When Evening Falls

She might have thought it was nothing more than imagination, fired up by all the other accumulated strangenesses of the day, none of them all that big in and of themselves but adding up to a pretty impressive whole.

Might have, if she hadn't glanced around and if that glance hadn't struck the wide row of low-set modern windows looking out and very nearly into the windows of the red-brick rectory next door. Might have dismissed it as imagination for certain, if in that instant she hadn't suffered the strangest, the most discomforting and disorienting sensation. That she was looking through other windows. Very old windows of a small-paned style used in buildings built a hundred years ago. Or more.