The council finally finished putting up that new estate by the river.
It's meant to overlook the whole area and according to residents it certainly does.
Shame they never stick around for long, there's always some reason or another for them to go.
Personally I think it's all in the dirt.
The hill they built those lovely new homes on is... reappropriated, so to speak.
Most of the dirt was dug up from nearby land that's now a carpark but before that it was a church.
St Martin's or Matthew's, ithe name varies depending on who you ask.
Either way they dug up more than just dirt, not that they'd admit it of course.
If you squint between the artificial grass they stuck between the wire fencing you'll see white.
The official story is that they put chalk in to act as an "natural odour remover" against the river.
Nobody local believes it, we've seen the bones - we've all seen the bones.
Some have taken it upon themselves to free the remains and rebury them in sacred ground.
They plan on blessing the whole hill before cutting as much of the support wire as possible.
It might work, might put the dead to rest at long last.
Might just make more dead to contend with.
20150930
20150929
Day 512
I went back to the old waterpark my family went to on our yearly holiday down south.
Ever since mum died fifteen years back we'd stopped going.
Thought it was time to finally revisit the old place we'd had so many good memories of.
I'd invited my older brother to come along and he said he'd meet me inside.
Emailed me a photo of the hole in the wire fencing he'd found.
I arrived there at about five in the morning, the best time to sneak into these places.
He texted saying he was by the old elephant fountain he adored as a kid.
Figured I'd leave him to it and wander around by myself for a while, just reminiscing.
I never expected it to have gotten so run-down so fast.
Everything not nailed down had been broken and the rest was heavily graffitied.
At least the old waterslides were still usable, if a little grubby.
I tossed my backpack down one just to make sure it was clear inside.
As I waited for it at the pool where it finished I saw a large brownish lump slowly oozing down.
When it got closer I saw that my backpack had gotten caught in something dead.
The bundle of bones and faded fabric that hit the concrete pool's floor with a damp thud.
After the initial moment of panic I realised that the poor thing had been dead for many years.
I'm glad I was wearing gloves - nobody wants to touch a corpse, especially one so wet.
Something brown was oozing from it and all over my backpack (which was dead to me at this point).
As quickly as I could I removed the essentials and left the rest to get on my way out.
From there I went to the old carousel, it had been my favourite place to go.
It used to have this waterfall effect along the centre column and little jets along the edges.
Now the sea-themed animals were covered in sprayed-on slurs and tags.
I walked around the back edge and saw another slime-coated corpse.
As I began to walk further inside I saw more and more corpses on all the rides and benches.
From there I ran to the elephant fountain, wondering if my brother had seen all the bodies too.
There was one right under the fountain clutching something in its hand.
My brother's phone,mid way through a text asking if I had a drink with me - he was so thirsty,
Ever since mum died fifteen years back we'd stopped going.
Thought it was time to finally revisit the old place we'd had so many good memories of.
I'd invited my older brother to come along and he said he'd meet me inside.
Emailed me a photo of the hole in the wire fencing he'd found.
I arrived there at about five in the morning, the best time to sneak into these places.
He texted saying he was by the old elephant fountain he adored as a kid.
Figured I'd leave him to it and wander around by myself for a while, just reminiscing.
I never expected it to have gotten so run-down so fast.
Everything not nailed down had been broken and the rest was heavily graffitied.
At least the old waterslides were still usable, if a little grubby.
I tossed my backpack down one just to make sure it was clear inside.
As I waited for it at the pool where it finished I saw a large brownish lump slowly oozing down.
When it got closer I saw that my backpack had gotten caught in something dead.
The bundle of bones and faded fabric that hit the concrete pool's floor with a damp thud.
After the initial moment of panic I realised that the poor thing had been dead for many years.
I'm glad I was wearing gloves - nobody wants to touch a corpse, especially one so wet.
Something brown was oozing from it and all over my backpack (which was dead to me at this point).
As quickly as I could I removed the essentials and left the rest to get on my way out.
From there I went to the old carousel, it had been my favourite place to go.
It used to have this waterfall effect along the centre column and little jets along the edges.
Now the sea-themed animals were covered in sprayed-on slurs and tags.
I walked around the back edge and saw another slime-coated corpse.
As I began to walk further inside I saw more and more corpses on all the rides and benches.
From there I ran to the elephant fountain, wondering if my brother had seen all the bodies too.
There was one right under the fountain clutching something in its hand.
My brother's phone,mid way through a text asking if I had a drink with me - he was so thirsty,
20150928
Day 511
In certain old buildings the components are far more organic than the ones we use today.
Scarcity breeds resourcefulness, you know.
Buildings of this specific time period can be identified from the red tone of their concrete.
Studies into the exact materials used have shown them to be a unique mixture.
Replications have yet to be made despite the proven durability, flexibility and resilience
due to one particular ingredient deemed to ethically unsound to use.
Human flesh - specifically muscles, pulverised and mixed with clay and local aggregate.
According to carbon dating the meat used in most of the buildings were taken between
the ages of four and five.
None of these buildings are lived in any more, not even by those who study them.
Despite their durability the cement doesn't always stay in place, it... wanders.
It leaves small piles that tend to linger around whatever moves in the houses.
Cameras show that these small forms are drawn to heat, they somehow have receptors.
In the same line that snakes do, they follow anything that produces heat.
Mice were first used for tests then rats and rabbits and so on - all ended up the same.
Their bones and skin were perfectly intact.
It was like they were just sleeping.
But inside they were empty.
Scarcity breeds resourcefulness, you know.
Buildings of this specific time period can be identified from the red tone of their concrete.
Studies into the exact materials used have shown them to be a unique mixture.
Replications have yet to be made despite the proven durability, flexibility and resilience
due to one particular ingredient deemed to ethically unsound to use.
Human flesh - specifically muscles, pulverised and mixed with clay and local aggregate.
According to carbon dating the meat used in most of the buildings were taken between
the ages of four and five.
None of these buildings are lived in any more, not even by those who study them.
Despite their durability the cement doesn't always stay in place, it... wanders.
It leaves small piles that tend to linger around whatever moves in the houses.
Cameras show that these small forms are drawn to heat, they somehow have receptors.
In the same line that snakes do, they follow anything that produces heat.
Mice were first used for tests then rats and rabbits and so on - all ended up the same.
Their bones and skin were perfectly intact.
It was like they were just sleeping.
But inside they were empty.
20150927
Day 510
She hadn't been driving her car for about 6 hours according to the clock.
Back at Junction 56 it veered off the roundabout and she hadn't been able to stop it yet.
It seemed to be heading for the coast but she'd never been down this particular road before.
There were fields of blue flowers as far as her eyes could see, the largest she'd ever seen.
In the distance she saw green coming up, a forest of some kind and she was heading right to it.
The strangest thing was that the trees only continued to grow as she approached, they blotted
out the sun while she was still miles from them.
By the time the car drove through the narrow forest pathway the sky was only visible in patches.
She fell asleep to the view of tree trunks as thick as houses zipping past and was rudely jolted
awake as the car swerved in a sharp u-turn, slamming sideways into a wooden wall.
Smoke poured out of the crumpled bonnet as she struggled to escape her seatbelt.
Resorting to breaking her window as the locks refused to open she tumbled out.
She managed to stumble onto the moss coated floor, nearly falling down a sharp embankment.
Gripping the nearest trunk as hard as she could she pulled herself upright and fell to the floor.
Looking around she found herself somehow on an island of moss, surrounded by other similar
looking islands and all separated by autumnal leaves that seemed to be... flowing?
Yes they were definitely moving much like water does, swirling and rustling gently.
She crept closer to the island's edge, now eager to get a better look at this leaf-water wonder.
The "stream" of leaves drew nearer as she half dragged herself towards it, halting though as
a strange low bellowing kind of sound met her ears.
It reminded her of a donkey but so much deeper and so very nearby.
Glancing around all she spotted were twigs that looked like... antlers?
As they drifted closer she saw they were antlers, twelve pronged and faintly green.
They had a leaf-like texture to them - even peeling in some places.
She reached out to touch them as they came past only for the creature below to rear its head up.
It went to bite her, teeth the size of her palm just missing as she fell back and scrambled away.
What looked to be some kind of vine-entwined stag, rotting and reborn as plant.
It's eyes were fixed on her, one glazed and mottled grey, the other a mass of writhing green tendrils.
It stayed beside her a while longer, panting heavily as it fought against the current.
After a few short moments its' head fell forward with a low cry and it was swept away once more.
Her gaze followed the sight of those majestic antlers until they went completely under.
The only sounds from then on were the rustle-gurgling of the leaves and her plaintive cries for help.
Back at Junction 56 it veered off the roundabout and she hadn't been able to stop it yet.
It seemed to be heading for the coast but she'd never been down this particular road before.
There were fields of blue flowers as far as her eyes could see, the largest she'd ever seen.
In the distance she saw green coming up, a forest of some kind and she was heading right to it.
The strangest thing was that the trees only continued to grow as she approached, they blotted
out the sun while she was still miles from them.
By the time the car drove through the narrow forest pathway the sky was only visible in patches.
She fell asleep to the view of tree trunks as thick as houses zipping past and was rudely jolted
awake as the car swerved in a sharp u-turn, slamming sideways into a wooden wall.
Smoke poured out of the crumpled bonnet as she struggled to escape her seatbelt.
Resorting to breaking her window as the locks refused to open she tumbled out.
She managed to stumble onto the moss coated floor, nearly falling down a sharp embankment.
Gripping the nearest trunk as hard as she could she pulled herself upright and fell to the floor.
Looking around she found herself somehow on an island of moss, surrounded by other similar
looking islands and all separated by autumnal leaves that seemed to be... flowing?
Yes they were definitely moving much like water does, swirling and rustling gently.
She crept closer to the island's edge, now eager to get a better look at this leaf-water wonder.
The "stream" of leaves drew nearer as she half dragged herself towards it, halting though as
a strange low bellowing kind of sound met her ears.
It reminded her of a donkey but so much deeper and so very nearby.
Glancing around all she spotted were twigs that looked like... antlers?
As they drifted closer she saw they were antlers, twelve pronged and faintly green.
They had a leaf-like texture to them - even peeling in some places.
She reached out to touch them as they came past only for the creature below to rear its head up.
It went to bite her, teeth the size of her palm just missing as she fell back and scrambled away.
What looked to be some kind of vine-entwined stag, rotting and reborn as plant.
It's eyes were fixed on her, one glazed and mottled grey, the other a mass of writhing green tendrils.
It stayed beside her a while longer, panting heavily as it fought against the current.
After a few short moments its' head fell forward with a low cry and it was swept away once more.
Her gaze followed the sight of those majestic antlers until they went completely under.
The only sounds from then on were the rustle-gurgling of the leaves and her plaintive cries for help.
20150925
Day 509
There's something about flood water specifically that changes a room like nothing else can.
That green slime sticking to every cherished surface, that dank stench, that lingering shudder
it leaves behind as if to remind you that yes, it was there and yes, can come back just as suddenly.
