The Innswich Horror

by Edward Lee

  “As a matter of fact, I just saw a truck bound for Ipswich loaded with iced fish. I take it the fishing’s in good repair here?”

  She passed me my bowl with a spoon. “It’s never been better, sir—”

  “Please, call me Foster, Mary, and please allow me to buy you an ice-cream as well.”

  This smidgen of generosity delighted her. “Thank you, sir—er, Foster,” and then she fixed a bowl for herself. “But the fishing, yes, it’s the backbone of the town. We’re actually selling fish to many towns, even Boston, while in the past if we wanted fish, we’d have to buy it from them. Fishing’s better here now than anywhere else. In Olmstead, you’d scarcely know there’s a depression.”

  Since she’d made the observation, I suddenly had to agree. I saw only clean streets, fine buildings, and smiling people since I’d arrived, not disheartened breadlines, uncollected garbage, and collapsing homes. In addition, I saw another Lovecraftian parallel: Innsmouth, like Olmstead, was an unusually thriving fishing town.

  “See,” she continued with her professional pride, pointing her spoon to the shiny white machines. “We have Westinghouse meat-keepers, too, and our own delivery truck that’s almost new. And—”

  I waited for her to finish but instead her eyes merely widened in silence.

  “Is something the matter, Mary?”

  “What a coincidence!” she squealed. “Your book, I mean!”

  I’d set my copy of Innsmouth on the counter when I’d taken the bowl. Her recognition amazed me. “Don’t tell me you’re a reader of the great H.P. Lovecraft?”

  “No, Foster, only because I never learned to read much. I recognize the name because when I was only eighteen, Mr. Lovecraft stayed in Olmstead for a short time.”

  I very nearly dropped my bowl. “Mary. You didn’t happen… to meet Mr. Lovecraft, did you?”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t get that privilege, but here’s something interesting. Back then, Baxter’s was a First National Mart, and my brother, Paul—he was seventeen at the time—he actually waited on Mr. Lovecraft in this very store you’re standing in now. Mr. Lovecraft wanted directions about town, so Paul drew him a map.”

  This shock of shocks almost put my knees out. The attractive woman’s brother had met the Master! What precious conversation must have taken place. And now this: the reference to her brother’s map! Surely this had founded Lovecraft’s early scene in the story where a congenial “grocery youth” had provided Robert Olmstead with just that: a map of Innsmouth. Like most writers, HPL had used an ordinary factual occurrence in which to dress the fiction.

  “Foster, why, you look—”

  “Dumbstruck?” I laughed. “It’s true, Mary. I know it might seem peculiar but the work of Lovecraft is my foremost hobby; I pursue it with a passion as well as any information about his life in general. And this is such a stroke of luck. You could very well help me in my indulgence. Please allow me to take you and your brother to luncheon sometime. Aside from your wonderful company, of course, I’d just like—Paul, is it?—I’d like to ask him a few questions about Lovecraft’s visit—” but then the bungle hit me like a physical blow. “Pardon me, Mary, but of course I meant you, your brother, and your husband.”

  Mary didn’t balk at the comment; she merely replied, “Oh, I’m afraid my husband turned out to be not much of one. He left me for another woman, ran off to Maryland.”

  “I truly regret to hear that, Mary. You deserve better than an irresponsible lout like that.” It infuriated me, that any real man could abandon a pregnant wife.

  “Oh, it’s all right. It’s one of life’s lessons,” came a surprisingly cheerful reply. “My stepfather says the hardest lessons serve us best.”

  “How true.”

  “And I do have a good life. I have good work and live in a good town. I feel very blessed.”

  “A selfless and commendable attitude. Too many these days take so much for granted,” I amended.

  “And my brother, Paul”—her glance cast down for a moment—“he’s not well, I’m afraid, and wouldn’t be able to manage an outing.”

  I didn’t know how to respond other than topically. “Oh, that’s too bad. I hope he recovers quickly.”

  “But I’d be happy to talk to you about Mr. Lovecraft at any convenience. You see, Paul quite took to the man, and related to me everything they talked about while Mr. Lovecraft was here. ”

  “Then, please, we must do that, Mary.”

