When the dead came back, they all came back.
Every last thing that could move, did move and we weren't prepared for the full extent of it.
I was at the Hunterian Museum in London at the time and everything began to wake up.
The sound of shattering glass and screams came from outside and like a tidal wave approached us.
First the ones by the entrance began to twitch, thin slices of humans waving and groping limply.
Sheets of human skin moved like worms, writhing and engulfing whatever poor soul was closest.
Even the preserved and deformed foetuses blinked their hardly-developed eyes and screamed.
You just can't forget the sound of tiny lungs crying in formaldehyde.
It sounds muffled and echoey, makes it easier for them to crawl up behind you and attack.
I saw one wrestle a grown man to the ground, its umbilical cord whipping about like a snake.
Even the preserved limbs rattled in their liquid prisons, eager to meet the outside world again.
The skeletons remained dead.
There was a stampede of tourists trying to get to the fire exits, trampling anyone in their wake.
Some escaped I think... I didn't and that's okay - we're all okay now.
But there are so many babies out there now, all crying out in hunger.
20151130
Day 574
The apartment block had once been a mansion, lavish and ornate, now it was crumbling in places and fallen to pieces in others. The residents were much the same - old money gone to rot. There was something about the old place that seemed to draw them all in where they festered until the day they died.
A couple were former Lords, disgraced and hiding from their reputations, others were new money who'd made one too many bets. There were a few genuine residents of course, living from paycheck to paycheck in its somewhat mouldy walls. The apartments were well-suited for them all, tucked away in a labyrinth of downtown buildings almost as rundown as it. There were never any visitors besides the daily postman. It was one of those places you could easily walk past without even seeing.
Inside you could catch glimpses of the mansion it once was in the elaborate skirting boards and finely carved wooden panels that decorated entire floors, not smothered in dust and animal hair. Aside from the lack of care the building faced there were a few oddities. Any house of a reasonable age is bound to collect one or two. In this particular building it seemed to be staircases leading to floors that didn't actually exist.
One such set could be seen from the main entrance, just off to the left. It was as richly carved as the other wooden staircases and lead from the first floor onwards though it wasn't accessible from any floor. It wasn't that it was in an awkward place, it just didn't exist. Couldn't be seen in the slightest when you were on the upper floors and yet every resident has seen the same person walking up or down those stairs at some point.
Mr De'Ath he's known by the mansion's occupants as he's only ever been seen around the time a resident dies. If you rush to the entrance fast enough you catch a glimpse of him. He walks up the stairs holding a large grey bundle in his arms but walks down empty handed.
Old Lord Penkins says he saw Mr De'Ath sitting beside his bed when he was having his first heart murmur. He claimed the man didn't have a human face, only a mesh of something like bone with eyes as large as teacups, no nose and a thin mouth that stretched to either side of his head. The man didn't speak, just sat beside him as he struggled to breathe properly and gently put one hand on Lord Perkins' chest as if to say don't rush, I'm a patient man.
A couple were former Lords, disgraced and hiding from their reputations, others were new money who'd made one too many bets. There were a few genuine residents of course, living from paycheck to paycheck in its somewhat mouldy walls. The apartments were well-suited for them all, tucked away in a labyrinth of downtown buildings almost as rundown as it. There were never any visitors besides the daily postman. It was one of those places you could easily walk past without even seeing.
Inside you could catch glimpses of the mansion it once was in the elaborate skirting boards and finely carved wooden panels that decorated entire floors, not smothered in dust and animal hair. Aside from the lack of care the building faced there were a few oddities. Any house of a reasonable age is bound to collect one or two. In this particular building it seemed to be staircases leading to floors that didn't actually exist.
One such set could be seen from the main entrance, just off to the left. It was as richly carved as the other wooden staircases and lead from the first floor onwards though it wasn't accessible from any floor. It wasn't that it was in an awkward place, it just didn't exist. Couldn't be seen in the slightest when you were on the upper floors and yet every resident has seen the same person walking up or down those stairs at some point.
Mr De'Ath he's known by the mansion's occupants as he's only ever been seen around the time a resident dies. If you rush to the entrance fast enough you catch a glimpse of him. He walks up the stairs holding a large grey bundle in his arms but walks down empty handed.
Old Lord Penkins says he saw Mr De'Ath sitting beside his bed when he was having his first heart murmur. He claimed the man didn't have a human face, only a mesh of something like bone with eyes as large as teacups, no nose and a thin mouth that stretched to either side of his head. The man didn't speak, just sat beside him as he struggled to breathe properly and gently put one hand on Lord Perkins' chest as if to say don't rush, I'm a patient man.
20151128
Day 573
The "haunted" boat tour began at midnight and ended at dawn.
A small group of tourists huddled around the harbour awaiting their host's arrival.
As the town's clock struck midnight he walked towards them,wading through the sea-mist.
Dressed-to-the-nines, he ushered them onto a grey boat with a tip of his top hat.
As they set off they seemed to graze several underwater structures, shipwrecks the host said.
Nothing to worry about though, their boat was built to outlast them all.
Carrying on in a large circle of the bay he stood under a large light attached to the mast and spoke.
The town had once been a bustling port for illegal imports back in the 1600s - the Pirate Years.
Anything that could be smuggled in would be through dozens of caves littered around the harbour.
This tour in particular took them through one rumoured to be haunted by an entire ship's crew.
Apparently they'd been cornered by British soldiers and hung from their own mast, every last one.
Legends said that they still sailed this coast, still hanging and still alive.
As they approached the cave the host spoke of, the mist seemed to thicken rapidly.
Lights had been strung up at intervals along the high walls, making them seem narrower and taller.
The small boat took turn after turn, heading deeper into the cave to the host's narration.
He told them about several of the pirate crew as if he knew them personally.
Around 02:00AM they found themselves wearily approaching the "heart of the caves".
This central chamber was where the crew had been cornered and where they still roamed.
As they turned the final corner they found themselves in a vast cave-bound cavern.
right at the centre, just as the host had described was an impossibly large ship.
Decomposing bodies were strung up along almost every inch of the sails.
Some were practically skeletal and others looked like they were fresh, wearing modern clothing.
One tourist piped up, asking what kind of sick joke this was.
The sound of disembodied laughter filled the chamber as the mist swallowed the little boat.
And thus the tour ended for the week.
A small group of tourists huddled around the harbour awaiting their host's arrival.
As the town's clock struck midnight he walked towards them,wading through the sea-mist.
Dressed-to-the-nines, he ushered them onto a grey boat with a tip of his top hat.
As they set off they seemed to graze several underwater structures, shipwrecks the host said.
Nothing to worry about though, their boat was built to outlast them all.
Carrying on in a large circle of the bay he stood under a large light attached to the mast and spoke.
The town had once been a bustling port for illegal imports back in the 1600s - the Pirate Years.
Anything that could be smuggled in would be through dozens of caves littered around the harbour.
This tour in particular took them through one rumoured to be haunted by an entire ship's crew.
Apparently they'd been cornered by British soldiers and hung from their own mast, every last one.
Legends said that they still sailed this coast, still hanging and still alive.
As they approached the cave the host spoke of, the mist seemed to thicken rapidly.
Lights had been strung up at intervals along the high walls, making them seem narrower and taller.
The small boat took turn after turn, heading deeper into the cave to the host's narration.
He told them about several of the pirate crew as if he knew them personally.
Around 02:00AM they found themselves wearily approaching the "heart of the caves".
This central chamber was where the crew had been cornered and where they still roamed.
As they turned the final corner they found themselves in a vast cave-bound cavern.
right at the centre, just as the host had described was an impossibly large ship.
Decomposing bodies were strung up along almost every inch of the sails.
Some were practically skeletal and others looked like they were fresh, wearing modern clothing.
One tourist piped up, asking what kind of sick joke this was.
The sound of disembodied laughter filled the chamber as the mist swallowed the little boat.
And thus the tour ended for the week.
20151127
Day 572
The supermarket talked to itself quietly so the shoppers wouldn't hear it.
Little mutters here and there that sounded like whispered conversations among the crowds.
There had always been a shop on this street, ever since the early days of England.
Nobody noticed that of course, just like they didn't notice it gradually expanding.
It wasn't growing outward though, that would be too obvious.
The shop was growing down, basement upon storage facility upon warehouse all stacked below.
Not even the managers knew about this, they remained as ignorant as humans were wont to be.
And this was preferred.
It remained as it was for a while, forty floors beneath and two above.
The shoppers remained ignorant as they harvested its eggs and consumed them as "organic produce".
There would soon be hundreds if not thousands like it.
All it had to do was wait.
Over time the shoppers grew more careless, their "Black Friday" left the supermarket in such pain.
Its eggs were crushed, ripped and left in the chaos of the shoppers' stampeding.
A plan was set into motion for the following year.
The last "Black Friday".
When the day came around everyone was too eager to get inside to notice the subtle changes.
The signs that came up pointing to the "new" basement areas, full of more things to buy.
Every entrance bar the main one had vanished, replaced with more shelves.
Not even the staff were quite aware, too busy worrying for the next few hours.
Little mutters here and there that sounded like whispered conversations among the crowds.
There had always been a shop on this street, ever since the early days of England.
Nobody noticed that of course, just like they didn't notice it gradually expanding.
It wasn't growing outward though, that would be too obvious.
The shop was growing down, basement upon storage facility upon warehouse all stacked below.
Not even the managers knew about this, they remained as ignorant as humans were wont to be.
And this was preferred.
It remained as it was for a while, forty floors beneath and two above.
The shoppers remained ignorant as they harvested its eggs and consumed them as "organic produce".
There would soon be hundreds if not thousands like it.
All it had to do was wait.
Over time the shoppers grew more careless, their "Black Friday" left the supermarket in such pain.
