The Innswich Horror (2 page)

Though these men must’ve heard the driver,
their faces remained blank. They were unkempt, shabbily
attired—fishermen, I saw, for they each had an armful of new
fishing rods, plus several rolls of nets. It was clear they’d
traveled to Newburyport to purchase these supplies. Still, though,
the distraction of these rough but normal men didn’t suffice to
sway my major focus…

This is something.
An arcane notion told me that mere coincidence
wouldn’t suffice to explain this. A town—Olmstead—sharing the name
of Lovecraft’s very protagonist in
The
Shadow Over Innsmouth…

The road narrowed, and
grew more runneled, as my olfactory senses told me we were nearing
the water. Suddenly an excitement usurped all other thoughts.
Though Lovecraft traveled extensively his entire adult life, none
of his travel logs that I knew of mentioned a town called
Olmstead.
Had this town given Lovecraft
the name of his main character?
I so
hoped.
And if so, what would the town be
like?

The answer would be soon at hand.

2.

It was an assailing disappointment that
first swept me as the smoke-belching coach stopped in what I
presumed was Olmstead’s town-center. In fantasy, I thought I’d made
a unique discovery: that I’d stumbled upon the true model for the
Master’s most masterful tale, and that at any moment now, I’d be
envisioning Innsmouth’s evilly-shadowed alleys, crumbling wharfs,
and oddly angled, steep-roofed buildings rife with decrepitude and
that “wormy decay” so ably conveyed by the tale’s creator.

Instead I was greeted by nothing of the
sort. Olmstead clearly owed its architecture to the utilitarian
government block-house designs that came with the subsidized
renewal projects of the late-‘20s to early-‘30s. What a let-down!
Olmstead, indeed, was generic, not singular.

The bus seemed to hiccough smoke a full
minute before the motor shut down. The half-dozen shabby fishermen
stood from their seats simultaneously, then filed out, carrying
their rods, tackle, and nets. “Fifteen minutes, in case ya want a
breather and a stretch,” informed the driver without looking at me.
“You’re goin’ on to Salem, right?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I said and followed
him off. He headed across the sterile street, toward a shop.

The smell of fish and
low-tide gushed down the street from the direction I knew must be
shoreward. Nothing at all like the aghast
reek
that so nauseated Robert
Olmstead in the tale. The town-center left nothing particularized
to describe, just block building after block building. Some must be
apartments, for out from their windows hung laundry to dry; others
must be businesses, though I detected not much in the way of local
commerce. Now I had to smile at my overzealousness. The coincidence
of the hidden town’s name was clearly just that.
And this place,
I
thought,
was no more a creative influence
to Lovecraft than it would be an influence to any traveler:
lackluster, unfeatured, insipid.

When rising footsteps signaled me from this
juvenile plunge of disappointment, I expected to find the chilly
driver returning but instead looked up into the smiling face of a
spry, good-conditioned man about my own age, or perhaps slightly
younger, sharply dressed in conservative suit and tie, with
dark-brown hair neatly combed. He carried a briefcase, and wore one
of the smart beige Koko-Kooler hats, which were all the fashion
rage among younger men these days. His expression seemed, oddly,
one of relief, though I was certain we’d never before met.

“How do you do?” he greeted.

“I’m quite good, and hope you are as
well.”

“Sorry to intrude, but its just that your
face seems a bit more welcome than the other men I’ve met here.”
His eyes glimpsed the cumbersome coach. “I take it you’re
traveling?”

“Why, yes. I’m going on to Salem. The name’s
Foster Morley—”

“William Garret,” he returned and heartily
shook my hand. Then he whispered, “Some odd ones in this town,
eh?”

“None that I’ve yet noticed,” I admitted.
“Haven’t seen anyone else about, other than you, I mean. You’re
obviously not an ‘Olmsteader,’ to use the driver’s
designation.”

“No, I’m not. I’m from
Boston, an accountant—er, I should say an
unemployed
accountant. So you
haven’t seen a blond fellow walking about, have you?”

