Chapter Twenty-Two

I woke on my own bed. There was an awful moment of déjà vu where I felt sure my father had just carried me back from his lair, only this time he’d planted one of his demon eggs in my belly.

Then the events of the previous evening returned in all their horrific glory.

But we did it! We put an end to him. To both of them.

Those words eased my soul as I forced my stiff, aching muscles to move. Every piece of me felt bruised and battered. It had taken Flannery and another man to help me into a carriage after they revived me with smelling salts. From there we’d gone to the stationhouse, where a surgeon attended to the wounded, including me. A dislocated finger and at least two cracked ribs, but I’d been lucky compared to the ones who never made it back.

Once I’d been wrapped and bandaged, Flannery had two officers escort me to my house, where they managed to keep me on my feet long enough to get me inside and onto the nearest couch. How I got from there up the stairs to my bedroom I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t even removed my shoes before collapsing onto my bed.

Now I made my way to the bath, where I stripped off my clothes, which stunk to high heaven of decayed flesh and despicable fluids, and tossed them into a corner to be disposed of later.

After scrubbing myself with soap and cold water, I took a closer examination of my injuries. Several cuts on my arms, hands, and forehead. A good dozen welts. A fair-sized bruise around one eye. Thankfully, nothing that would require stitches. All in all, I looked like I’d gone ten rounds with a boxing champion.

A second washing removed most of the offal stench from my body and hair. I considered heading into town to treat myself to a public bath, but my strength was already waning and the ache in my ribs rapidly advancing to real pain. I decided that the best cure would be to spend the day in bed, so I slipped into a nightshirt, stripped the befouled sheets off the mattress, and lay down again.

At some point, the sound of hammering interrupted my dreams and roused me enough to sit up. The pounding continued, resolved itself as someone knocking on my front door. I went to the window, my ribs barking in protest. In the murky light of dusk – or perhaps dawn, I’d lost all sense of time – I spied a familiar figure on my stoop. Callie Olmstead. Fearful that she bore bad news about Flora, I was about to open the window and call out to her when she slipped something into the mail slot and walked away.

My concern eased. Had it been anything serious, she would have continued knocking. Remembering her attempts at engaging me in private conversation, I guessed her note would be more of the same. Most likely something to do with her feelings for me.

Certainly nothing urgent.

I fell back into bed and closed my eyes.

* * *

When next I woke, bright sun shone and my pains had subsided to mere throbbing. I took another wash and doused myself liberally with cologne to hide any remaining traces of demon stink. Then I dressed, attended to my hair, and headed downstairs, where I finally remembered to check the time. Half past eleven; I’d spent a good thirty-something hours practically in a coma. My stomach growled for attention and as much as I’d have preferred to numb my aches with some willow extract and brandy, I knew that I’d have to eat something first or suffer a repeat of my previous purging. Also, I needed to keep a clear head, as at some point I’d need to visit Flannery at the stationhouse to discuss my due reward.

A stack of mail blocked the door but I pushed it aside with my foot as I left. Bills and solicitations were all I ever received; both could wait until I had some food in my belly. After that I’d check on Flora, when I had enough strength to be sure I wouldn’t pass out right on top of her.

Sunshine greeted me, so bright it hurt the eyes and prickled the skin. I paused and tilted my face up to it, delighting in the warmth and the clean, fresh air that accompanied it. So unusual for Innsmouth at this time of year. At any time of year, really. A part of me felt like it could be my own doing. Perhaps the permanent miasma of fog and despair that blanketed the city was due as much to the demon that had resided below our streets all these ages as it was to our geographic placement. By disposing of the creature had we also freed Innsmouth from its aura of contamination? I no longer considered anything impossible.

A fresh start, not only for Flora and me, but for the whole town. It served to reinforce my recent decision that I should stay and enjoy the benefits of my heroic deeds rather than begin anew somewhere else.

An hour later, with a meat pie and two cups of coffee – with cream and sugar, even though it cost an extra cent– filling the empty space inside me, I made my way to Ben’s place. I still walked like an old man in the winter but my legs no longer threatened to collapse under me. It took me much longer than normal to cover the five blocks to Ben’s, but I put the time to good use, going over in my head what I’d say to my old friend. A lot depended on Flora’s condition. If she showed signs of being on the mend, I’d push to have her taken back to her own home, where Ben and I would share the duties of ministering to her. If she was no better, or, God forbid, worse, I’d insist on moving her to a private care facility. Cost no longer worried me. There’d be a reward coming my way, and Flannery owed me a huge debt. I had no qualms about calling in a favor if it came to that.

My only real worry was that Flora might still be averse to seeing me. I’d of course explain to her and Ben that the danger was over, that I – the hero of Innsmouth – had put an end to the Fish Street Strangler, the demon of the waterfront. I had obtained vengeance for Scott’s death and Flora’s own injuries, had brought about justice for us all.

But in her fragile state, would that be enough? Or had Ben already thoroughly corrupted her thoughts, using subtle means to turn her against me?

If that was the case, Ben Olmstead had a fearful reckoning of his own coming. I’d changed over the past few days. I wasn’t the same man who’d walked away from his door, tail between my legs. Since then, I’d faced off against a demon from the depths of hell, a monster from beyond our very plane of existence.

