Why do missing person reports pile up unanswered on the chief's desk? What really happened to the last detective who investigated the waterfront disappearances? Which holding cells stay perpetually damp, and why won't any officer work the night shift alone?
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None of this is his fault, but here we sit in the police station.
― Theresa Braun, Under the Bed Vol. 04 No. 08
Detective Sarah Chen had always prided herself on her intuition, but the Innsmouth Police Station felt wrong from the moment she walked through its weathered doors. The building seemed to exhale a perpetual dampness that clung to her skin like a second layer, and the fluorescent lights flickered with an irregular rhythm that made her temples throb.
Chief Blackwood’s handshake lingered too long, his palm oddly cold and smooth. “Welcome to our little corner of paradise,” he said, his voice carrying an undertone that seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep in his throat. The other officers watched her with eyes that reflected the overhead lighting in ways that made her stomach turn, their gazes following her movements with predatory patience.
The first week passed in a haze of routine calls and paperwork, but Sarah began noticing the patterns. Certain streets were never patrolled after dark. Missing person reports were filed away without investigation. And every morning, she found her uniform slightly damp, though she kept it in a sealed locker, the fabric carrying that same oceanic scent that permeated the entire building.
It was during her third week that she discovered the photographs in the evidence room---grainy surveillance footage from the holding cells showing previous detectives, their faces contorting in impossible ways, their fingers elongating as they pressed against the bars. In each image, their eyes had grown larger, more reflective, more ancient. At the bottom of the box, she found her own police academy graduation photo, though she’d never given one to the department.
The transformation began that night with dreams of vast underwater cities and voices calling her name in languages that predated human speech. When Sarah woke, her skin felt tight and alien, and in the bathroom mirror, she could swear her eyes had begun to change their shape. The station was waiting for her, as it had waited for all the others, patient as the tide.
By morning, Chief Blackwood welcomed their newest permanent resident with that same cold handshake, and Sarah understood at last why no one ever seemed to leave the Innsmouth Police Department. Outside, the town continued its ancient rhythms, protected by those who had learned to see through eyes that were no longer entirely human.
