The water was black enough to be mistaken for tar at a distance.
Even the river's many waterfalls and rapids didn't alter its' hue.
Few people visited, in spite of the unique tone and the surrounding forests remained in silence.
There was no wind by the river, no fish either yet the sounds of splashing echoed all around.
If you were to stand too close to the river, get your feet wet, the sound would follow you.
That sloshing, gurgling sound would gradually seem to dry up to little pitter-patters.
It would never stop of course and only grow louder as you went near any water.
Some even say that it turns the water around you as black as the river.
Others will tell you that all the water in town comes from there.
Perhaps you feel like it explains everything... peculiar about the place.
Like how you've never heard of Bishops Nailside despite it being only an hour from London.
Or how the weather is always grey, the sun never shines and even the flowers are muted.
The people though, they thrive.
Locals swear by the river's inky waters, even going so far as to reject modern medicines for it.
Even going so far as to throw their babies in it (tradition being that if they live they are river-blessed).
Some unfortunate man found the "unblessed" infants at the river's end.
Perhaps the river could have flowed further down, it's near impossible to tell.
Their shrivelled little bodies lie in a fetid pool, clogging the river for good.
20150731
20150730
Day 451
The walls of the house twitched and writhed as he sat there staring them down.
With every blink they moved closer somehow, became more detailed.
The former dining room was now barely six feet across.
He really shouldn't have walked into the old flat.
The armchair seemed to be the only stationary piece of furniture there.
The epicentre even as everything else had gradually dissolved with an acidic hiss.
He was perched rather precariously on it as the floor rocked the chair slowly.
It was almost soothing and he felt sleepier by the minute, gradually sliding down.
With every blink they moved closer somehow, became more detailed.
The former dining room was now barely six feet across.
He really shouldn't have walked into the old flat.
The armchair seemed to be the only stationary piece of furniture there.
The epicentre even as everything else had gradually dissolved with an acidic hiss.
He was perched rather precariously on it as the floor rocked the chair slowly.
It was almost soothing and he felt sleepier by the minute, gradually sliding down.
20150729
Day 450
The Dutch Quarter was as old as the name suggested.
Tiny houses crammed into spaces that didn't quite seem to fit any map.
Each and every one of the small abodes was a different colour but all were washed out.
The paint peeled around the corners and flaked by the doors like dead skin.
Nobody I knew of had ever seen anyone come in or out, just vague curtain movements.
Even then few people have seen those, more focused on how small and wide the doors are.
3.5 feet by 5 feet, like they put them on sideways though most claimed it was a local quirk.
Just like the inky black sludge that overflowed from the road grates.
Local quirk was the excuse for most of the strange things around the Dutch Quarter.
It wasn't limited to the doors or drains, it was the wildlife too.
The birds there didn't sing right, it's hard to explain but they sort of drone.
It's like a metallic buzz filling your head and making static run through your eyes.
Nobody acknowledges that though, too busy fawning over the quaint buildings.
Even the plants are strange around there, even the stray cats and insects.
Nothing is right there and I couldn't figure out why.
Maybe if I had gotten a glimpse at the people who lived in those house, if they were even people.
Rumours said the houses were a front for radiation-based experiments left over from the War.
They never said which "War", only that this remained and continued to poison the land.
I suppose in a sense they were right.
The houses were poison and I got too close.
Now I can barely move, most days I spend slouched by the window like everyone else.
There's about thirty of us in here, all trying to get attention from the outsiders.
We're hoping they can help us... they don't seem to hear or see us though.
You quickly begin to forget who's dead and who isn't in here.
20150728
Day 449
I got a splinter a few weeks ago and I reckon that's when it all started.
Before that everything was normal, no funny stuff and everything in its' place.
Now.. not so much.
As I'm typing this there are metallic faces pressed against the smashed living room mirror.
Thought it would stop them but now they're just spread out, still trying to get through.
Them I can deal with, the rest is a whole other kettle of fish.
Back to the splinter, I got it from a weird tree in my back garden when I cut it down.
It looked like it had been dead for years so I didn't think there was any harm in it going.
Damn thing struck back at the last minute, right near my eye too!
At least that's where it felt like it got me, left no mark after.
It felt itchy and cold for the next few days and that's when the weird things began.
Started small like some things changed colour, it was quirky but not exactly creepy.
The creepy stuff came on last week and it's only been getting worse.
The mirror people are one thing, the faces of actual people are way worse.
Nobody has eyes, not a single person - not even babies have eyes, only smooth skin.
Everyone's mouth stretches past their ears, sometimes when they yell their face just flops in half.
No teeth though, nothing else has teeth but me.
I checked, bit his hand right off.
Before that everything was normal, no funny stuff and everything in its' place.
Now.. not so much.
As I'm typing this there are metallic faces pressed against the smashed living room mirror.
Thought it would stop them but now they're just spread out, still trying to get through.
Them I can deal with, the rest is a whole other kettle of fish.
Back to the splinter, I got it from a weird tree in my back garden when I cut it down.
It looked like it had been dead for years so I didn't think there was any harm in it going.
Damn thing struck back at the last minute, right near my eye too!
At least that's where it felt like it got me, left no mark after.
It felt itchy and cold for the next few days and that's when the weird things began.
Started small like some things changed colour, it was quirky but not exactly creepy.
The creepy stuff came on last week and it's only been getting worse.
The mirror people are one thing, the faces of actual people are way worse.
Nobody has eyes, not a single person - not even babies have eyes, only smooth skin.
Everyone's mouth stretches past their ears, sometimes when they yell their face just flops in half.
No teeth though, nothing else has teeth but me.
I checked, bit his hand right off.
20150727
Day 448
We sealed It outside and in the process sealed ourselves in.
Our so-called "barricade" was little more than a plush armchair blocking the cellar door.
It came so suddenly - all our careful preparations were for nothing.
Weeks of raiding the houses it had been to, getting supplies and information wasted.
We should have known that It was watching, had been the whole time.
There were small signs that It had been near our cabin but we still thought we were safe.
I told them about the damned cloven hoof prints outside the window but the rest said nothing.
They haven't said much since the last raid
It was on a house that It had broken into last month, the furthest from our cabin too.
We'd been working our way across the nearby town venturing further out as did It.
Always a few streets behind It, we were, and always so careful or so we thought.
Sure we had a few close calls but that was inevitable in such a small town.
We thought our closest call was when It had been hiding in the house across from our latest raid.
Sheilagh spotted It waving at us from an upstairs room and we abandoned the raid instantly.
Maybe that's when it found where we were staying or maybe it knew from day 1.
Doesn't matter now, not when It's hoofs are clacking above our heads.
Our so-called "barricade" was little more than a plush armchair blocking the cellar door.
It came so suddenly - all our careful preparations were for nothing.
Weeks of raiding the houses it had been to, getting supplies and information wasted.
We should have known that It was watching, had been the whole time.
There were small signs that It had been near our cabin but we still thought we were safe.
I told them about the damned cloven hoof prints outside the window but the rest said nothing.
They haven't said much since the last raid
It was on a house that It had broken into last month, the furthest from our cabin too.
We'd been working our way across the nearby town venturing further out as did It.
Always a few streets behind It, we were, and always so careful or so we thought.
Sure we had a few close calls but that was inevitable in such a small town.
We thought our closest call was when It had been hiding in the house across from our latest raid.
Sheilagh spotted It waving at us from an upstairs room and we abandoned the raid instantly.
Maybe that's when it found where we were staying or maybe it knew from day 1.
Doesn't matter now, not when It's hoofs are clacking above our heads.
20150726
Day 447
The children ran towards you.
Ran through you.
Their laughter echoed against walls that hadn't been there for centuries.
Your voice sounded strangely quiet, muffled in the evening air.
It seemed like the children couldn't hear you.
Out of curiosity you went to follow them.
They headed down the field, towards the bridge over the Rooksborough river.
Someone gently touched your arm.
You weren't the only one walking after the endless parade of spectral youths.
They looked older than you, said they'd been following the children for years.
Apparently they'd known some of them in their childhood.
Pointed them out to you as they ran past in their cycle.
The more they talked the more unsettled you felt.
They kept saying that the children were a "one way ticket to immortality".
As you both got to the bridge you made excuses to leave.
They looked so disappointed but waved you off.
The children looked different as you walked back up the hill.
Perhaps it was because you'd never properly seen their faces as they ran past.
The further you walked the more grotesque they appeared.
Eyes gradually warping into vacant sockets, flesh crumbling, a few bloated and drenched.
Some blackened with smoke pouring from their mouths, others still aflame.
You ran back to the town, back to familiar, well lit streets and kept going til the children vanished.
Sleep didn't come easy for you that night, nor for the rest of the week.
You found yourself drawn to local obituaries in the papers, never sure who you were looking for.
Eventually you found them as they ran past and through you in the street.
They wore the same clothes they had on the hill only soaking wet and covered in river weeds.
That night you found them again in the local obituary- drowned at Rooksborough River.
Ran through you.
Their laughter echoed against walls that hadn't been there for centuries.
Your voice sounded strangely quiet, muffled in the evening air.
It seemed like the children couldn't hear you.
Out of curiosity you went to follow them.
They headed down the field, towards the bridge over the Rooksborough river.
Someone gently touched your arm.
You weren't the only one walking after the endless parade of spectral youths.
They looked older than you, said they'd been following the children for years.
Apparently they'd known some of them in their childhood.
Pointed them out to you as they ran past in their cycle.
The more they talked the more unsettled you felt.
They kept saying that the children were a "one way ticket to immortality".
As you both got to the bridge you made excuses to leave.
They looked so disappointed but waved you off.
The children looked different as you walked back up the hill.
Perhaps it was because you'd never properly seen their faces as they ran past.
The further you walked the more grotesque they appeared.
Eyes gradually warping into vacant sockets, flesh crumbling, a few bloated and drenched.
Some blackened with smoke pouring from their mouths, others still aflame.
You ran back to the town, back to familiar, well lit streets and kept going til the children vanished.
Sleep didn't come easy for you that night, nor for the rest of the week.
You found yourself drawn to local obituaries in the papers, never sure who you were looking for.
Eventually you found them as they ran past and through you in the street.
They wore the same clothes they had on the hill only soaking wet and covered in river weeds.
That night you found them again in the local obituary- drowned at Rooksborough River.
20150725
Day 446
You were given detention again.