Its eggs were crushed, ripped and left in the chaos of the shoppers' stampeding.
A plan was set into motion for the following year.
The last "Black Friday".
When the day came around everyone was too eager to get inside to notice the subtle changes.
The signs that came up pointing to the "new" basement areas, full of more things to buy.
Every entrance bar the main one had vanished, replaced with more shelves.
Not even the staff were quite aware, too busy worrying for the next few hours.
20151126
Day 571
The castle tour began at the old well, rumoured to be fifty feet deep but in reality only thirty-five or so. It varied depending on the guide but they all encouraged you to stand on the seemingly fragile metal mesh that covered its opening.
Every time it bent worryingly and every time it held. Still that didn't stop the urban legends from saying how one visitor fell straight down and instead of telling anyone the museum filled the well's water with vinegar and black food colouring so you couldn't even see the decomposing corpse.
Of course it wasn't true.
The next stop was the roof, usually completely shut to the public but now a major feature in the castle's advertising and by proxy, the town's tourism sites. There was the usual discussion about the counterclockwise stairs, a common trait in northern castles due to some high percentage of left-handed people and tactical advantage. From there the stairs led to the roof itself, which wasn't anything exciting, black tiles covered every inch of roof that the metal walkway didn't. It extended around half of the castle's roof and gave you a plainly picturesque view of the surrounding housing estates.
There was a large-ish oak tree to one side of the roof with a nest of rooks that had somehow always been there and had never been explained. The guides would explain how the legends said that if the rooks ever abandoned their nest then the castle would collapse or the Black Death would return to end all of England.
Of course it wasn't true.
From there the tour moved thrillingly onto the basement area where three stone coffins were kept in the low arched and dim halls. When the castle was being refurnished for the first time in the early 19th century they had no idea that these rooms existed and to this day they aren't sure if they've uncovered them all. The first was discovered accidentally when a careless workman cracked the floor and found golden coins on top of sand. After a lot of fumbling about the first chamber was uncovered, no more gold was found though but it spurred the owners on to find more of the se chambers and within them each one stone coffin.
The guides would say they were great warriors or local lords, buried within the castle itself for good luck and protection against the restless souls of the Romans that were massacred by Boudica's armies during her campaign across England.
Of course it wasn't true.
Someone had fallen down the well but hundreds of years ago. It had been an accident at first but they had survived enough to attempt to climb back out. Eventually their physical strength wore out and they drowned but if you listen closely enough you can still hear the splashes and skin scraping stone as they drag themself upwards and towards unseeing and unhearing tourists.
The rooks can't leave their nest - there is always a chick in there but it isn't theirs. They feel obligated to care for it until they pass away and then another pair will hear the hatchling's cries and take it on as their own. This cycle has been going for countless years and still the hatchling continues to cry, unseen and unheard but ever present.
The coffins belonged to nothing human and nothing protective, though they kept the Roman soldiers at bay, lest their spectral legions march through the castle itself and disturb the fragile balance instilled by the coffin-dwellers. They were very much alive in there, breathing air and made of flesh and blood. They were fed once a month and that suited them just fine though they still craved the hunt and the screams and the scent of blood and fear-sweat in the early mornings.
Every time it bent worryingly and every time it held. Still that didn't stop the urban legends from saying how one visitor fell straight down and instead of telling anyone the museum filled the well's water with vinegar and black food colouring so you couldn't even see the decomposing corpse.
Of course it wasn't true.
The next stop was the roof, usually completely shut to the public but now a major feature in the castle's advertising and by proxy, the town's tourism sites. There was the usual discussion about the counterclockwise stairs, a common trait in northern castles due to some high percentage of left-handed people and tactical advantage. From there the stairs led to the roof itself, which wasn't anything exciting, black tiles covered every inch of roof that the metal walkway didn't. It extended around half of the castle's roof and gave you a plainly picturesque view of the surrounding housing estates.
There was a large-ish oak tree to one side of the roof with a nest of rooks that had somehow always been there and had never been explained. The guides would explain how the legends said that if the rooks ever abandoned their nest then the castle would collapse or the Black Death would return to end all of England.
Of course it wasn't true.
From there the tour moved thrillingly onto the basement area where three stone coffins were kept in the low arched and dim halls. When the castle was being refurnished for the first time in the early 19th century they had no idea that these rooms existed and to this day they aren't sure if they've uncovered them all. The first was discovered accidentally when a careless workman cracked the floor and found golden coins on top of sand. After a lot of fumbling about the first chamber was uncovered, no more gold was found though but it spurred the owners on to find more of the se chambers and within them each one stone coffin.
The guides would say they were great warriors or local lords, buried within the castle itself for good luck and protection against the restless souls of the Romans that were massacred by Boudica's armies during her campaign across England.
Of course it wasn't true.
Someone had fallen down the well but hundreds of years ago. It had been an accident at first but they had survived enough to attempt to climb back out. Eventually their physical strength wore out and they drowned but if you listen closely enough you can still hear the splashes and skin scraping stone as they drag themself upwards and towards unseeing and unhearing tourists.
The rooks can't leave their nest - there is always a chick in there but it isn't theirs. They feel obligated to care for it until they pass away and then another pair will hear the hatchling's cries and take it on as their own. This cycle has been going for countless years and still the hatchling continues to cry, unseen and unheard but ever present.
The coffins belonged to nothing human and nothing protective, though they kept the Roman soldiers at bay, lest their spectral legions march through the castle itself and disturb the fragile balance instilled by the coffin-dwellers. They were very much alive in there, breathing air and made of flesh and blood. They were fed once a month and that suited them just fine though they still craved the hunt and the screams and the scent of blood and fear-sweat in the early mornings.
Day 570
"There's always something more to it," she thought bitterly as she closed her latest case. The killer had been the dullest all of the others before him - the usual crime of passion shtick they pulled when they had nothing else to give, when she had them cornered with enough material to put them behind bars for a good while.
There was always something more to it, always some other victim they'd kept hidden for years and years or someone who was next on their list. Something else, anything else but this drab one-off-and-never-before-or-since deal this guy was trying to pull. She wasn't falling for it, never had before and look where it had landed her - top of the department, of her field.
Everything about this guy set her on edge in the same way the others had. There was something about that guileless look they carried that never seemed to suit them, like they'd borrowed it from someone they'd seen on TV and didn't quite know what to do with it. This one had to be hiding something and she was going to find it.
She began by going back to the crime scenes, double checking for anything she might have missed like old blood stains, an unlicensed weapon, anything that might point to another body. This guy definitely had it in him to do it. People like him didn't just kill once, they killed regularly. Little people that wouldn't be missed just picked off one-by-one over the span of several years if they were smart, months if they weren't.
His house had already been swabbed clean by forensics, all known evidence taken, bagged and left to rot like all the other closed cases. She found nothing new until she began to move the furniture, or more precisely turn the apartment upside-down in the literal sense.
Seemed at first that his cheap thrift shop sofa was falling to pieces on the bottom, with the stuffing falling right out. It shouldn't have been that heavy though, at least not for the size of it. Taking the penknife she kept tucked away in her boot she cut the edge of the underside, just enough to stick her gloved hand through.
At first all she felt was stuffing and springs and something oddly too solid for a sofa. Cutting further and pulling at the foreign object her hand came back with a large clump of hair. She smiled and laughed with absolute glee. She was right yet again. She was always right, catching so many serial killers like this.
After calling it in, claiming she'd smelt something weird coming from the sofa in her last visit and chased it up, she backed away and planned her next steps. Of course she'd made sure to clean all of her prints off the body at first before she stuffed it into whatever furniture she'd found at the local dump. After adding a stint of new fabric to it and tipping off a good friend of hers that it was there of course it was bound to end up in a thrift store.
She didn't even recognise it at first, seems someone had redone her first attempt at covering the worn fabric beneath. It was honestly pure coincidence that her work had ended up at a crime scene but how she loved it when her little pieces came together so well.
There was always something else, there was her.
There was always something more to it, always some other victim they'd kept hidden for years and years or someone who was next on their list. Something else, anything else but this drab one-off-and-never-before-or-since deal this guy was trying to pull. She wasn't falling for it, never had before and look where it had landed her - top of the department, of her field.
Everything about this guy set her on edge in the same way the others had. There was something about that guileless look they carried that never seemed to suit them, like they'd borrowed it from someone they'd seen on TV and didn't quite know what to do with it. This one had to be hiding something and she was going to find it.
She began by going back to the crime scenes, double checking for anything she might have missed like old blood stains, an unlicensed weapon, anything that might point to another body. This guy definitely had it in him to do it. People like him didn't just kill once, they killed regularly. Little people that wouldn't be missed just picked off one-by-one over the span of several years if they were smart, months if they weren't.
His house had already been swabbed clean by forensics, all known evidence taken, bagged and left to rot like all the other closed cases. She found nothing new until she began to move the furniture, or more precisely turn the apartment upside-down in the literal sense.
Seemed at first that his cheap thrift shop sofa was falling to pieces on the bottom, with the stuffing falling right out. It shouldn't have been that heavy though, at least not for the size of it. Taking the penknife she kept tucked away in her boot she cut the edge of the underside, just enough to stick her gloved hand through.
At first all she felt was stuffing and springs and something oddly too solid for a sofa. Cutting further and pulling at the foreign object her hand came back with a large clump of hair. She smiled and laughed with absolute glee. She was right yet again. She was always right, catching so many serial killers like this.
After calling it in, claiming she'd smelt something weird coming from the sofa in her last visit and chased it up, she backed away and planned her next steps. Of course she'd made sure to clean all of her prints off the body at first before she stuffed it into whatever furniture she'd found at the local dump. After adding a stint of new fabric to it and tipping off a good friend of hers that it was there of course it was bound to end up in a thrift store.
