Hopeless, Maine
Author: Nimue Brown; Tom Brown
Date: 2024-10-15 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Maine
Description: As the only journalist on the island of Hopeless, Maine, Frampton Jones has seen terrible things. His quest for the truth exposes him to strangeness at every turn. Now someone is leaving him messages written with the remains of fish. The island’s spoon thief may be using his home as their hideout. His camera is probably possessed by something unspeakable. Trying to make sense of the things he encounters is an ongoing flirtation with madness. A Semblance of Truth is set at about the same time as the first Hopeless, Maine graphic novel (Personal Demons) and fills in some of the background for th
Publisher: Outland Entertainment

HOPELESS, MAINE: A SEMBLANCE OF TRUTH

Copyright © 2024 Tom & Nimue Brown. All rights reserved.

Published by Outland Entertainment LLC

3119 Gillham Road

Kansas City, MO 64109

Publisher/Creative Director: Jeremy D. Mohler

Editor-in-Chief: Alana Joli Abbott

Chief Operating Officer: Anton Kromoff

ISBN: 978-1-954255-98-2

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-964735-00-9

Worldwide Rights

Created in the United States of America

A Semblance of Truth Edited By: Nimue Brown

Cover Illustration: Tom Brown

Cover Design: Jeremy D. Mohler

Interior Layout: Jeremy D. Mohler

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or fictitious recreations of actual historical persons. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the authors unless otherwise specified. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

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BEING THE OBSERVATIONS AND JOURNALS OF FRAMPTON JONES

This is not a diary. That would imply an inward focus and a degree of self obsession that I find distasteful. It is to be a record of impressions and insights. While my weekly newssheet, The Hopeless Vendetta permits me to share key moments of local life with my fellow citizens, I feel strongly a need to leave a more lasting and detailed record. There are things I do not know how to speak of publically, but there must be truth, somewhere. For weal or woe, this is my testament.

Why do the Jones’s chickens have three legs, more often than not? Other people’s chickens seem perfectly happy with two. Birds, I have observed, do not generally favour the three legged option and yet, on the Jones farm, there they are. I visited today to record events at their open farm day. Sadly the mutant goat has passed on, so I can no longer observe it. Is there some connection between the three eyes on the goat and the three legs upon the chickens? I cannot conceive of a way of making that connection unless perchance there is something in the air or the soil of that particular spot leading to extra features. However, to the best of my knowledge, that branch of the Jones family remains unafflicted by additional limbs or eyes. It troubles me that I can think of no way to better study or observe these curiosities.

I had considered studying the births and deaths of this island as a separate project, but paper is in short supply. I haven’t heard of a birth for weeks, and by my calculations at this rate we won’t have a population here at all in fifty years time unless a great many more people are shipwrecked. Then there is the matter of death. Millicent Cobbage, 84, dismembered. By whom? There is no apparent evidence, only the gruesome remains. Jobe Mathias, 26 ex-sanguinated. How? I have no idea. The doctor has examined him and there is a remarkable dearth of blood in his body. Regan Higsbottom, 42, missing for two weeks, declared dead. Too many questions and seldom any answers at all. I have published all, and perhaps someone will step forward with insight.

Last night, a bloodstorm swept the island. I saw the first of it fall as the light was fading, the violent red drops cascading from the sky, while the smell of iron hung in the air. I stayed out for as long as I could to make observations. My clothes were badly soiled and will bear the stains for some time to come, I fear. Fortunately I was not wearing my good suit. By dawn today, houses, windows and roads alike were stained with this most disquieting substance. It made for a strange spectacle with the pale orange of the sunlight. By the viscosity and the way in which the liquid soon crusted, I am confident this was indeed blood. I spoke with Doc Willoughby who confirmed my fears but he could not say if it was animal or human in origin. Where did all the blood come from? I think of ex-sanguinated Jobe Mathias and wonder if others shared his fate. But if so, then how was the blood transmitted? Why did it fall from the sky? Does this shocking event represent some unimaginable horror that has happened beyond the boundaries of our beloved island? How could so much blood have become airborne, with no trace of any body parts? Are there monsters in our skies? Perhaps time will present answers. I want to believe that it was no more than colourful dust swept up by a rain cloud, that the iron came from desert sands, a mere illusion of carnage, the horror a product of my own troubled mind. But surely such dust would have washed from my shirt? I cannot get the stains out, no matter how I try.

Regan Higsbottom manifested in my office yesterday. I was under the desk and did not hear her come in, which gave me a misleading impression. I have seen apparitions before, and although her tangled hair and staring eyes were suggestive of unquiet death, I quickly noted that she was in no way transparent and was able to recover my wits in a timely fashion. Regan pointed out to me that she is still very much alive. Apparently she walked out on her husband after a row, and has been living in one of the old fishing cottages on the West side of the island. The report of her death has caused her some considerable irritation, for which I apologised. One small mystery resolves into something entirely mundane. For this I give thanks.

Deaths. Audrey Pickett, aged 79, a rare case of natural causes. Bendigo Weaselgrease, aged 7, partially eaten by creature or creatures unknown. I was not able to observe the body so have no further insight at present, but intend to investigate. Births – Angel StJohn Goodfellow, born on Wednesday afternoon to Glory StJohn Goodfellow and StJohn StJohn Goodfellow. Arnold Sanctity Brown, born midnight Thursday to Hephziba Brown and Veritable Brown.

I made my usual perambulation around the island today, observing flora and fauna. Spring has clearly arrived, with a few tentative leaves showing on the trees. There is something new living in the aspen on the road to Fish Hill. I caught a glimpse of it, but not enough to make a proper record. It was small, and fluttered up into the branches, but the vertical flight was clearly not that of a bird. When it stops raining I must return with a net and see if I can catch it. The crows are nesting in most of their usual spots, although they appear to have abandoned their more distant roost on the Devil’s Fingers. Miss Kettle once told me they used to do that when it was going to be an unusually stormy summer. I shall keep notes on the weather conditions and see if there is any truth in this.

I visited the Weaslegrease family to see if I could learn anything about the death of their boy. He was found in a small patch of woodland, but there was no sign of what had actually marauded him. I sensed they were keeping things from me, but in face of their obvious grief, I did not want to pry. It could well be that they are covering up an accident or some dark family incident, but I found profound sorrow there, and no hint of guilt. At times like this, the journalist in me longs to dig deeper, and my scientific mind hungers after truth. But I am also a human being, and I know the ways of this island all too well. Sometimes truth is more than people can bear, and does more harm than good. Bendigo was an only child – in the sense that four siblings have preceded him to the grave. A selection of random misfortunes, illnesses and tragic accidents. I hear mutterings about curses amongst more superstitious locals. When one family falls prey to so many disasters it becomes tempting to seek an explanation, be it ever so esoteric and unlikely. My theory is that some creature not yet discovered was responsible for the boy’s death. A mad dog perhaps. Some hungry thing from the sea. Perhaps there is a predator amongst us. Perhaps whatever tore Millicent Cobbage apart also accounted for this unfortunate child. Her family were equally reluctant to speak to me, and equally hasty in their desire for burial. There is no particular connection between the two so far as I know. Beyond our sharing this small protrusion of land. Beyond death.

I saw the Raft brothers today. They left slightly over two weeks ago, by boat, full of youthful enthusiasm and determination to reach the mainland. I can’t say I was happy to be proved right, but I am glad they survived. I know others have not. Theirs, by my reckoning, is the 27th such attempt in the last decade, and no more effective than any other. Most returned, others we found wreckage for, but no one has conclusively managed to escape. Still, managing sixteen days in the unfriendly waters beyond our shores is no small achievement. I went along with the intention of commending them for their determination, but it was not a happy return. None of the boys are in good health. When I attempted to interview them, Titus repeated the words ‘It’s looking at me. It keeps looking at me.’ I couldn’t get any sense out of him, but his fear was obvious. I asked them what they found out there, and Oedipus claimed ‘It goes on forever,’ but would not add any details. Thus adding very little to our knowledge of the state of the world. I surmise that the enormity of the sea and the isolation they found out there in that tiny boat has damaged their young minds. No doubt they have also suffered hunger and dehydration, which will have only added to their torment. Time may well heal them, and perhaps they will serve as a warning to other overconfident youths that there really is no way out. Not in so small a boat, at any rate. We will need to be more ambitious. I felt for them. I understand those dreams all too well, but the answer does not lie in fishing vessels as these 27 exercises in futility should more than prove to anyone. But give it a month or two and no doubt we will see the 28th attempt.

Another looming paper crisis has me reluctant to place quill to sheet. The next batch of wood pulp won’t be useable for at least three weeks, assuming a few dry days to assist the process. I never get all of the news sheets back to recycle, of course some are damaged, but I suspect certain people of putting them to rather specific and personal use. If this continues I may go so far as to print names of the suspects in The Vendetta. The rest of us do perfectly well with leaves. The use of paper in privies is a crying shame, but what can I do?

Abigail Looming reportedly gave birth to a fish. I had the story through the usual gossip chain and everyone seems to have heard it from someone else. According to several sources (none of whom witnessed anything in person) the creature was returned to the waters on Tuesday last, and swam off. It has not been seen since. I called round to the Looming household, and managed a shouted interview through the closed door, with an irate father clearly displeased by the growing scandal. He did not deny the stories but made it clear he wished his family to be left in peace. I gather the mother is recovering well but I was not able to speak with her. The father of Abigail Looming’s unlikely offspring remains unknown, although questions are now being asked about his species. I cannot give credence to the theory that a human girl has successfully mated with a fish. The laws of science forbid it! But then, I am fairly certain the laws of science would forbid most of what occurs on the Jones farm. In this case I think the most likely explanation is that the girl gave birth to a deformed child, who was then dispatched into the sea, as is often the fate of such unfortunates.

Why do I not have any spoons again today? This is both preposterous and intolerable. It is not possible to eat porridge with a fork, and the dipping of fingers has become a distasteful necessity. I have searched the entire house. They cannot have vanished, they must be somewhere. Everything is somewhere. My spoons are somewhere, but they are not anywhere that renders them remotely useful to me. I would complain, but there is no one to complain to. I have not misplaced my own spoons, they have not walked off under their own steam. Have I been burgled? There is no sign of anything else absent. Perhaps a family member is enjoying a joke at my expense.

This morning I woke to find my house in utter darkness. By my watch, it was early in the day, and wondering at the lack of light, I lit a candle and drew back the curtains. Beyond the window is darkness, and in the darkness there are eyes. I cannot identify them. In a fit of trying to make sense of the horrible vision, I tried to count them, but there were too many, squeezed close together. On closer inspection it seemw that the entities crowding my window have one eye apiece. The spectacle is disturbing, but I checked other windows and found the same. With no idea what these creatures are or what their intent might be, I assume it might not be safe to venture out. I can only imagine what nightmares had been visited on the rest of the town.

I worked in brief stretches, bringing lights to the windows and doing all that I could to observe the creatures. I must leave a record of what has befallen us in case our culture is about to be destroyed and our lives taken from us. If you have found my writing, you will learn what has happened.

The creatures are unfamiliar to me. Their bodies are covered in dense hair, and they have a variable number of appendages. I saw no obvious signs of a mouth, nor any apparent means of locomotion. The appendages are not sturdy enough to bear weight, I am certain. This puzzles me, for surely they must eat and get about as other beings do. How did they get on the windows in the first place? What do they eat? And why do they stare through my windows? They watch me as I study them and it is profoundly disturbing. I am keeping the curtains closed, but as I write this I am conscious of their presence and the glass keeping them out seems all too thin. I have blocked up the fireplace to be on the safe side, and made do with a cold supper. There is no clue as to what they want.

I hoped they would be gone today, but the eyes remain, and I cannot see past them to gage what else is afoot in the world. They have done nothing, but they cannot reach me through the glass. I do not want to chance stepping out. The house is very cold, but if I am careful, food and water supplies will last for a few more days. The Hopeless Vendetta may well go unwritten this week, assuming there is anyone left on Hopeless alive to read it.

Nothing changes. Sometimes I think they are humming to me. Tiny voices on the brink of my perceptions. I cannot make out what they are saying. Did not sleep well last night. Nothing feels real any more.

I might have remained cowering in my house for more than the three days I endured, had it not been for the timely arrival of Jesper Peeps bringing old paper back for reuse. I was persuaded that however things may appear, it was safe to venture out. While my house had been covered in what I can only describe as an infestation, life in Hopeless appears otherwise untroubled. Darkly furred things cling to every available surface of my home. They have not attacked or harmed anyone else. I feel both immense relief and a twinge of disappointment. It is a rather embarrassing situation, everyone else seems to find it immensely funny however. I shall laugh with them – what else can I do?

There is much here that troubles me. Why did this nameless horde affix itself to my windows? Is there meaning behind it, or just the whim of fate? What are they, and what do they want with me? My neighbours suggest I must be doing something amusing and indecent in the house to have attracted their attention. It is good humoured mockery, but I do not enjoy it. I have tried throwing water upon them. The creatures, not the neighbours. I have waved burning brands in their direction, but they do not leave. That would be the creatures again. I cannot bring myself to attack or injure them (let us not speak of the neighbours at this juncture) and of course there remains the risk that they could be provoked into unpleasantness. I do not want to sleep in this house another night, but to leave would be to expose myself to public shame.

Annamarie Nightshade was most helpful when I visited her, and implied that she knew a great deal about the creatures. Thinking over her words I was able to extract little of any practical use however. She likes to give the impression of knowing far more than she does. However, the charm she sold me did indeed cause them to take off in a flock when I affixed it to the chimney breast. Light flooded in through my windows and I have never felt more grateful to see the simple colours of my home. They flew, much to my surprise, despite having no obvious wings. The horde remained close together as they ascended high into the sky. I stepped outside to see what they would do, but soon lost sight of them.

I would dearly like to know how the charms work. Miss Nightshade is as closed as Miss Kettle was before her. They never explain. The mystery of course enables them to hang onto their power and influence.

Every few years it seems we go through this same pointless debate. Voting. Councils. Mayors. Why, does anyone imagine that if we vote someone in, they will then be able to change things? Votes will not enable to us to leave the island. Votes will not improve the climate, or health provision. Votes will however enable a few self righteous people to feel more smug than ever. I’d never say it publically, but Doc Willoughby is entirely self important enough without any extra encouragement, and some of the esteemed members of our founding families drip arrogance. Watching them assume that the ‘commoners’ would vote them yet more power and influence sickens me to the core. Listening to Durosimi O’Stoat as he oils his way into people’s ears, trying to persuade them to give up their right to self determination, is hideous.

Our island was settled with a spirit of independence and self reliance. We get things done by co-operating with each other, not by putting people in charge. We are all equals, and we should keep it that way! Our founding fathers are probably turning in their graves at the thought of ‘democracy’. I am surprised their shades have not yet risen up to challenge this modern lack of sense and moral courage!

I will have to go to the Town Hall this Friday, for the paper. Perhaps some of the boys can be encouraged to bring fruit to the debate. I am tempted to print as much and damn the consequences. I do not want to be governed. I am tired of hearing that it will be for our own good and improve things. How, pray, will they improve anything? Will the last remnants of the Frog family somehow lift the orphans out of misery or cause the seas to part so that we can walk ashore? It’s another ploy to put more onto their tables and into their pockets. But at the same time I hear too many people saying things like ‘something ought to be done about it.’ ‘Someone ought to do something.’ They won’t do it themselves. They hand over power. And just because Frogs and O’Stoats suggest ‘something’ it doesn’t mean we have to do it. Probably the opposite, if we had any sense of self preservation as a community.

Since the birth of Abigail Looming’s fish child, I’ve not had any reports from new parents about their recent arrivals. Does this mean there have been no births, or that we are overwhelmed with other strange offspring that no one wishes to admit to? It’s so hard establishing when people are telling me the truth, when they’re hiding things or all out lying. Usually it’s a peculiar mix of all three.

Today I found a spoon in my typewriter. I assume my nephew has been sneaking in and playing jokes. He has no sense of humour. It took me half an hour to extract the thing. The typewriter is mercifully undamaged, and tea-making is a good deal easier now. I have no idea where my other spoons are. This may be another of Modesty’s little jokes. The boy has been hanging about my house a good deal recently. He’s reached that awkward, gangly stage and his parents are probably throwing him out on a regular basis, which is damned inconsiderate of them. I must attempt to throw him back their way more often. His attempts at helping are invariably more than a hindrance, and his mind is sadly lacking. I find it hard to believe that we sprang from the same roots.

Last night, a storm blew up somewhere out to sea. I could hear it, although we suffered no more than torrential rain on the island. The evening tides carried in more debris than usual, including several dead bodies (unidentified and now buried). It appears that a small ship of unknown origin hit the rocks on our north coast. Most of the ship appears to be intact, although I expect the next few tides will take it apart. I was unable to make out a name or any place of origin – it is too far out to see clearly. Various intrepid folk have been out to the wreck, bringing back all kinds of interesting goods. It is entirely viable in a boat, but I did not much fancy trying and stuck to foraging on shore. I found half a pair of glasses, a broken bottle, a jar of something I have yet to identify, and a great deal of broken wood, which I have collected for the fire. That will save me some work. I think the crows were right to come in off the Fingers this season. As news of the wreck got out, numbers of salvagers increased rapidly. As ever I have been on the lookout for fresh supplies of paper. Even sea damaged, it can be recycled and improves the quality of the wood pulp significantly.

Rumours of coffee and chocolate on the wreck led to scenes of brawling today. I’ve no idea if the rumours were true - I saw nothing to support them at any rate. Some people will take any excuse for a punch-up. The Chevin family, usually. No lasting damage was done to any of them, although they had a very good go. Mithra Stubbs at the Black Swann Bakery claims to have shipwreck coffee for sale, by the mug. Having sampled it myself, I can’t say that it tastes any different from the stuff she usually sells. Perhaps this means that Mithra’s ersatz coffee is especially convincing. I doubt it. The shipwreck coffee tasted very much like mud with a dash of something I couldn’t identify. She’s doing a roaring trade however. No doubt within the week the good folk at The Crow will be selling some kind of shipwreck special that largely consists of seaweed. There’s a certain comfort to be had in things that never change.

Combing the beach this morning, I found a wooden box with three teaspoons in it. I feel ridiculously wealthy, and have hidden two of them for safekeeping.

The attempt to form a council was delightfully unsuccessful. Long and tedious speeches were made, a whole selection of garden produce that had not survived the winter was enthusiastically redistributed. Fruit throwers outnumbered potential councillors to the tune of eight, which, in a democracy would of course mean the fruit throwers carried the day. I was proud to be there, and even more proud of our young folk and their willingness to take action.

I returned to the Fish Hill aspen this morning with a net. After some hours of sitting very still, I was able to see the resident creature clearly. It seems curious and not as shy as many. It spins as it rises, rather like a falling tree seed, only in reverse. It did not stray far from the aspen, its mode of flight allowing it to move up and down between branches, but not, I think, to travel any great distance on the horizontal plane. The creature removed itself to a sufficient height that I was unable to capture it in my net. It appears moderately intelligent.

The Founding Families dinner is usually an event I would prefer to miss, although duty to the paper requires that I attend. It tends to be a dull affair with attendees more preoccupied by who does, and does not have the right to be there and how to ‘maintain standards’ than anything interesting. Occasionally a source of insight for recent family feuds and murders, it sometimes has its uses but is not the highlight of my calendar. Last night’s annual affair was rather more interesting than anticipated. Durosimi O’Stoat failed to appear, and apparently none of his cronies had any idea why. I like to imagine that he had incapacitated himself in some embarrassingly humorous fashion. His absence improved the evening for me, and raised a good deal of speculation. Durosimi is another one who likes people to think he knows more than he does. There were rumours a decade ago that he’d taken to dabbling in black arts – never substantiated, but intriguing. I can’t imagine anyone more likely to make a Satanic pact than Durosimi. Perhaps he has magicked himself off the island through some demonic association. That would be no great loss to us, I feel.

