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Innsmouth, March the 1st, 1888.


Dear Martha.


There's something about this town. I admit, it seemed ordinary enough but the swirling fog and heavy mist that descended as I arrived did give me something of a start. Oh the folk seemed friendly enough, some of them anyways. The lady where I bought my lantern oil for the expedition was particularly kind and talkative, but there is a growing sense of unease. I am fully aware of my presence in this obscure town as a stranger but one should think spending coin in their establishments would engender some smiles or warmth, rather than the cold fish-like stares they return when our eyes meet. Strange too this green light, it permeates the air like a viscous invasion, tendrilling and covering the old timber village with a fine matting. The weather too, seems strange, when I set foot off the trawler - and damn near lost my footing on that vile ooze of gutted fish lord help us - the skies were azure blue, birds were singing, the sun was shining and there was a general air of industry and bustle that one would expect even from a town off the coast as remote as this. Some nights too, the stars glittered with a fierceness I can barely describe, beaming liminally from their dark heaven with such brightness I for a moment in a flight of fancy, imagined them to be as distant beacons warning me from afar. I venture, the sea too, since a storm rolled in, tossing with such waves, almost seems stridently trying to tell me something. How silly! But perhaps it is the air, I don't feel as well as I should. I'm seeing things, Martha. In the sky, which has become a poisonous green these days past there are dark shapes, movements, and in my abode, odd sounds emanating from all quarters. At first I had to strain to catch them, almost dismissed them as wind and creaking boards - but they grow unmistakably louder, Martha. My dreams too, so violent and disturbed, the old lighthouse, snakes or worms in their masses, such frightful things that I awaken dripping with sweat, my rough blanket soaked right through. The library was remiss in offering explanation, its books are decrepit and not at all what one would expect, what language do they speak here, what history is germane to this village that they should have such photos, paintings and artifacts as I have seen? And the villagers here, have begun to act strangely too - I see them cloistering together in masses, making their way to the old church on the waterfront late at night and I wonder whatever could they be doing. I think I shall investigate Martha, since it appears I am stranded until the seas settle and I can return to the shore within the fortnight. I will report my findings, such as they are, in my next letter. I pity you may love a mad fool my dear.


Yours, James.


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