by Edward Lee
I returned to the woman I’d been talking to. “I’m afraid Mr. Nowry has passed away. We should be sure to remember him in our prayers.” I took a doleful glance to his poor widow, still sobbing in the shop doorway. “I pity his wife, though.”
“She’s expecting any day now,” the woman told me with something hopeful in her tone. “You needn’t worry; the Nowrys are long-term town-members. The collective will provide for his widow.”
Another reference to this collective. My initial impression had been less than positive due to unavoidable insinuations but now, it seemed, I may have been hasty. The initiative, instead, sounded like a very serviceable system of social/fiscal management and profit-sharing. It was heartening to know that Mrs. Nowry wouldn’t be left on her own. As for Candace’s newborn… well, I could only assume it would be cared for by family members or placed in a fosterage program.
“You’re new in town,” said the redhead with the most traceable smile. Then she sighed. “Just passing through, I fear.”
“Why, yes, but why do you put it that way?”
“The handsome men never stay long.”
The flattering comment took me off guard. “That’s, uh, very nice of you to say, Miss, but I must bid you a good evening now.” I walked away quickly. Being complimented so abruptly by women always left me tongue-tied. At least it left me, however selfishly, with a good feeling. I’d certainly never thought of myself as handsome. I smiled, then, when I recalled Mary making similar comment.
The desk shift had changed when I was back at the Hilman House; a stoop-shouldered older woman tended the desk.
“Ma’am, I’d like to write a note to one of your guests, a Mr. William Garret,” I told her. “Would you be so kind as to pass it on to him?”
A moment of fuddlement crossed her eyes. She glanced at a ledger. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid Mr. Garret checked out several hours ago, along with another associate of his.”
“Would that be Mr. Poynter?”
“Why, yes, sir, that’s correct. They caught the motor-coach to the transfer station. Headed back to Boston, I believe.”
“I see. Well thank you for your time.”
That explained that, though I regretted not seeing Garret again, if only to bid him good luck in the future. At least he’d re-found his friend Poynter. It was too bad they hadn’t secured positions here.
Back upstairs, I passed a cart-pushing maid in the hall. She smiled and said hello. It took a moment to recognize her.
It was the maid I’d spoken to upon checking in, the pregnant one, though now…
She no longer displayed any signs of gravidness.
“Why, my dear girl!” I exclaimed. “I see you’ve borne your child…”
“Yes, sir,” she said rather flatly. “A boy.”
“Well, congratulations are in order but—really!—you should be resting, not working!”
She stared at me, head atilt, mulling her thoughts. “I’m just picking up a bit, sir, then I can go home.”
“But it’s unacceptable for an employer to insist you work so soon after—”
“Really, sir, I appreciate your concern but I’m feeling all right. I’ll be to bed very soon.”
“I should hope so.” This was mortifying. And with all the new labor laws in place to protect against such exploitation. “Where’s the baby?”
An odd pause stalled her. “Home, sir. With my mother…” She gave a meek smile that struck me as forced, and went on with her cart.
Off all the things, I thought. All the more reason for Mary to be out of here. Town collective or not, workers—most especially pregnant women—shouldn’t be used as an objective resource. Certain medical conditions must always be given leeway.
I’d already decided that I was going to take Mary and her entire family back to Providence with me. Should it turn out to be a mistake, then so be it. At least I will have tried. My only fret was how and when to make my desires known. It was of the utmost importance that she know nothing was expected of her in return, which might be difficult to convince her of, given the darker aspects of her past.
I will remove her from her burdens, I determined, and give her the life she deserves. And maybe, just maybe…
One day I’d have the privilege of marrying her.
So much for my “platonic” intents, but it was imperative that I be honest with myself. Of course, my idealism was strong, and I knew that things didn’t always germinate into what we truly wanted.
But I knew what I wanted. I wanted her. And I will make every effort to be the man she longs for but has thus far never had.
