The Innswich Horror

fatigued body and mind. For goodness sake! I mocked. Who would be spying on me, of all people?

My new Pierce Chronograph wristwatch showed me my dinner appointment was fast approaching. I talced myself, brushed my teeth with a new product called Listerine Tooth-Cleaning Paste, then dressed in my evening suit. Though I was looking forward to dining with Mr. Garret, most of my thoughts focused on a different appointment: my luncheon date with Mary tomorrow. I oddly felt that I’d sullied her by my previous act of debasement and self-abusiveness, an absurd abstraction, but such was me. Nevertheless, I would not leave until I’d done one simple thing.

I sat at the small writing table the room provided, and opened my briefcase. From it I withdrew the folder I’d purchased from Zalen, and from the bottom of the assortment of old photos within, I slipped out the shot of Mary. It was with a plummeting grimness that I allowed myself to look at it…

The photo’s sharpness, contrast, and overall clarity seemed even more precise than before, and again I was stifled by the sense of fusion that joined Mary’s objective physical beauty with a revoltingly exploitative design: that graceful and exuberant pose, all for the visual consumption of unholy men given to perversity. Every element of the photograph seemed to beckon me to lust—Mary’s bottomless, sparkling eyes; her sighing smile; the high, dark- nippled breasts burgeoning with milk; the toned, shapely legs. I noticed now that every inch of her impeccable nudity either shined in profuse sweat or had been deliberately glazed by some kind of oil, the effect of which caused the entirety of her image to shimmer as if alive within the borders of the photographic paper. But I would not succumb to the lust that this image tried to seduce.

Only love.

A monstrous world, to allow this, I resolved. To enslave the poor and the desperate for the most jaded of intents. I took up a small pair of folding shears from my travel kit and began to shred the photo, from the borders in, until all that was left was the tiny square of Mary’s beauteous visage. The shreddings I discarded; the square, however, I hid in a pocket of my wallet.

Down the stairwell, then, I went; as I neared the entry level, though, the door to the atrium opened before I could reach it, and suddenly I was faced by a slim, attractive young woman in a nice but simple frock gown that so many preferred in the warmer months; she was on her way up as I was on my way down. She lent me a meek smile, then nodded as we converged.

“How do you do?”

“Hello,” was all she said as if shy. When she passed me, I was stung by a tremulous shock; it had taken me this long for the girl’s willowy figure and obsidian-black hair to register.

Monica, I felt sure. One of the pier girls…

She’d obviously not recognized me as the interloper she’d been so ardently pleading with just a few hours ago.

Certainly she’s not staying here… Perhaps she was employed here with the housekeeping service. But, really, why should I be concerned?

I heard her quiet footfalls as she mounted the steps, then passed myself into the atrium, but as the door was closing behind me—and I’m not sure why I noticed this but—the aforesaid footfalls seemed to terminate very quickly. Nor was I sure what compelled me to my next gesture…

I went back into the stairwell and looked upward.

No evidence of Monica could be discerned, but then—

click!

The sound registered quickly enough to bid me to glance up at the door on the second-floor landing. It clicked shut before my eyes.

The second floor, I thought. The LOCKED floor. Monica, for whatever reason, clearly had access to it.

My frown returned me to the atrium. Why this addled me I couldn’t guess…

The congenial bellhop and desk clerk greeted me as I passed. Of the clerk, I had to inquire: “If you don’t mind, sir, I’m curious as to the reason for the second floor being locked.”

It may have been imaginativeness on my part, but his standard smile and good nature seemed to snap off for a moment. “But, you’re on the fourth floor, Mr. Morley. Why would you…”

“Of course!” I tried to sound dismissive. “I should’ve preambled that I just now mistakenly took the second floor for the first.” I would not quite call this a lie but, say, a modest divergency from the truth.

But the man’s good-natured expression had already restored itself. “Ah, well, the floor’s being kept locked for the time being. Renovations. The work shouldn’t take more than a month.”

“I see. Well, thank you, good man, for satisfying my fairly useless curiosity. I should’ve guessed!” and then I bid him a good evening.

Across the street, then, to Wraxall’s Eatery, where an appetizing aroma awaited. The establishment was spotless, and appointed with simple chairs and tables, plus a none-too-surprising nautical motif: photos of old, rain-slickered waterman proudly displaying sizable fishes, a ship’s wheel and a ship’s glass, fishing nets with floats adorning the corners. I supposed it possible that, before the government renewal, this very eatery may have been the dismal cafeteria in which Robert Olmstead begrudgingly dined as unwholesome loafers cast strange glances.

Brass lanterns quaintly housing candles ornamented each wooden table. My eyes thinned, though, when I noticed that Mr. Garret was nowhere in sight. Only one table was occupied, by a soft-speaking couple.

When the hostess turned, bearing a menu, she was struck speechless.

I couldn’t have been more pleased! It was Mary…

“Why, Mary, what a pleasant surprise,” I tried to contain my joy.

“Foster!” She smiled and pressed a hand to my back to urge me to the corner. “Take the window booth. The view’s lovely as the sun sets. I’m so glad you could come.”

“I had no idea you worked here as well.”

“Oh, I just fill in sometimes. But the money’s not bad, now that our wonderful president has signed the Minimum Wage Act.”

I’d read of this: a rather scrimy forty-cents per hour. But then I had to keep reminding myself that chance— and my father’s hard work, not my own—had handed me a status much more fortunate than that of most.

She filled my water glass as I took a seat. “Did you find a nice, quiet place to read your book?”

“Oh, The Shadow Over Innsmouth…” I’d almost forgotten that had been my original goal. “Actually, I was so busy gallivanting about town that I never got round to it. Tomorrow, though. After our lunch date, which I dearly hope is still on.”

Suddenly she sighed, then drooped her head dramatically. “Are you kidding? I can’t wait. It’ll be my first afternoon off in weeks.”

This disconcerted me. “Mary, there’s nothing more admirable than a hard-worker,” and then I leaned close, “but I wish you didn’t have to put in such hours while you’re with child.”

“You’re so sweet, Foster,” she grinned and squeezed my hand. “But hard work is what made America, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” I said, if a bit guiltily.

“Besides, Dr. Anstruther says it’s fine to work until the eighth month, just nothing too strenuous.”

I’m sure this were true, but it still bothered me. When she leaned over to hand me the menu, I could detect a bit of her bosom’s valley, then recalled, first, the jaded photograph and, next, the split-second glimpse I’d caught of her breast in the back room of Baxter’s. Then there it was again, that perfect valley of flesh.

I nearly ground my teeth as I looked away. God! I hope she hadn’t noticed…

Another distraction was needed, but this time, I needn’t manufacture one. A brass ship’s clock on the wall showed me I was five minutes late. “Say, Mary? Has a respectably dressed man, perhaps in his late-‘20s, been in? Brown, short hair? His name is William Garret.”

She shook her head. “No, Foster. Mid-week is always slow—like they say, Friday is Fish Day. There’ll be a rush later, when the watermen come back from the docks. But I’m afraid I haven’t seen the man you’re describing.”

“I was supposed to meet him,” I began, but then shrugged it off. “No matter. He’s either running late, or maybe he secured himself a position. He’s an accountant.”