Walking beyond High Wood, the membranes of this world wear thin

I have always relished reading horror books - I remember as a boy, staring at the lurid cover of my Pan Book of Horror Stories, the first of the series - the cat with mad yellow eyes promised dark unsettling tales - the name of editor of the anthology, Herbert van Thal could have been that of a mage, a member of a secret order -

Later, I devoured the stories of H P Lovecraft - I got used to his over elaborate style of writing - I appreciated the care he took to provide convincing yet fictitious antiquarian references, excerpts from letters, entries from journals - yet, throughout, there was the presence of something incomprehensible and terrible - I knew that voices would hiss in the dark - hybrid creatures would hoot in attics - cruel intelligences  would descend from the stars -

Hidden within my bookshelves are works by Arthur Machen, M R James, Algernon Blackwood, Bram Stoker, Edgar Allen Poe - I half expect to see a panther guarding the volumes - perhaps, resting on my table, I may see the shape of a thin yellow hand, covered with dark hair -

Recently, I went walking in the woods beyond High Wood - I had to pass a small wooden chapel, wreathed in dark laurel - the yellowy clayey mud of the bridleway sucked at my boots - the trees each side of the bridleway became more tangled, the shadows darker - deep pools reflected fallen trees - I could hear no bird song -

I began to lose my way - gradually, a feeling of panic, even of fear, stole over me - I struggled through a thicket of brambles - my hands were torn by curved thorns - I wondered what strange story these woods might engender - beneath the twisted oaks, I was sure, the membranes of this world had worn thin -