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- Говард Лавкрафт
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- Стр. 7/41
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We
met
no
one
on
the
road
,
but
presently
began
to
pass
deserted
farms
in
varying
stages
of
ruin
.
Then
I
noticed
a
few
inhabited
houses
with
rags
stuffed
in
the
broken
windows
and
shells
and
dead
fish
lying
about
the
littered
yards
.
Once
or
twice
I
saw
listless-looking
people
working
in
barren
gardens
or
digging
clams
on
the
fishy-smelling
beach
below
,
and
groups
of
dirty
,
simian-visaged
children
playing
around
weed-grown
doorsteps
.
Somehow
these
people
seemed
more
disquieting
than
the
dismal
buildings
,
for
almost
every
one
had
certain
peculiarities
of
face
and
motions
which
I
instinctively
disliked
without
being
able
to
define
or
comprehend
them
.
For
a
second
I
thought
this
typical
physique
suggested
some
picture
I
had
seen
,
perhaps
in
a
book
,
under
circumstances
of
particular
horror
or
melancholy
;
but
this
pseudo-recollection
passed
very
quickly
.
As
the
bus
reached
a
lower
level
I
began
to
catch
the
steady
note
of
a
waterfall
through
the
unnatural
stillness
,
The
leaning
,
unpainted
houses
grew
thicker
,
lined
both
sides
of
the
road
,
and
displayed
more
urban
tendencies
than
did
those
we
were
leaving
behind
,
The
panorama
ahead
had
contracted
to
a
street
scene
,
and
in
spots
I
could
see
where
a
cobblestone
pavement
and
stretches
of
brick
sidewalk
had
formerly
existed
.
All
the
houses
were
apparently
deserted
,
and
there
were
occasional
gaps
where
tumbledown
chimneys
and
cellar
walls
told
of
buildings
that
had
collapsed
.
Pervading
everything
was
the
most
nauseous
fishy
odour
imaginable
.
Soon
cross
streets
and
junctions
began
to
appear
;
those
on
the
left
leading
to
shoreward
realms
of
unpaved
squalor
and
decay
,
while
those
on
the
right
shewed
vistas
of
departed
grandeur
.
So
far
I
had
seen
no
people
in
the
town
,
but
there
now
came
signs
of
a
sparse
habitation
--
curtained
windows
here
and
there
,
and
an
occasional
battered
motorcar
at
the
curb
.
Pavement
and
sidewalks
were
increasingly
well-defined
,
and
though
most
of
the
houses
were
quite
old
--
wood
and
brick
structures
of
the
early
19th
century
--
they
were
obviously
kept
fit
for
habitation
.
As
an
amateur
antiquarian
I
almost
lost
my
olfactory
disgust
and
my
feeling
of
menace
and
repulsion
amidst
this
rich
,
unaltered
survival
from
the
past
.
But
I
was
not
to
reach
my
destination
without
one
very
strong
impression
of
poignantly
disagreeable
quality
.
The
bus
had
come
to
a
sort
of
open
concourse
or
radial
point
with
churches
on
two
sides
and
the
bedraggled
remains
of
a
circular
green
in
the
centre
,
and
I
was
looking
at
a
large
pillared
hall
on
the
right-hand
junction
ahead
.
The
structure
's
once
white
paint
was
now
gray
and
peeling
and
the
black
and
gold
sign
on
the
pediment
was
so
faded
that
I
could
only
with
difficulty
make
out
the
words
"
Esoteric
Order
of
Dagon
"
.
"
This
,
then
was
the
former
Masonic
Hall
now
given
over
to
a
degraded
cult
.
As
I
strained
to
decipher
this
inscription
my
notice
was
distracted
by
the
raucous
tones
of
a
cracked
bell
across
the
street
,
and
I
quickly
turned
to
look
out
the
window
on
my
side
of
the
coach
.
The
sound
came
from
a
squat
stone
church
of
manifestly
later
date
than
most
of
the
houses
,
built
in
a
clumsy
Gothic
fashion
and
having
a
disproportionately
high
basement
with
shuttered
windows
.
Though
the
hands
of
its
clock
were
missing
on
the
side
I
glimpsed
,
I
knew
that
those
hoarse
strokes
were
tolling
the
hour
of
eleven
.
Then
suddenly
all
thoughts
of
time
were
blotted
out
by
an
onrushing
image
of
sharp
intensity
and
unaccountable
horror
which
had
seized
me
before
I
knew
what
it
really
was
.
The
door
of
the
church
basement
was
open
,
revealing
a
rectangle
of
blackness
inside
.
And
as
I
looked
,
a
certain
object
crossed
or
seemed
to
cross
that
dark
rectangle
;
burning
into
my
brain
a
momentary
conception
of
nightmare
which
was
all
the
more
maddening
because
analysis
could
not
shew
a
single
nightmarish
quality
in
it
.
It
was
a
living
object
--
the
first
except
the
driver
that
I
had
seen
since
entering
the
compact
part
of
the
town
--
and
had
I
been
in
a
steadier
mood
I
would
have
found
nothing
whatever
of
terror
in
it
.
Clearly
,
as
I
realised
a
moment
later
,
it
was
the
pastor
;
clad
in
some
peculiar
vestments
doubtless
introduced
since
the
Order
of
Dagon
had
modified
the
ritual
of
the
local
churches
.
The
thing
which
had
probably
caught
my
first
subconscious
glance
and
supplied
the
touch
of
bizarre
horror
was
the
tall
tiara
he
wore
;
an
almost
exact
duplicate
of
the
one
Miss
Tilton
had
shown
me
the
previous
evening
.
This
,
acting
on
my
imagination
,
had
supplied
namelessly
sinister
qualities
to
the
indeterminate
face
and
robed
,
shambling
form
beneath
it
.
There
was
not
,
I
soon
decided
,
any
reason
why
I
should
have
felt
that
shuddering
touch
of
evil
pseudo-memory
.
Was
it
not
natural
that
a
local
mystery
cult
should
adopt
among
its
regimentals
an
unique
type
of
head-dress
made
familiar
to
the
community
in
some
strange
way
--
perhaps
as
treasure-trove
?
A
very
thin
sprinkling
of
repellent-looking
youngish
people
now
became
visible
on
the
sidewalks
--
lone
individuals
,
and
silent
knots
of
two
or
three
.
The
lower
floors
of
the
crumbling
houses
sometimes
harboured
small
shops
with
dingy
signs
,
and
I
noticed
a
parked
truck
or
two
as
we
rattled
along
.
The
sound
of
waterfalls
became
more
and
more
distinct
,
and
presently
I
saw
a
fairly
deep
river-gorge
ahead
,
spanned
by
a
wide
,
iron-railed
highway
bridge
beyond
which
a
large
square
opened
out
.
As
we
clanked
over
the
bridge
I
looked
out
on
both
sides
and
observed
some
factory
buildings
on
the
edge
of
the
grassy
bluff
or
part
way
down
.
The
water
far
below
was
very
abundant
,
and
I
could
see
two
vigorous
sets
of
falls
upstream
on
my
right
and
at
least
one
downstream
on
my
left
.
From
this
point
the
noise
was
quite
deafening
.
Then
we
rolled
into
the
large
semicircular
square
across
the
river
and
drew
up
on
the
right-hand
side
in
front
of
a
tall
,
cupola
crowned
building
with
remnants
of
yellow
paint
and
with
a
half-effaced
sign
proclaiming
it
to
be
the
Gilman
House
.
