Жах Данвіча

           ‘Thethinghasgoneforever,’Armitagesaid.‘Ithasbeensplitupintowhatitwasoriginallymadeof,andcanneverexistagain. Itwasanimpossibilityinanormalworld. Onlytheleastfractionwasreallymatterinanysenseweknow. Itwaslikeitsfather—andmostofithasgonebacktohiminsomevaguerealmordimensionoutsideourmaterialuniverse; somevagueabyssoutofwhichonlythemostaccursedritesofhumanblasphemycouldeverhavecalledhimforamomentonthehills.’ 

           Therewasabriefsilence,andinthatpausethescatteredsensesofpoorCurtisWhateleybegantoknitbackintoasortofcontinuity; sothatheputhishandstohisheadwithamoan. Memoryseemedtopickitselfupwhereithadleftoff,andthehorrorofthesightthathadprostratedhimburstinuponhimagain. 

           ‘Oh,oh,myGawd,thathaffface—thathafffaceontopofit...thatfacewiththeredeyesan’crinklyalbinohair,an’nochin,liketheWhateleys... Itwasaoctopus,centipede,spiderkindo’thing,buttheywasahaff-shapedman’sfaceontopofit,an’itlookedlikeWizardWhateley’s,onlyitwasyardsan’yardsacrost...’ 

           Hepausedexhausted,asthewholegroupofnativesstaredinabewildermentnotquitecrystallizedintofreshterror. OnlyoldZebulonWhateley,whowanderinglyrememberedancientthingsbutwhohadbeensilentheretofore,spokealoud.