This time for forgetting your homework.
As the last school bell rang you headed to the detention building.
You'd heard that most other schools use a classroom but yours was dedicated to rehabilitation.
The smallest misdemeanor sent you there for a minimum of five hours.
Detainees came back smarter, stronger, politer with almost no memory of their detention.
All you ever remember is a metal box with barbed wire for hinges.
The door has your name on it and only opens to tell you what your detention will be.
Sometimes you remembered flashes of previous detentions.
Mostly sound and smell, the non-stop crying, flies buzzing and the smell of stale sweat.
Not everyone could handle detention and quit the school, leaving its' perfect reputation behind.
They were never heard from again.
20150723
Day 445
You were sure that you'd seen her portrait among the former Lords and Ladies somewhere.
She moved about the house like a misty haze as she drifted from room to room.
She used to live here five hundred or so years ago, or so she said, possibly even more.
Memory is the first thing to go and the dead are no exception.
She spent most of her time (that you could see, she tended to fade in and out of view) by
a large mirror in the main drawing room in the left wing.
You generally saw her during the early hours of the morning and she followed your team
of cleaners around as you dusted, swept, mopped and maintained her abode.
She liked to point out your mistakes and push vases she disliked into the floor.
The team quickly got used to her appearances, mild destructive tendencies and criticism.
She became something they looked forward to - her being a genuine ghost and all.
Nobody could quite figure out why she liked to stand beside that large mirror so often though.
Some reckoned she'd been given it as a gift when she was alive and she remembered it.
The newer ones thought she might have died there but she assured me otherwise.
She showed me exactly why she stands there and what she does.
I wish she hadn't, I was better off not knowing at all.
The mirror isn't just some ornate glass wall - it's an entrance, a gate, a hole and it's wide open.
She stops them from coming through, or at least she tries.
The trick to seeing through the mirror, actually seeing through it, is to switch off all of the newer
electrical lights, close the curtains and light the old candles.
The light from the other side shines through the gaps between their bodies.
They are always there, she says, waiting for someone to trip, something to fall, someone to notice
the cracks they have already made along the upper half.
She distracts us so we don't notice, so we don't touch it and let them go.
She moved about the house like a misty haze as she drifted from room to room.
She used to live here five hundred or so years ago, or so she said, possibly even more.
Memory is the first thing to go and the dead are no exception.
She spent most of her time (that you could see, she tended to fade in and out of view) by
a large mirror in the main drawing room in the left wing.
You generally saw her during the early hours of the morning and she followed your team
of cleaners around as you dusted, swept, mopped and maintained her abode.
She liked to point out your mistakes and push vases she disliked into the floor.
The team quickly got used to her appearances, mild destructive tendencies and criticism.
She became something they looked forward to - her being a genuine ghost and all.
Nobody could quite figure out why she liked to stand beside that large mirror so often though.
Some reckoned she'd been given it as a gift when she was alive and she remembered it.
The newer ones thought she might have died there but she assured me otherwise.
She showed me exactly why she stands there and what she does.
I wish she hadn't, I was better off not knowing at all.
The mirror isn't just some ornate glass wall - it's an entrance, a gate, a hole and it's wide open.
She stops them from coming through, or at least she tries.
The trick to seeing through the mirror, actually seeing through it, is to switch off all of the newer
electrical lights, close the curtains and light the old candles.
The light from the other side shines through the gaps between their bodies.
They are always there, she says, waiting for someone to trip, something to fall, someone to notice
the cracks they have already made along the upper half.
She distracts us so we don't notice, so we don't touch it and let them go.
20150722
Day 444
The sunken oil rig was like a time capsule dating back to the 1940's at least.
What had once been files of some sort were now sodden mulch lining the floor.
Even the crew quarters were soaked through with thick algae lining the ceiling and walls.
In its' heyday it had been the pinnacle of technology and staffed by sixty trained seamen.
The divers found it completely by accident on a night trip near a reef many miles offshore.
Its doors were wide open and a faint current gently lured them inside.
The water was far colder inside, still they were not deterred and swam further inside.
Small fish darted to and fro between them, dazed by their torchlight and sudden appearance.
As they came to the upper decks, having swam through a large bay of some sort, they saw
what appeared to have been the remains of other divers.
The three of them seemed to have gotten their hands stuck through a large glass window.
Scraping the thick layer of weed aside they saw another diver on the other side, also dead.
The three were clutching the fourth's hands and had died doing so somehow.
Whatever had gotten them it had been recent, one of the deceased had a camera round their wrist.
Deciding to take it and leave the explorers ignored their own recording camera and swam.
The current felt a lot stronger heading out and their movements grew desperate as it increased.
The oil rig creaked and groaned behind them, sounding almost like a whale.
As they reached their boat they eagerly scrambled onto its' sturdy deck to regain some warmth.
While they recuperated below deck they tried the found camera for footage.
Amazingly it still worked, the footage dating back to... five days ago.
They saw the four divers having fun around the area they were in, the reef they had been exploring.
Soon the camera panned over to the faint outline of the oil rig, seen clearer in daylight.
The four swam over to it, using sign language to ponder their find.
None of them saw a large shape moving in the distance, behind the rig.
That same shape grew closer as the four explored, one too afraid to go inside so followed from out.
They waved at each window, not seeming to spot the shape closing in, swimming towards them.
As the three progressed they saw less of the fourth, found some skeletons of the old crew though.
The explorers had been to those same rooms and had not seen any other bodies or bones.
By the time the three had reached the large window that they'd died in the fourth was already there.
Their fists were pounding against the glass frantically, their face a mask of purest terror.
The three suddenly saw the shape and it saw them as it swam jut behind the fourth.
It was some kind of whale, the explorers noted but with clawed fins and sharp ridges - prehistoric?
Before they came to a conclusion it had doubled back on the fourth sharply and bitten down.
The fourth's legs were gone in a flood of red as the creature dove downwards.
From there the footage was shaky, it seemed like the three's hands were stuck in the fourth's grip.
Still something managed to pause the footage and shut off the camera.
The explorer's stomachs churned like the rough waves beneath their boat as they turned to their own
camera, hoping they wouldn't see that same creature circling by them.
Their footage, although filmed through night vision was still too fuzzy to make out much.
They were too distracted to note that the "oil rig's" creaking was coming from right underneath them.
What had once been files of some sort were now sodden mulch lining the floor.
Even the crew quarters were soaked through with thick algae lining the ceiling and walls.
In its' heyday it had been the pinnacle of technology and staffed by sixty trained seamen.
The divers found it completely by accident on a night trip near a reef many miles offshore.
Its doors were wide open and a faint current gently lured them inside.
The water was far colder inside, still they were not deterred and swam further inside.
Small fish darted to and fro between them, dazed by their torchlight and sudden appearance.
As they came to the upper decks, having swam through a large bay of some sort, they saw
what appeared to have been the remains of other divers.
The three of them seemed to have gotten their hands stuck through a large glass window.
Scraping the thick layer of weed aside they saw another diver on the other side, also dead.
The three were clutching the fourth's hands and had died doing so somehow.
Whatever had gotten them it had been recent, one of the deceased had a camera round their wrist.
Deciding to take it and leave the explorers ignored their own recording camera and swam.
The current felt a lot stronger heading out and their movements grew desperate as it increased.
The oil rig creaked and groaned behind them, sounding almost like a whale.
As they reached their boat they eagerly scrambled onto its' sturdy deck to regain some warmth.
While they recuperated below deck they tried the found camera for footage.
Amazingly it still worked, the footage dating back to... five days ago.
They saw the four divers having fun around the area they were in, the reef they had been exploring.
Soon the camera panned over to the faint outline of the oil rig, seen clearer in daylight.
The four swam over to it, using sign language to ponder their find.
None of them saw a large shape moving in the distance, behind the rig.
That same shape grew closer as the four explored, one too afraid to go inside so followed from out.
They waved at each window, not seeming to spot the shape closing in, swimming towards them.
As the three progressed they saw less of the fourth, found some skeletons of the old crew though.
The explorers had been to those same rooms and had not seen any other bodies or bones.
By the time the three had reached the large window that they'd died in the fourth was already there.
Their fists were pounding against the glass frantically, their face a mask of purest terror.
The three suddenly saw the shape and it saw them as it swam jut behind the fourth.
It was some kind of whale, the explorers noted but with clawed fins and sharp ridges - prehistoric?
Before they came to a conclusion it had doubled back on the fourth sharply and bitten down.
The fourth's legs were gone in a flood of red as the creature dove downwards.
From there the footage was shaky, it seemed like the three's hands were stuck in the fourth's grip.
Still something managed to pause the footage and shut off the camera.
The explorer's stomachs churned like the rough waves beneath their boat as they turned to their own
camera, hoping they wouldn't see that same creature circling by them.
Their footage, although filmed through night vision was still too fuzzy to make out much.
They were too distracted to note that the "oil rig's" creaking was coming from right underneath them.
Day 443
The trees lining the Avenue of Remembrance were older than any surrounding town.
Some said they were all that remained of an ancient forest that had been cut down for crop fields.
Now they were more ivy than tree, thick ropes of it hung down from the branches.
They were cut back on a yearly basis, when they reached to almost the ground.
Something about local nostalgia meant that the trees were protected by law, didn't make much sense.
Then again, the council wasn't elected through sense so it was only right that their choices followed.
A new councillor suggested burning the avenue down to save money.
They will be missed.
Each year it seemed that the ivy grew faster, became harder to cut down.
The closer it got to New Year's day, the more strange incidents occurred around the Avenue.
Some hired workers would give up altogether, claiming the ivy was laughing at them.
Others said they saw themselves hanging from the thick vines, smiling and waving.
Some said they were all that remained of an ancient forest that had been cut down for crop fields.
Now they were more ivy than tree, thick ropes of it hung down from the branches.
They were cut back on a yearly basis, when they reached to almost the ground.
Something about local nostalgia meant that the trees were protected by law, didn't make much sense.
Then again, the council wasn't elected through sense so it was only right that their choices followed.
A new councillor suggested burning the avenue down to save money.
They will be missed.
Each year it seemed that the ivy grew faster, became harder to cut down.
The closer it got to New Year's day, the more strange incidents occurred around the Avenue.
Some hired workers would give up altogether, claiming the ivy was laughing at them.
Others said they saw themselves hanging from the thick vines, smiling and waving.