She didn't even recognise it at first, seems someone had redone her first attempt at covering the worn fabric beneath. It was honestly pure coincidence that her work had ended up at a crime scene but how she loved it when her little pieces came together so well.
There was always something else, there was her.
20151125
Day 569
We've been building up for so centuries now, burying the old under waves of detritus.
The last dregs of humanity were now seated up in the skies in their metal cells.
Tower upon tower layered along the skylines like the trees that were killed to make way for them.
Every floor has someone or something living in it, the lower floors are almost bare though.
Status is shown by the size of the air tank you carry with you.
The wealthiest have been seen in wheelchairs, well chairs moulded around vats of recycling oxygen.
Most didn't realise exactly what lived down in the basement levels, right under the ground.
Of course there were rumours about it the basement doors leading to an endless pit.
Not quite true but the subterranean tunnels were certainly extensive.
When the storms came the towers all swayed together, some merging and others falling.
With their floors gone, status gone and lives ruined they sought shelter with the lower floors.
None wanted to associate with the so-called Elite Of Society, every door closed to them.
They had no choice but to head down into the underbelly they worked so hard to escape.
Through crumbling floors and doors rusted half to nothing, they walked looking for shelter.
There were a rare few that went down into the sub-levels where nobody returned from.
Some stumbled upon the small communities that thrived down there on the leftovers from the towers.
Others stumbled into the rumoured pits never to be seen again but how their screams lingered on.
Like the wind that brought them down there, those howls sent them back up to the ground floor.
It was like a desert there, a concrete desert full of nothing but a few stragglers.
They ate whatever came closest, rarely straying from the hovels they'd built from surrounding debris.
None of them were quite human, they all had something about them that seemed unnatural.
Some realised it was their teeth, all filed to points with metal shards jammed where teeth weren't
and every tooth stained a dark burgundy from the poor wretches that strayed too close.
Not that the upper floors knew nor cared, they simply left the displaced ones to meet their ends.
The last dregs of humanity were now seated up in the skies in their metal cells.
Tower upon tower layered along the skylines like the trees that were killed to make way for them.
Every floor has someone or something living in it, the lower floors are almost bare though.
Status is shown by the size of the air tank you carry with you.
The wealthiest have been seen in wheelchairs, well chairs moulded around vats of recycling oxygen.
Most didn't realise exactly what lived down in the basement levels, right under the ground.
Of course there were rumours about it the basement doors leading to an endless pit.
Not quite true but the subterranean tunnels were certainly extensive.
When the storms came the towers all swayed together, some merging and others falling.
With their floors gone, status gone and lives ruined they sought shelter with the lower floors.
None wanted to associate with the so-called Elite Of Society, every door closed to them.
They had no choice but to head down into the underbelly they worked so hard to escape.
Through crumbling floors and doors rusted half to nothing, they walked looking for shelter.
There were a rare few that went down into the sub-levels where nobody returned from.
Some stumbled upon the small communities that thrived down there on the leftovers from the towers.
Others stumbled into the rumoured pits never to be seen again but how their screams lingered on.
Like the wind that brought them down there, those howls sent them back up to the ground floor.
It was like a desert there, a concrete desert full of nothing but a few stragglers.
They ate whatever came closest, rarely straying from the hovels they'd built from surrounding debris.
None of them were quite human, they all had something about them that seemed unnatural.
Some realised it was their teeth, all filed to points with metal shards jammed where teeth weren't
and every tooth stained a dark burgundy from the poor wretches that strayed too close.
Not that the upper floors knew nor cared, they simply left the displaced ones to meet their ends.
20151124
Day 568
He'd been swimming through the pitch black tunnels ever since his original tunnel collapsed. The canary hadn't made a single sound of warning, hadn't given him any time to escape before the walls sent him hurtling down into the murky black waters of the streams that ran throughout the mines.
As often as he could he'd poke his head through whatever air pocket or breach to the surface he could find. Sometimes he'd find another tunnel and walk it as far as he was able. After that tunnel went down he'd found it harder and harder to leave the water, air burned his lungs and made his body feel like it was made from cotton and damp rags.
Before long he grew utterly unable to leave the water, stuck gazing at the surface from just below. He saw small fish pass him by, rodents come and go from what he assumed were old entrances. Every time he tried to reach them any part that left the water only ached to be back within its lightless depths. What little light reached him was blinding. It felt like staring straight at the sun, if the sun was inches away from your face and smelt like living things, like warm skin and sweat and dank breath all rolled into a somehow delicious aroma that drew him close and burnt him away all at once.
He hadn't seen any humans all this time, was beginning to forget what they even looked like save for the fact that they too came into the tunnels like him and for the same reasons. Sometimes names came back to him and flashes of faces. Timothy had a bear like his, thick and grease soaked from the morning rashers. Elijah was young, barely had any scruff to call his own but worked just as hard as the rest of them. And then there was Joseph who smoked every second he wasn't in the mines.
Had any of them been with him when the tunnel collapsed? Has he been swimming right beside them all this time without being able to see them in the inky waters? No matter how many times he called for them or how long he called for he neither tired nor heard any reply. He did find someone though, whatever was left of them. He'd recognise Joseph's tobacco tin anywhere - even in the clutches of a skeletal hand.
As often as he could he'd poke his head through whatever air pocket or breach to the surface he could find. Sometimes he'd find another tunnel and walk it as far as he was able. After that tunnel went down he'd found it harder and harder to leave the water, air burned his lungs and made his body feel like it was made from cotton and damp rags.
Before long he grew utterly unable to leave the water, stuck gazing at the surface from just below. He saw small fish pass him by, rodents come and go from what he assumed were old entrances. Every time he tried to reach them any part that left the water only ached to be back within its lightless depths. What little light reached him was blinding. It felt like staring straight at the sun, if the sun was inches away from your face and smelt like living things, like warm skin and sweat and dank breath all rolled into a somehow delicious aroma that drew him close and burnt him away all at once.
He hadn't seen any humans all this time, was beginning to forget what they even looked like save for the fact that they too came into the tunnels like him and for the same reasons. Sometimes names came back to him and flashes of faces. Timothy had a bear like his, thick and grease soaked from the morning rashers. Elijah was young, barely had any scruff to call his own but worked just as hard as the rest of them. And then there was Joseph who smoked every second he wasn't in the mines.
Had any of them been with him when the tunnel collapsed? Has he been swimming right beside them all this time without being able to see them in the inky waters? No matter how many times he called for them or how long he called for he neither tired nor heard any reply. He did find someone though, whatever was left of them. He'd recognise Joseph's tobacco tin anywhere - even in the clutches of a skeletal hand.
20151123
Day 567
It wandered the cracked floors, past the grimy tiles of the kitchen, in search of its mother.
Dragging its leg along like a sack of rocks it searched, calling for her from time to time.
She was hiding somewhere, it could hear her heartbeat.
Thank god the old fridge was broken enough to let air flow through.
It had walked right past her, didn't seem like it had found her yet.
She'd been stuck in that house for weeks now, it was keeping her alive for now.
It didn't want to play hide and seek.
Mother hadn't left the house yet, it had set too many traps for her.
Every door and window leading outside would leave her stuck just like it was.
She watched with bated breath as it left the kitchen, still calling out to her.
The second she heard the stairs creak she slowly opened the fridge door and crept out.
One of the kitchen windows had been left open and she made a dash for it without thinking twice.
It heard one of the traps close with a slick sounding snap.
Mother was screaming, she must have been going pretty fast for it to miss her neck.
She wasn't trapped like it yet... she had to be finished.
It had stuck nails into the window's base, held it open with string and let it fall on her.
She felt the metal spikes pierce her neck and shoulders, holding her steadily in place.
Behind her it called out for its mother.
Dragging its leg along like a sack of rocks it searched, calling for her from time to time.
She was hiding somewhere, it could hear her heartbeat.
Thank god the old fridge was broken enough to let air flow through.
It had walked right past her, didn't seem like it had found her yet.
She'd been stuck in that house for weeks now, it was keeping her alive for now.
It didn't want to play hide and seek.
Mother hadn't left the house yet, it had set too many traps for her.
Every door and window leading outside would leave her stuck just like it was.
She watched with bated breath as it left the kitchen, still calling out to her.
The second she heard the stairs creak she slowly opened the fridge door and crept out.
One of the kitchen windows had been left open and she made a dash for it without thinking twice.
It heard one of the traps close with a slick sounding snap.
Mother was screaming, she must have been going pretty fast for it to miss her neck.
She wasn't trapped like it yet... she had to be finished.
It had stuck nails into the window's base, held it open with string and let it fall on her.
She felt the metal spikes pierce her neck and shoulders, holding her steadily in place.
Behind her it called out for its mother.
20151121
Day 566
This street definitely wasn't on the tourist map.
There should be a wall here or a shop of some sort, yet here the narrow cobblestone street was.
Buildings lined both sides of it, their windows grimy and black stained, like the big city ones.
This was a town though, many hundreds of miles from the capital and sleepy in comparison.
It was the kind of place where nothing really happened.
The tourist walked down the shouldn't-be-a-street and onwards to some kind of adventure.
As they passed by the buildings hands darted out and closed curtains or slammed windows shut.
The tourist never saw any bodies during this, only spindly arms and skeletal hands.
They made to turn back only to find the entrance they took gone entirely.
It seemed that the street was more of a conveyor belt, you went one way until you reached the end.
What was the end though?
The tourist pondered this as they passed by dozens more slammed windows and bony arms.
As the street took a sharp turn and splintered off into seven separate pathways they halted.
"Ah, so this is where the adventure really begins!" they exclaimed in their mind.
The mere thought of discovering some lost part of the town drove them on excitedly.
