The Journal of Augustus James de Lacey St. Clair, Esq.
Where to begin? How does one chronicle the events which overturn one's outlook on the world?
I will begin with the before, the basic facts. My name is Augustus James de Lacey St. Clair (my surname is pronounced Sinclair). My old pal Jimmy Threepwood and the other fellows at Magdalen College (it's pronounced maudlin college), Cambridge all called me "Gussie". I much prefer Gus; fortunately, my travels have allowed me to leave Gussie behind.
When pater died, four years ago, I decided to travel. Thanks to the old man's sound investments, may he rest in peace, I have the finances to indulge my whims. From Paris I travelled to Geneva, Nice, Monaco, Corsica, Rome, Florence, and Venice. I was in Venice, painting, for almost a year, Unfortunately, the brother of my muse, Alessandra, made an offer I had to refuse.
I was heading home, to England, but at Le Havre I changed my mind. I arrived hours before the SS France was due to depart for New York and took passage aboard that grand vessel. After a week in New York City, I realised that the place was not for me. Taking the train north, I header for the states they call New England, attracted by the many British names. After arriving in a place named Bangor, Maine, I travelled south down the Eastern Seaboard with its magnificent inlets and capes. There is something about that seemingly constant yet ever changing border where sea and land battle that I have always found fascinating. The light of my first dawn in Belfast, Maine was, I remember, beautiful.
On April 16th, 1926, I was aboard the SS Essex County heading for Rockport, the next stop on my tour. (Gloucester, Essex, Ipswich – more familiar place names in such unfamiliar places.) I'd been assured Rockport was a pretty enough place, despite the presence of a quarry. I had been steadily working my way down from Bangor, heading to Martha's Vineyard, sketching and painting as I travelled. Despite my wandering, I was yet to find a location which stimulated my muse.
The Essex County was a mixed cargo and passenger vessel. There were seven passengers aboard, two were women. One, in her twenties, was fair of face and hair. The other, a dark-haired oriental woman, was impossible for me to age, though she certainly was not elderly. Of the men, apart from myself, only one wore a suit. His slicked down hair and suit of moderate quality seemed to indicate that, although not a gentleman, he was not of the lower classes. I assumed him to be a junior clerk, or some such.
The three other men were decidedly rough-looking types. All seemed to be fishermen, or sailors. One, a dark-haired burly and tattooed man of about my age, couldn't take his covetous eyes from the fair-haired girl. The second was a mere child. Sandy-haired and wiry, it seemed to me he was yet to reach twenty; he was in awe of the burly tattooed man. Although the third man's clothing seemed to indicate the same trade, the tattooed man and his sandy haired associate avoided the other passenger, as did the ship's crew.
This final passenger looked older than the rest of us, and he was singularly unprepossessing. He appeared to be suffering from ichthyosis. His oddly bulging eyes, combined with that unpleasant-looking skin condition, made the poor fellow appear unnaturally fish-like.
As we steamed southward along the coast, I attempted to strike up a conversation with those of my fellow passengers who seemed closest to my social status.
The besuited young man was polite enough, though his monosyllabic responses indicated an unwillingness to engage. He seemed strangely suspicious of his fellow passengers and the crew. He warily watched everything and everyone.
The attractive young blonde woman smiled and shook her head as she, very politely, refused to allow me to sketch her. She immediately moved to the rear of the vessel. Keeping away from the rest of us, she assessed ocean and shoreline with interest. She had almost an artist's eye.
The oriental woman was only a little over five feet in height. Black-haired, brown-eyed and exotic, she told me she had been born in China. Unlike the blonde she was happy to talk to me. Her English was far from perfect, but it was good enough and her accent was charming.
"Augustus St. Clair, madam." After some small talk about the coastline, I introduced myself. "Call me Gus, please. I assume that, like myself, you are a visitor to these shores."
"Huang Mei Ling," she indicated herself. "Many people here find my name difficult to pronounce, so I use May Wang. I deal in antiques. You say you are a visitor, too. Are you, perhaps, an Englishman?"
I nodded. "I am, and an aspiring artist. I wonder, Miss Huang," I tried to repeat what I believed was her family name exactly as she had pronounced it, "if you would allow me to sketch you."
She arched a blackly pencilled eyebrow and laughed. "Mr. St. Clair, those words would have been much more flattering had they not been first used when you approached the fair girl." She indicated the blonde, who still gazed out over the ocean.
