Колір з інших світів

           Eventhelong,darkwoodlandclimbbeyondseemedwelcomeincontrast,andImarvellednomoreatthefrightenedwhispersofArkhampeople.Therehadbeennohouseorruinnear;evenintheolddaystheplacemusthavebeenlonelyandremote.Andattwilight,dreadingtorepassthatominousspot,Iwalkedcircuitouslybacktothetownbythecurvingroadonthesouth.Ivaguelywishedsomecloudswouldgather,foranoddtimidityaboutthedeepskyeyvoidsabovehadcreptintomysoul.

           IntheeveningIaskedoldpeopleinArkhamabouttheblastedheath,andwhatwasmeantbythatphrase“strangedays”whichsomanyevasivelymuttered.Icouldnot,however,getanygoodanswers,exceptthatallthemysterywasmuchmorerecentthanIhaddreamed.Itwasnotamatterofoldlegendryatall,butsomethingwithinthelifetimeofthosewhospoke.Ithadhappenedinthe’eighties,andafamilyhaddisappearedorwaskilled.Speakerswouldnotbeexact;andbecausetheyalltoldmetopaynoattentiontooldAmmiPierce’scrazytales,Isoughthimoutthenextmorning,havingheardthathelivedaloneintheancienttotteringcottagewherethetreesfirstbegintogetverythick.Itwasafearsomelyarchaicplace,andhadbeguntoexudethefaintmiasmalodourwhichclingsabouthousesthathavestoodtoolong.OnlywithpersistentknockingcouldIrousetheagedman,andwhenheshuffledtimidlytothedoorIcouldtellhewasnotgladtoseeme.HewasnotsofeebleasIhadexpected;buthiseyesdroopedinacuriousway,andhisunkemptclothingandwhitebeardmadehimseemverywornanddismal.