We live out in the country. Some might say in the middle of nowhere. We can hear (but not see) our neighbors' houses in the daytime. But night is something else altogether.
At night, we can just see our northern next-door neighbor's security light as a pinprick through the trees. There's another light across the field that I would swear came from my FIL's (father-in-law's) place, but Chris says they don't have a security light. Maybe it's aliens. (j/k)
I've sat out many a night on the porch (a carport on the side of the house, really) and looked around while the dogs are getting in some fun and exercise. Our security light does a very good job on the near side of the house. It covers the part of the yard that is mowed regularly.
Outside of its reach, however, it is like someone dropped down a black velvet curtain around our yard. With the exception of the aforementioned lights, unless the moon is full, the barn and field are shrouded in black. It is like what people thought of the world before sailors of old started setting out to cross the Atlantic Ocean. If I didn't know otherwise, I would not be able to swear that anything existed beyond where the light shines.
It reminds me of our recent trip to Mammoth Cave (in western Kentucky). At one point, they turned off the lights (with a fair warning), and you could not see your hand in front of your face. Most of the time, when I wasn't gasping for breath from walking up and down 500+ steps, the scenery was spectacular.
Here is one of my favorite photos (of the 98 shots Chris took) from the trip. I call it "Cave Ninjas":
The light, or absence thereof, did not change what was close by, just our perception of it.
Do you remember a time when your senses told you one thing, but you knew otherwise?