"I usually paint landscapes, not portraits." I replied. "Sometimes the landscape that first catches the eye is not, in fact, the most interesting. Appreciation is not always instant; the subtleties of beauty require slow and careful study."
Miss Huang laughed again and graciously acquiesced to my request. She sat, I sketched, and we talked. Mostly, we talked about me, though we briefly discussed our fellow passengers. The blonde young woman was, Miss Huang believed, a "scholar of the sea". She had asked a young crewman, and that's what she had been told. As for the man, "A policeman, I hope," she told me.
"You hope?" I asked, startled.
"You spoke with truth. You do not see people the way you see landscapes, do you, Mr St. Clair?" she said. "He carries a revolver under his left arm. If he is not a policeman…"
I stared across at the man. He seemed to sense my gaze. Miss Huang hissed at me. After that, I often felt his eyes on me. Miss Huang was a fascinating conversationalist. I knew nothing of Canton, or the South China Sea, but her words painted an exciting picture of her homeland. After we had watched the sun set, the wind began to pick up. When darkness fell, I escorted Miss Huang to her cabin then returned to my own to wait for the call to our evening meal.
If only I had known!
Monday, April 12th, 1926, 8:15 p.m. That is when my world changed.
Later, I was told that the Beacon Island lighthouse, off the shore of Folly Point, Massachusetts, went out at a little after eight. With that guiding light gone, the rocky waters we were traversing became extremely dangerous. Mere minutes later, at 8:15 p.m., the deck under my feet, and subsequently my entire world, tilted alarmingly. Steel hull met unforgiving rock. The S.S. Essex County squealed like a dying pig and pitched me to the floor. An alarm sounded, and I struggled and stumbled across the sloping floor to the rear deck.
There, I watched in horror as cables snapped, and one crewman was crushed under collapsing crates. The poor man's screams of agony lasted only seconds. Ahead of me, the sandy haired lad slipped and stumbled as a wave took his feet from beneath him. He slid down the deck and plunged into the sea. The burly, tattooed sailor turned and struck the older fisherman, as though he was in some way responsible for the tragedy. As I watched, he pushed the older man back against the rail, knocking him overboard.
The old man, whose skin seemed even more scaly in the dim light of the ship's lanterns, grabbed his assailant. I thought he was trying to save himself, but instead he pulled the tattooed man with him. In that instant seemed there was a look of triumph in the old man's weirdly bulging eyes.
Alongside me, Miss Huang screamed. A crewman appeared. "Lifeboat! This way!" he yelled. Miss Huang and I followed his beckoning arm. We found ourselves being bundled into a tiny rowboat with the other two passengers. Two grim-looking crewmen placed me next to the other man in the centre of the tiny rowboat, and handed each of us an oar. The ladies, they sat at front and back. As they dropped us into the water the older crewman, grizzled and grey-bearded, yelled, "Best aim for Beacon Island, yonder, I doubt you'll make the mainland. Storm's coming. Make haste. Godspeed!" With that, we were shoved off into the darkly churning waters. Our only guide was the tiny light shining dimly at the base of the lighthouse's towering silhouette.
I struggled to get the oar in place.
"Move!" the blonde woman ordered from her seat at the rear.
"I beg your pardon, dear lady?"
"Ever rowed a boat before?" she asked.
"I have punted on the River Cam," I began, "and in Venice…'
"I've rowed these waters for more than a year!" Forcefully taking the oar from me, she hauled me from my bench.
"I…" my protests were for naught, she was an extremely determined young woman, and she had correctly placed the oar before I'd managed to regain my balance on the bobbing and pitching boat.
"I know what I'm doing! You don't, Mr. Artist!" she spoke forcefully. "You, and your model, you can help by keeping that light in sight." She turned to the startled young man at her side. "Pull, man, pull!"
At that moment the head of the tattooed man appeared amidst the waves. He was no more than ten yards away, but before I could shout out his location, a scaly-looking arm reached up and pulled him back under. I exchanged a horrified glance with Miss Huang, convinced that she, too, had seen the man. The look in Miss Huang's eyes urged me to silence, so I concentrated on seeking out the faint light on the island.
"We're heading right of the light, Miss, I said.
"Starboard!" she said angrily. Seeing my startled expression she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. "Sorry, I'm a little frightened. I… am… Edith… Jackson… Marine… Biologist… Arkham…" She timed her words with her strokes.
