A much-folded and faded letter was found among the personal papers of Professor Howard Rice after his death in 1936. The contents, more than a little puzzling and troubling, are presented here unedited for your review.

June, 17th, 1908.

My Dear Friend Howard,

I am writing to you, from my room at the Kempler Arms, a run-down inn located in the God-forsaken port of Rockfish Harbor, North Carolina. I have just drank the contents of a bottle of brandy in the vain attempt to calm my nerves enough that I may commit the events of the last few days to paper before I collapse into much needed slumber.

I came here, as you may recall, to study the lasting enigma of the disappearance in 1587 of the English colony on Chapanoke Island. In my mind, it is a great mystery, more than worthy of ranking alongside the more commonly known tale of the Mary Celeste. As you may remember, she was an abandoned ship found off the coast of Portugal in 1872. None of the her crew or passengers were ever found, nor were the reasons of her abandonment fully deduced.

It is well documented that an English ship carrying 73 colonists and their supplies landed at Chapanoke Island in the spring of 1585, determined to establish an English colony in the New World. When the ship departed it left those brave men and women effectively stranded, to survive as best they could for the next fourteen months, with only the local savages as human company in the wilderness. From the very onset, the natives living at the end of Stokes Sound shunned both the settlers and their island, refusing to either engage in trade or exchange greetings.

When the ship returned the following spring all was well. The colony had survived the first winter and, though the cold season had caused much hardship among their number, the settlers were in good spirits. They had constructed cabins, and cultivated garden plots with potatoes and turnips. More supplies were unloaded and a small cargo of sarsaparilla which the industrious colonists had gathered was taken aboard. The ship then departed once more for England, not to be seen again until the following spring.

That is where the record of the colony ends. When the ship returned in April, 1587, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, beyond a few stumps where trees had been cut down to show that anyone had ever been there. All of the houses were gone without a trace, the small fields overgrown, and most disturbing of all, every settler had vanished as completely as if they had never been there at all. The crew searched the many islands and inlets of the region for over a month trying to find some clue as to what could had befallen the colonists but nothing was ever found.

The Stokes Sound natives were mute on the subject and very obviously terrified - but of what? Surely they themselves, eking out a simple living from fishing the sound and unaccustomed to the warfare or bloodshed of their western neighbors, could not have massacred the well-armed colonists? Nor does it seem likely that marauders from one of the more hostile inland tribes would have had the means to invade Chapanoke Island.

After a long, fruitless search, the sailors eventually raised sail and made the long return journey home to report the eerie disappearance of the fledgling English colony. No second expedition to the area was ever launched for the threat of the Spanish Armada the following year drew all attention away from everything other than the defense of England herself. The fate of the Chapanoke colony was to remain an enigma. One, which you well know, Howard, has fascinated me for many years

I arrived here in Rockfish Harbor aboard a tramp steamer one week ago, eager to begin my search. The town is a dull and dreary place, populated by destitute seamen, and obviously in its death throes, yet, it is the nearest habitation to Chapanoke, and nearly as old having been founded by privateers at the very beginning of the 17th century.

After finding lodging at the only boarding house in town - the detestable Kempler Arms - I wandered the rotting wharves and pitted streets despairing at the idea of ever being able to find any useful information in such a place. After making some inquiries, and, I am ashamed to admit, a few bribes, I was able to locate a boarded up ruin that had once been the town hall. As no one seemed likely to care, I broke the rusting lock with a few good kicks and began to search through the dusty collection of files to be found within.

The majority of the papers were useless to me, birth and death records from the surrounding area, municipal tax reports from the turn of the century, and such things, much of it so mildewed and rat-chewed that it was illegible. Only after hours of searching did I find anything relevant to my task. I located two documents of potential interest, one a yellowed and faded census that listed, much to my excitement, that a small population of the Stokes Sound tribe still lived in the region, and the other a copy of a deed for Chapanoke Island, signed by one Jacob Macabee, dated 1708.

I spent a restless night in my room at the Kemplar Arms, swatting mosquitoes and listening to the rats in the walls. Rising early, I made my way downstairs and asked the land lord if he could direct me to the homes of some of local natives. I was hoping, H., that they might have some oral history regarding the arrival and fate of the Chapanoke colony. The boorish lout laughed at me, as he scratched his greasy beard, and suggested that I had better hurry if I wanted to speak with a 'genuine injun' for the old chief was the only native still alive in the area. Gaining directions, I set out to the address he gave, walking along the narrow streets lined with derelict houses that leaned drunkenly against one another at alarming angles. I was intensely eager to share in the elders unique knowledge of the events of some 300 odd years ago.

