Something terrible came to the hills and valleys on that meteor, and something terrible — though I know not in what proportion — still remains.
West of Arkham the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut.
Something was creeping and creeping and waiting to be seen and felt and heard.
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.