"We meet under interesting circumstances, Miss Jackson," I told her. "Gus St. Clair of Colchester, England. Now, we've turned too far. Head a little to the ri… to starboard, now."
"I am Huang Mei Ling, from China. I deal in antiques. Mr St. Clair is an artist," Miss Huang spoke forcefully, almost demanding an introduction from the fourth occupant of our little craft.
Miss Huang was behind him. He looked at me, and then at Miss Jackson before speaking. "Special Agent Jeffrey Stevens, Bureau of Investigation," he admitted his identity rather reluctantly. There was a triumphant look in Miss Huang's eyes, until a huge wave crashed over the edge of the boat soaking us all.
"We should concentrate on getting ashore," Miss Jackson said, "and bail, Mr St. Clair, for God's sake bail." She indicated the wooden scoop the floor of the boat. It was attached to the vessel by a long cord. Picking it up, I hastily began removing the water lapping around our feet.
For five, perhaps ten, minutes I bailed, Miss Jackson and Mr Stevens rowed, and Miss Huang yelled instructions, trying to keep us on course for the island. Suddenly, there was a thump and the timbers of our little rowboat creaked alarmingly.
"Rocks?" Miss Huang asked. We all looked anxiously down into the churning dark waters.
"Metal!" Miss Jackson and I spoke in unison. "A shipwreck?" I suggested.
"None recent," Miss Jackson told me.
"When indeed? But that doesn't matter. We need to get off it, right now. Unless you want to swim ashore!" Agent Stevens spoke urgently. The boat lurched sideways and our tiny vessel's timbers groaned as they scraped across metal. He and Miss Jackson assessed the sea, exchanged a glance, and he yelled, "Hard port, now!" I have no idea how they did it but, working together, they appeared to spin the boat off the metal of the wreck.
Minutes later, we made it to the small wooden jetty. Our arrival was not quiet, we hit the jetty with a crack and the boat lurched alarmingly. The second we reached the timber pier, Agent Stevens jumped onto it. He'd grabbed the rope tied to the front of the vessel and despite falling heavily, he somehow still held it tightly. As the boat rocked, Miss Jackson followed hastily. She slipped, and fell across Stevens. Still, he did not let go of the rope.
My desire to disembark was almost overwhelming, but I remembered my manners and allowed Miss Huang to be the next to make the leap to land and, what at that instant, we thought would be safety. She stepped gracefully onto the jetty, making her hasty disembarkation look easy. As I followed her, the boat lurched. I, too, fell flat on my face.
"Help me tie up," Stevens yelled. Miss Jackson had regained her feet. I took the rope from him, and he attempted to make our boat fast.
"Where is our ship?" Miss Huang asked as, cold and wet, we stumbled from the jetty. We looked out to sea but could see no sign of the unfortunate vessel or of any other lifeboats. We were on land, and I was grateful, but somewhere, out on the dark seas, were the crew of S. S. Essex County.
"Thank you," I said to the rowers.
"We all played our part," Miss Jackson replied gracefully.
Far out to sea lightning flashed, momentarily illuminating the lighthouse. The moon was new, so there was almost no other light. Ahead, I believed, was shelter, warmth, and a chance to raise the alarm.
When we stepped off the jetty and onto dry land, Agent Stevens looked me up and down. "Take the rear," he said. It was not, quite, an order. I did not object as I could see the sense in his words. The jetty ended in a narrow dirt path, and we would perforce be approaching the lighthouse in single file. It made sense to keep the ladies between us. Stevens took the lead, Miss Jackson followed, then Miss Huang. Cold and wet, we made our way up the narrow path in single file, heading toward the faint light we'd seen from the sea. As we moved toward the building, a noise became discernible over the wind and rain. Stevens stopped and cocked his head to one side. We all listened.
"It's an electrical generator," Miss Jackson announced.
"So, there is power," Stevens observed.
"Then, why is the lighthouse beacon out?" I asked.
"We can ask the lighthouse keepers," Miss Huang sounded hopeful.
A short distance ahead the path split. One path led straight along the side of the lighthouse cottage, the other turned right toward a door leading into directly into the building. That door was slightly ajar, and a faint glow illuminated the path. On either side of the door was a window; thin curtains were drawn over both, but a warm, and very welcome, light shone through the window on the left.