They picked the centremost path and continued on with renewed vigour.
In their haste they failed to notice all of the windows opening behind them and the arms reaching out.
The spider-like limbs linked hands and began to pull.
As they did all of the buildings drew together, sealing the street shut.
The tourist paid them no mind, too busy searching for some kind of new thing to brag about.
After what felt like hours, their energy ran short and they stopped to sit for a while on a dented bin.
As they caught their breath they saw the arms in the distance behind them closing the street off.
Panicking they ran and the street began to seal itself closer and closer behind them.
Taking turn after turn, choosing pathways at random they eventually stumbled back into the town.
Collapsing in the street they dared to look back, seeing those arms frozen inches from their back.
There should be a wall here or a shop of some sort, yet here the narrow cobblestone street was.
Buildings lined both sides of it, their windows grimy and black stained, like the big city ones.
This was a town though, many hundreds of miles from the capital and sleepy in comparison.
It was the kind of place where nothing really happened.
The tourist walked down the shouldn't-be-a-street and onwards to some kind of adventure.
As they passed by the buildings hands darted out and closed curtains or slammed windows shut.
The tourist never saw any bodies during this, only spindly arms and skeletal hands.
They made to turn back only to find the entrance they took gone entirely.
It seemed that the street was more of a conveyor belt, you went one way until you reached the end.
What was the end though?
The tourist pondered this as they passed by dozens more slammed windows and bony arms.
As the street took a sharp turn and splintered off into seven separate pathways they halted.
"Ah, so this is where the adventure really begins!" they exclaimed in their mind.
The mere thought of discovering some lost part of the town drove them on excitedly.
They picked the centremost path and continued on with renewed vigour.
In their haste they failed to notice all of the windows opening behind them and the arms reaching out.
The spider-like limbs linked hands and began to pull.
As they did all of the buildings drew together, sealing the street shut.
The tourist paid them no mind, too busy searching for some kind of new thing to brag about.
After what felt like hours, their energy ran short and they stopped to sit for a while on a dented bin.
As they caught their breath they saw the arms in the distance behind them closing the street off.
Panicking they ran and the street began to seal itself closer and closer behind them.
Taking turn after turn, choosing pathways at random they eventually stumbled back into the town.
Collapsing in the street they dared to look back, seeing those arms frozen inches from their back.
20151120
Day 565
The pier had seen better days, forty or so years ago.
Now it sat at one end of the beach like a half-forgotten seesaw.
People still went, mostly the elderly who remembered it in its heyday.
Groups of teenagers roamed along the boardwalks looking for anything to amuse them.
After all, seaside towns in England are always one of two things: dull or dilapidated.
In the unlucky instance of this, the town was both.
Today's fresh-out-of-school group were after something more than just the slot machines.
They ventured further then usual to the plastic monster of the haunted house ride.
The attendant couldn't have been much older than them, spotty-faced and irritated.
Its jerky animatronics, salt sprayed half to unrecognisable smiles, ushered them inside.
As the ride began, jolting and juddering at every corner, they found themselves being taken down.
The ride itself sat on the wooden planks of the pier, they wondered how far it could go.
As a third green-skinned witch leapt out at them, tinned cackling echoing, the ride stopped.
A voice boomed out crisp and clear as if it spoke from just beside them.
"Going down." Ending the sentence with a blood chilling laugh.
And so they did as the cart spun to face the direction they came from and descended sharply.
They emerged from under the haunted house ride and underneath the pier itself.
Still the tracks led down and further down, right into the sea.
They tried to get out, to climb up the tracks but the metal bar was on too tight.
One of them screamed as they saw the tracks end just underneath the waves.
The ride stopped as it touched the water, spinning once more before rising up the tracks.
From there the ride was as you'd expect, cheap jumps and plastic bones.
As they went to leave the ride the noticed that it was pitch black outside.
Somehow that brief ride had lasted three days and nights.
Now it sat at one end of the beach like a half-forgotten seesaw.
People still went, mostly the elderly who remembered it in its heyday.
Groups of teenagers roamed along the boardwalks looking for anything to amuse them.
After all, seaside towns in England are always one of two things: dull or dilapidated.
In the unlucky instance of this, the town was both.
Today's fresh-out-of-school group were after something more than just the slot machines.
They ventured further then usual to the plastic monster of the haunted house ride.
The attendant couldn't have been much older than them, spotty-faced and irritated.
Its jerky animatronics, salt sprayed half to unrecognisable smiles, ushered them inside.
As the ride began, jolting and juddering at every corner, they found themselves being taken down.
The ride itself sat on the wooden planks of the pier, they wondered how far it could go.
As a third green-skinned witch leapt out at them, tinned cackling echoing, the ride stopped.
A voice boomed out crisp and clear as if it spoke from just beside them.
"Going down." Ending the sentence with a blood chilling laugh.
And so they did as the cart spun to face the direction they came from and descended sharply.
They emerged from under the haunted house ride and underneath the pier itself.
Still the tracks led down and further down, right into the sea.
They tried to get out, to climb up the tracks but the metal bar was on too tight.
One of them screamed as they saw the tracks end just underneath the waves.
The ride stopped as it touched the water, spinning once more before rising up the tracks.
From there the ride was as you'd expect, cheap jumps and plastic bones.
As they went to leave the ride the noticed that it was pitch black outside.
Somehow that brief ride had lasted three days and nights.
Day 564
He didn't mean to work overtime on a Thursday night, it just happened.
Someone had managed to spill beer of all things while test driving a new arrival.
As the newbie he was tasked with cleaning the interior as best as possible in the rear garage area.
It wasn't much of a garage, more like a glorified stock room and cleaning room.
The stain was in pretty deep, he debated asking for seat covers in the morning.
Either way, he'd done all he could.
Heading out from the rear garage he saw the floor was empty apart from a coworker's cubicle light.
They weren't in there though and in a minimalist building there were few places for them to be.
Figuring he'd better say bye to them before he clocked out, he went for the break room.
It was situated up a staircase, just beside the boss's office (he did love to pay close attention to them).
The door was open and the microwave was heating something but there was nobody in sight.
As he walked over to see what was in there he heard the sound of tyres screeching from the floor.
Dashing out and peering over the railings he saw all the cars had somehow moved to the walls.
Right in the centre of the showroom was a set of dark red tyre tracks leading to the front door.
Creeping down the stairs he went over to inspect the tracks, the scent of iron filling the air.
There were clumps of hair caught in the sticky blood-tracks, the exact shade of his co-worker's.
She had these pale blue streaks, the boss let it slide as she sold the most card out of all of them.
Now it looked like they'd been torn right out of her head, like she'd been crushed by a car.
Following the tracks he found the car he'd been cleaning sitting in the middle of a ring of cars.
They'd all moved, it was like they were afraid of the this car.
As he saw his co-worker's limbs sticking out from underneath the rear wheels, he collapsed.
Someone had managed to spill beer of all things while test driving a new arrival.
As the newbie he was tasked with cleaning the interior as best as possible in the rear garage area.
It wasn't much of a garage, more like a glorified stock room and cleaning room.
The stain was in pretty deep, he debated asking for seat covers in the morning.
Either way, he'd done all he could.
Heading out from the rear garage he saw the floor was empty apart from a coworker's cubicle light.
They weren't in there though and in a minimalist building there were few places for them to be.
Figuring he'd better say bye to them before he clocked out, he went for the break room.
It was situated up a staircase, just beside the boss's office (he did love to pay close attention to them).
The door was open and the microwave was heating something but there was nobody in sight.
As he walked over to see what was in there he heard the sound of tyres screeching from the floor.
Dashing out and peering over the railings he saw all the cars had somehow moved to the walls.
Right in the centre of the showroom was a set of dark red tyre tracks leading to the front door.
Creeping down the stairs he went over to inspect the tracks, the scent of iron filling the air.
There were clumps of hair caught in the sticky blood-tracks, the exact shade of his co-worker's.
She had these pale blue streaks, the boss let it slide as she sold the most card out of all of them.
Now it looked like they'd been torn right out of her head, like she'd been crushed by a car.
Following the tracks he found the car he'd been cleaning sitting in the middle of a ring of cars.
They'd all moved, it was like they were afraid of the this car.
As he saw his co-worker's limbs sticking out from underneath the rear wheels, he collapsed.
20151119
Day 563
Stories about a viking sculpture in the woods circulated but nobody paid them any mind.
It became another one of those urban legends told by children on playgrounds.
The last person to try and find it came back a much quieter person.
He thought he'd get some photos of this sculpture, maybe find the artist and make a story of it.
What he found, after many hours of walking, was something more than just some art piece.
In the middle of the forest was a shipwreck, green stained with moss.
Half sunk in a lichen-smothered and stale pond surrounded by willow trees and unused footpaths.
The ship shouldn't even be there and yet it was.
Judging by the figurehead it was Nordic in origin though the metal was rusted and falling apart.
Strangely enough the wood of the ship remained perfectly intact, enough for him to walk onboard.
It leant at such an angle that the side of the ship was barely arms length away.
He climbed with great care, who knows how well built the vessel was, or how water-damaged.
The deck had some fairly large holes in, he saw clear pond-water directly beneath.
Given the angle the ship was at, equal water height in all of the holes shouldn't have been possible.
Peering into one he caught a glimpse of movement - some kind of fish.
At first he thought it was only small until it swam up.
It kept getting bigger and bigger as it headed towards him, becoming impossibly large for the ship.
By the time it touched the hole's surface it must have been the size of a bus, scales as big as his fist.
Its face had strangely human eyes, the same shade of green as the moss coating the vessel.
And then as its face drifted past for a third time it grinned at him, mouth full of human teeth.
It became another one of those urban legends told by children on playgrounds.
The last person to try and find it came back a much quieter person.