20150721
Day 442
The mine was meant to uncover enough coal for the nearby factories and villages.
They uncovered so much more, so many more than they could ever have hoped for.
It had been said that there was an old Roman settlement in the area before an earthquake.
An entire city had been buried as the ground (allegedly) split in two and swallowed it whole.
The team of miners dared to walk through the ruined citadel, torches shining all around them.
Greed drew them inside several former houses in search of coins, jewellery and other artefacts.
Strangely some of the houses looked almost clean,fabric were draped over broken chairs almost
as if the occupants had just vacated the room.
Some of the unbroken chairs felt warm to the touch which only added to their worries.
Paranoia set in and they frantically threw their torchlight at every slightest shadow.
They never made it further, came running out heck-for-leather with pocketfuls of golden trinkets.
Said they hit a gas bubble, it wasn't safe to go down there any more.
And so within the week the mine that had held such promise for thousands was shut down.
Many years later when most of those old miners had passed, the remaining few told their tale.
Archaeologists and historians flocked from miles around to test their claim.
Sure enough they found the citadel, saw it cleanly swept, clothes hung out to dry and a message.
Scrawled in the dirt in what appeared to be the city centre by the remains of a dried up fountain.
None of the miners had mentioned it, never mentioned seeing anyone living there.
The mine had been sealed shut all these years and yet someone had written an old Roman greeting.
It was even pluralised, directed to a group - perhaps the miners, perhaps the newcomers.
Salvete
They uncovered so much more, so many more than they could ever have hoped for.
It had been said that there was an old Roman settlement in the area before an earthquake.
An entire city had been buried as the ground (allegedly) split in two and swallowed it whole.
The team of miners dared to walk through the ruined citadel, torches shining all around them.
Greed drew them inside several former houses in search of coins, jewellery and other artefacts.
Strangely some of the houses looked almost clean,fabric were draped over broken chairs almost
as if the occupants had just vacated the room.
Some of the unbroken chairs felt warm to the touch which only added to their worries.
Paranoia set in and they frantically threw their torchlight at every slightest shadow.
They never made it further, came running out heck-for-leather with pocketfuls of golden trinkets.
Said they hit a gas bubble, it wasn't safe to go down there any more.
And so within the week the mine that had held such promise for thousands was shut down.
Many years later when most of those old miners had passed, the remaining few told their tale.
Archaeologists and historians flocked from miles around to test their claim.
Sure enough they found the citadel, saw it cleanly swept, clothes hung out to dry and a message.
Scrawled in the dirt in what appeared to be the city centre by the remains of a dried up fountain.
None of the miners had mentioned it, never mentioned seeing anyone living there.
The mine had been sealed shut all these years and yet someone had written an old Roman greeting.
It was even pluralised, directed to a group - perhaps the miners, perhaps the newcomers.
Salvete
20150720
Day 441
The world turns slower out on the moors.
Time stops meaning anything as the days are sporadically longer and shorter.
Even the seasons don't matter, the weather is always the same gloomy grey.
It always rains on Sundays, thick blackish clouds and roaring winds.
The local church goers look more and more like a funeral procession with each passing week.
The wind is a constant worry.
Will it blow down the fence that protects the house from the wolves?
(They say the wolves have been extinct for centuries but something like them lives on)
Are the roof tiles holding, how many will be have to replace this time?
(There are always scratch marks around the missing tiles, something wants in)
Still, in spite of all this the moors at least offer breathtaking views.
Some linger too long in these places, caught and suffocating and found always too late.
Hiking trails are marked out neatly on maps and handed to every tourist/passer-by.
Nothing stops an inquisitive mind like slipping slowly into rain-drenched grass.
Especially when it is overgrowth covering one of many water filled sinkholes.
The currents from them go deep, deep down to places nobody comes out of.
We have names for each and every one that only tourists dare say out loud.
They shouldn't be surprised when the named things seek them out or draw them in.
Worse still is when they return, unmade and unnameable.
The moors take something from every visitor.
Time stops meaning anything as the days are sporadically longer and shorter.
Even the seasons don't matter, the weather is always the same gloomy grey.
It always rains on Sundays, thick blackish clouds and roaring winds.
The local church goers look more and more like a funeral procession with each passing week.
The wind is a constant worry.
Will it blow down the fence that protects the house from the wolves?
(They say the wolves have been extinct for centuries but something like them lives on)
Are the roof tiles holding, how many will be have to replace this time?
(There are always scratch marks around the missing tiles, something wants in)
Still, in spite of all this the moors at least offer breathtaking views.
Some linger too long in these places, caught and suffocating and found always too late.
Hiking trails are marked out neatly on maps and handed to every tourist/passer-by.
Nothing stops an inquisitive mind like slipping slowly into rain-drenched grass.
Especially when it is overgrowth covering one of many water filled sinkholes.
The currents from them go deep, deep down to places nobody comes out of.
We have names for each and every one that only tourists dare say out loud.
They shouldn't be surprised when the named things seek them out or draw them in.
Worse still is when they return, unmade and unnameable.
The moors take something from every visitor.
20150719
Day 440
The theatre felt like another world entirely and this was not necessarily a good thing.
First you encounter the narrow stairs, covered in thick red velvet that smothered all sound.
Then the lobby, richly furnished at first glance and a heady mix of burgundy and gold patterns.
The person serving tickets wore an old fashioned uniform and seemed normal enough until
someone tried to talk to them about anything other than the shows.
Such conversations caused the server to crash as it were, smoke rising from the ears and blood
running from the eyes, nose and mouth - the usual signs of crashing in theatre staff.
Incidents like this were thankfully few and far between, the noticeboards helped.
From the lobby the path to the main theatre was sloped and wound down like a spiral staircase.
The thick red velvet carpet continued to muffle all sound and combined with dark burgundy walls
it gave the walk a claustrophobic feel that weeded out the weaker theatre goers.
Shows were so much more when the audiences were able to cope with the intense performances.
The main theatre itself was the largest underground theatre in the western hemisphere.
Despite being relatively unknown the shows always ended in thunderous applause, albeit
sometimes from the unseen audience of the upper balconies.
Tonight's show was based on Swan Lake, if Swan Lake was set in the Irish marshes.
The stage changed drastically between scenes, from the attic of a poverty-stricken house to the
great London Library to a highly realistic tree surrounded by foggy swamplands.
As the show reached its' climax the stage began to creak and groan and sink slowly.
The swamp water began to overflow and flood the stalls, the pillars that had been decorated to
look like lightning struck trees suddenly seemed more realistic, more natural.
As the stench of rotten eggs, damp soil and the faintest trace of smoke filled the theatre the
audience began to applaud, with such a realistic show you could almost feel the character's
terror as they cried out for the audience to save them from the stage's collapse.
First you encounter the narrow stairs, covered in thick red velvet that smothered all sound.
Then the lobby, richly furnished at first glance and a heady mix of burgundy and gold patterns.
The person serving tickets wore an old fashioned uniform and seemed normal enough until
someone tried to talk to them about anything other than the shows.
Such conversations caused the server to crash as it were, smoke rising from the ears and blood
running from the eyes, nose and mouth - the usual signs of crashing in theatre staff.
Incidents like this were thankfully few and far between, the noticeboards helped.
From the lobby the path to the main theatre was sloped and wound down like a spiral staircase.
The thick red velvet carpet continued to muffle all sound and combined with dark burgundy walls
it gave the walk a claustrophobic feel that weeded out the weaker theatre goers.
Shows were so much more when the audiences were able to cope with the intense performances.
The main theatre itself was the largest underground theatre in the western hemisphere.
Despite being relatively unknown the shows always ended in thunderous applause, albeit
sometimes from the unseen audience of the upper balconies.
Tonight's show was based on Swan Lake, if Swan Lake was set in the Irish marshes.
The stage changed drastically between scenes, from the attic of a poverty-stricken house to the
great London Library to a highly realistic tree surrounded by foggy swamplands.
As the show reached its' climax the stage began to creak and groan and sink slowly.
The swamp water began to overflow and flood the stalls, the pillars that had been decorated to
look like lightning struck trees suddenly seemed more realistic, more natural.
As the stench of rotten eggs, damp soil and the faintest trace of smoke filled the theatre the
audience began to applaud, with such a realistic show you could almost feel the character's
terror as they cried out for the audience to save them from the stage's collapse.
20150718
Day 439
They say it was once a museum, that it held all the treasures of the world before it went dark.
Jewels that shone like stars, paintings that sang back to you and statues that devoured life.
Of course these are all stories and nobody can figure out how to get past the ornate doors anyhow.
Doesn't stop us from dreaming though.
Certainly doesn't stop us from pressing our ears against the doors and hearing old songs.
When the blackouts came, the world's top priorities were sealing the museums.
They shut staff and visitors alike inside, attached some kind of emergency feeding system too.
Said it was due to contagions among the artefacts but the off-duty staff soon spoke up.
The off-duty staff soon went missing and the old songs were sung louder.
The power never came back on and the museums became places of worship instead.
People were given regularly to trough the emergency feeding system and in return word came out.
It was small things at first, the names of those who were still alive.
Soon after came the names of those who had died and how.
Then the statues began making their demands - tools to remove the barricades.
They managed to evoke such pity that their demands were met within hours and the barricades
were weakened, torn apart piece by piece.
The people rejoiced at first, the music was clearer than ever and they felt hope for the first time
since the blackouts took normality and societal structure away.
Almost two weeks later the ornate doors were found thrown off their hinges.
The museum's interior was exposed for all to see.
Corpse were strung from frames that still gorged themselves, laughing and singing all the while.
Staff members, visitors and sacrifices lay dying or where they had died, limbless and in agony.
The distant sound of concrete scraping stone grew louder as the statues made their grande entrance.
They wore gore like haute couture as they ambushed the outside world.
Jewels that shone like stars, paintings that sang back to you and statues that devoured life.
Of course these are all stories and nobody can figure out how to get past the ornate doors anyhow.
Doesn't stop us from dreaming though.
Certainly doesn't stop us from pressing our ears against the doors and hearing old songs.
When the blackouts came, the world's top priorities were sealing the museums.
They shut staff and visitors alike inside, attached some kind of emergency feeding system too.
Said it was due to contagions among the artefacts but the off-duty staff soon spoke up.
The off-duty staff soon went missing and the old songs were sung louder.
