Stirring in Night-Waters

Yesterday slipped through those rainy gloomy hours with a fluid and conspiratorial air. I walked into town and back, I had a bath, I read for a while, and drew for an even small while. The day was mine and the flat also, though as the afternoon tipped into evening, I realised the flat didn't belong to me but something else.
Something which comes in all flats - and houses - all interiors, when the day has been spent alone and the daylight starts to fail. I love that phrase, as if the coming of night indicates some kind of wrongness rather than the next step in the perfectly natural cycle of things.
The rooms seemed to generate the night - the darkness, a blue the colour of pools and rain and days spent alone, a ghost story colour - seemed to sweep and swim from every room where I was not. If I was in the kitchen, my room seemed to generate the darkness, if I was in my room, then it would be the living room that would be the source of this night-river.
For some reason I was loathe to turn the lights on (aside from the room where I was), even though this would dispel this unsettling feeling of night time flooding the rooms, flooding from the rooms. There was a panicky feeling in the flat too, as if I was not meant to be witness to this. Something stirring in the night-waters.
I was due to meet Em, and I was glad when I stepped into the Mews and shut the door of the flat behind me. I headed off to meet Em, and in the post-rain air, all the houses and sky looked old and dreamy and uncertain too, as if whatever had stirred in the night-waters of the flat had stirred here too.