Friday, August 18, 2017
Wednesday 16th August 2017
One of the guardians of the Black Bowers leads silently and solemnly down an immense corridor - signifier of what Roger Luckhurst refers to as 'institutional dread' - into the abyssal core of Horsingdon Bunker. What terrible secrets await?
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
A house in the woods: overgrown, deteriorating, partially-hidden by trees and untenanted - or is it? For this long-neglected building hides Horsingdon Bunker: a site haunted by many sinister secrets, and overshadowed by its proximity to absolute alterity: those terrifying, prenumbral realms of unknown entity, supposedly unlocked by the military scientists once deployed here, and who accidentally stumbled across a monstrous physics whilst fumbling blindly about unfathomable occult technologies extracted from the epistemological, cryptological and ideological detritus of post-war Europe; men and women who sought to excavate to the furthest foundations of reality, only to find it teetering on the edge of a black abyss; men and women who did so at the behest of concepts - 'god', 'queen', and 'country' - which the knowledge they acquired must have surely rendered hollow and meaningless; men and women of who neither nor sound now remains.
Monday, August 14, 2017
Monday 14th August 2017
The approach to Horsingdon Bunker leads through a thickly-wooded area dotted with rusting and heavily-overgrown coorugated outbuildings, overseen by an old watchtower. In a shed which stands just outside the bunker's entrance, there sits an abandoned military transport, upon which rests what appears to be an old plague doctor's mask: a piece of ritual apparel which, in the symbolic language of Horsingdon's folklore, represents the crow: both a harbinger of the transition from the realm of the living to that of the dead - thus a totem presaging the point of separation between our world and the world of the Dead Gods - and as a ward against the pestilence and ontological corruption which infects our world when it comes into contact with the inhabitants of that zone: Those Who Wait.
In any case, the placement of such a ceremonial device speaks clearly as to the presence of the guardians of the Black Bowers at this location.
The map co-ordinates provided to me by Frater X led me to a dirt track on the very outskirts of Horsingdon, close to the boundary which separates that borough from Trentford. Looming above me was yet another of those transmitter arrays which cast their weird sonic shadow over the region.
Frater X had already informed me that others of his Order would meet me at this location which, he also intimated, was also the site of the almost-mythic Horsingdon Bunker: a post-Cold War installation built by the MoD as a control centre from which to continue government and military operations in the event of the Cold War going hot - but repurposed (as rumour has it in conspiracy circles) by the mysterious Ministry in light of something supposedly referred to in top secret briefing documents as 'The Event'. Exactly what this is remains unclear, but apparently most of the evidence points towards the occurrance of a catastrophe of extinction-level magnitude - most likely as an outcome of an even more clandestine aspect of the Cold War: an arms race involving the attempted weaponization of inscrutable alien and occult technologies which, it is alleged, began at the tail-end of World War II.
In any case, Horsingdon Bunker has, over the past two decades, been the nucleus of a great deal of contemporary folklore, wherein it figures as the site of manifestation of any number of strange and outlandish paranormal occurances.
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Saturday 11th August 2017
One of the guardians of the Black Bowers, lurking furtively about the gothic archway of Boreham’s Folly – a rare instance of members of this highly secretive community allowing someone who is not of their order to photograph them. This was also, in part an initiation and invitation: for reasons best known to themselves, this encounter with one of their number led to my inclusion in a psychogeographical exploration of the long abandoned and rumour-haunted Horsingdon bunker: a locale of such sinister repute that many of the region’s inhabitants refuse to acknowledge its existence. In any case, my meeting with the mysteriously named ‘Frater X’ at Boreham’s Folly led to a brief exchange, during which a time, date, and set of map coordinates were communicated to me.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Friday 10th August 2017
A view of Boreham's Folly in Horsingdon Wood: a mock ruin built in the form of a partially collapsed and dilapidated gothic archway, the folly is surrounded by rumour of the sinister occult geometries employed by James Boreham in its construction - and the even more sinister purposes for which it was commissioned. In any case, this proved to be the starting point for a curious series of events - constituting the Horsingdon Transmissions' first field report - which I will detail over the coming weeks.