Sometimes, I wonder who I am writing this for. I started it with the intent of recording impressions and information for my own use. I see and hear so much, but have no one to confide in and much of it is not suitable for print. There are times, like this, late at night and alone in this creaking house, listening to the draught somehow rattling my cutlery… I find myself wishing for companionship. Some soul who could share in what I do and recognise it. Someone for whom I could write these observations. There are plenty of people I get along with well enough, and my wider family are a decent lot and breed like rabbits. Since father died, it’s just been me here. I can’t imagine anyone else living under this roof with me. I believe I know every single individual on this island by name at least. I have made it my business to know them all and to follow their business. Most of them I cannot claim to know well. None of them could I share my innermost thoughts with. Just occasionally, that grieves me. A chap ought to have friends.

Doc Willoughby stopped by the house today. He’s worried about O’Stoat. This is interesting. He didn’t say much, but he wants me to look into it. So much for upstanding pillars of the community who are going to make the island a better place. When it comes to actually doing, they don’t like to dirty their hands. So far as I know, they don’t have any servants at the O’Stoat household any more. They’ve come down a lot in the world since his father’s day. So who is there to ask? His friends don’t know where he is, that doesn’t leave much. I shall enquire around town and see if any of the tradesmen have had recent dealings with him.

One of my old spoons turned up on the kitchen floor this morning. This is a more complex issue than I first imagined and when time permits I must investigate it properly.

I had a nose round the O’Stoat house this morning, and even peered through a few grimy windows. No sign of anyone. As I was chased off the property within minutes last time I tried that, I suspect they are not at home. I walked out to the lighthouse for a word with Balthazar Lemon on the off-chance he knew something. He refused to speak about them and reminded me that it is of no consequence to him what they do. I am inclined to think he does not know. Balthazar is working on a very interesting device that will, he tells me, make music out of thunderstorms. As it was a pleasant day, he was unable to demonstrate this, but it had a great many cogs on it.

When in doubt, bury your nose in the records, my father always said. It wasn’t bad advice. Of the forty seven members of the O’Stoat family whose lives are documented in parish and journalistic records, only three have died quietly in their beds. No fewer than eleven are known to have been murdered, the rest either died by violent accident, went missing, or left Hopeless back in the days when that was apparently easier to do. As a family they seem plagued by ill fortune and misadventure. The mysterious disappearance of Durosimi’s father Vincent has never been explained, and many questions about his activities in life remain unanswered. This latest disappearance may mark the end of the O’Stoat line however, as all other direct branches have long since died off.

So I know he may have acted consistently with his forebears, but I still don’t know where he is, how he got there or what he’s up to – assuming that he isn’t dead. Given the time and energy going into this investigation, I shall be peeved if it turns out to have a dull explanation.

The annual Church picnic was not as entertaining as last year’s, perhaps because of Reverend Davies’ widely circulated request that those attending to make sure the food was either properly dead at the outset, or suitably restrained. Several of us took the precaution of bringing a large stick along anyway. I never did find out what happened to last year’s escapee. Life is so much more interesting when it goes wrong. I suspect I should not take such delight in watching my fellows embarrass themselves publically, but it does entertain me. No one died at last year’s picnic after all. Not like the one before it. We must have had a good half hour of direct sunlight this year. Reverend Davies must have prayed all night to pull that one off.

Petulant Jones and Armitage Chevin married this afternoon, keeping up a long tradition of intermarriage between the two family lines. Why my family takes such an unhealthy interest in the Chevins, I will never know. The results are creatures like Modesty. It does not bode well for our futures. It was a charming ceremony however. The bride wore a floral dress, the fabric for which had very likely been made with furniture coverings in mind, and which was salvaged from the recent shipwreck. I have no idea how I am related to Petulant, but as we share a surname, there must be a common ancestor in there somewhere.

Deaths: One child, unidentifiable, probably drowned as it turned up on the beach. We’re assuming a child based on size – there wasn’t a great deal to go on. We haven’t had any missing children recently, but this could of course be a much older case or even the result of a tragedy on some other shore. The sea brings us all manner of things, many of which make no sense, and are never explainable. Justus Frog found the body.

This is the longest dry period I can remember. It must have not rained for a week now. That may be some kind of record, but as there’s not been much note keeping on the subject of weather I don’t know. I will henceforth undertake to note significant weather events in this journal in the hopes that this is of future use to someone. Possibly me. It’s actually been warm and I have not needed my scarf when out examining the flora and fauna. I’ve seen several small creatures sunbathing in the cemetery. There are three kinds of very small flower blooming that I have not previously recorded. I wonder if they are somehow triggered into blossom by uncharacteristic dry spells. How long must they wait between flowerings? Nature never ceases to amaze me.

Modesty Jones asked me for a job. I told him to go and investigate the missing O’Stoats – largely to get him out from under my feet. He was gone all morning and came back with the revelation that there’s “no one there up at the house at all.” He does not have the makings of a journalist. He sat for half an hour picking fluff from unmentionable parts of his anatomy. Sometimes I doubt that he has the makings of a civilised human being. My own investigations into the O’Stoats have drawn nothing but blanks. No one has seen them since before the weather turned warm. It seems increasingly likely that they have found a way to leave the island, or that they are dead. No boats are missing and it seems improbable they could have built something. That would be out of character. They are not practical people, they would have paid someone else to do it.

I had long thought it likely that one of them would plant a sharp implement in the other, and had never decided which way round seemed most feasible. Thinking about the unidentified child washed ashore, I wonder if that might have been Drustan O’Stoat and if the waves roll over the remnants of his parents. He always seemed such a doleful child, as though he recognised from an early age that he was doomed. With those two for parents, he would have had some justification of course. I can’t imagine what life must have been like growing up in that house.

As a result of the last few weeks being uncharacteristically dry, we’ve seen the usually moist soil hardening and cracking. Even our oldest residents cannot recall a summer like it. I have asked around, and no one claimed to have encountered the like aside from Balthazar Lemon, who said that in the land he came from, it was often like this. It may be so in strange and foreign places, but in Hopeless, this bright weather is startling indeed. Concerns are growing for the effect on the soil. Water levels in wells are dropping, although springs inland still flow abundantly. We will not survive long here without rain. Balthazar is developing a device that will turn seawater into drinking water. He showed me a complex experiment involving three different fish and a bucket. I am not sure I grasped the intricacies of his plan. If the drought continues, we will have need of his genius.

There was something in my kitchen last night. I heard it quite distinctly, banging about. When I went down to investigate, I found a fork inside one of my pans – evidently the source of the noise, but what was making it? I have spent years happily studying the flora and fauna outside my home, but it is disconcerting to find it active within these walls. Why can nature not respect man’s boundaries? And his cutlery draw. Or for that matter his socks. I am convinced there is something that predates socks.

The dry soil is now developing deep fissures, and creating a hazard for people and livestock alike. Yesterday, I viewed some of the worst holes. They are deep, broad and, to my considerable surprise, occupied. Large, shapeless things, wet with slime lurk in the depths of the larger fissures. I have not seen their like before. I estimate that the largest creature I observed was some four feet from end to end and broader than my own body. They had no discernable eyes or heads, but the resemblance to slugs is striking so it is possible that these parts were tucked into the body. Currently they are too far down to be reached, despite my best efforts. They are clearly alive, as evidenced by their occasionally moving. Will they emerge? The plant life has grown dramatically thanks to the sun, so perhaps these creatures have spawned to feed upon it. They might be part of the lifecycle of some other, more familiar creature. I am curious to see what will happen.

I was back at the holes today, and the creatures are definitely stirring. Several reared up and it is clear that they will be able to emerge from the ground if they become any more lively. I wonder what they eat? I imagine it will be vegetable matter. No one seems to know what they are, again my questioning of older citizens has drawn a blank. One of the frustrations of being the resident expert on matters natural, and biological is there is no one I can turn to when my own resources are exhausted. Balthazar Lemon is a great man when it comes to questions of physics, chemistry and invention, but aside from fish he does not care much for biological issues.

I can only wonder how long the giant slugs have lived beneath our feet, and what might happen should they emerge onto the surface. They are attracting a great deal of interest of course, and the children take great delight in poking them with sticks until the creatures’ eyes pop out on stalks. They seem quite harmless, but the holes themselves represent a significant danger and most of the roads are littered with them.

Today it rained. The slugs seemed especially lively. There is something rather friendly and childlike about their faces I think. I am becoming quite fond of them.

I’ve scrubbed until my skin is raw and I still don’t feel clean. My God! I don’t know how to put the last few days into words. All I can think about is the smell of it, and the screaming. The quiet now feels uneasy and I am exhausted. The rain lured the slugs from their holes. I wasn’t there when it began, but news spreads fast. I believe that Mathias Smut was the first child to be snatched and eaten. Dignity Possit was also taken before I heard anything. I was present when Lissa Gardens was snatched in the maw of one of the monsters, and swallowed whole. The look on her face in the seconds before she disappeared, will haunt me for as long as I live. Then they came for us, swarming from their cracks in great numbers, mouths gaping. The smell of them was vile. We armed ourselves with whatever came to hand – sticks and stones at first, then clubs, pointed sticks, pitchforks, and other farming gear. It was a long and bloody battle. We fought through the night, burning them and beating them back. It was terrifying and there always seemed to be more. I felt that we had no hope. Then the birds came with the dawn. Black as crows, but much larger. They fell from the skies in great number and ate the slugs. I crawled home to wash the blood and slime from my body. I feel sick to the core of my being, but I am alive, and I do not think we lost anyone else.

I slept for the best part of the day and was woken by something running across the bed. It is my sincere hope that I have mice in the house. I went out to gather news of the carnage. People were out washing the exteriors of their homes and getting the worst of the slug’s black blood out of the streets. I have heard no more reports of deaths, although there were a great many injuries. Some of those can be ascribed to over enthusiasm rather than slugs.

I was able to spend a few hours observing the flock of birds. They are each as big as a man, but otherwise very much like crows. Did providence send them to us in our hour of need, or is there some great cycle here that I know nothing of? Perhaps the weather pattern that triggered the slugs also brought the birds. They are still feeding in the fields, and most people are staying carefully indoors. For now at least we have a degree of peace and safety.

I was up four times last night. There is definitely something living in my kitchen and I do not think it is a mouse. Mice are not, as I understand it, in the habit of drawing little faces in the butter.

Jed Grimes at the store said that some gentleman had said his neighbour had seen Durosimi O’Stoat up at the house. I went and had a look, but it all seems very quiet and empty. I have considered breaking in and investigating properly, but that house makes me profoundly uncomfortable. If they are there then a break in would cause me all manner of problems.

While I ponder this problem, I am building a hide in my kitchen. I intend to see what is making all the noise.

There has been no sign of the slugs in the last day or so, although the birds are still wheeling over the woods, so they may still be hunting.

I had a very quiet, very boring night hiding in my own kitchen. I saw absolutely nothing unusual and my cutlery behaved itself with absolute propriety. I am however, a touch concerned about the Hopeless Vendetta. Both Doc Willoughby and Annamarie Nightshade have been placing adverts for their various healing techniques. What with the recent slug crisis, medicine is in great demand. I note however that the adverts are acquiring an ever more personal and derogatory tone. I feel morally obliged to give them both equal airings, but I do not much like the look of things. The good doctor has just offered “honest, god-fearing medicine that won’t bring you eternal damnation and see your family in the fiery pits of hell,” and knowing Annamarie she is going to take that very personally. Here I am, sat in the middle like a fat duck on a very small pond.

The good news is that we have run out of slugs. The bad news is that we have a large number of giant birds who no longer have any slugs to eat. They’ve started taking livestock. Our goats may be insane and inbred, our chickens may indeed have three legs and the less said about the looks of our cows the better, but they’re what we’ve got and we will struggle to replace them. We can’t afford to have them eaten. A number of enterprising chaps have been out with bows and arrows trying to tackle the birds. I fear it is just a matter of time before the birds start hunting people. This is worse than the slugs, they can dive on us from above and they have very large talons, I note. I will not be getting any closer to observe them, currently the crisis in my kitchen seems like a far better focus for my attention. Would it be uncharitable to send Modesty out to study them? I suspect they wouldn’t eat him. He looks like rope with knots in it. Why do these creatures never eat the people who really deserve it?

Every time I think it can’t get any worse, it does. So I am assuming this is not the height of direness and that the pinnacle awaits, full of horror beyond the scope of human imagining. Somewhere above us, hidden by the fog, strange and violent things are happening. The screams are enough to terrify the boldest man amongst us. The blood and feathers fall everywhere. Something in the clouds is killing the giant black birds that appeared last week. It doesn’t appear to be eating them, but pulling them apart and scattering their remains over the town. What happens when there are no more birds? Will this latest fiend then unleash itself upon us, or will we be faced with something even worse? I think we have to assume it’s going to be the latter. I’ve never known a summer like it.

The thing in my kitchen is doing it on purpose, I feel certain. I can’t sleep. I’m going to catch it, and then I’m going to shout at it, and then I’m going to put it in a bucket and bang the sides with forks for hours. Killing it would be far too kind.

To escape the insanity of my own kitchen and the appearing and disappearing cutlery, I resorted to passing an evening in The Crow. They have a whole new menu this week. Windfall Pie. Avian Stew. Deep fried Corvid with seaweed. Their best ersatz coffee claims to include new secret ingredients. I can only assume there were no culinary applications for the mortal remains of slugs. Which says a great deal. Mrs Ephemery has a kind of courage in the kitchen that astounds me. And frequently alarms me. The meal was entirely edible and I have yet to suffer any noticeable side effects. I find the trick is not to think about what I am eating. Not looking at it also helps.

I spent today rigging my kitchen with trip wires and attaching them to the camera. I believe the camera is sufficiently secured not to be dragged over by a wire being pulled. A photograph of the room should be triggered by pressure upon the wires. Of course if the creature in question is especially small, fast moving or inconveniently invisible then this may all be in vain. It may step over my trap. But, I feel it is worth trying.

There have been feathers falling from the sky all day. Several bird bones clattered down my chimney. It is most perturbing. At least the night brings quiet outside. Whatever hunts above us does so by daylight. In here of course the noises commence at nightfall and my nerves are not at their best. The sky has been shrieking all day, the sounds of death ever present.

I am now the owner of a photographic picture featuring a great deal of jumbled up string and what looks like one fork and three of my missing spoons. When I arrived in the kitchen this morning, the spoons themselves were not in evidence. I wonder if cutlery can be subject to possession?

No feathers fell today. No bones. No blood on the windows. Nothing is shrieking, I think. There are occasional odd sounds from the chimney and eaves, but I suspect it is merely the wind. After a dozen or so folks dropped by to return their papers and share observations, I felt it safe to venture out. I do not believe in taking unnecessary risk, but at the same time, my duty to news and truth, such as they are in this place, commands me to go. I spent an hour walking about the town. There are a great many feathers to be seen, and many of our young women were out collecting them. No doubt this winter will see a significant number of feathers in hats, if not a few less likely locations. Most are too coarse for other applications, but I have a few that may serve as quills. Children are playing with them. The human capacity for recovery is an amazing thing. We cowered and hid, through the mayhem. Now we forget the terrors, gather the leftovers and weave them into our lives, thinking little more of it.

Even so, I cannot be entirely at ease. Somehow the silence is worse. Is it really over, or is it a matter of time before new horrors come? My mind invents fresh nightmares with each unfamiliar sound, sees danger in every shadow. I am not alone in this. I see the fear in people’s faces. On the streets, people tell me of their anxiety. We are all watching for the next monstrous visitation and wondering what is in the clouds, and what it will do to us. There has been no other news. We wait, and we fear, and somehow ordinary life goes on. The Swann Bakery has a two for one offer on muffins this week. I stopped by to cheer myself up.

Doc Willoughby dropped by with his latest advert for The Hopeless Vendetta, accompanied by a lecture on how a proper council would get rid of the likes of Annamarie Nightshade and her ‘fraudulent quackery’. It probably would. No doubt it would also get rid of a great many other things and people it found inconvenient. People should not be given power over one another. I am increasingly uneasy about printing his words, but at the same time I feel this should be a free press, available to anyone who wishes to use it. If I set myself up as a censure, I am no different from the proposed council, deciding who does, and does not have a voice. Everyone should have a voice and the freedom to use it. I just can’t help wishing some of them had better voices, and better things to say for themselves.

I feel most unwell. The entirety of my skin hurts. It feels stretched as though it no longer fits properly. After my recent altercation with the Doc, I am not inclined to seek his help. Given the current circumstances, applying to Annamarie for assistance would also put me in an uncomfortable position. Although at present every position is uncomfortable. Perhaps whatever it is will clear up in its own time. I feel very morbid. I would write a will, only I have very little to leave aside from the house and the printing press, and no one I feel especially disposed to bequeath my possessions to. It is also possible that I am not perfectly sober.

I knew this advertisement war would be trouble. They all take everything so personally, and here I am, trapped in the middle, trying to act fairly. It’s impossible. Annamarie dropped in to tell me she had given me these hideous boils! The audacity of the woman. I don’t know if she did it or not, but either way she has no shame whatsoever. Is this a ploy to intimidate me, capitalising on a quirk of fate? Or did she indeed curse me with this malodorous affliction? Her condition for curing me is that I print no more of Doc Willoughby’s adverts. As a journalist, I feel compromised. But, my journalism has not benefited from not wanting to show my face, nor is it assisted by my being unable to sit down comfortably.

I had a little visit from Doc Willoughby, who assured me that my condition could easily be relieved with his medications, but that he was ‘reluctant to expose himself’ in light of my ‘trafficking with that unorthodox female with her pretentions to learning.’ In short, assistance from the doctor is wholly conditional upon my printing no further words from Annamarie Nightshade.

They are as bad as each other and I have no idea whether either of them can aid me. The probability is that both are bluffing. Between the boils and the demented state of my cutlery, sleep eludes me and I am not finding it easy to be decisive.

I have reached a compromise in that I will print no further articles from either party, at least on the subject of medicine. However, if I am still disfigured and suffering when the time comes to write next week’s news, I shall have some very specific and unflattering things to say about the pair of them. Someone else must be willing to pay for a few lines of advertisement without drawing me into a feud of any description, surely?

No fewer than three people have reported to me that they think The Crow’s Windfall Pie was in some way poisonous. Anyone who believes they are not taking their digestive wellbeing into their hands by visiting that fine catering establishment, is foolish. I have long been of the opinion that if you do not know what a thing is, you might not want to eat it. Or at least if you do, you should keep a bucket to hand for a day or so afterwards. I am fortunate, having inherited my father’s constitution. He ate at The Crow twice a week until the day he died. I do not believe these two facts are connected.

There is a subtle shift in the quality of the rain at this time of year as the wind changes its predominant direction. I am not sure if there is a quantitative way of measuring the innate wetness of rain, but this early autumnal weather is most certainly damper. I have been measuring rainfall for a while now, and our remarkable drought aside, it does not fluctuate greatly. Empirical observations tell me that approximately the same amount of water has landed in the last week as it did in the one before. But at this time of year it feels wetter. Science has yet to catch up with the wisdom of experience, but I will find a way. My forays out have been briefer in duration. I notice that the rain has largely collapsed the holes and cracks that opened during the great drought. It leaves me wondering how those giant slugs came to be there. Perhaps their eggs are water-borne. These fat, insidious raindrops could be carrying a great many things and no one would ever notice. Perhaps even now, the seeds of future slug epidemics are settling into the soil to await the coming of suitable conditions.

Mushroom season is upon us. I had a delightful morning of foraging ruined by the sheer number of idiots who cannot remember what to pick and what not to eat. I must have shouted ‘leave that alone if you wish to live!’ a dozen times in the space of an hour. Yes, some of those fungi look very plump and inviting, but the ones with the green undersides invariably bring someone down. Not usually fatal, but there’s bound to be a first. The beautiful red capped whore’s toenails are coming up in abundance this year and I had to give several young mothers a stiff lecture about the dangers those pose. I am certain they were the cause of last year’s demon scare, give the timing and the absence of tangible proof. And the year before there was that incident when young Jaime Boff set fire to the town’s library because he was convinced it was going to eat him. Look at the whore’s toenails by all means, but don’t eat them. It isn’t that hard to remember. No doubt there will be some deluded ‘news’ for me over the next week or so as folks who cannot remember what not to eat come to tell me about all the things they think they have seen.