I knew that I had to buff not only the edges of my outrage over the young maid’s exploitation, but also the sad mishap of Mr. Nowry’s coronary attack—I needed to let my mind stray elsewhere. I decided to relax, then, in the clean room’s quietude, so I sat up in my bed and opened my most cherished book: The Shadow Over Innsmouth. It would not be a concerted re-reading, I’d decided; that would come tomorrow when I found the perfect place, perhaps in view of the harbor. Though the buildings were different, the inlet itself and the mysterious sea beyond was the same that Lovecraft spied when the korms of his masterpiece were first coming to mind, a brilliant amalgamation of atmosphere, concept, character, and, ultimately, horror. Evidently, Lovecraft had been so irrevocably impacted by Irwin Cobb’s sophomoric yet deeply macabre “Fishhead,” and also Robert Chambers’ flawed but image-steeped “The Harbour Master” that he’d seized the basic seeds of these stories and taken them into ingenious new directions, to weave very much his own superior tale of symbolic—and wholly monstrous—miscegenation. In it, when narrator Robert Olmstead accidentally stumbles upon the crumbling and legend-haunted Innsmouth seaport, he discovers, first, that the townsfolks have long-since assumed a pact of sorts with a race of horrid amphibious sea creatures first discovered by one Captain Obed Marsh, a sea-trader, while venturing through the East Indies; and, second and worst, that this monstrous and greed-driven pact involved not only human sacrifice but also the rampant crossbreeding of the creatures—the Deep Ones—and the human populace of Innsmouth. Any page I turned to led to an image or a line that I could easily deem my favorite.
Here was one, a line of dialogue spoken by none other than the “ancient toper” Zadok Allen, whose real-life model had been Zalen’s grandfather, Adok. The line read as thus: “Never was nobody like Cap’n Obed—old limb o’ Satan! Heh, heh! I kin mind him a-tellin’ abaout furren parts, an’ callin’ all the folks stupid fer goin’ to Christian meetin’ an’ bearin’ their burdens meek an’ lowly. Say they’d orter git better gods like some o’ the folks in the Injies—gods as ud bring ‘em good fishin’ in return for their sacrifices, an’ ud reely answer folks’s prayers.”
Naturally I was amused by the convenient parallel: the “good fishing” that the Deep Ones brought to Innsmouth in exchange for bloody oblations. I had to chuckle at this very real town’s own abundance of local fish. I nearly laughed aloud!
Something that I suspect as being subconscious caused my errant page-flipping to stop, and next my eyes were locked down strangely on another line of Zadok Allen’s drunken ramble: “Obed Marsh he had three ships afloat—brigantine Columby, brig Hetty, an’ bark Sumatry Queen…”
A vertigo accosted me as I stared at the words. Then: Of course! I knew I’d seen those names before! They were right here all along… , for now I recalled these same names from the decorative ship plaques in the restaurant.
So not only did the town of “Innsmouth” exist, though under its true and none-too-different name Innswich, but so did these trading vessels exist somewhere in the town’s dim past. I couldn’t help but admire the assiduousness of Lovecraft’s research efforts—something he was quite known for—to plumb such minute details of reality and infuse them into his fictional landscape.
I re-read parts of several more scenes, all with much chilling delight, then put the book up with the heated anticipation of re-reading cover to cover tomorrow. But
there was one more even greater anticipation regarding tomorrow…
I must make every effort to look my best, I realized, then shuddered when I opened my suitcase and found my best suit in a crumpled state. There’d be no place open this hour to get them freshly pressed; hence, I could only hope…
When I glanced into the closet, I saw I was in luck! There, leaning, stood a collapsible pressing board, and atop the high shelf sat a steam-iron. I knew next to nothing of such procedures, but how difficult could it be? I took out the pressing board, looking for some sort of locking pin in order to extend its legs, when—
“Drat!”
—it slipped from my fingers and banged against the back wall of the closet.
