Dagon

I recently learned that several of H.P. Lovecrafts works were public domain, and I thought it would be fun to try and rewrite one. So here is my take on his story entitled Dagon.

At the time I had just escaped from one hell and was soon to be cast into another. I had dearly loved my mother. She had raised me herself while working two jobs, and I had always been a piece of shit kid. Coming out of the funk youth had caused me, I grew a deep appreciation for the effort and patience she had always shown me. It was rough watching her die. Doctors couldn’t do much for her cancer and we couldn’t afford their help anyways. She died slowly, agonizingly and I sat with her the whole while, doing my best to help her rest.

As you would maybe guess, I really needed a change of scenery. That old trailer felt filled by her presence, both good and bad, and haunted by her disease. I did my best to look for work that would take me as far away as possible, turns out I was good at it too, as I quickly found work on a tanker ferrying supplies to a distant island in the south pacific. Despite tropes, the ship's crew, my new coworkers, were some of the kindest people I had ever met. They were warm and graceful, helping me to find peace with my mothers passing. The time I spent with them, especially George, was the only solace I have found since her death. If nothing else, what I desperately want you to get from these words is that they did not deserve what happened to them.

Months had passed since I had taken the position. I was still sore from the loss, but time had lessened the blow. The times that I did think about her, though, were rough and almost always tearful. It was during one of these times that an unseasonal storm hit us. There had been no warning, no clouded horizon or anything of the type. Within an instant, a bright summer's day upturned. Large waves crashed against us as we all did our best to maintain the vessel. It was futile though, and couldn't be saved. In the rush to the lifeboats I was somehow abandoned. Thinking back, I’m not sure that I understand how this happened but I was alone on a liferaft. 

As I have said, the support of the crew is truly what had helped me past the loss of my mother, stranded as I was without them was truly difficult. Somehow my liferaft had not drifted with the others. I had all of the supplies that I needed, thankfully, but being left alone with my thoughts; Left to focus on the loss and depression, without a voice of reason to pull me back, kept me in a constant state of sorrow.

One morning I awoke particularly dizzy. I hadn’t felt like this before, it came as something of a shock to me. I rushed to the edge of the raft and threw up. Wet chunks of my emergency ration hit the ground below the raft with an unpleasant thud. It took me a moment to notice the oddity of this. When I had gone to bed, the horizon was a bleak endless ocean, yet here I was on land, now with the ocean being nowhere in sight. Tentatively, I took my first steps onto the land. It had been at least a month since the last time that the ship had ported, I couldn’t even think of where that had been. The ground was… odd. Thinking back, it's a little strange to describe why I felt this way. There was this disorienting sense that where I stood wasn't truly flat. It was as though I was standing on a ground that was constantly shifting. You may think to consider this a case of a sailor no longer used to solid ground. All I can say to that, is that I had felt that sensation many times before, this felt different and far more strong.

The ground was a vast landscape of deeply damp sand that stretched out to the horizon all around. It was mostly empty, apart from occasional outcroppings of packed sand and coral. I realize, of course, how it sounds but to me it looked as though the ocean floor had risen to the surface. To back this claim up, the ground was covered in deep sea life. It was hard to gauge how recently they had been brought up, some seemed already rotten away while others flopped and gulped for life. Strangely, there were no seabirds on the island. It seemed that, with food so plenty, there would be hundreds of birds eager to visit, but I don’t remember seeing any. 

That day I spent surveying my surroundings and setting up camp inside my raft. As I rested that night, the wind howled deeply and strangely, somehow worsening my nausea and the disorienting drift sensation. Out of respect for your time, I will avoid describing that feeling too much. Suffice it to say that it stayed with me for my entire journey and only grew stronger as I approached the mound.

I’m getting ahead of myself, I apologize. I stayed in that camp for several days. My loneliness, depression and heartache only grew. I was plagued by a miasma of doubt and conflict, emanating from my heart and mind. To be honest, I spent the majority of the time sobbing. I understand how that must make me sound, but I feel its important to be honest. The confusion of how I had gotten separated combined with the mystery of where I was and how I got there created a hugely unstable mindset for me to endure. I understand that now, but at the time it felt as though my emotions surrounding the loss of my mom had become echoed in the gory, drenched landscape that filled my senses 24/7. There truly was no escaping it. I would sit inside the raft and hear the sounds of gasping fish, smell their rotting corpses. When I slept, I dreamt strangely of a deep chasm and an ebony etching. All other times were sorrow.