I remember going to my great aunt's house in Muchelney after the water's had receded.
She'd been cut off for over a week, alongside the rest of the parishioners in the small village.
Most of the people in the area had been evacuated by helicopter or boat but we were so unprepared.
The radio had been saying that it would be the worst flood since the 1900's and still we weren't
expecting the riverbanks to just erupt as they did, consuming roads and towns alike.
My great aunt and the others fled to the church and stayed in the main hall, barely above the waters.
When it had all died down we were left to pick up the pieces and look for the missing.
There were so many missing - over half the small area's population just gone.
We started inside the homes, where people would have gotten trapped against walls or windows.
I'd volunteered with many others to go searching inside the unstable homes.
The first home we searched was my great aunt's of course, she insisted.
The flood waters had taken almost everything inside, leaving little more than slime and sewage.
We found the first of the missing there, in her attic.
They'd tried to claw their way out when the water's rose higher than the building itself.
As we pried their arms out of the gouges they'd dug into the roof, I swear they blinked.
That green slime sticking to every cherished surface, that dank stench, that lingering shudder
it leaves behind as if to remind you that yes, it was there and yes, can come back just as suddenly.
I remember going to my great aunt's house in Muchelney after the water's had receded.
She'd been cut off for over a week, alongside the rest of the parishioners in the small village.
Most of the people in the area had been evacuated by helicopter or boat but we were so unprepared.
The radio had been saying that it would be the worst flood since the 1900's and still we weren't
expecting the riverbanks to just erupt as they did, consuming roads and towns alike.
My great aunt and the others fled to the church and stayed in the main hall, barely above the waters.
When it had all died down we were left to pick up the pieces and look for the missing.
There were so many missing - over half the small area's population just gone.
We started inside the homes, where people would have gotten trapped against walls or windows.
I'd volunteered with many others to go searching inside the unstable homes.
The first home we searched was my great aunt's of course, she insisted.
The flood waters had taken almost everything inside, leaving little more than slime and sewage.
We found the first of the missing there, in her attic.
They'd tried to claw their way out when the water's rose higher than the building itself.
As we pried their arms out of the gouges they'd dug into the roof, I swear they blinked.
Day 508
You woke up covered in your own sweat and thirstier than you'd ever been before.
The last thing you remember was driving home from work, heading past the old scrapyard.
It had recently been shut down for a police investigation but no details had been released.
You vaguely remembered reading something about missing persons nearby.
Going to switch the car on you found the ignition refused to turn, the key was stuck dead in place.
It was very dark outside but luckily for you the car's lights still worked.
As they flickered on and your eyes began to adjust five or so other lights were turned on too.
You found yourself surrounded by what looked to be concrete but not alone.
Your car had somehow been smothered by the rock-hard substance, except for your front window.
There were at least five others like you, set in a rough circle, able to see each other perfectly.
Most were asleep, one looked to be dead and one was trying to signal something to you.
Their face was the very picture of terror as they mimed turning your light off.
You tried to ask why, managing to convey confusion perfectly.
They replied by miming that the sleeping people were hungry and pointed up.
Peering around you saw that you were part of some kind of tower of trapped cars, all facing inwards.
All of their lights were on too and blood leaked from several, all above you and freshly done.
Movement caught your eye as one of the sleepers began to stir, wincing against the light.
You flicked your light off, catching the eye of the other trapped person as they ducked down.
Following their lead you climbed into the boot of your car, hiding under the rug as best you could.
A few tense minutes later something heavy thumped onto the bonnet.
You held your breath as someone rapped sharply on the window.
They kept rapping, eventually banging loudly before going silent again.
The car jolted slightly as they moved away to the left, towards the person who'd warned you.
Glass smashed and the sound of shrieking met your ears, eventually quietening to wet coughs.
All was silent once again... almost.
Loud chewing sounds were coming from your left - from the other car.
It took you quite some time before you gathered the nerve to find your emergency torch and look.
The poor soul who'd warned you was now mostly bone, blood trailed towards the car opposite.
Bloody handprints were slathered all over your front window, footprints too all over the bonnet.
The glass was faintly cracked and you began to wonder how long it would hold.
It felt like days had passed and you were thirstier than ever, how delicious the blood began to seem.
The next time you awoke to your car lights coming on and a new person beside your car.
They were disoriented and panicking, causing quite a commotion with their plump, juicy hands.
Their face was flushed and sweating and... appetising.
You caught their attention, signalled that you were coming over and for them to be quiet.
As you smashed your window you grabbed a shard of glass and went to quench your thirst.
The last thing you remember was driving home from work, heading past the old scrapyard.
It had recently been shut down for a police investigation but no details had been released.
You vaguely remembered reading something about missing persons nearby.
Going to switch the car on you found the ignition refused to turn, the key was stuck dead in place.
It was very dark outside but luckily for you the car's lights still worked.
As they flickered on and your eyes began to adjust five or so other lights were turned on too.
You found yourself surrounded by what looked to be concrete but not alone.
Your car had somehow been smothered by the rock-hard substance, except for your front window.
There were at least five others like you, set in a rough circle, able to see each other perfectly.
Most were asleep, one looked to be dead and one was trying to signal something to you.
Their face was the very picture of terror as they mimed turning your light off.
You tried to ask why, managing to convey confusion perfectly.
They replied by miming that the sleeping people were hungry and pointed up.
Peering around you saw that you were part of some kind of tower of trapped cars, all facing inwards.
All of their lights were on too and blood leaked from several, all above you and freshly done.
Movement caught your eye as one of the sleepers began to stir, wincing against the light.
You flicked your light off, catching the eye of the other trapped person as they ducked down.
Following their lead you climbed into the boot of your car, hiding under the rug as best you could.
A few tense minutes later something heavy thumped onto the bonnet.
You held your breath as someone rapped sharply on the window.
They kept rapping, eventually banging loudly before going silent again.
The car jolted slightly as they moved away to the left, towards the person who'd warned you.
Glass smashed and the sound of shrieking met your ears, eventually quietening to wet coughs.
All was silent once again... almost.
Loud chewing sounds were coming from your left - from the other car.
It took you quite some time before you gathered the nerve to find your emergency torch and look.
The poor soul who'd warned you was now mostly bone, blood trailed towards the car opposite.
Bloody handprints were slathered all over your front window, footprints too all over the bonnet.
The glass was faintly cracked and you began to wonder how long it would hold.
It felt like days had passed and you were thirstier than ever, how delicious the blood began to seem.
The next time you awoke to your car lights coming on and a new person beside your car.
They were disoriented and panicking, causing quite a commotion with their plump, juicy hands.
Their face was flushed and sweating and... appetising.
You caught their attention, signalled that you were coming over and for them to be quiet.
As you smashed your window you grabbed a shard of glass and went to quench your thirst.
20150924
Day 507
The ladder was almost hidden by three large boulders and autumnal leaves.
He tried to see how far down it went but was met by absolute darkness.
After testing the depth of the hole and finding it safe should he drop, he ventured down.
The ladder held surprisingly well,considering how damp the air down there was.
Looking around, the thin beam of his helmet's torch met a murky lake that seemed to have no end.
Behind him the ladder creaked, distracting him from the lake long enough to miss the bubbles.
The small rocky island he was standing on crumbled under his feet, leaving him two options.
To head up, come back later with a rope instead or continue out risking entrapment.
As he stood debating his choices, he felt like he was being watched from somewhere in the dark.
Putting it down to paranoia he decided to swim out a short way, just to see how large the area was.
He gasped as his bare legs met the icy cold water, voice echoing all around him mockingly.
Faintly he heard someone say hello to his left.
Looking around his torch beam met nothing but cave walls and water.
Just in case someone had gotten trapped there he headed towards the voice, calling out loudly.
The voice responded, still so quiet, who's there and where are you - I can't see.
This exchange continued until he found another small island that seemed indented in the centre.
There was some kind of black weed around it, making the climb up difficult.
His feet kept getting tangled up, eventually he resorted to yanking his legs along.
As he did so the voice cried out in pain, so much closer now.
Panicking he scrambled faster, tearing out more weed as he tried to reach the wounded stranger.
By the time he made it fully onto the island the voice was quietly sobbing and muttering.
He saw no one at first until he looked down.
There was a large pool of water in the island's centre and an old woman lay in it, barely floating.
Her body entirely unseen as her jet black hair covered every inch of the pool, overflowing the island.
He tried to see how far down it went but was met by absolute darkness.
After testing the depth of the hole and finding it safe should he drop, he ventured down.
The ladder held surprisingly well,considering how damp the air down there was.
Looking around, the thin beam of his helmet's torch met a murky lake that seemed to have no end.
Behind him the ladder creaked, distracting him from the lake long enough to miss the bubbles.
The small rocky island he was standing on crumbled under his feet, leaving him two options.
To head up, come back later with a rope instead or continue out risking entrapment.
As he stood debating his choices, he felt like he was being watched from somewhere in the dark.
Putting it down to paranoia he decided to swim out a short way, just to see how large the area was.
He gasped as his bare legs met the icy cold water, voice echoing all around him mockingly.
Faintly he heard someone say hello to his left.
Looking around his torch beam met nothing but cave walls and water.
Just in case someone had gotten trapped there he headed towards the voice, calling out loudly.
The voice responded, still so quiet, who's there and where are you - I can't see.
This exchange continued until he found another small island that seemed indented in the centre.
There was some kind of black weed around it, making the climb up difficult.
His feet kept getting tangled up, eventually he resorted to yanking his legs along.
As he did so the voice cried out in pain, so much closer now.
Panicking he scrambled faster, tearing out more weed as he tried to reach the wounded stranger.
By the time he made it fully onto the island the voice was quietly sobbing and muttering.
He saw no one at first until he looked down.
There was a large pool of water in the island's centre and an old woman lay in it, barely floating.
Her body entirely unseen as her jet black hair covered every inch of the pool, overflowing the island.
20150923
Day 506
There might have been a hole where the coffee machine usually stood... might.
It wasn't even four in the morning so rationalisation and common sense were asleep still.
She stood with her empty mug, stale remains of her former drink congealing as she stared.
The wall kept flickering between the coffee machine and a street of some sort.
People passes right by her in clothes vaguely resembling carnival performers only more... practical?
While some seemed to wear wire hooped skirts they looked to be collapsable, among other things.
Nobody seemed to be able to see her so she continued to stand and watch the flickering realities.
She felt wearier by the minute without her caffeinated drink, it took several minutes to see him.
His face was smothered in white greasepaint, mouth dripping blood as it looked to be slit wide open.
He was staring right at her, yellow tinged eyes boring into hers as he flickered in and out of view.
Taking a step closer she waved, saying hello in a quiet shaky voice.
The stranger didn't reply, choosing instead to pull a photo of her family from his stained coat.
Instinctively she tried to snatch it out of his hands, only to lose her balance and go tumbling down.
She hit the wet cobbled pavement with a sharp smack, her head bouncing against the man's shoes.
