Sins of the Father Read online

  JG Faherty

  Sins of the Father

  FLAME TREE PRESS

  London & New York

  Chapter One

  Death stared at me with eyes that mirrored the mists shrouding Innsmouth’s waterfront district.

  There are no such things as demons.

  I clung to that thought as I regarded the body on the wet pavement. Despite my lack of a medical degree, I had seen enough bodies in my time, both in the morgue and while assisting my father on his rounds, to have a fair idea as to the cause of death. In the yellow glow of my lantern the all-too-familiar purple bruises on Officer Stemple’s neck stood out like tattoos.

  My lamp chose that moment to flicker. I gave it a brisk shake and dialed up the wick. The flame brightened, although not to its previous glow, penetrating mere feet before the late-night fog consumed it.

  “Come closer with that damn thing.” Officer Hofferman motioned with his free hand. I obliged, wondering how our local constables ever solved any crimes when their ranks were filled with such incompetence. Neither he nor his partner, a stout, marmot-faced fellow named Geary, had remembered to carry one of the new electric torches the police force had purchased.

  Hofferman held a cloth over his face with his other hand, as if that would do any good against the plague, while Geary scowled and did his best to examine the body without getting too close.

  Idiots. Worried about the plague, despite the fact that Stemple’s body showed none of the signs. No swelling lumps on the neck. No blackening of the fingers, toes, or lips.

  It’s people like these that cause unnecessary panic.

  I could have disputed them. As the son of a doctor – and a recent former medical student myself – my knowledge of the human condition surpassed that of the average man or copper on the street. Enough to be confident the corpse harbored no danger to us. I kept my thoughts to myself, though. Both officers were in foul moods, not just from fear of disease but because one of their own had been struck down.

  The moisture-laden air clung to clothes and skin, clammy as a fever sweat. I leaned forward between the two men and placed the light nearer to the body, while congratulating myself that my hand shook only a little.

  Not plague, no. Something much worse. Murder, plain and simple. A more frightening state of events, to be sure. Who would kill a police officer? The question brought forth a churning in my belly. Like everyone in Innsmouth, I’d heard the rumors whispered about town of late: not the ones of plague, but the darker ones.

  Demons stalking the streets. The dead disappearing from their graves. Grotesque, pale faces glimpsed in alleys or outside windows. People vanishing without a trace.

  Stories a logical man would sneer at by the light of day, even more far-fetched than the plague returning to Innsmouth after fifty years.

  In the depths of night, though, with the streets cloaked by murky vapors thick enough to hide your own hands from your face, it became all too easy to imagine monsters stalking the streets. At least for some people, the ones whose minds turned to things best left for nightmares and children’s stories. As if sun stole all common sense from the town when it set.

  The police scoffed at the stories, of course. Attributed the disappearances to unhappy spouses and drinking binges, the empty graves to vandals, the shadowy figures to drunken imaginings and womanly vapors. But they couldn’t laugh away murders.

  Believe in science, Henry, not superstition.

  I did. Only in this instance, my father’s favorite saying provided little relief. Demons and boogems might not exist, but the shadows hid plenty of real evils.

  Such as murder.

  Seven of them in the past fortnight. All with the same mottled bruising about the neck. All with their faces twisted, indicating the men died in extreme pain.

  Or encountered something terrifying in their final moments.

  How many more undiscovered, rotting away in back alleys or tossed into the sea? Any town of a certain size and quality contained dangers, men who’d as soon cut your throat as nick your wallet. But the plague years had rendered entire sections of Innsmouth desolate, turned thriving neighborhoods into havens for those of a criminal bent. Places where no sane man or woman dared tread even in daylight.

  Not in decades had death roamed so freely, a fact that had people on edge, afraid to walk the streets at night. Even in the finer sections of town, the areas considered safe from men with dark hearts and sharp knives, people voiced their concerns, and that more than anything had the council putting pressure on the police to do something.

  After the discovery of the fifth corpse, Mayor Waite had called a town meeting, where in no uncertain terms he reminded our fair citizens the plague hadn’t returned to their shores.

  “Innsmouth remains free of the dreaded disease,” he said, the council members standing solemn-faced behind him. “Our doctors assure us these men were killed not by plague but by malice. Strangled, they were. This is the work of a deranged individual and we will find him and deal with him properly.”

  Francis Bradford, the town surgeon, had backed up the mayor’s words with his own assurances, all the while belying his certainty by nervously tugging at the hem of his black frock coat.

  Their platitudes hadn’t eased troubled hearts. If anything, the gossip grew stronger and the temperament of the town grew worse each night, fueled by tales of Innsmouth’s own Jack the Ripper roaming in the fog.

  Samuel Waite is a fat blowhard, but he was right about one thing. To follow that road, the one guided by superstition rather than science, only leads to more problems. Of course, even science can go wrong.

  My father proved that beyond a doubt.

  “All right, nothing more we can do here.” Hofferman’s gruff tone broke the silence and made me jump. The two officers stepped away from the body. “Take him to the freezer. Off you go, Gilman.”