He thought he'd get some photos of this sculpture, maybe find the artist and make a story of it.
What he found, after many hours of walking, was something more than just some art piece.
In the middle of the forest was a shipwreck, green stained with moss.
Half sunk in a lichen-smothered and stale pond surrounded by willow trees and unused footpaths.
The ship shouldn't even be there and yet it was.
Judging by the figurehead it was Nordic in origin though the metal was rusted and falling apart.
Strangely enough the wood of the ship remained perfectly intact, enough for him to walk onboard.
It leant at such an angle that the side of the ship was barely arms length away.
He climbed with great care, who knows how well built the vessel was, or how water-damaged.
The deck had some fairly large holes in, he saw clear pond-water directly beneath.
Given the angle the ship was at, equal water height in all of the holes shouldn't have been possible.
Peering into one he caught a glimpse of movement - some kind of fish.
At first he thought it was only small until it swam up.
It kept getting bigger and bigger as it headed towards him, becoming impossibly large for the ship.
By the time it touched the hole's surface it must have been the size of a bus, scales as big as his fist.
Its face had strangely human eyes, the same shade of green as the moss coating the vessel.
And then as its face drifted past for a third time it grinned at him, mouth full of human teeth.
20151118
Day 562
Nobody quite remembers when the ground began to turn black and sink.
All we know now is that the skyships are home to us.
Most up here have never touched ground before - never even touched the black seas.
We eat mostly birds up here and whatever animals were brought aboard in the early days.
Somewhat natural but mostly engineered, they keep us alive and we keep them alive in return.
Rather I should say "alive" as they never leave the embryonic vats below deck.
Aside from them a few other things have changed in society.
Thanks to the black seas and the corrupted water cycle we're forced to filter the water.
27 is average, anything less and you're pushing it - anything more and you're wasting power.
The skyships are usually wind powered, the clouds are pitch black and block out most sunlight.
Strangely enough the winds are constantly 70 - 90mph solid, plenty to keep us up and safe.
Nobody who's gone down to the seas has ever come back sane.
The few that make it back alive rant and rave about impossible creatures.
Human faces as large as battalion ships, rising and sinking in the inky depths.
They look just like the dead we toss overboard.
Of course that can't be, I mean we may not know what the water has become but this is ridiculous.
There are mermaids too apparently, abominable chimeras of the fallen skyships and corpses.
They hover just above the water, you only see their gossamer webbed wings at first.
I'll admit I've seen strange watery shimmers when on lookout duty but mermaids - unlikely.
It's bad enough we have to worry about other skyships coming for our supplies,let alone the sea too!
The fools who make it back up to us never last long - a week tops.
We always send them back down, back to where they were sentenced to death by wretched nature.
This year there's been a surge in seafaring volunteers, more than we've had since the early days.
None of them have come back but now the black seas shimmer like freshly polished copper.
All we know now is that the skyships are home to us.
Most up here have never touched ground before - never even touched the black seas.
We eat mostly birds up here and whatever animals were brought aboard in the early days.
Somewhat natural but mostly engineered, they keep us alive and we keep them alive in return.
Rather I should say "alive" as they never leave the embryonic vats below deck.
Aside from them a few other things have changed in society.
Thanks to the black seas and the corrupted water cycle we're forced to filter the water.
27 is average, anything less and you're pushing it - anything more and you're wasting power.
The skyships are usually wind powered, the clouds are pitch black and block out most sunlight.
Strangely enough the winds are constantly 70 - 90mph solid, plenty to keep us up and safe.
Nobody who's gone down to the seas has ever come back sane.
The few that make it back alive rant and rave about impossible creatures.
Human faces as large as battalion ships, rising and sinking in the inky depths.
They look just like the dead we toss overboard.
Of course that can't be, I mean we may not know what the water has become but this is ridiculous.
There are mermaids too apparently, abominable chimeras of the fallen skyships and corpses.
They hover just above the water, you only see their gossamer webbed wings at first.
I'll admit I've seen strange watery shimmers when on lookout duty but mermaids - unlikely.
It's bad enough we have to worry about other skyships coming for our supplies,let alone the sea too!
The fools who make it back up to us never last long - a week tops.
We always send them back down, back to where they were sentenced to death by wretched nature.
This year there's been a surge in seafaring volunteers, more than we've had since the early days.
None of them have come back but now the black seas shimmer like freshly polished copper.
20151116
Day 561
He didn't realise he'd taken a wrong turn until he smelt smoke.
The tube route he took hadn't changed in over 10 years and yet he found himself lost.
Every breath of air around him was dense with dust and the stink of human sweat.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit platform he saw he wasn't alone.
At least forty others were there, mostly women and children for some reason.
They ranged from infants to the elderly with a few wounded or elderly men crouched near to him.
Every one of them was filthy and wearing fairly old fashioned clothing, all staring at him too.
Not only was their skin stained with dirt, they were covered in cobwebs and dust as well.
They reminded him of his aunt's attic, musty and unused.
He smiled nervously as one of the men approached him and asked why he was there.
Just about managed to stutter out that he'd taken a wrong turning on his way to the Bakerloo line.
The dirt-stained man clarified - why was he here and not on the frontlines?
It took two repeats for him to understand that the man meant a war somewhere.
He replied that he wasn't a soldier and they were withdrawing the troops from Afghanistan now.
The old man replied in a wheezy tone, "Listen here boyo, if you can stand then you're a soldier.
They need every possible hand out there - can't let Old Blighty down!"
It dawned on him then that their clothes reminded him of the old war photos in his school textbooks.
The ones from the first world war when they'd used the tube stations as air raid shelters for the poor.
He must have stumbled across a re-enactment!
Congratulating them on their performance he backed away and tried to leave.
The stairs he'd walked down were sealed off with corrugated iron sheets and thick chains.
He asked how long those had been there and was told "Since the sirens went off, so about 5 hours."
Going to check his watch he found it missing, found his suit all dusty and cobweb coated.
Looking up he found himself sitting with them, he was a child once more and the sirens wailed.
The tube route he took hadn't changed in over 10 years and yet he found himself lost.
Every breath of air around him was dense with dust and the stink of human sweat.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit platform he saw he wasn't alone.
At least forty others were there, mostly women and children for some reason.
They ranged from infants to the elderly with a few wounded or elderly men crouched near to him.
Every one of them was filthy and wearing fairly old fashioned clothing, all staring at him too.
Not only was their skin stained with dirt, they were covered in cobwebs and dust as well.
They reminded him of his aunt's attic, musty and unused.
He smiled nervously as one of the men approached him and asked why he was there.
Just about managed to stutter out that he'd taken a wrong turning on his way to the Bakerloo line.
The dirt-stained man clarified - why was he here and not on the frontlines?
It took two repeats for him to understand that the man meant a war somewhere.
He replied that he wasn't a soldier and they were withdrawing the troops from Afghanistan now.
The old man replied in a wheezy tone, "Listen here boyo, if you can stand then you're a soldier.
They need every possible hand out there - can't let Old Blighty down!"
It dawned on him then that their clothes reminded him of the old war photos in his school textbooks.
The ones from the first world war when they'd used the tube stations as air raid shelters for the poor.
He must have stumbled across a re-enactment!
Congratulating them on their performance he backed away and tried to leave.
The stairs he'd walked down were sealed off with corrugated iron sheets and thick chains.
He asked how long those had been there and was told "Since the sirens went off, so about 5 hours."
Going to check his watch he found it missing, found his suit all dusty and cobweb coated.
Looking up he found himself sitting with them, he was a child once more and the sirens wailed.
Day 560
Her job makes every employee sign in and out with a camera linked to a keypad.
It's a simple yet effective way of keeping track of who exactly was in at what time.
You type in your unique employee code and it takes a photo of you whenever you arrive.
Every time she typed hers in at the end of a night shift the camera seemed to glitch.
Showed the exit door behind her wide open but every time she turned around it was shut.
Tonight was different though, tonight she decided that when her shift ended at 3AM she'd
try something new, try to get through the door just to see if it was real.
As she finished typing in her code she noticed the door swinging open on the screen.
She began to step backwards, eyes fixed to the image.
She expected to walk into the door but she didn't.
Her image on the screen showed her passing straight through the open door and vanishing.
Breaking eye contact from the monitor she looked around and saw that she was still in the
entry room and behind her was an identical keypad showing that she was still by an open door.
It all looked the same here but the wrong way round, the numbers were all backwards.
The door to the reception area was on the opposite side too.
A colleague walked in and smiled at her but his mouth was upside down, his eyes sideways.
His speech was a garbled screech that no human should have been able to produce.
When she didn't reply he repeated what he had said, louder until his words were just screams.
Panicking she walked backwards through the door until her back hit a wall.
The door swung gently closed and her colleague walked through the door, voice a garbled screech.
It's a simple yet effective way of keeping track of who exactly was in at what time.
You type in your unique employee code and it takes a photo of you whenever you arrive.
Every time she typed hers in at the end of a night shift the camera seemed to glitch.
Showed the exit door behind her wide open but every time she turned around it was shut.
Tonight was different though, tonight she decided that when her shift ended at 3AM she'd
try something new, try to get through the door just to see if it was real.
As she finished typing in her code she noticed the door swinging open on the screen.
She began to step backwards, eyes fixed to the image.
She expected to walk into the door but she didn't.
Her image on the screen showed her passing straight through the open door and vanishing.
Breaking eye contact from the monitor she looked around and saw that she was still in the
entry room and behind her was an identical keypad showing that she was still by an open door.
It all looked the same here but the wrong way round, the numbers were all backwards.
The door to the reception area was on the opposite side too.
A colleague walked in and smiled at her but his mouth was upside down, his eyes sideways.
His speech was a garbled screech that no human should have been able to produce.
