It began innocently enough that cold November day in 1931, and the six months that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that fateful night.

     That morning's post had brought a telegram to my home in Barnstead.  It was from an old friend, a fellow historian named Harry James.  He had taken up residence in the small town of Portsmouth, fifty miles up the Maine coast from my home.

     Local tradition contained eerie tales of a sea-dwelling race that had terrorized the local populace during the town's settlement in the early part of the seventeenth century and he had been determined to uncover the factual basis behind them.

     His letters had come rather steadily for the first several months, and had contained an outpouring of his latest endeavors, since it was a favorite topic between us.

     Then something had occurred which caused a change in him.  His letters, now few and far between, had been full of incoherent ramblings, nonsense built upon nonsense, claims that the legends might not be far from the truth. 

     I proposed to make the journey to see him, fearing for his mental state, but he vehemently protested the idea, claiming my presence would interfere with his work.  A month passed without word, until suddenly that morning the telegram arrived.  It was brief, simply saying he was about to uncover the end to his research and asking if something unforeseen happened to him that I take care of his worldly affairs.

     I believed he'd had a nervous breakdown and in such a condition I feared he might unknowingly hurt himself.  Packing my valise quickly, I lost no time in boarding the train.

     The day was overcast, a thick layer of dark clouds blocking out the warmth of the sun.  A chill wind blew, cold enough to freeze the marrow in my bones and make my teeth rattle.  I disembarked at the Portsmouth station, and wandered inside, glad to be out of the cold again.  An aged porter stood behind the ticket counter and he looked at me oddly when I asked for directions to the James place, but he gave them readily enough.  As I walked away from the window, I heard him mutter a Heaven Bless under his breath and the shade on the window was swiftly drawn, indicating the counter had closed for the day, despite the fact that it was only half past three in the afternoon.  Pondering over his last remark, I stood outside the station and tried to hire a cab to take me to his room.  On my mentioning the destination, however, each driver instructed me to get out of the car.  They wouldn't be going to the James place, and if I wanted to I could walk myself. 

     I did that.  It took nearly an hour, his home being one of the old sea-captain's mansions that stood high on the cliffs on the other side of town, overlooking the sea.

     From a distance it seemed friendly enough, but as I grew closer I felt a strangeness seeping into my being, an almost instinctual dislike for  the home that loomed before me. 

     It was of the old colonial type, with a sagging porch adorning its front.  The white paint was chipped, cracked, victim to the years of warfare with the harsh open air. 

     There was no sign of life from within, and as I mounted the creaking steps I discovered that the door was standing ajar, blowing to and fro in the gentle breeze that came from the ocean behind me.

     I stepped forward, calling my friend's name aloud, in vain.  There was no answer from within.

     Curious, I crossed the porch and reached out to the door.  Repeating my cry, I moved inside and stood still. 

     No sound reached my ears, no voice answered my cries.  It was like the earth had swallowed up everyone in the immediate vicinity.  A sudden chill crept up my spine.  My first thoughts were for Harry's safety and I ran through the house, searching each room quickly, fearful that his mental condition had caused him to injure himself.  It soon became evident that he wasn't there, although the state of the kitchen showed it had been occupied within the last forty-eight hours.  Maybe he had gone away for the weekend, but when I left the house and wandered around back to the garage where I knew he kept his car, I found it there, cold and empty.  I glanced around, hoping to see some sign of another visitor with whom he might have gone, but that too proved fruitless.  Then I remembered that he always kept a journal of his daily events, and if he had planned a trip, it would be contained therein.  I ran back into the house, headed for the room I had noticed next to his bedroom, obviously a study.

     The walls were lined with shelves crammed with books, many of them rare editions often unknown to the general literate public, vast tomes of erudite lore.  Another time I might have paused in mid-stride, content to stay as long as possible, browsing through the various works, but that day I ignored them and strode immediately over to the large oak desk that stood by the window.  I found the drawers locked; so, obtaining a knife from one of the drawers in the kitchen, I returned at once to the study and used its blade to pop the flimsy lock. 

     In the top drawer of the desk I found his journal.

