View from the Glen

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Big old farmhouse, the furnace creaking away in the basement next to the root cellar. The kids and I made chocolate chip cookies and read books all evening while Andrew went out to a cub planning meeting. Did I mention it's at a pub? Figured he'd be out for the night. And once they went to bed, the quietness became more noticable.

Didn't help that I was reading this.

Atmospheric, a bit chilling. Medieval and gothic and mysterious and pagan - even if the protagonist is a Church of England minister.

I finished a chapter. Realized I was cold. The rumble of a train and a dog barking in the distance brought me back and I was suddenly aware that I was alone. With unsettled thoughts and a rather vivid imagination. And the wind rattling a back window that doesn't quite shut in the mud room.

Wrapped in my plaid, I made my way out of the stove-warmed kitchen, adjusting to the cold of the unheated mud-room, slamming the window down hard. Telling myself I need to replace the naked light bulb that lights the room in an eerie yellow glow. Turning it off and opening the back door to stand on the steps and whistle for the dog. My eyes adjusting to the darkness, the moon casting a grey sheen over the world, and clouds scurrying past, just like I imagine they must have for Merrily Watkins. In the book.