The Innswich Horror

by Edward Lee

  His insolent grin returned, and that cocksure slouch. “You sure that’s all you want, Mr. Morley?”

  “Quite,” I asserted.

  “But, why? Back then, all of Olmstead, especially the Point, was a slum district.”

  “Though I’d never expect you to understand, I’ve an interest in seeing the town as Lovecraft saw it, when it sparked the creative conception for his masterpiece.”

  “So that’s your hobby, huh?” he mocked.

  “Yes, and one, I’d say, quite harmless when compared to yours.”

  He laughed. “Don’t knock my hobby, Mr. Morley. You know, pretty soon I’ll have to take a bang.” He slapped the inside of an elbow. “You should stick around to watch. It’d do someone like you good to see something like that, to look real hard right into the face of the only salvation that capitalism and all its hypocrisy leaves the poor.”

  “Stop blaming your weakness on the American economic program,” I scoffed at him.

  “And this book—” He held up Innsmouth again. “Pretty damn stupid if you ask me.”

  “The likes of you would probably say the same of ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ Mr. Zalen.”

  He clapped in amusement. “Now you’re talkin’! Coleridge was a junkie too! But Lovecraft’s Innsmouth tripe? He got the town all wrong.”

  “It wasn’t about the town,” I nearly yelled back. “It was an intricate and very socially symbolic fantasy.”

  “And he should’ve at least done a better job changing peoples’ names.”

  I sat up more alertly. “Why do you say that? I thought it mostly the names of places he altered.”

  “No, no, damn near everyone in town he insulted with all that. Remember the bus driver from the story, Joe Sargent? The real man’s name was Joe Major, for God’s sake. And the town founders, the Larshes, he changed to the Marshes. And then there’s always Zadok Allen. What did Lovecraft call him? A ‘hoary tippler’?”

  “Zadok Allen was the piece’s most preeminent stock character, a 96-year-old alcoholic who knew all of Innsmouth’s darkest secrets.”

  Another grinning stare. “You’re not very perceptive, are you? The real man’s name was Adok Zalen. Does that last name ring any bells?”

  The implication astounded me. “Zadok Allen-Adok Zalen, and… your name, too, is Zalen.”

  “Yeah, he was my grandfather. Lovecraft got him drunk near the docks one night with some rotgut he bought at the variety store behind the speakeasy. My grandfather died the next day—of alcohol poisoning from the booze your hero Lovecraft gave him.”

  Could this be true? And if so, it begged the further question: how much of Lovecraft’s invention might be the actual invention of Adok Zalen?

  “Did the world a favor, though,” Zalen prattled on. “Christ, my grandfather was older than the hills and not worth a shit. He was a liar and a thief, and it was time for him to go.”

  “I commend you for the respect you have for your relatives,” I said with a thick sarcasm.

  “Lovecraft was a hack. Seabury Quinn was a much better writer.”

  I could’ve hemorrhaged! “He was nothing of the sort, Mr. Zalen!” My shout of objection sounded near-hysterical, for now Zalen’s deliberate hectoring was taking its toll. This was my literary idol, after all, and I would not stand to hear his name and talents sullied by this denizen pornographer. “Now do you have the pictures of the old town or do you not?”

  “I got ‘em. Wait here,” and he got up and loped into the back room.

  The nerve of him, I thought, truly riled now. What could he know about quality fantasy fiction? The more I speculated, the more I preferred to dismiss his accusation that Lovecraft may have contributed to Adok Zalen’s demise. He’s simply asserting these lies for the purpose of a negative effect. No different from his lies about Mary.

  I nearly moaned when my stray glance showed me a slice of the bedroom. He’d left the door open, and what I first noticed was a large-format camera on a tripodular stand. And then… something else…

  Sitting awkwardly on an unsheeted bed was the pregnant prostitute—Candace, I believe he’d called her. She remained naked, and the mammarian effect of her pregnancy had stretched her areolae to pale pink circles. The great, gravid belly only added to the difficulty of what she was doing…

  A cord girded her upper arm, to distend the veins at her elbow’s apex, and into such a vein she was now injecting something through an eyedropper fitted with a hollow needle. The devil of a man’s got her addicted as well, to maintain his exploitation of her…

  Zalen, though rummaging out of view, could easily be heard. “You’re doing too much,” he complained to the girl. “It’ll ball up the kid. Remember what happened to Sonia?”

