Тень над Иннсмутом

           Ididnotexactlyrelishthistask,fortheatmosphereoftheWilliamsonhomehadalwaysdepressedme.Therewasastrainofmorbiditythere,andmymotherhadneverencouragedmyvisitingherparentsasachild,althoughshealwayswelcomedherfatherwhenhecametoToledo.MyArkham-borngrandmotherhadseemedstrangeandalmostterrifyingtome,andIdonotthinkIgrievedwhenshedisappeared.Iwaseightyearsoldthen,anditwassaidthatshehadwanderedoffingriefafterthesuicideofmyUncleDouglas,hereldestson.HehadshothimselfafteratriptoNewEngland—thesametrip,nodoubt,whichhadcausedhimtoberecalledattheArkhamHistoricalSociety.

           Thisunclehadresembledher,andIhadneverlikedhimeither.Somethingaboutthestaring,unwinkingexpressionofbothofthemhadgivenmeavague,unaccountableuneasiness.MymotherandUncleWalterhadnotlookedlikethat.Theywereliketheirfather,thoughpoorlittlecousinLawrence—Walter’sson—hadbeenalmostperfectduplicateofhisgrandmotherbeforehisconditiontookhimtothepermanentseclusionofasanitariumatCanton.Ihadnotseenhiminfouryears,butmyuncleonceimpliedthathisstate,bothmentalandphysical,wasverybad.Thisworryhadprobablybeenamajorcauseofhismother’sdeathtwoyearsbefore.

           MygrandfatherandhiswidowedsonWalternowcomprisedtheClevelandhousehold,butthememoryofoldertimeshungthicklyoverit.Istilldislikedtheplace,andtriedtogetmyresearchesdoneasquicklyaspossible.