  She gave the faintest coy smile. “That is if your wife doesn’t mind you taking another woman to lunch.”

  “I’ve never married,” I blurted, only now aware of the slightly sticky situation. She was pregnant, after all—with a stumblebum’s child.

  “You can’t be serious!” Came her exclamation after another spoonful of ice cream. “A handsome, well-mannered gentleman like you? Never married?”

  I prayed I didn’t blush. “I fear I wouldn’t be suitable for any woman,” and then I played it off with a laugh. “I’m far too indulgent.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that!”

  “But, yes, I’ll stop in tomorrow morn and you can tell me a time convenient for you.”

  “That would be fine, Foster. I’ll look forward to it.”

  By now I felt a bit guilty admitting this attraction to a woman with child but, of course, my only interest was strictly of the platonic variety. That aside, this was a great opportunity. What Mary could convey of Paul’s conversations with the Master would be of joyous interest to me. I was about to continue conversation when the bell rang again and the door opened.

  “Oh, hi, Dr. Anstruther,” greeted Mary.

  “Hello, my dear…”

  “Dr. Anstruther, meet Foster Morley. He’s here on vacation.”

  I turned to face a distinguished, well-suited man with iron-grey hair and beard. “How do you do, sir?” I shook a soft but strong hand.

  He grinned broadly. “I’m splendid, Mr. Foster. How are you liking our little town?”

  “I’m intrigued by it, sir, a very clean, self-respecting prefect, indeed.” I glanced minutely to Mary. “And such nice townsfolk.”

  “Oh, yes. Perhaps you’re not aware, but you’re sampling the wares of Olmstead’s very first ice cream machine. It caused quite a row when it was first installed.”

  “God bless such luxuries!” I tried to joke.

  “We’re prospering where other towns are going by the wayside—quite a feat in these economic times. We’ve been very fortunate of late.” He turned to Mary, handing her a stub of paper. “Dear, check this claim number, please. I’m expecting a delivery of some urgency. Mrs. Crommer should be going into labor any day now.”

  “I completely forgot,” Mary remarked, checking a shelf of boxes, then finding one. “Will it be her tenth?”

  “Her eleventh,” the doctor redressed. He glanced to me. “Stock for the future, as the President says.”

  “Uh, yes. So true,” I practically stammered. But this information? A woman expecting her eleventh child? And thus far I’d seen several other expectant mothers. Olmstead is certainly a virile town…

  Mary opened the box on the counter, and Dr. Anstruther withdrew its contents: four securely packed quart bottles of caramel-colored glass. Each was clearly labeled: CHLOROFORM.

  “No safer anesthetic for difficult births,” Anstruther commented, and replaced the bottles.

  “American medical technology,” I offered, “seems more burgeoning now than ever before. I’ve read they’d found a near-cure for schizophrenia, via electric current.”

  “Not to mention bone-marrow transplantation, for patients with blood problems, and coming breakthroughs against poliomyelitis. America’s leading the way by leaps and bounds. Judging by the current global political climate, though, I fear we’ll be focusing our prowess of knowledge and industry on war rather than peace.”

  “Let’s pray that’s not the case,” I said. “This man Hitler does seem sincere in his promise to annex no more land
after Austria. Plus there’s his pact with the Soviets.”

  “Time will tell, Mr. Foster. And now, I must go.” He shook my hand once more. “I’ll hope to see you soon.”

  “Good day, doctor…”

  “As fine a small town doctor as you could ever ask,” Mary complimented after he left. “Seems what he’s doing most of these days is delivering babies. He’s delivered all of mine too.”

  I hoped it wouldn’t be too abrupt a departure from good manners to ask, for the question was somehow irresistible. “How many children has God blessed you with, Mary?”

  “Nine”—she errantly patted her swollen abdomen—“counting this one.”

  Nine children, and with no husband to bear half the responsibility, came my regretful thought. Truly, she was a strong woman. “It must be very difficult for you, being on your own, I mean.”

  “Oh, my stepfather helps out a lot. It’s just that he’s getting so old now. And, Paul… well—”

  Suddenly there came a thunk from the back room, and what I could only perceive as an accommodating human grunt. “What’s he done now?” Mary whined. “I’ll be right back, Foster.” She scurried through a door behind her.

