The Innswich Horror

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