Windfall Pie is now off the menu, replaced by ‘Roots in Pastry’ which sounds a good deal safer. If I were a gambling man, I would be inclined to bet that it isn’t.

A remarkable seven people claim to have seen the Devil abroad in Hopeless this year. The entire Looming family claim to have seen Durosimi O’Stoat rise up out of the centre of their dinner table, his palms bleeding. Three of them then got into a very interesting argument about how exactly you could be certain they had seen Durosimi and not Jesus. I would hope it would be very easy to tell the two apart, but there was apparent uncertainty. Mabel Chevin claims to have been seduced by a man who then turned himself into a “great big hairy thing” and disappeared into the night. Given the Chevins, I am inclined to assume that she had a very close encounter with a goat. Mithra Stubbs came to tell me that she found a creature waving spoons about in her kitchen. Apparently it was all legs, eyes and spoons. Like everyone else who crossed my threshold today, she was adamant about not having touched any mushrooms at all. We go through this every year, and they must think I forget.

My own mushroom feast was a remarkable success. I had a very pleasant evening of my own company and tasty fungi, accompanied by a bottle of last year’s wine. I can report having observed no divine, satanic or O-Stoatic apparitions, nothing attempted to seduce me and my cutlery did not attract any visible creatures whatsoever. Such is the fate of a sober and moderate man.

This morning I woke happily free from boils, but went on to discover an embarrassment of spoons littered through my entire household. Many of them are wholly unfamiliar to me. I have put them in a box by the door and am hoping that I have some kind of delayed hallucinogenic mushroom effect and that I imagined them. Did I fall under the influence of wine and mushrooms and then set out to steal the spoons of my neighbours? That would be a humiliation too terrible to describe.

I am not sure in what sense the Pallid Rock Orphanage Fun Day can be reasonably described as ‘fun’. It is an uncomfortable mixture of pathos, eccentricity and forced jollity. The ‘fun and ‘games’ are an attempt at disguising the hiring fair, a process by which older orphans are re-housed with anyone who wants a servant, apprentice, pet or victim. My father spoke out repeatedly against the event, and in all fairness I think it was a worse business in his day. Still, it makes me very uncomfortable.

I did cast an eye over the available orphans on the off-chance one would make a suitable apprentice for me, but how do you assess the character and suitability of a young person? They all seemed nervous, uncomfortable and excessively starched. They also appear far too young, to my eye, to be forced into any kind of responsible work. The business of journalism calls for greater maturity, I believe. I gave up.

The entertainments were the usual bizarre medley. The Squid and Spoon race, a selection of pious songs performed by the orphanage choir, and guess the weight of the bucket. Somehow I now have to write a news item that will neither enthusiastically endorse the event, nor depress my readers to an unreasonable degree.

The spoons have gone from their box. I must have imagined the whole thing. No one will know. It is a great relief.

Now here is a truly bizarre thing. ‘Perhaps’ a single word formed out of the mortal remains of sea creatures, was this morning found outside our Town Hall. A couple of small boys alerted me to the development so I was on the scene early to observe for myself. What can I say? It was a word written in dead sea-life, and it made no sense whatsoever. No small amount of care and effort must have gone into dragging those fishy remains inland and arranging them – all in the middle of the night. As far as I know, mushroom season has passed, with all the high jinx and lunacy that invariably brings. What a bewildering and pointless thing to have done whilst sober!

What does it mean? It’s hardly a strong word. ‘No’ might have constituted a protest against the night of dancing held there recently and we could have looked to our religiously conservative citizens for an explanation. A word of anger or rebellion might have suggested the work of frustrated younger citizens. I can think of many powerful, meaningful words to have shared (although I would never employ the medium of rotting fish), but ‘perhaps’ is not one of them. The ambiguity is maddening! Why go to such effort in order to say so little?

I studied the fish from every angle and examined the elements used to make sure I had not missed some hidden message or additional layer of meaning. If it is there, I cannot decipher it. Who is this word meant for? I feel obliged to try and solve the mystery, but it might well not be mine to solve. But how can it be some secret correspondence? It’s hardly a love letter, and there are plenty of far more subtle ways of passing along a message. I am torn between thinking this is some kind of a joke, and suspecting I have missed something significant that would cast light on the whole business. By midday, wild birds had eaten most of the word.

Births: Montgomery Psalms Chevin born Tuesday last and doing well. Parents Eloise Chevin and Marmaduke Corinthians Chevin. And another virtue for the Jones clan – Punctuality Jones, (younger brother to Perseverance) arrived in the world on Thursday morning, exactly as expected. Hence the name.

Despite all that business with the drought, this year’s apple crop is looking decent. The crows have not had a good season. With all the additional predators visiting the island, their numbers are significantly down. They would have been much better off out on The Fingers at a guess. So much for that Miss Kettle observation.

I am not keeping up with recent deaths. It’s very difficult when no one is sure of the cause. Did he fall in it, or was he pushed? It looked like some terrible accident involving a crossbow and a cow falling off the top of a ledge. But maybe it wasn’t. Death itself is so regular a visitor as to not seem very mysterious at all, but the how of it is a source of perpetual confusion. I spent a whole morning trying to work out what Goliath Jones had been doing with the cow, the crossbow and the ledge. Then his sister let on that the cow had died someplace entirely different and they’d put them together for convenience and company. So I still don’t know how he died, although the cow is apparently off the suspect list.

Death just became a good deal more interesting. Digging for a new privy in his back garden this week, Jasper Fingle uncovered what may be the oldest grave on the island. There was no marker, and nothing to indicate a burial site. Bones and artefacts found in the grave haven’t yet given any clues. I’ve seen them, and cannot make anything of them, but they have yet to be cleaned. For all I know they could have originated in any of our ancestral countries or even have come from some mysterious indigenous people, long since extinct. It makes me wonder how long the island has been settled. Arlingham Jones (teacher and historian, not to be confused with Arlingham Jones the elder who makes rope) told me it’s the most exciting find the island has ever seen. The body is very old. It predates all records of settlement here, such as they are. Arlingham is the nearest thing we have to an historical expert. The remains are being kept in the town’s library for further study, and the items with then will go on display there. I suppose that’s as suitable a place for them as any. At least everyone can see them.

The good people of Hopeless have never been terribly consistent when it comes to keeping records. Consequently beyond the founding families myths, we don’t know a great deal about who we are. I suppose there must be a good deal more to know, although whether of it would prove interesting or enlightening is an entirely separate question.

I spent a very interesting day cleaning artefacts with Arlingham Jones and Jasper Fingle. We have a copper mirror and a small pot in very good condition. The craftsmanship is exquisite. The other items make less immediate sense – they may well be damaged, it’s hard to say, and their purpose remains obscure to us. Arlingham returned to the clay for several hours but did not find any additional material. Jasper intends to continue digging in his garden to see if there are other remains. He’s become very enthusiastic about the whole project, to the point of being willing to sacrifice his winter greens, should the quest for knowledge require it of him.

It was pleasant indeed to be in the company of men interested in intellectual pursuits. I let my imagination wander to the possibility of gathering, perhaps once a week to drink coffee and discuss the latest developments in science and technology. I fear in practice we would soon be overwhelmed by certain fellows too much in love with the sounds of their own voices and the advancement of their own importance, but we shall see. Doc Willoughby is to examine the remains – who else? And no doubt will want to stick his oar in further.

Malcolm Attila has gone missing. I did not know him well but he seemed a steadfast chap, unlikely to wander, drink himself into an accident or incite another to violence. I have been able to discover little about his last known movements.

Some bright spark left the word ‘Why’ outside my front door today. Given that the Vendetta had just come out carrying the ‘Perhaps’ story it has the look of a copycat to it. Once again, the word was formed out of sea life, although this time, there were several live crabs and a starfish amongst the marine corpses. At least I assume the word intended was ‘why’ as what may have been part of the central bar of the ‘h’ was still alive and some distance down the road by the time I emerged from my home. Said crab escaped before I was able to catch it, which was rather a pity. I haven’t had crab in ages.

However, I must entertain the possibility that ‘why’ is connected to ‘perhaps’. If that is so, and this question is directed to me, then what does it mean? I spend my waking hours asking why, amongst other things. What have I missed? What does the fish-writer wish me to explore and why doesn’t he just point me in the right direction and tell me to get on with it? Why indeed?

One of my more distant cousins, Vespers Jones has gone missing. There had been no arguments, and as she’s rather a steady, sensible woman this is entirely out of character. I suspect if there were more to it, my family would have divulged something, but they seem entirely mystified.

I popped round to help Jasper with the digging as we had a dry spell this afternoon. On the whole rainfall is up on last month, but we were able to investigate a new area of the garden. We found a great many nails and small stones, but nothing of any historical significance. I doubt we will have much more digging time before the weather turns against us.

Dimity Witherspoon is now missing as well. In all three instances of recent missing persons, there was no sign of a struggle, nor has a body been found. This is the highest count of missing adults we’ve had in one week, that I can remember and so far there are no leads. I have to wonder if there is a connection, but what? They were not friends particularly, the only similarities in their circumstances are the lack of obvious struggle or reason. Where have they gone? There are plenty of wilder places on the island where folks might disappear – as with the Regan Higsbottom business, but three in one week? It’s not like any of them are fishers. Disappearance being a lot less mysterious when it comes to the sea-going folk. What am I missing. Why?

Today we moved the bones and artefacts into their new home at the library. A glass case has been made for them, and they looked rather mournful, lying there. Progress into unravelling the secrets of the bones is slow. I am sure there is much they could tell us if only we knew how to listen to them. I simply do not know enough about the relics of our own dead to be able to make useful comparisons. Doc Willoughby has not volunteered anything insightful. Reverend Davies did drop by to express concern that human remains are to be displayed rather than given proper Christian burial. We have no evidence that the bones belonged to a proper Christian, but the Reverend feels this is not at all the point and that they should be reburied with all proper dignity. I cannot agree with him. There is so much we might learn. Anyone can now view the bones. I find myself feeling oddly possessive, and protective of them, but I can hardly keep them for myself.

No definite updates on last week’s missing persons, although there have been a few suspected sightings. Now Regan Higsbottom has disappeared again. That may well not be connected of course, given her history.

The fish words were not a hoax. By all that is holy I wish it had been so. This morning, the word ‘Dead’ appeared, crafted from fish and seaweed, and placed just outside my house. It was clearly meant for me, and at first I thought it was a death threat. Then I realised that from the word came a trail of debris – shells, more fish, driftwood, and stones. Even though I knew it might be a trap and that I could be in danger, I followed it. The word and its trail attracted a lot of attention, and I was glad not to be alone. The remnants led me all the way across town to the O’Stoat house. Dread filled me but I did not turn back. A crowd had gathered there before I arrived but no one was doing anything. I talked to a number of other persons. As no one else seemed inclined to venture in, I did so myself. The place was thick with dust and spider webs. Once inside, the trail ended. I crept from room to room, the air so thick that it felt more like swimming. The house was entirely empty, aside from human remains. I don’t know how long I stood looking at them, trying to make sense of the broken limbs and desiccated flesh. Not a recent death, I think.

I have seen the dead often enough. Sometimes they fill me with sadness, for the suffering undergone, or for the living who must mourn. I’ve never been sickened by the reality of death or the presence of a corpse before. This one chilled me, and made my guts roil. From the tools left around it and the macabre layout of ribs, it was a murder, cold and hideous. The very worst that human nature can achieve. There was a sense of evil pervading that house. One of the O’Stoats is dead, and the other two have fled. One of them at least must be responsible for this murder of a family member. Every so often some citizen will bang another over the head with a spade, the violence of sudden anger is not a thing I relish, but it makes sense to me. What I witnessed in the O’Stoat house was of another order entirely.

There are still too many questions. Who planted the trail of fish? One of the missing O’Stoats? Or is someone else involved in this dreadful plot? Part of me would like to forget this whole, vile business, but I feel so strongly that the truth should be known, even if it cannot be acted upon. Someone should know; we owe it to the dead to try and understand, surely? There is nothing else we can do for anyone once they are gone.

Endora Frog-Jones has also been reported missing. How we can have lost so many people on an island this small, I do not know. Seven missing people including the O’Stoats, and one hideous murder that we know of. Will there be more bodies to discover? I think back to the summer, and the strange monstrosities visited on us. Those were hard and frightening days, but the danger came from outside. It was other, separate from us. When one human preys upon another, nothing remains safe or certain. Who can we trust? The emptiness of the house weighs heavily on me. It has become so still and silent of late. I miss the little night noises now that they have ceased.

Missing: Desmond Hector. He’s a woodsman, in the habit of going off for days at a time so no one is sure how long he’s been missing. He may have had an accident. We searched the woodland around his home and followed the obvious paths but there was no sign of the man. The leaves are almost all down now, so it’s much easier to see through the trees. We shouted, but heard nothing. No one is speculating. Perhaps that’s the worst thing. All through the summer we were collectively pondering what those strange events meant and where the creatures came from. No one is voicing theories. We do not want to imagine what this is all about.

It’s raining so heavily now that searching is difficult. There’s no hope of finding tracks or scents. Still there are no real clues as to where any of the missing people went, how they went, or for that matter, why. I have no idea who brought the fish, and appeals for insight in The Vendetta have come to nothing. Someone out there knows, but they aren’t talking. But the fish words suggest a desire to communicate. The fish words led us to the murder victim. Who writes messages in fish? Who would consider that sensible? Given the number of fisherfolk, narrowing it to anyone with access to a boat and nets does not narrow it very far at all. Why? Oh, that indeed is the question. Why? And how do I persuade the fish man to talk to me? I don’t know, and I feel a great responsibility for unravelling this mystery.

Regina Higsbottom was found drunk in the woods at the weekend, so that’s one mystery solved. I wish I thought the other missing people would be found as readily. Where are they? Guinever Frog died peacefully in her sleep, allegedly aged 102. There’s some doubt about that. All of the Frogs claim to be over ninety, and no one else is old enough to naysay them.

Mrs Erma Chevin has given birth to triplets!

Not only do we have a disturbing number of missing persons in Hopeless this autumn, we also have a most perplexing missing body. The recently exhumed remains, as displayed in the Memorial Library, have gone. Librarian Vortigern Frog claims to have seen nothing, and to have no idea how or exactly when the bones disappeared. Thieves left the grave goods, making this look more like a joke than not. It depresses me that anyone might find such pointless things amusing. In these dark times I suppose we find our comfort where we can and perhaps I should not be so judgemental, but it seems so pointless to me. Hopeless has so few treasures, and those bones were precious.

Reverend Davies tells me that vandalism has been a problem in the graveyard lately, with signs of digging and other disturbances. What is becoming of the young people of Hopeless? How have we let this come to pass? Each of us has a responsibility to install better morals into our young people, and to make sure they are kept busy and productive, rather than being left to run amok. But then, what else is there for them to do?

I did wonder if the graveyard activity might be down to the presence of gnii. However, on investigation, it is clearly the soil and not the stones being disturbed. Is this a new mystery or in some way connected to one of the others? I know Reverend Davies was concerned about reburial. Has someone taken the bones of our ancestor and placed them in the cemetery? That would be a very straightforward explanation. Several of the new disturbances could plausibly be graves, but there is no point excavating to check – if we do find bones we would never know if they are the right ones, and in a cemetery, the risk of bones is considerable.

The nights are drawing in now. I think about the families who are missing loved ones. An empty house when you are used to it is one thing. A house that once rang with voices and now lies silent must be quite another. If a man can miss the rattling of spoons in the early hours, how much more must he miss the presence of another human being? I look back at the nights of strange noises with a degree of nostalgia now. The silence weighs heavy and I feel as though I am indeed the only living thing in this place.

After all the recent trials, the idea of trying to have a festival of any kind seemed preposterous. However, people rallied around the Pumpkin Fair, bringing a glorious array of carved pumpkins and other garden produce to the Town Hall for the annual lantern parade and fair. I managed a modest effort with a turnip, but some of the pumpkins were artistic indeed. The determination to make the best of it and do something cheerful for the young ones lifted us a little from the collective gloom. Elgar Frog provided music, there was hot food, and a prize for the best lantern. Proceeds go to the Pallid Rock Orphanage, and the Hunger Hill Establishment for the Weak and Confused. Smiles and laughter are a powerful remedy against ailments of the soul. Pumpkin soup is also very good for alleviating a maudlin condition. Mrs Ephemery’s surprise eyeball stew less so however, but I was fortunate enough to miss that one. Apparently they weren’t real eyeballs. In which case I dread to think what was involved.

Could the bones of our ancestor be walking? A number of reliable witnesses report having seen a skeletal form wandering the shoreline at twilight. This may explain the disappearance of the remains, but I must ponder as to what strange enchantment has put life into the bones. Is there intelligence inside that hollow skull? And if so, what does it intend? Should we leave this be as yet another peculiar feature of our island life, or should the bones be stopped before they do something dire? Can we trust the undead remains of our ancestor? After all, no one has established who the body belonged to and we have no idea if the spirit that moves it is kindly disposed towards the rest of us.

Births – Solidarity Jones, born to Cadence and Integrity Jones last Tuesday. Deaths – The body of Vortigern Frog was discovered on the Library steps this morning. However, the ghost of Vortigern Frog remains very much a presence in the Memorial Library and will clearly be continuing as librarian. The fates of those returning books late may be too terrible to describe. There have always been ghosts here, but they seem more present and active of late, not content to moan and float, they remain engaged with the affairs of the living. It is a curious development. I wonder if the walking bones are some spirit manifestation?

I went down to the sea today. There were a great many crows on the beach. Reports placed the ancestor in several different locations, so I set out before dawn and walked for some hours without seeing anything human in form. The crows were feasting on small sea creatures that had been washed up by the tide. All legs and eyes. I’d never seen anything like them before.

Our mysterious fish messenger is back. The word ‘Dig’ was left in assorted fish and shells on the O’Stoat family vault some time before yesterday morning. I was alerted to the presence of the word by Master Owen Davies. It is a curious invitation. Was it made by the same person who left us the word ‘dead’ linked to the recent, unresolved murder at the O’Stoat mansion? What would be the use of digging up those long since deceased? Again I must consider the possibility of an unpleasant jest here. Remembering the corpse at the O’Stoat house, I also wonder if I can, in all honour, ignore this instruction.

At dusk tonight I saw the bones, walking through the shallow surf as the tide came in. It was an eerily beautiful sight. I cannot begin to explain what force held those remnants of life in form or graced them with movement, but the figure moved in the manner of the living, striding through the water, pausing to study certain features. If it saw me, it showed no awareness or interest. I felt no fear. There was no innate horror in this walking corpse. It no doubt helps that all trace of flesh has long since gone. It does seem to me that the bones themselves are walking, not a ghostly impression of them. While I can never escape from the question ‘why?’ the scene had an oddly natural quality to it. The ancestor seemed like one at peace and occupying their rightful place in the world. There was no sense of wrongness or inappropriateness. The bones walked, the sea splashed over them and the sun sank quietly into the west. I felt myself touched by something profound. Oh, that death should always be so serene.

Doc Willoughby’s study of the gory remains leads him to think that the victim of the mansion murder was Drustan O’Stoat, son of Melisandra and Durosimi O’Stoat. One can only imagine what terrible circumstances led these two parents to murder their offspring. Search parties on the island have yet to find any trace of the pair. I have still not been to the O’Stoat crypt. So far as I know, no one else has been tempted to open the grave. I am troubled and will speak with Reverend Davies on the matter.

There was a very peculiar scene at the church today when Balthazar Lemon appeared with a very large and dead cod that he demanded to be formally married to. The union did not take place, Reverend Davies having carefully explained that the sacrament of marriage involves one man and one woman, not one man and one expired fish. Mister Lemon’s longstanding and well known fish obsession has caused some speculation as to whether he is the one using them as a writing medium.

