He was in the changeless, legend-haunted city of Arkham, with its
clustering gambrel roofs that sway and sag over attics where witches hid
from the King's men in the dark, olden years of the Province. Nor was
any spot in that city more steeped in macabre memory than the gable room
which harboured him - for it was this house and this room which had
likewise harboured old Keziah Mason, whose flight from Salem Gaol at the
last no one was ever able to explain. That was in 1692 - the gaoler had
gone mad and babbled of a small white-fanged furry thing which scuttled
out of Keziah's cell, and not even Cotton Mather could explain the
curves and angles smeared on the grey stone walls with some red, sticky
fluid.
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento