Тень над Иннсмутом

           Mygreat-grandmotherhadbeenaMarshofunknownsourcewhosehusbandlivedinArkham—anddidnotoldZadoksaythatthedaughterofObedMarshbyamonstrousmotherwasmarriedtoanArkhammanthroughtrick?WhatwasittheancienttoperhadmutteredaboutthelineofmyeyestoCaptainObed’s?InArkham,too,thecuratorhadtoldmeIhadthetrueMarsheyes.WasObedMarshmyowngreat-great-grandfather?Who—orwhat—then,wasmygreat-great-grandmother?Butperhapsthiswasallmadness.Thosewhitish-goldornamentsmighteasilyhavebeenboughtfromsomeInnsmouthsailorbythefatherofmygreat-grandmother,whoeverhewas.Andthatlookinthestaring-eyedfacesofmygrandmotherandself-slainunclemightbesheerfancyonmypart—sheerfancy,bolsteredupbytheInnsmouthshadowwhichhadsodarklycolouredmyimagination.ButwhyhadmyunclekilledhimselfafteranancestralquestinNewEngland?

           FormorethantwoyearsIfoughtoffthesereflectionswithpartialsuccess.Myfathersecuredmeaplaceinaninsuranceoffice,andIburiedmyselfinroutineasdeeplyaspossible.Inthewinterof1930–31,however,thedreamsbegan.Theywereverysparseandinsidiousatfirst,butincreasedinfrequencyandvividnessastheweekswentby.Greatwateryspacesopenedoutbeforeme,andIseemedtowanderthroughtitanicsunkenporticosandlabyrinthsofweedycyclopeanwallswithgrotesquefishesasmycompanions.Thentheothershapesbegantoappear,fillingmewithnamelesshorrorthemomentIawoke.