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The Colour Out of Space - H. Lovecraft

The Colour Out of Space

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"The Enigmatic Hue Beyond the Bounds" is an extraordinary tale narrated in the first person by an anonymous surveyor hailing from the captivating city of Boston. Intrigued by the grand project of erecting a novel reservoir in the heart of Massachusetts, our protagonist embarks on a profound exploration of an idyllic hinterland destined to submerge near the mythical town of Arkham, as imagined by the genius mind of H.P. Lovecraft.

Venturing further into this picturesque countryside, the curious surveyor stumbles upon a mystifying parcel of land - a forsaken five-acre farmstead, where an enigma, both peculiar and haunting, unfolds. As if trapped in a wistful dream, the once lively farm now embodies an eerie and surreal solitude, where not even a single leaf whispers in the wind.

Incorporating elements from local legends and historical accounts, this retelling delves into the protagonist's relentless quest to uncover the enigmatic forces underlying this unhallowed ground. With every step, the surveyor unearths fragments of forgotten lore, long-buried secrets, and whispers of a sorrowful past. His senses are consumed by a palette of otherworldly hues, hinting at an ominous presence lurking just beyond the visible spectrum.

As the narrative evolves, the reader is drawn deeper into the enthralling exploration of the what lies behind these abandoned lands. The surveyor's vivid descriptions paint a vivid picture of a desolate haven, devoid of life's vibrance, as if nature itself trembles under the weight of an unknown cosmic influence.

Imbued with a wealth of intertextual references and imaginative embellishments, "The Enigmatic Hue Beyond the Bounds" unfolds into an unforgettable journey through the enigma of this forsaken territory. Unveiling layers of supernatural intrigue and psychological suspense, this unique tale will captivate both the aficionados of Lovecraftian literature and those intrigued by the mysteries that dwell within the recesses of our own reality.

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The Colour Out of Space

West of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut. There are dark narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, and where thin brooklets trickle without ever having caught the glint of sunlight. On the gentler slopes there are farms, ancient and rocky, with squat, moss-coated cottages brooding eternally over old New England secrets in the lee of great ledges; but these are all vacant now, the wide chimneys crumbling and the shingled sides bulging perilously beneath low gambrel roofs.

The old folk have gone away, and foreigners do not like to live there. French-Canadians have tried it, Italians have tried it, and the Poles have come and departed. It is not because of anything that can be seen or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined. The place is not good for the imagination, and does not bring restful dreams at night. It must be this which keeps the foreigners away, for old Ammi Pierce has never told them of anything he recalls from the strange days. Ammi, whose head has been a little queer for years, is the only one who still remains, or who ever talks of the strange days; and he dares to do this because his house is so near the open fields and the travelled roads around Arkham.

There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys, that ran straight where the blasted heath is now; but people ceased to use it and a new road was laid curving far toward the south. Traces of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a returning wilderness, and some of them will doubtless linger even when half the hollows are flooded for the new reservoir. Then the dark woods will be cut down and the blasted heath will slumber far below blue waters whose surface will mirror the sky and ripple in the sun. And the secrets of the strange days will be one with the deep’s secrets; one with the hidden lore of old ocean, and all the mystery of primal earth.

When I went into the hills and vales to survey for the new reservoir they told me the place was evil. They told me this in Arkham, and because that is a very old town full of witch legends I thought the evil must be something which grandams had whispered to children through centuries. The name ‘blasted heath’ seemed to me very odd and theatrical, and I wondered how it had come into the folklore of a Puritan people. Then I saw that dark westward tangle of glens and slopes for myself, and ceased to wonder at anything besides its own elder mystery. It was morning when I saw it, but shadow lurked always there. The trees grew too thickly, and their trunks were too big for any healthy New England wood. There was too much silence in the dim alleys between them, and the floor was too soft with the dank moss and mattings of infinite years of decay.

In the open spaces, mostly along the line of the old road, there were little hillside farms; sometimes with all the buildings standing, sometimes with only one or two, and sometimes with only a lone chimney or fast-filling cellar. Weeds and briers reigned, and furtive wild things rustled in the undergrowth. Upon everything was a haze of restlessness and oppression; a touch of the unreal and the grotesque, as if some vital element of perspective or chiaroscuro were awry. I did not wonder that the foreigners would not stay, for this was no region to sleep in. It was too much like a landscape of Salvator Rosa; too much like some forbidden woodcut in a tale of terror.

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