New Innsmouth Harbor, Maine, United States
I arrived in the town as the autumn fog began to descend from the sea, like gray hands reaching to seize the land. New Innsmouth Harbor wasn't on any map except for old maps kept in a library on the outskirts of Boston. Even the name itself sounded like a parody of an ancient fairy tale not worth believing. But the letter was real.
The letter came from my old friend, Everett Cole, a marine archaeology diver who disappeared two years ago. His handwriting was shaky, the ink smudged as if written in fear:
"If you're reading this, Jon, then I've looked too deeply. There's something under the old dock a gate... and a song. Don't come to New Innsmouth. But if you must, meet Asha Devi. She knows."
Of course, I came.
The old inn where I stayed was called The Deep Haven. Its owner, a hunched man named Captain Elias Marsh, spoke with a strange accent and blinked rarely, as if forgetting how to be human. He grinned when he heard Everett's name.
"I know him," he muttered. "That boy swam too far. The big fish like the curious ones."
The next morning, I met Asha Devi, a young woman of Indian-English descent who worked in the town's archives. She gave me a copy of Everett's journal, pages full of unknown symbols and images of ruins shaped like open eyes at the bottom of the sea. The same symbols began appearing in my dreams, pulsing like a wet heart beneath the salty water.
Then that night, I heard it the song. Inhuman, yet so beautiful, cutting. A song from the depths.
I write this as a warning. If you find this journal in any library or museum, do not follow in our footsteps. Do not come to this town.
Because they do not like the light.
And they know your name.
---