When she didn't reply he repeated what he had said, louder until his words were just screams.
Panicking she walked backwards through the door until her back hit a wall.
The door swung gently closed and her colleague walked through the door, voice a garbled screech.
20151115
Day 559
The city was comprised of steel beams and ragged fabric all meshed together.
There were no roads and no streets, only cold steel walkways and narrow rooms.
Plenty of people lived there all curled up in their cubes like spiders nesting in cracked walls.
Mornings were fairly normal, all things considered.
They had families, well they were one big family of societies' stragglers and nobodies.
Somehow all of them found their way to the city and with it, they found they belonged.
There was enough work for everyone as well.
They all fit in somewhere from sewing torn rags for the walls to welding steel paths together.
Still there were some who had other... ideas.
They wanted to build bigger, add bricks and shops and bring people in.
You don't bring people into the city, people come when they have nowhere else to go.
It's a dead end for the lost and unwanted.
Those people never lasted long - found themselves falling from slippery paths
and down into the city's underbelly where rusted spikes and filth coated the ground like pus
on a festering wound.
We never let them go to waste, at least not the skin.
There's always somewhere that needs new fabric put up.
Always someone who is willing to get the job done.
There were no roads and no streets, only cold steel walkways and narrow rooms.
Plenty of people lived there all curled up in their cubes like spiders nesting in cracked walls.
Mornings were fairly normal, all things considered.
They had families, well they were one big family of societies' stragglers and nobodies.
Somehow all of them found their way to the city and with it, they found they belonged.
There was enough work for everyone as well.
They all fit in somewhere from sewing torn rags for the walls to welding steel paths together.
Still there were some who had other... ideas.
They wanted to build bigger, add bricks and shops and bring people in.
You don't bring people into the city, people come when they have nowhere else to go.
It's a dead end for the lost and unwanted.
Those people never lasted long - found themselves falling from slippery paths
and down into the city's underbelly where rusted spikes and filth coated the ground like pus
on a festering wound.
We never let them go to waste, at least not the skin.
There's always somewhere that needs new fabric put up.
Always someone who is willing to get the job done.
20151113
Day 558
The house had once been a decadent paradise for its owners.
Former plush chaise lounges were now moth-eaten, good for firewood and little else.
Wallpaper peeled and cracked where mould had seeped into the poorly ventilated home.
It grew in clumps so thick that mushrooms sprouted in placed.
Few even knew it existed, the surrounding woods were so dense that hardly anyone ventured in.
At least they went no further than the small clearing full of bluebells.
Everyone stops by the bluebells at some point in their life and they never quite know why.
Nor do they know how tantalisingly close they are to a house full of dilapidated wealth.
Past it's creaking, cracking corridors lay rooms full of priceless jewellery.
The last owners had died within its walls, "sacking"every servant until only they two remained.
From there it was a steady decline down until the house was practically swallowed whole by
the surrounding woods, all traces of the ornate walkways that lead to it gone.
Urban legends say that if you find the corpses of the last owners you'll find the code to their safe.
Apparently they had amassed quite a fortune in their years and had no heirs to give it to.
Their bodies lie in their favoured area of the home - the greenhouse.
From a fair height you can see it glinting along the treeline, glass perfectly intact still.
Now it tends to blend in more with its surroundings due to the thick layer of moss on the inside.
The humid air has left all the plants to fester in their own little ecosystem.
Their main source of nutrition was once imported compost from continental Europe.
Now they feasted on the remnants of the household.
Former plush chaise lounges were now moth-eaten, good for firewood and little else.
Wallpaper peeled and cracked where mould had seeped into the poorly ventilated home.
It grew in clumps so thick that mushrooms sprouted in placed.
Few even knew it existed, the surrounding woods were so dense that hardly anyone ventured in.
At least they went no further than the small clearing full of bluebells.
Everyone stops by the bluebells at some point in their life and they never quite know why.
Nor do they know how tantalisingly close they are to a house full of dilapidated wealth.
Past it's creaking, cracking corridors lay rooms full of priceless jewellery.
The last owners had died within its walls, "sacking"every servant until only they two remained.
From there it was a steady decline down until the house was practically swallowed whole by
the surrounding woods, all traces of the ornate walkways that lead to it gone.
Urban legends say that if you find the corpses of the last owners you'll find the code to their safe.
Apparently they had amassed quite a fortune in their years and had no heirs to give it to.
Their bodies lie in their favoured area of the home - the greenhouse.
From a fair height you can see it glinting along the treeline, glass perfectly intact still.
Now it tends to blend in more with its surroundings due to the thick layer of moss on the inside.
The humid air has left all the plants to fester in their own little ecosystem.
Their main source of nutrition was once imported compost from continental Europe.
Now they feasted on the remnants of the household.
Day 557
You never forget the sight of old London's smog.
It's like a mist of sorts only it clings to your clothes, your hair - even your lungs.
Every breath you take becomes smog-tainted within minutes of being there.
London folk don't even notice it anymore.
They seem to blend in with the smog perfectly and at a glance you don't realise how many there are.
Even their skin has a greyish tinge to it, like that of a corpse or car-driven snow.
There are so many people lurking in the smog without quite realising it.
They are surprised when you claim they sneak about and drift like lost souls.
Perhaps that's what they are after all this time.
Who can say what the smog is doing to them beyond vague health concerns and pollutions.
You see, the London smog isn't quite like anything else.
It makes you feel things, see things that shouldn't be or maybe have always been.
Out of the hostel window I can see large fins drifting through the murky street.
They too are grey and twice the height of an average person.
You can always tell a tourist from a Londoner on days like these.
Their sheer terror sticks out like a sore thumb among London's apathy.
After all, it's a city built on the deaths of countless nobodies - what's a smog thing in comparison?
I've seen them fed by people who might as well be fixtures for the legends they've acquired.
The steps of St Paul's is the best to go to see the most known figure.
She slumps like a ragdoll topped with a faded Manchester United bobble hat.
Every smog-drenched day she's out there feeding them.
Their fins circle her like cartoon sharks, up close you can see how leathery and wet they are.
She tosses out handfuls of limpets, caught from the Thames itself every evening.
According to her the smog things like them because the crunch of their shell is like bones.
She says there's an organisation, of which she is a major participant of, that feeds these creatures.
It keeps them from seeking out actual bones, says that the London death toll has halved since they
started their morning and evening patrols when the smog drenches the city.
As I went to walk away from her she smiled, her teeth jagged like glass shards.
Londoners are a strange lot, full of quirks - in both personality and appearance.
It's a part of London's charm, it's what the smog causes.
Seeps into your every pore and leaves you grey and unusual, slightly inhuman sometimes.
After you've been in the smog a few days you begin to crave its cold, sticky grasp in your lungs.
It's like a mist of sorts only it clings to your clothes, your hair - even your lungs.
Every breath you take becomes smog-tainted within minutes of being there.
London folk don't even notice it anymore.
They seem to blend in with the smog perfectly and at a glance you don't realise how many there are.
Even their skin has a greyish tinge to it, like that of a corpse or car-driven snow.
There are so many people lurking in the smog without quite realising it.
They are surprised when you claim they sneak about and drift like lost souls.
Perhaps that's what they are after all this time.
Who can say what the smog is doing to them beyond vague health concerns and pollutions.
You see, the London smog isn't quite like anything else.
It makes you feel things, see things that shouldn't be or maybe have always been.
Out of the hostel window I can see large fins drifting through the murky street.
They too are grey and twice the height of an average person.
You can always tell a tourist from a Londoner on days like these.
Their sheer terror sticks out like a sore thumb among London's apathy.
After all, it's a city built on the deaths of countless nobodies - what's a smog thing in comparison?
I've seen them fed by people who might as well be fixtures for the legends they've acquired.
The steps of St Paul's is the best to go to see the most known figure.
She slumps like a ragdoll topped with a faded Manchester United bobble hat.
Every smog-drenched day she's out there feeding them.
Their fins circle her like cartoon sharks, up close you can see how leathery and wet they are.
She tosses out handfuls of limpets, caught from the Thames itself every evening.
According to her the smog things like them because the crunch of their shell is like bones.
She says there's an organisation, of which she is a major participant of, that feeds these creatures.
It keeps them from seeking out actual bones, says that the London death toll has halved since they
started their morning and evening patrols when the smog drenches the city.
As I went to walk away from her she smiled, her teeth jagged like glass shards.
Londoners are a strange lot, full of quirks - in both personality and appearance.
It's a part of London's charm, it's what the smog causes.
Seeps into your every pore and leaves you grey and unusual, slightly inhuman sometimes.
After you've been in the smog a few days you begin to crave its cold, sticky grasp in your lungs.
20151112
Day 556
Guy Fawkes' Night is one of the many excuses Brits use to light bonfires.
Fireworks are the more commonly known celebratory feature though the pyres are ever so popular.
You'd be hard pressed to find a family that hadn't or weren't planning to participate in one.
My home town has an enormous one by the old castle ruins.
Everyone goes but few stay for the Burning of The Guy.
It's one of those old traditions with vaguely convincing roots.
People say it's because he was burnt at the stake (untrue, he committed suicide at the gallows).
I reckon it's an excuse to mimic the old savagery of the aforementioned act.
Everyone's too "civilised" to admit they love the idea of burning a man alive.
There's always something so unsettling about their eyes as the effigy crumples.
To make matters worse they try to make it look as realistic as possible.
Last year's was full of fake blood and fireworks that erupted in a shower of red and gold.
This year's is made to look like our old mayor, the one that embezzled thousands of pounds from us.
Everybody hated him - it's no wonder they chose to make him the Guy - it looked real yet fake.
I still don't know who or how many knew it was him but he woke up when the lit the bonfire.