     It was a small book bound in rich leather, obviously a treasure to its owner.  Its pages were covered with a small, almost illegible scrawl which I immediately recognized as that belonging to my friend.  I sank into the chair that stood behind me and turned to the last several pages of the book, hoping to find some clue to his present whereabouts.

     I was quickly engrossed in what he had recorded there. 

     It was a tale of a strange race of sea-dwelling creatures, man-shaped, yet possessing hideous features, who occasionally foraged about the town on the nights when the moon was down and the thick sea fogs rolled off the ocean, enveloping the town in its grey grasp.  It stated that the inhabitants of the town at first refused to talk about the legends, brushing them off as supernatural rubbish, but he had persisted.  At last his doggedness was rewarded when an old crone had told him of the existence of a secret passage within the very home he was currently renting.  It seemed the passage led to an underground tunnel which ended at the sea's edge, on a hidden beach below the cliffs. 

     Then I came to the last entry, dated November thirteenth, two days earlier.

     “I have decided to investigate the tunnel,” it read.  “Weather reports indicate a heavy fogbank rolling in from the east tonight and now seems like a better time than any other.  I must remember to post a telegram to Wise before doing so.  Several of the townsfolk have warned me to remain indoors, so I told no one else about my plan.  I fear they might have readily incarcerated me if they had known.  I must go.  I must discover the truth.  I have never been closer to the answers to so many riddles before.  May God watch over me!”

     There it ended. 

     I noticed the sun had set, and I reached up and flipped on the light that stood on the desk.  Its glow, though weak, was reassuring after what I had read.  Had he really gone?  What had he found?  What had happened to him?  Maybe then my mind had already been made up.  To this day I'm still not sure, but it seems I wandered around his house for several hours before finding myself back in the garage around eleven that evening.  A pile of torches stood next to his car, and I took up several, placing a few more into a small bag I had found in one of the closets.

     The tunnel was supposedly located in the basement.  Arming myself with a sharp knife and a box of matches from the kitchen, I descended into the cellar.

     There was no light switch, so I quickly struck a match.  As its small flame flared, I touched it to one of the torches.  It instantly ignited.  I dropped the match to the floor and looked around.  It was of old-fashioned construction, the floor consisting of nothing more than hard-packed dirt, and the walls being made of layered concrete.

     The journal had indicated that the tunnel could be found in the far left corner.

     Evidence of recent digging was obvious as I approached the designated area, and I found a hole where someone had uncovered a large stone slab.  A crowbar was still wedged under one edge.

     Standing the torch up in the dirt, I picked up a shovel lying nearby and, placing it beside the crowbar, I leaned my weight on it, causing the slab to rise.  With a few minutes of work, I had managed to slide it far enough to the side to reveal a space large enough for him to pass through.

     Dropping the shovel and retrieving the torch, I knelt alongside the hole and peered downward, using the torch to illuminate the area. 

     What I saw caused me to gasp, despite the fact that it was just what I was looking for.  A flight of stone steps descended down into the darkness.  A pair of muddy tracks was clearly visible, ending a few steps below the top.  I quickly surmised what must have happened.  Upon returning up the stairs, Harry must have discovered that the crowbar with which he had supported the slab had fallen, trapping him beneath the house.  I rejoiced, thinking if he hadn't already found another way out, he must still be below and was waiting to be rescued!  A man could go for a few days without food or water, and Harry had a strong constitution from excavating experience in the African deserts.  I called down into the dark depths.  My cry echoed back to me, sounding lost and forlorn as it bounced to and fro from the stone walls of the tunnel.  I listened, straining my ears for an answer, but none came.  Gathering the bag with my torches in my left hand, and holding the lit torch in my right, I cautiously began my journey downward.

     The steps were at first well cut and smooth, easily negotiable.  The air was dry and filled with fine motes of dust that swirled around me as I passed. 

     After fifteen minutes, I stopped to take a rest.  The steps continued downward deeper into the earth, farther and farther below the house.  No wonder James hadn't heard my call; he was probably too far below to have been in earshot.  I was breathing heavily, the physical exertion more than I had done in the last several seasons.  After a moment or two more, I continued.

