You think that's odd. In the little lobby area next to my bathroom I've still got the three legged milking stool that my paternal grandmother died on. (They found her resting peacefully against the flank of the cow she'd been milking - rocking gently to the swell of its breathing; I've always thought that was a beautiful way to go - so I bagsied the stool when my aunt was clearing out her place.)
That's enough to freak some people out - but sitting on top of it is a Burmese tiger puppet that was given to my dad some time in the 1920's by a mad old Indian Army soldier who lived alone in a one room cottage half a mile away and was rumoured to eat crows. And it's fucking terrifying.
And I’ve already mentioned
this bizarre and unsettling set of circumstances from my rural upbringing.
There's all the elements for a bit of folk horror for you right there.
Now, I'm just off out to put on my antlers and dance around the garden in the nip with a painted frogs skull wedged up my fundament, singing:
And when the moon is in the quarter
Don’t do nothing you didn’t ought’er*
*With all due respect to the genius of Galton and Simpson