The Innswich Horror (8 page)

By now the day’s heat got
to me. I placed my suit jacket and tie in the briefcase, then
continued along. Like Lovecraft, I was accustomed to walking
considerable distances daily.
Perhaps the
Master strolled this same road as well,
I
pondered. Trees lined both sides of the lane. The scenery’s
tranquility was much welcome after the unpleasant affair with Cyrus
Zalen.

Ah!
I thought, noticing the mailbox at the end of a long dirt
drive on the westward side of the road. The name on the box was
Simpson, and all at once, I was tempted to follow Zalen’s queer
advice and go and introduce myself to Mary’s stepfather and
children, but then thought better of it. Mary had implied that her
stepfather wasn’t well.
Better to
wait,
came my sensible decision. If
destiny would have me meet her stepfather, Mary should be
present.

Perhaps the sudden
seclusion created the notion, but as I continued along, I received
the most aggravating—and most proverbial—impression that I was
being watched. Through the woods on the shoreward side I could see
quite deeply; I could even see the edges of Innswich Point, but
easterly? The woods loomed deep and dark. Just at the fringes of my
aural senses I could
swear
I heard something moving, enshrouded. Just a
raccoon, more than likely, or simply nothing more than imagination,
but immediately the most appetizing aroma came to my nostrils. The
roadside stand and smokehouse was just ahead, and now the ragtag
sign beckoned me: ONDERDONK & SON. SMOKEHOUSE — FISH-FED PORK.
Large penned pigs—five of them—chortled as a youth in his early
teens filled their trough with boiled smelts and other bait fish. I
was happy to see several bicycles and two motor-cars parked on the
roadside, their owners standing in line at the stand. It was always
good to witness a prospering enterprise.

When my turn came in line, I was attended by
a weathered, overall’d man wearing a crushed train-worker’s hat,
whom I presumed to be the business’ namesake. “What’ll be,
stranger?” came a gravel-voice inquiry tinted with European
accent.

I saw no menu board. “It all smells so
wonderful. What items do you offer, sir?”

“Pulled-pork sam-itches, or hocks with
greens. What most folks git’re the pulled pork. Best yuh’ve ever
et, and if it ain’t, it’s free.”

“A worthy confidence!” I delighted. “Let me
have one,” and within a moment I was handed a sandwich heaped with
said barbeque and half-wrapped in newspaper.

“Take a bite ‘fore ya pay,” Onderdonk
reminded. “Then tell me it ain’t the best yuh’ve ever et.”

One bite verified the
guarantee. “It’s
pre-eminent,
sir,” I told him. “I’ve sampled pulled pork from
Kansas City to the Carolinas, and even in Texas, and…
this
is
superior.”

Onderdonk nodded,
unimpressed. “‘S’what a fishman’s gotta do when he can’t fish
proper. I think the word is
ingenuity.
It was me who thought’a
feedin’ the swine fish. Makes the meat moister, so’s you can smoke
it slower and longer.”

“It’s certainly a recipe for success,” I
complimented. I insisted he keep the change from my dollar for the
twenty-five cent sandwich. “But… you’re formerly a fisherman?”

“Like my daddy’n his daddy, and so on.” The
roughened man suddenly soured. “Can’t get no fish no more. Ain’t
right. But this works just fine.”

My curiosity was fueled. “You can tell, sir,
I’m not from these parts, but what I’ve noticed in Olmstead—the
Innswich Point area—is that fish seem to be more than
abundant.”

“Sure, it is—for
Olmsteaders, which me’n my boy
ain’t
, even though we’ve owned this
bit of land since way back.” The topic had clearly struck a bad
chord. “We’se outsiders far as they’re concerned. Anytime me’n my
boy been out for a proper day’s fishin’, they run us off. Rough
bunch, some’a them Olmstead fellas. Can’t have my boy gettin’ beat
up over fish.”

Territorialism,
I knew at once. It was more widespread than most
knew; in my own town, lobstering families were known to feud, and
clammers, too. “It’s regrettable, sir. But the proof of your
ingenuity
has created an
alternate market that I’m sure will prosper.”

“Mmm,” he uttered.

“So I take it this matter of territory
forces you to buy the fish with which you feed your pigs.”

