Тень над Иннсмутом

           IjudgedthispartytobetheoneIhadseenintheGilman’scourtyard—theone,therefore,mostcloselyonmytrail.AssomeofthefiguresturnedtolookinmydirectionIwastransfixedwithfright,yetmanagedtopreservethecasual,shamblinggaitIhadassumed.TothisdayIdonotknowwhethertheysawmeornot.Iftheydid,mystratagemmusthavedeceivedthem,fortheypassedonacrossthemoonlitspacewithoutvaryingtheircourse—meanwhilecroakingandjabberinginsomehatefulgutturalpatoisIcouldnotidentify.

           Oncemoreinshadow,Iresumedmyformerdog-trotpasttheleaninganddecrepithousesthatstaredblanklyintothenight.HavingcrossedtothewesternsidewalkIroundedthenearestcornerintoBatesStreetwhereIkeptclosetothebuildingsonthesouthernside.Ipassedtwohousesshewingsignsofhabitation,oneofwhichhadfaintlightsinupperrooms,yetmetwithnoobstacle.AsIturnedintoAdamsStreetIfeltmeasurablysafer,butreceivedashookwhenamanreeledoutofablackdoorwaydirectlyinfrontofme.Heproved,however,toohopelesslydrunktobeamenace;sothatIreachedthedismalruinsoftheBankStreetwarehousesinsafety.

           Noonewasstirringinthatdeadstreetbesidetheriver-gorge,andtheroarofthewaterfallsquitedrownedmyfootsteps.Itwasalongdog-trottotheruinedstation,andthegreatbrickwarehousewallsaroundmeseemedsomehowmoreterrifyingthanthefrontsofprivatehouses.