Fireworks are the more commonly known celebratory feature though the pyres are ever so popular.
You'd be hard pressed to find a family that hadn't or weren't planning to participate in one.
My home town has an enormous one by the old castle ruins.
Everyone goes but few stay for the Burning of The Guy.
It's one of those old traditions with vaguely convincing roots.
People say it's because he was burnt at the stake (untrue, he committed suicide at the gallows).
I reckon it's an excuse to mimic the old savagery of the aforementioned act.
Everyone's too "civilised" to admit they love the idea of burning a man alive.
There's always something so unsettling about their eyes as the effigy crumples.
To make matters worse they try to make it look as realistic as possible.
Last year's was full of fake blood and fireworks that erupted in a shower of red and gold.
This year's is made to look like our old mayor, the one that embezzled thousands of pounds from us.
Everybody hated him - it's no wonder they chose to make him the Guy - it looked real yet fake.
I still don't know who or how many knew it was him but he woke up when the lit the bonfire.
20151110
Day 555
There are four stone plinths in the woods past the back of my house.
Right next to the river, all rain soaked and graffiti smeared.
Of course they were covered in graffiti - most things in the woods were.
It was strange to find a tree trunk not scribbled on.
Aside from their shared multicoloured nature the trees shared one other thing.
Four names written on every single trunk throughout the entire area.
The same names etched into the plinths by the river.
The same names written all over the town, in the cracks between their very mortar.
For years nobody had any idea who the people behind the names were.
Last week they found a trapdoor in the town hall right behind the mayoral chair.
It had been moved for renovations - nobody had any idea it had been there.
Steep steps leading down to a small chamber holding four stone heads.
On the base of each head was an initial matching one on the plinths.
They have plans to reunite them tomorrow, matching them to the names.
None of them have noticed how all of the names around town have vanished.
Even the trees are slowly eating away at the spray-paint, their red bark bare to the sun once more.
Right next to the river, all rain soaked and graffiti smeared.
Of course they were covered in graffiti - most things in the woods were.
It was strange to find a tree trunk not scribbled on.
Aside from their shared multicoloured nature the trees shared one other thing.
Four names written on every single trunk throughout the entire area.
The same names etched into the plinths by the river.
The same names written all over the town, in the cracks between their very mortar.
For years nobody had any idea who the people behind the names were.
Last week they found a trapdoor in the town hall right behind the mayoral chair.
It had been moved for renovations - nobody had any idea it had been there.
Steep steps leading down to a small chamber holding four stone heads.
On the base of each head was an initial matching one on the plinths.
They have plans to reunite them tomorrow, matching them to the names.
None of them have noticed how all of the names around town have vanished.
Even the trees are slowly eating away at the spray-paint, their red bark bare to the sun once more.
Day 554
The corridor just dropped off about twenty metres from the elevator.
All the office doors had disappeared as well, leaving behind large glass panels and empty rooms.
As if being in after regular hours wasn't bad enough.
Even the cleaning crew had left, leaving a spare set of keys behind with the promise he'd return them.
As he turned to go back he saw the floor behind him had vanished as well, leaving the same drop.
It seemed to go all the way to the bottom of the thirty floor building, with him on floor twenty-six.
The more he twisted around, trying to see where he could go, the more ground disappeared.
Before long he was left kneeling on 4 tiles, staring at them resolutely in case they tried to vanish too.
He heard the elevator doors open, glanced up long enough to see one of the cleaners step out.
They were suspended for what felt like eternity, the look of shock on their face etched into his mind
as they fell and fell and fell, landing with a faint yet sickeningly wet crunch.
The tile beneath his left hand dropped and he struggled to maintain his balance.
The entire twenty-sixth floor was entirely gone by now, just him and his three tiles.
Tile number two, beneath his left knee, began to wobble as the elevator doors silently closed.
As the elevator sank, so did the tile, leaving him to awkwardly rearrange himself on the remainders.
With a rattling sound, like someone clearing their throat, the last two tiles slowly sank.
He clung to them, eyes shut tight like it was all just a bad dream as he was taken to the ground floor.
It felt like hours since the tiles had begun to sink and as he squinted through one eye he saw that he
was still moving downwards, the floor number by the elevator dropping from 11 to 10 to 9...
When floor 0 came the tiles continued to descend with no floor in sight yet.
All the office doors had disappeared as well, leaving behind large glass panels and empty rooms.
As if being in after regular hours wasn't bad enough.
Even the cleaning crew had left, leaving a spare set of keys behind with the promise he'd return them.
As he turned to go back he saw the floor behind him had vanished as well, leaving the same drop.
It seemed to go all the way to the bottom of the thirty floor building, with him on floor twenty-six.
The more he twisted around, trying to see where he could go, the more ground disappeared.
Before long he was left kneeling on 4 tiles, staring at them resolutely in case they tried to vanish too.
He heard the elevator doors open, glanced up long enough to see one of the cleaners step out.
They were suspended for what felt like eternity, the look of shock on their face etched into his mind
as they fell and fell and fell, landing with a faint yet sickeningly wet crunch.
The tile beneath his left hand dropped and he struggled to maintain his balance.
The entire twenty-sixth floor was entirely gone by now, just him and his three tiles.
Tile number two, beneath his left knee, began to wobble as the elevator doors silently closed.
As the elevator sank, so did the tile, leaving him to awkwardly rearrange himself on the remainders.
With a rattling sound, like someone clearing their throat, the last two tiles slowly sank.
He clung to them, eyes shut tight like it was all just a bad dream as he was taken to the ground floor.
It felt like hours since the tiles had begun to sink and as he squinted through one eye he saw that he
was still moving downwards, the floor number by the elevator dropping from 11 to 10 to 9...
When floor 0 came the tiles continued to descend with no floor in sight yet.
20151109
Day 553
The grey apartment towers showed little signs of the meagre human lives they contained.
Within the smallest of places, the slightest signs of life could be seen.
A scarf here, a curtain there, a handwritten note directed at the window of the opposite tower.
Small signs, common things that house-dwellers ignore.
These tiny life signs may have been in place for years, utterly untouched and who would know?
If rent is paid automatically it can take a good year or, when the money runs out, to check in.
In some cases the stench of decaying meat draws attention long before this can occur.
Otherwise, when landlords care less, some are left to turn to bone.
One such case was found only when new tenants moved into a fully furnished place.
The former inhabitant was found curled up in a maggot-soaked bed, nothing but bones left.
Within the smallest of places, the slightest signs of life could be seen.
A scarf here, a curtain there, a handwritten note directed at the window of the opposite tower.
Small signs, common things that house-dwellers ignore.
These tiny life signs may have been in place for years, utterly untouched and who would know?
If rent is paid automatically it can take a good year or, when the money runs out, to check in.
In some cases the stench of decaying meat draws attention long before this can occur.
Otherwise, when landlords care less, some are left to turn to bone.
One such case was found only when new tenants moved into a fully furnished place.
The former inhabitant was found curled up in a maggot-soaked bed, nothing but bones left.
20151108
Day 552
It is Autumn and the trees are still so very awake.
Winter is approaching so sluggishly that they do not know that they must sleep.
Flowers are still blooming and so few leaves are dying.
The trees are thriving and learning what it is to want.
They want to remain awake, remain alive and remain aware.
Predictions of the cost of their awakening are catastrophic to say the least.
Our planet can't sustain their growth, as it can't sustain our own.
Imagine their activity doubled.
Buildings will collapse as their branches grow up and through, immune to our tools.
Roads will bend and break as roots burrow and spread far faster than we can stop.
Whole cities turned to forest in a matter of months, technology rendered useless.
All this and no winter in sight.
Great nations become whispers of civilisation with their inhabitants scurrying like ants to survive.
The harshest climates become salvation, become safe and stable.
Until the ice melts and the ancient seeds grow back into ancient trees.
Until the deserts cool and forests of cacti ensnare society.
The world ceases to be a place for people, a place for most ground-thriving animals.
Those who survive move to the trees, clinging onto hope and branch alike.
All that remains of the ground is compost formed by whatever poor soul falls.
Their crumpled corpses feed the plants and through them, their families.
20151106
Day 551
The builders lock themselves in for the night.
There is much work to be done and the day fast approaches.
All the neighbouring houses can hear is the sound of their tools and their echoing cries of agony.
Misfires are all too common on that site.
They just aren't wanted there.
There is always an ambulance on standby, just for them.
They would feel lucky they are so well cared for but they are well aware that the medics
expect bodies, not patients - so few survive the night.
Those familiar black bags they keep are well used.
None of the local builders are left.
The whole crew is composed of outsiders - either out of town or out of country.
They don't question why they are treated so well by the townsfolk at first.
It takes a while to realise that they are more a useful sacrifice than a workman.
The accidents always occur too fast to prevent, no matter what they try.
There is always a cable unchecked, always a faulty hardhat, always someone rushed out too late.
Ninety-four so far - though there are no official reports.
No news of the site has ever gone public beyond the immediate families of the deceased.
The site is always in progress, the closing in of the builders each night slowly becoming a ceremony.
Like a final goodbye the townsfolk sometimes gather in crowds to sing each night.
Partly to ward off bad spirits but mostly to cover the screams and sounds of machine through bone.
There is much work to be done and the day fast approaches.
All the neighbouring houses can hear is the sound of their tools and their echoing cries of agony.
Misfires are all too common on that site.
They just aren't wanted there.
There is always an ambulance on standby, just for them.
They would feel lucky they are so well cared for but they are well aware that the medics
expect bodies, not patients - so few survive the night.
Those familiar black bags they keep are well used.
None of the local builders are left.
The whole crew is composed of outsiders - either out of town or out of country.
They don't question why they are treated so well by the townsfolk at first.