The power never came back on and the museums became places of worship instead.
People were given regularly to trough the emergency feeding system and in return word came out.
It was small things at first, the names of those who were still alive.
Soon after came the names of those who had died and how.
Then the statues began making their demands - tools to remove the barricades.
They managed to evoke such pity that their demands were met within hours and the barricades
were weakened, torn apart piece by piece.
The people rejoiced at first, the music was clearer than ever and they felt hope for the first time
since the blackouts took normality and societal structure away.
Almost two weeks later the ornate doors were found thrown off their hinges.
The museum's interior was exposed for all to see.
Corpse were strung from frames that still gorged themselves, laughing and singing all the while.
Staff members, visitors and sacrifices lay dying or where they had died, limbless and in agony.
The distant sound of concrete scraping stone grew louder as the statues made their grande entrance.
They wore gore like haute couture as they ambushed the outside world.
20150716
Day 438
There had been a zoo at the edge of the woods in the 1800's apparently.
It shut down during the Napoleonic War, all the animals were sold or eaten.
Nobody purchased the land after the war, it was left to rust and rot.
Bones and barriers alike were left frozen in time until it was rediscovered.
The first ones were teens roaming about the woods in boredom.
At first they thought they'd stumbled upon a prison, all those iron bars and warning signs.
It was actually the lion's cage as one pointed out a small visitor's plaque.
They all felt something brush past their legs and fled soon after, leaving one behind.
It happened several times after, each time someone was left behind or never left at all.
No cage was visited twice and over the years they began to regain their occupancy.
Still there were empty cages, exhibits to be remade with living bodies.
The left behind bones just fit so well with their new hosts.
Moving forward to today the zoo remains more crowded than its' heyday.
Each new creature a chimera of human and what little remained of the old exhibits.
Every cage had an occupant, just like the old days when visitors roamed rather than crows.
They were attracted to the smell of rotting meat that the chimeras exuded.
Most of them seemed like complete creatures except those that fought the changes.
Bones fused to cloth and flesh alike, sometimes tearing out the host's bones to replace them.
Such amazing new creatures needed an audience, needed companions and food.
The zoo drew more people in and this time, there were no leavers.
It shut down during the Napoleonic War, all the animals were sold or eaten.
Nobody purchased the land after the war, it was left to rust and rot.
Bones and barriers alike were left frozen in time until it was rediscovered.
The first ones were teens roaming about the woods in boredom.
At first they thought they'd stumbled upon a prison, all those iron bars and warning signs.
It was actually the lion's cage as one pointed out a small visitor's plaque.
They all felt something brush past their legs and fled soon after, leaving one behind.
It happened several times after, each time someone was left behind or never left at all.
No cage was visited twice and over the years they began to regain their occupancy.
Still there were empty cages, exhibits to be remade with living bodies.
The left behind bones just fit so well with their new hosts.
Moving forward to today the zoo remains more crowded than its' heyday.
Each new creature a chimera of human and what little remained of the old exhibits.
Every cage had an occupant, just like the old days when visitors roamed rather than crows.
They were attracted to the smell of rotting meat that the chimeras exuded.
Most of them seemed like complete creatures except those that fought the changes.
Bones fused to cloth and flesh alike, sometimes tearing out the host's bones to replace them.
Such amazing new creatures needed an audience, needed companions and food.
The zoo drew more people in and this time, there were no leavers.
Day 437
In our town we are run by bells.
The cock tower chimes us the hour.
The school yard chimes us our lessons.
The church chimes us to mass twice weekly.
These bells are good for us.
They all occur during the day when it is safe to be.
These aren't all of the bells though.
Some happen during the night when we shouldn't go out.
One at ten chimes for the iron collectors.
They source their iron from anything nearby.
Mostly old things, we've had to replace what they've taken.
We can't replace the people they leave, anaemic and mute.
One chimes at twelve thirty and we must never answer.
If we hear it we are to turn away from the windows.
We are to hide somewhere where their searchlights can't see.
They have such bright lights.
Why are their bells the loudest?
Why do they come from underground accompanied by scratching noises?
So many have been lost to those bells and they grow ever louder.
Twelve thirty comes too soon.
The cock tower chimes us the hour.
The school yard chimes us our lessons.
The church chimes us to mass twice weekly.
These bells are good for us.
They all occur during the day when it is safe to be.
These aren't all of the bells though.
Some happen during the night when we shouldn't go out.
One at ten chimes for the iron collectors.
They source their iron from anything nearby.
Mostly old things, we've had to replace what they've taken.
We can't replace the people they leave, anaemic and mute.
One chimes at twelve thirty and we must never answer.
If we hear it we are to turn away from the windows.
We are to hide somewhere where their searchlights can't see.
They have such bright lights.
Why are their bells the loudest?
Why do they come from underground accompanied by scratching noises?
So many have been lost to those bells and they grow ever louder.
Twelve thirty comes too soon.
20150715
Day 436
The local theatre held their best shows at 2:45AM to a hand-picked audience.
No two shows were the same yet everyone had one thing in common.
They came to be cured.
Anything and everything, the show promised to cure 3 people per show.
It all depended on how much they were willing to do.
What they were willing to do and to whom.
There were deaths during the show, it was considered good luck.
A life for a life was the tagline and the cast lived by it every performance.
In five hundred years nothing had really changed, not even with the layout.
The stage was coated in a thick layer of sawdust (with modern plastic sheets underneath).
Each of the 5 actors played a specific role though the names change every time.
They roughly fall along the lines of family, witness, appealer, joy and time.
Family was on your side, they wanted you to be cured as much as you wanted it.
Witness wrote down the final words of any who died during the show and burnt the records.
Appealer begged for those lives to be spared, even at the cost of the audience.
Joy came to those who were to be cured and took them away to wherever their cure was.
Time, our final actor, was the one they all feared and carried a double sided axe as a reminder.
Mortality is brief and nobody knows that better then the audience.
No two shows were the same yet everyone had one thing in common.
They came to be cured.
Anything and everything, the show promised to cure 3 people per show.
It all depended on how much they were willing to do.
What they were willing to do and to whom.
There were deaths during the show, it was considered good luck.
A life for a life was the tagline and the cast lived by it every performance.
In five hundred years nothing had really changed, not even with the layout.
The stage was coated in a thick layer of sawdust (with modern plastic sheets underneath).
Each of the 5 actors played a specific role though the names change every time.
They roughly fall along the lines of family, witness, appealer, joy and time.
Family was on your side, they wanted you to be cured as much as you wanted it.
Witness wrote down the final words of any who died during the show and burnt the records.
Appealer begged for those lives to be spared, even at the cost of the audience.
Joy came to those who were to be cured and took them away to wherever their cure was.
Time, our final actor, was the one they all feared and carried a double sided axe as a reminder.
Mortality is brief and nobody knows that better then the audience.
20150714
Day 435
There was more than fish in the river, that much we knew.
Impossibly large eyes would sit below the surface metres away from out spot.
We'd fish there every weekend in the summer.
Never caught anything and we were glad for it.
Last person whose line caught something got pulled down.
You could see them sinking for hours, their line got tangled around their hands.
Their body never washed up downstream, never got stuck in the weir.
They weren't the first either - it happens once of twice a summer.
Something about the river puts all sorts of ideas in your head, you know.
It tells me to wade out to where the pondweed grew thickest and the big fish swam.
Says that I'll catch the biggest fish of my life there.
It probably said the same thing to the last one.
It doesn't always drag people down though.
Sometimes the river gives you things, namely strange creatures of varying size.
My uncle got one when he was a kid and it's still with him.
He dug his whole garden out into a lake for it.
for some reason he put a small jetty running out over it too, you get a good view of it.
Most days it just lays along the bottom all curled up and pulsing.
I did see it come up once but not for very long.
Just long enough to snatch a bird out of the air and crush it to bits.
It didn't even eat it, just left the remains floating about.
We've tried to convince uncle to put it back into the river but he refuses.
Says it's a gift and we'll understand when it's fully grown.
He keeps saying that, even after he brought next door's garden to expand the creature's lake.
20150713
Day 434
I can feel something in my eye.
Always in the left one, right in the inner corner.
There's nothing physically there, that I can see.
Still the feeling has been there for weeks.
It's gotten to the point where I've asked the hospital to check it out.
Even if they just rinse my eye and call it quits I'd accept it.
So long as I know there's nothing there and I'm fine.
My vision keeps blurring at times though.
The nurse seems worried with the shape of my face.
I'm not sure why, my face has always been this way.
When I tell her this she nods her head, notes it down and I wait.
Four house I wait for a doctor but what's a few hours to a few weeks already?
The doctor uses tweezers to pull my lower lid right down, numbs the area.
She makes a small incision and pulls down further, cuts something away.
Asks if my parents had been expecting twins when I was born.
They had but the scan was wrong and later it showed just me, as I told her.
She says no, the scan was right to an extent.
It's easy to miss apparently, the other is generally fully absorbed.
My twin has always been with me.
Their tiny deformed hand growing in the flesh beneath my left eye.
I sometimes wonder how much of them is inside me.
The doctor said that they'd like to do a full scan in case my twin is parasitic.
Of course I said yes but I'm so scared.
Ever since I've been finding small hand-print shaped bruises all along my body.
Always in the left one, right in the inner corner.
There's nothing physically there, that I can see.
Still the feeling has been there for weeks.
It's gotten to the point where I've asked the hospital to check it out.
Even if they just rinse my eye and call it quits I'd accept it.
So long as I know there's nothing there and I'm fine.
My vision keeps blurring at times though.
The nurse seems worried with the shape of my face.
I'm not sure why, my face has always been this way.
When I tell her this she nods her head, notes it down and I wait.
Four house I wait for a doctor but what's a few hours to a few weeks already?
The doctor uses tweezers to pull my lower lid right down, numbs the area.
She makes a small incision and pulls down further, cuts something away.
Asks if my parents had been expecting twins when I was born.
They had but the scan was wrong and later it showed just me, as I told her.
She says no, the scan was right to an extent.
It's easy to miss apparently, the other is generally fully absorbed.
My twin has always been with me.
Their tiny deformed hand growing in the flesh beneath my left eye.
I sometimes wonder how much of them is inside me.
The doctor said that they'd like to do a full scan in case my twin is parasitic.
Of course I said yes but I'm so scared.
