Колір з інших світів

           Tracesoftheoldonecanstillbefoundamidsttheweedsofareturningwilderness,andsomeofthemwilldoubtlesslingerevenwhenhalfthehollowsarefloodedforthenewreservoir.Thenthedarkwoodswillbecutdownandtheblastedheathwillslumberfarbelowbluewaterswhosesurfacewillmirrortheskyandrippleinthesun.Andthesecretsofthestrangedayswillbeonewiththedeep’ssecrets;onewiththehiddenloreofoldocean,andallthemysteryofprimalearth.

           WhenIwentintothehillsandvalestosurveyforthenewreservoirtheytoldmetheplacewasevil.TheytoldmethisinArkham,andbecausethatisaveryoldtownfullofwitchlegendsIthoughttheevilmustbesomethingwhichgrandamshadwhisperedtochildrenthroughcenturies.Thename“blastedheath”seemedtomeveryoddandtheatrical,andIwonderedhowithadcomeintothefolkloreofaPuritanpeople.ThenIsawthatdarkwestwardtangleofglensandslopesformyself,andceasedtowonderatanythingbesidesitsowneldermystery.ItwasmorningwhenIsawit,butshadowlurkedalwaysthere.Thetreesgrewtoothickly,andtheirtrunksweretoobigforanyhealthyNewEnglandwood.Therewastoomuchsilenceinthedimalleysbetweenthem,andthefloorwastoosoftwiththedankmossandmattingsofinfiniteyearsofdecay.

           Intheopenspaces,mostlyalongthelineoftheoldroad,therewerelittlehillsidefarms;sometimeswithallthebuildingsstanding,sometimeswithonlyoneortwo,andsometimeswithonlyalonechimneyorfast-fillingcellar.