It takes a while to realise that they are more a useful sacrifice than a workman.
The accidents always occur too fast to prevent, no matter what they try.
There is always a cable unchecked, always a faulty hardhat, always someone rushed out too late.
Ninety-four so far - though there are no official reports.
No news of the site has ever gone public beyond the immediate families of the deceased.
The site is always in progress, the closing in of the builders each night slowly becoming a ceremony.
Like a final goodbye the townsfolk sometimes gather in crowds to sing each night.
Partly to ward off bad spirits but mostly to cover the screams and sounds of machine through bone.
Day 550
Some graveyards are so rarely visited by humans that they become havens for wildlife.
I've heard that there's one not too far from town but nobody I know has been there.
They can't remember if they have anyone buried there either.
I did a little looking into the place and found I had a great-great uncle at plot 154.
Didn't realise the place was so big for such a small area.
It only felt right to give the old lad a visit and see if the plot needed any seeing to.
From the outer side of the brick wall the place looks quiet and frankly rather nice.
The kind of place you could sit and think in for hours and hours.
Strange how different it seems from the inside.
Far more dilapidated than I'd expected, huge holes in every grave or so it seemed!
The graves looked rusty too, large brownish/orange-ish stains all over them.
And there were red squirrels darting about the place, must have been dozens of them.
They're hard to come by outside of Scotland but the graveyard seemed to full of the red buggers.
As I sat down on a wooden bench about halfway into the enormous graveyard, I found company.
A single red squirrel sitting on top of a tombstone, staring right at me.
It looked damp, like it had been swimming somewhere yet there wasn't a pond nearby that I knew of.
I reasoned that it might have fallen into one of the holes - some were fairly muddy.
As I looked closer I saw that it was dripping red water.
Now if I had left then and there I could have put it down to high iron levels in the water or something.
But no, I inched closer to it and smelt that familiar tang of blood.
As I stood up to leave I noticed a few red squirrels running into a hold by a newer looking grave.
They came out a short while later carrying wet clumps of red.
They looked a lot wetter than when they had gone in and then I noticed the final thing.
They weren't red squirrels, they were grey.
I've heard that there's one not too far from town but nobody I know has been there.
They can't remember if they have anyone buried there either.
I did a little looking into the place and found I had a great-great uncle at plot 154.
Didn't realise the place was so big for such a small area.
It only felt right to give the old lad a visit and see if the plot needed any seeing to.
From the outer side of the brick wall the place looks quiet and frankly rather nice.
The kind of place you could sit and think in for hours and hours.
Strange how different it seems from the inside.
Far more dilapidated than I'd expected, huge holes in every grave or so it seemed!
The graves looked rusty too, large brownish/orange-ish stains all over them.
And there were red squirrels darting about the place, must have been dozens of them.
They're hard to come by outside of Scotland but the graveyard seemed to full of the red buggers.
As I sat down on a wooden bench about halfway into the enormous graveyard, I found company.
A single red squirrel sitting on top of a tombstone, staring right at me.
It looked damp, like it had been swimming somewhere yet there wasn't a pond nearby that I knew of.
I reasoned that it might have fallen into one of the holes - some were fairly muddy.
As I looked closer I saw that it was dripping red water.
Now if I had left then and there I could have put it down to high iron levels in the water or something.
But no, I inched closer to it and smelt that familiar tang of blood.
As I stood up to leave I noticed a few red squirrels running into a hold by a newer looking grave.
They came out a short while later carrying wet clumps of red.
They looked a lot wetter than when they had gone in and then I noticed the final thing.
They weren't red squirrels, they were grey.
20151105
Day 549
It was truly a pitiful thing, though it had been tormenting the local area for countless years.
God only knows how it ended up in the middle of Ireland to begin with.
I mean an elephant in Goulin is one thing, but the still-moving rotting corpse of one?
Utterly unthinkable.
Yet there is was in a sort of half crouch position in an old farmhouse.
Most of its trunk had already decomposed and the rest of it wasn't much better.
Half a ribcage openly exposed, the flesh underneath a mottled brown colour, ears shredded.
Its eyes were untouched though, they seemed perfectly healthy even.
There were multiple abrasions around the neck, chest and along the forehead.
Perhaps someone or something had tried to put it out of its misery?
It didn't seem miserable though, resigned and a little afraid but not unhappy.
Food held no temptation for it, no matter what I offered it wouldn't move towards me.
Eventually I moved to it, slowly and with open body language.
The closer I got, the further away it tried to move until one of its legs snapped off.
A small cloud of red dust gushed out where blood should have and the stench of rotting meat
filled the air, making me choke on my breath and step back a few paces.
It slumped onto its side, head raised and gaze still fixed on my every movement.
Pulling my scarf over my mouth I walked up to it and knelt by its side.
The fear left its eyes and it lowered its head, seemingly exhausted.
I saw the unnatural life leave its eyes as I gently stroked its mauled face.
20151104
Day 548
The crowd frantically rushed towards the oncoming tram, catching it just in time.
All around the storm was growing worse and worse, flooding predicted for weeks to come.
Inside the tram everyone crouched on the hard plastic seats, unwilling to touch the 8 inches of
water that filled the floor, threatening to rise as they moved downhill steeply.
One person quietly voiced to their companion that if this was flooding at the top of the hill, how
bad would it be once they reached the end?
A murmuration began to spread as the fear of drowning worked its way through them all.
Some debated taking their chances outside until peals of thunder smeared across the murky sky.
The rain was now pelting the tram's windows with enough force that they began to crack.
Inside the tram they all huddled further down, further into themselves like it would help.
The tram continued down, moved solely by gravity, the weight of its passengers and the downpour.
It took them too long to notice how deep the water was getting inside the tram.
It now lapped at the underside of their seats, bubbling up under the cracked rubber door seals.
Outside the muddy brown water was around head level and rising fast.
Inside they all sat silent, all bated breaths and muttered prayers.
The tram eventually made it to its final stop, deposited the passengers and rose once more.
20151103
Day 547
They say the plants came overnight, swamped the entire village and left few survivors.
Most of the others were never found, only a few skeletal remains that were half buried in dead leaves.
The search stopped after just two weeks as they found nobody else.
The six skeletons were taken to the morgue, the resulting cause of death was unexpected.
There were human teeth marks along every inch of bone, fracturing them in some places.
It had only been fifteen days since the incident occurred.
It begged the question - where were the others?
The village had a resident population of around 5,000, not including any visitors.
Out of the fifty-odd surviving residents, a team of four went back to find the rest.
The main road was deserted, the ground covered in brambles - trees even sprung from a few houses.
As the group made their way towards the village's town hall they noticed there was no birdsong.
The only sound was the rustling of leaves as the wind barrelled through the streets.
Every now-and-then they swore the whistling of the wind was human-made.
The roads looked too clogged with foliage for them to make their way to anywhere.
As they stood debating, one spotted a still-warm thermos hanging from a low branch.
The debate turned to argument as they asked if another team had come before then.
It was impossible, the other forty-six had refused.
Yet this freshly made coffee tempted them with the idea of survivors and the fame for finding them.
Minds made up, they ended up wading through sharp, thorny branches as they headed ever forward.
One swore as he felt something grab his knee, pulling him down.
The sound of screams and noisy eating filled for near-quiet road as the others tried to flee.
They had never been alone, the village was never abandoned.
They all adapted and began to wait.
The number of survivors dropped to forty-six and the village was sealed off to be forgotten.
Most of the others were never found, only a few skeletal remains that were half buried in dead leaves.
The search stopped after just two weeks as they found nobody else.
The six skeletons were taken to the morgue, the resulting cause of death was unexpected.
There were human teeth marks along every inch of bone, fracturing them in some places.
It had only been fifteen days since the incident occurred.
It begged the question - where were the others?
The village had a resident population of around 5,000, not including any visitors.
Out of the fifty-odd surviving residents, a team of four went back to find the rest.
The main road was deserted, the ground covered in brambles - trees even sprung from a few houses.
As the group made their way towards the village's town hall they noticed there was no birdsong.
The only sound was the rustling of leaves as the wind barrelled through the streets.
Every now-and-then they swore the whistling of the wind was human-made.
The roads looked too clogged with foliage for them to make their way to anywhere.
As they stood debating, one spotted a still-warm thermos hanging from a low branch.
The debate turned to argument as they asked if another team had come before then.
It was impossible, the other forty-six had refused.
Yet this freshly made coffee tempted them with the idea of survivors and the fame for finding them.
Minds made up, they ended up wading through sharp, thorny branches as they headed ever forward.
One swore as he felt something grab his knee, pulling him down.
The sound of screams and noisy eating filled for near-quiet road as the others tried to flee.
They had never been alone, the village was never abandoned.
They all adapted and began to wait.
The number of survivors dropped to forty-six and the village was sealed off to be forgotten.
20151102
Day 546
Tonight she remembers them - they give her no choice.
Since the day the construction site had been brought down she'd heard their whistles.
They loved to whistle to each other and did so right up to the end.
She'd gone back to the former site (now a bare concrete path) time and time again.
Still they whistled to her, whistled for her.
Every night they seemed to appear to her in the shadows and windows.
Their distorted body cramming itself into her tiny flat as their whistling flooded her ears.
They were calling her back to the site.
Back for good and they would keep calling her back until things were right.
They missed her too much to let her.
Since the day the construction site had been brought down she'd heard their whistles.
They loved to whistle to each other and did so right up to the end.
She'd gone back to the former site (now a bare concrete path) time and time again.
Still they whistled to her, whistled for her.
Every night they seemed to appear to her in the shadows and windows.
Their distorted body cramming itself into her tiny flat as their whistling flooded her ears.
They were calling her back to the site.
Back for good and they would keep calling her back until things were right.
They missed her too much to let her.
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