  I bit back a snide retort that would only earn me a cursing at best and a beating at worst. Despite how good a reputation I’d built as a man of science, despite how well I did my job, I’d never overcome my father’s dark legacy.

  Someday, though…someday I’ll have my degree and enough money to put this part of town behind me for good. Or perhaps leave Innsmouth altogether, if I could convince Flora to join me.

  Until then, I must suffer in silence.

  I loaded the body into my cart. By the time I hefted and shoved the uncooperative corpse over the lip, I’d worked up a sweat that turned clammy in the chill air. The body fell onto the wooden bed with a thump that made me cringe. No matter how many times I heard that sound, it still served as a dark reminder of death’s permanence, even more so than examining the cadavers at the morgue.

  After covering it with a tarp, I climbed in and spurred the horse, an elderly mare named Fudge because of her dark brown coloring.

  One day I’ll have the money for a motor carriage. And Flora and I will tool around the countryside in style, while—

  Enough with the daydreams, Henry, I berated myself. First things first. And the first thing was to get the body on ice.

  As much as I hated menial work when I should be ensconced in my medical studies, things could be worse. My position at the morgue allowed me to keep up to date with my anatomical and medical training. And despite the odors of shit and rot, it was far better than toiling in the factories or hauling fishing nets.

  Of course, of late my duties had been more dreadful than usual. I tried not to think about the body behind me, its bulging eyes and gaping mouth silently screaming No ordinary cutthroat did this to me. In a short while it would join the others, all of whom held the same expression
under grimy sheets.

  There are no such things as demons.

  For once, my father’s words held no comfort.

  Chapter Two

  Things might have turned out very differently if it hadn’t been for Flora.

  It had been two days since we’d last spoken and I was looking forward to seeing her, even more than I was to having a few ales and putting thoughts of death and murder behind me for a while.

  With Flora’s lovely features occupying my thoughts, I never noticed that I’d walked right into trouble until I was already halfway down the alley.

  Two figures, one bent menacingly over the other, blocked the sidewalk twenty feet ahead, their forms little more than shadows in the ever-present fog.

  “Hey, now!” I called out without thinking and immediately regretted it when the crouching man rose to his feet, displaying a shape much taller and wider than my own.

  The man started toward me, his features cloaked in shadows and mist. I backed up a step, lamenting my decision to take the shortcut. I’d been in a hurry to reach the pub where Flora worked and erase the chill of the day, and the morgue, from my bones.

  “Look here, I don’t want any trouble.” My hand dipped toward my jacket pocket, where my father’s old revolver offered a reassuring presence. A smart man didn’t walk this neighborhood unarmed, with its proximity to both Old Innsmouth and the waterfront.

  The figure continued its approach and I made out more details. A cape or short coat of some kind, long enough to reach his waist. Below that, everything disappeared into the thick mists that turned the rest of the world into gray soup. A bowler hat created the silhouette of a round head. The stranger kept his face down, hiding his features, but glimpses of his hands gave the impression of white gloves or extremely pale skin. One hand held something of a vaguely squarish shape.

  “Easy now, sir, I—”

  I never had a chance to finish my words. The figure rushed forward with a speed surprising for his size. I drew my gun and fired, a wobbly shot that went wide of the mark. The attacker never slowed. Cursing my lack of skill with weapons, I turned and ran, all too aware of my own poor athletic abilities.

  The slap of feet on wet pavement grew closer with each second. I resisted the urge to look back and kept my eyes ahead. The hazy yellow glow of a gas lamp appeared; I’d almost reached the corner. I tried to force more speed into my legs. If I could reach Ipswich Avenue with its lights and regular police patrols….

  Police. Call for help, you fool.

  “Help!” I shouted as loud as my struggling lungs permitted. “He—”

  A heavy weight struck my back, driving the air from my lungs. Rough concrete abraded the skin from my hands and knees as I tumbled forward. My head struck the pavement and stars filled my eyes. A shooting pain ran down my arm, leaving me numb and tingling from shoulder to fingertips.

  Before I could recover my senses, strong hands grabbed me by the jacket and turned me over. My attacker knelt above me. I raised my right arm to protect myself, my left still useless. My breath came in ragged gasps that grew worse as a foul odor rolled over me, a wave of corruption that choked away what little air my lungs managed to pull in. The figure leaned closer, giving me my first look at his face.

  Pallid skin like that of a fish’s belly. Eyes tinged a sickly yellow, with large, misshapen pupils. A stub of a nose with a ragged, pink hole in the center instead of nostrils. The mouth opened, revealing rows of sharp, triangular teeth.

  Demon! I tried again to scream but only produced a weak puff of air.

  Something cold and wet slid across my throat, soft but thicker than a rope. It tightened, cutting off the last bit of oxygen to my lungs. The mists turned red. My fingers twitched around cold metal.

  The gun. I’d forgotten about it.

  I twisted my hand around, wedged the barrel against his body and pulled the trigger.

  Just before the world disappeared, lost in the deafening roar of the gun and the yellow fire of the muzzle flash, a single whispered word reached me.

  “Henry?”

  Something struck my head and there was only darkness.