I walked Balthazar home as he seemed distracted. Having asked him outright if he had been leaving messages written in fish, he replied “she is my lovely one, why would I write with her?” Which I assume means no. He’s had episodes before of course, but has definitely taken a turn for the worse this time. I hope that sanity will eventually return. He spoke to me at great length about machines he would build with giant legs to stride through the ocean, and traps to catch whatever was unscrewing all the bolts on his helmet. The helmet, I gather, is a work in progress he assures me will harness tremendous powers for the benefit of the user, but he cannot finish it because the screws keep disappearing. I confessed to him about the business with the spoons, hoping to offer solace through solidarity.

“Oh, them blighters,” he said. “You want to leave a few open jars of jam or honey about the place.”

I couldn’t get him to tell me if that would see ‘them’ off, or lure them in.

Things seem to have settled down a little. No further disappearances, no more words made out of fish. Perhaps that is the end of this ghastly episode, and we can all put it behind us. Perhaps some mysteries are not meant to be unravelled. Still I find myself awake at night wondering who leaves the messages and why they are directed to me. Why be so circumspect?

Reverend Davies is entirely opposed to any opening of the O’Stoat crypt. He was forthright on the subject, and the word ‘sin’ came up a great deal. I shall not offend him by pursuing the matter. Of course this makes it easy for me to do nothing. In part I am relieved. However, there is no sign of disturbance at the tomb, and I cannot see any rational justification for excavating there. Given the circumstances, he means to bury the boy quietly, what little of him remains. It is a grisly business.

Apple Sunday is a tradition whose origins are lost, but is a very fine piece of our local heritage. I assume it is a practice that came with our European ancestors. This Sunday’s Apple Procession began at the church at 10am after the usual Apple Blessing service. I don’t habitually attend services, but this one is always such a delight as Reverend Davies reflects upon the apple in Eden and the knowledge of good and evil in our own lives. Would I have taken a bite of that first apple? I know I would. If knowledge is a sin, then sin is entirely in my nature.

Following the charming green dancers in their foliage attire, and the drummers, the procession then made its way around the island’s farms. This year’s drummers managed some sense of rhythm between them. I shudder, recalling the horrors of trying to march to last year’s attempts. On the whole it went well. We followed the traditional route, but, after numerous requests, the wild apple tree at the end of Silver Street was our first port of call – a new addition to the day and our only apple tree in the town. I declined the invitation to carry my own bucket of blood. After all the blood of last summer, the procession had a different atmosphere this year. It seemed more significant, pouring blood at the roots of the trees while the Reverend offered up prayers.

The Crow supplied a range of apple themed dishes in the evening to round of the festivities. Nothing to fear where the apples are concerned, but the mystery of what accompanied them is one I chose not to ponder. And so we return to the theme of the knowledge of good and evil.

Balthazar Lemon came to see me today. He was much calmer, which is a tremendous relief. The subject of fish did not come up at all. He has instead been meditating upon a new idea. Attempts to leave the island by boat have long been in vain, but he proposes a method by which we might build a bridge to the mainland. I see great potential here and am much excited by this plan. I have promised him my full support.

There have been several sightings of our ancestor this week. It appears that this bony resident is set to become a feature of life on Hopeless. Despite my early misgivings, it appears to cause no harm, but wanders the land at dawn and dusk, engaged in its own, quiet pursuits. I have seen it myself on several occasions now. It walks, and pauses as though in contemplation. Sometimes it taps its long stick upon the ground, and then it continues. I can only wonder what motivates it and whether there are thoughts inside that skull. How can it think without the presence of a brain? How can it move with only bones? What little scientific knowledge I possess does not allow me to answer these questions, but I cannot ignore the evidence of my own eyes.

This morning I found a lone starfish on my doorstep. Is it a message? I very much doubt that it came here of its own volition. It is a reminder perhaps, that I did not dig. The death of Drustan O’Stoat and the issues of his missing parents are mysteries that remain unsolved. Aside from the occasional claim of an O’Stoat sighting, the story has largely fallen from the public consciousness. The mystery is unsolved and is old news, public attention has moved on to more pressing questions such as whether the seaweed is tougher this season, and where have all the spoons gone? But a story does not cease just because it goes unnoticed. I know there are questions to be answered. The fishwriter clearly knows something. The starfish, I fear, knows very little. If only it could tell me which hand deposited it; that might have helped. The soft parts of it were quite delicious however.

Last night’s meeting at the Town Hall was a remarkable gathering, and I’ve not seen the place so crowded in years. Balthazar Lemon’s bridge plan has everyone talking. The man responsible for our island’s lighthouse plans to build a floating walkway connecting us to the mainland.

Unlike many of us, Mister Lemon was not born on Hopeless, and has seen something of the world. He is certain this engineering marvel can be achieved, and that science will defeat the currents where seamanship cannot. The bridge project calls for flotation devices, and a modest quantity of wood, which might be salvaged from derelict houses to save on work. On paper, it looks tremendously complicated to me, but one cannot help but be impressed by the sheer scale of Balthazar Lemon’s vision.

I imagine the possibilities of being able to walk across the sea to the mainland! The wonderful benefits must exceed the scope of any daydreaming. The opportunities for our younger people will be tremendous! We will be able to import coffee rather than depending on the odd shipment washing ashore! There might be proper whiskey on a regular basis rather than the eye watering stuff Doc Willoughby ferments - from what I dare not speculate! Let us build our way out of isolation and into a bright future!

I have surveyed a number of likely looking buildings today. It will take some effort to extract the necessary wood. We shall definitely need more hands, but there seems to be a good deal of enthusiasm for the work. I think we shall also have need of a great many nails. Jed Grimes has some he has been enthusiastically advertising through The Vendetta, but is unlikely to donate. Old buildings contain a great many, but it is difficult to extract them without burning the timbers and of course if we burn them, we cannot also utilise said wood. It is a puzzle. There are a great many metal fences in the town – decorative but of no practical value. Perhaps people will be civic minded enough to donate the metal from these ornaments. I can suggest it, but shall be surprised if there are many offers.

There was a heavy frost in the night. I went out today to look for the black eyed meese. There are plenty of them in evidence, which bodes well for spring time festivities. I had worried that the dry spell might have set them back, but it appears not.

This morning I found a great deal of seaweed in my front garden. There were quite a few things living in the seaweed, none of them even slightly communicative. I made a light lunch from them. I do not however believe that this bounty from the sea is being offered for the purposes of nourishing my body. The intention is to make me think, which I have done at great length. I have contemplated the riddle of sea-life and I am none the wiser. I would leave messages for the fishwriter if I knew where to place them, or what might make sense to him. I am listening, but I cannot make sense of what is sent to me.

Spade up Sunday! The first frosts softened up the black eyed meese nicely. They were entirely placid and amenable to being lifted. I gathered them into the old cup I inherited from my great aunt, and buried them carefully in my garden with a thick layer of kitchen scraps to help them grow. Vegetable matter only of course. Meese who are given meat scraps frequently turn out aggressive. That’s a mistake I only needed to make once. They were far too lively that year and wouldn’t stay on the table, much less in the cup. I prefer my meese sedate and manageable.

I was out on the beach this morning, following the wanderings of the ancestor, when a thought occurred to me. The fishwriter is clearly a man of the sea. He must therefore have a boat and a place where he brings it ashore. While there are a great many beaches and small coves that the fisher folk use, it is however a finite number. All I have to do is leave messages on the beaches and eventually, perhaps, he will see them and respond. It will no doubt take time, but I need to know what has happened. Truth is such a difficult, elusive and challenging thing. I might not be able to arrange justice for young Drustan, but I can at least undertake to know, and I feel that serves a higher power. It is the best that I can offer. I will leave messages on beaches.

I realised all too quickly that it is a complicated project. The messages must be left above the tide line and I can only use that which comes to hand, it not being feasible to carry material long distances. My first attempt at creating a word took far longer than expected, and I am not sure how easily it can be read, but I have left a woody ‘hello’ and that is a start. My efforts may be noticed. Of course, there are certain risks. If I am seen leaving words then people may assume I was responsible for the original fish messages. I shall deal with that problem if is arises, although I have no idea how.

It also occurred to me that the raising of the ancestral bones happened only a short while before the commencement of fishwriting. It had not crossed my mind before, but these pages confirm it. (I feel entirely vindicated in writing them). The ancestor frequents the shore, and words written in dead fish do not seem so unreasonable if the author is a skeleton himself. The only flaw in this line of thought is that the O’Stoats disappeared before the ancestor was unearthed, so how could he know? There may be supernatural insight at play here, but one could use that as a justification for any theory whatsoever, so I remain cautious.

This week the Chevin family buried Gospels Chevin (deceased, aged 97) saw Hermitage Chevin married to his cousin Glory Chevin, and had a Christening for David Chevin, the rather eccentrically named son of Hallelujah and Obediance Chevin. They have been busy! Everyone else seems to have been very quiet indeed.

Earlier tonight, panicked members of the Chevin family called Reverend Davies out to one of their cottages. I happened to be visiting the orphanage when the summons came, and went with him as it had the potential to be a news story. He grudgingly tolerated my presence, making it clear that if he was called upon to do God’s work, I was to keep out from under his feet and not ask questions until afterwards. I accepted his terms.

By the time we reached the vicinity of the cottage I could tell that something was sorely amiss. Horrendous screams, terrifying cries and eye-watering smells emerging from that place. Even though certain of the Chevins have reputations for not maintaining decent standards, it was clear something far worse than normal was afoot. Chickens were running wildly in all directions, adding to the mayhem. I was enlisted in the business of rounding up several escaped goats, while our brave Reverend entered the property, Bible in one hand, bottle of holy water in the other. I was not able to go with him, to my frustration – partly due to the goats, partly thanks to my promise that I would not get under his feet. Following him in might have caused distraction at a critical moment.

However, I did my best to observe the unfolding events from the garden. In the poor light, I could see little. I had the very clear sense that something vile and unnatural was inside that cottage. My skin crawled with a sense of knowing wholly uncanny. Just as the chickens and goats had tried to flee, I too felt a pressing need to absent myself. Lights flashed behind the windows and the ground shook. I saw something vast and impossible leave the building, but have not words to express the horror of it. The dry rustle of its wings, the clatter of bone, or chitin, or many beaks – it seemed to have all of these attributes and more. For a moment it turned its single, glowing eye towards me, and I thought my heart would stop beating from fear. Reverend Davies emerged, and the monstrosity fled from him.

When I asked our Reverend to explain what I had seen, he shook his head. “There are some things it is best not to know, but we are not alone here. Where there is faith, there is hope.”

I walked back into town with him, feeling far more secure in his presence than I would have done alone. I have no explanations, but am filled with a profound respect both for the power and the courage of Reverend Davies. I felt the horror of that entity, and my hands are still shaking from the experience. Yet Reverend Davies took the whole in his stride, faced the monster calmly and sent it packing. I had not known there could be such power in faith. I cannot bring myself to believe without evidence, and yet the evidence of tonight is compelling. The only rational conclusion seems that I should trust to the powers of the good Reverend even if I cannot give blind faith to that which he represents.

Today Jasper Fingle appeared at my door, pale and obviously terrified. The bones of our ancestor have returned to his garden, and appear to be digging. I went to observe this for myself, and a crowd soon gathered at the scene. These disturbingly animate remains clearly have some intelligence guiding them. On the beaches it is less obvious; its movements are ponderous and inexplicable. However, in the garden, deliberate and considered action was apparent. I watched the uncanny figure scraping soil with bare bone. Some of our boys attempted to discourage the digging, but our ancestor proved as oblivious to clumps of dirt as to their heckling.

I wondered if it intended to return to the clay, but it was excavating a spot we had not touched. The frozen ground would have made digging impossible for any mortal, even armed with a spade, yet with bone alone it tore into the soil in a most alarming way. It seemed best to neither help nor hinder progress. Jasper Fingle being in need of support and fortification, I took him to The Crow and plied him with their ‘special’. He calmed considerably and soon recovered from the shock. Hearing about the bones walking is nothing like seeing it in person, or for that matter having them turn up in your garden.

We returned later in the day to find the hole much enlarged. A little before sunset, our first ancestor pulled a second skeletal form from the ground. This too seemed possessed of life and followed the first into the darkening night. It was an eerie sight. How many more of them are there? And what will become of us if they are liberated? Will we all return to walk as bones in the fullness of time?

Having come to the conclusion that ‘hello’ is a relatively long word to be crafting in debris and leaving on beaches, I have today left other communications. ‘Yes’ is an easy word to create. ‘Now’ also struck me as being relevant. Due to a small accident with a live crab and an unexpected tidal pool, I also left the word ‘ooh’ which was not the original plan at all, but letters rearranged themselves in that instance. Thus far I do not think I have been observed. Previous words on beaches remain untampered with for the greater part, and unanswered, but I remain hopeful. I knew when I set out upon this task that it would call for time and patience, and I will not let the lack of progress deter me.

Now the ice is here and all journeys are both slower and more miserable. There is not a great deal to observe, all sensible life forms having either hibernated or migrated. Only we humans, the crows and the occasional gnii are abroad in this weather. The spot chosen for the bridge is relatively sheltered, and we are able to work on components indoors some of the time, which helps to pass the long and gloomy hours. Spring seems so very far away. Digging is slow and laborious, not to mention cold, but Balthazar is keen, and has made an enormous bucket for us to use. Unfortunately, when full, the bucket is far too heavy for any of us to move, and the legs designed to walk it inland are not yet fully operational. The winding mechanism on them is temperamental to say the least.

I am becoming quite adept at writing on beaches. The influx of storm-carried debris makes it easier. I used pebbles and seaweed today to leave the message ‘talk to me’ across the top of a lonely bay. It would be a great pity if no one ever saw these pieces, given the time and effort I put into them.

Work to lay the foundations for Balthazar Lemon’s bridge to the mainland hit a setback. The small headland to the south of the harbour had been determined as the best spot, facing where our brightest thinkers (myself and Arlingham Jones) understand the mainland to be. However, this small headland turned out not to be rock, as first imagined. Excavations to put down support posts revealed wood. Work on the bridge has stopped because everyone else involved was far more interested in finding out what this buried wood is from, than in building the bridge. I have mixed feelings. I am of course curious, but at the same time, the desire to push this glorious project forward is strong in me. The future calls to me more than the past. Excavating the wood is a good deal easier than setting foundations on rock would have been. We may yet find a suitable base for the bridge here though so I try not to become despondent.

Many hours have been lost in digging up the sandbank. I am in the minority in not being enthralled by this unexpected turn. However, piling in to get the digging done seems the best way to move the bridge project forwards.

Today the digging detour revealed the remains of a ship. A large one, as far as can be ascertained, although the vast majority remains buried. Clearly it is a very old ship, and no one has the faintest idea what it is or where it came from. Already tales are flying around, filling the wreck with imagined treasures. Based on my observations, the ship is filled with mud, slime and old seaweed. There may be other discoveries to be made within. I hope so. To go to such efforts for a few rotting planks of an old wreck would be a sorry waste indeed. While some may dream of finding baubles, I hope we will uncover information, useful artefacts or some insight into our past and history. What use is gold beyond ornamentation?

No one knows what became of the ships used by our founding families when they first reached these shores. I assume there could be many old boats rotting where they were left in bays, or sunk into the sea off our coast. Perhaps this is one such craft.

The midnight mass for Christmas Eve was especially atmospheric this year, the wind around the church producing a sound uncannily like a child crying. The orphans seemed barely awake, but they stumbled through a few carols for us. Their new song, The Gnii and the Ivy was especially lovely.

Oh the gnii and the ivy,

When they are both full grown

From all the things that are in the wood

The gnii will steal the crown.

Apparently Sophie Davies found an old version that didn’t make a great deal of sense, and is responsible, I assume, for putting our rare and beautiful ivy plant in as a substitute for something foreign.

Twenty graves were dug before the frosts to see us through the winter – a conservative estimate I fear. We only have four left now. A hard season. If our missing people all turn up dead we will run out of space in the cemetery.

On my way back from leaving ‘hello’ on yet another beach, I saw Hallelujah Chevin out placing bottles by the bridge. There’s quite a collection growing there although it’s the first time I’ve seen someone leaving them. Up until this fishwriting business, I’d never given it any thought. People leave all kinds of curious things in all sorts of odd places, and it does seem to be done with a fair amount of care. I chased after Hallelujah, intending to ask what the bottles were about, but catching her up, could not work out how to enquire. It seemed such a personal action.

Walking round this afternoon, I’ve noticed many other small deposits of items. The older, larger ones are referred to as shrines, but no one ever defines them as being shrines to anything specific. They certainly aren’t Christian. I’d talk to Reverend Davies about it, only I feel uncomfortable admitting I do not know. What if everyone else understands, and I have somehow failed to notice? But no one ever speaks of it.

There were bones abroad on the beach this morning, pulling something out of the sand. I could not see what and did not think it would be wise to intrude. I have no idea if this is the first ancestor, or the one that ancestor dug from Jasper’s garden before Christmas. It might be another one entirely – there could be more emerging from who knows where? I had grown used to the idea of one lonely bone ancestor wandering the coast, but find the thought of increasing numbers perturbing. The dead will inevitably come to outnumber the living if they keep rising up from their graves.

After I had finished my word, I noticed someone observing me from the headland. I thought I had made a breakthrough, and hurried to see who had found me. However, on climbing up the rocks I met with Seth. Another red herring for my growing collection of sea-life. I announced myself so that he would know it was me. He asked me whether I had learned anything important. I made some off the cuff remark – I cannot recall what exactly. Then he said “the answer isn’t out there, you’re looking in the wrong place.” “For the bones?” I asked, thinking he’d encountered the ancestor. I think Seth has some sight, but not much. Enough to make the ancestor very confusing, I suspect. I tried to reassure him that it was probably harmless, but he seemed ill at ease and out of sorts. He must have said ‘I keep trying to tell you’ half a dozen times during the conversation but he never once told me anything. Seth’s always been a strange one. Mind you, the combination of being a fisherman and barely being able to see must make for an odd life, and he’s been on his own in that cove for years since his mother died. The only time I see him usually is when he comes in to sell his fish, or when I pass by to see how the crow population around his beach is doing. It’s their second favourite spot after the lighthouse, and I still have no idea why.

The evening was crisp with an unusually clear sky, which may be why we had one of the best 12th Night turnouts for many years. Torches and masks made a dramatic show as we paraded around the town centre, and the traditional dance was a great success. I know there are some who want to modernise the event with lively tunes, but the traditional, mournful dances and slow airs have a certain majesty that suits the dark time of the year.

There is a sales extravaganza at Millet’s Fabric Store this week. I was tempted in, although I have never been any great indulger in fashion. Still, two gloves for the price of one! I was intrigued by the buy two shrouds, get a third for free offer. I wonder if they get many takers for that. When things are quieter I must go back and enquire. Although a shroud would no doubt double very effectively as either a tablecloth or a bed sheet, if you were neither fussy nor squeamish. It’s not as if they are used shrouds, after all.

I am delighted to say that despite the very low temperatures, no one has died this week.

Archibald Bucket cornered me in The Crow with a very long story about the funny noises and smells his meese are making and trying to convince me this meant that the spring would be early. His parting shot, as he left the building was “Oh, and I spotted Durosimi in the graveyard the other night. Nearly forgot. He didn’t half give me a startle.” My meal arrived at this moment, making it unfeasible for me to chase after him. There may of course be nothing in it. Spotting Durosimi has become almost as popular as seeing the Devil, and now far outweighs the improbable creature sightings as well.

The words ‘talk to me’ were written in driftwood outside my back door when I went out to use the privy this morning. Mr fishwriter is back, it seems. I was so irate that I dismantled his words, gathered every bit of kindling I could spare and spent over an hour writing ‘would love to but do not know who you are’ in the same spot. By the time I emerged from the privy, a flurry of snow had obscured the lot.

