Something like panic struck at Hurlow. Moffat’s calm confession of fear withdrew the prop upon which he had leaned. Down there, among the motionless shadows, lurked invisible things, things that were nameless, shapeless and malignant;...

All in a moment Hurlow forgot the beauty of the sounds and smelt fear. He smelt it as an animal smells it, the breath cold in his nostrils. He had read about Pan, a dead...

The strangest experiences in life are apt to lose their effect if dwelt upon long enough. (“Furze Hollow”)