His laughter grated against her ears as he dropped the photo and ran away.
At first she thought her vision was hazy around the edges but as she looked up she saw thick smog.
The air stank of diesel, sweat and stale grease.
Looking around she saw the street was almost empty now save for dozens of strange looking cars.
Some had dozens of wheels, others had elaborate metal-work to the point where she doubted they
could even move but the one that caught her eye most was covered in orange-glowing syringes.
Turning around she saw the hole she'd fallen through, still flickering and somehow too far to reach.
She stretched as far as she could, jumped - even stood on a nearby bin but it was still so far away.
That same grating laughter sounded again as her staring stranger watched her struggle.
He sat on a car that had a bonnet shaped like three snakes crawling out of each others mouths.
His laughter only grew louder the more she tried until she slipped and cut her leg on the pavement.
The street was deathly silent and as she glanced up she saw the flickering window close.
From the corner of her eye she saw the photo of her family dissolve, their faces distorting to water.
As a crowd gathered around the edges of the street, the sound of engines filled the air.
It wasn't even four in the morning so rationalisation and common sense were asleep still.
She stood with her empty mug, stale remains of her former drink congealing as she stared.
The wall kept flickering between the coffee machine and a street of some sort.
People passes right by her in clothes vaguely resembling carnival performers only more... practical?
While some seemed to wear wire hooped skirts they looked to be collapsable, among other things.
Nobody seemed to be able to see her so she continued to stand and watch the flickering realities.
She felt wearier by the minute without her caffeinated drink, it took several minutes to see him.
His face was smothered in white greasepaint, mouth dripping blood as it looked to be slit wide open.
He was staring right at her, yellow tinged eyes boring into hers as he flickered in and out of view.
Taking a step closer she waved, saying hello in a quiet shaky voice.
The stranger didn't reply, choosing instead to pull a photo of her family from his stained coat.
Instinctively she tried to snatch it out of his hands, only to lose her balance and go tumbling down.
She hit the wet cobbled pavement with a sharp smack, her head bouncing against the man's shoes.
His laughter grated against her ears as he dropped the photo and ran away.
At first she thought her vision was hazy around the edges but as she looked up she saw thick smog.
The air stank of diesel, sweat and stale grease.
Looking around she saw the street was almost empty now save for dozens of strange looking cars.
Some had dozens of wheels, others had elaborate metal-work to the point where she doubted they
could even move but the one that caught her eye most was covered in orange-glowing syringes.
Turning around she saw the hole she'd fallen through, still flickering and somehow too far to reach.
She stretched as far as she could, jumped - even stood on a nearby bin but it was still so far away.
That same grating laughter sounded again as her staring stranger watched her struggle.
He sat on a car that had a bonnet shaped like three snakes crawling out of each others mouths.
His laughter only grew louder the more she tried until she slipped and cut her leg on the pavement.
The street was deathly silent and as she glanced up she saw the flickering window close.
From the corner of her eye she saw the photo of her family dissolve, their faces distorting to water.
As a crowd gathered around the edges of the street, the sound of engines filled the air.
20150922
Day 505
When word got out that some hikers had found an abandoned monastery, we feared the worst.
It was deep within the highlands, build underneath a waterfall so only the steps showed.
Slowly photos came out detailing its' ancient facade and crumbling passageways.
And then as suddenly as they came, they stopped.
None of the hikers were heard from again and the monastery was forgotten again.
Some months later local sheep-herders reported strange noises and missing flocks.
People assumed wild dogs, floods or storms and thought nothing more of it.
They began to remember the missing hikers when mutilated human remains were found.
At least eight bodies in varying states of decomposition, strung up like bunting all around a village
not forty miles from the geotags of the newly discovered monastery.
Forensics dated the varying times of death between five months and two hundred years.
Though they looked fresh they were somehow older than most of the nearby settlements.
They'd been roped together by their intestines (later found to be reinforced with parchment that
dated back to the same date as the oldest corpse).
Investigations into the monastery were renewed, this time by professionals.
They found the locations of the geotags and found only a waterfall.
Still the location was searched as thoroughly as possible given the climate and area.
Strange noises were reported, something like distorted speech coming from behind the waterfall
but they saw only solid stone and a small indent housing a bird's nest.
The alleged steps that descended far past the waterfall weren't found.
Years later and people still go missing in the highlands, that village is forever strung with corpses.
Nobody mentions it or the failures of the task forces assigned to stop this.
The neighbouring settlements were either heavily fortified or abandoned entirely.
Sounds of distorted singing echoed throughout the hills and moors louder than ever.
It was almost understandable by this point, tugann siad duÃnn a n-chomhlachtaÃ
It was deep within the highlands, build underneath a waterfall so only the steps showed.
Slowly photos came out detailing its' ancient facade and crumbling passageways.
And then as suddenly as they came, they stopped.
None of the hikers were heard from again and the monastery was forgotten again.
Some months later local sheep-herders reported strange noises and missing flocks.
People assumed wild dogs, floods or storms and thought nothing more of it.
They began to remember the missing hikers when mutilated human remains were found.
At least eight bodies in varying states of decomposition, strung up like bunting all around a village
not forty miles from the geotags of the newly discovered monastery.
Forensics dated the varying times of death between five months and two hundred years.
Though they looked fresh they were somehow older than most of the nearby settlements.
They'd been roped together by their intestines (later found to be reinforced with parchment that
dated back to the same date as the oldest corpse).
Investigations into the monastery were renewed, this time by professionals.
They found the locations of the geotags and found only a waterfall.
Still the location was searched as thoroughly as possible given the climate and area.
Strange noises were reported, something like distorted speech coming from behind the waterfall
but they saw only solid stone and a small indent housing a bird's nest.
The alleged steps that descended far past the waterfall weren't found.
Years later and people still go missing in the highlands, that village is forever strung with corpses.
Nobody mentions it or the failures of the task forces assigned to stop this.
The neighbouring settlements were either heavily fortified or abandoned entirely.
Sounds of distorted singing echoed throughout the hills and moors louder than ever.
It was almost understandable by this point, tugann siad duÃnn a n-chomhlachtaÃ
20150921
Day 504
It came and went and was forever changing, I should know - I'd been watching it for years.
The city or sometimes fairground or sometimes nothing was out in the lake's centre.
Nobody really went out that far, no fish meant no interest.
Still people went boating but never near enough to see what the city was, if it was anything.
Nobody even talked about it, just said there was nothing there.
So I set out with my little wooden raft to see it for myself.
My tiny boat could only go so fast but as the skyscrapers came closer I only found driftwood.
It had been nailed into rough city-esque shapes, made to resemble a human habitat.
My first mistake was trying to sail through the wider "streets".
The water was deceptively shallow and lined with metal spikes that pierced my boat.
Rather than sink with it I swam for the nearest "building" which was little more than a platform.
The same enormous nails that had ruined my boat had been used to build this.
I use build loosely as they'd been hammered in so roughly that the planks had split in places.
I caught glimpses of strange fish through the gaps but I hadn't seen any in the "streets".
Like human faces nailed to large fish bodies in some demented version of mermaids.
As one swam out to investigate my boat I saw I had been right.
Blood poured out from its' sides like fins as it writhed to where I had sunk.
I'm surprised they didn't come when I'd first gone down but maybe they were friendly.
Maybe they remembered being human and wanted to help me?
As more came out and began to tear my boat to shreds I decided to head to higher ground.
Just as a precaution in case they expected me to join them, I kept far away from the lake.
I've been up here for 3 days now and I have no way to get back to shore.
They follow me wherever I head to, always circling beneath the water.
Did you know they can still talk?
They ask me for my name, want me to come down to them but I won't.
Some of them are still holding those enormous nails and smiling.
20150920
Day 503
It began in the Dead Sea and spread through an underground stream.
Only a few people noticed how empty the oceans were becoming at first.
All it took to cause global panic was one marine report based on the results of an acidity test.
The overall PH levels were critically high, enough to melt through even the largest military vessel.
Much to our surprise we weren't the cause of this, the cause came from deep below us.
Thermal vents leaking some kind of new chemical into the waters, destroying everything it touched.
It took only a matter of frantic months for all wild aquatic-based life to go extinct.
The world was thrown into utter chaos as the few remaining water-creatures were heavily sought.
Something as small as a zebrafish was sold for £40 billion at auction.
It settled eventually though, sadly much of the wildlife of the world perished alongside the fish.
The water just looks normal but it eats away at everything.
Metal pipes, bones, you name it and the water can dissolve it to nothing.
The fish-crisis was the least of our worries to be honest - it was eating the land and fast.
An estimate was given that we were losing 20ft of land per day.
Plans were made to move to the sky and beyond..
Suddenly Mars seemed a lot more habitable and a lot closer.
Of course only the wealthy and influential would go there but at least some of us would survive.
We thought we had it all figured out until the rains came for the first time since this all began.
I always thought we'd go out screaming but everything was surprisingly quiet.
Probably because the head was generally the first thing to go, dissolving to a pulpy mess.
We had no time to scream.
Now the world is just water but we're still sort-of here.
It's rare to see someone else floating near you - we all like our space.
I'm quite glad the world died, I get to live like I've never lived before now the water doesn't hurt.
Only a few people noticed how empty the oceans were becoming at first.
All it took to cause global panic was one marine report based on the results of an acidity test.
The overall PH levels were critically high, enough to melt through even the largest military vessel.
Much to our surprise we weren't the cause of this, the cause came from deep below us.
Thermal vents leaking some kind of new chemical into the waters, destroying everything it touched.
It took only a matter of frantic months for all wild aquatic-based life to go extinct.
The world was thrown into utter chaos as the few remaining water-creatures were heavily sought.
Something as small as a zebrafish was sold for £40 billion at auction.
It settled eventually though, sadly much of the wildlife of the world perished alongside the fish.
The water just looks normal but it eats away at everything.
Metal pipes, bones, you name it and the water can dissolve it to nothing.
The fish-crisis was the least of our worries to be honest - it was eating the land and fast.
An estimate was given that we were losing 20ft of land per day.
Plans were made to move to the sky and beyond..
Suddenly Mars seemed a lot more habitable and a lot closer.
Of course only the wealthy and influential would go there but at least some of us would survive.
We thought we had it all figured out until the rains came for the first time since this all began.
I always thought we'd go out screaming but everything was surprisingly quiet.
Probably because the head was generally the first thing to go, dissolving to a pulpy mess.
We had no time to scream.
Now the world is just water but we're still sort-of here.
It's rare to see someone else floating near you - we all like our space.
I'm quite glad the world died, I get to live like I've never lived before now the water doesn't hurt.
20150919
Day 502
The larger cracks in the ground were filled with the sound of laughter.
Carriages were forced to detour or risk their horses breaking a leg when jumping them.
So many streets were blocked by such accidents and the dying screams of the horses echoed out.
It caused havoc but after the Shifting Days you had to adapt quickly or you'd end up down a hole.
Makes you wonder how many people those cracks can take before they fill up.