Thursday, August 10, 2017
I took the above photo of the transmitter array near Northwich Park whilst travelling home earlier this evening; only later did I notice the almost-perfect sphere which can be sen in the top left-hand corner of the image. I didn't observe the object at the time, so its appearance on the photo remains something baffling; its proximity, however, to one of the region's ubiquitous transmitters does raise disturbing questions regarding who - or what - is being called forth from out of the gulfs of space by the uncanny signals which, for unknown reasons, the arrays appear to continually broadcast with an almost religious fervour.
Wednesday, August 09, 2017
As spaces of transition, stairways are also thresholds and boundary markers. They reaffirm the wider classificatory order and system of categorical distinctions, in part by reminding us of their own exclusion and anomalous status in relation to these orders: they are necessary partitions which reinforce the conceptual boundaries we purposely erect to hide the disarray of meaninglessness and the tumultous chaos which forms the ultimate lattice upon which reality is constructed. As such, stairways are uncertain and inchoate places and - as is the case with the above example, commissioned by James Boreham in the early 1900s, and which leads too-and-from nowhere - are often haunted by the shifting forms of those indeterminate entities which inhabit the lawless Outside.
Tuesday, August 08, 2017
Witnesses to the object shown hovering over Horsingdon Wood in tne above photo claim that it had an organc quality: less like the saucers or black triangles more commonly seen occupying the skies above Horsingdon and more akin to a globular mass, with a tadpole-like tail which moved from side-to-side as if the thing were swimming through some unseen medium. Shortly after the poto was taken, the object slowly faded from sight, as if transitioning into some other, unknown mode of being.
During his stay in the Horsingdon region, Roland Franklyn notes that he had the opportunity to consult a number of manuscripts written by James Boreham, one of which described in detail occult experiments conducted on the crest of Horsingdon Hill, during which Boreham apparently called forth from some benighted abyss something he refered to as 'the grave-looting spawn of the stars' - something which Frankly describes, albeit at second hand, as resembling what the witnesses to the above object claimed to have seen.
Monday, August 07, 2017
This underpass is where Horsingdon Lane crosses the Grand Union Canal at the foot of Horsingdon Hill. Just visible on the wall of the underpass is what appears to be a curious piece of graffiti, delineating a series of interlocking symbols in an unknown language or as-yet-undecipherable system of signification.
There is nothing else remarkable about the underpass - other than the curious fact that the publicly-available records of Horsingdon Council's Department of Highways and Infrastructure have rigorously documented the existence of this piece of graffiti since the late 1960s, noting that it has consistently resisted multiple attempts at removal. Exactly why this fact has been recurrently noted in the archives is unclear - but it is certainly the case that, throughout the decades, employees on the Highways and Infrastructure team have received regular complaints regarding the unsightly scrawl, and have, for some reason, treated its erasure as a priority.
Whether this has anything to do with rumours concerning the not-insignificant number of people who, over the years, have apparently gone unaccountably missing in the vicinity of the underpass, the archives fail to record.
Sunday, August 06, 2017
The above photo claims to depict the sideview of a large, saucer-like object which apparently appeared above the rooftops of Horsingdon last night. Such visitations - if indeed they are genuine intrusions from other worlds and not the result of misidentification - are invariably brief, and rarely leave any clue as to their purpose. Witnesses to such manifestations typically infer a meaningful agency behind them - yet the behaviour of these phenomena rarely conforms to comprehensible standards of human intentionality.
There are, however, things about Horsingdon which will always persist in their unknown and unknowable status, some truths which by necessity must remain unutterable - and some secrets which will forever resist disclosure. And or the sake and sanity of the region's inhabitants, that may befor the best.
Saturday, August 05, 2017
A scant few acres distant from Horsingdon Wood, strange fungi sprout from the rich, loamy earth of Hufford Copse. Much like its larger, more heavily-forested neighbour, Hufford Copse has long been haunted by reports of strange lights hovering over its arboreal canopy, and of curious, unforseen mists which suddenly envelop wayfarers who, after the mist disperses as suddenly as it has appeared, are never seen again.
When encountering the fungi on a casual stroll through the Copse, local residents know that they are best left well alone - for the fungi are cultivated by the guardians of the Black Bowers and, whilst highly poisonous, supposedly possess remarkable properties. Thus it is said that, if prepared according to the proper rites and by following certain esoteric formulae, the fungi can be breweed into a potent wine which, once supped, will produce in the imbiber the most fantastic and vivid dreams - dreams which seem to transport the percipient to strange worlds: fabulous realms of alien wonder which lie far beyond the speculated boundaries of the space-time continuum which we currently inhabit.
