The Innswich Horror Read Online Free PDF

yes. So true,” I
practically stammered. But this information? A woman expecting
her eleventh child? And thus far I’d seen several other expectant
mothers. Olmstead is certainly a virile
town…
    Mary opened the box on the counter, and Dr.
Anstruther withdrew its contents: four securely packed quart
bottles of caramel-colored glass. Each was clearly labeled:
CHLOROFORM.
    “No safer anesthetic for difficult births,”
Anstruther commented, and replaced the bottles.
    “American medical technology,” I offered,
“seems more burgeoning now than ever before. I’ve read they’d found
a near-cure for schizophrenia, via electric current.”
    “Not to mention bone-marrow transplantation,
for patients with blood problems, and coming breakthroughs against
poliomyelitis. America’s leading the way by leaps and bounds.
Judging by the current global political climate, though, I fear
we’ll be focusing our prowess of knowledge and industry on war
rather than peace.”
    “Let’s pray that’s not the case,” I said.
“This man Hitler does seem sincere in his promise to annex no more
land after Austria. Plus there’s his pact with the Soviets.”
    “Time will tell, Mr. Foster. And now, I must
go.” He shook my hand once more. “I’ll hope to see you soon.”
    “Good day, doctor…”
    “As fine a small town doctor as you could
ever ask,” Mary complimented after he left. “Seems what he’s doing
most of these days is delivering babies. He’s delivered all of mine
too.”
    I hoped it wouldn’t be too abrupt a
departure from good manners to ask, for the question was somehow
irresistible. “How many children has God blessed you with,
Mary?”
    “Nine”—she errantly patted her swollen
abdomen—“counting this one.”
    Nine children, and with no
husband to bear half the responsibility, came my regretful thought. Truly, she was a strong woman. “It
must be very difficult for you, being on your own, I
mean.”
    “Oh, my stepfather helps out a lot. It’s
just that he’s getting so old now. And, Paul… well—”
    Suddenly there came a thunk from the back
room, and what I could only perceive as an accommodating human
grunt. “What’s he done now?” Mary whined. “I’ll be right back,
Foster.” She scurried through a door behind her.
    I couldn’t help but overhear:
    “Can’t you wait? ” Mary’s muffled
voice complained.
    “Not-not much longer, I can’t.” A male
voice, one in some distress.
    “But there’s a nice man out front, and he’s
asked me to dine with him! Now—” A pause, then what seemed a grunt
on her part. “—get back in your chair! You’ll just have to wait! I
won’t be long—”
    “I’ll try…”
    Mary returned with a sheepish smile, then
came close to whisper, “That was Paul, just trying to get
attention, I’m afraid.” She seemed to be tempering herself against
an inner rage. “The reason it wouldn’t do to have you meet him is
because of his injuries. He’s very self-conscious—he had a terrible
accident several years ago.”
    A selfish notion, I know, but it made me
cringe to realize that the true-life model for Lovecraft’s “grocery
youth” was on the other side of that door and not accessible to me.
And what of these injuries? There was no genteel way to
inquire.
    “I let him stay in the back while I’m
working, so he doesn’t get too lonely. Sometimes he even sleeps
here when no one can give him a drive home.”
    “Oh, I see. It’s, um, good
that you can do that,” was all I could muster to say, but what else
could she have meant by her insistence, Get back in your chair— ? That and
the remark about drives home?
    She could only mean
a wheel chair.
    The moment had struck an awkward note but it
was that same selfishness of mine that sufficed to turn the
subject. “Before I’m on my way, I have a question.”
    She leaned over, elbows on
counter, chin in fists, and smiled in a way that struck me as
dreamy, though I couldn’t imagine that my