The Innswich Horror (7 page)

A cord girded her upper
arm, to distend the veins at her elbow’s apex, and into such a vein
she was now injecting something through an eyedropper fitted with a
hollow needle.
The devil of a man’s got
her addicted as well, to maintain his exploitation of
her…

Zalen, though rummaging out of view, could
easily be heard. “You’re doing too much,” he complained to the
girl. “It’ll ball up the kid. Remember what happened to Sonia?”

“But I can’t help it!” she whined.

“If that kid comes out dead, you’re in a
world of trouble…”

I didn’t even
want
to conjecture what
he might mean by such a statement. They probably planned to sell
the baby to an adoptionage.

The scenario and its
implications were sallowing my spirit. I was
not
in my element, and I hoped this
would be a lesson to me.

Reappearing, he pulled the
door closed behind him, bearing another manila folder. “All I had
were these five,
Mr.
Morley,” he continued to impudently emphasize. “But it’s a
hundred for the lot. Take it or leave it.”

“I won’t be
extorted,
Mr.
Zalen,” I assured him. Such leverage was to be expected,
though. Now that he knew
my
addiction, he would seek as much remuneration as
my indulgence would tolerate. “I said five apiece, so it’ll be five
apiece, and that’s
only
if they’re precisely what I’m looking
for.”

“If you like ‘em, then pay me what you feel
they’re worth. How’s that?”

“Fair enough,” and then I opened the
folder.

The first photograph took
the wind out of me: a seaward panorama of the town which showed a
declining sweep of sagging gambrel rooftops, half-collapsed gables,
and smokeless chimney pots. Closer to the sea rose a triad of lofty
steeples, two of which were missing their clockfaces.
My God,
 
I thought.
It’s nearly straight from the text: Robert Olmstead’s first
glimpse of Innsmouth from Joe Sargent’s bus window.
A second photo depicted the crumbling waterfront,
its half-fallen wharves, fishing boats with ruptured hulls, and
mountains of disused lobster traps. A row of sullen factories and
processing plants—long abandoned—rose behind this scene of
decrepitude and neglect, but again, it was straight from HPL’s
grimly vivid description in the book. The third photograph showed a
low-roofed stone building surrounded by Doric pillars; its outer
walls looked eroded by age. Two large double lancet doors stood
open, showing depthless black.

“That’s the old Freemason Hall,” Zalen
informed.

And then it hit me. “Of course! It was this
building that Lovecraft fancied the Esoteric Order of Dagon, where
the crossbred priests held services of worship. They wore
flamboyant raiments and tiaras of gold.”

“Now turn to the last picture,” he
goaded.

But the next photo would
be the fourth, and I’d thought Zalen said that
five
comprised the lot.
Nevertheless, I turned to the next and was stunned by the vision of
a macabre sunset over the harbor inlet. The effect made the water
look molten. Past more decayed wharves and flanks of leaning,
boarded-up shacks whose roofs looked fit to fall in was a vista of
the sun-touched channel and what barely noticeably existed a mile
or so beyond: an irregular black line just above the water’s
surface. A dead lighthouse seemed to look northward.

“Lovecraft’s Devil’s Reef,” I knew at a
glance.

“Um-hmm. Nothin’ devilish about it, though,”
Zalen said. “It’s not really even a reef. It’s just a sandbar.” He
rubbed his hands together. “But they’re good pictures, right?”

“They are,” I admitted. “It’s a pity how
you’ve chosen to vitiate and hence debauch such a laudable talent
for the art of photography.”

I still felt rocked by the impact of the
photos—the truth that they assured in their depiction of the town
so long ago. “When, exactly, were these taken, Mr. Zalen?”

“Summer of 1928, July, I’m pretty sure. The
only reason I took them was because Lovecraft wanted them. I did it
gratis because I thought maybe he’d recommend me to some of those
freaky pulp magazines he wrote for. Never did, though, the cheap
bastard.”

Knowing this even spurred my interest to a
new height and as such they were worth considerably more than five
dollars apiece. But I was offended by this attempt at extortion.
“I’ll give you fifty dollars for the set, but not one hundred.”

