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FRANK SEARIGHT'S
FOLKS
OF INNSMOUTH
Winner of the 1997
Mythos Web On-Line Awards
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When Alan Hasrad revealed to me some
of the outrageous and frightful things he had discovered during a
recent visit to Innsmouth, that infamous half-legendary seaport
town squatting like a bloated octopus along the
Massachusetts’ seacoast, I indicated my resolute desire to
write about them in the most truthful and sincere manner
possible.
"Please don’t, Frank,"
was Alan’s immediate and surprising response. "There
are some things which should be handled with a light touch
and this, I believe, is one of them. Brush the people that I
interviewed with strokes of humor, regarding them as caricatures
of the real folks, and try to paint them as whimsically and
colorfully as you can."
He paused while I nodded in
agreement, then continued, "In that way, you’ll not be
responsible for introducing into the minds of people the
inevitable fears with which they would be unable to contend. Need
I remind you that ignorance, on certain subjects, is bliss?"
It should not be considered by the
preceding that Alan is easily shocked or frightened. Quite the
contrary. As the direct lineal descendent of Abdul Alhazred, the
mad poet of Sanna who trod the desert sands of Arabia in the
sixth century, he has occasionally found himself in perilous
conflict with cosmic forces that seek to control the people and
environs of earth. If anything, Alan is one of the most
courageous and knowledgeable people dealing with this subject now
alive.
The folks of Innsmouth are those
people you may have read about in the classic tale, The Shadow
Over Innsmouth, written by the late, enormously talented
Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Also included are others who I suspect
probably lived in that ancient seaport town. Thirty-six of these
character sketches officially comprise the Folks of Innsmouth,
a tribute to Lovecraft who also created the poetic cycle of
thirty-six Fungi from Yuggoth. Also included in this
publication are another fourteen sketches---just because they
were so much fun to write.
Alan wrote the first character sketch
which, not coincidentally, was about himself, just to give me an
idea as to how these Innsmouth people might best be presented to
the public. It read:
FOLKS OF INNSMOUTH
Alan Hasrad - Reporter
As journalist, I toil to get
the facts
About important stories that we choose
To first investigate then finally print
In pages of the Arkham Daily News.
Not long ago I thought it might be fun
To go to ancient Innsmouth, there to walk
And look about, and find some Innsmouth folks
Who’d meet with me and have a private talk.
My chats with residents took quite some time,
And from them I was most surprised to learn
Enough about that town of dread and fear
To make me vow I never would return.
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Following Alan’s example I
continued with his style and lyrical approach, completing
forty-nine more of the sketches. Following are nine of them, all
of which have appeared on different internet web sites in the
past.
FOLKS OF INNSMOUTH
Bobby’s Cousin Lawrence
You think I’m crazy, but
I’m really not.
My cousin, Robert Olmstead, he should know.
He rescued me from Canton’s madhouse where
They held me and refused to let me go.
It’s true I’ve changed a lot and now my looks
Are more repellant, lacking human frills.
The webbing ‘tween my fingers is complete,
And on my neck are palpitating gills.
The froggy aspect of my face is worse;
The scales I have you’d probably think obscene.
My bulging eyes, now fit for water life,
Peer over wrinkled skin a slimy green.
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Fire Chief
That’s right, young man,
old Zadok was my friend,
Although he really wasn’t one of "us".
Yes, ever since I came to town I’ve known
That ancient, bushy-bearded, drunken cuss.
Lived at the poor house---couldn’t hold a job---
But hung around the station every day.
He loved to talk and spin outlandish tales
Which helped to pass the afternoons away.
One day he met some guy who came to town;
He talked a bit too much of things he knew.
I don’t know where he’s gone to; guess
he’s dead.
But we all miss his yarns here---yes, we do.
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Gardner
I pull the pesky weeds and
mow the lawn
At Mr. Marsh’s Mansion with great pride.
The huge estate, on Washington, is old;
The grounds, so neatly groomed, are deep and wide.
