And the Yeah, Welcome to H.P. Lovecrafts, the Shadow Over Insmith.

Though these stately old avenues were ill-surfaced and unkempt,

their elm-shadedity 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

partiers 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 Insmith.

Another thing which puzzled and disturbed me, even in some of the best preserved mansions,

was the tightly shuttered condition of many third story in attic windows.

Furtiveness 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

...