“Naw, that we can catch ourselfs—see, every
night me’n the boy sneak out to the north end’a the Point, throw a
few cast nets, then sneak back right after. We ain’t more’n ten
minutes on the water, then we’re gone. It’s only enough time to
pull up a bucket or two’a bait fish, but that’s all we need for the
swine.”

“Well, at least your system is working,” I
offered.

“Yeah, I s’pose it is.” The man’s young son,
at this point, came to stand by his father. Onderdonk patted his
shoulder. “He works hard for a little shaver, and I want him to
learn right. It’s the American way.”

“Indeed, it is,” I said
and smiled at the boy, but then to Onderdonk I asked, “I happen to
be quite given to pork
ribs
as well. Are they ever on your menu?”

“Ribs? Aw, yeah, but we only do ‘em twice
weekly. They sell out in a couple’a hours. You come back two days
from now, and we’ll have some up.” He gestured the pig pen. “Soon
the boy’n me’ll be puttin’ Harding in the smoker. Harding’s that
fat ‘un there.”

I presumed me meant the
largest of the pigs. But I had to laugh. “But you haven’t named
your
pig
after
America’s 29
^th
president!”

“That I did!” the working man exclaimed.
“And am damn proud of it. ‘S’was Harding’s lollygaggin’ and that
Tea Pot Dome business that done led to the stock market crashin’
and leavin’ all of America the way it is!”

Of this I could hardly argue but was still
amused.

“Took an
honest
fella—Calvin
Coolidge—to give respect back to the nation’s highest office, yes
sir!” He winked. “Ya won’t see none’a my swine named Coolidge, now.
But in that sty we also got Taft, Wilson, Garner, and that
socialist FDR!”

My. The man certainly had
political convictions, odd for a rough-handed working man. “So,” I
jested. “I’ll return day after tomorrow to sample some of
Harding’s
smoked
ribs!”

“You do that, sir, and
ya
won’t
be
disappointed!”

I bade my farewell, then patted the silent
boy on the head and gave him a dollar bill. “A gratuity for you,
young man, for doing such good, hard work for your fine
father.”

“Thank you, sir,” the boy peeped.

“A good day to ya!” Onderdonk reveled, and
then I walked off.

It did my spirits good to see the working
class persevere even in the low economic times. The man was to be
admired. Being unfairly barred from the plentitude of local
fishing, he’d contravened the obstacle, to succeed nonetheless.

Back down the road I strolled, a mixture of
thought now elevating my mood. Certainly, the fine meal, and the
equally fine day; the knowledge that tomorrow I would own a rare
photograph of H.P. Lovecraft; the likelihood of another fine meal
tonight at Wraxall’s Eatery, (for, fresh seafood—even more so than
pork—was an appreciated indulgence) and just the simple
gratification that I was, indeed, walking where Lovecraft once
walked.

And there was one other thing, too, which
founded my elation.

Mary.

Mary Simpson,
I mused. So beautiful. So kind and genuine and
hard-working. A uniqueness, even if she
had
once suffered degradations in
her unfortunate past. Pregnant with no present husband, still she
worked to fulfill her responsibilities. I admitted only now that I
was falling in platonic love with her, and platonic it would have
to remain for I could not fathom anything more, no matter how
urgently I may have wished it.

And I would see her tomorrow for
luncheon.

I spun, my heart bucking in my chest. The
surprise had taken me with the most unpleasant manner of
suddenness.

From the westerly woods I had, for sure,
heard a noise.

I was not at all suited for imbroglio,
but—now—I knew I was being spied upon, and I was determined not to
be harassed.

I peered intensely into the wood, then may
have heard a twig snap. “I hear you!” I exclaimed, and did not
hesitate to step through the curtain of trees. “Show yourself like
a man!”

Several more twigs snapped as my stalker had
clearly embarked deeper into the trees. I wasn’t sure why, but I
continued to give well-gauged chase.

Fifty yards into the woods, a dappling of
sunlight betrayed the stalking entity.

For only the briefest second, I glimpsed the
figure, not his face but his attire: the long, greasy black
raincoat and hood.