  “But I can’t help it!” she whined.

  “If that kid comes out dead, you’re in a world of trouble…”

  I didn’t even want to conjecture what he might mean by such a statement. They probably planned to sell the baby to an adoptionage.

  The scenario and its implications were sallowing my spirit. I was not in my element, and I hoped this would be a lesson to me.

  Reappearing, he pulled the door closed behind him, bearing another manila folder. “All I had were these five, Mr. Morley,” he continued to impudently emphasize. “But it’s a hundred for the lot. Take it or leave it.”

  “I won’t be extorted, Mr. Zalen,” I assured him. Such leverage was to be expected, though. Now that he knew my addiction, he would seek as much remuneration as my indulgence would tolerate. “I said five apiece, so it’ll be five apiece, and that’s only if they’re precisely what I’m looking for.”

  “If you like ‘em, then pay me what you feel they’re worth. How’s that?”

  “Fair enough,” and then I opened the folder.

  The first photograph took the wind out of me: a seaward panorama of the town which showed a declining sweep of sagging gambrel rooftops, half-collapsed gables, and smokeless chimney pots. Closer to the sea rose a triad of lofty steeples, two of which were missing their clockfaces. My God, I thought. It’s nearly straight from the text: Robert Olmstead’s first glimpse of Innsmouth from Joe Sargent’s bus window. A second photo depicted the crumbling waterfront, its half-fallen wharves, fishing boats with ruptured hulls, and mountains of disused lobster traps. A row of sullen factories and processing plants—long abandoned—rose behind this scene of decrepitude and neglect, but again, it was straight from HPL’s grimly vivid description in the book. The third photograph showed a low-roofed stone building surrounded by Doric pillars; its outer walls looked eroded by age. Two large double lancet doors stood open, showing depthless black.

  “That’s the old Freemason Hall,” Zalen informed.

  And then it hit me. “Of course! It was this building that Lovecraft fancied the Esoteric Order of Dagon, where the crossbred priests held services of worship. They wore flamboyant raiments and tiaras of gold.”

  “Now turn to the last picture,” he goaded.

  But the next photo would be the fourth, and I’d thought Zalen said that five comprised the lot. Nevertheless, I turned to the next and was stunned by the vision of a macabre sunset over the harbor inlet. The effect made the water look molten. Past more decayed wharves and flanks of leaning, boarded-up shacks whose roofs looked fit to fall in was a vista of the sun-touched channel and what barely noticeably existed a mile or so beyond: an irregular black line just above the water’s surface. A dead lighthouse seemed to look northward.

  “Lovecraft’s Devil’s Reef,” I knew at a glance.

  “Um-hmm. Nothin’ devilish about it, though,” Zalen said. “It’s not really even a reef. It’s just a sandbar.” He rubbed his hands together. “But they’re good pictures, right?”

  “They are,” I admitted. “It’s a pity how you’ve chosen to vitiate and hence debauch such a laudable talent for the art of photography.”

  I still felt rocked by the impact of the photos—the truth that they assured in their
depiction of the town so long ago. “When, exactly, were these taken, Mr. Zalen?”

  “Summer of 1928, July, I’m pretty sure. The only reason I took them was because Lovecraft wanted them. I did it gratis because I thought maybe he’d recommend me to some of those freaky pulp magazines he wrote for. Never did, though, the cheap bastard.”

  Knowing this even spurred my interest to a new height and as such they were worth considerably more than five dollars apiece. But I was offended by this attempt at extortion. “I’ll give you fifty dollars for the set, but not one hundred.”

  “It’s a hundred,” he stood firm. Then came that frowzy smile again. “But you haven’t seen the last picture, Mr. Morley.”

  “Oh. That’s right.” I flipped to the final photograph.

  I stared down, unblinking. Many seconds ticked by like this. Then I closed the folder, rose, and gave Zalen a hundred-dollar bill. “Good day, Mr. Zalen.”