I've heard that in a few of the bigger ones by the outskirts you can see all the corpses.
A mate of mine swore he saw some moving and reaching up to him.
Couldn't be possible, there were gas leaks down there sure to end you in minutes.
Heard a few more people say they saw movers in the same area.
Thought I'd check it out for myself - minding the gap and all, I'd hate to be next.
The area was dead quiet, gas was there as usual though.
Makes the cracks greenish at the bottom and coats everything inside with some kind of slime.
The bodies in there were piled pretty high, probably due to the gradually increasing slope.
It's like London's sinking but everyone's too busy trying to survive to care.
From my vantage point up a tower of flats right beside it I had a bird's eye of it all.
Sure enough I saw movement but it wasn't like they said.
The bodies were moving but not by themselves.
Honestly I don't know what I saw but there were a lot of them and they moved fast.
Lightning quick jerks here and there pushing up past the corpses and running out onto the streets.
The crack must have grown by a foot while I was there and they just kept coming.
They seemed to move from one crack to another, spending brief amounts of time on the ground.
Something about them reminded me of fish and I still wonder if they're breathing in that gas.
I see them more often now but nobody else pays them any mind or mentions the moving corpses.
I suppose after a while people will grow used to anything.
Carriages were forced to detour or risk their horses breaking a leg when jumping them.
So many streets were blocked by such accidents and the dying screams of the horses echoed out.
It caused havoc but after the Shifting Days you had to adapt quickly or you'd end up down a hole.
Makes you wonder how many people those cracks can take before they fill up.
I've heard that in a few of the bigger ones by the outskirts you can see all the corpses.
A mate of mine swore he saw some moving and reaching up to him.
Couldn't be possible, there were gas leaks down there sure to end you in minutes.
Heard a few more people say they saw movers in the same area.
Thought I'd check it out for myself - minding the gap and all, I'd hate to be next.
The area was dead quiet, gas was there as usual though.
Makes the cracks greenish at the bottom and coats everything inside with some kind of slime.
The bodies in there were piled pretty high, probably due to the gradually increasing slope.
It's like London's sinking but everyone's too busy trying to survive to care.
From my vantage point up a tower of flats right beside it I had a bird's eye of it all.
Sure enough I saw movement but it wasn't like they said.
The bodies were moving but not by themselves.
Honestly I don't know what I saw but there were a lot of them and they moved fast.
Lightning quick jerks here and there pushing up past the corpses and running out onto the streets.
The crack must have grown by a foot while I was there and they just kept coming.
They seemed to move from one crack to another, spending brief amounts of time on the ground.
Something about them reminded me of fish and I still wonder if they're breathing in that gas.
I see them more often now but nobody else pays them any mind or mentions the moving corpses.
I suppose after a while people will grow used to anything.
20150917
Day 501
Whatever it is, it's in the trees again.
I saw its' lithe body drag the remains of a fox out of sight mere minutes ago.
The most I've ever seen of it was when I was walking my dog a week or so back.
It's been getting more adventurous as of late.
Luckily it makes a clicking kind of noise as it walks so you've got a few minutes warning.
I figured out that it has some kind of shell like an insect, hundreds of plates snapping together.
You don't always hear it though, my neighbour found out the hard way.
I found some of his torso by the same tree I saw it drag that fox up.
A few kids must have seen it do something like that too.
I heard some in my Thursday morning class mention "The Eating Tree" in hushed tones.
Gave me the idea to put a camera on the outside of my house, pointing to the tree.
I can monitor its' every move now, warn the whole area.
Most of them either don't believe me or want me to shut up in case it overhears.
I don't know if it has ears but I'm not about to get close enough to find out.
Reckon it knows that I've been talking anyway.
As I'm typing this I can see its' face inches from my camera.
It has so many mouths.
Mouths upon mouths with beady little eyes squeezed between them.
All looking at me, its' head follows me around the living room from the camera.
I don't know how but it actually sees me.
I saw its' lithe body drag the remains of a fox out of sight mere minutes ago.
The most I've ever seen of it was when I was walking my dog a week or so back.
It's been getting more adventurous as of late.
Luckily it makes a clicking kind of noise as it walks so you've got a few minutes warning.
I figured out that it has some kind of shell like an insect, hundreds of plates snapping together.
You don't always hear it though, my neighbour found out the hard way.
I found some of his torso by the same tree I saw it drag that fox up.
A few kids must have seen it do something like that too.
I heard some in my Thursday morning class mention "The Eating Tree" in hushed tones.
Gave me the idea to put a camera on the outside of my house, pointing to the tree.
I can monitor its' every move now, warn the whole area.
Most of them either don't believe me or want me to shut up in case it overhears.
I don't know if it has ears but I'm not about to get close enough to find out.
Reckon it knows that I've been talking anyway.
As I'm typing this I can see its' face inches from my camera.
It has so many mouths.
Mouths upon mouths with beady little eyes squeezed between them.
All looking at me, its' head follows me around the living room from the camera.
I don't know how but it actually sees me.
20150916
Day 500
There hadn't always been a door in the basement - he was sure of that.
It was usually just a concrete cube filled with old junk, the heater and his grandad's tools.
No exits except from a smallish window that was on ground level to the back garden.
Now as he'd finished searching the rest of the house for his family, he'd found this new door.
It looked old, very old.
Covered in a thick layer of dust it lay there on the floor, a faint breeze coming from the keyhole.
As he stood wondering how long it had been there in the basement corner, his mobile rang.
His mother's number appeared on the main screen but before he could answer it hung up.
Redialling he heard the familiar tinkling of her ringtone coming from just behind the door.
Settling his nerves he grabbed the handle and pulled upwards, its' hinges protesting all the way.
It was heavier than it looked but after a few attempts he managed to prop it up with a nearby chair.
The door revealed a set of steeply descending stairs beneath, lit by old-fashioned gas lamps.
It gave the staircase a greenish glow, tinted by the thick glass of the dim lights.
He braced himself against the walls as he trod carefully and quietly as he could towards the ringtone
which grew louder and louder the deeper he went and as his ears popped from the pressure he
realised that these stairs must have descended far below the house's foundations.
The walls looked to be regular dirt, their dull brown colour occasionally interrupted by strands of
iron and copper which were common in the local area.
He wondered if he'd stumbled into an old prohibition era tunnel or former bomb shelter.
As the steps ended wooden planks hastily piled together he saw what seemed to be an old mine.
He'd read about the town's mining history but doubted the site spread as far as the stories alleged.
So he'd been wrong and his mother's ringtone continued to echo down the tunnel though he'd hung
up the call halfway down the steps.
The old glass gas lights continued down here at uneven intervals, lighting up large holes in the walls.
He followed the shrill noise down, peering cautiously into every hole he came across.
Something at the back of his mind said to expect his family to pop out of one of the holes laughing.
As he reached a fork in the tunnel with five potential exits, he wondered if they'd just left his mother's
phone down here to trick him into wandering around these tunnels forever.
The echoing ringtone seemed to be coming from every angle around him.
He poked his head into each tunnel, trying to get a glimpse of someone, something, anything.
All he saw was near identical offshoots of his current dirt-packed location.
He sat down next to an old wooden beam to plan his next move - back or forward?
He must have dozed off at some point as he awoke in pitch black silence.
The wooden beam was no longer beside him and the air around stank of feces and blood.
Something came shuffling towards him, growling as it prowled closer to where he sat.
As something wet licked his ear he leapt up and grabbed his phone from his pocket.
Shining its' light out in front of him he saw the mangled body of an enormous pig.
It stood less than a foot from him, face partially caved in, lower jaw hacked off, tongue lolling almost
as limply as its head and blood gushing freely from its' shredded sides.
Shining his light around the rest of the room he saw it was the last one alive.
The others were in far better state, their heads roughly cut off and something cut into their sides.
He moved closed to one, the last living pig following him closely.
Faces... somebody had carved faces into them, very familiar faces and words beside them.
His blood chilled as he looked upon the grotesque smiles of his family and read their hatred of him.
It was usually just a concrete cube filled with old junk, the heater and his grandad's tools.
No exits except from a smallish window that was on ground level to the back garden.
Now as he'd finished searching the rest of the house for his family, he'd found this new door.
It looked old, very old.
Covered in a thick layer of dust it lay there on the floor, a faint breeze coming from the keyhole.
As he stood wondering how long it had been there in the basement corner, his mobile rang.
His mother's number appeared on the main screen but before he could answer it hung up.
Redialling he heard the familiar tinkling of her ringtone coming from just behind the door.
Settling his nerves he grabbed the handle and pulled upwards, its' hinges protesting all the way.
It was heavier than it looked but after a few attempts he managed to prop it up with a nearby chair.
The door revealed a set of steeply descending stairs beneath, lit by old-fashioned gas lamps.
It gave the staircase a greenish glow, tinted by the thick glass of the dim lights.
He braced himself against the walls as he trod carefully and quietly as he could towards the ringtone
which grew louder and louder the deeper he went and as his ears popped from the pressure he
realised that these stairs must have descended far below the house's foundations.
The walls looked to be regular dirt, their dull brown colour occasionally interrupted by strands of
iron and copper which were common in the local area.
He wondered if he'd stumbled into an old prohibition era tunnel or former bomb shelter.
As the steps ended wooden planks hastily piled together he saw what seemed to be an old mine.
He'd read about the town's mining history but doubted the site spread as far as the stories alleged.
So he'd been wrong and his mother's ringtone continued to echo down the tunnel though he'd hung
up the call halfway down the steps.
The old glass gas lights continued down here at uneven intervals, lighting up large holes in the walls.
He followed the shrill noise down, peering cautiously into every hole he came across.
Something at the back of his mind said to expect his family to pop out of one of the holes laughing.
As he reached a fork in the tunnel with five potential exits, he wondered if they'd just left his mother's
phone down here to trick him into wandering around these tunnels forever.
The echoing ringtone seemed to be coming from every angle around him.
He poked his head into each tunnel, trying to get a glimpse of someone, something, anything.
All he saw was near identical offshoots of his current dirt-packed location.
He sat down next to an old wooden beam to plan his next move - back or forward?
He must have dozed off at some point as he awoke in pitch black silence.
The wooden beam was no longer beside him and the air around stank of feces and blood.
Something came shuffling towards him, growling as it prowled closer to where he sat.
As something wet licked his ear he leapt up and grabbed his phone from his pocket.
Shining its' light out in front of him he saw the mangled body of an enormous pig.
It stood less than a foot from him, face partially caved in, lower jaw hacked off, tongue lolling almost
as limply as its head and blood gushing freely from its' shredded sides.
Shining his light around the rest of the room he saw it was the last one alive.
The others were in far better state, their heads roughly cut off and something cut into their sides.
He moved closed to one, the last living pig following him closely.
Faces... somebody had carved faces into them, very familiar faces and words beside them.
His blood chilled as he looked upon the grotesque smiles of his family and read their hatred of him.
20150915
Day 499
The tracks beneath the train screeched as it pulled into the disused station.
