The Innswich Horror Read Free Page B

coach, and when
I returned to the street, the driver stood sullenly before me. The
look on his face might be called hateful. “Why ya got your bag?
We’ll be takin’ off for Salem now. Ya t’ain’t staying in Olmstead
now, are ya?’
    “Actually, yes,” I told him. “I’ve changed
my mind and decided to stay a few days.”
    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