Ever since I've been finding small hand-print shaped bruises all along my body.
20150711
Day 433
They came from the fog at first, the deep sea fog that settles around trawlers.
Snatched sailors, scientists, tourists and left behind thin scratch marks on the decks.
No trace of blood or bone, just those same little lines.
Sometimes a witness was left behind for no apparent reason and notified the coast
guards or whatever they'd seen (generally the same spindly grey limbs and gaping
maws that dripped with bloody saliva yet left no trace).
They were assumed mad with grief at seeing their comrades presumably fall overboard.
It took them a great deal of time to realise their mistake and by then the boats had arrived.
One by one missing vessels began drifting towards the coastline.
The first empty boat contained only the exact same scratch marks as the "overboard" boats
as well as an unseen passenger, secreted below the lower deck and the boat's underside.
Waiting to be taken to harbour.
It didn't have to wait very long, one council had decided that all boats bearing those marks
must be thoroughly searched in case traces of the missing were found.
In the meantime, reports of skittering grey limbs began and the town slowly vanished to them.
Snatched sailors, scientists, tourists and left behind thin scratch marks on the decks.
No trace of blood or bone, just those same little lines.
Sometimes a witness was left behind for no apparent reason and notified the coast
guards or whatever they'd seen (generally the same spindly grey limbs and gaping
maws that dripped with bloody saliva yet left no trace).
They were assumed mad with grief at seeing their comrades presumably fall overboard.
It took them a great deal of time to realise their mistake and by then the boats had arrived.
One by one missing vessels began drifting towards the coastline.
The first empty boat contained only the exact same scratch marks as the "overboard" boats
as well as an unseen passenger, secreted below the lower deck and the boat's underside.
Waiting to be taken to harbour.
It didn't have to wait very long, one council had decided that all boats bearing those marks
must be thoroughly searched in case traces of the missing were found.
In the meantime, reports of skittering grey limbs began and the town slowly vanished to them.
Day 432
It was once the home of royalty and homed a hundred staff.
Now, some two hundred eighty years later, it is home to one human.
The last descendant of the Baron to whom the building originally belonged to.
This last descendant, this frail shell of a person roamed the mansion rooms in solitude.
It wasn't that they were fond of the loneliness, far from it even, but the house kept itself alone.
By proxy its' inhabitants were forced away from society and into the maze-like halls.
Records of this phenomenon date back to the first occupant - Baron McKriese.
His journal had been passed down alongside his title as both warning and instruction.
Since his departure the mansion had gradually fallen into ruin and standing through four fires.
It seemed determined to stay and to be, despite its' occupants wishes.
The very air inside was brimming with their frustration, despair and hatred.
It never let anyone leave, not even death could save them.
The present descendant refused to talk to them, to the past ones no matter their crying.
He couldn't help them, he couldn't help himself, he was just as doomed as they were.
The house had claimed him before he was even born and it would cling to him selfishly forever.
Now he spent his days crawling through rooms piled high with an assortment of decay.
It had collected over the years, the Barons became unwilling to subject anyone else to the house.
Well most had, a select few derived glee from the isolation and the victims it brought.
Their bones lay all in one room which the descendant visited weekly to appease their souls.
He'd hunted their bodies down from wherever they'd been stashed, they demanded he did.
They demanded so much from him, they demanded the impossible and refused to hear him speak.
As soon as he opened his mouth they flew away, afraid to hear him utter those words.
I CANNOT HELP YOU, I CANNOT STOP THIS.
The phrase he repeated so often he forgot how to say anything else.
Now, some two hundred eighty years later, it is home to one human.
The last descendant of the Baron to whom the building originally belonged to.
This last descendant, this frail shell of a person roamed the mansion rooms in solitude.
It wasn't that they were fond of the loneliness, far from it even, but the house kept itself alone.
By proxy its' inhabitants were forced away from society and into the maze-like halls.
Records of this phenomenon date back to the first occupant - Baron McKriese.
His journal had been passed down alongside his title as both warning and instruction.
Since his departure the mansion had gradually fallen into ruin and standing through four fires.
It seemed determined to stay and to be, despite its' occupants wishes.
The very air inside was brimming with their frustration, despair and hatred.
It never let anyone leave, not even death could save them.
The present descendant refused to talk to them, to the past ones no matter their crying.
He couldn't help them, he couldn't help himself, he was just as doomed as they were.
The house had claimed him before he was even born and it would cling to him selfishly forever.
Now he spent his days crawling through rooms piled high with an assortment of decay.
It had collected over the years, the Barons became unwilling to subject anyone else to the house.
Well most had, a select few derived glee from the isolation and the victims it brought.
Their bones lay all in one room which the descendant visited weekly to appease their souls.
He'd hunted their bodies down from wherever they'd been stashed, they demanded he did.
They demanded so much from him, they demanded the impossible and refused to hear him speak.
As soon as he opened his mouth they flew away, afraid to hear him utter those words.
I CANNOT HELP YOU, I CANNOT STOP THIS.
The phrase he repeated so often he forgot how to say anything else.
20150709
Day 431
There's a stagnant lake at the bottom of Castles Hill.
Not exactly a tourist hotspot, most of the town doesn't even seem to know about it.
I didn't even know about it until last week, not sure I should have gone at all.
It isn't exactly as peaceful as it first seems.
I ended up there purely by accident, too busy texting to take the left turn at the bridge.
Walked right past it and ended up nearly stumbling into the lake.
In my defence the algae was as green as grass, if the ducks hadn't been there I would have gone in.
Took me a while to get my bearings and get a good look at the area.
The lake was rippling violently in some places and it seemed the ducks were fleeing it.
I thought it might be fish, even though the algae had probably have choked all the oxygen already.
Then I caught a glimpse of some kind of head with several eyes a metre or so from me.
Before I could panic it sank, rippling towards a mallard and seizing it in a flash of black scales.
The green surface was stained red where the poor duck had been.
The creature took care of that swiftly, darting back and forth devouring all traces of blood.
Algae coated the lake once more and the remaining waterfowl lingered close to the shore.
I began to walk around the perimeter of the lake, searching for the creature again.
It kept darting about off camera, silent and always in the corner of my eye.
The further along I walked the more bird screams I heard from where I first stood.
It was slaughtering them and I couldn't understand why they weren't flying away.
As I neared a clearing everything fell silent.
Stepping closer to the lake once more I saw some of the plants had been bent in a circular shape.
It was a nest large enough that I reckon I could have sat in it quite comfortably.
A loud splash startled me and as I looked up there must have been a dozen or so creatures.
They were just floating there, silently staring at me.
Not exactly a tourist hotspot, most of the town doesn't even seem to know about it.
I didn't even know about it until last week, not sure I should have gone at all.
It isn't exactly as peaceful as it first seems.
I ended up there purely by accident, too busy texting to take the left turn at the bridge.
Walked right past it and ended up nearly stumbling into the lake.
In my defence the algae was as green as grass, if the ducks hadn't been there I would have gone in.
Took me a while to get my bearings and get a good look at the area.
The lake was rippling violently in some places and it seemed the ducks were fleeing it.
I thought it might be fish, even though the algae had probably have choked all the oxygen already.
Then I caught a glimpse of some kind of head with several eyes a metre or so from me.
Before I could panic it sank, rippling towards a mallard and seizing it in a flash of black scales.
The green surface was stained red where the poor duck had been.
The creature took care of that swiftly, darting back and forth devouring all traces of blood.
Algae coated the lake once more and the remaining waterfowl lingered close to the shore.
I began to walk around the perimeter of the lake, searching for the creature again.
It kept darting about off camera, silent and always in the corner of my eye.
The further along I walked the more bird screams I heard from where I first stood.
It was slaughtering them and I couldn't understand why they weren't flying away.
As I neared a clearing everything fell silent.
Stepping closer to the lake once more I saw some of the plants had been bent in a circular shape.
It was a nest large enough that I reckon I could have sat in it quite comfortably.
A loud splash startled me and as I looked up there must have been a dozen or so creatures.
They were just floating there, silently staring at me.
20150708
Day 430
They say that no-one can hear you scream in space.
Recently we have disproved this.
All our probes are picking up is an intense sound-wave.
We've spent the past nine years trying to locate its' source.
Satellites have been pointed at and sent to as much of our solar system as possible.
Until yesterday we thought the source was external.
After nine years of nothing but studying sound-waves that sounded like screams we gave up.
The satellites we'd been using were turned back homeward.
That's when the sound became more amplified than we'd ever heard.
It was coming from us, from Earth.
Yesterday we turned every probe that we could homeward.
Played every sound-wave from every satellite all at once and listened.
Someone on Earth had been warning us this whole time.
We looked up at the stars too late.
They were already here.
Recently we have disproved this.
All our probes are picking up is an intense sound-wave.
We've spent the past nine years trying to locate its' source.
Satellites have been pointed at and sent to as much of our solar system as possible.
Until yesterday we thought the source was external.
After nine years of nothing but studying sound-waves that sounded like screams we gave up.
The satellites we'd been using were turned back homeward.
That's when the sound became more amplified than we'd ever heard.
It was coming from us, from Earth.
Yesterday we turned every probe that we could homeward.
Played every sound-wave from every satellite all at once and listened.
Someone on Earth had been warning us this whole time.
We looked up at the stars too late.
They were already here.
Day 429
It's so easy to fall asleep at the hairdressers.
Something about the rhythmic snick of their scissors, the feel of fingers scraping your scalp.
Relaxing in a way you can never fully explain.
They lather your hair with unnamed gels, soaps and semi-congealed liquids.
Always smells so familiar, that overpowering floral scent tinged with iron and salt.
Cecilia always did your hair, lulled you near to sleep the second your head touched the sink.
You barely ever remember what she does to your hair, though she tells you the product names.
It's the same for almost everyone around these parts.
The end result is always what you wanted but the actual haircutting is vague and hazy.
It's like you imagined going, something between a dream and looking through a glass bottle.
The only people who seem to know what goes on are the security team.
Every shop has cameras and they all link to one large security building for some reason.
My cousin says it's more convenient that way, all the eyes in one place.
I suppose they're there to catch shoplifters or robberies but nothing like that happens here.
Maybe it does and they don't tell us, the security team are strange looking.
Their eyes are always to glassy and vacant but the rest of their body language says IN CHARGE.
My brother did an internship with them a few months back, lasted two days.