It only stopped there once a month- officially this place didn't exist.
All trains visited eventually, be it for maintenance or passenger collection.
The maintenance is generally based within the train's two engines.
Oil builds up somehow no matter how thoroughly it is drained and scraped away.
Every time it is replaces by fresh blood, just as it should be, to keep the ride smooth.
Side effects of this sadly include the screeching of the tracks as the live blood donors pass on.
They are never forgotten though, their names are carved into the driver's compartment.
Every train does this and the world is none the wiser for this or the station that does such repairs.
Regular travellers never remembered stopping there but were left feeling vaguely uneasy for weeks.
Some even develop a phobia of trains and find themselves unable to even look at one.
Even when the mind can't fully comprehend it still manages to leave us warnings.
This can also come down to that twisting feeling of dread when another passenger's eyes meet yours
as it is with every passenger brought on from that station.
Something in their eyes isn't right, isn't alive enough to be human and not dead enough to feel safe.
Their bodies don't move like they should either.
As ours are jolted gently by the train's movements they remain too stationary or slightly out of synch.
They get off at stops you'll never hear or see again, leaving behind wet leaves and the scent of lilac.
It only stopped there once a month- officially this place didn't exist.
All trains visited eventually, be it for maintenance or passenger collection.
The maintenance is generally based within the train's two engines.
Oil builds up somehow no matter how thoroughly it is drained and scraped away.
Every time it is replaces by fresh blood, just as it should be, to keep the ride smooth.
Side effects of this sadly include the screeching of the tracks as the live blood donors pass on.
They are never forgotten though, their names are carved into the driver's compartment.
Every train does this and the world is none the wiser for this or the station that does such repairs.
Regular travellers never remembered stopping there but were left feeling vaguely uneasy for weeks.
Some even develop a phobia of trains and find themselves unable to even look at one.
Even when the mind can't fully comprehend it still manages to leave us warnings.
This can also come down to that twisting feeling of dread when another passenger's eyes meet yours
as it is with every passenger brought on from that station.
Something in their eyes isn't right, isn't alive enough to be human and not dead enough to feel safe.
Their bodies don't move like they should either.
As ours are jolted gently by the train's movements they remain too stationary or slightly out of synch.
They get off at stops you'll never hear or see again, leaving behind wet leaves and the scent of lilac.
20150914
Day 498
The thing about old buildings is that they tend to collect far more than just dust.
Bricks and mortar have a tendency to absorb memories, or rather the electromagnetic pulses
that the human brain emits when forming particularly strong memories.
For instance that certain day you can't forget, can never forget no matter how much you try.
It's being held in by the very walls around you.
The building we will be looking into today used to be an old Victorian workhouse.
It was nowhere near as foreboding as it had been in its' heyday, at least on the outside.
Residents never stayed for long - drawn in by its' past and flung out by its' present.
Not every worker had clocked out... not every worker could.
Some still ran their usual routines, ever fearful of the Overseers and their short tempers.
Reports were always flooding into the landlords (as short-lived as their tenants).
Always the same things too - sooty footprints on the floors, the sound of running.
Lesser so were the more... vivid experiences where the workers decided to interact with the living.
They never meant to hurt anyone, never meant to make them cry or bleed or die.
At least they said so.
Fourteen deaths later and the building was closed, only twenty years after its' grand opening.
The authorities never managed to explain it all, called it suicide, homicide etcetera.
In spite of this they never got round to demolishing the building, some small part of their minds,
something that saw what they couldn't comprehend, said it needed to remain just there.
Keep the bricks together, keep the memories inside where they can't hurt others.
It didn't stop vandals and morbid individuals from stealing small mementoes as they broke in
and so a several workers got out, saw the rest of the world and thought it sickening.
They had so much more work to do here, so many sinners to put back on the righteous path.
Though they weren't in the workhouse anymore the Overseers were always with them.
Guiding their hands to bring the unknowing living to heaven through blood, sweat and toil.
Bricks and mortar have a tendency to absorb memories, or rather the electromagnetic pulses
that the human brain emits when forming particularly strong memories.
For instance that certain day you can't forget, can never forget no matter how much you try.
It's being held in by the very walls around you.
The building we will be looking into today used to be an old Victorian workhouse.
It was nowhere near as foreboding as it had been in its' heyday, at least on the outside.
Residents never stayed for long - drawn in by its' past and flung out by its' present.
Not every worker had clocked out... not every worker could.
Some still ran their usual routines, ever fearful of the Overseers and their short tempers.
Reports were always flooding into the landlords (as short-lived as their tenants).
Always the same things too - sooty footprints on the floors, the sound of running.
Lesser so were the more... vivid experiences where the workers decided to interact with the living.
They never meant to hurt anyone, never meant to make them cry or bleed or die.
At least they said so.
Fourteen deaths later and the building was closed, only twenty years after its' grand opening.
The authorities never managed to explain it all, called it suicide, homicide etcetera.
In spite of this they never got round to demolishing the building, some small part of their minds,
something that saw what they couldn't comprehend, said it needed to remain just there.
Keep the bricks together, keep the memories inside where they can't hurt others.
It didn't stop vandals and morbid individuals from stealing small mementoes as they broke in
and so a several workers got out, saw the rest of the world and thought it sickening.
They had so much more work to do here, so many sinners to put back on the righteous path.
Though they weren't in the workhouse anymore the Overseers were always with them.
Guiding their hands to bring the unknowing living to heaven through blood, sweat and toil.
20150913
Day 497
When the seas came rising up we were prepared, most of us anyway.
It's been over thirty years since we'd heard from other countries so we assumed them gone.
And then their boats arrived last week, empty of people but recently used.
Our search parties haven't found them.
It's like we're always a step behind these elusive people - assuming they are people.
We've even found freshly lit campfires with fish ready to be roasted, clothes still wet from the sea.
Still haven't found the beings making these but they seem to be heading further inside our city.
Our plan was to send a small group to follow their trail and bring them to our safe camp.
We sent them out five maybe six days ago and weren't expecting them back for several more.
Last night though one of the party came back dragging half of a corpse.
He was ranting and raving about the trail being a trap, how they'd been fooled and found by "It".
The city was no longer safe, he said, and any one of us could be next.
It had been watching us for some time, found the ship of outsiders just before us and eaten them all.
They'd served as a distraction, taking Its' focus away from us briefly but not before it learnt.
It knew what we did to establish territory and how we hunted and mimicked this.
And then we sent out a search party whose remaining member had left a bloody trail right to us.
It's been over thirty years since we'd heard from other countries so we assumed them gone.
And then their boats arrived last week, empty of people but recently used.
Our search parties haven't found them.
It's like we're always a step behind these elusive people - assuming they are people.
We've even found freshly lit campfires with fish ready to be roasted, clothes still wet from the sea.
Still haven't found the beings making these but they seem to be heading further inside our city.
Our plan was to send a small group to follow their trail and bring them to our safe camp.
We sent them out five maybe six days ago and weren't expecting them back for several more.
Last night though one of the party came back dragging half of a corpse.
He was ranting and raving about the trail being a trap, how they'd been fooled and found by "It".
The city was no longer safe, he said, and any one of us could be next.
It had been watching us for some time, found the ship of outsiders just before us and eaten them all.
They'd served as a distraction, taking Its' focus away from us briefly but not before it learnt.
It knew what we did to establish territory and how we hunted and mimicked this.
And then we sent out a search party whose remaining member had left a bloody trail right to us.
20150912
Day 496
The doctors were gathering again, how had Autumn come by so quickly?
In lieu of the harsh winter ailments they would meet by the capital city's oldest fountain.
It had been made before the city's first building and nobody quite knew why.
Some reckoned the fountain's water had curative properties so doctors met there to stock up on it.
The doctors themselves never said why they met there, not even to their families.
It was always in Autumn though, just before September's end.
People would gather around the alley entrances to the fountain square, hoping to glimpse the event.
It's rumoured to be good luck if they look at you through their red glasses.
They never looked outwards though.
Their gazes were always focussed on the fountain's waters and the papers they carried there.
Thick binders full of diagrams of some kind of creature, possibly human but probably not.
After all, how many humans had eight stomachs and poison glands?
At least, that's what people had said they've seen from the balconies of the surrounding homes that
have sprung up around the fountain over the years that act as both protective and observative.
Some of the higher ups in the city still don't trust these doctors.
It ends at dusk like it has done for hundreds of years.
They throw their papers into the fountain's waters and they dissolve near instantly.
Sugar paper - clever of them really.
After that they nod to each other, those beaked masks bobbing never fail to draw a few laughs from
the gathering crowd, be they fear, nerves or genuine amusement.
Usually a mixture of all three as the doctors sweep past the civilians in their billowing coats.
Once the gathering is over everything goes back to normal and the doctors resume their work.
Winter brings out the worst in sicknesses and no-one bar them is safe.
We don't know why they are never sick but some primal part of our minds screams to not question it.
In lieu of the harsh winter ailments they would meet by the capital city's oldest fountain.
It had been made before the city's first building and nobody quite knew why.
Some reckoned the fountain's water had curative properties so doctors met there to stock up on it.
The doctors themselves never said why they met there, not even to their families.
It was always in Autumn though, just before September's end.
People would gather around the alley entrances to the fountain square, hoping to glimpse the event.
It's rumoured to be good luck if they look at you through their red glasses.
They never looked outwards though.
Their gazes were always focussed on the fountain's waters and the papers they carried there.
Thick binders full of diagrams of some kind of creature, possibly human but probably not.
After all, how many humans had eight stomachs and poison glands?
At least, that's what people had said they've seen from the balconies of the surrounding homes that
have sprung up around the fountain over the years that act as both protective and observative.
Some of the higher ups in the city still don't trust these doctors.
It ends at dusk like it has done for hundreds of years.
They throw their papers into the fountain's waters and they dissolve near instantly.
Sugar paper - clever of them really.
After that they nod to each other, those beaked masks bobbing never fail to draw a few laughs from
the gathering crowd, be they fear, nerves or genuine amusement.
Usually a mixture of all three as the doctors sweep past the civilians in their billowing coats.
Once the gathering is over everything goes back to normal and the doctors resume their work.
Winter brings out the worst in sicknesses and no-one bar them is safe.
We don't know why they are never sick but some primal part of our minds screams to not question it.
20150911
Day 495
The air stank of stale takeout, dried puddles of vomit were scattered along the path forming trails.
They lead away from the large bins that were our only source of food most days.
If we were really lucky someone would die before they grew too thin and we ate real meat.
Sadly times like that were getting fewer and fewer.
There was just no substance to this "food" we found.
It filled you but ate you away from the inside until you dropped dead and hollow.
That was if you were lucky, some of us had yet to catch the worst of it.
Others were left stick-like and surrounded by the vomited remains of their innards.
The elders of us (the longest survivors, not the actual eldest) could tell which lumps were edible.
We looked to them to help us find the least infected lumps of... something that lay in the bins.
