The Innswich Horror

mannered gentleman like you? Never married?”

I prayed I didn’t blush. “I fear I wouldn’t be suitable for any woman,” and then I played it off with a laugh. “I’m far too indulgent.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that!”

“But, yes, I’ll stop in tomorrow morn and you can tell me a time convenient for you.”

“That would be fine, Foster. I’ll look forward to it.”

By now I felt a bit guilty admitting this attraction to a woman with child but, of course, my only interest was strictly of the platonic variety. That aside, this was a great opportunity. What Mary could convey of Paul’s conversations with the Master would be of joyous interest to me. I was about to continue conversation when the bell rang again and the door opened.

“Oh, hi, Dr. Anstruther,” greeted Mary.

“Hello, my dear…”

“Dr. Anstruther, meet Foster Morley. He’s here on vacation.”

I turned to face a distinguished, well-suited man with iron-grey hair and beard. “How do you do, sir?” I shook a soft but strong hand.

He grinned broadly. “I’m splendid, Mr. Foster. How are you liking our little town?”

“I’m intrigued by it, sir, a very clean, self-respecting prefect, indeed.” I glanced minutely to Mary. “And such nice townsfolk.”

“Oh, yes. Perhaps you’re not aware, but you’re sampling the wares of Olmstead’s very first ice cream machine. It caused quite a row when it was first installed.”

“God bless such luxuries!” I tried to joke.

“We’re prospering where other towns are going by the wayside—quite a feat in these economic times. We’ve been very fortunate of late.” He turned to Mary, handing her a stub of paper. “Dear, check this claim number, please. I’m expecting a delivery of some urgency. Mrs. Crommer should be going into labor any day now.”

“I completely forgot,” Mary remarked, checking a shelf of boxes, then finding one. “Will it be her tenth?”

“Her eleventh,” the doctor redressed. He glanced to me. “Stock for the future, as the President says.”

“Uh, yes. So true,” I practically stammered. But this information? A woman expecting her eleventh child? And thus far I’d seen several other expectant mothers. Olmstead is certainly a virile town…

Mary opened the box on the counter, and Dr. Anstruther withdrew its contents: four securely packed quart bottles of caramel-colored glass. Each was clearly labeled: CHLOROFORM.

“No safer anesthetic for difficult births,” Anstruther commented, and replaced the bottles.

“American medical technology,” I offered, “seems more burgeoning now than ever before. I’ve read they’d found a near-cure for schizophrenia, via electric current.”

“Not to mention bone-marrow transplantation, for patients with blood problems, and coming breakthroughs against poliomyelitis. America’s leading the way by leaps and bounds. Judging by the current global political climate, though, I fear we’ll be focusing our prowess of knowledge and industry on war rather than peace.”

“Let’s pray that’s not the case,” I said. “This man Hitler does seem sincere in his promise to annex no more land after Austria. Plus there’s his pact with the Soviets.”

“Time will tell, Mr. Foster. And now, I must go.” He shook my hand once more. “I’ll hope to see you soon.”

“Good day, doctor…”

“As fine a small town doctor as you could ever ask,” Mary complimented after he left. “Seems what he’s doing most of these days is delivering babies. He’s delivered all of mine too.”

I hoped it wouldn’t be too abrupt a departure from good manners to ask, for the question was somehow irresistible. “How many children has God blessed you with, Mary?”

“Nine”—she errantly patted her swollen abdomen—“counting this one.”

Nine children, and with no husband to bear half the responsibility, came my regretful thought. Truly, she was a strong woman. “It must be very difficult for you, being on your own, I mean.”

“Oh, my stepfather helps out a lot. It’s just that he’s getting so old now. And, Paul… well—”

Suddenly there came a thunk from the back room, and what I could only perceive as an accommodating human grunt. “What’s he done now?” Mary whined. “I’ll be right back, Foster.” She scurried through a door behind her.

I couldn’t help but overhear:

“Can’t you wait?” Mary’s muffled voice complained.

“Not-not much longer, I can’t.” A male voice, one in some distress.

“But there’s a nice man out front, and he’s asked me to dine with him! Now—” A pause, then what seemed a grunt on her part. “—get back in your chair! You’ll just have to wait! I won’t be long—”

“I’ll try…”

Mary returned with a sheepish smile, then came close to whisper, “That was Paul, just trying to get attention, I’m afraid.” She seemed to be tempering herself against an inner rage. “The reason it wouldn’t do to have you meet him is because of his injuries. He’s very self-conscious—he had a terrible accident several years ago.”

A selfish notion, I know, but it made me cringe to realize that the true-life model for Lovecraft’s “grocery youth” was on the other side of that door and not accessible to me. And what of these injuries? There was no genteel way to inquire.

“I let him stay in the back while I’m working, so he doesn’t get too lonely. Sometimes he even sleeps here when no one can give him a drive home.”

“Oh, I see. It’s, um, good that you can do that,” was all I could muster to say, but what else could she have meant by her insistence, Get back in your chair—? That and the remark about drives home?

She could only mean a wheelchair.

The moment had struck an awkward note but it was that same selfishness of mine that sufficed to turn the subject. “Before I’m on my way, I have a question.”

She leaned over, elbows on counter, chin in fists, and smiled in a way that struck me as dreamy, though I couldn’t imagine that my presence solicited the look. “Ask me anything, Foster. You’re really an interesting man.”

Did I audibly gulp? I hope not! “I’ve decided to find a quiet place outdoors to read,” and then I held up my book. “See, reading the story whose setting Lovecraft formed by his direct impressions of this very town strikes me as fascinating; it’s my favorite story of any, and re-reading it here will allow for an entirely new perception.”

“I think I know what you mean,” she said. “But the Olmstead you’re seeing today is nothing alike what Mr. Lovecraft saw when he was here so many years ago.”

“That’s my point!” I exclaimed of her perceptivity. “Would you by chance have a photograph of Olmstead before the rebuild? I’d love to compare it to Lovecraft’s descriptions in the book.”

“We’ve never had a camera, but…” She held a finger up. “There is a man you could try talking to. Er, well, maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

Was she teasing me now? I absolutely quailed. “Mary, I implore you, please —”

“There’s a townsman who used to be a photographer; he trained in New York even, and took pictures for newspapers. He even took a picture of Mr. Lovecraft standing on the New Church Green with Paul. You can see the entire waterfront in the background, the harbor inlet and lighthouse, the old Larsh Refinery, and the town dock, which they used to call Innswich Point back then.”

I could’ve collapsed by these new parallels! Innswich: obviously a variation of Innsmouth. The dead lighthouse which overlooked the notorious Devil’s Reef from whence came the batrachian Deep Ones. And the Larsh Refinery: in Lovecraft’s grand tale, it was at the Marsh Refinery where the gift of gold trinkets bestowed to human worshipers by the Deep Ones was melted down and sold on the market. I MUST see that picture! I determined.

“Please, Mary. How can I find this photographer? It’s imperative, truly—”