He hasn't spoken since day two when he said that everything was wrong and we were monsters.
I remember it so well, I'd just come back from my bi-monthly haircut when he barged past me.
He was determined to get me and our younger sister out of town "before we were next".
I still don't know what he meant by that, despite his ranting.
I tried to make him calm down but when I turned him to face me he shrieked and scrambled back.
Kept pointing to my newly cut hair and saying it was soaked in blood.
My hair was dark red yes but it was just dye, he also claimed my free flower crown was guts.
He'd seen the camera footage from the whole town and said we were all blinded to it.
All except the people in charge who "were running this damn slaughter house".
Then he listed twenty or so names claiming we knew them all but I'd never heard of them before.
He even said that we were related to a few, that we had an older sister named Cherole!
She'd been a hairdresser until she snapped apparently and she'd also killed eight people.
Used their blood to condition, "an old town tradition" he kept saying.
Before I could hear anything more from him our dad came rushing in to drag him out.
Said he'd had a nasty bump on the head was confused, he'd take him to hospital and be home soon.
Four days later he came back with thick bandages around his head and mute.
There had been complications but nobody would tell me what.
Nothing else has changed since except I applied for his internship last month.
Got the callback today and I'm in - I can hardly wait to see the cameras.
Something about the rhythmic snick of their scissors, the feel of fingers scraping your scalp.
Relaxing in a way you can never fully explain.
They lather your hair with unnamed gels, soaps and semi-congealed liquids.
Always smells so familiar, that overpowering floral scent tinged with iron and salt.
Cecilia always did your hair, lulled you near to sleep the second your head touched the sink.
You barely ever remember what she does to your hair, though she tells you the product names.
It's the same for almost everyone around these parts.
The end result is always what you wanted but the actual haircutting is vague and hazy.
It's like you imagined going, something between a dream and looking through a glass bottle.
The only people who seem to know what goes on are the security team.
Every shop has cameras and they all link to one large security building for some reason.
My cousin says it's more convenient that way, all the eyes in one place.
I suppose they're there to catch shoplifters or robberies but nothing like that happens here.
Maybe it does and they don't tell us, the security team are strange looking.
Their eyes are always to glassy and vacant but the rest of their body language says IN CHARGE.
My brother did an internship with them a few months back, lasted two days.
He hasn't spoken since day two when he said that everything was wrong and we were monsters.
I remember it so well, I'd just come back from my bi-monthly haircut when he barged past me.
He was determined to get me and our younger sister out of town "before we were next".
I still don't know what he meant by that, despite his ranting.
I tried to make him calm down but when I turned him to face me he shrieked and scrambled back.
Kept pointing to my newly cut hair and saying it was soaked in blood.
My hair was dark red yes but it was just dye, he also claimed my free flower crown was guts.
He'd seen the camera footage from the whole town and said we were all blinded to it.
All except the people in charge who "were running this damn slaughter house".
Then he listed twenty or so names claiming we knew them all but I'd never heard of them before.
He even said that we were related to a few, that we had an older sister named Cherole!
She'd been a hairdresser until she snapped apparently and she'd also killed eight people.
Used their blood to condition, "an old town tradition" he kept saying.
Before I could hear anything more from him our dad came rushing in to drag him out.
Said he'd had a nasty bump on the head was confused, he'd take him to hospital and be home soon.
Four days later he came back with thick bandages around his head and mute.
There had been complications but nobody would tell me what.
Nothing else has changed since except I applied for his internship last month.
Got the callback today and I'm in - I can hardly wait to see the cameras.
20150706
Day 428
The house was simultaneously there and not, real and unreal.
The neighbours were both charming and delightful and what neighbours, that's just a field?
If you asked, most of the town "knew" the people who lived there.
No two stories were the same, the house was full of life and vacant.
The sign outside said so, it also said that there was a room to rent and a yard sale.
It seemed that the house(or lack thereof) responded to what the viewer expected or needed.
Some tearful diner goers spoke of how they knew people who'd gone into the house.
The reasons were perfectly normal, they needed a place to stay or they'd been invited in.
How could they go inside a place that managed to not exist?
Even on photos, depending on what day and time it is the house is there and not and vastly
different each time, sometimes it looks like a new apartment block and a crumbling mess of
brickwork and overgrown gardens with ornate iron fencing.
To the outside world it was just another small time internet "legend".
To the town it was just another thing to be avoided.
Either way the house remains in constant use, people coming and going and going and going.
Someone from out of town, owner of a small time TV channel or so he said, went there to film.
Thought he'd be able to and thought he could finally solve it for good.
He quickly found otherwise as he viewed a caravan through the camera and saw nothing in person.
Things were more complicated than he was prepared for but the caravan door was wide open.
Closing his right eye and peering through the camera with the left, he stepped inside.
Through the viewfinder he saw an old man slouched over a table, heard is heavy breathing.
This was nothing like the houses that everyone else had described to him, this was a hovel at best.
The floor was covered in what appeared to be animal skins, beer cans and torn envelopes.
Opening his right eye he saw only the field and his feet hovering a foot or so in the air.
Still he could hear the unseen caravan's occupant and feel the walls around him.
The old man's wheezing seemed to be coming to an end as he lifted his head with great effort.
They looked almost exactly like his grandfather, the only difference being the eyes.
His grandfather had brown eyes, the old man here had glassy white ones.
As the other spoke the caravan began to change and shift, distort into a much larger room.
There was so many of us.... Now... not so much... talk to Sylvie...
The room continued to shift until he could see it clearly through both camera and eyesight.
Still he kept his right eye shut and peered through the viewfinder, better to immerse himself
and figure out what was going on in the house that was and wasn't.
The former caravan was now a dimly lit sitting room with thick, dusty drapes over the windows.
Everything was different except the old man who was now slumped over a stained chaise longue.
The door he came through no longer existed or had it always been across from him?
Before he quite realised what he was doing he had already walked up to it and pulled it open.
A gust of stale air hit him warmly in the face as his feet took him left of the doorway.
It was too dark for him to see yet he somehow knew the way to a grand staircase.
Higher and higher he climbed, his camera's night vision barely enough to see his feet as the
staircase continued seemingly without end.
According to the camera's screen he'd been in the "house" for two days already.
He should have felt hungry, thirsty, tired anything but this numbness that was quickly spreading.
His limbs felt like lead and feathers all at once, unmoveable and steady.
By day 3 (according to the camera) he finally reached the end of the stairs, or rather a ceiling.
There was some kind of a door there and through the viewfinder he saw his hand open it.
Glancing down his hand was still by his side, he could feel it there yet he saw it in two places.
He was greeted with stale air once more as he stepped into the next floor - or was it an attic?
It wasn't nearly as dingy as the staircase at least, it was fairly well lit by a large window.
Moving closer towards it he saw a figure hunched underneath, was this "Sylvie"?
The numbness he felt on the stairs lifted as he moved closer to the stranger by the window.
By the time it had lifted completely he was a few steps away from them.
In a shaky voice he asked what their name was only to be met with the screech of radio static.
The numbness returned in full force as the stranger stood up.
Their hunched silhouette had hidden their actual height well, the stood at almost eight feet.
Where a face should have been there were bloodied rags that dripped down the figure's body.
He was left a visitor in his own head, helplessly watching as the figure led him to a stool nearby.
The camera was dropped and all he saw was his body floating above the field and under a noose.
The neighbours were both charming and delightful and what neighbours, that's just a field?
If you asked, most of the town "knew" the people who lived there.
No two stories were the same, the house was full of life and vacant.
The sign outside said so, it also said that there was a room to rent and a yard sale.
It seemed that the house(or lack thereof) responded to what the viewer expected or needed.
Some tearful diner goers spoke of how they knew people who'd gone into the house.
The reasons were perfectly normal, they needed a place to stay or they'd been invited in.
How could they go inside a place that managed to not exist?
Even on photos, depending on what day and time it is the house is there and not and vastly
different each time, sometimes it looks like a new apartment block and a crumbling mess of
brickwork and overgrown gardens with ornate iron fencing.
To the outside world it was just another small time internet "legend".
To the town it was just another thing to be avoided.
Either way the house remains in constant use, people coming and going and going and going.
Someone from out of town, owner of a small time TV channel or so he said, went there to film.
Thought he'd be able to and thought he could finally solve it for good.
He quickly found otherwise as he viewed a caravan through the camera and saw nothing in person.
Things were more complicated than he was prepared for but the caravan door was wide open.
Closing his right eye and peering through the camera with the left, he stepped inside.
Through the viewfinder he saw an old man slouched over a table, heard is heavy breathing.
This was nothing like the houses that everyone else had described to him, this was a hovel at best.
The floor was covered in what appeared to be animal skins, beer cans and torn envelopes.
Opening his right eye he saw only the field and his feet hovering a foot or so in the air.
Still he could hear the unseen caravan's occupant and feel the walls around him.
The old man's wheezing seemed to be coming to an end as he lifted his head with great effort.
They looked almost exactly like his grandfather, the only difference being the eyes.
His grandfather had brown eyes, the old man here had glassy white ones.
As the other spoke the caravan began to change and shift, distort into a much larger room.
There was so many of us.... Now... not so much... talk to Sylvie...
The room continued to shift until he could see it clearly through both camera and eyesight.
Still he kept his right eye shut and peered through the viewfinder, better to immerse himself
and figure out what was going on in the house that was and wasn't.
The former caravan was now a dimly lit sitting room with thick, dusty drapes over the windows.
Everything was different except the old man who was now slumped over a stained chaise longue.
The door he came through no longer existed or had it always been across from him?
Before he quite realised what he was doing he had already walked up to it and pulled it open.
A gust of stale air hit him warmly in the face as his feet took him left of the doorway.
It was too dark for him to see yet he somehow knew the way to a grand staircase.
Higher and higher he climbed, his camera's night vision barely enough to see his feet as the
staircase continued seemingly without end.
According to the camera's screen he'd been in the "house" for two days already.
He should have felt hungry, thirsty, tired anything but this numbness that was quickly spreading.
His limbs felt like lead and feathers all at once, unmoveable and steady.
By day 3 (according to the camera) he finally reached the end of the stairs, or rather a ceiling.
There was some kind of a door there and through the viewfinder he saw his hand open it.
Glancing down his hand was still by his side, he could feel it there yet he saw it in two places.
