Just a flavor of H. P. Lovecraft at full stretch, for those unacquainted. This is from his 1927 story “The Colour Out of Space.” (And yes, that’s the British spelling of “color.” HPL would have no truck with innovations like U.S. spelling.)

When they looked back toward the valley and the distant Gardner place at the bottom they saw a fearsome sight. At [sic, but plainly a typo for “all”] the farm was shining with the hideous unknown blend of colour; trees, buildings, and even such grass and herbage as had not been wholly changed to lethal grey brittleness. The boughs were all straining skyward, tipped with tongues of foul flame, and lambent tricklings of the same monstrous fire were creeping about the ridgepoles of the house, barn and sheds. It was a scene from a vision of Fuseli, and over all the rest reigned that riot of luminous amorphousness, that alien and undimensioned rainbow of cryptic poison from the well — seething, feeling, lapping, reaching, scintillating, straining, and malignly bubbling in its cosmic and unrecognizable chromaticism.