‘Doubt it,’ she replied. ‘If such creatures exist, I expect
they’re sleeping soundly in these more rational times.’
‘But I’m not of these more rational times,’ I offered with a
hint of hesitation. ‘Maybe they woke when I moved among them, and sniffed the
air in expectation of an encounter.’
There was one night when my route took me along Church Lane towards
the copse that stands on the highest point of the road overlooking Mill Lane and the
valley. As I walked, the conviction grew to absolute certainty that there would
be something among the trees that would not allow me to return without serious
injury of some sort, either physical or mental, and I truly felt a level of
terror to which I’m entirely unaccustomed. When it became unbearable I turned and
hurried homeward, checking the road behind me every few yards.
That much is true, ashamed as I am to admit it, and I hadn’t
read anything from the pen of MR James that night to explain my lack of fortitude. Tonight I have, sitting here
in my old Edwardian house with the dark December night being suitably punctuated
every now and then by a mournful, moaning wind. There are times when the past and present match nicely.
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