The Innswich Horror by Edward Lee

Mary’s poverty
forced her to use as furniture. “You’re a determined woman, Mary,
and with all those children? Plus your brother and stepfather to
care for? Your resilience is quite remarkable. I must confess,
though, I actually met your son Walter today. What a fine lad.”
    This admission seemed to hold her in check.
“You’ve… been to my house?”
    I had to choose my phrases carefully. “Not
really. I was simply walking by, returning from the barbeque stand
up the road.”
    Her words faltered. “And… you met…
Walter?”
    “Indeed, I did. What an industrious young
man. He was practicing—quite deftly—his archery skills. I’d only a
moment to speak with him, though.”
    “But you didn’t… see my… stepfather?”
    “Oh, no, no. I was just passing by,” I
reiterated. “I like Walter very much, but, I’ll tell you, I didn’t
see hide’nor hair of your other children. You’ve a total of eight,
right?”
    “Yes, but they’re younger. They were
probably napping.”
    “No doubt, on such a hot
day.” The temptation dragged at me: to simply write her a cheque
for $5000 and give it to her, for a new house, with real furniture, to ease her
squalor.
    But I feared how that might be taken at this
point…
    “And I hope you’re not terribly disappointed
with me, Mary, but circumstance forced me to break my promise of
earlier,” I went on. “I did pursue an interview with this Mr. Cyrus
Zalen earlier today—”
    “Oh, Foster, you didn’t!” she exclaimed.
    I raised a reassuring finger. “It was of
little consequence, really. You see, I simply couldn’t deprive your
brother of his photograph with H.P. Lovecraft; it didn’t seem
right. And as good fortune would have it, Zalen is still in
possession of the negative, and I’ve arranged to purchase a copy
from him tomorrow. But you were quite right about one thing,” I
said with a chuckle. “He’s one of a shady lot indeed.”

Mary’s sudden downcast expression instantly
made me regret volunteering this information. But I plainly didn’t
like the idea of keeping it from her.

    “He’s a bad man, Foster,” she implored. “And
it’s a filthy area he lives in. He’s a drug addict and a con
man.”
    “I’ve no doubt, now that I’ve met him.”
    “And he preys on
people—on women, Foster. Poor women.”
    “I can imagine,” I said.
    Now she gulped. “And I’m sure… he told you
about me.”
    Here I had no choice but to lie, to spare
her feelings. “Why do you say that? He had nothing at all to say of
you.”
    She reached across and
touched my hand again. “Foster, I have to be honest with
you—because I like you so much—”
    The sudden comment rocked me…
    “—but a long time ago I was one of the women
he preyed upon,” she finished and then looked right at me.
    There was no hesitation in
my response, nor with my smile. “Mary, there are times when
we all take an
erroneous path in life, and when we do unethical deeds out of
desperation, we’re only being human. These are not grievous sins,
and what you must believe is that God forgives all.”
    Her eyes were a blink away from tearing up.
“Does He really?”
    “Yes,” I assured her, and now it was my hand
that took hers. “The entails of motherhood are burdensome indeed.
The past is behind you now, and any of your past misgivings are
behind you as well. The same goes for all of us, Mary. The same
goes for me. You’re doing the right thing now, and you have a
wonderful future that awaits you.”
    She was choking up, squeezing my hand. “I’ll
just have out with it then, because I can’t lie to you,” and then
she croaked, “before the town collective admitted me, there were
times, in the past, when I’d had to resort to acts of
prostitution.”
    “But that doesn’t matter ,” I replied,
unfazed—for this I already knew. “You’re a moral, honest, and very
hardworking woman now. That’s all that matters, Mary.”
    She looked at me so strangely then. “I