered by a white sheet.

The surgeon stood up. “Quite outside my experience,” he said in a terse voice. “We’ll know more when we get him down to the mortuary... or perhaps not,” he added after a slight pause.

“Are you ready?” Carson asked. “Just a formality and I’m sorry to have to put you through this, but it will save the widow much grief.”

Kent could not suppress a shudder at the crumpled mass of eviscerated flesh with hands and legs slashed and gouged as though by razor-sharp knives. There was such a look of horror on what was left of the dead face that Kent remembered it for the rest of his life. His legs were giving way and he sank thankfully back on to the stool.

“Beats your novels, eh, Mr Kent?” Carson said. The two men were on Christian name terms, but Carson was on familiar ground now and using his official manner in the presence of his subordinates.

“No blood,” revealed the surgeon, whose name was Snaith.

“The water would wash it down, surely,” Kent said.

The little man shook his head. “Even in cases where bodies are recovered from water after being gashed, say, by the propeller of motor boats, they retain most of their blood.”

“But who could have done this?” Kent asked desperately.

“Nothing human, that’s for sure,” Carson put in.

“So it’s not murder?”

Snaith shook his head. “That’s the damnable thing. How are we going to explain this to high authority?”

“But it must be murder,” Kent went on.

Carson shook his head. “Quite impossible. The house was securely locked for the night. As I said on the phone, we had to get the key from the housekeeper. We made extensive searches from top to bottom of the mill. No one had been here apart from Roberts.”

“But the water,” Kent went on desperately. “Perhaps the mill wheel...”

One of the plain-clothes men stepped forward. “We had a frogman under there, sir. That wheel has been inoperable for at least thirty years. It is secured by steel bolts and great chains.”

Kent persisted in his questions though he knew he was being ridiculous. He turned back to Carson. “Could something like a shark have escaped from an aquarium and come down the stream?”

The Inspector would have laughed had the situation not been so macabre and horrific in its implications. “Quite impossible. Even if you were correct, nothing large enough to have inflicted such terrible injuries. There are massive iron grilles each side of the mill. They go right down to the bed of the stream. The steel has no rust and the grilles would merely let small fish get through. The water’s only about eight or ten feet deep anyway.” He resumed his brisk manner. “You chaps carry on. We’ll try to sort out all this mess later. Mr Kent has had a shock and it’s necessary to get him back to normal surroundings.”

A dazed Kent was led gently upstairs and into the familiar study where he took another tumbler of whisky with as little effect as though it had been water. His sane, everyday world had collapsed about him. He was seized by a sudden fit of trembling and almost fell into the leather chair to which Carson led him.

He was not to know at that stage of Roberts’ obscene diary entries hidden in a recess of the desk or of the vile painting of some loathsome thing under the sheeted canvas in the studio.

And thereafter he could never bear the sound of running water.