The warm night claimed her. In a moment it was part of her. She walked on the grass, and her shoes were instantly soaked. She flung up her arms to the sky. Power ran to her fingertips. Excitement was communicated from the waiting trees, and the orchard, and the paddock; the intensity of their secret life caught at her and made her run. It was nothing like the excitement of ordinary looking forward, of birthday presents, of Christmas stockings, but the pull of a magnet — her grandfather had shown her once how it worked, little needles springing to the jaws — and now night and the sky above were a vast magnet, and the things that waited below were needles, caught up in the great demand.
—Daphne du Maurier
—from “The Pool”
—found in Echoes from the Macabre: Selected Stories