Below the lights by G.P Lanciano
“Searchers after horror haunt strange far places…The haunted wood and the desolate mountain are their shrines,and they linger around sinister monoliths on uninhabited isles. But the true epicure in the terrible to who, a new thrill of unutterable ghastliness is the chief end and justification of existence, esteems most of all the ancient lonely farmhouses of backwoods New England.” -H.P. Lovecraft Found among the papers of the missing E. Pickman Halloway To Whom It May Concern, It is under acute mental strain that I compose myself long enough to put this account to paper. These past weeks of revelation and dreams have told on me and I fear my constitution to be giving way. Whether this manuscript takes root is largely dependent on the mental soil of the reader; regardless, I urge the skeptics to consider it in light of the genuineness of the historic material.
In the Spring of 1931, I left my childhood home of Boston in search of a place of respite from this insane Jazz Age. I toured the towns of Marblehead, Ipswitch, Wilbraham and Newburyport but found in them the stilted atmosphere of old English colonialism. It is in the Blackstone Valley that I found a quaint country of ancient beauty and backwoods atmosphere. I settled down along the bends of the Blackstone Canal, a flowing waterway reared around 1824. Its purpose was to connect Worcester to Providence and provide much needed hydro-electric power along its lengths. Since its inception, mills have sprung up beside its babbling banks, yet my chosen residence was oddly void of such signs of industrialism. As I grew acquainted with the townsfolk, I learned of Traditional local holidays coinciding with the beginning and end of summer. They also, as I found, indulged in Ghost Stories and local legends were freely told of Swamp Lights being sighted between the two annual gatherings. Having myself a penchant for the weird, I resolved to learn more.
Dedicated to the late, great H.P. Lovecraft