  I couldn’t help but overhear:

  “Can’t you wait?” Mary’s muffled voice complained.

  “Not-not much longer, I can’t.” A male voice, one in some distress.

  “But there’s a nice man out front, and he’s asked me to dine with him! Now—” A pause, then what seemed a grunt on her part. “—get back in your chair! You’ll just have to wait! I won’t be long—”

  “I’ll try…”

  Mary returned with a sheepish smile, then came close to whisper, “That was Paul, just trying to get attention, I’m afraid.” She seemed to be tempering herself against an inner rage. “The reason it wouldn’t do to have you meet him is because of his injuries. He’s very self-conscious—he had a terrible accident several years ago.”

  A selfish notion, I know, but it made me cringe to realize that the true-life model for Lovecraft’s “grocery youth” was on the other side of that door and not accessible to me. And what of these injuries? There was no genteel way to inquire.

  “I let him stay in the back while I’m working, so he doesn’t get too lonely. Sometimes he even sleeps here when no one can give him a drive home.”

  “Oh, I see. It’s, um, good that you can do that,” was all I could muster to say, but what else could she have meant by her insistence, Get back in your chair—? That and the remark about drives home?

  She could only mean a wheelchair.

  The moment had struck an awkward note but it was that same selfishness of mine that sufficed to turn the subject. “Before I’m on my way, I have a question.”

  She leaned over, elbows on counter, chin in fists, and smiled in a way that struck me as dreamy, though I couldn’t imagine that my presence solicited the look. “Ask me anything, Foster. You’re really an interesting man.”

  Did I audibly gulp? I hope not! “I’ve decided to find a quiet place outdoors to read,” and then I held up my book. “See, reading the story whose setting Lovecraft formed by his direct impressions of this very town strikes me as fascinating; it’s my favorite story of any, and re-reading it here will allow for an entirely new perception.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” she said. “But the Olmstead you’re seeing today is nothing alike what Mr. Lovecraft saw when he was here so many years ago.”

  “That’s my point!” I exclaimed of her perceptivity. “Would you by chance have a photograph of Olmstead before the rebuild? I’d love to compare it to Lovecraft’s descriptions in the book.”

  “We’ve never had a camera, but…” She held a finger up. “There is a man you could try talking to. Er, well, maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

  Was she teasing me now? I absolutely quailed. “Mary, I implore you, please—”

  “There’s a townsman who used to be a photographer; he trained in New York even, and took pictures for newspapers. He even took a picture of Mr. Lovecraft standing on the New Church Green with Paul. You can see the entire waterfront in the background, the harbor inlet and lighthouse, the old Larsh Refinery, and the town dock, which they used to call Innswich Point back then.”

  I could’ve collapsed by these new parallels! Innswich: obviously a variation of Innsmouth. The dead lighthouse which overlooked the notorious Devil’s Reef from whence came the batrachian Deep Ones. And the Larsh Refinery: in Lovecraft’s grand tale, it was at the Marsh Refinery where the gift of gold trinkets bestowed to human worshipers by the Deep Ones was melted down and sold on the market. I MUST see that picture! I determined.

  “Please, Mary. How can I find this photographer? It’s imperative, truly—”

  Her chin slumped in her palms. “How can I say no to you? I only mean that it’s not a good idea. The man’s name is Cyrus Zalen. He’s about forty but he looks sixty, and you can’ miss him. He always wears the same long greasy black raincoat. He smells horrible and he’s… well, he’s just not nice. He lives at the poorhouse behind the new fire station.”

  Cyrus Zalen. Presumably a breadliner or, to use Lovecraft’s term, a “loafer.” In Providence, they called them “bums” and “rummies.” “An unfortunate turn of fate for a newspaper photographer,” I remarked.

  “He was a fine photographer… before he got mixed up with the heroin. In New York he got hooked up with ex-soldiers who’d become addicted to it when they went on leave in France, a city called… Marcy? I can’t remember.”

  “Marseilles,” I corrected. I’d read of these places there called heroin laboratories where they converted the resin from opium poppies into this devastating new drug. “Still, I’ll have to find Mr. Zalen.”

