Just Not Right

I have a couple of small ponds near my apartment, and this evening was rather disturbed to hear spring peepers. It's January 15th for heavens sake. These frogs should not be there.

Next thing you know I'll be hearing whip-or-wills.

Gorges and ravines of problematical depth intersect the way, and the crude wooden bridges always seem of dubious safety. When the road dips again there are stretches of marshland that one instinctively dislikes, and indeed almost fears at evening when unseen whippoorwills chatter and the fireflies come out in abnormal profusion to dance to the raucous, creepily insistent rhythms of stridently piping bull-frogs. The thin, shining line of the Miskatonic's upper reaches has an oddly serpent-like suggestion as it winds close to the feet of the domed hills among which it rises.