The Innswich Horror Read Online Free PDF Page B

presence solicited the look. “Ask
me anything, Foster. You’re really an interesting man.”
    Did I audibly gulp? I hope not! “I’ve
decided to find a quiet place outdoors to read,” and then I held up
my book. “See, reading the story whose setting Lovecraft formed by
his direct impressions of this very town strikes me as fascinating;
it’s my favorite story of any, and re-reading it here will allow
for an entirely new perception.”
    “I think I know what you mean,” she said.
“But the Olmstead you’re seeing today is nothing alike what Mr.
Lovecraft saw when he was here so many years ago.”
    “That’s my point!” I exclaimed of her
perceptivity. “Would you by chance have a photograph of Olmstead
before the rebuild? I’d love to compare it to Lovecraft’s
descriptions in the book.”
    “We’ve never had a camera, but…” She held a
finger up. “There is a man you could try talking to. Er, well,
maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
    Was she teasing me now? I
absolutely quailed . “Mary, I implore you, please—”
    “There’s a townsman who used to be a
photographer; he trained in New York even, and took pictures for
newspapers. He even took a picture of Mr. Lovecraft standing on the
New Church Green with Paul. You can see the entire waterfront in
the background, the harbor inlet and lighthouse, the old Larsh
Refinery, and the town dock, which they used to call Innswich Point
back then.”
    I could’ve collapsed by
these new parallels! Innswich: obviously a variation of Innsmouth.
The dead lighthouse which overlooked the notorious Devil’s Reef from whence
came the batrachian Deep Ones. And the Larsh Refinery: in
Lovecraft’s grand tale, it was at the Marsh Refinery where the gift of
gold trinkets bestowed to human worshipers by the Deep Ones was
melted down and sold on the market. I MUST
see that picture! I determined.
    “Please, Mary. How can I find this
photographer? It’s imperative, truly—”
    Her chin slumped in her
palms. “How can I say no to you ? I only mean that it’s not a
good idea. The man’s name is Cyrus Zalen. He’s about forty but he
looks sixty, and you can’ miss him. He always wears the same long
greasy black raincoat. He smells horrible and he’s… well, he’s just
not nice. He lives at the poorhouse behind the new fire
station.”
    Cyrus Zalen. Presumably a breadliner or, to
use Lovecraft’s term, a “loafer.” In Providence, they called them
“bums” and “rummies.” “An unfortunate turn of fate for a newspaper
photographer,” I remarked.
    “He was a fine photographer… before he got
mixed up with the heroin. In New York he got hooked up with
ex-soldiers who’d become addicted to it when they went on leave in
France, a city called… Marcy? I can’t remember.”
    “Marseilles,” I corrected. I’d read of these
places there called heroin laboratories where they converted the
resin from opium poppies into this devastating new drug. “Still,
I’ll have to find Mr. Zalen.”
    The prospect seemed to
worry her. “Please don’t, Foster. He’s not a nice man. He’ll try to
connive money out of you, and he may even be a thief. He’s known to
do… immoral things, but it would be unladlylike for me to explain.
And this was so many years ago, at least ten, I guess. I’m sure he
doesn’t have the photo anymore anyway. Really, Foster, don’t go
there.” She leaned even closer. “It’s a dirty place where he lives—there’s
probably diseases. A woman died of typhus there several years
ago.”
    I didn’t take her warning lightly, actually
flattered by her concern for my well-being. But if it was money
that Mr. Zalen wanted for his old pictures, then money he would
have. My wallet was chock full.
    “You needn’t worry, Mary. I’m of hardy
enough stock. I survived the outbreaks of 1919 and 1923, and, in
fact, I’ve not been sick a day in my life. I’ll be very careful
when interviewing Mr. Zalen, and I can’t thank you enough for