“It’s a hundred,” he stood
firm. Then came that frowzy smile again. “But you haven’t seen the
last picture,
Mr.
Morley.”

“Oh. That’s right.” I flipped to the final
photograph.

I stared down, unblinking. Many seconds
ticked by like this. Then I closed the folder, rose, and gave Zalen
a hundred-dollar bill. “Good day, Mr. Zalen.”

“Tomorrow at four, then?”

“Rest assured I’ll be here.”

“With another hundred for the Lovecraft
picture.”

“Another
ninety-five.
” I headed
for the door. “Please don’t disappoint me, Mr. Zalen.”

He laughed. “They only way I could do that
is if I shoot up a hot shot tonight with the horse I’m gonna buy
with the cash you just gave me. Leading cause of death for junkies,
you know.”

“If you’re going to die
via an overdose, Mr. Zalen, please don’t do it by tomorrow.” My
hand found the dirty doorknob. “But the day
after
tomorrow would be
fine.”

“That’s the spirit!”

I stepped out of the fetid,
chemical-smelling room and felt welcomed into the overly warm light
of day. Zalen’s squalid apartment had been as dark as his
heart.

His near-emaciated form
hung in the doorway. “Going back to your room now, huh? To pursue
your
hobby?
”

Even in light of what I’d just purchased,
the implication via his tone couldn’t have offended me more. “My
hobby, Mr. Zalen, as you know, is the work of H.P. Lovecraft.”

“Right. So I guess you’ll
walk around town now… to
see
what Lovecraft saw.”

“That’s precisely what I’m going to do, not
that it’s any of your business. I’m going to Innswich Point.”

“It’s pretty dull now, Mr. Morley. Just
block buildings and a cement pier.” Did he snigger? “But don’t go
there at night.”

I frowned on his moss-blotched front step.
“Really, Mr. Zalen. The Deep Ones will get me? The acolytes of
Barnabas Marsh will offer me up to Dagon?”

“Nope, but the rummies and fugitives will
have a lot of fun with a guy like you. Drug runners hole up
there.”

“Good friends of yours, no doubt.”

“They bring it in by boats.” The ungainly
man scratched the inside of an elbow. “And my grandfather wasn’t
lying when he told Lovecraft about the network of tunnels under the
old waterfront. They go back to the 1700s. Privateers and smugglers
would use them as hideouts.”

This was of interest, though I didn’t let
on.

“And if you want a real
treat, take a hike up the main road north and have a look at Mary’s
place,” he snidely continued. “It’s a real
slice of life.
It’s just shy of the
Onderdonks.”

My wince communicated my
inconvenience, but suddenly I
was
curious, as to where Mary lived in her life of
travail and the burden of so many children she was raising all
without the help of a man. “Onderdonks,” I repeated. “Oh, the
roadside stand I saw?”

“Yeah. And try the barbeque,” though this
time, I wasn’t sure how to decipher his belligerent tone of
voice.

I was determined to leave now; I would allow
no further badgering but as I commenced, he added, “And you might
want to read that book a little more closely, too.”

I turned on the cracked
walk. “Surely you don’t mean
The Shadow
Over Innsmouth.
”

“What did you think?”

“I’ve read it dozens of times, Mr. Zalen,
with great attentiveness. I can likely quote most of its 25,000
words verbatim, so whatever do you mean?”

The sun highlighted the
coarse details of this utterly corroded man. “In the story, what
happened to outsiders who did too much nosing around,
Mr.
Morley?”

I walked away, almost amused now by this
final, cheap attempt at melodrama.

“And tonight?” he called after me, “when
you’re fucking Mary for a couple of bucks? Tell her the father of
her third or fourth kid says hi…”

So much for my amusement. The man was
intolerable, and perhaps he was working on my psyche with a bit
more effect than I’d care to admit. The only thing I hated more
than him was what his manipulation had caused me to do.