He was greeted with stale air once more as he stepped into the next floor - or was it an attic?
It wasn't nearly as dingy as the staircase at least, it was fairly well lit by a large window.
Moving closer towards it he saw a figure hunched underneath, was this "Sylvie"?
The numbness he felt on the stairs lifted as he moved closer to the stranger by the window.
By the time it had lifted completely he was a few steps away from them.
In a shaky voice he asked what their name was only to be met with the screech of radio static.
The numbness returned in full force as the stranger stood up.
Their hunched silhouette had hidden their actual height well, the stood at almost eight feet.
Where a face should have been there were bloodied rags that dripped down the figure's body.
He was left a visitor in his own head, helplessly watching as the figure led him to a stool nearby.
The camera was dropped and all he saw was his body floating above the field and under a noose.
20150705
Day 427
Friday was important for the whole town - vital for some.
Friday was market day.
The main street was lined on both sides with vendors and the majority of the townsfolk.
Shame the once brightly coloured marquees were now coated in an insipid grey dust.
Some blamed the heavy traffic on the surrounding roads, both high overpasses and the
one that ran down the middle of the main market area.
Others blamed the constant grey sky, the town was well known as the cloudiest around.
A select few even claimed it was a curse, that eventually the whole town would be grey.
They weren't too far off either, the grey dust began to coat more than just the marquees.
Everyone knew that it tainted the food but it was still all that some people had.
Can you imagine strawberries the size of golf balls, grey as fresh steel yet sweet as air.
Not the air you breathed around the market, the air you heard in stories.
Market air smelt like sweat and grime and engines running their last.
Most of the town carried that same smell, could it be the low valley lack of wind?
Nobody had any real answers, only maybes and guesses and possibilities.
They couldn't explain how colours seemed to all fade so quickly in town.
It started small, grey marquees and grey tainted food but it soon moved on.
Even the brightest clothing was dulled within a week and near grey by a month.
But the people there had more to worry about, summer was ending.
Cold weather brought with it a brutal cough, the kind that left blood on your tissues.
It was a local phenomenon but that didn't stop the townsfolk from trying to cure it.
Some even left for the winter, the whole place went dead quiet, even the market shrunk.
It never seemed to kill though, just weaken, made you sluggish and made your skin greyer.
The coughing season used to be just winter but now it began as early as spring's end.
Friday was market day.
The main street was lined on both sides with vendors and the majority of the townsfolk.
Shame the once brightly coloured marquees were now coated in an insipid grey dust.
Some blamed the heavy traffic on the surrounding roads, both high overpasses and the
one that ran down the middle of the main market area.
Others blamed the constant grey sky, the town was well known as the cloudiest around.
A select few even claimed it was a curse, that eventually the whole town would be grey.
They weren't too far off either, the grey dust began to coat more than just the marquees.
Everyone knew that it tainted the food but it was still all that some people had.
Can you imagine strawberries the size of golf balls, grey as fresh steel yet sweet as air.
Not the air you breathed around the market, the air you heard in stories.
Market air smelt like sweat and grime and engines running their last.
Most of the town carried that same smell, could it be the low valley lack of wind?
Nobody had any real answers, only maybes and guesses and possibilities.
They couldn't explain how colours seemed to all fade so quickly in town.
It started small, grey marquees and grey tainted food but it soon moved on.
Even the brightest clothing was dulled within a week and near grey by a month.
But the people there had more to worry about, summer was ending.
Cold weather brought with it a brutal cough, the kind that left blood on your tissues.
It was a local phenomenon but that didn't stop the townsfolk from trying to cure it.
Some even left for the winter, the whole place went dead quiet, even the market shrunk.
It never seemed to kill though, just weaken, made you sluggish and made your skin greyer.
The coughing season used to be just winter but now it began as early as spring's end.
20150704
Day 426
The train was crowded and the air felt thinner with each stop they passed by.
There was no sign of slowing, no announcer declaring the destination.
It wasn't a surprise when the passengers panicked.
Fatalities were bound to occur.
It began with something innocuous (as these instances often do), a simple cough in carriage 4.
Saliva stuck in the wrong pipe and a desperate attempt to smother the effects.
This was only made worse with a casual snide remark of stay at home if you're sick.
There's always someone ready to go off at the slightest thing, this one happened to be close by.
A rant on the inconsiderate plague spreaders of the world began and tempers arose.
Counter arguments and counter-counter arguments were flung to and fro in the cramped carriage.
It took little time for this to escalate into an all-out fight.
One misplaced emphatic gesture led to chaos.
It spread quickly as the carriages on either side caught sight of the violence.
The train still showed no signs of slowing down or stopping despite the war within.
Several passengers were wounded, even more were unconscious or worse.
The original snide remarker was one of those unfortunates whose internal bleeding ended them.
After much fighting, eight deaths and multiple severe wounds the fighting died down in carriage 4.
The other carriages were in similar states of starting or ending their violent spree.
Sadly it wasn't the body count that made them stop, it wasn't the cries for help and mercy, no...
The train was slowing down and a stop was approaching.
There was no sign of slowing, no announcer declaring the destination.
It wasn't a surprise when the passengers panicked.
Fatalities were bound to occur.
It began with something innocuous (as these instances often do), a simple cough in carriage 4.
Saliva stuck in the wrong pipe and a desperate attempt to smother the effects.
This was only made worse with a casual snide remark of stay at home if you're sick.
There's always someone ready to go off at the slightest thing, this one happened to be close by.
A rant on the inconsiderate plague spreaders of the world began and tempers arose.
Counter arguments and counter-counter arguments were flung to and fro in the cramped carriage.
It took little time for this to escalate into an all-out fight.
One misplaced emphatic gesture led to chaos.
It spread quickly as the carriages on either side caught sight of the violence.
The train still showed no signs of slowing down or stopping despite the war within.
Several passengers were wounded, even more were unconscious or worse.
The original snide remarker was one of those unfortunates whose internal bleeding ended them.
After much fighting, eight deaths and multiple severe wounds the fighting died down in carriage 4.
The other carriages were in similar states of starting or ending their violent spree.
Sadly it wasn't the body count that made them stop, it wasn't the cries for help and mercy, no...
The train was slowing down and a stop was approaching.
20150703
Day 425
The tapping came at odd intervals from your phone's screen.
At first you thought someone was trying to prank you by changing your text tone.
It was always set to bird song though... and you lived alone.
You would try to ignore the tapping but as of late it had grown louder.
Your phone would jump as the tapping progressed to pounding.
It sounded like someone was punching a brick wall.
The pounding from your phone grew worse and worse
Small cracks began to appear on the screen, growing with every hit.
You feared what would happen if the screen broke.
It generally hit in sets of eight or twelve, you had no idea why.
Last night it stopped after seven hits.
An hour later is stopped after six.
At first you thought someone was trying to prank you by changing your text tone.
It was always set to bird song though... and you lived alone.
You would try to ignore the tapping but as of late it had grown louder.
Your phone would jump as the tapping progressed to pounding.
It sounded like someone was punching a brick wall.
The pounding from your phone grew worse and worse
Small cracks began to appear on the screen, growing with every hit.
You feared what would happen if the screen broke.
It generally hit in sets of eight or twelve, you had no idea why.
Last night it stopped after seven hits.
An hour later is stopped after six.
Day 424
The building wasn't standing up so much as it was too stubborn to collapse.
Still everyone flocked to it when the bells thundered out across the valley.
Five villages in total, everyone who could walk would walk to there.
The slithered along the ground, dragging useless limbs and deformed Others along.
The building was their haven, their time was coming up and there was nothing left.
Morning was coming, something they'd only seen drawing of in the old archives.
They had been told that it would mean their end, the older ones said so.
Well said is a generous word, they are by far the most decayed.
The older ones said that morning would break them as the old songs foretold.
Buildings like the one they fled to had been built during the Dark Days to protect them.
The rot that had plagued them since before they had woken up was another matter entirely.
Not everyone would make it to the building, that much was certain.
Those that had so far were busy digging away the already mouldy floorboards and cutting
down trees to replace them, fresh and thick to block the Morning's coming rays.
Newcomers were told to deposit the unworking and join the tree harvest for safety.
The unworking were then tasked with reciting scripture for good luck and well-being.
Those with some movement left in them were set to work repairing the building's roof.
With all hope none would be left outside the flooring save those who had elected to seal
the last few boards and embrace the harsh Morning's light to spare their kin.
They had already volunteered and were resting to save their strength for the Sealing.
As a rich burgundy red began to etch its way across the soft deep blue sky, panic set in.
Those who work in fear work fastest, as the old saying went.
With the Morning coming upon them like a half starved beast they gathered all the ready
wood to begin the Sealing in advance, to get the unworking covered and safe and soon.
By the time peach and violets had leached their way into navy the floor was almost covered.
They remained a foot of boards short and despite the smell of cooking meat they laboured on
still to fill those last remaining spaces and hide themselves away until the Morning ended.
It could not last, the scriptures said the Dark Days would rise again.
With the Sealer's help the final wood cutters were able to finish their task and hide below.
Despite the thick damp rags covering every inch of their skin, the Sealer was burning still.
They toiled and toiled under the ever glowing sky and Morning prowled through the air until
the final board was sealed and their kin were safe and hidden away.
No amount of rituals or drenching in mud and blood was stopping the Morning's burn.
Their skin was blistering, bubbling in places as pustules swelled and burst coating the floor
around them in sickly shades of red tinged yellowish fluid that boiled as it landed.
Faint trails of smoke rose from their flesh as it liquefied and fell with wet thuds.
They faintly heard their kin wailing, singing them off to their death.
Or perhaps just covering the sounds of their shrieks of agony as Morning's light scorched them.
Their cries were the first sounds to greet the Morning and their death the first in the new dawn.
Soon after came the first birdsong.
Still everyone flocked to it when the bells thundered out across the valley.
Five villages in total, everyone who could walk would walk to there.
The slithered along the ground, dragging useless limbs and deformed Others along.
The building was their haven, their time was coming up and there was nothing left.
Morning was coming, something they'd only seen drawing of in the old archives.
They had been told that it would mean their end, the older ones said so.
Well said is a generous word, they are by far the most decayed.
The older ones said that morning would break them as the old songs foretold.
Buildings like the one they fled to had been built during the Dark Days to protect them.
The rot that had plagued them since before they had woken up was another matter entirely.