“Really, Mr. Zalen, this is no way to treat
a paying customer!” my voice surged into the trees. “If it’s
thievery on your mind, I can assure you, I’m well-armed!”

This much was true, and from my trouser
pocket I’d already withdrawn the small hammerless semi-automatic
I’d bought at the Colt Patent Firearms Company in Hartford. It was
a Model 1903, which I’d read had been the weapon notorious bank
robber John Dillinger had carried the day he’d been gunned down. I
was not a crack shot, but with a full magazine, I was crack
enough.

Zalen stood still but had clearly heard me.
At once, he bolted and let himself be swallowed by the woods.

“I’m disappointed, Mr. Zalen!” came my next
call. “But, thief or not, don’t forget our appointment
tomorrow!”

The density of trees soaked up my voice. A
shy, retiring sort as myself might be shaken by such a
near-confrontation but I felt nothing of the sort. I felt calm,
confident, and unwavered, and I had no intention of avoiding Zalen
tomorrow. He had something I wanted, and I would pay for it as
planned. Now that he’d been apprised that I armed myself, he’d be
uninclined for any untoward behavior.

When I turned to reverse myself from the
woods and regain the road, I saw the house.

Mary’s house, to be sure.

Only the dimmest sunlight penetrated the
intricate umbrella of high boughs. The region’s all-pervading lack
of rainfall had reduced the forest ground to a carpet of tinder. I
first dismissed what I was seeing as a hillock, but then a more
concentrated scrutiny showed me small, single-paned windows amid a
long, vast sprawl of ivy. Eventually I detected corners that had
not so been overrun, as well as a slate roof and chimney made of
the old tabby bricks from the pre-Revolution period. Beyond the
squat and ivy-covered abode, though, stood a clearing radiant with
sun and there a lone, wee figure seemed to frolic. As I peered
closer, I saw that it was a young boy firing arrows with a crude
and more than likely hand-made bow. The arrows were those made for
children, with rubber suction cups at their tips, and with these
the lad determinedly took aim at an old, propped up window frame
which still contained glass.

So this was one of Mary’s
older children. Odd, though, that only one would be enjoying these
splendid outdoors. This close to the house, I expected to hear and
see evidence off all eight of her children.
She implied that her stepfather looked after the younger
ones,
I recalled. Yet the house sat in an
almost palpable silence.

At once, I felt
encroaching, even trespassing. It was only the pursuit of Zalen
that had led me this deeply into the parched woods. Nevertheless,
however impelled to leave, I remained, staring at the
leaf-enshrouded house. The impulse to look in a window was very
strong, but then I had to chide myself. Not only would that’ve been
the act of a cad—which I was not—it would’ve been illegal.
I have no right to be here, so I must
leave.
But I had to wonder about the
motives of my deepest subconscious—or what Freud called the
Id.

Was it Mary that my Id hoped to spy
upon?

When I turned to leave, I almost
shouted.

There, standing immediately before me, was
the boy.

I recovered quickly from the start. “Why,
hello there, young man. My name is Foster Morley.”

“Hello,” he replied blushfully. He was thin,
bright-eyed, and had that look of so many children: curious wonder
and ripe innocence. He looked tenish—it was so hard to tell with
adolescents—and had been dressed neatly but in threadbare clothes.
One hand held the makeshift bow, the other a quiver of the
suction-cupped arrows. After a moment, he said, “My name’s Walter,
sir.”

“Walter, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He
timidly shook my offered hand. “Now, would your last name happen to
be Simpson?”

He seemed to quell surprise. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, how do you like that! I’m a friend of
your mother’s. I spoke to her just this morning at Mr. Baxter’s.
You should be proud to have such a hard-working mother.”

He seemed quietly astonished by this
information. “Yes, sir, I’m very proud, and so is my gramps.”

His “gramps” could only be Mary’s
stepfather.

“He’s asleep now,” he went on. “He’s…
old.”

“Yes, and for the elderly we must always
have respect.” I glanced at his twine-and-tree-switch bow. “My,
Walter, you’re quite the archer. Practice makes perfect,” and then
I pointed to his window-frame target from which several arrows had
attached themselves, “and by the looks of your impressive skills,
you may one day find yourself on the Olympic archery team.”