The Innswich Horror

Her chin slumped in her palms. “How can I say no to you? I only mean that it’s not a good idea. The man’s name is Cyrus Zalen. He’s about forty but he looks sixty, and you can’ miss him. He always wears the same long greasy black raincoat. He smells horrible and he’s… well, he’s just not nice. He lives at the poorhouse behind the new fire station.”

Cyrus Zalen. Presumably a breadliner or, to use Lovecraft’s term, a “loafer.” In Providence, they called them “bums” and “rummies.” “An unfortunate turn of fate for a newspaper photographer,” I remarked.

“He was a fine photographer… before he got mixed up with the heroin. In New York he got hooked up with ex-soldiers who’d become addicted to it when they went on leave in France, a city called… Marcy? I can’t remember.”

“Marseilles,” I corrected. I’d read of these places there called heroin laboratories where they converted the resin from opium poppies into this devastating new drug. “Still, I’ll have to find Mr. Zalen.”

The prospect seemed to worry her. “Please don’t, Foster. He’s not a nice man. He’ll try to connive money out of you, and he may even be a thief. He’s known to do… immoral things, but it would be unladlylike for me to explain. And this was so many years ago, at least ten, I guess. I’m sure he doesn’t have the photo anymore anyway. Really, Foster, don’t go there.” She leaned even closer. “It’s a dirty place where he lives—there’s probably diseases. A woman died of typhus there several years ago.”

I didn’t take her warning lightly, actually flattered by her concern for my well-being. But if it was money that Mr. Zalen wanted for his old pictures, then money he would have. My wallet was chock full.

“You needn’t worry, Mary. I’m of hardy enough stock. I survived the outbreaks of 1919 and 1923, and, in fact, I’ve not been sick a day in my life. I’ll be very careful when interviewing Mr. Zalen, and I can’t thank you enough for your guidance.”

She gripped my forearm with some determination. “At least make a deal with me, Foster. I think Paul has an extra copy of the photo. If so, I’ll get it for you, if you promise not to go to Cyrus Zalen’s.”

I was touched to the point of amusement by the vigor with which she insisted I not meet this man. “All right, Mary. I promise.”

She beamed a smile, then gave me a sudden hug which almost made me flinch. The all too brief contact brought my cheek to hers. The scent of her hair was luxuriant.

“And I can’t thank you enough,” I went on, “for your acceptance of my invitation for luncheon tomorrow. Oh, and here—for your wonderful ice cream.” I put five-dollars on the counter.

“But it’s only five cents—”

“Keep it, please. You can buy a special treat for your stepfather and children.”

The moment lengthened. Her eyes held on mine. “You’re very nice, Foster,” she gushed. “Thank you…”

“Until tomorrow, then!” and I was off.

I left in a blissful rush, not only quite taken by the cherubic and lovely girl but also by this new and surprising kindle to my obsession.

I knew at once that I must break the promise I’d made. Her concern was obviously exaggerated, and I couldn’t very well deprive her brother of a photograph that must mean a great deal to him. The poorhouse behind the new fire station, I recalled, and—there! A sign right before me read FIREHOUSE with an arrow pointing west. A sudden uproar startled me, when several more fish-laden trucks hauled around the cobblestoned circle, but when they passed I noticed that the westernmost road entry was cordoned off and closed—sewerpipe workers were digging—so I thought it best to cut around behind the row of block buildings that housed Baxter’s General Store, Wraxall’s Eatery, and the others. The alleyway gave wide birth and I was pleased to find it clean, free of garbage and its attendant stench, and absent of vermin. I was halfway along, though, when I heard a voice so wee I thought it must be my imagination.

I stopped, listened…

“Bugger. You did that on purpose. I know you did. You want to mess things up for me.”

True, the voice was oh-so-faint but unmistakably the voice of Mary, and when I turned I noticed a narrow window opened just a crack.

It was not my nature at all—please, believe me—but something connatural in my psyche forced my eyes to that crack…

Time seemed to freeze when my vision fully registered the macabre scene within. A thin, haggard man sat troubled in a wheelchair—Paul, no doubt. Either age or despair ran lines down his face like a wood-carver’s awl; his hair was a shaggy tumult. But the severity of his overall physical state trivialized the ramshackled appearance and uncleanliness.

I felt wounded appraising him…

His legs ended at the knees, leaving sleeves of empty denim.

His arms ended at the elbows.

My God, I thought. I’d never imagined that the accident Mary referred to could’ve been so calamitous. My spirit was left tamped when the thought impacted me: that this ruined twig of a man had just over a decade ago been the energetic seventeen-year-old “grocery youth” who’d generously prepared Lovecraft/Robert Olmstead with a hand-drawn map of the town.

And what was now taking place was a pitiable site, indeed.

The girth of Mary’s belly made it difficult for her to bend over, yet bend over she did, after fiddled at Paul’s trousers. It was clear now what his problem had been earlier. A bucket in the corner of the office told me that’s where he’d been struggling to when he’d flopped himself out of the chair: for the purpose of urinating, a task not easily accomplished given his disabilities. I could only presume that his trousers were left perpetually open for such emergencies.

Distaste plainly stamped on her face, Mary held a tin can betwixt the poor man’s legs, into which he now voided his bladder.

Her wince intensified. “For goodness sake, Paul! You go more than a horse! Hurry!”

Another full minute lapsed when finally the void terminated and Mary aversively emptied it in the small sink. “You just want attention anytime you know I’m getting some.”

“I do not,” he said forlornly. “I had to go and you weren’t here.”

She sat with some effort in a fold down chair, cradling the distended belly. “I’m doing all of this for you and step-dad, you know. Working two jobs and carrying another baby. I’m tired of you taking me for granted. You’re lucky to be alive, you know, and you wouldn’t be, Paul, if it weren’t for me.”

Paul railed, elevating his stumps. “Oh, yeah, I’m so lucky to be alive! Thanks very much!”

“Don’t talk like that,” she said in a lower and somehow darker tone. “We could have it a lot worse. Both of us.”

“He wanted to talk to me, not you,” Paul objected, spittle on his lips and tears in his eyes. “I knew Lovecraft better than you, and just because—”

“That’s enough,” came her tempered retort, then she rose from the chair, but before she could exit—

“Mary, wait! Please!” the invalid implored.

“What?” she nearly growled.

“I need you to…”

“You need me to what?”

Now his voice degraded to a pitiful peep “You know… With your hand…”

A hot glare raged on her face. “No! It’s dirty and sinful! It’s disgusting!”

My brows rose high.

Paul’s forlorn whine continued. “But it’s so hard to do it myself. I get lonely back here, and…”

“No!”

“At least-at least… can I see? I’ve got nothing else, Mary. Please. Let me see, just for a second…”

Mary’s comely visage was now a mask of disdain. “No! I’m your sister, for goodness sake!” then she left the room in a whir and slammed the door.

First, the blaring sight, then, second, the implications, left me agog at the window. Yet when my eyes fond their way back to the unfortunate Paul, I heard my very soul groan…

He sat now in a desperate hunch, his back to me, his shoulders moving as his forlorn whimpers drew on. I did