The

The Welcome to H.P. Lovecraft's The Shadow Over Innsmouth.

Though these stately old avenues were ill-surfaced and unkempt, their elm-shaded dignity had not entirely departed.

Mansion after mansion claimed my gaze, most of them decrepit and boarded up amidst neglected grounds,

but one or two in each street, showing signs of occupancy.

In Washington Street, there was a row of four or five in excellent repair, and with finely

tended lawns and gardens. The most sumptuous of these, with wide terraced parterres extending

back the whole way to Lafayette Street, I took to be the home of Old Man Marsh,

the afflicted refinery owner. In all these streets, no living thing was visible, and I wondered

at the complete absence of cats and dogs from Innsmouth. Another thing which puzzled and

disturbed me, even in some of the best preserved

mansions, was the tightly shuttered condition of many third-story and attic windows. Fertiveness and

secretiveness seemed universal in this hushed city of alienage and death, and I could not escape the

sensation of being watched from ambush on every hand by

sly, staring eyes that never shut.

I shivered as the cracked stroke of three sounded from a belfry on my left.

Too well did I recall the squat church from which those notes came following washington street toward the river i now faced a new zone of former industry and commerce noting the ruins of a factory ahead

and seeing others with the traces of an old railway station and covered railway bridge beyond, up the gorge,

on my right. The uncertain bridge now before me was posted with a warning sign, but I took

the risk and crossed again to the south bank where traces of life reappeared. Fertive, shambling creatures stared cryptically in my direction, and more normal faces

eyed me coldly and curiously.

Ensmouth was rapidly becoming intolerable, and I turned down Payne Street toward the square

...