1001 Ghost, Chiller & Lovecraft Stories
Aug 16, 2026 · 26 min · 10 segments
# **1001 GHOST, CHILLER & LOVECRAFT STORIES** ## **Show Notes –** ***The Colour Out of Space*** **(Part One)** ### *Summer of Lovecraft* Few stories in the Lovecraft canon have cast a longer shadow…
West of Arkham, the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut.
There are dark, narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, and where the thin brooklets trickle without ever having caught the glint of sunlight.
On the gentler slopes there are farms, ancient and rocky, with squat, moss-coated cottages brooding eternally over old New England secrets in the lee of great ledges, But these are all vacant now, the wide chimneys crumbling and the shingled sides bulging perilously beneath low gambrel roofs.
It is not because of anything that can be seen or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined.
The place is not good for imagination, and does not bring restful dreams at night." It must be this which keeps the foreigners away, for old Ammi Pierce has never told them of anything he recalls from the strange days.
Ammi, whose head has been a little queer for years, is the only one who still remains, or whoever talks of the strange days, and he dares to do this because his house is so near the open fields and the traveled roads around Arkham.
There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys that ran straight where the blasted heath is now, but people ceased to use it and a new road was laid curving far toward the south.
Traces of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a returning wilderness, and some of them will doubtless linger even when half the hollows are flooded for the new reservoir.
Then the dark woods will be cut down and the blasted heath will slumber far below blue waters whose surface will mirror the sky and ripple the sun.
And the secrets of the strange days will be one with the deep's secrets, one with the hidden lore of old ocean and all the mystery of primal earth.
When I went into the hills and vales to survey for the new reservoir, they told me the place was evil.
They told me this in Arkham, and because that is a very old town full of witch legends, I thought the evil must be something which grandmas had whispered to children through centuries.
The name Blasted Heath seems to be very odd and theatrical, and I wondered how it had come into the folklore of a Puritan people.
Then I saw that dark westward tangle of glens and slopes for myself, and ceased to wonder at anything besides its own elder mystery.
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 dark moss and mattings of infinite years of decay.
In the open spaces, mostly along the line of the old road, there were little hillside farms, sometimes with all the buildings standing, sometimes with only one or two, and sometimes with only a lone chimney or fast-filling cellar.
Upon everything was a haze of restlessness and oppression, a touch of the unreal and the grotesque, as if some vital element of perspective or chiaroscuro were awry.
I did not wonder that the foreigners would not stay, for this was no region to sleep in.
It was too much like a landscape of Salvatore Rosa, too much like some forbidden woodcut in a tale of terror.
West of Arkham, the hills rise wild, and there are valleys with deep woods that no axe has ever cut.
There are dark, narrow glens where the trees slope fantastically, and where the thin brooklets trickle without ever having caught the glint of sunlight.
On the gentler slopes there are farms, ancient and rocky, with squat, moss-coated cottages brooding eternally over old New England secrets in the lee of great ledges, But these are all vacant now, the wide chimneys crumbling and the shingled sides bulging perilously beneath low gambrel roofs.
It is not because of anything that can be seen or heard or handled, but because of something that is imagined.
The place is not good for imagination, and does not bring restful dreams at night." It must be this which keeps the foreigners away, for old Ammi Pierce has never told them of anything he recalls from the strange days.
Ammi, whose head has been a little queer for years, is the only one who still remains, or whoever talks of the strange days, and he dares to do this because his house is so near the open fields and the traveled roads around Arkham.
There was once a road over the hills and through the valleys that ran straight where the blasted heath is now, but people ceased to use it and a new road was laid curving far toward the south.
Traces of the old one can still be found amidst the weeds of a returning wilderness, and some of them will doubtless linger even when half the hollows are flooded for the new reservoir.
Then the dark woods will be cut down and the blasted heath will slumber far below blue waters whose surface will mirror the sky and ripple the sun.
And the secrets of the strange days will be one with the deep's secrets, one with the hidden lore of old ocean and all the mystery of primal earth.
When I went into the hills and vales to survey for the new reservoir, they told me the place was evil.
They told me this in Arkham, and because that is a very old town full of witch legends, I thought the evil must be something which grandmas had whispered to children through centuries.
The name Blasted Heath seems to be very odd and theatrical, and I wondered how it had come into the folklore of a Puritan people.
Then I saw that dark westward tangle of glens and slopes for myself, and ceased to wonder at anything besides its own elder mystery.
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 dark moss and mattings of infinite years of decay.
In the open spaces, mostly along the line of the old road, there were little hillside farms, sometimes with all the buildings standing, sometimes with only one or two, and sometimes with only a lone chimney or fast-filling cellar.
Upon everything was a haze of restlessness and oppression, a touch of the unreal and the grotesque, as if some vital element of perspective or chiaroscuro were awry.
I did not wonder that the foreigners would not stay, for this was no region to sleep in.
It was too much like a landscape of Salvatore Rosa, too much like some forbidden woodcut in a tale of terror.
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