An English country lane at night is generally a pretty quiet
sort of place. You get the occasional lowing of a cow, cackle of a pheasant or
hoot of an owl. The odd vehicle might drive past, or some winking plane drone
briefly overhead. Apart from that there’s nothing, or so it seems. And yet
sometimes the quietness is more profound than usual. It has a different ‘sense’
about it, and I always struggle to work out what’s missing. I don’t know what’s
missing, and it intrigues me.
Tonight was just such a night. It was mistier than last
night; everything beyond a couple of hundred yards was invisible, and there was
a faint drizzle falling. The atmosphere was mysterious as well as moist, and as
I passed the Lady B’s cottage and its neighbour, it occurred to me that just
such a night might bring forth a certain literary anti-hero to take the form of
a giant bat and tap invitingly on Miss Lucy Westenra’s window. As I turned the
corner to walk up my own lane, it further occurred to me that the turning of
such a corner might bring a tall, dark figure into view, barring the way.
There was no figure; all was quiet and deserted, although
something did tap me on the head when I walked past the small wood where the
grave is. I assumed it was but a falling leaf and walked on. And then, quite
suddenly, I became possessed of the notion that I was about to be grabbed from
behind by something with claws. I shrugged it off as one does, secure in the conviction
that I can now tell the difference between simple imagination and the more
real-feeling menace that I encountered near the copse in Church Lane a few weeks ago.
Was that just imagination too? I shall never know, of
course. What I do know is that such senses, whether real or imagined, can
sometimes add welcome spice to an otherwise uneventful day.
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