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The “blasted heath” they called it. Five acres of grey desolation, like a sore eaten into the land.
West of Arkham, the hills rise wild. There are dark little glens where the trees hang precariously, and where thin brooklets trickle, never having been touched by sunlight. There was once a road over the hills and through the valley, but people ceased to use it. The old folk have died or gone away, and the farms and villages are slowly decaying back into dark woods and narrow clearings.
A family died up there. Of a poisoned well…
Preview The Colour Out of Space
| Weight | 3.60 oz |
|---|---|
| Dimensions | 7.50 × 5.25 × .50 in |
| Audio Type | Digital Download |
| Written By | |
| Adapted By | Ron N. Butler |
| Featuring | Bob Brown, Cole McCorkle, Daniel Taylor, Hal Wiedeman, Jalen Deatherage, Jeb Carter, Joe Ravenson, Juliana Finch, Patti Taylor, Ron N. Butler, Ron Zukowski, Wiliam L. Brown |
| Length | 44 mins |
| Release Date | 2015-09-23 |
“How’d yew like to be livin’ in a town like this here Innsmouth, with everything a-rottin’ an’ dyin’ an’ boarded up! Things crawlin’ an’ bleatin’ an’ barkin’ an’ hoppin’ around black cellars an’ high attics every way ye turn? Hey? How’d yew like to hear the howlin’ night after night from the Esoteric Order o’ Dagon hall an’ know what unholy things is doin’ part of the howlin? Yew think this old man’s crazy? Well, sir, let me tell yew that ain’t the worst! That ain’t the worst! That ain’t the worst!”
There is something wrong in the decayed seacoast town of Innsmouth. Something wrong in the crumbling buildings. Something wrong in the cold deep waters.
Something wrong in the blood.
The classic story from H. P. Lovecraft that has inspired millions through literature, games, movies, comics, and the horror of their own imaginations.
Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn
An ancient evil awakens in the Southern Ocean, inspiring madness in all those who sense its coming.
That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die.
Preview The Call of C’thulhu
Ah, the sweet, sweet singing of the whip-poor-wills. Surely one of the most innocent, purest birdsongs one can know, plaintive and perfect in the clean morning light.
Unless, of course, you happen to live near the decayed New England village of Dunwich. Unless, of course, you have seen the mad fires blazing from the ancient stone circles atop Sentinel Mountain. Unless, of course, you remember the horrible events of seventy years ago and happen to be familiar with the name “Whately.”
Then the singing of whip-poor-wills isn’t so sweet and their patient waiting anything but innocent…
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