Жах Данвіча

           ‘Wal,allright,efyefeelthatwayabaoutit. MaybeHarvardwon’tbesofussyasyewbe.’ Andwithoutsayingmoreheroseandstrodeoutofthebuilding,stoopingateachdoorway. 

           Armitageheardthesavageyelpingofthegreatwatchdog,andstudiedWhateley’sgorilla-likelopeashecrossedthebitofcampusvisiblefromthewindow. Hethoughtofthewildtaleshehadheard,andrecalledtheoldSundaystoriesintheAdvertiser; thesethings,andthelorehehadpickedupfromDunwichrusticsandvillagersduringhisonevisitthere. Unseenthingsnotofearth—oratleastnotoftridimensionalearth—rushedfoetidandhorriblethroughNewEngland’sglens,andbroodedobscenelyonthemountaintops. Ofthishehadlongfeltcertain.Nowheseemedtosensetheclosepresenceofsometerriblepartoftheintrudinghorror,andtoglimpseahellishadvanceintheblackdominionoftheancientandoncepassivenightmare. HelockedawaytheNecronomiconwithashudderofdisgust,buttheroomstillreekedwithanunholyandunidentifiablestench. ‘Asafoulnessshallyeknowthem,’hequoted. Yes—theodourwasthesameasthatwhichhadsickenedhimattheWhateleyfarmhouselessthanthreeyearsbefore. HethoughtofWilbur,goatishandominous,onceagain,andlaughedmockinglyatthevillagerumoursofhisparentage.