Walking with Imagination.

I took another walk after dark tonight, and dark it was indeed. There was no moon, nor even any hint of stars, just a clinging, drizzly mist that hinted at a dozen horror stories. It was the sort of night to encourage a vague anticipation of hearing a howl in the distance, and then a second one a little closer.

That was how my writing career started, you know. I took the dog out one night at about 2am, when I lived in the house before this one. The story I subsequently wrote related the experience in the third person, thus:

At that point the dog refused to move another step. She stood rigid, with a terrified look in her eyes. Suddenly – and bear in mind that this was an unlit country lane with no moon to speak of, the village behind him in darkness, and no sound apart from the slightest rustling of the odd tree – he heard a low growl, like that of a big cat. It was unmistakeable, he said, and came from the direction of the church.

“He had a torch with him and shone it in the direction of the noise, but said that was even more disturbing because all he could see was a pool of weak light illuminating a bend in the lane a few yards further down. He had the feeling, as you would I suppose, that something was going to appear around it any second. Now he was frightened; he openly admitted it, and needed no further encouragement to walk quickly back to the house, turning around every few seconds and shining the light behind him.

“I was still up when he came in and he looked disturbed in a way I’d never seen before. He told me the story and said that he kept hearing that verse from The Ancient Mariner, the one that runs

Like one that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread,

And, having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head,

Because he knows some frightful fiend doth close behind him tread.

No such excitement tonight, though, just a deathly quiet that held promise, but delivered nothing. The only hint of a thrill came from walking within a few yards of the grave in the wood that I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. I will admit to being inclined towards imagining an ashen face peering between the trees, and a broken, sibilant voice whispering ‘Good evening.’ I kept my torch pointed at the road.