It is also said that a profound danger resides in the consumption of this fungal wine: that it not only opens the doorways of perception to the Outer Spheres, but also doorways of another kind - portals which enable the monstrous denizens of those zones of phantasmagoric wonder and horror to gain purchase into our world. Needless to say, the lore of the guardians of the Black Bowers is replete with the terrible fates and monstrous transfigurations effecting those who have drunken of the fungal wine too readily, too greedily, and too frequently.
Friday, August 04, 2017
The River Colne follows the Ebury Way out of Trentford, feeding the Grand Union Canal on its journey. Never sounding more than two feet at its deepest as it meanders lazily through the district, as the intersection of so many points of the region's praeternatural topography, the river has nevertheless given rise to many curious tales regarding what lurks around its banks and within its waters: of writhing, oblong shapes seen swimming in the darkness; of strange faces staring evilly out of the waters at unsuspecting ramblers; of webbed hands - and worse - reaching up from the shallows to grasp at the ankles of passers-by; of casual wayfarers dragged suddenly and unexpectedly into the watercourse whose bodies are never recovered; of scaly, horse-like heads seen rising slowly from the river, surmounted on long, sinuous necks...
None of these tales could possibly have any substance too them, as the river is too narrow and to shallow to support such a diverse and monstrous bestiary; nonetheless, One would be hard pressed to find a resident of Horsingdon, Northwich or Trentford willing to spend a day fishing from the banks of this otherwise calm and sedately-flowing rivulet.
Thursday, August 03, 2017
Many of the churches and houses in Horsingdon – especially those built before the 1950s – sport slatted cupolas. It was once traditional for households to place a lantern or candle in these cupolas on the night of certain festivals (typically May Eve and All Hallows).
According to the folklore of the region, the purpose of this common practice was apotropaic: a light meant to protect against the hours of darkness – specifically against those Powers of Night believed to inhabit its abyssal depths. The guardians of the Black Bowers, however, entertain a widely different interpretation of the custom, claiming that the lights were meant as beacons, the intention of which was to call forth that which lurks within the devouring darkness - hence the frequency with which at least one unfortunate resident (if not an entire household) would be found to be missing from their home on the morning following one of these ancient festivals…
Wednesday, August 02, 2017
This somewhat unremarkable stone marks a site once sacred to Those Who Wait, and in times past the Horsingdon coven celebrated many wild and bloody rites about its fulcrum. It is said that the stone once gave shape to the monstrous form of one of those terrible Powers; but the universe grinds unceasingly on, operating to fixed algorithms wholly indifferent to anything which exists outside their sphere of pure, mathematical abstraction, such that whatever abyssal form was once enrobed in the stone’s ancient granite has since been reduced to a lonely ghost of ungathered dust - the inevitable fate of humanity and all its works - by the erosions of time.
Tuesday, August 01, 2017
The Church of St. John has long been abandoned by its congregation, whose numbers were never sizeable in any case. Attempts at renovating or demolishing the building have thusfar resulted in failure - primarily on account of Horsingdon Council refusing planning permission for any projects involving the church. It is said that on entering the church, one does not encounter that sense of peaceful quietude, tinged with a hint of incense, which one typically associates with such sacred spaces; instead, an aura of malignancy is said to hang about its pews and pillars - and it is this which was responsible for the church's eventual dessertion.
According to the guardians of the Black Bowers, the reason for this pervasive aura of dread and lurking evil lies in the fact of the church having been built on a site long sacred to Those Who Wait; in addition to which, the guardians claim it will also become the last church - indeed, the very last church on Earth - when those monstrous Powers return to resume their ministry
Monday, July 31, 2017
Some gateways are self-evident in their purpose, marking an obvious physical passage from one set of geographically-distinct spatial co-ordinates to another, and often dividing proprietry boundaries; others - like the gateway guarding a site once sacred to the Horsingdon coven - declare a less tangible transition: from a world less-haunted to one fraught with all the terrible possibilities which the spectral can muster.
Sunday, July 30, 2017
The the bells in the belltower of the Church of St. Ignatius in Northwich Park have not sounded in over five decades - during which time the tower itself has remained locked, boarded, and also guarded with whatever spiritual wards the faithful amongst the congregation (or at least those who have consented to learning the secret of the tower) have been able to muster.