What if the messages are coming from Durosimi himself? As we have been opponents on so many issues it had not occurred to me before that he might try to communicate with me directly. The graveyard sightings of him, the message on the O’Stoat grave – a confession? Or have we been too simplistic in blaming him for the death of his son? There could be so much more that I have not properly considered. I doubt my hour of enraged stick writing did any good at all and once again I am at a loss for a way to proceed.

There were definitely three bone ancestors in the woods this morning. I saw them together so am in no doubt about it. I have no idea where the third came from, but it seems likely that their numbers will rise. I am liaising with Arlingham about their movements, but aside from us, no one seems interested. I went to look at the partially excavated boat today – a sorry mess that is, and with little hope for working on it, or more critically the bridge, until this miserable weather improves. It is not my favourite time of year.

Modesty dropped in to see if I think the ancestors are responsible for taking people’s washing. There have been a few odd incidents lately, but no grounds for assuming a connection. I asked him what he imagined skeletons would need clothes for. Formal dining occasions, perhaps? His best guess was that it must be “something weird and unnatural, and all wrong.” He is sure there’s a story in it. I am absolutely certain there isn’t. He’s also adamant that one of the Chevins is keeping a mermaid in an old water butt. His evidence for this is that he “heard some funny noises out that way, and they’ve got a water but inside a shed which is well suspicious.” If I didn’t laugh, I would surely cry.

Serendipity Jones stopped me when I was buying fish this morning to mention that she had seen Durosimi and Melisandra O’Stoat walking on Hunger Hill at twilight recently. I’ve been back to the house to check, and the door remains off its hinges where we broke in, and nothing has changed since the body was removed. They are definitely not living in the house, so where are they? If they are alive and people are seeing them, it stands to reason that they must be somewhere the rest of the time. I do wonder if they are merely ghosts, but as most people are fully cognisant of the differences between the dead and the living, I am sure someone would have noticed this all important detail.

Felicitations Jones also reports seeing the missing pair walking at twilight on Hunger Hill. Jed Grimes tells me he woke in the night and saw Durosimi O’Stoat stood beneath his window, staring up at him. I am always cautious about stories that begin ‘I woke unexpectedly in the night’ because on several occasions now it has transpired that people did not in fact wake at all. I think we’ve all made that mistake once or twice, most of us have the sense to realise and not start claiming our bizarre dreams are some kind of reality. Others of us are not as careful with the facts. Only last week, I dreamed that I had written the fish messages myself, in some kind of sleepwalking state. It gave me considerable pause for thought, but I do not think it likely. I had no knowledge of the death at the O’Stoat house, so I could not have laid the trail to it. I also rather imagine that someone would have noticed. Given how poorly I see in the dark, I would never have been able to write the fish messages, much less organise the fish. The fishwriter undoubtedly has no such difficulty.

I have found something at Ezra’s pond. Hauntings seem to be on the increase, so this is a possibility but they do not seem quite like our usual ghosts to me. They hung in the same place, neither moving nor attempting to communicate until a strong wind seemed to blow them apart. I will go and check on them again in a few days and see if it is the same.

There is a gnii in my garden. At this time of the year, gnii do suffer from the cold and damp, although the action of frost breaking up stones benefits them in the longer term. While some have tried to claim that they are an ill omen, gnii are gentle creatures, their bobbing lights charming at night, and their presence an essential part of the Founders Day celebrations. I’ve been putting out candle stubs for them, and by the looks of it they have gnawed on the stonework on the garden side of the house. Currently there are a flotilla of gnii feeding by the harbour. They appear to be using driftwood and seaweed, burning brightly and for short periods then falling dramatically from the sky like tiny shooting stars. I wonder if this is how the island looked before the advent of people, and candles.

Another missing person. Greta Calder, employee of Pallid Rock Orphanage is reported as missing, apparently having disappeared during the night, along with one of the orphans – a young girl. According to Reverend Davies, there were signs of a violent struggle. I assume that must have been between Miss Calder and her assailant, not between the woman and the missing girl, although you never know. Reverend Davies was even more taciturn than usual on the subject of the girl. He talked at great length about his concern for Miss Calder, his confidence in her as an employee and her usual diligence and good sense. The girl he did not even refer to by name. I had the distinct impression he was hiding something.

My own knowledge of Greta Calder is consistent with the reverend’s assessment of her character – she is not a person to have run off of her own volition or to have in any way acted irresponsibly. When I have seen her at open days, or taking the orphans to school she has always seemed level headed and serene. The evidence of a struggle is troubling. I was not permitted to see for myself, but Reverend Davies described overturned furniture, torn scraps of clothing and spots of blood.

It appears that someone entered the orphanage – although the means of their entry is uncertain it is likely they were let in. They may have been known to whoever opened the door. Perhaps the unnamed orphan girl is in some way implicated? But why withhold her name if her connections would reveal Miss Calder’s whereabouts? Miss Calder was taken – but why her? She has no money or family of note, and is the least offensive creature imaginable. It cannot have been a grudge, or revenge for anything, surely? We do not know if this was a planned attack, or a spontaneous one, and there is no obvious motive for it. Did she suffer the same fate as our other kidnapped people? Where are they all?

Last week’s article brought in news of many more O’Stoat sightings. Some more credible than others. As three individuals claim to have seen Melisandra O’Stoat disapparate, it is possible that the two are deceased, and haunting us. I have yet to see them for myself. I feel I would far better understand the situation if I were able to. The weather has been much better today. If it holds like this, then it might be possible to start digging again soon. I live in hope. I should be able to return to my quest for the fishwriter as well. These recent storms have made all proper investigation difficult and have limited our scope for searching for Miss Calder. I do not hold up any great hopes for her or the child, as no clues to their whereabouts have been found.

There was a spoon under my bed this morning. I thought that business had ceased. It was not my spoon. While Modesty might be able to creep into the kitchen unnoticed, I am quite certain he cannot get into my room and under my bed at night without my hearing him. Some other agent has been at work here.

An astonishing sight greeted the folk working on our bridge this morning. Arriving at first light, we found work had already begun, but not on our construction. Clods of earth were flying through the air as excavation continued on the wrecked boat. Our own boys had given up when the weather turned for the worse. There were also concerns that the remains of the ship might collapse without the mud to support it. However, the workers this morning knew no such fears. We stood at a safe distance, watching in surprise as a dozen or more skeletal figures exhumed the boat. They had clothed themselves strangely, although for what purpose I cannot imagine. Do those mobile remains feel the cold as we do? I can hardly believe it is so. They have no need for modesty either, having nothing but bones to cover, their other human attributes long since lost to them.

They work with remarkable speed and in absolute silence. If that power and determination could only be harnessed, we should have our bridge in no time. If an opportunity presents itself, I may try to speak with them. I find them unsettling, but they have caused no harm, and the idea of turning that work power to the benefit of the community appeals to me. What possible good will it do them to dig up the rotting carcass of this ship? It’s full of holes.

We had an emergency bridge meeting at The Crow tonight. The weather is much improved, but no one really wants to be out on the mud bank with the dead. It’s too unsettling. I suggested my plan for enlisting them to our effort. It was generally felt that the plan held merit, but no one was sufficiently inspired to want to approach the ancestors themselves. It was suggested that, as it had been my idea, I should do it. I shall have to wait for a suitable chance to petition them. Mrs Ephemery made several rather pointed comments about the usefulness of old bones in making soups and stews. That woman worries me, almost every time I encounter her.

Work on the bridge is yet again delayed. No one, myself included, feels able to continue while that unnatural crew labours silently nearby. I wonder if the ship was theirs in distant times? What little of it remains is far from sound. Will there be more dead ancestors within it to release? That might make sense of their determined labours. As ever, we must be vigilant. I think it is a natural impulse in the living to be disconcerted by the dead, especially when the dead do not undertake to remain lying down. They are from us, like us, and yet wholly different. We cannot know what motivates them, but if they remember living then they understand us all too well. It would seem to give them an unfair advantage. We can be killed, rendered non-existent or recruited into their ranks. To my knowledge, there is no way to draw the dead back into a state of living commensurate with our own.

Reverend Davies preached recently on how he feels that, as good Christian folk, we have the duty, once dead, to remain so and leave this life for the next one, according to God’s plan. He considers haunting a form of irreverence. I have no idea whether he has persuaded any of the dead to act upon this. Vortigern Frog seems determined to continue on as librarian and is resistant to the idea that he is no longer living.

I consider myself a rational man, but the world is not a rational place and sometimes these things are hard to reconcile. Yesterday morning I watched as the only large ship to successfully leave Hopeless in perhaps twenty years, set sail. Other boats have departed, admittedly, but all have been washed back, one way or another. And they were all small fishing boats. This is a huge, majestic craft. I have a strong feeling this one will not return. It defies science in all other ways, no doubt it will also defy the currents. I cannot explain how that ruined remnant of a boat floated. What reason can you apply to a craft sailed by the undead? Sometimes, you can do no more than look, and wonder.

They may be our ancestors, but clearly they are called to some other place. Having escaped the clay that held them, they depart – who knows where they will go now, or why. No one learned where they came from, and I regret the caution that kept me from trying to speak with them. All the secrets they possessed go with them into the mysterious oceans, and I do not think we will see them return. Such opportunities will not come often to any man’s life and I see that I have squandered this one.

There is inspiration to be taken from their departure however. Their sheer uncanniness undoubtedly played a role, but if they do not return, perhaps we can take them as a totem in our own quest for freedom. Hopefully we will not all have to wait until we are animated bones on a floating wreck. Even the dead do not wish to stay in this place. It is hard to imagine what the rest of the world is like. I have never seen it, and have only the stories I hear for guidance. Balthazar has long been my inspiration. Why should we remain trapped on this miserable rock when the rest of the world is so rich with learning, beauty and wonder? We waste our lives here in petty, insignificant ways while the real world remains beyond our grasp.

I have made myself miserable now. There is nothing for it but to see what The Crow has by way of cake.

And so the ancestors have left us, and we will no longer see their bony figures on the shore at twilight. I walked down to one of the many, nameless coves this morning to leave a word, aware that there would be no figure in the sea to watch as I worked. I will miss them, and wish them well, wherever they are bound. With the headland the property of the living once more, we will return to work on the bridge, and turn our faces to the future.

Today we took one of the floating units down to the sea to test its viability. It took some shifting, and it was a tense moment, putting it in water. However, not only did it float, but it continued to float once several boys had climbed onto it. It looks so small and unsteady, but when a whole line of them are roped together it will work. I can see it so clearly – this bridge reaching out to the rest of the world, connecting us to humanity and progress. There is so much to know, so much to learn. We get tantalising snippets from the shipwrecks and occasional marooned sailors, but I long for more.

Parables Chevins invited me round to record an image of his remarkable meese. They are, admittedly, rather large, although I think he was unwise to dig them up this early. They will peak too soon for the festivities. If this is the best we can do for news it’s going to be a very quiet week.

Back to work with the bridge base. We’ve found a small rock in about the right place, and will anchor the bridge there. Still very cold and muddy working outside, but morale is high. We’re set to focus on producing floatable units for the time being, confident that we can start assembling them once the sea is calmer.

It’s tricky finding the time for everything. Fishwriting, unit building, news gathering and my ongoing research projects. I may need to pay someone to give my house a clean. There is a great deal of dust. There are also, I note, rather a lot of small trails and dragging marks in the dust, along with some tiny little oval prints that make no sense to me whatsoever. I am once again inclined to think that other entities are living in my house. I need to study this in greater depth. I also need there to be significantly more hours in the day.

Several people pointed out to me that last week’s picture in the Hopeless Vendetta had something wrong with it. I was too distracted at the time, developed the image at the last minute and had no opportunity to ascertain the source of the funny marks. As they created a rather charming frame effect, I went to print leaving them in place. But, the pedants in the populous noticed and remarked. Was I being ‘arty’? Is there something wrong with my camera? Please would I not do that again in future as it complicates the image… Sometimes this line of work is frustrating in the extreme. Or rather, it is the inevitability of dealing with people, and their opinions.

On closer inspection, it appears there is something growing on my camera. I’ve taken a number of images and the same features reoccur no matter what the subject matter. Therefore I must conclude there is something in the camera. Cleaning the external glass made no difference. Viewed from the outside, my camera appears perfectly normal, however, pictures taken with it look a little odd. I assume there is a mould or similar inside the glass, too small to be seen with the naked eye, but influencing the photographic images. I hope this does not compromise the usefulness of the camera as I have no means of repairing or replacing it.

My notes on the state of the camera, posted in the Hopeless Vendetta resulted in a visit from Reverend Davies, who performed an exorcism on the item in case my recent contact with ungodly forces had somehow corrupted or infiltrated the device. Despite his considerable efforts, the camera has not changed and I can now see things moving inside it.

Later, Modesty paid me a visit to say there have been sightings of a sea monster in one of the bays. I had a wet and miserable afternoon squinting into the mist and failing to see anything that resembled a life form, monstrous or otherwise.

Peering into the camera now creates an impression of vastness, as though the image shows another place or time. It is most unsettling. If I watch for too long, I develop the most irrational feeling that something there becomes aware of me, and able to see me. I feel I should not look, but morbid fascination draws me back repeatedly.

I left the camera in its box this morning and went straight out to get on with the fishwriting. I’m having trouble thinking of new words, so rather than leave a verbal message, I balanced rocks and wood until I had something that looked very much like one of the Jones’s chickens. I’d been aiming for a man, but it wouldn’t stay upright without the extra leg. I saw Seth as I was finishing up. He asked what I was doing, and I explained that I was leaving messages. He then asked if it was like the bottles and shrines, and I had to admit I wasn’t sure. He said he’d tried it, and it never worked. The way he said it made me feel like I’ve missed something.

Late last night, there was a fire at a house of ill repute. I am not certain I will be able to publish the photographic image I captured in the street for reasons of decency. It was an educational experience to say the least, and a number of people have already offered very interesting bribes to have the image not make it into the next instalment of The Hopeless Vendetta. I am half tempted to do it just for the pleasure of making them uncomfortable. But there remains the issue of my younger readers.

Annamarie called by my house. Thinking about the boils business, I was reluctant to let her in, but she wanted a look at the camera. After a lot of muttering, she undertook to charm it for me – at no cost, upon the condition of my not mentioning the not having been charged. She said she considered the Vendetta useful and that it would be a waste not to continue with it, so she wanted to do her bit. I’ve never encountered anything so public spirited from the woman before. Life never ceases to amaze me. I asked her what she thought about the business with the ancestors. She said “From what I hear, the reverend about got it right for once. The dead ought to have the decency to stay that way and not go round bothering the living. Aren’t they supposed to have some better place to be?” My question as to where she thought the dead might go resulted in a stare and the words “I’m a witch, not a god-botherer. Haven’t you got the reverend for all that afterlife shit?”

I stopped to look at the bottles by the bridge today. Are they messages? Who are they for? Good glass bottles are precious things, but no one takes them. I considered them from many different angles, but nothing translated the clusters of bottles into meaning. Some are entirely empty, some have objects or liquids in them. Others have acquired lichen and grime over time. How long have people been leaving bottles here? What if my messages make no more sense than these? After all, I did not really understand all of the fish messages I received.

After much deliberation, I took a bottle down to the bridge and left it there, in the hopes that whatever receives bottle messages will hear me, and help me find the fishwriter.

I sat up all night with the camera trying to capture an image of the thing in my kitchen. I didn’t see it, but when I look through the camera, everything seems different, although I cannot quite say how. I did not get much sleep. Doc Willoughby dropped by early to see if he could help with the camera. It is encouraging to know people read The Vendetta carefully, but I wish they responded with such enthusiasm to bigger issues. The good doctor took the lens off and cleaned it with alcohol, on the grounds that should kill any mould or fungus. I suspect it would in fact kill anything, having ventured to smell various of Doc Willoughby’s medicinal alcohols on occasion. However, whatever is in my camera declined to die or be dissolved and we have made no progress.

As I was having lunch in The Crow, a fellow by the name of Arthur Gibbous, approached me. I was aware of him as a maker of glasses but he revealed to me that he is also an inventor. We spoke for some time on matters of science, especially the bridge. Apparently his field is small devices rather than grand engineering projects. The subject of my camera came up. Arthur Gibbous very kindly took the whole thing apart and put it back together again. It has made no apparent difference, but was very interesting to watch.

I think my camera is beyond hope. Currently, photographs, once developed, all look very peculiar indeed. Consequently I cannot tell if this is the picture I took of Parables Chevins’ remarkable meese or my attempts to capture an image of the sea creature that appeared off our shores on Tuesday. The one in the mist that apparently Modesty could see and I couldn’t. It might, equally, have been the outrageous street scene that followed the fire in the house of ill repute on Wednesday, or the frankly improbable wedding dress worn by Chastity Jones for her marriage to Exodus Chevins on Friday last. I didn’t know we had that many rodents on the island, and the patience required to skin and stitch them must have been tremendous.

Whilst fishwriting this morning, (well, technically driftwood, but I like fishwriting as a word) I ran into some of the fisher folk. They had glimpsed strange things in the water. It sounded nothing at all like Modesty’s sea monster, but it is a curious coincidence. Perhaps there is something out there. As I’m frequently on the beaches, I shall keep an eye out. I’m not convinced that the fishwriting will solve the O’Stoat mystery, but there’s something compelling about the activity. I feel I must keep leaving these signs and markers. I am communicating. I don’t know what I’m saying or to whom, but it feels like an action of great significance.

A glorious day. We set the bridge foundations in place and were able to secure the first three floating sections. Another three are ready to be added tomorrow. The waves buffet and move them slightly, but they shed water well and stay afloat. They should rise and fall with the tide as required. It is a beautiful design, poetic in its simplicity, heroic in execution. We are making history.

We have divided into two teams, one devoted wholly to building floating units, the other to attaching them. We may need to designate a third team for scavenging suitable wood and other materials, but at present we have enough. Balthazar Lemon tells me that the sea visible from the lighthouse is teeming with activity. He thinks it must be breeding season for something, although he was unclear as to what. Apparently many of them look like great big logs. I have entertained the possibility that they are in fact great big logs, carried here from afar by the currents. I am in the process of persuading a few more adventurous lads to take a boat out – if there are whole trees to be had, we would benefit from bringing them ashore.

On the beach this morning, I found a great deal of glass that had been polished by the sea. It took me a long time to collect it all up. I made a nest out of seaweed for the glass to sit in. Someone, please, understand why I am doing this. I’m certain there were things in the water. I wish I had brought my camera, because they looked so much like the things inside the camera. But I couldn’t check at the time. I spent a lot of time when I got home, looking, trying to remember. It moves in there. I forgot to go out and help with the bridge. Perhaps I am coming down with a later winter bug. I feel a little out of sorts.

I do not know how long I slept. I have lost a day and am disorientated. I may be running a temperature. I wish I thought I had been hallucinating. This morning, disaster struck, as a terrifying, tentacled beast from the deep tore into the bridge. We workers fled in panic as boards were smashed, and the furthest section reduced to little more than firewood. We lost a week’s work in half an hour. It was both heartbreaking and senseless. However, the bridge team are not defeated, although questions have been raised about the viability of the project. We must consider defending the bridge from hostile sea creatures. We can’t give up now.

Arthur Gibbous has fashioned a new camera for me. I tested it this morning in the midst of the carnage, capturing an image on each device. Why did I not think of this before? Two cameras means twice the scope for recording history as it unfolds! The new device appears to work, but it does not see what my old camera sees. With their own eyes, numerous witnesses clearly saw the tentacles destroying our work. No one observed the floating entities with their disturbingly human faces. Does the camera lie? Is it capturing a truth beyond our perceptions? If these entities were corporeally present, I have no idea what they were. They appear to have emerged from the sea and do resemble jellyfish a little. Has anyone seen them before? Have I discovered something? Are we surrounded by invisible entities my camera is somehow able to record? I must experiment with my kitchen.

Finneous Smaals is missing a boat. It’s a small one. Pointy at the front end, pointy at the back, left tied up well above the high tide mark. Not there now. And from that eloquent and detailed description I am supposed to help him find it. I expect one of our happy sea monsters ate it.