I found the old chief sitting on the front porch of a shack that overlooked the sound. We exchanged pleasantries for a time but when I mentioned that I was there because of an interest in the history of Chapanoke his lined face grew as hard as stone. He explained rather coldly that by tradition his people did not speak of the island to strangers. I tried  to convince him to change his mind, explaining that I was a historian at the University of New England and would value his information most highly, but he would not give an inch. I can't even begin to describe how my heart sank at the thought of being turned away by such a unique source of knowledge. Perhaps some of my passion infused my words for when I brought up the fact that he was probably the last living person who knew anything about the island pre-dating the arrival of the Europeans something softened in his eyes.

"It has always been that the secrets of Chapanoke remain hidden to all but a few trusted elders", he murmured after a period of silence. "Yet, I do not want that knowledge to die with me. It does not seem right that those terrible secrets should be forgotten."

And with that, he launched into a decidedly odd tale which I have tried to do justice in condensed form here:

Before the fishing fleets of modern times, the waters of Stokes Sound were teeming with fish of all kinds. The chief's ancestors had but to paddle out and dip a net over the side of their canoes to produce a feast. Despite this bounty on their very doorstep though, the natives only fished a small area at the inland end of the sound - the way that it had always been since before all memory. The reason for this was that the deeper waters opening to the ocean were believed to be home of a race of sea creatures which were known as the Deep Ones.

The natives referred to this race as the Children of Grandfather Eel. They were some sort of ocean going amphibian, as large as a man, which were able to move on land as well as in the sea. These creatures were capable of great acts of power, seeming to have control over the weather, the fish, and even the tides. They were considered great shamans who worshiped the black ocean depths.

The native people kept well away from the open end of the sound and especially Chapanoke Island itself which lies dead center in the mouth. It was said that the east-facing coast of the island was riddled with numerous sea caves that led far down to what the Deep Ones considered their most sacred place of worship. Anyone foolhardy enough to venture too close, let alone land on the island, would never be seen again.

I should point out that the old man spoke of these things as if he was divulging one of the darkest secrets in the world. The sheer level of reverence in his voice when he referred to these creatures was incredible. I admit that I couldn't help but feel a shiver as I looked out over the gray waters of the sound at distant Chapanoke Island.

It was during a terrible time, he said, that the white man's ship arrived in Stokes Sound. The stars had foretold that what he referred to as a 'Blood Summer' would occur in two years time. Puzzled by the term, I pressed him for more details though he seemed very hesitant to say too much regarding this celestial event. I managed to piece together that there are two stars in the eastern sky that his people observed each spring.  When the stars reached a certain station in the heavens they give the appearance of moving together and shining as a single point of light. This was interpreted to mean that a Blood Summer would occur in two years time. This was a period of great terror for his people for I gathered that the Deep Ones performed some sort of great and terrible religious ceremony at this time which required a large human sacrifice.

Based on what little he said and my own rather limited knowledge of astronomy I have done some rough calculations and estimate that this celestial event happens roughly every two hundred years or so. With such a long duration between conjunctions I am amazed that a people effectively still living in the Stone Age would have even noticed such a thing let alone kept track of it! But then, with a reminder as terrifying as creatures from the ocean depths demanding human sacrifices every two centuries, I suppose it could hardly be forgotten.

Considering the time at which they arrived, it would seem that the colonists were marked for destruction from the very moment they made landfall. Not only did they dare set foot on the forbidden soil of Chapanoke Island but they arrived at the very height of the Blood Summer. The natives, understandably, were overjoyed that their people would be spared, but the prospect of the upcoming rites was still terrifying to them. Accordingly, they shunned all contact with the colonists lest they became accursed themselves.

A year passed with no incident. If any of the colonists saw something strange in the waters surrounding their new island home it was never recorded. Perhaps they would have mistaken any glimpses of the Deep Ones as manatees. On several occasions they tried to make contact with their indigenous neighbors but the natives either fled or warned them off with brandished weapons. Winter came and went without incident. The twin stars moved ever closer to their pinnacle and finally joined.