The verson of events as told to me - by a person directly involved in them - was that during the building of St. Ignatius' in the 1950s, one of the labourers working on the project discovered a cache of books, hidden in the basement of the place of worship which had previously occupied the site, and which had been demolished to make way for the new church.
These codices eventually were delivered into the hands of Father Josef, the first officiating priest of St. Ignatius', who apparently found the texts to be heterodox in nature, locking them in a closet located in a small storeroom immediately below the belfry. For reasons known only to him, Fr. Josef failed to inform the heads of his religious order about the books - perhaps because, over time, he became obsessed with their contents, gradually furnishing the storeroom as a small study in which to carry out further researches into these curious tomes. Over the following twenty years, Fr. Josef successfully fulfilled his duties to the parishioners of St. Ignatius' - despite becoming increasingly and visibly haunted by what the texts were revealing; indeed, in an unguarded moment whilst in conversation with a fellow priest - one Father Donovan - he claimed that his faith had been shaken to the core by what he had read. Disturbed by this, Fr. Donovan made the matter known to his and Fr. Josef's superiors.
A convocation was subsequently convened to deal with the matter of the books - but unfortunately too late for Father Josef who, it seems, had managed to extract the final secrets from their pages. On an evening in mid-October a deputation arrived at St.Ignatius' to resolve the matter, only to find Fr. Josef: sitting at a desk in the makeshift study in the belltower, dead, and with both eyes missing.
Whilst witness to the scene generally agreed that, by the biomedical standards of the time, the cessation of both breath and heartbeat were clear and verifiable indications of Fr. Josef's passing, his body yet retained a curious quality of unliving, such that the fingers of his right hand continued to trace the line of text as it ran across the pages of the tome open before him, and his lips seemed to mouth the words on the page as his corpse continued to read them - in spite of his missing eyes.
Even worse was what these interlopers observed upon drawing back the small velvet curtain from the only window in the room. No one present on that day has ever revealed what they saw, other than to hint at the fact that what was observed through the window was a scene which should not have existed, and was certainly not a representation of the material reality of the ordinary street scene which should have been visible from the other side of the glass.
Whatever was observed, it was decided that the entrance to the tower should be locked and boarded immediately, and access to the area henceforth forbidden. Vatican authorities were informed of the situation, and a story involving Fr. Josef's immediate relocation - on account of health issues - to milder climes half a world away was quickly manufactured. Fortunately the poor priest lacked any living relatives to query this.
Yet to this day the body of Fr. Josef - or whatever he had become in his transfigured, unliving state - presumably sits at a small, decaying desk, in a small, cramped study, staring sightlessly into whatever scene of revelatory horror has bern conjured through the lens of the room's single window, all the while senselessly and silently mouthing whatever terrible secrets are inscribed into the pages of those monstrous books.
Saturday, July 29, 2017
The above transmitter array was the product of a joint project between the Ministry of Defence and the Northwich Park University's Department of Radiophonics. The purpose of the project remains shrouded in mystery, and supposedly the transmitter is no longer operational - which makes it all the more curious as to why it remains guarded behind a tight net of security.
However, the lattice of rumour which constitutes so much of the social weave and fabric of Horsingdon says otherwise: that soon after the tower became operational, it began emitting a stream of howling static which broke the minds of all those who listened to it. Apparently technicians working on the project were never able to fully shut the signal down - which continued to be transmitted even after the array was disconnected from its power source; they did, however, manage to limit the range of the signal to a scant few metres.
It is said that the transmitter still continues to omit a stream of unbearable sonic awfulness - presumably drawn from some unseen, undimensioned and uncharted realm of abject horror - within the radius of the small and long-overgrown field which it occupies to this day.
Friday, July 28, 2017
This dilapidated shed next to a train track has a strange history attached to it. The line besides which it stands runs through Southcote Station, but the line is also believed to run parallel to one of the Secret Alleys - a lattice of non-corporeal pathways, or lines of force akin to ley lines - which form part of the hypergeometrics of Horsingdon's invisible topography, and which - according to the guardians of the Black Bowers - provide access to the more secret recesses or occulted aspects of that praeternatural landscape.
In any case, the shed is avoided by local residents on account of it being one of the points of regular manifestation of the Shanklin Man - a claim apparently supported by the fact that, some years ago, the body of some indigent was discovered in the shed. Whilst the local press reported this unfortunate as having died of natural causes, the resident who found the body had a different story to tell, stating that the corpse 'looked like it had its face stolen by the Shanklin Man'.