Normally I don’t care much for the beautiful baby competition, but this year my camera cast the whole event in an entirely different shape. All the usual array of mothers and bored dignitaries turned out to look at our island’s most recent offspring. Yes, to our eyes they looked so much like children. You could almost believe they were of human stock! The camera sees differently. Does it capture their true forms? I think it does. The more pictures I take of you all, the more clearly I see you for what you are. Phantasms and nightmares. I have not yet managed to photograph myself. Am I the same as you? Am I the one true person here? Sometimes it feels like that. Do you know what you really are, beneath the surface? Or do you think you are real? People of Hopeless, look upon the beautiful babies, and know the horror of your own nature!

I have seen the thing in my kitchen, with its doleful eyes and abundance of legs. I have seen it stealing my cutlery to walk about on. Finally, it revealed itself to me and I have a photograph so that everyone will know what I have discovered. It is true that a creature devotes itself entirely to the theft and relocation of cutlery. I must think of a name for it. Until something suitably robust and technical crosses my mind, I am calling it Gerald.

I was up all night talking to Gerald, although he is not a great conversationalist. I don’t feel tired at all. Perhaps it is the new coffee. I want to take photographic images of everything. I want to understand. My eyes have been reborn.

The mistake was thinking that we needed to leave the island. We don’t. Everything is here. It’s all inside the camera. All I have to do is keep looking.

I think it wants to communicate with me. It’s like the fishwriting and the bottles by the bridge. I feel the significance, the attempt at meaning but it lies just beyond my reach. I must understand. I know it is of vital importance that I decipher the messages from my camera. They will help me understand the world as I am now being taught to see it.

I went out today. People were being strange and hostile. Is it because they know I have discovered their secret? Are they afraid at the shattering of the facade, the revelation of monstrous truth? But there are so many of them and only one of me. I cannot fight them all. But I can bear witness to the truth. The camera cannot lie.

I have been locked into my own room and I cannot find my camera. They know, then, and have taken measures to stop me from exposing them. I have tried to escape, but I am dizzy and my limbs are weak. I will wait for the right moment.

I can hear the camera. I know that it is trying to find me.

There were voices in the darkness telling of fires and string sales and other insanity. I must resist them.

Something claiming to be Doc Willoughby came to see me, but it had no face, only a blank hole where the face should have been. It told me I was sick, and I wanted to say ‘you are a fine one to talk’ but could not get the words out. I am keeping this diary hidden. I know they will take it as well and it is my only connection now with truth and memory, I must keep it.

This morning there was a cake sat on a plate just inside my door. I am not certain it can be trusted. I do not know when I last ate. How hazardous can a cake be? Will it undo my moral certainty and deprive me of my reason? I have undertaken to risk the danger and have eaten the cake.

I have found my camera again. It came back to me. I knew it would.

I can hear the unmistakable tones of Modesty Jones outside my house, telling people that I am unwell and will not be seeing anyone. Of all the twisted hells to have fallen into, I have the one that makes my ignorant, oafish nephew into my jailor. I hear him telling people that he will be writing The Vendetta until I am well, and I could weep at the horror of it. This is beyond unbearable, the little monster is barely literate and entirely stupid. I have to get out. I have to stop him. Gerald keeps bringing me spoons, there must be some way I can use them to escape. If only he would bring me a knife then I might be able to do something.

Doc Willoughby came to see me this morning. He says I must give up the camera. I looked at him through it. I know what he is now and I can see why he wants to stop me. His soul is full of nails and broken glass. But they will only let me out of my room if I give up the camera. I was too weak to try and fight my way past him. What good is it that I know the truth if I am locked in here? What use is it my being out there now that I know the truth? I have not dared to point the camera at myself – there is a small mirror. I do not know what it would show me. Can we trust the mirror? They are not supposed to lie either, but how can I be sure? I want to go out. I’m sick of being cooped up in here, it’s driving me mad.

Why won’t the camera give me answers? Why does it show me these things? I look at my room through it and see I am not alone. There are so many of them. I cannot describe the horror of knowing they watch me all the time. I don’t want to look at them, but not to see is worse. Not to know what they are doing. How can I give up the camera? But I am trapped in a room full of monsters, and the human monsters holding me prisoner will not let me go unless I relinquish it. Without the camera, I cannot see the truth. How can I be safe when I cannot tell what is actually there, behind the pretence at normality?

I saw him under my window last night, moonlight on his face. Durosimi O’Stoat has finally come looking for me. Perhaps he was the one with the fish all along. I could not see any sea-life about his person. I waved, but he did not speak. I wonder if it is all a plot to confuse me.

There was a raping on my window. I think it was dark. I was afraid to go and see. A voice said “Come and talk to me Frampton. Let me help you.” It sounded female, but what does that mean? I stood by the curtains. “What are you?” I asked. “I’m Sophie Davies,” the voice replied. I pointed out that the reverend’s wife cannot fly and that I knew her to be another demon. She claimed to have climbed up the tree beside my house. I told her that I was not receiving guests at that time. She has a very soft voice. She told me I do not need to be afraid. I have never wanted to believe anything so much in all my life.

She came by daylight, to the door. I could not tell what was dream, what of it real. She asked to come into my room but I am in no state to be seen like this, and so we spoke through the door. I think she is real. I want to believe in her soft words. She too wants me to give up the camera. I wonder if they have put her up to it. I can’t imagine her climbing a tree. She always seems so prim and proper in public. But we all have other selves behind the masks. I don’t know why she is doing this. I’m so tired. I just want this to be over.

She brought me milk, and something sweet, and talked of finding peace. Her voice soothes me. I have given her the camera. She says that I will be safe now, but how does she know?

I am writing this from the garden. They do not mind my writing, and it is a nice day. There has been a little sun and not too much wind, so sitting here, muffled in a blanket has not been awful. Doc Willoughby came to look me over, and pronounced me ‘much improved’. I cannot forget what I saw of him in the camera. In the light of day and with the naked eye he was always, so clearly a pompous ass and frequently drunk. But I have seen the darkness in it, and no amount of sunlight will make me forget.

Sophie came to sit and talk with me for a while. I never had chance to see what the camera would have made of her. Perhaps that is as well. She seems like an angel given human form and I would rather think of her that way, untainted. We talked a little of the weather, and she brought me up to date with some small items of news. Also, Miss Calder was found, and buried. They are fairly confident it was her, although I gather the remains left some doubt. Sophie was clearly distressed, she must have known Miss Calder well through the orphanage. I could not offer much by way of comfort. My thoughts are all in disarray. Apparently the recently departed lady has been manifesting as a ghost. When I feel better I shall try and talk with her.

I feel calmer today and the things I have recently witnessed are not so present in my mind. Part of me wants nothing more than to forget, but I am not sure that is the right course. I have these writings, this record of all that has befallen me. In time perhaps I can revisit them and see if there is meaning to be found.

Modesty took me out for a little walk and had the good sense to say very little.

I have learned two things today and there is an uncomfortable symmetry between them. Last week Modesty wrote the Vendetta for me. (I have yet to see a copy) and let slip that The Crow has lost the entirety of its spoon collection. An awkward position for an eatery to find itself in. I have also discovered a very large collection of spoons under my bed. I wish I could believe this to be a coincidence. I am reasonably confident that I did not place the cutlery there myself and doubt I could have taken it. I am left with memories of a sad-eyed being called Gerald, a great many questions and an embarrassment of spoons. How to return them unnoticed? I don’t want people thinking I took them, matters are bad enough already without adding bizarre acts of theft to the litany of my recent misdeeds.

Another visit from Doc Willoughby today. It was not wholly comfortable. He asked me a good many questions, some of them seemed nonsensical, others I felt reluctant to speak honestly about. I feel that he is judging me. There is also much uncertainty in my mind as to what I have perceived truly and what, is unreal. I have the two faces of the doctor in my mind. One of them is very likely an illusion, but which? I do not think it would be wise to trust him. He also asked rather too many questions about the intimate workings of the press. I have the impression that the edition written in my absence involved him. This does not comfort me. He is not as neutral an observer as I am. He has an agenda, one I do not think is in the best interests of the island. I think I must teach Modesty the workings of the press. The boy is an idiot, but he is an honest idiot with no desire to be anything other than a journalist. As he is the only man available to take the work on after me, I am going to have to train him to think, write and make paper. I shall be busy, but perhaps that is as well.

Not a good day. I realised that I had been out of commission for a while, and went to check on the condition of my meese. The founding fathers day has long since passed, but they had remained in the soil. They’d grown straggly and pale, and had died for want of air or light. I should have lifted them some time ago. I laid them out in the garden, they looked so melancholy, a symptom of my confusion and failure. They should have lived. They are only small things, but my distraction killed them, and that distresses me. I felt very badly about it all.

This afternoon I ventured out on my own, and all was well until I caught sight of little Bertram, winner of the beautiful baby contest. For a few horrible minutes I could see him as he had been on that day, all teeth and long, malevolent claws. The vision shocked me, and I could not move. I do not know how long I stood there before Modesty came to take me home. What I saw with the camera was real, and I see it still, yet no one else does. It is a source of great discomfort to me.

I am not to go out unsupervised until they are sure that I can be trusted. It is humiliating. At least when I have Modesty with me, I can tell people that I am training him for The Vendetta and that feels a good deal more comfortable. Several cousins have been roped in as well. There is no scope for keeping my recent experiences private. People will not understand. I am certain some of them will make assumptions about me. They will imagine I am no longer competent to do my job. They will think I cannot be trusted to write the truth any more. I will have to prove myself all over again, and that is most frustrating. How long will that take? When I am out and about in search of stories, I think people are watching me, perhaps to see if I do something obviously mad or out of character. The scrutiny is unnerving and makes me self conscious about every word, every gesture and action. The self consciousness makes it harder to seem natural and unaffected. I would rather keep myself apart from people for now, but that precludes working.

I went to see Balthazar Lemon today, and left Modesty poking about in one of his latest devices. He said ‘I heard you went mad’. Balthazar can be relied upon to speak his mind. I confessed that I had experienced a period of confusion that had made it difficult for me to interact with other people. “Most people are a waste of time and air anyway,” he said. “I frequently find it’s more productive to talk to the crows.” I found a strange kind of comfort in these words. I have heard others accuse Balthazar of madness, because their closed minds cannot grasp the genius of his work. It is true that he has a peculiar degree of enthusiasm for fish, but if that eccentricity marks a man as insane, then most of the inhabitants here must be tarnished with the same, slightly deranged brush.

I did try talking to the crows. They did not say much. I was however, able to get a good many things off my chest and feel better for it.

I have finally seen a copy of last week’s Vendetta. I managed not to kill Modesty, for which I think I can be proud of myself. It took no small degree of self control not to put him through the paper making process. Last week’s Vendetta was shameful. At least it did not have my name upon it, and people will know I was not responsible. But I feel the abysmal quality of it keenly, as a blight upon my soul and upon the good name of The Vendetta itself.

Very much against my will, I was escorted on a walk by Doc Willoughby himself this morning, and subjected to yet another round of questions about the camera and my recent behaviour. I remained calm throughout. I took the opportunity to survey some of the beaches, to see whether my fishwriting was intact, and if any responses had been made. Someone has tied a ribbon to one of my structures, but I am unsure how to interpret this. I recall feeling so close to meaning and breakthrough, but it has slipped through my fingers.

We unexpectedly found a child however. It would appear that the missing orphan who disappeared at the same time as Miss Calder was unharmed, and is very much alive. It is a joyful thing to be the bearer of good news. The girl seemed dazed and could offer no explanation of where she had been all this time, who had taken her, or what had happened. Perhaps when she has had chance to recover from the trauma, she will be able to speak of her experiences. It is always odd finding myself part of the news, but on this occasion, I am delighted to have been of service. I have not yet had chance to speak with the ghost of Miss Calder regarding her demise. I find myself wondering yet again why some folk return from the dead and others do not, and what happens to those who do not walk amongst us.

It transpires that we accidently solved a second mystery yesterday, and Modesty was the one to spot it. Not the most riveting news article ever, but a good piece of deduction, and gives me some hope for him. The missing boat, property of Finneous Smaals (pointy at both ends – boat, not man) turned up with our missing girl. I can only assume that she took it in a misguided attempt at leaving the island. It would explain her absence and her disorientated state. He pointed out that he had also been right about the spate of laundry thefts being the work of the ancestors, which is true enough. He’s now back on the Chevin’s mermaid story. I may have to pay them a visit before he does anything embarrassing.

I allowed Modesty to attempt a few interviews today. It was not an unmitigated success. He managed to discover that Mrs Witherspoon at the orphanage sleeps soundly through just about every significant event that has ever occurred there by night. We also learned as a consequence of his investigation that Miss Calder is not visible to him – perhaps by choice on her part. There must, after all, be some advantages to death, and avoiding Modesty may be one of them. More disturbingly, the orphanage has suffered a spoon disappearance, and I have experienced a corresponding manifestation. As yet, no one else knows of this and I mean to keep it that way. I had just managed to get rid of the last of The Crow’s batch, having surreptitiously been dropping them under tables and into corners on my visits there. How I am to return this shining hoard to the orphanage undetected, I cannot think. Modesty has fixated upon the ‘great spoon mystery’ convinced that it is part of a greater conspiracy and the key to all other recent events. He has some imagination, that I will grant him, but precious little sense. However, for my own wellbeing, I must resolve this matter before anyone else does.

I have created a camera trap under the bed. If Gerald is real, this time I will expose him.

The Chevins have a distillery, not a mermaid. The curious smells are due to the distilling of fish parts for some kind of sauce they claim to have created. It sounds disgusting and smells worse, but apparently The Crow have already agreed to buy it from them.

Today I visited Sophie Davies. Her garden is beautiful. I do not know where the woman finds the time for the many things she does. We spoke a little of Miss Calder, who is now very much present as a ghost in the orphanage. Apparently Reverend Davies wishes to send her on into the next life, but she’s not willing to leave this one and between them, she and Sophie have talked him round for now.

I managed to speak with Miss Calder herself briefly. It is a peculiar feeling, talking to one who is barely visible and has no corporeal presence. I kept wondering what she was talking with. Is she some part of her former self, released from the flesh, or just an echo of a person now lost to us? It was not a coherent conversation, she could well have been replaying a dialogue from her life rather than responding to me, but she may be confused. Vortigern Frog is entirely coherent of speech and opinion, and just as objectionable in death as he was in life, so who can say? I did not learn anything about her death and she clearly had no desire to speak on the subject.

Got him! Gerald in all his unlikely glory, made a brief appearance in my camera trap. I slept through the whole business, which is a shame, but I have an image! He is much as I remember him from our conversations during the difficult period. I did not imagine him, his sad eyes, or his habits. From the picture it is evident that he is responsible for the two new spoons under my bed, the rest he obviously took with him, using them like stilts. I assume the additional height must confer some advantage, or else protects his tentacles from the ground. I now have the problem of two further spoons of unknown provenance. Is he gathering them as a hoard of spare ‘stilts’ perhaps, or to attract a mate? I have assumed Gerald to be male, but this may prove erroneous. Does he eat spoons, or utilise them for feeding? I have much to learn.

Having established that my little visitor is neither sinister nor malevolent, I feel rather excited that there is an uncharted creature frequenting my home. On the whole, I think it best to let him keep collecting the spoons so that I can see what he does with them.

For the first time in what feels like an age, I was able to walk by myself today. It felt like tremendous freedom. I have behaved well enough to pass for normal again and am permitted by those around me to take charge of my own life and business. While I am glad to have my autonomy once more, I resent having lost it and am still unsure of many things that happened to me during those few weeks. What I remember seems entirely real and at the time made perfect sense. So many of the things held to be normal are only so by force of habit. Where, after all, is the rationale in our annual watering of trees with blood? What do the poor meese have to do with founders day, and why exactly are we celebrating the misfortune of the first known people to survive being shipwrecked here? Each year we go through the traditional meal of wholly inedible food, decorated with gnii and meese. While it serves as a reminder that life could be a lot worse, the value of it resides largely in our shared belief that it is meaningful. The little coins we barter for goods and services are only of value because we agree that they are. The hours of the day only exist because we have decided it is so and no one has yet proffered an alternative. How much of what we hold as real has any meaning at all?

I saw two people leave bottles at the bridge today. I watched Balthazar Lemon out on his beach, arms flapping as he ran through the crows. He looked as though he was trying to fly. Does that make him mad? Or is it just my own perception that he intended flight? Is it proof of my insanity that I could imagine a man would even try such a thing? I saw Seth out on the headland, walking slowly – he doesn’t see far, he must rely a lot on memory. What insanity, to risk life and limb in a poorly sighted quest for a walk! I stopped to talk with him. He said he had heard I’d been unwell and was glad to see me about again. He told me that he had been unwell too, and had not been thinking clearly for a long time. My journalistic sensibilities engaged, I asked what he meant by this. “A friend of mine died, and I couldn’t work out how to tell anyone.” I asked why he couldn’t speak directly. “What I saw…” he said. “I can’t.” All the colour bleached from his face. He hurried away from me. Is anyone here sane?

This morning I went to look at the bridge. Little progress has been made in my absence and I gather Balthazar has turned his attentions elsewhere. He has indeed been contemplating the issues of a flying machine! The only man working on the bridge was Amos Trumps, who said Balthazar had ‘some lunatic notion about wings and that we’d all fly away.’ Perhaps he was working on that very notion when I saw him yesterday. Once again, his genius has been mistaken for insanity. It is so hard to know where to draw the lines. “You’re very much alike, you and he,” Amos told me, with a look that has left me uncertain as to whether I should be flattered or insulted.

I woke in the dark with a flash of absolute clarity. Seth is nearly blind. The darkness would not trouble him at all. He is a fisherman. He has considerable access to the denizens of the waters. Small writing would elude him but one large word made out of fish? It made perfect sense. I lay awake for hours, considering his words during our various conversations. I think it fits together. But if I am right, it creates as many questions as it answers. What has he seen? What does he know? I wasn’t aware of any connection between him and the O’Stoats. Why did he not speak out? Why didn’t he tell me? It’s light now. I’ve had little sleep and am not as clear as I might be. I think I should talk with Seth. I am concerned I may be having some kind of episode. I’m not sure I can trust myself, but who can I tell about this? Certainly not Modesty. He would see the sensation and not the significance. He does not yet understand what stories are, or how to handle the more sensitive ones. I must do this alone.

I went looking for Seth, but he’s taken his boat out, so I left ‘hello’ in pebbles near his front door. I think he will know it was me.

I thought it about time I checked up on Arlingham to see how his research into ancestral remains is going. He is most unwell, running a dreadful fever and should not have come to the door. He has small black marks all over him, like insect bites, or tiny bruises. I suggested seeking assistance but he was adamant that he has improved and did not need help. Although I am concerned about catching something myself, I will look in on him again soon. I wonder if we have a late epidemic of influenza?

I’ve seen numerous other people this morning with marks like Arlingham’s. Clearly it is some kind of epidemic. They all seemed confused, and although efforts were made to encourage the afflicted people to return home, not all of them would. There is a palpable feeling of anxiety in the town. Doc Willoughby was too busy to see me or give a comment. I have never known anything like this illness before and have no idea how lethal it might be. I think we can assume it spreads virulently.

Arthur Gibbous came to my door to sell me a face mask. It is an ingenious device he assures me will keep the disease from entering my body. He recommends wearing gloves and avoiding all direct contact with infected persons. Thus protected, I felt able to venture forth. It is clear that infections are increasing, with many confused people at large. The Hunger Hill Establishment for the Weak and Confused is already full to capacity, and there may be many more folks languishing alone in their homes, unable to raise the alarm or seek help. As yet I have not heard of any fatalities. I went to check on Arlingham, and he clearly has not improved. The spots are larger, developing a pale centre within the darkened area, and the skin around these marks is wrinkling in a peculiar, unwholesome manner. Thus far I am not showing signs of symptoms myself. I am greatly concerned, and painfully aware of my own powerlessness in face of the advancing disease.