Not everyone would make it to the building, that much was certain.
Those that had so far were busy digging away the already mouldy floorboards and cutting
down trees to replace them, fresh and thick to block the Morning's coming rays.
Newcomers were told to deposit the unworking and join the tree harvest for safety.
The unworking were then tasked with reciting scripture for good luck and well-being.
Those with some movement left in them were set to work repairing the building's roof.
With all hope none would be left outside the flooring save those who had elected to seal
the last few boards and embrace the harsh Morning's light to spare their kin.
They had already volunteered and were resting to save their strength for the Sealing.
As a rich burgundy red began to etch its way across the soft deep blue sky, panic set in.
Those who work in fear work fastest, as the old saying went.
With the Morning coming upon them like a half starved beast they gathered all the ready
wood to begin the Sealing in advance, to get the unworking covered and safe and soon.
By the time peach and violets had leached their way into navy the floor was almost covered.
They remained a foot of boards short and despite the smell of cooking meat they laboured on
still to fill those last remaining spaces and hide themselves away until the Morning ended.
It could not last, the scriptures said the Dark Days would rise again.
With the Sealer's help the final wood cutters were able to finish their task and hide below.
Despite the thick damp rags covering every inch of their skin, the Sealer was burning still.
They toiled and toiled under the ever glowing sky and Morning prowled through the air until
the final board was sealed and their kin were safe and hidden away.
No amount of rituals or drenching in mud and blood was stopping the Morning's burn.
Their skin was blistering, bubbling in places as pustules swelled and burst coating the floor
around them in sickly shades of red tinged yellowish fluid that boiled as it landed.
Faint trails of smoke rose from their flesh as it liquefied and fell with wet thuds.
They faintly heard their kin wailing, singing them off to their death.
Or perhaps just covering the sounds of their shrieks of agony as Morning's light scorched them.
Their cries were the first sounds to greet the Morning and their death the first in the new dawn.
Soon after came the first birdsong.
20150702
Day 423
The cliffs by the beach are so tall that they could make swimmers look like ants.
We call them "The World's End" even though you can see the ocean most days.
My mum never let me go near them when I was a kid, said they were crumbling.
I reckon everyone's mum had said that at some point - it didn't stop us all.
I remember they'd whisper on the playground about who had and hadn't peered over.
You were meant to stand as close to the edge as possible and either look down or straight.
Apparently you'd see things, everyone said you saw something different.
Ghosts, demons, the future, a gaping black hole or the weirdest - yourself peering back up.
This was before cheap disposable cameras mind you, we only had people's word to believe
though nobody really did, well almost nobody.
My friend Kallum was desperate to go to World's End and see it for himself.
Kept daring me to go with him and eventually I gave in.
We were sitting on the curb by his nan's house when I agreed.
The weather was overcast, sharp gusts of wind and the faintest hint of rain.
Probably not the best time to go to the top of a sea cliff but we were too young to realise.
Looking back I wish someone - anyone - would have spotted us and stopped us.
The wind died down as we approached the cliff edge, made it easier for us to go right out.
We were maybe a foot or two from the absolute end and the view was amazing at first.
Kallum told me when they said that it made people look like ants they weren't lying.
Somehow he could see the beach below and thousands of people on it.
More people that there were in out seaside town, more people than he'd ever seen before.
I couldn't see them, I just saw some kind of long black pipe winding and writhing like a snake.
I thought I was dreaming at first, it seemed so hazy until Kallum tried to yell at the people below.
The pipe suddenly seemed to snap into crisp clear view, a pulsing tube heading towards us.
Kallum didn't see it - couldn't see it and wouldn't let me run away.
He had such a hard grip on my arm that to this day I still have faint brown finger shaped marks.
The tube got closer ans closer to us and I began to see that it had some sort of head.
It stopped by the cliff's edge, glaring at Kallum as he continued to wave at the non-existent people.
I've never seen such an enormous creature before, its head was the size of a bus at least!
Slowly it began to open its mouth and eventually unhinge its whole jaw, letting it hang loosely
around its neck, teeth like giant pillars all grey like its gums and lolling tongue.
At this point I was screaming at Kallum to shut up and run - instead he ran forward.
Right into the creature's open mouth, clambering up its tongue and down its throat.
In a split second it had closed its mouth and swallowed sharply.
Turning its gaze to me a long, jagged arm rose up from its side as it made a shushing motion.
Then as quietly as it had arrived it sank back down.
Kallum was never seen again and I was never even questioned.
I think they knew where he went and were just running through the motions, so to speak.
An empty coffin was buried with his name on it and nobody spoke of him again.
The kids in the playground weren't shy about wanting answers.
I only told them what Kallum had seen, all those impossible people.
Thankfully they were bored but accepting of that answer though one quiet girl asked me afterwards.
Asked me if I'd seen the snake lady, with skin like coal and big, big eyes.
She said that the snake lady was the reason the cliff had to be left alone, she was always so hungry.
We call them "The World's End" even though you can see the ocean most days.
My mum never let me go near them when I was a kid, said they were crumbling.
I reckon everyone's mum had said that at some point - it didn't stop us all.
I remember they'd whisper on the playground about who had and hadn't peered over.
You were meant to stand as close to the edge as possible and either look down or straight.
Apparently you'd see things, everyone said you saw something different.
Ghosts, demons, the future, a gaping black hole or the weirdest - yourself peering back up.
This was before cheap disposable cameras mind you, we only had people's word to believe
though nobody really did, well almost nobody.
My friend Kallum was desperate to go to World's End and see it for himself.
Kept daring me to go with him and eventually I gave in.
We were sitting on the curb by his nan's house when I agreed.
The weather was overcast, sharp gusts of wind and the faintest hint of rain.
Probably not the best time to go to the top of a sea cliff but we were too young to realise.
Looking back I wish someone - anyone - would have spotted us and stopped us.
The wind died down as we approached the cliff edge, made it easier for us to go right out.
We were maybe a foot or two from the absolute end and the view was amazing at first.
Kallum told me when they said that it made people look like ants they weren't lying.
Somehow he could see the beach below and thousands of people on it.
More people that there were in out seaside town, more people than he'd ever seen before.
I couldn't see them, I just saw some kind of long black pipe winding and writhing like a snake.
I thought I was dreaming at first, it seemed so hazy until Kallum tried to yell at the people below.
The pipe suddenly seemed to snap into crisp clear view, a pulsing tube heading towards us.
Kallum didn't see it - couldn't see it and wouldn't let me run away.
He had such a hard grip on my arm that to this day I still have faint brown finger shaped marks.
The tube got closer ans closer to us and I began to see that it had some sort of head.
It stopped by the cliff's edge, glaring at Kallum as he continued to wave at the non-existent people.
I've never seen such an enormous creature before, its head was the size of a bus at least!
Slowly it began to open its mouth and eventually unhinge its whole jaw, letting it hang loosely
around its neck, teeth like giant pillars all grey like its gums and lolling tongue.
At this point I was screaming at Kallum to shut up and run - instead he ran forward.
Right into the creature's open mouth, clambering up its tongue and down its throat.
In a split second it had closed its mouth and swallowed sharply.
Turning its gaze to me a long, jagged arm rose up from its side as it made a shushing motion.
Then as quietly as it had arrived it sank back down.
Kallum was never seen again and I was never even questioned.
I think they knew where he went and were just running through the motions, so to speak.
An empty coffin was buried with his name on it and nobody spoke of him again.
The kids in the playground weren't shy about wanting answers.
I only told them what Kallum had seen, all those impossible people.
Thankfully they were bored but accepting of that answer though one quiet girl asked me afterwards.
Asked me if I'd seen the snake lady, with skin like coal and big, big eyes.
She said that the snake lady was the reason the cliff had to be left alone, she was always so hungry.
20150701
Day 422
The lightning-burnt branches of the dead tree looked like two hands coming together in prayer.
It really stood out against the fields of green grass and short bushes marking the fields apart.
People tended to avoid the area, everyone thought it belonged to someone or was cursed.
Still legend persisted.
It's been said that crawling under the Praying Tree could cure anything.
You had to crawl clockwise - inside, turn right, inside, turn left - seven times.
There were rumours, everyone knew someone who'd been cured.
But like most "cures" it had unfortunate side effects.
Few people are willing to acknowledge them, too focused on praising the Praying Tree.
They don't want to remember what was given to obtain the cure.
This isn't the Giving Tree, it demands something in return.
Those who give nothing lose everything, lose their lives.
No proof of this exists of course, its just a legend after all.
Still doesn't explain the occasional corpse found with their hands tied with roots in prayer.
They're generally terminal patients that vanish from home or hospital.
Their relatives will deny everything to the law but get them liqueured up enough and they sing.
Its the same old story, they have nothing to give, the Praying Tree asked for too much.
A life for a life - that's its deal, always has been.
Some are more than willing to give a name or names, others are too kind or too slow.
Time is precious, even to the Praying Tree.
How do I fit in with all this?
I watch it all, hidden in the long grasses I'm never spotted.
I've seen just about everyone in the local village make deals with the Preying Tree.
And now they're all giving it my name.
It really stood out against the fields of green grass and short bushes marking the fields apart.
People tended to avoid the area, everyone thought it belonged to someone or was cursed.
Still legend persisted.
It's been said that crawling under the Praying Tree could cure anything.
You had to crawl clockwise - inside, turn right, inside, turn left - seven times.
There were rumours, everyone knew someone who'd been cured.
But like most "cures" it had unfortunate side effects.
Few people are willing to acknowledge them, too focused on praising the Praying Tree.
They don't want to remember what was given to obtain the cure.
This isn't the Giving Tree, it demands something in return.
Those who give nothing lose everything, lose their lives.
No proof of this exists of course, its just a legend after all.
Still doesn't explain the occasional corpse found with their hands tied with roots in prayer.
They're generally terminal patients that vanish from home or hospital.
Their relatives will deny everything to the law but get them liqueured up enough and they sing.
Its the same old story, they have nothing to give, the Praying Tree asked for too much.
A life for a life - that's its deal, always has been.
Some are more than willing to give a name or names, others are too kind or too slow.
Time is precious, even to the Praying Tree.
How do I fit in with all this?
I watch it all, hidden in the long grasses I'm never spotted.
I've seen just about everyone in the local village make deals with the Preying Tree.
And now they're all giving it my name.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)