The Blood Summer had arrived.

Here my storyteller paused and sat in silence for a long moment looking out over the choppy bay. "My people have always held onto their past very strongly, Mr. Brown", he said to me at last. "Though I was born over ten generations later, I still feel as if I was there that day. My fear is just as real as that which my ancestors felt." Again, he sat silent for a period, as if summoning up the strength to finish his tale. When he finally did so it was in a shaking rush of words:

"The Deep Ones came for the white men and their families at dusk. We could hear the frightened screams carried to us upon the wind. The echo of several booms rolled across the water. My people would not have understood what they were hearing at the time but I think that the settlers were trying to fight with their muskets. Dark storm clouds were sweeping in from the sea quickly drawing down the blackest of nights. After a time, there was silence and we  knew that the people had been taken away down into the sea caves where the Deep Ones would begin their ceremony.

A strong wind began to blow from the east carrying the smell of a powerful storm upon it. The gathering clouds turned an ominous black that few see in a lifetime. A powerful hurricane was coming in from the sea, though whether natural or unnatural I do not know. Within the hour it exploded overhead.

My peoples village was destroyed in an instant. Canoes and huts were hurled far up the beach by the lashing waves. Many people were sucked out into the hungry sea to their doom. The survivors huddled in what shelter they could find, clinging to trees and squeezing in among the rocks as the wind screamed overhead and the ocean seemed to boil. Suddenly, there was a great roar to the east from Chapanoke Island. There came the sound of thousands of tonnes of rock splitting and tumbling. The pandemonium reached the mainland in a rushing wall of noise. With that, the ocean rose up like a lunging beast and swallowed the wreckage of the village whole.

My ancestors were braver men than I am, Mister Brown, for when the weather finally cleared days later the survivors paddled down the length of the sound in those few canoes left intact to see what was to be found there. They discovered that a mighty tidal wave had rushed in from the ocean depths to smite the seaward side of Chapanoke like the hand of God. The mighty cliffs there had been shattered and crumbled into the sea. The sea caves were gone, the white men were gone, even the Children of Grandfather Eel were gone - forever."

Needless to say, Howard, I took the whole story with more than a little pinch of salt. No matter how heartfelt the delivery had been, I believed that it was obviously just a fanciful native myth such as I had encountered in a dozen places during my travels. But still, somewhere deep in my heart, there was a strange feeling that there was a kernel of truth somewhere within. I could not shake that notion no matter how ridiculous the story sounded. The storm and tidal wave were exciting possible pieces of evidence! Could such an event have been powerful enough to destroy the fledgling colony? A fascinating notion, indeed.

It was late in the afternoon by the time I returned to the Kemplar Arms where I had a poor lunch of stale bread and tepid bean soup. When the land lord came to take away the remains of my unfinished meal (most likely to dump it back into the pot) I recalled the land deed that I had found the day before and asked him if there were any Macabees to be found still living in the area, or anyone at all living on Chapanoke Island for that matter.

He grunted darkly at the name and spat into a dusty corner. "Ain't been a Macabee 'ere in a 'undred years", he growled. "The whole clan of 'em was marked by the Devil."

I found that to be a more than passing strange remark, even for an eccentric inhabitant of a dismal village like Rockfish Harbor, and asked him what he meant.

"They homesteaded on the Devil's Rock," he muttered in response, looking at me like I was a simpleton.

"The what?" I asked, blinking.

"Chapanoke, squab!" His thick finger jabbed at the dirty window through which Chapanoke Island could be dimly seen. "Them Macabees were high thinkin' folk, lording 'emselves above everyone else. The Devil waits on no man though, an' they found that out soon 'nuff! Ol' man Jacob's wife an' baby disappearing off the face o' the earth, and the ol' man 'imself found out in 'is rowboat with 'is head over the side - drowned dead!"

That idea seemed to disturb the gruff innkeeper for he crossed himself hurriedly and headed towards the kitchen.

"Who owns Chapanoke now?" I called at his retreating back.

"Same as has always owned it, squab: the Devil!" And with that he was gone.

I went to bed early that night and slept poorly. My dreams were full of dark waters boiling with the frenzied movement of half-glimpsed creatures thrashing beneath the surface, and of great black waves towering over me.