Gerald left me three spoons this morning. He seems to have settled on the space under my bed for these purposes. Why spoons though? If he likes shiny things or metal, there are many alternatives available to him. I would have thought forks offered greater stability for walking upon, yet he seems fixated.

Today, Arlingham’s spots bear an uncanny resemblance to eyes. I feel uncomfortable just looking at him, although mercifully he does not seem fully aware of his state. No one else has eye-like markings yet, but Arlingham was amongst the first to fall ill, so he may well be more advanced. I remain unblemished, but am amongst the few. At the church now they are taking in sick folk, and Sophie is desperately overworked. Thus far she has not been struck down, but it may be only a matter of time before we are all infected.

They are eyes. Not just the semblance of eyes, but actual, lidded balls that gazed upon me. There is something growing from his hand. I fear it is not sickness that has taken over Arlingham, but transformation into a wholly different being. I cannot get the image from my mind, of his face with three extra eyes upon it, all staring in different directions. I am half afraid this is not real and that I am imagining it. What I have seen on my cousin is too reminiscent of the camera’s insights. Am I going mad again? Or was I sane all along, and is the truth now revealing itself? My head aches from thinking too much.

I have seen enough. Today I left at first light and took to the coast. I encountered no one for a long time. It was a great relief to be alone. I was able to imagine that all is well, that there are no eyes where eyes should not be. A nightmare, nothing more. Then I saw Annamarie, out on her broom. She flew low to look me over and pronounced me ‘clean’. I asked what she meant. “No extra eyes, no tentacles.” I asked if she knew about this affliction, and was told “Not much, but I haven’t got it and by the looks of things, neither do you.” She appears to have been checking around, and thinks most of our fellow islanders are infected. She had no idea if it was fatal or turning them into something else and seemed remarkably untroubled by this. I cannot help but imagine the worst.

Gerald continues to bring spoons. I take comfort from his presence; he seems a safe and familiar thing in a world gone mad. Breathing mask on, I ventured into town today. It was as though I had died. No one saw me or knew I was there. People were engaged in business I could not comprehend, shouting at entities I could not see, fighting with each other, and things beyond my comprehension. It felt like insanity, but mine, or theirs? Everywhere, eyes peered at me from exposed skin. Eyes that should not be there. What do they see? And more importantly, what is looking through them?

I took refuge with Arthur Gibbous – he remains unaffected thanks to his solitary lifestyle and use of the face mask. A kindred spirit, I feel, and a welcome companion. He too felt the uncertainty that has plagued me, but now there are two of us, and we share a perception, I feel less isolated. I can believe we are not mad. Arthur is dejected in the extreme and sees nothing but grim portent in this epidemic. I tried to cheer him.

For whatever reason, this sickness is not affecting me. I do not know how long it will continue so, but I am not alone. I could hide and seek to protect myself, but feel increasingly that I must make use of this time I have been given. My first plan is to ascertain the extent of the epidemic, find others who are still well and see if there are signs of recovery or news of fatalities. Without knowledge, we have nothing. I shall approach Arthur Gibbous and Annamarie Nightshade for their support. I believe there are more sick folks than can now be supported or treated, I don’t yet know what can be done. I must see whether the church and Hunger Hill are still able to function.

Arthur is unwilling to venture out and does not believe we have any hope of saving ourselves. Annamarie gave me a cup of tea and heard me out. She seemed interested and said she hadn’t seen many people who are still healthy. She mentioned Seth, I shall pay him a visit. She has absolutely no idea what is going on, but does not seem alarmed, I try to draw comfort from this. She is distributing tea, which she says does not stop the process, but slows it down somewhat. If I find anyone who has not entirely succumbed, I will send them to her. If anything, she seemed amused by my efforts.

I could not find anyone at the Hunger Hill Establishment who seemed uninfected, but my search was not exhaustive – there were too many confused, tentacle laden people, their extra eyes all watching me, their bodies engaged in inexplicable acts. I saw no sign of order so must assume that all those involved in the Establishment have fallen sick. At the church, Reverend and Mrs Davies are holding out. He shows signs of infection but appears to have his wits about him still. I did mention Annamarie’s tea to him, but he was evasive on the subject. They were both overworked and not inclined to speak with me, but I have made them aware that I am trying to help. Seeing the scale of the epidemic, I feel daunted, but no less determined.

By my reckoning it will take three or four days for me to cover all of the outlying farms. Annamarie Nightshade could move a good deal faster with her broom, but did not volunteer.

I found Seth at his cottage. He looks drawn and unhealthy, but not as though the epidemic has affected him. He has a supply of Annamarie’s tea. I had not realised there was a connection between them. We talked for a while. He said “You know why this is happening?” I said I didn’t. “Because we are tainted. We’re all tainted. Some of us more than others.” I asked him outright about the fish, and he claimed not to remember. “I’ve not been myself,” he said. I asked what happened. Once again, the silence, the troubled eyes. He looks like a man who does not want to remember. When I mentioned Drustan O’Stoat, I knew I’d touched something. “He was a good kid. Not a mean bone in his body. I don’t know what they did to him.” I asked who, and he named Durosimi and Melisandra. I asked if he had proof, to which he said “No, but I know.” That’s so often the way of it. We know, but we cannot produce the evidence others would need. He said they are in the cemetery now, which seemed wrong to me, and I pointed out that we have not buried their bodies. He was adamant, they are in the cemetery, and claimed many of our other missing people are there too. “I don’t know how to stop them,” he said. So we have agreed to go tomorrow to the cemetery together, in search of the missing. At least with this epidemic afoot, no one will notice. Seth is adamant we must go by daylight.

I’ve never broken into a crypt before. I do not intend to do so again. Those stone tops can be levered off – I’ve seen it done for the interring of bodies in family tombs. I’ve never been down those dark steps before. I had the impression a grave would be an empty place, full of dust and bones, but there are all manner of personal items down here, strangely arrayed. I am put in mind of the shrines the living make, but I think this was the work of the dead. The dead have never troubled me like this before, but I am unsettled. The bones of Drustan O’Stoat were easily found, and clearly upset Seth a great deal. I didn’t say anything. Best not to intrude upon a man’s private grief. We also found the bodies of Durosimi and Melisandra O’Stoat lying on top of an old stone bier. They were in perfect condition, such that at first I could not believe them dead. As there were n signs of movement or breath, I ventured to touch first his, then her brow. They were both icy cold and as hard as stone. No life stirred in them. I asked Seth how he knew they were here and he said he had seen them prise the stone off and enter. It makes no sense.

Deeper in, we found others. Malcolm Attila, Vespers Jones, Dimity Witherspoon. All apparently dead and, as far as I could tell by lamplight, showing no sign of struggle, injury or ill health. Deeply disturbed, I left the crypt at speed, and only stopped shivering after the stone had been replaced. I have more questions than I know how to begin seeking answers for, and Seth cannot tell me what any of this means. There is a great wrongness here, but I do not know its name.

I have been to see Annamarie again. As she is one of the few unaffected folks, and renowned for her expertise in the occult, I thought she might have some idea. That and I did not wish to confess to Reverend Davies that we had broken into a crypt. I described the scene we had uncovered and asked her opinion. She said that she didn’t like it and that the O’Stoat’s had always been trouble. I was quizzed at length over their exact condition and my certainty they were all dead. All other issues aside I cannot see how the living could tolerate being shut away in a grave. We returned to the graveyard together, where Annamarie poured molten candle wax around the edge of the moveable stone lid. It will not prevent movement, but if anyone breaks it, we will know. Seth will not go in there again. Now, we wait.

The wax has been broken up. Someone has been into and out of the crypt. It does not tell us who, however. Annamarie said I could watch at night if I wanted to but that she does not recommend it. I would not have the nerve. “People don’t always stay dead,” she said. “Think about the ancestors.” I wonder if these folk were truly dead in the first place. My skin crawls merely in contemplation of it. The ancestors were strange, creepy even, but not sinister. Their otherworldliness troubled me for a time, but I was not sickened by them. What I saw in that crypt haunts me and I have a profound sense that all is wrong with regards to these people.

I saw Arlingham Jones today. The tentacle on his arm has fallen off. I saw it on his floor; a repulsive thing but quite lifeless. I tossed it in the fire. He seemed oblivious to my presence, while the eyes on his skin watched me incessantly. I am sure some intelligence lies behind them, but whose? Or perhaps, what? I think this may be a sign that he will get no worse, and I hope fervently this is evidence of his healing.

In the midst of all this chaos, it is impossible to tell if anyone else has gone missing. There are so many confused people turning up in unlikely places. I found Mrs Ephemery in my privy this morning, singing to herself. I was so desperate that I had to resort to watering my own garden.

Memories of the crypt sent me in search of Seth. We walked along the beach together, in the company of a great many crows. Neither of us talked much of what had happened, but there was comfort in being with someone who understands. I have come to realise that the human mind, and heart are things beyond the boundaries of science. Why we think and act as we do is a mystery. Are there rules by which our intrinsic natures are governed? What makes one man happy and another morose? There are so many things I wish to study, that the regular number of years allotted seem woefully insufficient for the purpose. I wonder what I would do if someone offered me life beyond death. I think I should refuse, very politely.

I need to record every word before the details slip from my mind. I was woken by stones on my window. I looked out but could see nothing. There was no moon. “Come to your back door,” said a low voice. Nervous, I did as instructed, picking up my walking cane on the way. I opened the door to darkness.

Him: Stay inside and do not try to see me.

Me: I’m not moving. How can I help you?

Him: You’ve been in the graveyard.

It was a statement, not a question, and made me uneasy. I offered an affirmative noise.

Him: You want to know what happened, of course. It’s your job to know.

Me: Yes.

Him: No one will believe you.

Me: I know a great many things. Whether or not I will be believed remains to be seen.

Him: I want you to know I didn’t choose this.

Me: Who are you?

Him: No one, now. It doesn’t matter who I was. But I didn’t choose this. It was forced on me. I didn’t know what I was doing.

Me: I don’t follow what you’re saying here.

Him: I just wanted to confess.

Me: I’m listening.

Him: We went into the orphanage. We were looking for a girl. He said she was powerful and would make us more so. We couldn’t find her. We took the woman instead. I didn’t know he meant to kill her. I’d been naive. I hadn’t realised he was serious.

Me: You killed Greta Calder? But why?

Him: For power, for life. For this life. But it’s all dust and shadows.

Me: I don’t understand. What life?

He became quieter then, as though moving away from me. I called after him once, but did not risk doing so again. I came inside and put this to paper. It is as closely written as I can mange. I think I have it all.

My own handwriting tells me it was not a dream. The words make no more sense in daylight than they did as I wrote them. I am at a loss.

Wandering the town today I noticed that fewer people seem to be out and about raving. I hope this is a good sign and not a consequence of fatalities. Vortigern Frog accosted me from the library door to ask what is going on. Apparently return rate on library books is at an all time low and he is furious. I tried to explain the epidemic, which, as one already dead he has not had to endure. He seemed dismissive of the concerns of the living. It is strange to converse with a dead man. But he seems so very much like his living self, only rather more easily seen through. Is it meaningful that some things repel me and others do not? I do not want to think about the crypt, and yet I cannot drive it from my mind.

Today I visited the orphanage. They’re like a place besieged. As far as I could ascertain, the children there are largely unaffected by our epidemic, but staying indoors for their own safety. I had originally hoped to speak with Sophie Davies – not on any particularly matter but because I find her calm pragmatism reassuring. Instead, my presence attracted the attention of Greta Calder, who came out through a wall to see what I wanted.

She seemed more present and composed than when last I saw her, and appears to be taking responsibility for the orphanage, alongside the indomitable Mrs Witherspoon. I was forthright in my questions, enquiring directly about her memories of death. She was apologetic. She can recall the night of being snatched, hands in the darkness, her struggle, and being taken somewhere. “I can’t remember being born, either. Moving from one life to the next. I think dying is the same. We aren’t supposed to take it with us.” I know Vortigern Frog had no awareness of his passing either, to the point of refusing to believe he had. “Then I was floating, and I knew everything had changed. All I could think about was getting back to the orphanage to make sure the little ones were safe. And I guess that’s what I did.” I asked about Heaven, and she said “I think I’m supposed to be here for now. I’ve work to do yet.” I like her understanding of things, yet the more I think of our restless dead and gathering ghosts, the more I wonder if even when we expire we are somehow prevented from leaving this unhappy place.

The boat of ancestral bones has not returned. I wonder if they escaped, or if the sea reclaimed them. They cannot die a second time, surely? Perhaps they are out there even now, doomed to walk the seabed, a futile eternity of wandering from which they will never escape. There are times when I curse the fertility of my imagination.

I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about those dead, perhaps not dead faces. Are they alive somehow? Seth was clear we should not go there by night. I wish he could speak directly and coherently of what he knows. He’s alluded to ‘knowing’ in ways that make me think his insight is perhaps more intuitive. Right now what I need are hard facts and certainties. How can I find them in the midst of all this confusion? The answers are in the cemetery, and will only be found there by night. I am only going to know if I dare to act. And then there is my mysterious visitor and those strange words delivered when I was barely awake. Is that connected to the O’Stoat tomb, or is it a wholly separate matter? It is like the camera business all over again – the feeling there is far more to know than the naked eye can see, far more below the surface than we want to recognise.

There are a great many spoons under my bed now. I suspect I must have most of the town’s store of them. It will take a great deal of explaining if I am caught, but I want to see what Gerald will do next. It is fascinating, and I am glad of something to think about that does not fill me with dread.

I have spoken with Annamarie Nightshade. She thinks I am ‘nuts’ but did not try to persuade me out of it. If I do not return, she will take this book and whatever insight she can usefully glean. I have spent my entire life afraid of dying. I may be walking out to court my own demise, and I feel strangely calm, as if none of this is real.

Nine pm by the church bell and the cemetery was quiet. I found a place to hide in the shadow of a broken angel, from whence I could see the O’Stoat crypt before the light failed, but did not consider myself too obvious. I waited. It was very cold. By ten of the church clock, my posterior had lost all feeling. Somewhere after ten I heard stone grate against stone nearby. There was no moonlight. I could hear sounds of movement, footsteps, the brush of fabric. No voices. They left the graveyard and my nerve failed. I could not face walking home and spent the rest of the night in the church porch in the company of several sick people who were convinced I was their grandmother.

I had a very long conversation with Annamarie before I tried to sleep. She pointed out that being dead, or not dead was very much a personal consideration and not something the rest of us should interfere with, and that whilst morbid and unsavoury, there was no reason not to live in a grave. She is right, of course. It does not answer the question of why they are doing this, nor does it deal with the gruesome fact of Drustan O’Stoat’s murder. But as Annamarie has pointed out, we do not know which, if any of them were responsible. We can’t act on suspicion. She said if half the people who didn’t like what other folk got up to felt they could just get on and do something about it, that she and I would be dead several times over. She has a point. There is also the matter of the killing of Greta Calder, which Annamarie observes sounds to her like a sacrifice rather than a more conventional murder. But sacrifice to what? My belief in God has always been tenuous, Satan I find even harder to admit to, and both seem too much like ways of avoiding responsibility for our own actions. I have not forgotten the house exorcism I observed however.

There is no evidence to connect the confession to Miss Calder’s murder with the business in the graveyard. But if it isn’t part of the same business, what is it about? What options do I have? Follow them? Approach and question them? Let it go?

There are times when Doc Willoughby’s idea of someone in authority with the power to sort things out seems very tempting. But what could anyone else do that I cannot? A title does not confer much protection, and these may well be people who have killed twice already. I do not know what to do.

Modesty is back. He has three extra eyes on his face and a tendency to stop in the middle of sentences and stare into space. Otherwise he has not been noticeably improved by his period of absence. If the eyes do not disappear I may be obliged to make him wear something over his face so that I am not compelled to look at them. We visited Arlingham, who seems much his former self. He has lost a great deal of weight from being unwell, but otherwise I think he will recover. He seems oblivious to what has happened to him, but was perplexed by the state of Modesty. Throughout the town it is much the same – signs of health returning, but little evidence of memory.

I caught up with Doc Willoughby and asked him about the recent epidemic. He stared at me blankly, and asked if I was still funny in the head. As he had a lone tentacle growing out of his, I decided it might be best if I say nothing. I have recorded some images with my new camera. Now that there is a populous to deliver the news to, I shall arrange a new copy of The Hopeless Vendetta. I have proof of the illness, and people need to know what has been happening even if they cannot properly recall it.

I went to see Sophie Davies today, needing to talk with someone who had seen the worst of this plague and would remember it. She confessed that it has been trying for her as well – Reverend Davies eventually succumbed, and now does not believe there was ever anything amiss, despite the third eye in the middle of his forehead, which he in unable to perceive. I shared my tale of Doc Willoughby with her and she concurred that it is most strange. It feels to me as though we were briefly overcome by some external force – not a disease, but an entity that gripped the island and has now loosened its hold upon us once more. It is an insane though, a way of perceiving that belongs to my camera days, and yet… I cannot shake the impression from my mind. I want to talk to her about the not-dead in the cemetery, but could not work out how to broach the subject without sounding like a madman.

Modesty, hotly chasing in pursuit of his first proper news item, has latched onto the widespread tale of missing spoons. I have taken the precaution of putting extra quilts on my bed positioned so that they hang down on each side to the floor, disguising Gerald’s cutlery collection.

In the aftermath of the illness, there are people missing. Some no doubt have wandered whilst sick and may reappear, or may have fallen into deeper, and more permanent difficulties. We will not know. Mrs Ephemery is amongst the absent, and The Crow is a gloomier place without her. I had never held her cooking in great esteem, but now that her husband has taken over at the cauldron, I miss her to a startling degree.

I am trying to find the energy and enthusiasm to resurrect the bridge project. I went out to the lighthouse today to find Balthazar Lemon. He has barricaded himself in and refused to emerge, but we managed a shouted conversation through an open window. He is fully aware of the recent epidemic, although he described it as ‘a plague of demons taking hold of everyone.’ When I asked him how he knew this, he said ‘don’t you listen to the crows at all boy? Don’t you go down to the waves and hear what the fish, and the mermaids are talking about?’ I had to confess that I do not. He has promised that once it is safe for him to step outside, he will make contact with me and we will see about resuming work while the weather is good. I feel the summer is slipping away from us. I asked about the machine for flying and he said it had flown very well indeed, now all he has to do is work out how to put someone in it, but, deprived of the original model, which landed in the sea, this project is somewhat set back for now.

I have a birthday today, which has thankfully passed unnoticed. But it set me thinking. Back in my youth, people did occasionally leave Hopeless. Ships sometimes arrived entirely of their own will. Back in those days, we were more optimistic as a community, and a good deal better off. When did anyone last build anything new here? I imagine it must be a disheartening place to grow up. What are we doing to build a future for our younger citizens? Very little. What do they have to look forward to? Mist, rain, coffee that tastes of mud and the limitations of an island that must be far removed from the wonders of modern living. We can only dream of what the rest of the world might be like. Can we blame the young for small crimes inspired by futility and despair? Especially not since the spoon theft issue is being blamed on our younger folk as well. I feel badly about that. Gerald is very busy under the bed however, and I don’t want to put him off!

One of the recently missing, Glorious Kingdom Chevins returned today, confused and injured. I heard the story whilst in town from Mithra Stubbs, who had seen the young woman herself. Glorious Kingdom Chevins’ clothes were badly torn, her feet were bare and she was covered in cuts. There were blood stains all over her. Mithra went out to help, men from the family were sent for to carry her home. I’ll leave it a day or two before visiting.

Things have gone very quiet under my bed. Thus far I have resisted the temptation to look.

The Chevins would not let me see Glorious Kingdom, although I have been told she is recovering, but they don’t want her disturbed. None of them were keen to talk to me. It’s always the same, when something untoward happens, families close ranks and withhold information as though pretending nothing is wrong will somehow cause that to become true. It makes it very difficult to solve anything. I do not believe there is much justice to be found in silence, but if people won’t talk, what can I do?