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” I complained aloud when I saw that the meager board had struck the wall with such impact that it actually left a hole. The management will be none-too-pleased over this, I thought. Until I pay them double the repair fee. I stepped inside to retrieve the board, then lowered to a knee to inspect the damage. Bits of plaster lay about, while the insult to the plaster-board looked a foot long and several inches wide. This was flimsy construction to say the least, yet of the bungling accident I could only blame my own carelessness.
Before I could pull away, though—
When I put my eye to the rent, the tiniest thread of light seemed to hang in the darkness beyond the plasterboard. Quick calculation told me there must be a small hole in the sidewall, which could only be the wall to my bathroom. When I hastily got up and went to the bathroom I saw that I’d inadvertently left the light on earlier.
A hole, came the plodding thought. In the wall…
A peephole?
The notion seemed absurd but I could not forget my earlier impression: when I’d been bathing, I not only could’ve sworn I heard a human gust of breath from behind the wall, but I’d also been filled with the suspicion that I was being spied on…
No true logic could explain my next endeavor. Careful as ever—while back in the closet—I pulled chunks of the plasterboard away. The damage was already done, so damaging the wall further mattered little; I’d be paying for it regardless of the size of the hole. I suppose my motives at this earlier point were subconscious, but after I pulled away several more pieces of the wall, and shined into the hole the beam of my pocket-flashlight, I detected an area of space beyond that could easily be taken for a narrow walkway. Of course, it must be only a service passage, for access to pipes, electrical wires, and what not. Still…
I pulled away some more pieces until the hole was sizable enough to admit me, and then I crawled in.
Back on my feet, inside now, I approached the threadlike beam. Instinct, of course, put my eye to it posthaste.
I was looking directly into my bathroom.
It IS a peephole, came my first thought but then, No, that’s ridiculous! The Hilman was obviously a respectable lodging-house. The hole could be explained by a number of circumstances: a simple construction flaw, or a nail-hole where a picture had been hung.
Deeper in the murk, though, I noticed another thread of light.
Taking every precaution not to misstep, I proceeded to this next light-beam and found, to my dismay, another hole, which looked directly into the bedroom of the suite next to mine.
I was at a loss for what to think just yet. A modest clatter came to my ears and, with my eye pressed to the hole, I noticed movement.
It was the maid I’d just spoken too, who’d only just this morning been pregnant. Solemn faced and dull-eyed she lethargically went about the task of making the bed and picking up. On a chair by the door, however, I noticed a small valise, which sat opened and showed that it was full of clothes. And on the dresser?
There sat a neat, beige Koko-Kooler hat, identical to that which William Garret had been wearing just this morn when I met him. Near the door, too, sat a briefcase that appeared all-too-similar to his.
But Garrett and his friend already checked out, I remembered.
Once the housekeeper had finished with the bed, she jammed the hat into the suitcase, close dit, then took it and the briefcase out of the room…
Only the baldest, most objective pondering occupied my mind now. I believed there were two more rooms on this side of the floor, and when I peered down—sure enough—I spotted two more of the tiny beams of light, signaling the existence of two more peepholes. Then, in the opposite direction of this hidden walkway, several more such beams could be discerned…
I kept my pocket-flash aimed down, on the floor. If this walkway did indeed exist for some ill intent—either for perversity, or remotely gaining knowledge of a lodger’s potential valuables—there must be some mode of unobservable access. At the very end of the passage, on the floor, lay what could only be a trapdoor.
I opened it, spotted a rail-ladder, and without much conscious volition, found myself next taking the ladder down to the hotel’s third floor…
Black as hackneyed pitch, this climbing-way was; I thought of the esophagus of some Mesozoic creature into whose belly I was venturing. A doorless aperture signaled the hidden passage paralleling the third floor, and it was through that I stepped to face a similarly dark hidden passage. A thread of light marked each of the floor’s rooms but when I quickly looked into them, I noted only untenanted hotel rooms.
