The Innswich Horror Read Free

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