I don’t know how many days it took before I saw the mound. It was distant, hard to say exactly how far but not close by any metric. At times it seemed a world away, but the outline against the horizon matched that of my latest dream and, in that moment and fragile state, my goal was made clear: I had to reach it. I set out in its direction, carrying with me all of the supplies I could (at this point the emergency rations were fairly well drained and I had taken to eating the fish) which was, admittedly, not much. As I grew closer to it, it seemed to grow. I refer to it as a mound because that is how I first thought of it , but by the time I reached it, the name had become a gross understatement. After a long journey there ( I have forgotten how long, but it felt like an eternity) I reached the base of it. Camping there was the first time since noticing the mound that my emotions caught up with me. Having the goal, a clear view of measurable, if slow progress, had cleared the way for me to focus and gain control again. Sitting there, eating a rotten fish that I can barely describe, the longing and tears tore through me again.

Could I have saved her? If I had only been a better son and paid for her doctors bills. Could she have still been alive? If I was a better kid, would she have ever gotten sick? Did I deserve the chance to run away like I had? Would I get sick next? How dare I think about myself, what worth did I have next to her? Did I even deserve to be alive?

That mountain stood, looming over me. I cried again that night. The next morning I climbed.The effort, combined with the growing sensation of discomfort and unsteady-ness on the land made the climb an extreme challenge. It was a large mountain at that point, tall, but at least the base was wide meaning it was just a matter of walking up a slope. I couldn’t say for sure how long the hike took, it could have been as little as a few hours, it could have taken more than a day. I am pretty sure that the sun never went down during the hike is all I could say. There was a sense that time was lengthening, almost like I was high and couldn’t tell the difference between 1 minute and 10. However long it took, I did reach the summit. I’m not sure what I had been expecting to find, but what I did shocked me. 

From the new vantage point I could see that the land was truly endless. I don’t understand it now and I certainly didn’t then, but I could not see the ocean anywhere. In the distance, the direction I had come I could make out the raft. I looked forward and saw a sprawling chasm. It dug deep into the ground. In its center stood a massive iridescent black obelisk. I am not sure how to describe it. It was otherworldly. As I approached the chasm, the nausea grew to its peak. The whole world seemed to spin at a rate that was dizzying. I’m not sure what kept me going. 

The obelisk looked almost wet. A shimmer bounced the moonlit around it, and almost seemed to amplify its brightness. It was covered with strange hieroglyphics, mostly depicting strange fish or aquatic seeming creatures. I could make out, between my bouts of nausea, puffer fish, squid, sharks, massive tuna, jellyfish and so many more. One etching of a whale had an unfamiliar etching next to it. It was human I thought at first but the proportions were huge. It was at least as tall as the whale was long and its hands and feet were webbed. 

This is where my memory truly begins to fail. I remember trying to examine the face of the carving, there was something familiar there. I believe now that my mind had begun to snap because I remember thinking it was my mothers face. I know that I sat down there and sunk in my depression for a time, but I’m not sure how long. I “woke” with a thought to examine the face again. Struggling to my feet, I saw this time that it was more alien. I stared at it for a while, trying to make sense of everything when the noise came. 

There was a holler in the moonlight. It was startling but compared to what came next, it was almost mundane. In response to the call, the moon seemed to ring like a tuning fork, vibrating and echoing back a hollow inverted tune. Next, came a rumble from deep below me. As I have said before, it is my goal with this to be wholly honest, so I am compelled to say that the terrible sound comforted me. Not in some abstract way, but it seemed, in my mind, to answer all of my minds furious, grief conjured questions.

YES, YES, YES, NO, NO, NO, NONE, NO

There was a longing then. Some sense of want to give into this new voice. I staggered forward, every intention set on casting myself deep into that hole. To my surprise, something burst forth from it. A massive webbed paw unfurled itself and gripped the base of the obelisk. This is where my memory ends.

My next coherent sense is from a hospital in Rhode Island. I had been treated for extreme dehydration and a strange coma. This is also where I learned that no one else was ever recovered from my ship. 

To be honest, I’m not sure what you can get out of this story. I write in the hope that you will trust me to be honest and that you can trust my memory, but I can’t blame you if you don’t. I can barely trust myself. I still hear that voice at night.