My Father drilled certain principles into us from a young age. The first was whistling. One did not, on any account, whistle after sunset. His mother had told him it aroused ghouls and bad spirits, so night-time whistling was contraband. The next was that one should always be in their own home by sunset. This rule didn’t budge even in the winter months. That’s not to say we were locked up once 4pm came round, but my Dad always give the slight, downturned lips, head shake and sigh, before returning to his prayers.
To a degree, my Father’s views on nighttime antics didn’t only seem outdated but almost farcical. A military man my Dad doesn’t do, or at least explicitly show, fear. But there’s something about the night-time that draws out that poison. Suburban streets, become desolate ghost towns. Luscious foliage and manicured bushes turn in to Fangorn Forest as it awaits the Urukhai from Helm’s Deep. The gentle caress of a summer breeze becomes the cloying hand that reeks with the scent of the deceased. There’s something about nighttime that ignites our creative minds, but, rather than drawing poison from a wound, infects it.