It was best to not think about what we ate, only that we were eating.
What we can't manage we tip into the rivers so that the countryfolk get something too.
We'd received messages from some farmers whose fields had turned to ash.
They weren't given food bins so we did what we could with our limited strength.
We never knew if they were alive, never heard anything from them either.
Sometimes it seems like we are the only ones left alive and even then we're all on the brink.
They lead away from the large bins that were our only source of food most days.
If we were really lucky someone would die before they grew too thin and we ate real meat.
Sadly times like that were getting fewer and fewer.
There was just no substance to this "food" we found.
It filled you but ate you away from the inside until you dropped dead and hollow.
That was if you were lucky, some of us had yet to catch the worst of it.
Others were left stick-like and surrounded by the vomited remains of their innards.
The elders of us (the longest survivors, not the actual eldest) could tell which lumps were edible.
We looked to them to help us find the least infected lumps of... something that lay in the bins.
It was best to not think about what we ate, only that we were eating.
What we can't manage we tip into the rivers so that the countryfolk get something too.
We'd received messages from some farmers whose fields had turned to ash.
They weren't given food bins so we did what we could with our limited strength.
We never knew if they were alive, never heard anything from them either.
Sometimes it seems like we are the only ones left alive and even then we're all on the brink.
20150910
Day 494
Her shift ended at around 02:00 hours and as usual everything was deathly still.
The taxi she'd booked the morning before was running late.
Thankfully only ten or so minutes passed before it finally arrived.
She noticed that the name on the side of the taxi was different, perhaps they'd leased her ride out?
The driver was a sullen looking man, not her usual person and certainly in no mood to answer her.
His only words were a very clipped "Where to, miss?".
It sounded like he had a sore throat - his voice was like gravel hitting glass.
As they drove off she realised the taxi didn't appear to have the usual GPS system.
Her house was out of town, hard to find without assistance.
She debated asking the driver if he knew the area but as their eyes met in the rearview mirror she
changed her mind abruptly - something about his pink-tinged gaze made her want to hide.
The glass screen between them now seemed suddenly safer.
The view from the window was dull, dawn was hours away and she couldn't see much.
It was a fair distance through the town and everything was either shut or empty.
Occasionally the headlights would catch a small critter darting past as they turned to the countryside.
From there her view was mainly hedges and black fields of barley.
She recognised a cluster of grain silos and expected to be home within the next few minutes.
However, after this the landscape was utterly alien to her.
Nothing was where it should have been, all her usual landmarks were gone or drastically changed.
The broken down tractor was three times larger than it should have been and somehow transparent
and the forest that came after wasn't there at all, some kind of city was.
The driver took a left and turned towards the strange new area.
She tried to get his attention, to tell him he was going the wrong way but all he did was groan.
It was a low sound, like an animal in pain.
His neck snapped to one side, bone splintering through skin as his head rolled to face her.
Where his pink-tinged eyes had been were heavily bleeding holes and his mouth was now little
more than a gaping maw filled with what looked to be jagged shards of glass.
Despite this the taxi drove onwards and into the city and she was helpless to stop it.
After what felt like hours of her staring into his bleeding face as he groaned, the taxi halted.
She was outside her house though it was now sandwiched between two skyscrapers.
The driver opened his door first, stepped out to hold hers open as his head limply rolled about.
Gingerly she stepped out, giving him a wide berth and sprinting for her door as quickly as she could.
A large notice had been stapled to the wooden surface.
Dear miss REDACTED,
Your home has been relocated to Salcottness, please do not question this.
Inside you will find your new family and an envelope detailing who you now are.
The taxi she'd booked the morning before was running late.
Thankfully only ten or so minutes passed before it finally arrived.
She noticed that the name on the side of the taxi was different, perhaps they'd leased her ride out?
The driver was a sullen looking man, not her usual person and certainly in no mood to answer her.
His only words were a very clipped "Where to, miss?".
It sounded like he had a sore throat - his voice was like gravel hitting glass.
As they drove off she realised the taxi didn't appear to have the usual GPS system.
Her house was out of town, hard to find without assistance.
She debated asking the driver if he knew the area but as their eyes met in the rearview mirror she
changed her mind abruptly - something about his pink-tinged gaze made her want to hide.
The glass screen between them now seemed suddenly safer.
The view from the window was dull, dawn was hours away and she couldn't see much.
It was a fair distance through the town and everything was either shut or empty.
Occasionally the headlights would catch a small critter darting past as they turned to the countryside.
From there her view was mainly hedges and black fields of barley.
She recognised a cluster of grain silos and expected to be home within the next few minutes.
However, after this the landscape was utterly alien to her.
Nothing was where it should have been, all her usual landmarks were gone or drastically changed.
The broken down tractor was three times larger than it should have been and somehow transparent
and the forest that came after wasn't there at all, some kind of city was.
The driver took a left and turned towards the strange new area.
She tried to get his attention, to tell him he was going the wrong way but all he did was groan.
It was a low sound, like an animal in pain.
His neck snapped to one side, bone splintering through skin as his head rolled to face her.
Where his pink-tinged eyes had been were heavily bleeding holes and his mouth was now little
more than a gaping maw filled with what looked to be jagged shards of glass.
Despite this the taxi drove onwards and into the city and she was helpless to stop it.
After what felt like hours of her staring into his bleeding face as he groaned, the taxi halted.
She was outside her house though it was now sandwiched between two skyscrapers.
The driver opened his door first, stepped out to hold hers open as his head limply rolled about.
Gingerly she stepped out, giving him a wide berth and sprinting for her door as quickly as she could.
A large notice had been stapled to the wooden surface.
Dear miss REDACTED,
Your home has been relocated to Salcottness, please do not question this.
Inside you will find your new family and an envelope detailing who you now are.
20150909
Day 493
They were at it again, whatever they were.
Dragging dust up from god know where, dumping it about the house and writing all over it.
I was damn sick of it after the first time but they won't stop doing it.
I've tried everything - I really have.
Five times a day I dust every surface, then hoover as much of the house as I can (ceilings included).
After dusting and hoovering I sweep any remaining dust inside and move on to the garden.
Each morning they leave everything covered in an inch thick layer of grey fuzz and their words.
I note down the new words every day, trying to piece this together while discouraging them still.
Eventually they should stop with the dust and move onto the pens and paper I leave everywhere.
-----
I'll keep this entry updated in case anything changes but so far it's still the same.
Dust everywhere every morning and no new words, just the regular.
Always about there being 500 of them lined up neatly under the ground.
-----
Yesterday I sent off a sample of the dust to be analysed.
I don't quite know why, after all I read that dust is mostly human skin cells and dirt.
My house is never dirty apart from their mess but I'd still like to know what it is.
-----
I shouldn't have have sent a sample away - now I can't get the results out of my head!
By all accounts they should be impossible, the carbon dating test they did said it was over 600.
600 year old human skin cells, soil, blood flecks and fecal matter all over my house.
I don't know how much longer I can take this, they're leaving even more now.
Piles and piles of it in every corner of the house and I can't afford enough rubbish sacks for it all.
Sometimes I swear the piles start forming faces, I might just leave them and see what they do.
-----
It's been seven days since I last cleaned and the piles are starting to look like torsos.
So far I've counted six of those and a few smaller ones that are beginning to resemble faces.
They don't have eyes just yet but I swear they're following me around the house.
Dragging dust up from god know where, dumping it about the house and writing all over it.
I was damn sick of it after the first time but they won't stop doing it.
I've tried everything - I really have.
Five times a day I dust every surface, then hoover as much of the house as I can (ceilings included).
After dusting and hoovering I sweep any remaining dust inside and move on to the garden.
Each morning they leave everything covered in an inch thick layer of grey fuzz and their words.
I note down the new words every day, trying to piece this together while discouraging them still.
Eventually they should stop with the dust and move onto the pens and paper I leave everywhere.
-----
I'll keep this entry updated in case anything changes but so far it's still the same.
Dust everywhere every morning and no new words, just the regular.
Always about there being 500 of them lined up neatly under the ground.
-----
Yesterday I sent off a sample of the dust to be analysed.
I don't quite know why, after all I read that dust is mostly human skin cells and dirt.
My house is never dirty apart from their mess but I'd still like to know what it is.
-----
I shouldn't have have sent a sample away - now I can't get the results out of my head!
By all accounts they should be impossible, the carbon dating test they did said it was over 600.
600 year old human skin cells, soil, blood flecks and fecal matter all over my house.
I don't know how much longer I can take this, they're leaving even more now.
Piles and piles of it in every corner of the house and I can't afford enough rubbish sacks for it all.
Sometimes I swear the piles start forming faces, I might just leave them and see what they do.
-----
It's been seven days since I last cleaned and the piles are starting to look like torsos.
So far I've counted six of those and a few smaller ones that are beginning to resemble faces.
They don't have eyes just yet but I swear they're following me around the house.
20150908
Day 492
You lost your dog last winter down by the river.
Daft little bugger had jumped right in before you could stop him.
He was so small the current swept him away like a leaf in a hurricane.
You never found his body, scoured every inch of the river past where he jumped for days too.
It was almost exactly one year before you thought to check the river's end.
Clingoe Lake froze over almost every winter, this time was no different.
According to the signs around the edge the translucent ice was thick enough to hold up to 180lbs.
You decided to walk out like you used to with your little companion before he died.
The ice cracked faintly underfoot like it generally did, no visible cracks though.
You only moved back when you could see white lines appear in front of you.
As you headed for shore you heard a faint skittering noise.
A familiar sound coming from below.
Through the milky white surface you saw four small paws pressed against ice.
You faintly saw a familiar and loving little face grinning up at you from the water.
He pawed at the ice, moved his mouth like he was barking but you heard nothing.
There were no air bubbles either.
You knelt down and he came running right to where your hands rested on the ice.
Nuzzling at them through the ice and dashing circles around you from below.
The ice was creaking loudly now, visible cracks grew deeper and closer.
As you went to stand it gave way, flipping you into the cold and sealing you underneath.
Now your days were filled with walks on the ice with your dog - from below the water of course.
Dying... hadn't hurt like it should have.
When the ice melted you went to the depths of the lake and slept with your small companion.
It didn't take many winters before someone dear to you found you under the ice and joined you.
Daft little bugger had jumped right in before you could stop him.
He was so small the current swept him away like a leaf in a hurricane.
You never found his body, scoured every inch of the river past where he jumped for days too.
It was almost exactly one year before you thought to check the river's end.
Clingoe Lake froze over almost every winter, this time was no different.
According to the signs around the edge the translucent ice was thick enough to hold up to 180lbs.
You decided to walk out like you used to with your little companion before he died.
The ice cracked faintly underfoot like it generally did, no visible cracks though.
You only moved back when you could see white lines appear in front of you.
As you headed for shore you heard a faint skittering noise.
A familiar sound coming from below.
Through the milky white surface you saw four small paws pressed against ice.
You faintly saw a familiar and loving little face grinning up at you from the water.