“I’m sorry, no. I’m just taking a stretch
before the coach is off again. Why do you ask?”

Now his deportment shifted
to something more intense. “It’s my friend, you see—his name’s
Poynter. We worked in the same accounting firm but both lost our
jobs when this depression—as they’re calling it—got the best of our
business. He came here a month ago and recently wrote me. He found
a job, I should say, but now I can’t find
him.
”

“Is that so? Did he say who’d hired him
on?”

“One of the fisheries, down at the point, to
keep records,” and then he turned and gestured the source of that
wispy fish and tide smell. “There are several there but none I’ve
found know anything of my friend, and none are hiring
accountants.”

“Perhaps your friend Poynter didn’t care for
his new job and has already left town,” I suggested.

“No, no, he wouldn’t do
that. He was
expecting
me.”

My next question seemed the most logical.
“Where did he direct you to meet him once you arrived?”

Now Garret pointed to a
multi-storied blockhouse across the street. “The motel there, the
Hilman House. I took a room—only fifty-cents a night, so I can’t
complain about
that
—but the strange thing is…” He paused though an aggravation.
“When I checked myself in, the clerk said that Leonard Poynter, my
friend, had indeed rented a room there, and was currently still a
guest. The problem is I can’t for the life of me find
him.”

So obvious was Mr. Garret’s enigma but now I
possessed an enigma of my own. That excited fugue-state came back
into my head, and I knew that I’d discovered something for sure.
First a town called Olmstead and a character called Olmstead, and
now?

In Lovecraft’s
The Shadow Over Innsmouth,
the protagonist checks into a motel called the
Gilman
House, and now
here I stood looking at a motel called the
Hilman
House. I’m sorry, but
this
was more than
coincidence. It
had
to be. Something about this tedious town, without a doubt,
impressed Lovecraft enough to at least borrow some names from it,
and I was suddenly convinced that there must be more influences
waiting to be divulged.

Garret peered close, concern in his eyes.
“Mr. Morley? Are you all right?”

His voice snapped me out of my mental revel.
“Oh, sorry. Something sidetracked me. But, you know what? I think
I’ll be staying on for a few days after all.”

“Splendid!” He whispered again, through a
tight smile. “It’ll be good to know that I’m not the only normal
person in town.”

I laughed distractedly but before I could
say more…

“Hello, gentlemen,” a soft voice
greeted.

We both turned to take wide-eyed note of a
commonly attired yet perfectly attractive woman. She strolled down
the walk, arms full of groceries, and grinned more than typically
at the two of us.

Garret tipped his hat. “Miss…”

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” I plodded.

“Oh, yes it is,” and that was the extent of
our discourse.

“There’s a looker,” Garret whispered.

“I should say so,” I remarked, actually a
bit ashamed, for this woman’s over-typical good looks gave me cause
peer more than I should’ve. Her bosom could be described as
raucous, as she was not only endowed but appeared un-brassier’d.
The respect I had for my Christian faith reminded me what Jesus
said regarding lust, but not in enough time to avert my eyes.

“As they say in England,” chuckled my
friend, “there goes the apple-dumpling cart,” but then he leaned
closer to denote discretion, “but that’s another queer thing about
this little town.”

“That being?”

“I’m serious, man. I’ve never seen so many
pregnant women in one place in my life.”

“Preg—” I began, and when I gave myself
another yet more distanced glance, the more than moderate gibbosity
of the woman’s abdomen told all. “Well, I’ll be. You seem to be
correct.”

“Four or five months at least, and it’s not
the first biscuit in that one’s oven, either.”

I looked dismayed. “How on
earth can you tell
that?
”

He elbowed me with a grin. “You saw the jugs
on her. They’re still filled up from the last one.”

The uncultivated talk was making me uneasy,
for it wasn’t my bent. “But, really, what did you mean when you
said you’ve never seen so many—”

“This town—I’m serious. I’ll bet that’s the
dozenth pregnant woman I’ve seen since I’ve been here, and I’m
telling you, most of them have been lookers.”

