It began under the darkest skies of winter when it is almost possible to believe there is something out there beyond the human, beyond the natural. Of course, we were too old, too used to the way the world works to believe in such figments of the imagination as ghosts, werewolves, vampires, spirits, gods and demons.
But still....
There are times when the shadows grow deep and dark and the cold winds rattle against all that we believe is solid and strong. Times when we start to feel just how puny we are against the forces that lie beyond our control. There are times when the dark seethes with malevolence and we huddle against the light and the warm as the dark and the cold draws ever closer.
We could see it in each other's eyes, a feeling that we had made a mistake, moving here deep into the heart of the country, away from the bland safety of the city. It seemed funny that we'd escaped what we thought were the dangers of the city, only to find that this bucolic paradise was neither bucolic nor a paradise.
It was cold and damp, and just as noisy as the city, the wail of the sirens replaced by the cries of foxes and badgers. All going about business just as grisly as what those city sirens were a response to. Except the bodies I saw on my morning walks were not the human victims of robbery and murder, gangland fights, but small furry creatures that I could not identify or name. Only a spread of blood-splattered feathers across the path remained. Even Jeff our Labrador, a city boy himself, seemed nervous of the blood and gore we met every few days down on the paths along the meadow and into the woods. He looked back at me with sad eyes as though he too had nightmares that were coming true.
Still though as I breathed the clean air on those sharp frosty mornings I told myself it could only get better... but I was wrong.
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