He pawed at the ice, moved his mouth like he was barking but you heard nothing.
There were no air bubbles either.
You knelt down and he came running right to where your hands rested on the ice.
Nuzzling at them through the ice and dashing circles around you from below.
The ice was creaking loudly now, visible cracks grew deeper and closer.
As you went to stand it gave way, flipping you into the cold and sealing you underneath.
Now your days were filled with walks on the ice with your dog - from below the water of course.
Dying... hadn't hurt like it should have.
When the ice melted you went to the depths of the lake and slept with your small companion.
It didn't take many winters before someone dear to you found you under the ice and joined you.
20150907
Day 491
The town council declared a drought several months back.
Hoses were banned, water was limited in every household and every fountain was shut down.
There had been rumours that the reservoir was almost empty
Didn't take long before panic set in and emergency plans were made.
Thousands of large plastic ovals would be released into the reservoir to create shade.
It was hoped that they'd slow down the evaporation long enough for autumn's rains to set in.
A few week after the announcement, photos were released depicting the ovals in progress.
They'd been decorated to look like boulders to blend in better with the rest of the area.
The town accepted the events and grew hopeful that the drought would end.
It didn't stop people from moving out and fast - whole streets vanished over the month.
After the plastic ovals were released people stopped leaving, everything got better.
None of us heard from the ones who'd moved out but we assumed they'd moved on too.
The truth didn't come out until a bunch of teens broke into the reservoir late at night.
Before that any visit had been strictly accompanied by security (for health and safety of course).
They'd never let anyone near the reservoir itself, only near the edges.
Now people had gotten close enough to touch the ovals, close enough to smell them.
First thing they noticed was how many flies there were in the air, swarming the ovals.
Their scent was sickeningly cloying,like rotting fruit but worse.
The teens figured that it was probably some anti-sun chemical or something.
And then one of them saw the hair.
Long brown hair tied up in a plait, gently bobbing beside an oval.
They split up to find sticks long enough to pull the corpse in, scared and thinking it was a suicide.
Some stuck behind to try and figure out exactly how to get her out.
They soon found other "plastic ovals" with tattooes and body hair that they recognised.
20150906
Day 490
Her wheelchair rolled itself out of the Patient Relaxation Bay by itself again.
The nurses thought she got another patient to push her but how could she?
Unable to move so much as an inch she was left at the mercy of the world.
Her family thought a special needs centre was the best option.
She thought they'd abandoned her.
They were all correct.
Her chair moved her through the long corridors and into the elevator.
Taking her from the ground floor to the very top.
It seemed to like taking her there and opening the balcony doors, leaving her up high.
Admittedly she liked the view as the centre was near the top of a hill.
The biting wind and faint whispers from the floor below were less pleasant.
Not like she could talk about them though and eventually they understood that.
Their voices grew louder as they began telling her things about the centre, about who they'd been.
Each one spoke of their death like it had been the greatest point of their life.
Each one spoke about the painfully white light that met them only to realise it was the morgue.
One voice in particular (a man called Jaque) had been poisoned and took days to go.
He'd finally succumbed late at night, choking in his own blood.
His voice stood out as being the only one that sounded like he was speaking underwater.
She became used to her balcony trips as did the staff until it was never questioned.
They would wheel her into the Relaxation Bay and her chair would wheel her to the ghosts.
Every time there was a new voice, someone else who'd died all of a sudden.
She hadn't noticed before how few patients there were in the centre.
The dead never said who had killed them, only that they knew the were murdered.
They always assured her she wouldn't be next, said the staff had to keep her for appearances.
Seems the locals had noticed her on the balcony and grown used to her.
Called her "our little watcherwoman" and thought fondly of her presence.
None of them ever visited her though, not even once.
Still, for now they were keeping her alive with their little nickname and kind thoughts.
Eventually it stopped working and she too was killed though she won't ever say who did it.
Her faint white figure still sits up there with the others, always in that wheelchair.
They say that if you go into the old centre at around midday you can see her chair moving.
It'll still wheel itself to the elevator and up to the balcony where she'll sit.
If you have the right eyes you'll see her bold as brass, talking to the others.
They don't sit though, they hover around the balcony ledge like they're unable to come inside.
Some reckon she's stopping them, the watcherwoman is protecting anyone who trespasses.
You see it's not the patients you should fear in there - it's the doctors.
The nurses thought she got another patient to push her but how could she?
Unable to move so much as an inch she was left at the mercy of the world.
Her family thought a special needs centre was the best option.
She thought they'd abandoned her.
They were all correct.
Her chair moved her through the long corridors and into the elevator.
Taking her from the ground floor to the very top.
It seemed to like taking her there and opening the balcony doors, leaving her up high.
Admittedly she liked the view as the centre was near the top of a hill.
The biting wind and faint whispers from the floor below were less pleasant.
Not like she could talk about them though and eventually they understood that.
Their voices grew louder as they began telling her things about the centre, about who they'd been.
Each one spoke of their death like it had been the greatest point of their life.
Each one spoke about the painfully white light that met them only to realise it was the morgue.
One voice in particular (a man called Jaque) had been poisoned and took days to go.
He'd finally succumbed late at night, choking in his own blood.
His voice stood out as being the only one that sounded like he was speaking underwater.
She became used to her balcony trips as did the staff until it was never questioned.
They would wheel her into the Relaxation Bay and her chair would wheel her to the ghosts.
Every time there was a new voice, someone else who'd died all of a sudden.
She hadn't noticed before how few patients there were in the centre.
The dead never said who had killed them, only that they knew the were murdered.
They always assured her she wouldn't be next, said the staff had to keep her for appearances.
Seems the locals had noticed her on the balcony and grown used to her.
Called her "our little watcherwoman" and thought fondly of her presence.
None of them ever visited her though, not even once.
Still, for now they were keeping her alive with their little nickname and kind thoughts.
Eventually it stopped working and she too was killed though she won't ever say who did it.
Her faint white figure still sits up there with the others, always in that wheelchair.
They say that if you go into the old centre at around midday you can see her chair moving.
It'll still wheel itself to the elevator and up to the balcony where she'll sit.
If you have the right eyes you'll see her bold as brass, talking to the others.
They don't sit though, they hover around the balcony ledge like they're unable to come inside.
Some reckon she's stopping them, the watcherwoman is protecting anyone who trespasses.
You see it's not the patients you should fear in there - it's the doctors.
Day 489
They started out as spores, he found out.
Tiny little spores clinging to the mould-soaked palettes, long left to rot.
He'd heard about the floating corpse - everyone had.
Didn't think it was a thing.
Didn't think he'd come out so changed.
So ready.
He'd gone in around nine in the evening, through the hole in the wire fence.
Cracked tarmac that was once the former car park was covered in graffiti up to a certain point.
There was a ring around the old storage unit where nobody dared to go further.
Except one signature right in front of the broken door in neon pink spray.
It read something like guess who's going in?
If they could go in, surely he could too?
And so he did, step by overly-cautious step he crept through the doorway and into the musty room.
The air inside stank like old mushrooms and damp wood - probably from the abandoned palettes.
They lay all over the place, stacked, collapsed, torn to shreds and wrapped tight in plastic.
Feeling confident in the empty room he made his way deeper inside.
It was far larger inside than out and frankly rather dull.
An office had been built into the side which became his new destination.
The door from there was missing too and again it looked so much bigger than the outside was.
In there he saw her, just as the rumours said.
A rotting, floating corpse.
He didn't notice the powdery clumps that clung to the wood outside.
Nor did he see them floating in the air like dust-specks but bigger.
His body quickly succumbed to the spores and he moved not of his own accord.
Soon enough he stood right next to her decomposing form and reached out.
The second his fingertips made contact with her corpse she burst into spores.
He screamed and they filled his gasping lungs.
The world turned dark as images flashed through his head of all the others who'd gone there first.
All the people who had been like he was becoming - the host.
Those who had stayed outside and had gone on to spread word of this place.
They kept the hosts in regular supply.
Tiny little spores clinging to the mould-soaked palettes, long left to rot.
He'd heard about the floating corpse - everyone had.
Didn't think it was a thing.
Didn't think he'd come out so changed.
So ready.
He'd gone in around nine in the evening, through the hole in the wire fence.
Cracked tarmac that was once the former car park was covered in graffiti up to a certain point.
There was a ring around the old storage unit where nobody dared to go further.
Except one signature right in front of the broken door in neon pink spray.
It read something like guess who's going in?
If they could go in, surely he could too?
And so he did, step by overly-cautious step he crept through the doorway and into the musty room.
The air inside stank like old mushrooms and damp wood - probably from the abandoned palettes.
They lay all over the place, stacked, collapsed, torn to shreds and wrapped tight in plastic.
Feeling confident in the empty room he made his way deeper inside.
It was far larger inside than out and frankly rather dull.
An office had been built into the side which became his new destination.
The door from there was missing too and again it looked so much bigger than the outside was.
In there he saw her, just as the rumours said.
A rotting, floating corpse.
He didn't notice the powdery clumps that clung to the wood outside.
Nor did he see them floating in the air like dust-specks but bigger.
His body quickly succumbed to the spores and he moved not of his own accord.
Soon enough he stood right next to her decomposing form and reached out.
The second his fingertips made contact with her corpse she burst into spores.
He screamed and they filled his gasping lungs.
The world turned dark as images flashed through his head of all the others who'd gone there first.
All the people who had been like he was becoming - the host.
Those who had stayed outside and had gone on to spread word of this place.
They kept the hosts in regular supply.
20150905
Day 488
Camden seems vast to new eyes but it is so much more.
Sprawling streets, crowded with typical tourist goods and oddities alike.
Full of secret corners too where strange shops lie in wait for their customers.
One such place can be found only at 7:53pm on Fridays.
The specificity of the time is odd but shops of its' nature are often found like that.
Many like it exist within the labyrinthine streets of London, few are remembered post-visit.
Their merchandise is always somehow useful, lifesaving at times and life-ending at others.
This shop contains a mixture of the two and no way to tell the difference.
Still they'd never had a complaint (or a repeat customer but they are hard to find after all).
Most days of the week the shop is a wall and it's owner runs a shoe shop many streets away.
Some locals theorise that Friday's seller is a mirrored copy of the shoe-seller.
They all claim to have spoken to her but never remember her name.
It becomes a rite of passage for them to visit these shops and make it back out.
They say that if you can do that then you are accepted by Camden, declared its' denizen.
Some sellers boast their purchases from these places, others refuse to speak of them.
I remember accidentally stumbling into one of these shops as a child.
My parents were distracted by a Thai food seller after a long trek to get to the bustling area.
I followed paving slabs that sparked with bright colours, beckoning me to follow.
Left after right after left I went, curious and excited.
Eventually I found that I had reached the end, looking around to see myself standing at a kiosk.
Thick purple curtains hung from the walls with bright red hooks poking out, holding toys.
The owner was a portly man, heavily tattooed and wearing a battered Keith Richards shirt.
I remember him being kind, being so funny but I don't remember him moving at all.
