Fiction: A Tour of the Catacombs

This entry is part 6 of 7 in the series Fiction: Issue 7

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By Stephen Woodworth

Please watch your step as we descend. As you can see, these stairs were cleft into solid stone and their slant has become treacherous from the tread of so many feet.

And I hope there shall be no stragglers among you. As we say in the Abbey, only two sorts enter the Catacombs: the quick and the dead.

The crypt predates …

IFPFiction: A Tour of the Catacombs

Fiction: Nyarlathotep

This entry is part 7 of 7 in the series Fiction: Issue 7

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By Don Webb

(For Elizabeth Berkeley)

I stood on the high balcony, looking eastward to the rising sun. The pillars were deep-red and the roof slightly curved, suggesting “China ” to me. But it was not China – at least, not the China of now. Below me, the grass glowed slightly, a bluish-green, and I could feel the throb of the waterfall. …

IFPFiction: Nyarlathotep

Editorial: Issue 6

Welcome to our sixth fiction issue. When we launched in March of 2009, full of enthusiasm, little did we know how much work and how much fun this would be. We also didn’t know how much people would come to love our little corner of the Internet. We have watched Innsmouth grow, from its first tremulous baby steps, to its current incarnation. We’ve gone from a few hundred readers to more than 10,000 visitors in a month. So, this February, …

IFPEditorial: Issue 6

Fiction: Hidden Beneath Calm Waters

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By Jerry Hobbs

Today:

As with most finned creatures living in salt water, survival of the sablefish, genus Anoplopoma, depends on a brain that is controlled by 99% instinct and 1% intelligence. A perfect example is the one which now swims downward several thousand feet below the surface of the Pacific Ocean, miles off the coast of Japan. It blindly follows the instinct portion of its brain, which promises food. The intellectual part neither understands, nor cares, …

IFPFiction: Hidden Beneath Calm Waters

Fiction: Get It Down

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By Martin Hayes

My mind is going. Of this, at least, I am certain.

The carpet whispers secrets, untold before now, but always hinted at, drowned out now by the wailing of the cracks in the plaster that covers the cold, red bricks before my face. The world is unfixed, unreachable, unmade. I am me, here in this dark and subtle craft of being, but I am also the madness that creeps from unseen places. I am …

IFPFiction: Get It Down

Fiction: Drowning in Air

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By Rebecca Rahne

Mama had been resisting the call for as long as I could remember.

It was the middle of summer, and she lay in the tub, trying to keep her skin damp. Maybe trying to keep herself cool, too, but like I said, it was the middle of summer. Even if you only turn on the cold water faucet, the water’s still gonna come out at ‘inferno’ temperatures.

Daddy went to sea before I was …

IFPFiction: Drowning in Air

Fiction: The Savage Dreamer

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By Joshua M. Reynolds

It was 1920 and Charleston withered beneath the glare of an angry Apollo. Or so it seemed to Randolph Carter, late of Boston, late of Arkham. Dressed in his grandfather’s stiff, starched black, the long-jawed Yankee looked archaic even by the standards of coastal South Carolina.

He slipped and stumbled slightly on the cobbles of the High Battery as he hurried towards his destination. Palmetto trees rustled in the wet, …

IFPFiction: The Savage Dreamer

Fiction: Rising, Not Dreaming

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By Angela Slatter

“Play,” they said and I did, plucking at a harp made of bone and sinew.

“Sing,” they said and I did, weaving words with water and making my listeners weep. I drew from their depths, from souls no one suspected, the dreams that might make them slumber. I surrounded them with lullabies to send gods to sleep, to keep them below and render them harmless to all that breathed above.…

IFPFiction: Rising, Not Dreaming

Fiction: The Ghosts of Old Milford

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By Aaron Polson

Nathan knew what they’d find under the house.

Even before the bulldozer blade crushed the grey wood into a pile and pushed it aside on a June day in 1968, Nathan Porter knew. He knew what they’d find under the house which used to sit at the end of a lonely street in a town called Milford, a house which used to crowd secrets under its corniced roof and tall, …

IFPFiction: The Ghosts of Old Milford

Fiction: Tenderfoot

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By Daniel José Older

I remember Delton Jennings. Bumped into him pretty regularly on my late-night sojourns and the guy was nice enough, if you could get past the rambling and hygiene issues. But this flattened mass of flesh, blood-crusted hair and organs? There’s a name tag where they guessed the foot would’ve been and without it, I wouldn’t know old Delton from a ham sandwich.

The one thing that is impossible not to …

IFPFiction: Tenderfoot