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           Icouldnotgointothatdimchaosofoldforestandslopeagain,orfaceanothertimethatgreyblastedheathwheretheblackwellyawneddeepbesidethetumbledbricksandstones.Thereservoirwillsoonbebuiltnow,andallthoseeldersecretswillbesafeforeverunderwateryfathoms.ButeventhenIdonotbelieveIwouldliketovisitthatcountrybynight—atleast,notwhenthesinisterstarsareout;andnothingcouldbribemetodrinkthenewcitywaterofArkham.

           Itallbegan,oldAmmisaid,withthemeteorite.Beforethattimetherehadbeennowildlegendsatallsincethewitchtrials,andeventhenthesewesternwoodswerenotfearedhalfsomuchasthesmallislandintheMiskatonicwherethedevilheldcourtbesideacuriousstonealtarolderthantheIndians.Thesewerenothauntedwoods,andtheirfantasticduskwasneverterribletillthestrangedays.Thentherehadcomethatwhitenoontidecloud,thatstringofexplosionsintheair,andthatpillarofsmokefromthevalleyfarinthewood.AndbynightallArkhamhadheardofthegreatrockthatfelloutoftheskyandbeddeditselfinthegroundbesidethewellattheNahumGardnerplace.Thatwasthehousewhichhadstoodwheretheblastedheathwastocome—thetrimwhiteNahumGardnerhouseamidstitsfertilegardensandorchards.

           Nahumhadcometotowntotellpeopleaboutthestone,andhaddroppedinatAmmiPierce’sontheway.Ammiwasfortythen,andallthequeerthingswerefixedverystronglyinhismind.