Block Island Ferry

Inspired by H.P. Lovecraft

The old Rathbone House huddled vacant on a precariously thin strip of tidal flat between Steven’s Cove and Cooneymus Swamp. Built as the homestead of a founding Block Island family, for decades it stood as boarding house for itinerate fishermen, the down-on-their-luck, and various lost souls. A kitchen fire in 1988 left a portion of the first floor ruined leaving the building abandoned. Over the years, it slowly fell into disrepair as weeds and dogwoods overtook the property.

So, it came as a surprise to myself and my neighbors when a rotted and rusted passenger van appeared in the cracked driveway of the Rathbone House one gray day in early September. No one had any idea that the property was for sale yet alone that a new owner had purchased the run-down hovel. We never saw a soul enter the property and the vehicle was unknown to all of us. The only clue to the stranger’s identity were the expired Massachusetts plates on the windowless van.

The following day I made my way over to Old Harbor to inquire about the island’s new visitor. A couple of elderly regulars outside the Odd Fellows Café had heard loud rumbling and grinding gears as the van made its way off the early afternoon ferry in a haze of exhaust. I asked if they got a look at the driver, but the only thing they remembered was a thin figure with a knit cap pulled low over their head.

I wandered inside for my morning cup of coffee and made my way over to Town Hall. An acquaintance of mine works as a part-time administrator and was happy to get a brief reprieve from some especially tedious paperwork. After some general pleasantries, I casually brought up my mysterious new neighbor. For those who grew up on the island, The Rathbone House has always been an enthusiastic talking point, if nothing more than to comment on it’s blight on the otherwise beautiful visage of the island. She was eager to talk about it under the condition that I kept our conversation a secret.

The new owner was a man named Walter Marsh. Marsh was from old Massachusetts stock in the North Shore. Despite his choice in automobile, he came from money. His family had originally made its fortune in the 1800s by importing goods from the South Pacific. By the turn of the 20^th century, they pivoted their business by constructing a gold refinery in their home port. The Marshes were a major influence on their small hometown of Innsmouth.

Bizarrely, nobody on the island had ever met Walter Marsh in person. He would only communicate with the real estate agent and town through his lawyer. He paid handsomely for the Rathbone property, however, regardless of its deplorable state, and seemed eager to move in as soon as possible.

Thanking her and saying my goodbyes, I drove back to my home. As I passed by the Rathbone House, I caught a glimpse of a faint silhouette in one of the front windows. I couldn’t say why but I suddenly felt a chill down to my bones and was filled with unease. It was a strange sensation that I would learn to know all too well.

I had finally laid eyes upon Walter Marsh.

I was wandering the aisles of Block Island Grocery when I was hit with the awful stench of rotting fish. At first, I thought a freezer case had broken down and the food had spoiled, but the odor seemed to be getting stronger as I approached a figure towards the end of the row with his back to me. As I got closer, my eyes practically watering, the man turned towards me.

The sight of this man brought up an almost primordial revulsion in me. His greasy, grey-ish-blue skin did not have a single hair on his cheek or scalp. His bulging, wide-set, watery eyes sat above a flat nose which itself rested upon his unusually wide, thick-lipped mouth. His unusually small ears, receding forehead, and chin gave his head an unnaturally narrow appearance and, despite his thin frame, he had thick, deep creases on the sides of his neck giving him an appearance of being older than he was.

Whether it was his appearance or the ungodly stench of rot, I found myself stuck to the spot staring at Marsh. For mere moments, his unblinking eyes bore through me before he turned and trudged towards the checkout counter, his unusually large feet stomping with every step. Paying the cashier, he made his way out the door to the ruined van.

Strange things began to happen on the island. Nobody can say for sure when it happened, but there was a dramatic reduction in the island wildlife population as well. Squirrels and deer had not been seen in days and the usual bird song had gone silent. Even the seagulls were gone!

What was especially surprising about these unusual circumstances was the fish. The waters just off Steven’s Cove had become inundated with schools of fish. Hundreds upon hundreds of bass, bluefish, tuna, and more were observed just offshore, with more coming every day. It was a boon for local fishermen, but the sudden and growing marine life population stumped scientists.

As I wandered over to the shore, I noticed a single dinghy anchored out about a hundred yards. A thin figure stood at the bow holding a camping lantern and looking down towards the water. The profile was unmistakable. The man on that boat was Walter Marsh.

From what I could hear from that distance, he seemed to be chanting to himself in an unfamiliar language. He stood stock still, as though in a trance, his terrible eyes reflecting the lamp light. The only movements were his lips and the rocking boat.

Suddenly, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned in time to see a dark figure slipping back into the water just yards from where I stood. It was the size of a full-grown man, but the proportions were all wrong. It wore no clothing, and the dim moonlight reflected off its slimy, black skin.

I thought it was my imagination or a trick of the light, but when I turned my attention back to Marsh, I noticed several unusual objects bobbing in the water. Focusing my eyes, I saw they were the shapes of hairless, black, shining heads, their green, shining eyes all staring at me.

I covered my mouth to stifle my cry and quickly made my way back to my house, making sure every door and window was bolted shut. I spent that sleepless night huddled in the corner of my bedroom, holding a baseball bat for protection.

October came and the mood on Block Island was somber. The summer visitors had thinned out, quieting Old Harbor. There were no signs of the missing pets, and most people expected the worst. Normally the blame would have been put on a wild predator, but not a single predator, let alone prey, had been seen on the island in almost a month.

The islanders, me included, drifted around in a dazed state. Half of us thought we had seen those strange creatures in the night, and the other half thought we were crazy. New Shoreham’s small police force was stretched thin with panicked calls throughout the night.

It felt like a tipping point like we were at the precipice and were about to fall off into the abyss. Storm clouds rolled in casting a dark shadow over Block Island. But we waited, waited for whatever horrible inevitability fate had in store for us.

All the lights on the island have gone out. The lines on all the smaller ships have been torn to pieces and have been dragged out by the tide. We can’t see any ships on the horizon and the next Block Island Ferry won’t be coming until tomorrow morning.

Old Harbor is deathly quiet; even the ticking of our clocks has gone silent. We can no longer hear the waves lapping against the shore only the horrendous splashing from the thousands of black, slimy shapes churning the seas just offshore. The only noise on the island is the guttural croaking, baying, and barking emanating across the island from the bowels of the Rathbone House.

I’ve hidden myself away in my basement, forced to listen to those horrible calls for the last few hours. I feel as though my mind is slipping away. I pray that it is only a trick of the mind, but I think I’m beginning to hear words in that grotesque cacophony. It is a language I have heard only once on that fateful night I observed Walter Marsh in his boat.

Iä-R’lyeh! Cthulhu fbtagn! Iä!
Iä-R’lyeh! Cthulhu fbtagn! Iä!
Iä-R’lyeh! Cthulhu fbtagn! Iä!