Goodnight from Barney Teed, finding out his habit of urinating against the gravestones of St. Wulfhere when ale-bladdered has spectral consequences. Goodnight from Julia Myers, wishing she’d taken metalwork at school now she’s soldering witch bottles. Goodnight from Hookland.
Goodnight from Bill Lord, fretting about whether he can get a priest to bless his barbed wire bales before the next Hoarse Hag mist comes. Goodnight from DS Nokes, fuming about the canteen’s piss-weak tea and his surveillance assignment at Ashcourt Necropolis. Goodnight from Hookland.
There are places which refuse to be postcards. Places that growl. I seek them out and listen. – #CLNolan
Certain doors in Weychester tithe your imagination. They demand you project stories onto them, project stories beyond their threshold guarding. I always wonder about 136 Hopgood Street. My imaginings made worse by local lore they once displayed angels bone there. – #MattAdams, 1982
I'm never sure if the pub sign at The Mariner is meant to depict one of the Salt Sanctified or one of the Drowned Dead. I suppose it is a question I am unlikely to get answered as it has been very clear that my custom is not welcome. – #MattAdams