Dawn found me in a weathered rowboat sculling clumsily east down the length of Stokes Sound. I had paid a leathery old fisherman five dollars to take it out for the day and was starting to wonder if it would even keep floating that long.  After two hours hard pulling, with many a rest to nurse my blistering hands, I reached the lee of Chapanoke Island and found a stony beach to land upon. After dragging the boat as high up on the gravel as I could, I sat on a nearby boulder and rested my weary bones. After a time, I felt refreshed enough to began my hike inland.

The island was heavily forested with the oak and beech trees native to the region and it wasn't until I had climbed to the bald summit of a hill that I was able to see the lay of my surroundings. From my vantage point I could make out little but an expanse of leafy tree tops, bordered by the blue waters of Stokes sound to the west, and the deeper green swells of the Atlantic to the east. Here and there small hills similar to the one upon which I stood and natural clearings broke the monotony. I knew from studying the old land deed that the Macabees homestead had lain on the southern end of the island so that is the direction in which I headed.

I broke out of the trees upon a point of land that overlooked the sea and knew that I had gone too far. I turned back and followed the curve of the shoreline towards the northwest, beginning to wonder if I would even be able to find any sign of the abandoned farm after so long a time. My fears were unfounded. I came upon the tumbled remains of what must have once been a stone wall and followed it to a place where a straight-sided mound broke the forest floor. This ancient foundation was all that remained of the Macabbee farm, barely recognizable anymore as being man-made. I poked about among the stones for a time but, of course, found nothing of any interest. Perhaps some day a historical society will make a more professional excavation.

My other destination of the day was the north eastern side of the island where I knew from my studies over the years that the Chapanoke colonists had decided to build their village. I have seen reproductions of the maps which the surveyors drew up in the 1570s but I knew that there would be no sign remaining of the small settlement after so many intervening centuries, not even a single stump or post hole. The sea had also greatly eroded the eastward cliffs over the passing years and I assume that much of the land that the colony must have occupied is now gone, having fallen into the sea.

I was a fool to wander so close to the edge of those cliffs with such disregard and it is only by sheer luck that I am here to write you this letter today. As I strolled along the brink, mesmerized by the waves crashing below, the ground suddenly gave way under foot and I found myself dangling above the jagged rocks and foaming surf prevented from falling to my death only by a reflexive stranglehold upon the coarse grass that grew abundantly there. I spent several terrifying seconds hauling myself back up to safety where I lay panting upon the ground. Yet, despite my preoccupation with self-preservation, I had caught sight of something belong on the cliff face that piqued my curiosity. Carefully, I crawled back to the edge on my stomach and peered down. Below, partially hidden by fallen rocks, was the dark opening of a sea cave.

I tell you H., my heart skipped a beat.

I was gasping for breath by the time I reached my row boat having run nearly the whole way. Ignoring the sharp pains of my newly opened blisters, I rowed to the east side of the island as fast as I could. Here, out of the protective cover of Chapanoke, it was much windier and rough. I am no seaman, and normally I would have turned back immediately, but curiosity drove me recklessly onwards. I rowed along the base of the cliffs, eyes roaming anxiously across the rock walls, ever wary of the crashing breakers near at hand. I was certain that I had reached the spot where I had fallen, but the tide had risen in the meantime, and the opening of the cave was now underwater. As my adrenaline was replaced by frustration and exhaustion, I cursed myself for a fool for chasing fairy tales and turned my bow once more towards Rockfish Harbor.

Yet, that very evening I bought and read an almanac so that I could study the tides of the next few days. To my dismay I estimated that it would be three days before the tides would be low enough for me to be able to access the cave mouth I had discovered. I passed this time as industriously as I could, buying a few necessities for my adventure into the unknown, and catching up with my notes. I will admit though that for most of that time I was irritable and could barely keep still.

Three days later, I was again rowing through the choppy salt water near the eastern cliffs of Chapanoke Island. The tide was at its lowest point and, with a thrill, I saw that the cave mouth was clearly visible now a few feet above the waterline. Pushing down my unease at approaching the surf that crashed upon the rocks at the foot of the cliff, I rowed forward until I felt the keel grate against stones, then jumped out into the icy knee-deep water to secure the boat. I tied the rope around a jutting boulder coated in barnacles, and retrieved my gear from the bottom of the boat, before clambering up the slimy stones towards the cave mouth. Fallen boulders hid much of the dark opening leaving only a narrow black gap exposed. I shone the flashlight that I had bought within but could make out very little in the gloom beyond. Discarding my jacket, I began to shift aside those rocks that I could.