  “Tomorrow at four, then?”

  “Rest assured I’ll be here.”

  “With another hundred for the Lovecraft picture.”

  “Another ninety-five.” I headed for the door. “Please don’t disappoint me, Mr. Zalen.”

  He laughed. “They only way I could do that is if I shoot up a hot shot tonight with the horse I’m gonna buy with the cash you just gave me. Leading cause of death for junkies, you know.”

  “If you’re going to die via an overdose, Mr. Zalen, please don’t do it by tomorrow.” My hand found the dirty doorknob. “But the day after tomorrow would be fine.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  I stepped out of the fetid, chemical-smelling room and felt welcomed into the overly warm light of day. Zalen’s squalid apartment had been as dark as his heart.

  His near-emaciated form hung in the doorway. “Going back to your room now, huh? To pursue your hobby?”

  Even in light of what I’d just purchased, the implication via his tone couldn’t have offended me more. “My hobby, Mr. Zalen, as you know, is the work of H.P. Lovecraft.”

  “Right. So I guess you’ll walk around town now… to see what Lovecraft saw.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m going to do, not that it’s any of your business. I’m going to Innswich Point.”

  “It’s pretty dull now, Mr. Morley. Just block buildings and a cement pier.” Did he snigger? “But don’t go there at night.”

  I frowned on his moss-blotched front step. “Really, Mr. Zalen. The Deep Ones will get me? The acolytes of Barnabas Marsh will offer me up to Dagon?”

  “Nope, but the rummies and fugitives will have a lot of fun with a guy like you. Drug runners hole up there.”

  “Good friends of yours, no doubt.”

  “They bring it in by boats.” The ungainly man scratched the inside of an elbow. “And my grandfather wasn’t lying when he told Lovecraft about the network of tunnels under the old waterfront. They go back to the 1700s. Privateers and smugglers would use them as hideouts.”

  This was of interest, though I didn’t let on.

  “And if you want a real treat, take a hike up the main road north and have a look at Mary’s place,” he snidely continued. “It’s a real slice of life. It’s just shy of the Onderdonks.”

  My wince communicated my inconvenience, but suddenly I was curious, as to where Mary lived in her life of travail and the burden of so many children she was raising all without the help of a man. “Onderdonks,” I repeated. “Oh, the roadside stand I saw?”

  “Yeah. And try the barbeque,” though this time, I wasn’t sure how to decipher his belligerent tone of voice.

  I was determined to leave now; I would allow no further badgering but as I commenced, he added, “And you might want to read that book a little more closely, too.”

  I turned on the cracked walk. “Surely you don’t mean The Shadow Over Innsmouth.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I’ve read it dozens of times, Mr. Zalen, with great attentiveness. I can likely quote most of its 25,000 words verbatim, so whatever do you mean?”

  The sun highlighted the coarse details of this utterly corroded man. “In the story, what happened to outsiders who did too much nosing around, Mr. Morley?”

  I walked away, almost amused now by this final, cheap attempt at melodrama.

  “And tonight?” he called after me, “when you’re fucking Mary for a couple of bucks? Tell her the father of her third or fourth kid says hi…”

  So much for my amusement. The man was intolerable, and perhaps he was working on my psyche with a bit more effect than I’d care to admit. The only thing I hated more than him was what his manipulation had caused me to do.

  When I found a secluded recess of trees, I opened the folder and looked at that fifth picture beneath the photos of the town. It was a photograph of Mary, of course, in depressingly expert resolution and lighting. She was naked, yes, and—worse—pregnant, yet even in this state she managed a gracile posture for Zalen’s wretched lens. It was some horrendous collision of opposites that had triggered my instantaneous purchase. But I knew, I knew for the life of me and for the love of God, that I WAS NOT one of Zalen’s degenerate clients. It was the shock of the aforementioned collision that forced me to buy it: loveliness wed to a revolting design, the grace of beauty hand in hand with the balefulness of womanhood subjugated. It occurred to me now that Mary was so beautiful, I could’ve cringed. I would’ve guessed her to be five years younger in the picture but if anything her current beauty shined even more intensely. So what if a portion of Zalen’s salacious slander was, in essence, fact? Even if, in dimmer times, she had been a prostitute, who was I to judge?