The shop itself was a large-ish shed from the outside with a steep staircase leading far down.
There were so many pretty lights down there and the man said I could go take one if I wanted.
Something about those lights seemed off to my six year-old self and I politely refused.
Thinking back he seemed so surprised, I doubt any other child had said no before.
When my parents found me I was standing by an iron horse statue clutching half a teddy bear.
I still have it, you know, though the stuffing has all fallen out and the fur is discoloured.
Thirty odd years later and I've never found him again.
Asking around, it seems I'm the only one who's been to him and come back so much later.
The only one who's lived to adulthood, any others who've returned are either comatose or dead.
They are always found holding part of a teddy, are always holding a copy of Peter Pan.
Seems he finally grew up.
Sprawling streets, crowded with typical tourist goods and oddities alike.
Full of secret corners too where strange shops lie in wait for their customers.
One such place can be found only at 7:53pm on Fridays.
The specificity of the time is odd but shops of its' nature are often found like that.
Many like it exist within the labyrinthine streets of London, few are remembered post-visit.
Their merchandise is always somehow useful, lifesaving at times and life-ending at others.
This shop contains a mixture of the two and no way to tell the difference.
Still they'd never had a complaint (or a repeat customer but they are hard to find after all).
Most days of the week the shop is a wall and it's owner runs a shoe shop many streets away.
Some locals theorise that Friday's seller is a mirrored copy of the shoe-seller.
They all claim to have spoken to her but never remember her name.
It becomes a rite of passage for them to visit these shops and make it back out.
They say that if you can do that then you are accepted by Camden, declared its' denizen.
Some sellers boast their purchases from these places, others refuse to speak of them.
I remember accidentally stumbling into one of these shops as a child.
My parents were distracted by a Thai food seller after a long trek to get to the bustling area.
I followed paving slabs that sparked with bright colours, beckoning me to follow.
Left after right after left I went, curious and excited.
Eventually I found that I had reached the end, looking around to see myself standing at a kiosk.
Thick purple curtains hung from the walls with bright red hooks poking out, holding toys.
The owner was a portly man, heavily tattooed and wearing a battered Keith Richards shirt.
I remember him being kind, being so funny but I don't remember him moving at all.
The shop itself was a large-ish shed from the outside with a steep staircase leading far down.
There were so many pretty lights down there and the man said I could go take one if I wanted.
Something about those lights seemed off to my six year-old self and I politely refused.
Thinking back he seemed so surprised, I doubt any other child had said no before.
When my parents found me I was standing by an iron horse statue clutching half a teddy bear.
I still have it, you know, though the stuffing has all fallen out and the fur is discoloured.
Thirty odd years later and I've never found him again.
Asking around, it seems I'm the only one who's been to him and come back so much later.
The only one who's lived to adulthood, any others who've returned are either comatose or dead.
They are always found holding part of a teddy, are always holding a copy of Peter Pan.
Seems he finally grew up.
20150903
Day 487
One road in and one out, that's how it had always been.
It, of course, being a small desert town somewhere in the Red Valley.
They got few visits from outside, mostly passing cars that were trying to find somewhere else.
It wasn't the kind of town you deliberately sought out.
The houses were all similar dusty shades of blue and brown.
Sand seeped into every corner of the buildings with little regard for the people there.
It coated every surface in a thin grainy layer that stubbornly refused to be washed away.
You grew used to it eventually, I did.
After moving from across the country I grew used to a lot of the town's quirks.
Like the fact that it had no name, only a zipcode and one road.
Another quirk was the absolute lack of any nightlife.
I mean I expected as much from a small town but not quite to this extent.
The second the sun had finished setting everything went black, utterly black.
Nowhere really mentions the strange noises that deserts make at night.
Those creaking whistling sounds, faint gurgling of (hopefully) pipes under the ground.
They certainly don't talk about the tracks left in the sand or the driftwood.
You'd expect driftwood along beaches certainly but in a desert-based settlement, not so much.
I mean sure they could have brought some in but nobody here seems to ever leave.
After doing some online research into the potential creatures around here, I set up cameras.
They were well hidden and all around my house so I could see what else lived here.
Innocent enough right?
The results were nothing like I expected, there's nothing quite like the creatures here for sure.
It starts when the piles of driftwood twitch and shift, gradually forming something like faces.
They peer all around, sometimes staring directly at my cameras all night, before moving.
They have stile like legs that end in elephantine feet, about the size of dinner plates.
They stumble gracefully around the streets and peer into every window they can - including mine.
It seems like they have favourites too, like Mr McKenzie's place.
About five of them crowd around his sitting room window all night.
A few of them have taken a liking to me too according to the footage.
I shouldn't have looked, I know I shouldn't but the temptation was too much.
Their faces are so much more human up close and their eyes, sunken and deep, are to expressive.
Last night I tried talking to them - I never expected a reply.
It, of course, being a small desert town somewhere in the Red Valley.
They got few visits from outside, mostly passing cars that were trying to find somewhere else.
It wasn't the kind of town you deliberately sought out.
The houses were all similar dusty shades of blue and brown.
Sand seeped into every corner of the buildings with little regard for the people there.
It coated every surface in a thin grainy layer that stubbornly refused to be washed away.
You grew used to it eventually, I did.
After moving from across the country I grew used to a lot of the town's quirks.
Like the fact that it had no name, only a zipcode and one road.
Another quirk was the absolute lack of any nightlife.
I mean I expected as much from a small town but not quite to this extent.
The second the sun had finished setting everything went black, utterly black.
Nowhere really mentions the strange noises that deserts make at night.
Those creaking whistling sounds, faint gurgling of (hopefully) pipes under the ground.
They certainly don't talk about the tracks left in the sand or the driftwood.
You'd expect driftwood along beaches certainly but in a desert-based settlement, not so much.
I mean sure they could have brought some in but nobody here seems to ever leave.
After doing some online research into the potential creatures around here, I set up cameras.
They were well hidden and all around my house so I could see what else lived here.
Innocent enough right?
The results were nothing like I expected, there's nothing quite like the creatures here for sure.
It starts when the piles of driftwood twitch and shift, gradually forming something like faces.
They peer all around, sometimes staring directly at my cameras all night, before moving.
They have stile like legs that end in elephantine feet, about the size of dinner plates.
They stumble gracefully around the streets and peer into every window they can - including mine.
It seems like they have favourites too, like Mr McKenzie's place.
About five of them crowd around his sitting room window all night.
A few of them have taken a liking to me too according to the footage.
I shouldn't have looked, I know I shouldn't but the temptation was too much.
Their faces are so much more human up close and their eyes, sunken and deep, are to expressive.
Last night I tried talking to them - I never expected a reply.
20150902
Day 486
Fifty three floors, some burnt to a crisp and others barely singed.
Altogether the skyscraper was a wreck that should have been demolished years ago.
Some legal technicality over ownership and insurance kept it standing.
Despite it being fenced off and patrolled people still managed to get in.
It's still unclear if the burnt remains that keep being found are theirs or the original tenants.
I remember seeing it go from my apartment in the tower block across from it.
I used to communicate with some guy over there via telescope and charades.
Never thought I'd end up using it to watch his family burn to death as he jumped off the balcony.
Didn't see him hit the floor, his name wasn't in the death toll.
He's still missing but I reckon he's still in there.
Sometimes I catch movement when I do my evening scope of the place.
I've been keeping my eyes peeled for urban explorers, tattling on them to the security guards.
It's not safe in there - how are people not getting this still?
They are followed the minute they step inside by these smoky vaguely-people-shaped waifs.
The worst part is that these things, these remnants know I watch and they put on shows.
Those poor trespassers are dangled out of the highest windows like puppets, waving limply.
Eventually the creatures get bored and let them drop or finish them off.
If they drop they turn to smoke and become like their killers, same if they're killed directly.
Some days the windows are full of them all waving and jumping about.
Still haven't figured out if they're signalling for me to join them or for belated help.
20150901
Day 485
There were very few places like the village of Cawdown-Upon-Hythe.
It was one of those little settlements that had sprung up around mostly-flooded marshlands.
Located right at the northernmost landpoint, just shy of being it's own island.
Although the area in general was counted as one place, each resident was practically a prisoner.
You see, the tides in Cawdon are renowned for being somewhat vicious and abrupt.
One minute you can almost see the weeds that are presumed to lurk on the marsh floor,
the next you're being swept out to them before you can even gasp for air.
Quite spectacular to see, less so when you're stranded on a stranger's garden.
The residents grow used to spontaneous guests and the flurry of panic that ensues.
Rations are spread about through an intricate series of baskets carried by thick ropes and pulleys.
They are the lifeline and main support for the voluntarily stranded community.
Acting as a food source, long distance communication system, pharmacy and much more.
Winter was the worst for the isolated cluster as the snow would freeze the pulleys and break them.
Some went for days without food or news, often being found dead in the spring.
This winter was the worst anyone had known for over a hundred years.
It was only made worse when the marshlands froze over for the very first time.
Some residents woke to the sound of someone knocking on their doors.
A sound that they had never heard before, nobody ever visited in person, it was always by letter.
They met their neighbours for the first time in their lives and roamed about their home.
Come spring the marshlands were still frozen solid and not a soul was to be found.
Dining tables were laid for a feast, beds were unmade and pillows tossed against walls.
Some scraps of paper gave clues as to what had happened and painted a grim tale.
As can be expected, feuds had been held for generations via letter, harsh words carefully written out.
With the marsh frozen they could finally sort things out in person.
It was one of those little settlements that had sprung up around mostly-flooded marshlands.
Located right at the northernmost landpoint, just shy of being it's own island.
Although the area in general was counted as one place, each resident was practically a prisoner.
You see, the tides in Cawdon are renowned for being somewhat vicious and abrupt.
One minute you can almost see the weeds that are presumed to lurk on the marsh floor,
the next you're being swept out to them before you can even gasp for air.
Quite spectacular to see, less so when you're stranded on a stranger's garden.
The residents grow used to spontaneous guests and the flurry of panic that ensues.
Rations are spread about through an intricate series of baskets carried by thick ropes and pulleys.
They are the lifeline and main support for the voluntarily stranded community.
Acting as a food source, long distance communication system, pharmacy and much more.
Winter was the worst for the isolated cluster as the snow would freeze the pulleys and break them.
Some went for days without food or news, often being found dead in the spring.
This winter was the worst anyone had known for over a hundred years.
It was only made worse when the marshlands froze over for the very first time.
Some residents woke to the sound of someone knocking on their doors.
A sound that they had never heard before, nobody ever visited in person, it was always by letter.
They met their neighbours for the first time in their lives and roamed about their home.
Come spring the marshlands were still frozen solid and not a soul was to be found.
Dining tables were laid for a feast, beds were unmade and pillows tossed against walls.
Some scraps of paper gave clues as to what had happened and painted a grim tale.
As can be expected, feuds had been held for generations via letter, harsh words carefully written out.
With the marsh frozen they could finally sort things out in person.
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