I was sweating profusely when I finally paused in my labor to evaluate my progress. I had managed to widen the entrance enough that if I was not squeamish about slithering about on my stomach in the muck and seaweed that I would be able to crawl inside. Shining the light ahead of me, I did just that. Beyond the shoulder-wide opening the confines of the passage became large enough for me to first crawl and then eventually walk hunched over. I followed the tunnel for a short distance, daylight and the sound of the waves gradually receding behind me, and eventually came out into a larger chamber where I was able to stand upright and stretch my cramping back.

A most disagreeable odor assaulted my nostrils, and I could hardly breath without gagging. I covered my mouth and nose with my handkerchief as I searched about with the flashlight trying to locate the source of the stench. I finally discovered several dead fish and crabs rotting in among the jumbled stones that made up the floor of the chamber. I deduced that the current must carry them into the cave as the tide rises, and funneling through the narrow passageway, hurls them with great force against the stony walls, killing them. As interesting as the phenomena was, I was eager to escape the stench, and hurriedly searched for another exit.

Shortly, I located another low opening and made my way into a new chamber. This one was larger than the last and almost perfectly conical. I noticed that the lower half of the reddish walls were marked with strange grooves and gouges. Mistaking them at first for natural striations in the rock, closer examination made it apparent to me that they were far too uniform and geometrical to have been naturally formed. Fascinated, I followed their progression across the chamber, tracing each with my fingers in the light of the flashlight. Suddenly, one of the marks seemed to leap out at me from amid the others and I realized that I was looking at the Babylonian cuneiform symbol for water. Impossible! Yet, I scanned the walls eagerly and found still other glyphs that I recognized: life, sea, worship, and many more!

I was extremely puzzled as to how they could come to be here in this place so far in time and distance from the middle east, but now that I have had time to absorb all that I have seen and experienced, is not the answer obvious? Do not the ancient writings of the Babylonians state that their race was founded and guided to greatness by a wise and powerful being from the sea known as Oannes? I know that I sound crazy, Howard, but please bear with me and read on.

I crouched there in the gloom for a long time studying the lines of symbols by the light of my flashlight. I believe now that they are some sort of record of the Deep Ones and their history in Stokes Sound. I was able to decipher scattered fragments referring to an ancient home in a warm inland sea (the Mediterranean perhaps?) and a later migration into the 'seas of the setting sun', which could only be the Atlantic. How ironic, to think that those creatures were once colonists themselves on the east coast of the New World.

I could have happily stayed in that room for hours studying the mysterious writing. There were row after row of symbols,  thousands of them in all, lining the wall densely from eye-level to floor, enough to keep a dozen scholars busy translating them for the rest of their lives. Slowly, I moved down the length of the wall, lost in awe at my find. I was surprised to find that the carvings suddenly ended mid-line! It was as if the carver had stopped for a rest and never returned. I retraced the symbols from the entranceway thinking perhaps that I had lost my place but I was right in that they abruptly stopped. Puzzled, I scoured the walls looking for a continuation but could find none.  

Eventually, curiosity as to what lay beyond the next exit drew me away from my find. The passage was narrow and I had to turn slightly sideways for my shoulders to fit through. That was when I found myself nose to nose with another glyph. It was carved on the wall of the arched opening that led deeper into the cave and I doubt I ever would have noticed it if I had not chanced to look so closely. This symbol was much more crudely done compared to the proud history engraved in the chamber I had just left, barely more than a scratching upon the rock. The shape was recognizable though and I felt a chill that was due to much more than my wet clothing and the damp air. It read simply: Death.

The tunnel beyond was tall enough for me to walk comfortably upright. The floor was exceedingly smooth, almost polished, and I wondered what geological action had shaped it so. The tunnel went on for a long interval with more than a few twists and turns, without a single crack or bump to mar the glossy surface. I was formulating a theory involving sand carried in on the tide scouring the floor smooth when I almost fell down a flight of stairs!

