Published by arrangement with the Delta Green Partnership. The intellectual property known as Delta Green is a trademark and copyright owned by the Delta Green Partnership, who has licensed its use here. The contents of this document are © Augustine Stuart, excepting those elements that are components of the Delta Green intellectual property.

I dressed for church the next morning with slow deliberateness. I had one dress that I wore every week— a blue cotton affair that went all the way down to my ankles. It was shapeless— not that it had much to hide.

The jewelry, though.

Every Innsmouth inhabitant had it— one of Dagon’s worldly gifts to us. I pulled out my heavy gold necklace and bracelets. They were wrought in patterns of fish and waves and deep ones, all squirming and writhing together in metal.

I hated them. They were too ostentatious, and their designs were hideous to me. But if I didn’t wear them, people would ask questions. People would think that I was ungrateful.

Then I went to get Clara.

She was already awake, though she was groggy from the NyQuil.

“Do you need breakfast?” I asked.

She made a face. “I don’t think I could eat.”

“More painkillers, then?”

She nodded at that, wincing. I went out and came back with the bottle of Advil.

“I’m just going to leave this here for you,” I said. “Don’t try to overdose. There’s not enough in the bottle. It would just fuck up your liver.”

She nodded.

“When do we go to… church?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

She grunted.

“Let’s get this over with.” She sounded resigned, but I saw her lip tremble. I couldn’t blame her.

I didn’t bother tying her up. If she ran, I could catch her. I knew Innsmouth as well as anyone did. There was no way out— no bus stops, no places to hide that I didn’t know.

I led her down to the Church of the Esoteric Order of Dagon. It was a simple, white board and red brick building, with paint flaking off of it and the gold lettering on the sign barely legible. The bell in the steeple had long since broken, and the corners of the eves were filled with wasp and swallow nests.

From inside, the music of a pipe organ could be heard faintly. Clara in tow, I walked up to the doors and went in.

Half of the pews in the church were littered with debris from various previous inhabitants. I went and took my seat in the second row— close enough to the front that I would be able to hear the faltering old priest, but not in the front row. Just in case.

Clara was visibly trembling now. Across the aisle from us, Akeley waved, cackling to himself. Next to him was my cousin Howard.

Howard wasn’t looking so well. He was fishier than ever, the folds in his neck deeply pronounced now. He had always been the model Innsmouth child, and was progressing quite well towards the sea.

From the steps in the back of the church that led to the basement, we heard a sloshing, slopping sound. That would be the priest.

A moment later, he emerged and walked up to the pulpit in all his splendor. He was a relative of mine, I knew, but I simply called him Father Marsh. His black robe dragged on the ground, the bottom two feet soaked through and leaving a trail of salt water on the floor. His face was almost perfectly flat, sloping backwards to the crown of his head. His two eyes bulged out, moving slowly and seemingly without purpose. On his head was a hideous tiara of gold with the same writhing fish designs as my own jewelry.

“Welcome,” he lisped. His puffed out lips could barely pronounce English words anymore. “Today is a great day. Today, we celebrate new blood being brought into our small community.”

Akeley hooted loudly. The priest ignored him.

“Would Howard Philip Marsh please come forward?” The priest asked. Howard, looking a little scared, made his way up to the pulpit.

“Very good, my son,” the priest said. “Now— if the woman would be brought forward?”

I stood up and grabbed Clara’s wrist before she could protest. She hesitated, then let herself be led, limping, up to the pulpit.

The priest smelled strongly of salt water and brine. I tried to breathe through my mouth to avoid his stench.

“Excellent,” he lisped. He turned to Clara, who flinched back. “My child, it is a noble thing you have been brought to. You are to further the great line of Dagon.”

Clara let out a little whimper. I couldn’t blame her— but I held her steady as the priest took a long, golden necklace from a box under the pulpit and put it around her neck. He adorned her wrists with similar bracelets, and finally slipped a great, hideous ring onto her finger.

“I give you now, child of the land, to a child of the sea,” the priest said solemnly.

I pushed Clara forward into Howard’s waiting arms, then slowly walked back to my seat.

I heard a thump as Clara hit the floor. I heard her scream— either in pain or fear, I didn’t know. Then there was a long, pregnant pause, filled only with the sound of Clara’s whimpers and Howard’s heavy, rapid breathing.

I didn’t watch. I couldn’t.

I couldn’t meet Clara’s eyes as I took her home, either. She limped along, bleeding from her ankle, eyes staring straight ahead. She was strangely dignified, standing there in her golden jewelry, the zipper of her pants broken from being forced open.

Then again, whatever dignity she could find in her mind was all she had left now. She had joined a long line of unwilling brides of Innsmouth.