     My watch read two a.m. when next I stopped.  The steps had become worn here.  The air was heavy with moisture and the walls and steps were covered with a peculiar slime the color of moldy bread.  It made it harder to remain upright and my descent slowed.  I knew I must be nearing the end of the tunnel, however, because a dull roaring sound reached my ears.  There was only one thing that could make that particular sound, the ocean.

     I was tired but I knew if I rested for long I wouldn't have the strength to get back on my feet.

     Four steps farther downward I lost my footing on a wet stone and tumbled forward, doing my best to protect my head from serious injury.  Several seconds later I hit the bottom with a hard smash. 

     I lay still for a few minutes, gazing about in the darkness. I had dropped the torch as I fell.  I mentally searched my body for damages.  Aside from the expected scrapes and bruises, I appeared to be no worse for wear from my unexpected means of descent.  I rose to a kneeling position and cast about on the ground around me with my hands.  I found my pack quickly enough, and hastened to light a torch.  The darkness had a strange feel to it; it seemed to have grown thicker and gained substance, as if it were a physical entity that could inflict harm.

     A few sounds reached my ears over the roar of the surf, but I couldn't decipher them.  As the torch flared, I discovered I was in a tunnel at the foot of the steps, running horizontal to their direction.  The passage to the left ended immediately behind me, so I chose the one to the right.  Climbing wearily to my feet, I began to walk down it.

     The sound of the sea rose in volume and before long I could see ahead to where the tunnel opened up into a large cavern.  If Harry was ahead, he wouldn't hear my call over the noise of the tide, so I held in the urge to yell and walked to the opening at the end of the tunnel.

     What met my eyes there I shall never forget, no matter how long my days shall be!

     Strange beings danced about a large bonfire.  While vaguely humanoid in shape and size, from where I stood I could see their faces were like nothing I had ever encountered.  From oval heads protruded large yellow pupilless eyes, situated directly over two slits which I took to be a nose.  Wide mouths gaped vertically below these, and from them issued a weird chilling noise, which I instantly took to be some kind of language.  A flap of skin moved rhythmically on either side of their necks.  It was obviously some means of breathing, resembling the gills of common fish.  Their hides were a blend of green and blue, with a wet-shiny look to them.  Their hands and feet were masses of webbing, on which they stumbled around the fire.

     A sudden scream to my left caused me to turn my attention to the far side of the cavern.  There, surrounded by several more of these creatures, was Harry James.  He was stripped to the waist and chained to the wall, next to a number of skeletons of human origin which also hung from their shackles.  Before him stood a particularly large and vile monster, hot iron held in one hand as he tormented Harry.  I winced as a scream of pain rent the air.

     I waited to see no more, just turned and ran as fast as possible back down the tunnel.  Somewhere I dropped the pack.  Reaching the stairs, I ran feverishly upward, unheeding of the wet steps, somehow maintaining my balance in that mad scramble to be away from that scene of horror.  When the torch burned out I continued upward in the darkness.  Often I collided with the walls as the stairs took unremembered turns, but eventually I reached the raised slab at the top of the staircase.  My mind had shut down during the long rush upwards, and I struggled with it to keep the memory of that hateful scene from my consciousness.

     How I managed to escape from the house and make it back to town I shall probably never know, but I awoke some time later in a hospital bed.  The doctor explained that a local fisherman had brought me here when he had found me on the dock, collapsed and unconscious.  A quick check found me to be safe for release, and without speaking of what had befallen me I boarded the next train.

     For several months I have lived with the memory of that ill-starred expedition, and not a night has gone by when I have not seen Harry's anguished face or heard the harsh sound of the eerie language of the beasts that had imprisoned him in my sleep.  It has now become too much for me.  I fear for my  very sanity! 

     There is only one thing to be done.  I must return to that accursed house In Portsmouth and seal off that hateful passage, damning those foul beasts to remain locked underground for all time.

     I leave in the morning.

     Edward Wise—13 April 1932. Found by inspector Montgomery Bishop of the Barnstead police among Wise's possessions after report of his disappearance.

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