And defeated it.

After you go through something like that, the idea of taking a punch or two from a mortal man doesn’t hold much power to frighten.

Let him try and stop me, I thought. I’ll fix his wagon. I fingered my father’s gun, which I’d slipped into my coat pocket out of habit. If my fists couldn’t do the trick, I was prepared for anything.

When the door opened in response to my knocking, a red-eyed Callie Olmstead stood there, a black shawl draped over a black dress.

“Henry. You came. We…we weren’t sure….” Callie’s voice faded off and she dabbed away tears with a handkerchief. “Come in. I’ll let Ben know.”

Fear gripped my innards and rooted my feet in place. “What happened? Is it Flora? Tell me.”

She shook her head and put her arms around me, her head nestled against my shoulder. Pushing roughly past her, I stormed into the sitting room, shouting Ben’s name. If he’d let Flora’s condition decline to the point where Callie feared for her life, I’d kill him with my bare hands.

The parlor was empty and dark, the drapes partially closed and no lamps lit. A bottle of brandy and two glasses sat on the server. The air had a musty smell, as if no one had occupied the room for several days.

Wood creaked and shuffling footsteps caused me to turn just in time to see Ben coming down the hall. In the dim light, he appeared as a ghostly figure and my heart leaped in my chest when for a moment I could have sworn one of my father’s minions had come for me.

Dark hollows sat beneath his eyes and his hair was tousled and wild, as if he’d spent all night at the pub. His white shirt lay untucked over black pants and an undone tie hung around his neck.

“Now you come.” His voice held none of its usual authority and his breath reeked of alcohol. Shaking his head, he went to the bottle and poured himself a glass.

“What’s happened?” I practically shouted, my fear getting the best of me. Something awful, for sure. Had the infection on her arm grown so bad they’d had to take the limb?

“We tried to find you,” Callie said from the doorway. “We left messages at your house. Even went to the police.”

“Messages?” I glanced at Callie, recalling her appearance at my door, and then returned my attention to Ben. “Dammit, man, tell me.”

“She’s dead.” Ben downed his brandy and poured another. “In the early hours of the morning. She died in that awful place and you were nowhere to be found.”

She’s dead. Ben’s words echoed in my brain, drowning out all other sounds. Dead. I tried to grasp the reality of it. My beloved Flora, no longer alive? Her vibrant smile, her exuberant charm, gone forever?

No, it wasn’t possible. They were lying. It was all part of an elaborate plan on Ben’s part to steal her from me. She couldn’t be dead. Not Flora.

“You lie.” I stepped forward, anger rising up inside me. “It’s only been two days. She was just feverish. If you think you can keep me from her—”

Ben shook his head and raised his glass to his lips. I slapped it away and liquor sprayed us both. He stared at his hand with vacant eyes and then took the other glass and filled it. Tears ran down his cheeks as he spoke.

“It’s no lie. God, if only it was. I held her hand as she passed. Whispered for her not to leave me. But she did. And do you know what the worst part was?” He gulped his drink and then pointed the empty glass at me.

“Her last words. Her last goddamned words. She asked for you. For you!” Ben’s voice grew loud. Droplets of brandy sprayed from his lips and burned my face. Before I could respond, he jabbed my chest with the glass.

“Henry? Where’s my Henry?” He mimicked a woman’s tones, the glass striking my chest with every syllable. “I want to speak to Henry.”

“It’s true,” Callie said. “She called for you. She wasn’t angry anymore.”

“Henry damned Gilman.” Now Ben was drinking straight from the bottle. Tears ran down his cheeks. “While you gallivanted around, I fought to save her life. But all she cared about was you, Mr. Nowhere-to-be-Found.”

“Shut yer damn saucebox.” I pushed him away.

“Ironic, ain’t it.” He waved his hands, spilling more brandy. “You all besotted with her, and she goes and dies wondering why you weren’t with her.”

“Shut up.” My fist lashed out of its own accord, fueled by fury and shame. The blow struck Ben in the nose and he stumbled back. His feet caught on a chair leg and he fell over, landing hard on his bottom. The bottle rolled away, trailing brandy across the carpet.

“Stop it!” Callie shouted. I caught myself as I was about to kick him, my foot already poised. He looked up at me, blood running from his nose and staining his ginger mustache dark red. The sight of it brought back unwanted memories of the ghastly fluids leaking from my father’s corpse soldiers.

All at once, my anger faded, leaving only guilt and sorrow in its wake.

Flora was dead, and I hadn’t been there to comfort her.

I turned away and found Callie blocking my exit.

“Where are you going now? There are important things I need to discuss with you.”

“Where is she?” I asked, sidestepping her and her damned selfish attitude. How could she even think of discussing her feelings at a time like this?

“The icehouse.” She reached out with a hand that I brusquely batted away. I didn’t want her comfort. I needed to see Flora one last time.

Ben’s voice followed me down the hall.

“It was always you, Henry. Damn your black soul to hell, it was always you she wanted and you killed her. You killed her!”

I slammed the door on his cries but his words clung to me all the way across town.

“You killed her!”