"We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far." --H.P. Lovecraft
Beneath the dying moon, the angry sky and the dense canopy of the New England backwoods; in the shadows of towering trees and gnarly roots; below the soft soil and the pale grass, deep down in the haunted ground, in the nethermost caverns, they slept. From time to time, one of the hideous things would stir, hungrily, and slowly make its way to the surface. It would hunt for some unholy nourishment before descending once more into its eldritch tomb.
These accursed woods have been theirs for a thousand years, but they have remained unclaimed and empty, visited only by those who were blind to the darkness. Dogs would howl, birds would fall deathly silent, and the beasts of the island would all shun the eerie ground. Not until the corpse-white fog rolled over Solomon Island did the things that slept finally wake -- all of them. Scrabbling for foothold, biting, scratching and clawing, they rose through the black soil into the sour air. Now their foul nests infect the monstrous trees, strange weeds strangling gnarled boughs, and the ancient forest reeks of death and pestilence.
Soon, very soon, these horrors beyond horrors will leave the woods, and quaint Kingsmouth will fall to their chittering chorus.