“Really… Still, it’s a good thing, if you
don’t mind my opinion. The government is wise to encourage
propagation since the Spanish Flu epidemic of ‘18. We lost half a
million in that, they say, and almost all of them young men.”

Garret nodded grimly. “And right after
losing—what?—another hundred-some thousand more men in that
devilish war with the Huns. I agree with you. America needs more
birthing, especially if we have to get into this next one with
Germany, like so many believe.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt on this subject; I
tended to trust authority. “But the President just declared
neutrality in the European War.”

“It doesn’t give me much comfort, I’ll tell
you. Right after Germany and Russia signed the non-aggression pact,
look what happens. Russia invades Finland. And don’t believe that
Brit Neville Chamberlain either. Peace in our time? Hitler’s
pulling the wool over the whole world’s eyes. And what are the
Japanese doing in the meantime? Invading Manchuria.”

“Let’s pray God that men can find a
diplomatic solution.” It was my nature not to engage in political
conversation, though the man had some points that perhaps gave me
cause to feel naive. “But getting back to our previous, if not a
bit too earthy topic, we must be fruitful and multiply—”

“Just as it says in the Good Book, yes. And
I tell you,” he went on, “I’m not too pleased about Congress
striking the Comstock Act—when was that? Last year?”

“No, no, it was ‘36, and we agree again,
William. Barrier prophylactics should remain illegal except when
prescribed by a physician for the prevention of disease. An open
market for such things really does circumvent nature—”

“And God’s will, if you don’t mind my saying
so.”

“Not at all,” but then we both looked at
each other and laughed. “Not exactly everyday conversation,
eh?”

“No, my friend, it isn’t, but it’s still
invigorating to find someone who shares my doctrines,” he said.

“Likewise. So now I suppose you’ll be
returning to your search for your friend, Poynter. I’m going to
check in to the Hilman and then take a stroll about. I’ll be sure
to keep an eye out for your friend. Let’s meet for dinner tonight.
If I happen to find your friend, I’ll bring him. Say, seven
o’clock?”

“A terrific idea, Mr. Morley—”

“Call me Foster, please. And where’s a
suitable restaurant?”

Again, he pointed just across the street, to
the small restaurant I’d noticed earlier, Wraxall’s Eatery. “It’s
not bad, and large portions for a slight price.”

“Good. Seven—I’ll see you then.”

Garret walked off, a spring in his step now
that he had a “normal” confidante. I, on the other hand, had a new
exhilaration to feed my Lovecraftian obsession. Though the town
looked nothing like the Master’s Innsmouth, what little tidbits of
recognition might I find in its details?

I fetched my valise from the coach, and when
I returned to the street, the driver stood sullenly before me. The
look on his face might be called hateful. “Why ya got your bag?
We’ll be takin’ off for Salem now. Ya t’ain’t staying in Olmstead
now, are ya?’

“Actually, yes,” I told him. “I’ve changed
my mind and decided to stay a few days.”

At first, he appeared
about to object, as though the prospect offended him. After all, I
wasn’t an “Olmsteader.” It occurred to me just now how small his
mouth seemed. The little twist of lips turned. “Now’s I thinkin’ on
it, you might like Olmstead.” Then the fleshy twist merged into
something like a smile. “And Olmstead might like
you.
”

He climbed back aboard the bus, and drove
off in a smoke-chugging clatter.

So Olmstead might like
me?
I mused. Of that I cared little. But
clearly something about it had impacted Lovecraft to blend some of
its peripheries into his shuddering tale of inbred fish-people and
pseudo-occult horror.

Just like in the story, the vested, elderly
clerk at the Hilman’s front desk seemed pleasant and conventional
enough; he was all too happy to let me a room. Without much
pre-cognizance, I blurted, “Would a Room 428 be available?” for
this—as astute readers will know—was the room Robert Olmstead
rented in the story.

“So you’ve been here before!” the man seemed
to delight in a neutral accent. “That can only mean you like our
accommodations. See, since the rebuild, Olmstead looks quite nice
and’s got some fine amenities.”