Hookland
@HooklandGuide
Phoenix Guide to Strange England: #Hookland#. Run by @cultauthor #Hauntology# Re-wilding #Folklore# #FolkHorror# #Psychogeography# Re-enchantment Is Resistance
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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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Goodnight from the Branwood Raceway, where Nathan Rush is fixing a bag-o’-bones charm to the mirror of his Vauxhall Chevette ahead of tonight’s demolition derby. Goodnight from Abigail Parish, worried she’s misjudged her offering to the Well of Shadows. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Re-enchantment is often a remembering, a discovery of a map already tattooed upon our bones.
Goodnight from The Reaper Rides The Bus gig at The Black Broom nightclub, where even the bouncers are finding the fans’ outfits more than a little disturbing. Goodnight from Dr. Flag, intoning mathematical formula as an eleventh-dimensional summoning. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Goodnight from the nurses in Coreham General, unable to resist discussing the odd man in A&E whose silver jumpsuit couldn’t be cut off even with the sharpest scalpels. Goodnight from Laura Mills, wondering if she can capture souls in her compact mirror. Goodnight from Hookland.
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We're to be forgiven for believing that it's condition of licensing for an English pub to have an imbedded ghost. For in England, imbibing ale and engaging with spectres are activities braided together. The pub is a community hub for both living and the dead. – Dr. M. Benn, 1982
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Goodnight from Maisy Bloom, the light from her Derek Fowler nightlight not quite bright enough after Nan’s bedtime stories of Marrow-suckers. Goodnight from Jay Rickman, stealing himself to swallow a spoon of cider vinegar to keep the Night Hag at bay. Goodnight from Hookland.
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I am a witch of stick and stone; herb-bag, hedge and bone
I am a witch of tide and wave; sand, storm and salt-grave
I am a witch of bog and moor; fear me knocking the door
– Trad. Hookland witch rhyme, still often heard in the county's playgrounds
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Goodnight from The Cape of Green pub, where there’s muttering about how early the snow will come and whether the Cloven Maiden’s prints will be seen in it. Goodnight from The Fisherman’s Hall at Wegweck Cove, where the dancing is becoming a summoning. Goodnight from Hookland.
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Those of us whose have lives revolving around the ongoing Long Neolithic will tell you that certain stones sing to us. If you push us further, we may also admit that certain stones growl. They guard their territories, prowl our imaginations. – Dr. K. Brophy #StandingStoneSunday#
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Goodnight from Vicki Betts, desperate to test the efficacy of her new love charm in The Ice House nightclub. Goodnight from Broxton’s Orchard, where a lantern party is in full swing and each ghost story told darkens with the amount of roast cider drunk. Goodnight from Hookland.
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