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Many rush a haunted hodology without realising they're vibrating strands of a psychic web. Ford Cortina MK IIIs and Vauxhall Cavaliers trigger the ghosts of ancient highways into manifestation. Riding below the tarmacadam are knights' chargers, legions on the march. – #CJosiffe#
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Goodnight from Dr Ash, working on his manuscript ‘New Trajectories in Forensic Medicine’, haunted by every corpse he’s opened. Goodnight from Iris Cobb, throwing bottles of moonlight into the stream hoping it will take them to the sea as an offering. Goodnight from Hookland
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I am for witchcraft of hierarchical disruption, witchcraft of connective relationships to the spirits of place. I am for guerilla covens, feral magics. A community of radical strangeness. In root, thorn and salt-wind kisses I find my truths, I find my powers. – #EmilyCBanting#
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Goodnight from Den Cory, reflecting how being a copper’s nark for DI Callaghan doesn’t half have him drinking in some strange places. Goodnight from Cassie Barns, trying to trace the map of scars on her Changeling skin until it leads all the way back home. Goodnight from Hookland
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Goodnight from Stephanie Ellis, trying to read the story under the headline: ‘THE DEVIL KILLS IN HOOKLAND’ from across the tram. Goodnight from Jack Belford, following the paths in Long Wolver Woods gilded electrum by the last of the Hunter’s Moon. Goodnight from Hookland.
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There are passageways where we can’t help but brush against phantoms. Places narrowing our movements till a spirit scraping is inevitable. Neither dead nor living will yield right of way. This may come from an unknowing of the other or a terrible lack of manners. – #CJosiffe#
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Goodnight from The Devil’s Roll pub, where all the evening’s mutterings are centred on Joe Wood’s sudden and unsettling disappearance from the village. Goodnight from Dorothy Winward, worried that there are more than satellites watching from tonight’s sky. Goodnight from Hookland
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Between tick & tock lies a dislocated hour. Home to things with names too terrible to say. In the lost hours, in the gained hours, temporal spirits come through. Between tick and tock, some swear they can hear a soul trapped in time, scratching at glass. #ClocksGoBack#
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Goodnight from Candle Row, where an impromptu party at Weychester Wax Records has summoned a crowd the police cannot shift. Goodnight from St. Mary-of-the-Woods; crypt, where certain teenagers are not finding the spider-veiled tombs conducive to pashing. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Give me library ghosts. Give me a chorus of discarnate tutting, reproachful coughs. Give me spirits which observe the Dewey Decimal System, returning misplaced books to their appropriate places on the shelves. Give me well-read spectres who whisper with references. – #CJosiffe#
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