Howard Phillips Lovecraft

The Colour Out of Space Howard Phillips Lovecraft

West of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe hasever cut. There are dark narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, and where thinbrooklets trickle without ever having caught the glint of sunlight. On the gentle slopesthere are farms, ancient and rocky, with squat, moss-coated cottages brooding eternallyover old New England secrets in the lee of great ledges; but these are all vacant now, thewide chimneys crumbling and the shingled sides bulging perilously beneath low gambrelroofs. The old folk have gone away, and foreigners do not like to live there. French-Canadianshave tried it, Italians have tried it, and the Poles have come and departed.