The Innswich Horror

I must make every effort to look my best, I realized, then shuddered when I opened my suitcase and found my best suit in a crumpled state. There’d be no place open this hour to get them freshly pressed; hence, I could only hope…

When I glanced into the closet, I saw I was in luck! There, leaning, stood a collapsible pressing board, and atop the high shelf sat a steam-iron. I knew next to nothing of such procedures, but how difficult could it be? I took out the pressing board, looking for some sort of locking pin in order to extend its legs, when—

“Drat!”

—it slipped from my fingers and banged against the back wall of the closet.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” I complained aloud when I saw that the meager board had struck the wall with such impact that it actually left a hole. The management will be none-too-pleased over this, I thought. Until I pay them double the repair fee. I stepped inside to retrieve the board, then lowered to a knee to inspect the damage. Bits of plaster lay about, while the insult to the plaster-board looked a foot long and several inches wide. This was flimsy construction to say the least, yet of the bungling accident I could only blame my own carelessness.

Before I could pull away, though—

When I put my eye to the rent, the tiniest thread of light seemed to hang in the darkness beyond the plasterboard. Quick calculation told me there must be a small hole in the sidewall, which could only be the wall to my bathroom. When I hastily got up and went to the bathroom I saw that I’d inadvertently left the light on earlier.

A hole, came the plodding thought. In the wall…

A peephole?

The notion seemed absurd but I could not forget my earlier impression: when I’d been bathing, I not only could’ve sworn I heard a human gust of breath from behind the wall, but I’d also been filled with the suspicion that I was being spied on…

No true logic could explain my next endeavor. Careful as ever—while back in the closet—I pulled chunks of the plasterboard away. The damage was already done, so damaging the wall further mattered little; I’d be paying for it regardless of the size of the hole. I suppose my motives at this earlier point were subconscious, but after I pulled away several more pieces of the wall, and shined into the hole the beam of my pocket-flashlight, I detected an area of space beyond that could easily be taken for a narrow walkway. Of course, it must be only a service passage, for access to pipes, electrical wires, and what not. Still…

I pulled away some more pieces until the hole was sizable enough to admit me, and then I crawled in.

Back on my feet, inside now, I approached the threadlike beam. Instinct, of course, put my eye to it posthaste.

I was looking directly into my bathroom.

It IS a peephole, came my first thought but then, No, that’s ridiculous! The Hilman was obviously a respectable lodging-house. The hole could be explained by a number of circumstances: a simple construction flaw, or a nail-hole where a picture had been hung.

Deeper in the murk, though, I noticed another thread of light.

Taking every precaution not to misstep, I proceeded to this next light-beam and found, to my dismay, another hole, which looked directly into the bedroom of the suite next to mine.

I was at a loss for what to think just yet. A modest clatter came to my ears and, with my eye pressed to the hole, I noticed movement.

It was the maid I’d just spoken too, who’d only just this morning been pregnant. Solemn faced and dull-eyed she lethargically went about the task of making the bed and picking up. On a chair by the door, however, I noticed a small valise, which sat opened and showed that it was full of clothes. And on the dresser?

There sat a neat, beige Koko-Kooler hat, identical to that which William Garret had been wearing just this morn when I met him. Near the door, too, sat a briefcase that appeared all-too-similar to his.

But Garrett and his friend already checked out, I remembered.

Once the housekeeper had finished with the bed, she jammed the hat into the suitcase, close dit, then took it and the briefcase out of the room…

Only the baldest, most objective pondering occupied my mind now. I believed there were two more rooms on this side of the floor, and when I peered down—sure enough—I spotted two more of the tiny beams of light, signaling the existence of two more peepholes. Then, in the opposite direction of this hidden walkway, several more such beams could be discerned…

I kept my pocket-flash aimed down, on the floor. If this walkway did indeed exist for some ill intent—either for perversity, or remotely gaining knowledge of a lodger’s potential valuables—there must be some mode of unobservable access. At the very end of the passage, on the floor, lay what could only be a trapdoor.

I opened it, spotted a rail-ladder, and without much conscious volition, found myself next taking the ladder down to the hotel’s third floor…

Black as hackneyed pitch, this climbing-way was; I thought of the esophagus of some Mesozoic creature into whose belly I was venturing. A doorless aperture signaled the hidden passage paralleling the third floor, and it was through that I stepped to face a similarly dark hidden passage. A thread of light marked each of the floor’s rooms but when I quickly looked into them, I noted only untenanted hotel rooms.

So—to the next floor I descended upon the ladder. The second floor. At the aperture I stepped into another hallway clogged with darkness made incomplete only by more intermittent threads of light. Here, though, I vaguely detected voices.

I let my shoes take me as slowly—and quietly—as possible to the first of the peeping-holes.

My vantage point only allowed me to view a wedge of the bland, clean room within, where I saw shelves of canned goods, sponges, buckets, towels, and other such items. The voices were distinctly female and seemed nonchalant. Several young women sat in the room, while I could only see slices of them; they appeared to be sitting on several couches. All were in some stage of pregnancy.

“—from Providence, I think, and he’s quite handsome,” one said.

“Oh, I know the one—he’s kind of shy,” observed another.

“And kind of rich! That’s what I heard. That’s why they won’t take him.”

My mind stalled as my eye remained to the hole. Could they… be talking about me?

A third, barely visible, contributed, “Oh, I know who you mean.” A giggle. “I was upstairs looking in the peep-holes and saw him—you know—playing with himself!”

“No!”

“He pulled himself right off! In the bathtub—”

The other cackled while I, as might be expected, felt my spirit wilt. It could only be me they were talking about…

“—and you’re right, he’s quite a handsome one, but I liked the two others much better.”

“The Boston men?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have minded being made in the way from one of them.”

“But, Lisa! Neither of them are very handsome now!” and then more giggling broke out.

I could only stare, more at my own bewildered thoughts than the scene within. This was outrageous, women who were more than likely maids spying on hotel customers. It was certainly actionable and I most certainly had a solicitor who’d be more than happy to sue, but…

What’s the reason for all this? I had to wonder through my embarrassment and shock. Women weren’t known to be peeping toms; that was an aberrancy reserved for men alone. And the reference to two Boston men could only mean Mr. Garret and Mr. Poynter. Neither of them are very handsome now?

“God, it’s just so depressing having to do it when they’re like that,” came another observation. “I’m happy to be pregnant.”

“Yeah. And they’re not going to keep the Providence man.”

“Why?”

“I told you, he’s rich. The others are always fly-by-nights—no one knows they’re here—but the Providence man—”