'It's in the Trees...'

The walk tonight was misty, moody and mysterious. A heavy cloud cover shut out most of what little skylight there might have been, and the sodden air fell remorselessly earthward as an unremitting drizzle. Lights from cottage windows painted haloes of damp brightness around the adjacent walls, and in the case of the Old Rectory, sent sinuous beams snaking among the trees of its capacious grounds.

I remember saying to myself on first seeing the Old Rectory that it was the house most redolent of an MR James ghost story. It would be easy to suppose that Mr Karswell’s demon might be alive and resident among its old oaks, ashes and sycamores. Waiting.