So—to the next floor I descended upon the ladder. The second floor. At the aperture I stepped into another hallway clogged with darkness made incomplete only by more intermittent threads of light. Here, though, I vaguely detected voices.
I let my shoes take me as slowly—and quietly—as possible to the first of the peeping-holes.
My vantage point only allowed me to view a wedge of the bland, clean room within, where I saw shelves of canned goods, sponges, buckets, towels, and other such items. The voices were distinctly female and seemed nonchalant. Several young women sat in the room, while I could only see slices of them; they appeared to be sitting on several couches. All were in some stage of pregnancy.
“—from Providence, I think, and he’s quite handsome,” one said.
“Oh, I know the one—he’s kind of shy,” observed another.
“And kind of rich! That’s what I heard. That’s why they won’t take him.”
My mind stalled as my eye remained to the hole. Could they… be talking about me?
A third, barely visible, contributed, “Oh, I know who you mean.” A giggle. “I was upstairs looking in the peep-holes and saw him—you know—playing with himself!”
“No!”
“He pulled himself right off! In the bathtub—”
The other cackled while I, as might be expected, felt my spirit wilt. It could only be me they were talking about…
“—and you’re right, he’s quite a handsome one, but I liked the two others much better.”
“The Boston men?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t have minded being made in the way from one of them.”
“But, Lisa! Neither of them are very handsome now!” and then more giggling broke out.
I could only stare, more at my own bewildered thoughts than the scene within. This was outrageous, women who were more than likely maids spying on hotel customers. It was certainly actionable and I most certainly had a solicitor who’d be more than happy to sue, but…
What’s the reason for all this? I had to wonder through my embarrassment and shock. Women weren’t known to be peeping toms; that was an aberrancy reserved for men alone. And the reference to two Boston men could only mean Mr. Garret and Mr. Poynter. Neither of them are very handsome now?
“God, it’s just so depressing having to do it when they’re like that,” came another observation. “I’m happy to be pregnant.”
“Yeah. And they’re not going to keep the Providence man.”
“Why?”
“I told you, he’s rich. The others are always fly-by-nights—no one knows they’re here—but the Providence man—”
“He’s no fly-by-night if he’s rich. Someo
ne would come looking…”
Even to contort my imagination to its maximum could not account for the words I was hearing, nor the outrageous evidence my curiosity had led me to uncover.
I moved to the next hole…
God in Heaven…
… and found myself looking at the most macabre scene I’d ever witnessed in my thirty-three years of existence…
Several bed mattresses lay on the floor, and in the corners were a few metal pans. “God, I hate this,” snapped a woman’s complaint. It was yet one more pregnant woman, this one rather dowdy and older. She’d perched herself on her knees, to tend to a man who lay on one of the mattresses.
Or, I should hasten to correct: the remnant of a man…
He lay dismembered, naked, scars at the bald nubs where his arms had been removed at the elbows and his legs at the knees. He was lean, pallid-skinned, and bearded, and what the pregnant woman was doing was crudely washing his groinal area with a sopping sponge. Her expression of distaste could not have been more vivid. “They just stink so! And, oh, the lice! I just hate this so much!”
“You hate it!” complained a second woman. “You don’t have to do it!”
This objection had come from the forward-most mattress, on which lay a man in an identical state as the first, only he was clean shaven and blond-headed. I saw stitches showing at the nubs of his injuries. But the woman was not washing this one—she was engaged in an act of overt sexual congress, a look of loath on her face…
But this was a face I recognized:
Monica, I realized, from the pier. I’d just seen her a short time ago, in the stairwell and entering the perpetually locked door to the second floor.
Now I knew why that door was always locked.
What form of madness could explain what I was viewing? These unfortunate men had clearly been made into invalids. For them to have suffered identical accidents? Impossible. And their symptoms of amputation mirrored exactly those of Mary’s brother, Paul. What foul auspication urged me to believe that these men had been purposely and premeditatedly invalidized for this obscene purpose?