I held my breath until I had to gasp, but heard nothing beyond belated rainfall from the trees. The cutting had grown almost silent when I sensed movement overhead. My eyes were aching by the time I made out a swollen shape like a bag stuck to the underside of the bridge. I thought its eyes were glinting darkly in the gloom, and other restless parts of it bore some resemblance to lips. Certainly I heard the whisper, amplified by the echo until it sounded as though the bridge was pronouncing the words like a great stone mouth. It paralysed me and my thoughts until a dreadful notion overtook me – that the ill-defined object was about to relinquish its hold on the arch and drop on me like a huge swollen spider. Almost before grasping I’d regained the ability to move, I fled.

The whisper ceased at once, which only left me dreading where it might reappear. I thought I glimpsed unwelcome features starting to take shape here and there on the lichenous walls, which were streaming with the aftermath of the downpour. I fancied I heard attempts to pronounce syllables that had grown entirely too familiar, however meaningless – tentative almost liquid whispering behind if not beside me and once, far worse, ahead. The slope was gentler on this side of the bridge, but whenever I sensed a presence beginning to form close to me I was overcome by a renewed chill, which drained my energy so much that I almost couldn’t lurch from sleeper to uphill sleeper. I had a wholly nightmarish fear that I might never reach the railway station – that somehow there was no longer one at Halfway Halt to reach. Far too belatedly the walls of the cutting gave way to the platforms, and at last I stumbled up the ramp towards the waiting-room.

My footsteps on the bare boards resounded so much that I doubted I would hear a whisper, and the room was too dark for me to make sure it was as empty as it had been. I was heading for the exit to the car park – just a few more determined strides and I would be out beneath the relentlessly black sky – when I hesitated, having been drained of momentum by another sudden chill. In the silence I heard surreptitious movement above me, where I could just make out a discoloured bulge in the plaster of the ceiling. It reminded me far too much of a cocoon even before I heard its contents stir again. They weren’t merely restless, they were mumbling blurred syllables, which I felt helplessly compelled to distinguish. As I peered at the wakeful shape I saw the plaster start to crack, and was terrified that the contents would fall on my face. A convulsive shiver released me from my paralysis, and I dashed close to blindly into the car park.