He has me plant the flowers in the spring,
And prune the trees and hedges in the fall.
I tend the garden vegetables he eats
And trim the vines that crawl along the wall.
At first, I thought the boss lived by himself;
And then I heard those croaking sounds inside.
From empty attic rooms and cellar vaults
Came proof that he had something there to hide!
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Golf Pro
I daily tend the greens at
Innsmouth’s course,
Then work the pro-shop, mostly one to five.
If time, I’ll show a duffer how to putt
Or help him straighten out his crooked drive.
The natives with their awkward fingers just
Can’t grip, as others do, the irons right.
So when they swing---watch out---they often miss,
And it’s the club they’re using that takes
flight. But when they do connect, that golf ball soars
Six hundred yards, at least, above the land.
Salt marshes, tidal creeks, sedge grass, pass by
Before it stops, beyond the green, in sand!
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Hammond’s Drugstore Clerk
The bus to Innsmouth? Gets to
Market Square
At ten o’clock. It soon should be outside.
It brings the few who come to town to shop,
And picks up those with sixty cents to ride.
But Innsmouth isn’t really quite the place
For chaps like you to visit for a lark.
It might not hurt to spend an hour there,
But, friend, I wouldn’t linger after dark!
I see the folks who loiter near the curb
Are drifting now a short ways down the street,
Which means the bus is near; its passengers
Are folks the people here care not to meet!
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Lifeguard
Hi! I’m the lifeguard
here at Innsmouth beach!
Sure. Come in for a dip. The water’s brisk.
Oh, no, I wouldn’t try to make the swim
Way out to Devil Reef---ain't worth the risk.
More than a mile out there, it is. It’s known
That sometimes careless swimmers disappear
Trying to reach that blasted rock. Why just
The other day we lost someone, I hear.
And even near the shore it ain't quite safe;
You must be careful, sir, of things that bite.
When swimming in our harbor, be on guard.
If sharks don’t grab you, then the Deep-Ones might!
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Priest of Dagon
A huge tiara rides the
sloping head
Of this strange priest who’s recognized by all
The Innsmouth residents who weekly meet
To worship fearful things at Dagon Hall.
Instead of chanting to unholy gods
On every Halloween, and May-Eve, too,
He should be preaching tenderness and love
And guide his flock in all things good and true.
But it’s too late to salvage his dark soul---
This guy who should be mold’ring in his grave.
He should have died two hundred years ago!
God knows there’s nothing human left to save.
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Stranger on the Street
You plan to stay around the
town awhile?
Well, then I guess the Gilman House is best.
But frightful things occur there late at night;
You might have problems getting proper rest.
I wouldn’t try that restaurant down the street.
Some mighty nasty lookers loiter there.
You’ll know them by their shambling, awkward gait,
And bulging eyes that gaze with froggy stare.
They seem to grow more wretched every day;
You’d think they must be taking ugly pills!
Their scabby, shriveled necks are seamed and creased
As though they might be growing fishy gills.
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Trash Collector
You sure would be surprised
at all the stuff
We pick up here while making weekly rounds.
I curse about the scales we have to haul,
And all that seaweed heaped in rotting mounds.
We trash collectors have to hold our nose
‘Cause odors here are worse than we would wish.
Why, just the other day I tipped a bin,
And out came reeking parts of crabs and fish.
These natives toss away the oddest things,
Like chewed up shoes and wallets opened wide.
But most grotesque of all, at least to me,
Are countless bones that can’t be classified.
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So...there they are---ten samples of
those ghoulish and somewhat foolish people who populate the town
of Innsmouth and hop about the internet like froggy critters.
Another forty are finished. More are available on the different
web sites and fanzines and all will eventually become available
for your reading enjoyment. While more will make a future
appearance on the internet, not all of them will, as a book is
being planned that will contain the complete run of fifty,
profusely illustrated by the talented pen of that noted
Californian artist and Lovecraftian enthusiast, Dan Ross.
Franklyn Searight
Troy, Michigan
May 1998