The Innswich Horror

indulgence) and just the simple gratification that I was, indeed, walking where Lovecraft once walked.

And there was one other thing, too, which founded my elation.

Mary.

Mary Simpson, I mused. So beautiful. So kind and genuine and hard-working. A uniqueness, even if she had once suffered degradations in her unfortunate past. Pregnant with no present husband, still she worked to fulfill her responsibilities. I admitted only now that I was falling in platonic love with her, and platonic it would have to remain for I could not fathom anything more, no matter how urgently I may have wished it.

And I would see her tomorrow for luncheon.

I spun, my heart bucking in my chest. The surprise had taken me with the most unpleasant manner of suddenness.

From the westerly woods I had, for sure, heard a noise.

I was not at all suited for imbroglio, but—now—I knew I was being spied upon, and I was determined not to be harassed.

I peered intensely into the wood, then may have heard a twig snap. “I hear you!” I exclaimed, and did not hesitate to step through the curtain of trees. “Show yourself like a man!”

Several more twigs snapped as my stalker had clearly embarked deeper into the trees. I wasn’t sure why, but I continued to give well-gauged chase.

Fifty yards into the woods, a dappling of sunlight betrayed the stalking entity.

For only the briefest second, I glimpsed the figure, not his face but his attire: the long, greasy black raincoat and hood.

“Really, Mr. Zalen, this is no way to treat a paying customer!” my voice surged into the trees. “If it’s thievery on your mind, I can assure you, I’m well-armed!”

This much was true, and from my trouser pocket I’d already withdrawn the small hammerless semi- automatic I’d bought at the Colt Patent Firearms Company in Hartford. It was a Model 1903, which I’d read had been the weapon notorious bank robber John Dillinger had carried the day he’d been gunned down. I was not a crack shot, but with a full magazine, I was crack enough.

Zalen stood still but had clearly heard me. At once, he bolted and let himself be swallowed by the woods.

“I’m disappointed, Mr. Zalen!” came my next call. “But, thief or not, don’t forget our appointment tomorrow!”

The density of trees soaked up my voice. A shy, retiring sort as myself might be shaken by such a near- confrontation but I felt nothing of the sort. I felt calm, confident, and unwavered, and I had no intention of avoiding Zalen tomorrow. He had something I wanted, and I would pay for it as planned. Now that he’d been apprised that I armed myself, he’d be uninclined for any untoward behavior.

When I turned to reverse myself from the woods and regain the road, I saw the house.

Mary’s house, to be sure.

Only the dimmest sunlight penetrated the intricate umbrella of high boughs. The region’s all-pervading lack of rainfall had reduced the forest ground to a carpet of tinder. I first dismissed what I was seeing as a hillock, but then a more concentrated scrutiny showed me small, single-paned windows amid a long, vast sprawl of ivy. Eventually I detected corners that had not so been overrun, as well as a slate roof and chimney made of the old tabby bricks from the pre-Revolution period. Beyond the squat and ivy-covered abode, though, stood a clearing radiant with sun and there a lone, wee figure seemed to frolic. As I peered closer, I saw that it was a young boy firing arrows with a crude and more than likely hand-made bow. The arrows were those made for children, with rubber suction cups at their tips, and with these the lad determinedly took aim at an old, propped up window frame which still contained glass.

So this was one of Mary’s older children. Odd, though, that only one would be enjoying these splendid outdoors. This close to the house, I expected to hear and see evidence off all eight of her children. She implied that her stepfather looked after the younger ones, I recalled. Yet the house sat in an almost palpable silence.

At once, I felt encroaching, even trespassing. It was only the pursuit of Zalen that had led me this deeply into the parched woods. Nevertheless, however impelled to leave, I remained, staring at the leaf-enshrouded house. The impulse to look in a window was very strong, but then I had to chide myself. Not only would that’ve been the act of a cad—which I was not—it would’ve been illegal. I have no right to be here, so I must leave. But I had to wonder about the motives of my deepest subconscious—or what Freud called the Id.

Was it Mary that my Id hoped to spy upon?

When I turned to leave, I almost shouted.

There, standing immediately before me, was the boy.

I recovered quickly from the start. “Why, hello there, young man. My name is Foster Morley.”

“Hello,” he replied blushfully. He was thin, bright-eyed, and had that look of so many children: curious wonder and ripe innocence. He looked tenish—it was so hard to tell with adolescents—and had been dressed neatly but in threadbare clothes. One hand held the makeshift bow, the other a quiver of the suction-cupped arrows. After a moment, he said, “My name’s Walter, sir.”

“Walter, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He timidly shook my offered hand. “Now, would your last name happen to be Simpson?”

He seemed to quell surprise. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, how do you like that! I’m a friend of your mother’s. I spoke to her just this morning at Mr. Baxter’s. You should be proud to have such a hard-working mother.”

He seemed quietly astonished by this information. “Yes, sir, I’m very proud, and so is my gramps.”

His “gramps” could only be Mary’s stepfather.

“He’s asleep now,” he went on. “He’s… old.”

“Yes, and for the elderly we must always have respect.” I glanced at his twine-and-tree-switch bow. “My, Walter, you’re quite the archer. Practice makes perfect,” and then I pointed to his window-frame target from which several arrows had attached themselves, “and by the looks of your impressive skills, you may one day find yourself on the Olympic archery team.”

“Do you really think so?” he asked with excitement.

“Of course, if you remain diligent and continue to practice. When you’re older, you’ll need to train with a real bow, but I’m sure a careful boy such as yourself needn’t have to wait much longer for that.”

“My mom said I could have a real bow when she makes enough money to buy one. But I can only use it when she’s watching.”

“That’s good advice, son. ‘Honor thy mother,’ like it says in the Bible.”

“Are you here… to see her?” he asked. “She’s still at work.”

I didn’t want to lie to the youth, yet I couldn’t very well tell him I was pursuing a stalker nearby. “No, Walter, I was merely having a nature walk when I happened upon you and your house. These woods are quite a treat for me, for I spend most of my time in the city. In Providence.”

“Oh. I walk in the woods a lot too, sir.” He pointed just behind the house. “There’s a neat trail right over there that goes all the way back to town through the trees. That’s how my mom walks to work every day.”

“Why, I’m grateful for your advice, young man,” I enthused. “I’ll be sure to take that trail back myself. But, tell me. Why are you out here all by yourself? Surely you have brothers and sisters old enough to play with.”

His eyes blankened, as though the question were a stifling one. “I have to go now, sir, to help my gramps.”

“Of course, and what a fine young man you are to be so attentive to your grandfather.” It was all I could say, for it seemed that to press him about my previous question would only put him on the spot. Still, I had to think, Mary’s got seven more children. Are they all in the house? “But before you’re off, Walter, let me give you a present.” I was probably out of bounds by doing this, yet I couldn’t resist. “And I’m sure your mother and gramps have quite wisely advised you not to take gifts from strangers, but we’re not strangers, you and I, are we?”

“No, not really, Mr. Foster,” though the mention of a present had clearly throttled his attention.