  The prospect seemed to worry her. “Please don’t, Foster. He’s not a nice man. He’ll try to connive money out of you, and he may even be a thief. He’s known to do… immoral things, but it would be unladlylike for me to explain. And this was so many years ago, at least ten, I guess. I’m sure he doesn’t have the photo anymore anyway. Really, Foster, don’t go there.” She leaned even closer. “It’s a dirty place where he lives—there’s probably diseases. A woman died of typhus there several years ago.”

  I didn’t take her warning lightly, actually flattered by her concern for my well-being. But if it was money that Mr. Zalen wanted for his old pictures, then money he would have. My wallet was chock full.

  “You needn’t worry, Mary. I’m of hardy enough stock. I survived the outbreaks of 1919 and 1923, and, in fact, I’ve not been sick a day in my life. I’ll be very careful when interviewing Mr. Zalen, and I can’t thank you enough for your guidance.”

  She gripped my forearm with some determination. “At least make a deal with me, Foster. I think Paul has an extra copy of the photo. If so, I’ll get it for you, if you promise not to go to Cyrus Zalen’s.”

  I was touched to the point of amusement by the vigor with which she insisted I not meet this man. “All right, Mary. I promise.”

  She beamed a smile, then gave me a sudden hug which almost made me flinch. The all too brief contact brought my cheek to hers. The scent of her hair was luxuriant.

  “And I can’t thank you enough,” I went on, “for your acceptance of my invitation for luncheon tomorrow. Oh, and here—for your wonderful ice cream.” I put five-dollars on the counter.

  “But it’s only five cents—”

  “Keep it, please. You can buy a special treat for your stepfather and children.”

  The moment lengthened. Her eyes held on mine. “You’re very nice, Foster,” she gushed. “Thank you…”

  “Until tomorrow, then!” and I was off.

  I left in a blissful rush, not only quite taken by the cherubic and lovely girl but also by this new and surprising kindle to my obsession.

  I knew at once that I must break the promise I’d made. Her concern was obviously exaggerated, and I couldn’t very well deprive her brother of a photograph tha
t must mean a great deal to him. The poorhouse behind the new fire station, I recalled, and—there! A sign right before me read FIREHOUSE with an arrow pointing west. A sudden uproar startled me, when several more fish-laden trucks hauled around the cobblestoned circle, but when they passed I noticed that the westernmost road entry was cordoned off and closed—sewerpipe workers were digging—so I thought it best to cut around behind the row of block buildings that housed Baxter’s General Store, Wraxall’s Eatery, and the others. The alleyway gave wide birth and I was pleased to find it clean, free of garbage and its attendant stench, and absent of vermin. I was halfway along, though, when I heard a voice so wee I thought it must be my imagination.

  I stopped, listened…

  “Bugger. You did that on purpose. I know you did. You want to mess things up for me.”

  True, the voice was oh-so-faint but unmistakably the voice of Mary, and when I turned I noticed a narrow window opened just a crack.

  It was not my nature at all—please, believe me—but something connatural in my psyche forced my eyes to that crack…

  Time seemed to freeze when my vision fully registered the macabre scene within. A thin, haggard man sat troubled in a wheelchair—Paul, no doubt. Either age or despair ran lines down his face like a wood-carver’s awl; his hair was a shaggy tumult. But the severity of his overall physical state trivialized the ramshackled appearance and uncleanliness.

  I felt wounded appraising him…

  His legs ended at the knees, leaving sleeves of empty denim.

  His arms ended at the elbows.

  My God, I thought. I’d never imagined that the accident Mary referred to could’ve been so calamitous. My spirit was left tamped when the thought impacted me: that this ruined twig of a man had just over a decade ago been the energetic seventeen-year-old “grocery youth” who’d generously prepared Lovecraft/Robert Olmstead with a hand-drawn map of the town.

  And what was now taking place was a pitiable site, indeed.

  The girth of Mary’s belly made it difficult for her to bend over, yet bend over she did, after fiddled at Paul’s trousers. It was clear now what his problem had been earlier. A bucket in the corner of the office told me that’s where he’d been struggling to when he’d flopped himself out of the chair: for the purpose of urinating, a task not easily accomplished given his disabilities. I could only presume that his trousers were left perpetually open for such emergencies.