Stairs in the depths of a sea cave! Lord, how I wish you could have been there with me to see it, Howard! They descended steeply downwards into a murk greater than my flashlight beam could probe and I was more than a little hesitant to proceed. What was I thinking exploring a subterranean ruin of unknown size all alone with only a small flashlight? Not a soul knew where I was. If I were to fall and break my leg or become lost in these tunnels I would never be heard from again. I struggled with my conscience for some time before finally giving in to my insatiable curiosity and creeping downwards with utmost caution. I crawled down the slimy steps, marveling all the way at the idea of these undiscovered ruins of an inhuman culture hidden right under our noses for centuries.

The reek of rotting sea debris became even more choking as I descended into the bowels of the earth. I had feared that I might find myself blocked by trapped sea water but it never made an appearance. I assume that it must drain even further down into lower caverns, perhaps even eventually returning to the sea. Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, I estimated that I was roughly sixty feet below sea level. Not only was the weight of millions of tonnes of stone pressing in around me but the ocean now as well. I am more than passing glad not to be claustrophobic.

There was a passage at the bottom of the stairs that continued on much like the one above but this one was equipped with the occasional short set of steps that gradually led even further downwards. Having traveled so far I wondered if I might not be nearing the center of Chapanoke Island by now . The scattered pattern of silt and debris along the bottoms of the walls suggested that the sea must rush through these tunnels with terrible force when the tide comes in. I did not understand how these caverns could have been inhabited, even by aquatic creatures, without some sort of watertight gateway that could be sealed when the tide was high. Otherwise, the mouth of the cavern would have to be much higher on the cliff face, well above the high tide mark, so that the water could not enter.

It made no sense to me at the time, but it is all too clear now.

My hands are shaking and I cannot help but glance fearfully over my shoulder as I begin to recall what I found next, H. You will most likely think that I am mad if you do not already. Every word that I have written thus far is the sober truth!  I swear to you on our long friendship that those that follow are as well!

I was walking down that oddly smooth tunnel of red-tinted stone, feeling as if I were in a gigantic throat being swallowed, when I stumbled upon a scene straight from my darkest nightmares.

The passageway ended abruptly disgorging me into the echoing expanse of the largest chamber I had yet discovered. This room too was conical in shape, though of much larger proportions than the one above. My small light could barely reach the peaked ceiling high overhead. I slowly played the beam downwards, searching the nearer walls intently for more carvings. I was not watching where I was stepping and something rolled underfoot causing me to stumble. In the wild circle of illumination thrown by my arms flailing for balance I saw that the floor was covered with pale rubble. It wasn't until I found my footing and looked closer that I realized I was standing upon a deep, uneven carpet of hoary bones.

Skeletons, Howard, dozens of human skeletons, all twisted and tangled together in great heaps. Hundreds of bones - piled against the walls, and strewn across the floor, there was no where I could turn without my light glinting off of them. Then I began to notice other objects among the bones. Angular and jagged, they could never have been mistaken for the remains of men, without a doubt they could only be the bones of the so called Children of Grandfather Eel. The natives were right to call them so for they had long curved spines and sharp fins running along the length of their back. They must have been as horrible in life as they were in death for I shuddered as I looked upon them. Great empty eye-sockets stared back at me, and needle-like fangs grimaced in eternal threat.

I stumbled across the heaps of bones blindly, stunned by the scene of horror preserved here, forever entombed. The legend was true! The terrible final moments from that night over three hundred years ago flew unbidden into my mind's eye - the stumbling line of weeping, horror-struck settlers being driven deeper and deeper beneath the earth, goaded onwards by a horde of croaking monstrosities,  while in the howling darkness outside a deadly wave rushed towards the island unnoticed, ending in an unimaginable explosion of water that burst through these tunnels and killed every living thing, both captive and captor alike.

I came upon the remains of a Deep One with the tiny skeleton of a human child still clutched in its claws. Whether that fragile form had been  broken by the foaming doom rushing down the tunnels, or by the murderous ministrations of the inhuman shamans I know not. The Deep Ones were going to kill the pitiable inhabitants of Chapanoke in the end anyway, after unspeakable tortures in the name of their Gods, perhaps it was merciful that the hand of God struck when it did and spared them an unspeakable end in the caverns below.