When I found a secluded
recess of trees, I opened the folder and looked at that fifth
picture beneath the photos of the town. It was a photograph of
Mary, of course, in depressingly expert resolution and lighting.
She was naked, yes, and—worse—pregnant, yet even in this state she
managed a gracile posture for Zalen’s wretched lens. It was some
horrendous collision of opposites that had triggered my
instantaneous purchase. But I
knew,
I knew for the life of me and for the love
of
God,
that I
WAS NOT one of Zalen’s degenerate clients. It was the shock of the
aforementioned collision that forced me to buy it: loveliness wed
to a revolting design, the grace of beauty hand in hand with the
balefulness of womanhood subjugated. It occurred to me now that
Mary was so beautiful, I could’ve cringed. I would’ve guessed her
to be five years younger in the picture but if anything her current
beauty shined even more intensely. So what if a portion of Zalen’s
salacious slander was, in essence, fact? Even if, in dimmer times,
she
had
been a
prostitute, who was I to judge?

I would
not.
For time
immemorial, women have been exploited within the grips of a man’s
lustful world; Mary’s past deeds mattered none to me, because I
know that God forgives all. I could only pray that He would
forgive
me.

Back toward the town’s center, I found a
bargain shop which had precisely what I needed: a small briefcase.
I made my purchase from yet another amiable Olmsteader, a Mr.
Nowry, who was very gracious over my tip. “Where might I find the
most direct route to the waterfront?” I asked.

“Just follow the main cobble out front,
sir,” he pointed. “That’ll take ya straight to the water. And a
beautiful waterfront it is.”

“Yes, I’m certain, and thank you.”

“Just make sure,” he rushed to add, “you’re
not there after dark.”

The kind warning didn’t set well. “But
Olmstead hardly seems—”

“Oh, yes, sir, it’s a fine town’a fine
people. But any town, mind ya, has got its bad apples.”

True enough. Before I left, I noticed whom I
presumed must be his wife in a back office, scribbling on
papers.

Her overlarge frock-dress made no secret of
the fact she was pregnant.

Another woman with
child,
I thought, and I tried with
difficulty at first to cogitate my concern. True, I’d encountered
what seemed to be an undue number of pregnant women in the little
time since I’d arrived, but then I had to remind myself I was
essentially a cosmopolite in a new and quite blue collar little
village. In truth, I supported the government’s initiatives to
encourage population-growth. These small townships were more
close-knit and, obviously, more conceptive, which was all for the
greater good in the long run. Remembering this, I reconsidered my
initial reaction to the number of expectant mothers I’d seen.
Surely, it was not as
undue
as I’d thought.

As I leisurely approached the waterfront,
though, I noticed a short open blockhouse in which I could see a
full dozen women contentedly shucking and canning fresh oysters.
Most of them were pregnant.

Zalen’s assessment of the town’s industrial
hub rang too true. I saw at once, in spite of the gorgeous,
surf-scented vista of the harbor, that Innswich Point was indeed a
very dull sight to behold. But, oh, to have seen it as Lovecraft
did! At least Zalen’s photo would allow me a facsimile of the
privilege. Now all that remained was the partial name that the
Master had borrowed. More disappointment struck me when I gazed out
to the reef but then recalled that it was no reef at all but a
ho-hum sandbar. Workers about the Point’s many fish processors and
boat docks were mainly strong, plain-faced men, much like the few
I’d shared the bus with. I wouldn’t say that they glared at me, but
their cast was not particularly welcoming. This, for sure now, was
the impetus for Garret’s condemnation of the male populace; he was
referring to these surly watermen.

The blockhouse of the ice-making facility
clattered and roared, loud trucks coming and going. From a higher
window in one of the fish plants, though, a pretty faced woman
smiled at me, and as I left, several more women in another open
blockhouse smiled at me as well. They sat at long tables, repairing
fishing nets.

Most of them were pregnant.

I left the innocuous scene and its every day
toil behind me. An appetite had built up since my ice cream with
Mary, and suddenly I was so looking forward to my luncheon with her
on the morrow. Nor had I forgotten my dinner appointment with the
high-spirited Mr. William Garret, though I regretted I had gleaned
no news of his misplaced associate. When a distant bell tolled
three times, I knew I’d never last another four hours till dinner
so, next, I found myself strolling north up the main road, exiting
the town proper.