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....
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