Edward Lee: The Innswich Horror

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.”

I didn’t spoil his assumption by revealing that I’d never previously visited, but instead I evaded by inquiring, “The ‘rebuild?’”

“Ah, yes, sir. 1930, ‘31 thereabouts, government contractors put up all these nice, sturdy block buildings. Fire-proof, storm proof, like they done lots’a places. When the Great Storm hit last September, there weren’t no damage at all. But Olmstead of the past was a sorry sight. Just an old rotten wharf town fallin’ in on itself. God bless Roosevelt and Garner!”

This came as no surprise. Soon after the stock market collapsed in ‘28, the Federal Re-Employment Act hired on thousands of jobless for reconstruction purposes, paying a dollar a day. Many towns in disrepair were rebuilt. Now, however, inspired by the new information, I couldn’t help but feel sure that what Olmstead looked like before this rebuild had to be the visual picture Lovecraft painted for his readers in The Shadow Over Innsmouth.

My work’s cut out for me, I thought, thrilled by the promise. Certainly, behind Olmstead’s new face there must remain some vestiges of its old face. I was determined to find the crannies and cracks that would lead me to them.

Room 428 proved quite comfortable: well-furnished, a new bed, even its own bathroom complete with Cannon brand towels. Nothing like the dingy hovel that happenstance had forced Lovecraft’s character into. The bathroom, in fact, offered brand new cakes of Lux Toilet Soap, the best national brand. I was also impressed by the RCA Victor Console radio provided as well; it was similar—though not quite as fine as the pricier model I owned in Providence. The room’s metal-framed windows offered a view of the seaward rise, a formidable sight. If anything unnerved me, it was the room’s newness. The entire building, in fact, felt barely used, as though it were a facade, feigning an appearance of prosperity that didn’t truly exist.

But what an absurd thought!

As I made my exit from the room, I caught sight of a maid leaving another room, but she wasn’t pushing the expected cart full of brooms and linens. She was hefting a suitcase. She couldn’t be a guest: her outfit left no doubt as to her duties. The scenario simply seemed odd, but what alarmed me right off was her most obvious trait.

She was pregnant.

“Miss!” I called out, rushing down. “You mustn’t carry that in your current state! Let me take it for you.”

When I’d approached her directly, I was smiled at by a comely, youthful face framed by luxuriant tousles. A more roguish observation might be to say she was one of Garret’s “lookers.” Shapely legs flexed as she lifted the case, while her gravidness—like the woman on the street—had enhanced her bosom to dimensions that would cause even the most steadfast gentleman to glance more than covertly.

“Oh, that’s very kind, sir, but it’s not heavy at all,” she gently replied.

“I insist. You’re with child and shouldn’t be carrying—”

“Really, sir.” She giggled playfully. “It’s light as a feather. And my doctor told me moderate exercise is good for the baby.”

I couldn’t very well argue. Even pregnant, though, she was strikingly physiqued. She couldn’t be much more than twenty, and I guessed her to be late in her term. Something about her proximity to me felt rejuvenating, some impalpable element of her smile, gender, and youth. I considered what she symbolized: vitality, a brimming life blossoming with still more life… All which served to remind me of the counter-productivity of my own indulgent existence. Suddenly my mind raced to maintain conversation, if only to continue in her presence a moment more.

“An acquaintance of mine—Mr. Garret—is searching for his friend, a Leonard Poynter. He’s apparently taken a room here. Have you had a chance to see him?”

The maid’s eyes suddenly seemed weary in spite of her youth and beauty. “No, I’m afraid not, sir,” she spoke more quickly now, her full lips glistening. “It’s not my place to learn our guests’ names.”

“Oh, I see,” but still I struggled for more to say. “What’s your opinion of the menu at the restaurant across the street, miss? I’m to meet Mr. Garret there later.”

“Oh, Wraxall’s, it’s quite good, and Karwell’s opens at eight o’clock, if you’re one to imbibe since the repeal of Prohibition. The people there are nice. Our little town doesn’t seem very big but there’s actually a good many folks passing through—workers and salesmen—between the bigger towns and cities.”

“That’s good to hear, and, yes, it is a nice town indeed—”

“But I really must be going now, sir,” she hastened. “It’s been pleasant talking to you.”

“The pleasure’s been all mine…”

I watched her turn with a downcast smile, yet couldn’t escape the impression that she was slightly uncomfortable.

She disappeared down the stairs, and I urged myself to wait a moment before I proceeded down myself; I couldn’t have her thinking I was being a nuisance or worse, caddish. After a minute, however, I entered the stairwell myself. The maid’s descending footfalls could be heard echoing in the well; when I peered over the rail, I saw she’d already stopped on the landing and was taking the suitcase through the door. The door’s shutting echoed briefly.

Something immediately began to bother me as I took the steps down myself, and I knew what it was when I arrived at the landing she’d stopped at: it was not the lobby door she’d gone into, it was the door to the second floor.

Why would she be taking a guest’s suitcase to the second floor?

I tried the knob and found it locked.

A guest had simply changed rooms, I reasoned next. That was all.

Several clerks and presumably a maintenance man busied themselves in the lobby, all quite congenial, and back out on the street now I spied several shop keepers through windows, a fellow sweeping the cobblestoned main road, and a postage carrier. All smiled and nodded to me. When I strolled down the street, still more local persons met my eye, and not one of them failed to speak a greeting or nod cordially. This forced me to recall Garret’s observation: Some odd ones in this town, eh?

What could he mean by that? Other than the churlish driver and perhaps the several furtive fishermen on the bus, there was nothing at all odd about anyone I’d encountered. He’d mentioned interviewing for jobs at some of the waterfront fisheries; perhaps that’s where he’d been treated oddly. Watermen were known to be a sullen and protective lot as a rule.