"What on earth?" Stevens stopped and peered down at the ground. We huddled around him as he pointed out the small, muddy, animal-like footprints in front of the main cottage door. Beneath them were distinct boot prints, only partially obscured by the weird overlaying track marks.
"Webbed feet? A duck?" I asked.
"Too big for a duck," Miss Jackson said.
Not goose, nor gull, neither," Miss Huang observed, shivering. "Very unusual."
Both she and Miss Jackson had crouched down to examine the footprints. Behind us, the ocean grew rougher. Waves crashed and the storm the sailors had warned of arrived. The rain pattered out its warning of an oncoming torrent. The strange footprints began to be washed away.
"Let's get inside, out of the rain," I said.
"We should follow these footprints before they're gone," Miss Jackson said. There was excitement in her eyes. I sighed.
"No point in us all getting wet," Stevens said. "St. Clair, you take Miss Ling inside. I'll accompany Miss Jackson."
"Huang, is my family name," Miss Huang told him.
"Miss Wang," he nodded an acknowledgement. Miss Huang gave me a wry smile.
As Stevens and Miss Jackson moved down the side of the cottage. I stepped past Miss Huang up to the door to the cottage, and pushed it open.
"Hello!" I called. I was greeted by silence. Deciding that safety took precedence over courtesy, I led the way into the empty and unlit corridor. The only light in the place was the sliver showing through a partially open door on the left side of the corridor. Moving forward, I pushed that door open, too. Light spilled out into the corridor. In the dim light I noticed three coat hooks by the external door, a well-worn oilskin hung from one of them. Two pairs of galoshes stood in a shallow tray just beneath the coat hooks; there was space for a third pair, but a pair of indoor shoes sat beside the tray. Two oil lanterns hung from hooks next to the oilskin; a third, empty hook, suggested one lamp was missing.
"Hello!" I called again. Again, there was no response.
"Someone has gone outside," I observed. "I wonder where the others are."
I cautiously entered the lit room. It was empty, and appeared to be a lounge, or study. There were three armchairs in the centre of the room, and a second door on the wall to my right. To my left was a table. On it were a pile of books, a pipe and a pouch of tobacco, a pair of binoculars, a sketchbook, pencils, watercolour paints, paintbrushes, and paper. A roll-top writing desk stood close to the other door. Both had a wooden chair next to them. The chair by the writing desk lay on the floor, it seemed to me that its occupant had hastily stood, knocking over the chair in the process.
"It appears that someone left with hurry," Miss Huang's words mirrored my own thoughts as she followed me into the room. "Binoculars! They may be useful." Reaching across, she took them and threw the strap over her head.
My gaze had been drawn to the stack of watercolour paintings. Next to them, lay a single painting. From the wrinkles in the damp paper, it seemed it had only recently been completed. A disquieting piece, it showed a dark shadow with strangely inhuman wide eyes leering through a glass pane. It was, I realised, the window of the room where I stood. I'm sorry to admit that I fainted.
When I came round, Miss Huang was kneeling at my side. "Disconcerting, isn't it?" she asked. She was picking the painting from the floor and examining it herself. I shuddered.
"Apologies, dear lady," I said, embarrassed. Steeling myself, I took another look at it, "Very disconcerting. It looks almost as if it was drawn from life. As if some strange creature were staring in through that window." The nervous laugh that accompanied my observation was pitched rather higher than I'd have liked. Miss Huang's look of sympathy made me feel even less adequate.
"Look at the eyes," Miss Huang said. "They are bulging and appear to be at the side of its head, like a fish."
Attempting to pull myself together, I flipped through the other watercolour paintings neatly stacked on the table. One immediately drew my attention. It featured a thicket, presumably on the island as the lighthouse and one or two other small buildings can be seen the background. In the darkness of the path leading into the thicket was the silhouette of a man. Unlike the first painting, this one was dated: February 14th, 1926. There was a corresponding rough sketch with the previous day's date in the sketchbook.
The lighthouse sketch was competent, yet ordinary. I looked back at the more recent picture. The image of the face at the window was decidedly disturbing. I discussed this difference with Miss Huang. Something about the way she as looking at the older images made me wonder if she knew the identity of the artist. I discussed the talents of the artist, but she gave nothing away.
"I don't like the look of this, Miss Huang," I shivered. "Perhaps it's standing on webbed feet!" The notion hit me like a thunderbolt. "We should warn the others!"