Edward Lee: The Innswich Horror

I’d brought along my copy of The Shadow Over Innsmouth, for after a bit of strolling, I was sure I’d want to re-read it, perhaps beneath a shady tree, or in the park if there was one, or maybe the waterfront. It was a copy of the only hardcover of Lovecraft’s work to be bound and published in his lifetime, the Visionary Publications edition. It cost one dollar plus postage. I was almost certain now that Lovecraft had indeed been in Olsmstead and had been quite influenced by the place. Knowing this would make the re-reading all the more fascinating.

Now. Find a quiet place to read, I thought.

Across the street, passing a flag circle, a youthful woman bounded by, and she too smiled quite generously at me. Her prettiness equaled that of the maid, but there was another similarity: she, too, was pregnant.

Not that there was anything unseemly about encountering three pregnant women the same day, regardless what Garret believed. It merely seemed coincidental.

Coincidences, though, were the cause of my being here, and when I remembered that, my previous zeal was refreshed. Now I could embark on my quest to uncover more topical parities between this very real town of Olmstead and Lovecraft’s very fictitious Innsmouth.

I walked over to the Ethyl Gas Company station, whose sign boasted gasoline for 9 cents per gallon, a penny lower than the city. There I purchased a pack of my favorite Beechies chewing gum with pepsin from a pleasant proprietor but was told that no local maps could be had, just county and state. I was informed, however, that there were benches along the waterfront where I could read comfortably.

A block down, a motion-picture theater advertized Gene Autry’s latest: Prairie Moon. I now laughed at my fantasies: Lovecraft would’ve been appalled to find such modern conveniences in the town that was once the model for the crumbling Innsmouth.

Before I could cross the street, engine-roar startled me with some suddenness, and I turned to see a sizable truck rumble by. Its doors read IPSWICH FISH CO., and it was clearly heading north, to its city of provenance. The back of the truck—I could see as it passed—was stacked full with iced-down fish. The anomaly sparked at once: why would a large fishery such as Ipswich be buying fish in Olmstead? It should be the other way around, shouldn’t it? Olmstead didn’t strike me as large nor involved enough to compete with the big fisheries and, besides, the papers made it plain that fishing in this part of Massachusetts had dropped off due to silt disturbance from the Great Storm and higher river salinity caused by the summer’s drought.

When a finger tapped me on the shoulder from behind, I flinched and spun. Smiling before me in a work apron and plain cotton dress was a bright-eyed short young woman, no more than thirty. Even more so than the maid, her prettiness radiated, and not even the clumsy workboots and unbecoming hairnet could take from it. The hair seemed caramel-blond beneath the net. “Come in for an ice-cream, sir. They’re only five cents, and we make it fresh here. See, we’ve just got our own machine!”

She seemed to communicate the information with an overflow of pride; I was nearly taken aback when she grabbed my hand outright and gestured me into the shop which only now did I discern to be Baxter’s General Store and Postal Annex via stenciled paint on the window-glass.

The bell rang as we passed through. “My name’s Mary Simpson, sir,” she brimmed and rushed around the counter. “I suppose you’re only passing through but you really must have an ice-cream.”

My amusement was intensified by the aforementioned prettiness. “A chocolate, please. I’m Foster Morley, Miss Simpson, and you’re correct, I am just passing through, a bit of a traveling holiday, exploring new parts and such. Plus I’m an avid reader. But I hope to be staying at least several days. I’ve a room at the Hilman.”

“Oh, good. It’s a nice motel now, and so is everything else since the rebuild.”

“Mmm, yes, so I’ve been told by the desk clerk…,” but at once I was seized by an abrupt beguilement: I saw now—now that I’d had chance to make a more definitive visual surveillance—that the bright and bubbly Miss Simpson was not only very attractive and very amply bosomed but also very pregnant. I could detect this quite plainly by the protrusion of her apron. “I’m finding Olmstead most interesting,” I continued. “A successful example of President Roosevelt’s social refurbishment program.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Olmstead was barely fit to live in before that. But now we’ve got all new buildings, a library, a new warehouse district and fire station; we even have an ice-factory on the waterfront, like what they have in the big ports.”

“As a matter of fact, I just saw a truck bound for Ipswich loaded with iced fish. I take it the fishing’s in good repair here?”

She passed me my bowl with a spoon. “It’s never been better, sir—”

“Please, call me Foster, Mary, and please allow me to buy you an ice-cream as well.”

This smidgen of generosity delighted her. “Thank you, sir—er, Foster,” and then she fixed a bowl for herself. “But the fishing, yes, it’s the backbone of the town. We’re actually selling fish to many towns, even Boston, while in the past if we wanted fish, we’d have to buy it from them. Fishing’s better here now than anywhere else. In Olmstead, you’d scarcely know there’s a depression.”

Since she’d made the observation, I suddenly had to agree. I saw only clean streets, fine buildings, and smiling people since I’d arrived, not disheartened breadlines, uncollected garbage, and collapsing homes. In addition, I saw another Lovecraftian parallel: Innsmouth, like Olmstead, was an unusually thriving fishing town.

“See,” she continued with her professional pride, pointing her spoon to the shiny white machines. “We have Westinghouse meat-keepers, too, and our own delivery truck that’s almost new. And—”

I waited for her to finish but instead her eyes merely widened in silence.

“Is something the matter, Mary?”

“What a coincidence!” she squealed. “Your book, I mean!”

I’d set my copy of Innsmouth on the counter when I’d taken the bowl. Her recognition amazed me. “Don’t tell me you’re a reader of the great H.P. Lovecraft?”

“No, Foster, only because I never learned to read much. I recognize the name because when I was only eighteen, Mr. Lovecraft stayed in Olmstead for a short time.”

I very nearly dropped my bowl. “Mary. You didn’t happen… to meet Mr. Lovecraft, did you?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t get that privilege, but here’s something interesting. Back then, Baxter’s was a First National Mart, and my brother, Paul—he was seventeen at the time—he actually waited on Mr. Lovecraft in this very store you’re standing in now. Mr. Lovecraft wanted directions about town, so Paul drew him a map.”

This shock of shocks almost put my knees out. The attractive woman’s brother had met the Master! What precious conversation must have taken place. And now this: the reference to her brother’s map! Surely this had founded Lovecraft’s early scene in the story where a congenial “grocery youth” had provided Robert Olmstead with just that: a map of Innsmouth. Like most writers, HPL had used an ordinary factual occurrence in which to dress the fiction.

“Foster, why, you look—”

“Dumbstruck?” I laughed. “It’s true, Mary. I know it might seem peculiar but the work of Lovecraft is my foremost hobby; I pursue it with a passion as well as any information about his life in general. And this is such a stroke of luck. You could very well help me in my indulgence. Please allow me to take you and your brother to luncheon sometime. Aside from your wonderful company, of course, I’d just like—Paul, is it?—I’d like to ask him a few questions about Lovecraft’s visit—” but then the bungle hit me like a physical blow. “Pardon me, Mary, but of course I meant you, your brother, and your husband.”