I could stand no more of that place of death and turned away, staggering aimlessly, trying to escape. Slipping and sliding among those ghastly bones, I must have become turned around, for I found myself at the far end of the chamber. I almost plunged head first into the dark mouth of a pool of water there as the skull of a long dead farmer rolled under my foot. I sprawled onto my front, my breath whooshing out of me, as a miniature avalanche of bones clattered down the heaps around me and splashed into the still water. They sank rapidly out of sight into the murky depths, the feeble beam of light from my flashlight unable to follow them. I have no doubt that pit led even deeper into the bedrock, down winding tunnels full of sea water brought in by the tide, finally opening in the great cavern far, far beneath Chapanoke Island where the dark and unholy rites of the Children of Grandfather Eel took place every two hundred years beneath the conjoined stars of the Blood Summer.

Now I come to the hardest part of my story to tell. My hair stands on end thinking of it and I have checked the locks on the door and window three times already in the past hour.

As I lay there atop a tangle of bones, panting, trying to control my cloying terror, a noise from the dark pool before me drew my attention. A stream of bubbles was breaking upon the surface of the water, rising from some unknown depth. With an arm made as heavy as lead from terror, I slowly directed the beam of my flashlight down into the murk. There I caught a glimpse of a silver flash of scales, a staring pupiless eye turned towards me, and row upon row of gaping needle teeth, surging up out of the darkness!

I will not deny that all control left me at that moment. I screamed aloud as I hurled myself across the chamber, unheeding of the bones crunching underfoot. As I hurled myself through the exit I slipped and splashed into icy water, several inches deep. My horror redoubled as I realized how long I must have spent in the cavern. The tide was coming in quickly and if I did not escape soon I would join the bones behind me! In the darkness over my shoulder something splashed and I thought I caught a glimpse of a dark shape in the low doorway. I was off again running in an instant.

When I reached the long staircase I found that it was a cascading waterfall, roaring in the echoing confines of the chamber. I scrambled frenziedly upwards through the torrent on hands and knees in constant danger of being swept down again. Somehow I managed to gain the top and struggled onwards against the ever increasing rush of waist deep water . Reaching the cuneiform chamber I paused for but a single second to gaze upon the orderly rows of symbols one last time before ducking into the low tunnel that led on towards open air.

By the time I reached the final chamber the current was so powerful that I could barely forge onwards. My heart froze as I spun in mad circles trying to locate the exit but it seemed to have utterly vanished. I cried out in revelation when I realized that the low entranceway through which I had crawled seemingly a lifetime ago was now completely underwater. I froze, unsure where to search, when there came echoing out of the tunnel behind me the most horrendous bestial voice, screaming in unspeakable rage. The chilling noise broke the spell upon me. Pausing no more, I hurled my flashlight away, took a deep breath, and dove for my life.

I have no recollection of my escape other than swirling bubbles, jagged rocks gouging at me, and the fleeting impression of something scrabbling at my flailing feet for an instant before I kicked free, and broke out of the tunnel, thrashing towards the surface. Gasping for air, I saw that my rowboat, by some miracle, was floating freely close at hand. I floundered to it and threw myself over the side, fitting the oars into the oar locks and pulling like a madman without thought. Behind me, receding in the fading twilight, the foaming waves beat upon the cliffs, showing no sign of the terrible place from which I had just fled.

The innkeeper said nothing as I squelched into his common room well after dark, threw some soggy bills upon the counter and snatched up a bottle of brandy, before making my way up the groaning stairs. Locked safely behind my door, I drained that bottle dry, and then sat down here at the desk to write you this letter.

I have told you the tale, my dear friend. As I said, I would not believe it myself if it had not happened to me. I have no idea what I am going to do from here. That matter can wait until tomorrow when the sun has risen and I can look out upon the gray waters of Stokes Sound from a distance. One thing that I am certain of however is that I will be leaving Rockfish Harbor as soon as I can find passage overland. No amount of money could convince me to depart by ship as I arrived here, and I am not ashamed to admit that for the first time since I was a child, I will be sleeping with the lamp lit tonight.

You know, H., it was during that awful instant that I saw the Deep One rising out of the shadowed depths that all the clues came together. The mystifying comment by the land lord about the strange death of Jacob Macabee and the disappearance of his family from Chapanoke Island. The abrupt end to the history carved upon those cave walls and the crudely scratched glyph that followed. I understand now that there is one last Child of Grandfather Eel left in the depths beneath Chapanoke and I fear that the next Blood Summer is very near at hand. Yes, I will definitely be heading overland in the morning.

And now to bed.

Your loyal friend,
Dr. Ambrose Brown