He heard nothing, only silence. But a specific kind of silence. There are, as Fat Charlie once imagined, many kind of silences. Graves have their own silence, space has its silence, mountaintops have theirs. This was a hunting silence. It was a stalking silence. In this silence something moved on velvet-soft pads, with muscles like steel springs coiled beneath soft fur; something the color of shadows in the long grass; something that would ensure that you heard nothing it did not wish you to hear. I was a silence that was moving from side to side in front of him, slowly and relentlessly, and with every arc it was getting closer.
Neil Gaiman: Anansi Boys
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