  * * *

  My return to consciousness came gradually. The fog-obscured street blended seamlessly with the featureless place where I’d been floating. The same gray cloud blanketed my brain as thoroughly as it did the rest of the world. It was only when I attempted to move that the here and now fell upon me like a wagonload of bricks. Pain stabbed my arm and shoulder, dragging a moan from my throat.

  The attack. The pistol going off.

  That face!

  My body came to life as adrenaline surged through my veins. I sat up, ignoring the protests of my muscles, and scrabbled my hands across the pavement.

  The gun. I had to find the gun!

  My fingertips touched damp metal and I clutched at it. Holding the pistol in shaking hands, I peered into the fog, my heart thudding against my ribs.

  No shadows loomed over me, no hell-spawn waited to tear my throat open.

  Wincing at the aches brought on by my movements, I pushed to my knees, cursing the perpetual shroud that lay over the town. My body twitched as a series of shivers ran through it. The side of my head hurt like the dickens. I touched it, found a soft spot the size of a half-dollar. My shoulder felt like I’d collided with a speeding carriage. The cold night air had me chilled to the bone but my jacket and trousers were barely damp, so I couldn’t have been laid out for too long. Ten minutes, perhaps. Enough time that the police should have arrived, especially after two gunshots. Even in this neighborhood. But no shouts or whistles indicated the law coming to my aid.

  Shuttered windows and empty fire escapes stared down at me from the buildings forming the alley. No lamps flickered behind curtains. No faces regarded my plight.

  A sigh escaped me. “Oh, no, don’t get involved,” I muttered to the empty panes. “Heaven forbid. Let the damn fool get eaten by some kind of monster while you lie there with your cursed pillows over your heads.”

  Still, what else could be expected this close to the waterfront district? For years, a wave of selfish apathy had been spreading deeper into the city. Gunshots? Cries for help? Best to ignore them. People who got involved in the problems of others tended to have shorter life spans. I didn’t enjoy living in the area, but the money I saved by remaining in my parents’ old two-story building more than made up for dealing with the local bludgers and thieves lurking in the shadows.

  Most of the time.

  One day I’ll have enough money saved to buy something on the other side of town. A fancy place where a man could raise a family in safety.

  In the meantime, I’d have to endure the ever-growing squalor and crime.

  And now, apparently, something much worse.

  An icy snake slithered down my back at the memory of that wicked face hovering over me. It couldn’t have been a demon. There was no such thing. No Devil, no God. No Heaven, no Hell. I’d been raised on the principles of logic and science, in a house where superstition carried the same weight as fairy tales and nursery rhymes.

  At least until my father went round the bend. And even then, in the midst of his madness, he’d insisted his blasphemies had a basis in science.

  His actions had fueled my own resolve to worship fact over fiction. What kind of god would let his people die in so many horrible ways? War, pestilence, plague.

  Murder.

  And if God didn’t exist, then by extension neither could any of the other trappings of religion. Including demons.

  I am a man of my times. A man of science. There has to be a rational explanation.

  A mask? No, not that. The flesh had moved and twisted when the man-creature opened its mouth. A deformity?

  Yes! That had to be it. Some poor sod born with the face of a monster, whose daft parents didn’t drown him in the river like th
ey should have when they got their first look at his obvious affliction. Instead, he’d grown up unable to show his hideous mug in the light of day and now he prowled the streets between sunset and sunrise, forced by circumstance into a life of crime.

  Demons. What had I been thinking? That road led toward madness, something more than a few people in town already suspected of me, thanks to my father’s horrific experiments and my own choice of employment.

  With a logical explanation in hand, my heart settled into a somewhat normal rhythm and I pushed myself to my feet. I was nothing like my father, even if I did work with corpses all day. And I didn’t encounter a demon, just a disfigured cutpurse I had the bad luck to interrupt—

  What about the other body? The one the ghoulish thief had been kneeling over in the first place.

  “Damn it all to bloody hell.” It would be my luck to have the police show up and find me with a corpse. A corpse that was still out there, hidden by the drifting miasma, another unlucky innocent waiting for the morgue.

  Or was it?

  Truth be told, I had no idea if the other fellow was dead, unconscious, or long gone.

  As much as I wanted nothing more than to return home and collapse into bed with a glass of port, I knew I had to check. There was that part of me that had to know. The poor bastard might be bleeding away at the very moment. I couldn’t ignore someone in need of help. Unlike the apathetic fools above me with their heads buried in their pillows.

  Cursing my misguided sense of responsibility and the string of bad luck that continued to grow longer by the moment, I reluctantly started back down the alley to the scene of the crime I’d stumbled onto. I’d only taken a few steps when my foot struck an unseen object and kicked it forward a few inches.

  I bent and retrieved what turned out to be a thick book, heavy as a block of wood. In the dark, I couldn’t make out a title. I ran my hand across the leather binding and almost dropped the tome when my fingers jerked back of their own accord. The cover had a distinctly oily feel that aroused a sense of repulsion so strong I experienced a deep desire to toss the thing as far away as possible. Curiosity won out, though, and I gripped it tighter, suppressing a shudder that ran down from my shoulders to my belly.