Woke and could not sleep. Looked out the window. The garden was lit by nothing — there were clouds, no moon visible — but I could see it clearly. The light had no source. I went down to investigate. From the garden door the light was gone. The garden was dark. I could not see past my hand. I went back upstairs. The garden was lit again. I watched it from the window for forty minutes. Nothing moved. The sourceless light did not waver. At 03:00 I went back to bed. In the morning the garden was normal.
I sat in the garden tonight. I wanted to see what happens. I sat on the bench near the fountain for two hours. Nothing unusual happened. The fountain was silent but flowing. The temperature was cold (7°C — fountain temperature, as always). The stars were visible. I tried to identify constellations. I could not. The stars were in unfamiliar positions. This is not possible. I am familiar with the night sky. I have been an amateur astronomer since I was twelve years old. These were not the stars I know. I went inside and checked a star chart. By the time I was back at the window, the stars looked normal.
The unfamiliar stars I observed on 2020-09-08 — I described them in detail in my notes. I later found a nearly identical description in a book from the library. The book was published in 1947. The author described seeing the same unusual star positions from a garden very much like mine. The author's name was Eleanor Whitmore. I did not know this name at the time. I looked her up afterward. She disappeared in autumn 1947. No trace was found. Her garden was reportedly unusual.
New Year's. I was in the garden. The fountain ran in silence. The east side plants were in their usual positions — slightly different from yesterday, as always, but close. The greenhouse was dark, rear wall solid. And then — very briefly, perhaps five seconds — I saw a corridor. Where the centre of the garden should have been. A long corridor with walls and a ceiling and a floor and a vanishing point at the end. It was simply there, overlaid on the garden, as if the garden were a surface and the corridor were underneath. Then it was gone. The garden was the garden. The fountain ran in silence. The east side plants stood where I had left them.
I am going to find out what this is.