Someone at The Crow knows someone who heard from someone else… I am always cautious when news manifests in this form. Someone who was out late one night minding their own business which did not, it was made clear, have anything to do with visiting any kind of establishment of dubious repute. Someone who wishes to remain anonymous was set upon by hooded attackers with small knives, who knocked him to the ground and proceeded to cut and lick his arms. No one admits to being directly involved. Everyone else in The Crow postulates an excess of alcohol and an accidental fall. I think about Glorious Kingdom Chevins, covered in cuts.

Yesterday Reverend Davies launched an appeal to do something about the dire state of his organ. The device, built thirty seven years ago by the infamous Testimony Albatross, is a remarkable feat of engineering and musical genius that Hopeless has perhaps taken for granted. In the many years since the demise of Albatross, the organ has gradually reduced in tonal quality and some of its more creative functions no longer work. In the last few years, it has lost all semblance of tunefulness, and is consequently only used for funerals.

On meeting up with the Reverend I noted that his third eye has entirely vanished now, for which I was grateful. The organ repair project appeals to my fondness for technical marvels and so I will support it as best I can. It also gave me opportunity to raise with him the rumours of blood-letting attacks. He had heard much the same as I, and was clearly concerned. To him it seems to be a corruption of the Eucharist, and he suspects a demonic influence. From prior conversations with the good Reverend, I know that demonic influence and witchcraft are his favourite explanations when he has no idea. It is much like Doc Willoughby’s ‘unwholesome air’ diagnosis and Balthazar Lemon’s ‘it didn’t have enough wigh-wah’. Absolutely no use to man nor beast. But like me, Reverend Davies sees lines of connections here and reasons for concern. I am glad to know other minds are considering these issues.

I was woken just after dawn by the most disturbing and inhuman sounds. For a moment, I was too alarmed to venture out of the covers. It became apparent that these noises were largely coming from beneath my bed. I watched with a sense of awe as a score of tiny spoonwalkers tottered out, spoons gripped in their little tentacles. It took them a while to get the hang of moving smoothly. Gerald, or perhaps more rightly, Geraldine, emerged as well to watch them. Once all of the spoonwalkers were fully mobile, they clattered away down the stairs, and very loudly exited my home – although I have yet to establish quite where. They, and the majority of the spoons have gone. I shall do my best to redistribute the remaining cutlery. I have been privileged to have witnessed this nest building and reproduction. It was a moving experience and I am glad I did not disturb the spoon nest. Gerald must have trusted me considerably to nest beneath my bed. Again, I feel honoured.

Modesty confronted me today. He found my writings and read them while I was out. I am affronted by his intrusion into my privacy, the sense of violation is dreadful. It was not a good conversation. He is mortally offended by my perception of him, which I cannot deny is how I feel, but the look on his face… it was not one of my better afternoons. He professed an intention to ‘prove he’s better than what I said, that I think he isn’t.’ A classic Modesty moment, it would have been funny had it not seemed so painful. I must take better care of this document, it has become too important to risk casual eyes falling upon it.

I set out early to visit Balthazar, and have taken the precaution of carrying my writings with me at all times. We spoke about the Hopeless organ, and he proposes an overhaul of the fabulous instrument. I know this will take energy away from the bridge, but if we can rally people to achieve some good, perhaps it will help the furtherance of our more ambitious project. To fix the organ, will require help from the whole community. I shall be out seeking donations in the form of small metal items. He seems much calmer than when last we spoke, and has retired the flying machine project in preference for developing water walking trousers. He is certain that trousers, if they could be secured and filled with air, could enable a person to move buoyantly through the water. It would be more versatile than boats, and a great aid to fisherman. Balthazar showed me his initial experiments involving a pig’s bladder and a shoe, which were very exciting although I cannot quite make the mental leap to imagine how the trousers will work.

Modesty arrived out of the pouring rain just before I was going to have a nightcap and head for bed. He was soaking, wild eyed and waving his arms a lot, which was not a great aid to my following what he said. The gist of it seems to be that he knows all about the crypt, that he has infiltrated them and will learn everything about them in order to get the whole story, which will, he is certain, will be a story to ‘crack this whole island wide apart’. I think he may have consumed alcohol, he certainly appeared inebriated. The rest is nothing more than a regurgitation of my writings with a little fantasy thrown in. The idea that Modesty could infiltrate anything is laughable, but the boy’s pride is hurt, and I didn’t want to dent it further, so have not challenged him this time.

There was a juvenile spoonwalker in my kitchen at breakfast time, Pottering about. They seem entirely at ease with me. I assume that the wild entities they descended from employed wood and other natural debris as a mode of transport, while descendants have moved into homes and adopted cutlery as a tougher and therefore preferred source of material. These borrowed leg extensions enable them to take longer strides and move at remarkable speed once they get the hang of them. I feel rather protective of the little creature.

I had an irate Sympathy Jones on my doorstep this morning. Modesty did not come home last night, and she holds me responsible. I calmed her as best I could and pointed out that he has reached the age where a young man might be tempted to behave in irresponsible ways, but she was oblivious to my attempt at tactful insinuation. While I would very much like to believe that Modesty was out courting some girl, it does not seem likely. Given his state when I last saw him, I am concerned for his wellbeing. The boy is not the sharpest quill in the drawer, and young men out to prove themselves do foolish things in the best of circumstances.

I visited the cemetery, but all seems quiet there. But then, what did I expect to find? My errant nephew propping up a tombstone? He could be anywhere, but given recent events I worry that he has exposed himself to an attack of some kind.

No word of Modesty from anyone in the family. No one has seen him for several days, and my usual sources have come up with nothing. I have been asked many questions about the circumstances of his departing – the kinds of questions I more usually get to put to others. I have tried to answer usefully, but have some uncomfortable insight into why people are always reluctant to go into detail with me. It’s all too personal, this exposure to public scrutiny.

The Hopeless Vendetta reaches a remarkable milestone this week. Seventy years ago, Edgar Titus Prerogative arrived here from the mainland, enthused by developments he had seen there. According to his journals, Hopeless was a wilder place in those days, with society structured around the four founding families, and very little technology at all. At first unable to buy or make a printing press, my maternal grandfather erected a large board, painted it black and wrote news upon it in chalk. A tradition that continues to this day when the weather permits, as does the habit of writing personal comments upon it in response to local events. I’ve had some good leads that way over the years.

Five years later, Prerogative managed to buy a small press from the mainland, however, the ship bringing it floundered on rocks, and the press sank. Over the next year, my ancestor dived repeatedly and was able to bring up what he believed to be the greater part of the press, improvising whatever was needed to fill in the gaps. Only at this point did the issue of paper occur to him, and two more years passed during which he mastered the art of paper making. The first press produced copies one letter at a time, and was remarkably slow and cumbersome to use. I can just about remember it, but it was only used for show by then, and later we cannibalised it for parts.

Sixty years ago this week, the first Hopeless Vendetta went to press. It was a historical moment for the island, bringing the community together, facilitating public arguments, and allowing opinions to be widely aired. Edgar’s daughter married one Percival Jones, who took on the business of the press and thence it passed to me. The future of this publication is very much on my mind at present. I cannot pass it on to Modesty unless he is here to inherit it, and there is no one else in the family who has expressed any kind of interest.

I am pleased to note that the repair of our church organ has been an almost complete success. Testimony Albatross’s fabulous device has been returned to good working order by Balthazar Lemon. He has also made some curious additions to the original design. The repaired organ was played this Sunday by Mrs Sophie Davies, and the music delighted everyone. Some doubts remain however, over the smells the organ now releases. The original Testimony Albatross design included a large tank, the purpose of which no one had truly understood. It is now full of water, in which swim a number of live fish (see photograph). I suspect it is no coincidence that, when played, the organ now fills the church with a distinctly fishy smell.

When I quizzed on the matter, Balthazar Lemon said, “It’s obvious this is how the organ was designed. It sounds better now.” He has a point. Filling the tank seems necessary for the functioning of its musical aspects. Lemon continued, “The organ is a thing of beauty, designed to bring us closer to God, through sound, scent and visual impact.” I asked him why he had filled the tank with fish, and not, for example with flowers, fruit or some other more appealing thing. He responded by saying, “What do you think God smells like?”

Over the last few days, I have talked to everyone who has ever admitted to associating with Modesty. No one has seen him lately. One of his friends, a greasy creature referred to as ‘Smidge’ said he thought he’d seen Modesty hanging about outside the church a few days ago. He’s never been the religious sort. Smidge is not aware of any romantic interest and giggled for a long time over the prospect. Last Smidge heard, Modesty was trying to figure out what he ought to be famous for, and trying to discover a better way to order his collection of bottles. No clues there at all.

The weather has turned – it was bound to eventually. There’s a howling gale blowing and from the sounds of it, a thunderstorm somewhere out at sea. The rain is intense. I hope wherever Modesty is, he has some kind of shelter. This is no weather to be out of doors in.

Last night’s storm brought a strange arrival to our shores. It was discovered by Hermitage Trott while he was harvesting seaweed yesterday. Assorted learned citizens went down to the beach in order to view the new arrival. No consensus has been reached as to its nature, but so far it has done nothing to suggest it is actively dangerous. However, given the size of pincers, and the speed at which it can move, it seems best to view it from a distance.

Despite the glowing eyes, Reverend Davies does not believe that it is inherently Satanic. This may in fact be a first. I watched Jack Ephemery from The Crow make several attempts to capture the new arrival – no doubt with a view to cooking it. The creature resisted, scuttling off at surprising speed whilst making some unearthly noises. Still no sign of Mrs Ephemery, I gather.

While opinions are divided, my own theory is that this may in fact be a giant brother to the hermit crab, but the shell it has borrowed is unlike anything I have ever seen before. It has an almost metallic sheen, but it is hard to imagine how such a thing could have formed. Balthazar Lemon postulated that someone had made it, but no one who has viewed the shell can imagine any possible use for it. “People don’t always make things to be useful,” Lemon pointed out, and he should know. Apparently the floating trouser project has ground to a halt. Making the trousers float is no difficulty, I gather, making it possible to wear them whilst they float proved and insurmountable challenge.

In the absence of any other leads to follow, I went to the church a little before sunset. Now the last epidemic sufferers are on the mend, the place is much quieter. The cemetery seemed empty, the dead all tucked away as they should be and the living not in evidence. I went into the church for a while to take advantage of the peace. It is a good place to think. What happened when I emerged is not clear in my mind. I was attacked, pounced on and knocked to the ground. I remember laughter, cold and cruel. There was pain. I also heard Modesty’s voice ‘I told you, don’t you see now.’ Words like that, over and over. I remember further pain, and then nothing. I was still in the church porch when I regained consciousness, with Reverend Davies trying to wake me. I am home now, and badly shaken.

I’m covered in cuts. I’m thinking about other stories I have heard lately. I cannot remember what happened. Was that really Modesty in the church, or did I bang my head? I am not sure which of my impressions I can trust, none of it is clear.

I had a visitation this morning. Reverend Davies, Doc Willoughby, Arlingham Jones, Jed Grimes, Mithra Stubbs, Jack Ephemery, Elgar Frog, Summer and Macintosh Chevin, Petulant and Armitage Chevin. There were others in the garden who we could not squeeze in. I don’t think there have been so many people in the house since my father’s funeral. Questions were asked about the attack on me. I recounted what I could, and after some hesitation, I mentioned Modesty. I did not hear any other voices clearly enough to identify them. The collective feeling seemed to be ‘something must be done’ but there is no consensus as to what, and I fear that anything presented could be latched on as ‘something’ and therefore acted upon. My mind is slow, but I cannot think that acting in haste and fear will serve us well. Nothing has been decided, other than that a larger meeting will be called for the day after next.

I had to get out, to be in the daylight and to be alone. I needed the wilder places and to be free from questions. There have been ghosts on this island for as long as there have been people. I thought I’d seen something months ago and meant to go back and check. Today seemed like a good time. Most of our departed do not appear to stay on, but every so often some pale echo of a lost citizen manifests. Tragic and disturbing though they are, these ephemeral echoes of the once living are a familiar part of life. At present, the company of the haunting dead offers a certain comfort.

I have noticed this year that the numbers of ghosts have increased significantly. They have gone from being a rare, uncomfortable occurrence, to being a frequent sight across the island. Some, like Vortigern Frog and Greta Calder retain many of their human qualities and will even converse with the living. Others are vague and retain fewer of their human attributes, such that I cannot connect them to any specific, formerly living person. They are shades, shadows.

I have taken a photograph of a trio of the dead by the pond. I cannot identify them, they retain so little of their original humanity. If one of them were Modesty, I would not know. I sat with them, and there was quietness between us, and a strange peace filled me.

I am most myself when I am wandering, studying, free to think and feeling no direct responsibility for anyone else. Tonight there is to be a meeting and I must attend. There will be questions, questions and more and that does not fill me with joy. There may be decisions. People are afraid and hungry for anything that will make them feel better. I am not confident that there will be wisdom present in the town hall. And so I am taking the time to go and study creatures, looking for the nameless and the unknown.

I have a picture of new creatures. I have not yet decided on names for them, or worked out if they are in fact related to any other creatures known to us. I am not sure if the beings to right and left of the image are related to each other or not. It continues to amaze me how few people notice the non-human occupants of our island. Many people debated the existence of spoonwalkers with me, despite the overwhelming evidence of their activities and the image I published. The other week several people suggested that our peculiar visitor was not a creature at all. Although admittedly both of them dropped the issue after they saw it eat Boris Trott’s dog.

I do still find myself wondering sometimes if I see things that other people do not. During the unfortunate camera business, it became apparent for a while at least, that no one else saw as I did. Then during the illness others suffered, finding that some of us saw and remembered while others did not was peculiar. Based on observation, it is remarkable what ostensibly normal and ordinary persons can fail to perceive. Last Thursday at The Crow something climbed out of the cauldron and made a dash across the restaurant floor, escaping when the door was opened. I watched it go, with the peculiar impression that no one else in the premises had noticed. I start to wonder if there is any single truth that we can all share. I am writing to pass the time. I do not want it to be evening yet.

It was a very long, argumentative meeting involving copious amounts of shouting and precious little sense. I have a headache. First thing in the morning a delegation led by Reverend Davies will open the O’Stoat Crypt. I will be there. I am not looking forward to it.

Hideous day, but for clarity I must write in order. We assembled in the cemetery at nine am – myself, Arlingham, Macintosh Chevins, Reverend Davies, Doc Willoughby and Austerity Jones. Others lurked outside the graveyard but it was understood they would keep to a safe distance. I am not sure how we were decided upon as the grave opening party. I know Seth and Annamarie were there amongst the watchers, but I did not get to speak with them.

The crypt was not as I remembered. There were no relics and mementos, no shrines, just dust and silence. We went in with torches. I wondered if I had misremembered the place, but what can I trust if I do not trust my own mind? The remains of Drustan O’Stoat were still in place but there was no sign of Durosimi or Melisandra. Instead, Modesty lay on the stone bier, looking like one dead. None of us spoke. It was a harrowing moment. Again, no signs of injury or misadventure, and no explanation for how he came to be in this place. Austerity and Macintosh set to carry him out and I followed close behind them.

We came out into the daylight, and the boy stirred, impossibly, from his deathly sleep. I saw his eyes open, and the raw fear etched upon his face. And I stood there, watching, powerless to act as his skin smouldered and flames licked over him. He screamed, on and on. People tried to roll him in coats to put it out, but he burned until not even bones remained.

I have never known the town be so silent. My home has never felt so cheerless nor so empty. What have I done?

I want it to make sense. That would be some solace. There is no sense, no reason. Why him? Why did we not find the O’Stoats? But we met at night and half the town squeezed into that hall. We shouted long and hard. Anyone could have stood outside and caught the gist of it, and left that boy to die while they made their escape. But why did he die? There was a case of spontaneous human combustion in my father’s time, but the details are not well recorded and I do not know what the connection could be. Drustan did not die in the same way as Modesty – I found fleshy remnants. But the bodies I saw in that crypt before were not dead, and now Modesty is. Nothing I can think of turns it into sense.

Today I went to the Jones farm and took a photograph of a turkey with a horn growing out of its head. I cannot help but think how Modesty would have loved this story. He would have written it badly, making implausible connections with some wholly unrelated event. I miss him.

There was another thunderstorm last night. Wild seas cast a great many fish onto the bridge and its surrounding area. Amongst the more usual residents of the ocean, was a stranded mermaid. Once the storm abated, her enthralling singing drew many folks to the spot, myself included. Those of us who remembered the last such experience stuffed our ears with wax and fabric to keep the singing out, and mounted a barrier around the bridge to keep people at a safe distance. Some of our younger men made efforts to get to the mermaid, but we were able to keep them safe. It made for a long and tiring day.

Doc Willoughby, who really should know better, was completely overwhelmed, and, unable to gain the bridge, threw himself into the sea. He was fortunate, his clothing prevented him from swimming closer, and the mermaid herself was unable to get down from her perch, or else he would surely have been drowned and eaten. Jed Grimes had to knock him unconscious before the good Doctor could safely be returned to dry land.

There was one of those dreadful ‘we must decide what to do’ gatherings, out of earshot of the mermaid, in which a number of people spoke for killing her. Sophie Davies made a plea for compassion. She asked if anyone had the decency to return the mermaid to the water. Annamarie Nightshade stepped forward, the womenfolk being largely unaffected. We were treated to the unlikely sight of the Reverend’s wife and the resident witch assisting the mermaid back into the sea.

It has been another very strange day. I must have spent hours walking the beaches, making little cairns of stones and listening to the crows. Balthazar always tells me that they know a great deal, but if so, they haven’t revealed it to me. Still, being in silence with the bird calls and surf for company gave me some solace. We cannot bury Modesty, there was nothing left, but there is so be a service tomorrow. I feel I should be there out of duty to the family, but the thought of sitting through it…

By the time I turned for home the sun was sinking. I had not meant to stay out beyond nightfall. This recent business has made me nervous of the dark. I felt watched and on edge all the way home. I had the key to my front door in my hand when a voice greeted me from behind, calling me by name. “Don’t scream,” he said, and laughed. There was a little moonlight, and I could make out the face of Durosimi O’Stoat. I felt as if my bones had turned to ice. I couldn’t think what to say.

“Don’t go poking that nose of yours into our business, Jones,” he said.

Me: I’m not going to stand by while you murder people.

Durosimi: You can’t prove anything.

Me: I will. And people aren’t always fussy about proof. Sometimes they get angry and act anyway.

Durosimi: Yes, but you don’t like that sort of thing. I’ve read the little sheet you write, full of sanctimony and opinions. You care about proof. And you don’t have any. Not a shred.

Me: What do you want?

Durosimi: Just to give you a friendly warning not to interfere. I’d concentrate on the chicken stories if I were you. The plebs like a good chicken story.

Me: Are you threatening me?

Durosimi: Yes.

Me: Why don’t you just kill me then?

Durosimi: Where would be the fun in that?

He stepped back into the shadows and I didn’t try to follow him. He may have been bluffing. If I bother him enough to be worth warning off, why not just kill me? Perhaps he can’t, or fears that he would draw unnecessary attention to himself. I will not be frightened into silence, and there will be proof.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Frampton Jones is a journalist by birth having inherited The Hopeless Vendetta – a weekly news sheet, from his father, and grandfather before him. He is also a man of science, an avid supporter of engineering developments and social improvement projects. The business of journalism occupies most of his time, but he keeps careful records of weather conditions, seasonal patterns and the lives of the flora and fauna of Hopeless, his island home. By nature Frampton is a philosopher, anarchist, and idealist. While he is best known for his work on The Hopeless Vendetta, as photographer, editor, journalist and papermaker, his life as a public figure has been a busy one and his contribution to progress not to be underestimated.

A Semblance of Truth represents an insight into the process of journalism and snippets from his ongoing scientific research. It is at the same time a commentary upon social conditions in Hopeless. The author wishes to make it clear that he offers this not as an autobiography, but as an historical record, that it is the entire truth as best he understands it and that therefore the distinct resemblance to people living, dead and otherwise disposed was entirely his intention.

Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Copyright
- Start of Content
- About the Author