  I would not. For time immemorial, women have been exploited within the grips of a man’s lustful world; Mary’s past deeds mattered none to me, because I know that God forgives all. I could only pray that He would forgive me.

  Back toward the town’s center, I found a bargain shop which had precisely what I needed: a small briefcase. I made my purchase from yet another amiable Olmsteader, a Mr. Nowry, who was very gracious over my tip. “Where might I find the most direct route to the waterfront?” I asked.

  “Just follow the main cobble out front, sir,” he pointed. “That’ll take ya straight to the water. And a beautiful waterfront it is.”

  “Yes, I’m certain, and thank you.”

  “Just make sure,” he rushed to add, “you’re not there after dark.”

  The kind warning didn’t set well. “But Olmstead hardly seems—”

  “Oh, yes, sir, it’s a fine town’a fine people. But any town, mind ya, has got its bad apples.”

  True enough. Before I left, I noticed whom I presumed must be his wife in a back office, scribbling on papers.

  Her overlarge frock-dress made no secret of the fact she was pregnant.

  Another woman with child, I thought, and I tried with difficulty at first to cogitate my concern. True, I’d encountered what seemed to be an undue number of pregnant women in the little time since I’d arrived, but then I had to remind myself I was essentially a cosmopolite in a new and quite blue collar little village. In truth, I supported the government’s initiatives to encourage population-growth. These small townships were more close-knit and, obviously, more conceptive, which was all for the greater good in the long run. Remembering this, I reconsidered my initial reaction to the number of expectant mothers I’d seen. Surely, it was not as undue as I’d thought.

  As I leisurely approached the waterfront, though, I noticed a short open blockhouse in which I could see a full dozen women contentedly shucking and canning fresh oysters. Most of them were pregnant.

  Zalen’s assessment of the town’s industrial hub rang too true. I saw at once, in spite of the gorgeous, surf-scented vista of the harbor, that Innswich Point was indeed a very dull sight to behold. But, oh, to have seen it as Lovecraft did! At least Zalen’s photo would allow me a facsimile of the privilege. Now all that remained was the partial name that the Master had borrowed. More disappointme
nt struck me when I gazed out to the reef but then recalled that it was no reef at all but a ho-hum sandbar. Workers about the Point’s many fish processors and boat docks were mainly strong, plain-faced men, much like the few I’d shared the bus with. I wouldn’t say that they glared at me, but their cast was not particularly welcoming. This, for sure now, was the impetus for Garret’s condemnation of the male populace; he was referring to these surly watermen.

  The blockhouse of the ice-making facility clattered and roared, loud trucks coming and going. From a higher window in one of the fish plants, though, a pretty faced woman smiled at me, and as I left, several more women in another open blockhouse smiled at me as well. They sat at long tables, repairing fishing nets.

  Most of them were pregnant.

  I left the innocuous scene and its every day toil behind me. An appetite had built up since my ice cream with Mary, and suddenly I was so looking forward to my luncheon with her on the morrow. Nor had I forgotten my dinner appointment with the high-spirited Mr. William Garret, though I regretted I had gleaned no news of his misplaced associate. When a distant bell tolled three times, I knew I’d never last another four hours till dinner so, next, I found myself strolling north up the main road, exiting the town proper.

  By now the day’s heat got to me. I placed my suit jacket and tie in the briefcase, then continued along. Like Lovecraft, I was accustomed to walking considerable distances daily. Perhaps the Master strolled this same road as well, I pondered. Trees lined both sides of the lane. The scenery’s tranquility was much welcome after the unpleasant affair with Cyrus Zalen.

  Ah! I thought, noticing the mailbox at the end of a long dirt drive on the westward side of the road. The name on the box was Simpson, and all at once, I was tempted to follow Zalen’s queer advice and go and introduce myself to Mary’s stepfather and children, but then thought better of it. Mary had implied that her stepfather wasn’t well. Better to wait, came my sensible decision. If destiny would have me meet her stepfather, Mary should be present.