Thursday, July 27, 2017
In the aftermath af yet another thunderstorm, the above lights were photographed, hovering in a triangular formation, above the treeline of Horsingdon Woods. As noted previously, in the esoteric system of signification employed by the guardians of the Black Bowers, the triangle represents an occult portal or doorway - one by which the non-Euclidean dimensions within which lurk Those Who Wait can be accessed.
There is also mention in the histories of Horsingdon of the discovery of a number of artefacts during an archaeological dig which occured in Horsingdon Woods in the late 19th Century. Apparently amongst the items discovered were a number of clay tablets, dating from the time of the Roman invasion of Britain, and upon which were inscribed triangular motifs containing the image of the head of a three-eyed goat. Unfortunately there are no extant photographs of these objects, which ended up in the personal collection of James Boreham. There is no clue as to their current whereabouts..
The lights in the above image were photographed hovering over the spot in Horsingdon Woods where the dig took place.
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
The incandescent edge of a stormfront rumbles slowly over the glowing alien fronds of floodlights which barely illuminate one of Horsingdon's car parks, deserted now as the locals rush to get home. For the guardians of the Black Bowers, these shining, nocturnal thunderheads are potent omens - on a night like this they will sniff they air and tell you that something terrible is coming: something apocalyptic and earthshaking; something which even they are fearful of.
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
A pamphlet published in 1592 purports to detail incidences of witchcraft in and around Harlow Hill, focusing specifically on one Mother Atkins, who was ultimately ducked in the pond near the crest of Burn Hill before being hanged there, on account of her - and, indeed, all of her sex - being considered (as one male commentor at the time put it) 'rebels towards God, enemies to mankinde'.
Specifically, Mother Atkins was charged with consorting with various spirits of the earth and air, and of possessing a familiar in the form of a great black dog still said to haunt the cemetary of the church atop Harlow Hill.
It is not certain whether Mother Atkins was actually a part of the coven which operated (and which some say remains active today) in and around Harlow, Horsingdon and Burn Hills respectively; but the cruelty and injustice of her fate resonate down to the present: local folklore recounts various manifestations of the ghost of a witch, accompanied by a great, black, spectral hound, up to the present day. These tales tell of how the phantom witch and her hound only ever appear to the men of Harlow - specifically to those men known to have maltreated the womenfolk of the parish. The tales also tell of how the men who bear witness to these apparitions soon after meet a slow, sorrowful, and agonizingly painful demise...
Monday, July 24, 2017
An optimistic owner has presumably sought to transform a dour and chill interior through the addition of a solar panel to the roof of their abode - a property once owned by James Boreham.
It is unlikely, however, that light or warmth will ever find their way to the cold depths of such a place, touched, as it has been, by the hand of one who has intruded upon those nighted spheres which lurk at the outermost rim of the cosmos, and who has walked unseen through the infinite, glacial abysses beyond known time and space.
Sunday, July 23, 2017
The Ghost Tree of Boreham Park - so named because of the spectral face with holes for eyes which has supposedly been seen staring blindly from the gaping hollow in the bole of the tree. Occult artefacts have also been found within the hollow, indicating that the tree continues has also been used for ritual purposes - although the reason for such rites remains unclear. Regardless, such items if discovered are best left unmolested, lest whoever placed these curious offerings - or even worse, whatever praeternatural entity makes the tree its home - decides to effect their return.
Saturday, July 22, 2017
This windowless tower sits at the edge of the university campus at Northwich Park. There is no visible entrance to the tower, which apparently can only be entered via access tunnels which run from the extensive sub-basements below the main campus building. Built sometime in the late 1950s or early 1960s, there are no current records of the tower's purpose - although rumours persist that the its construction was related to a secret project which the Ministry of Defense was developing with the help of the university's long-defunct Department of Radiophonics.
It has been claimed that, if one stand within a foot or two of the structure, all external sounds recede, and one is slowly encompassed by what seems to be a field of utter silence - a silence so praeternaturally absolute that percipients who have undergone the experience apparently find remaining within its aura for more than a few minutes unbearable. Other rumours maintain that, on account of this peculiar quality, the Ministry of Defence at one time forcibly locked living subjects within the tower for extended periods - and that what was typically retrieved in the aftermath of these horrible experiments was no longer human, but would speak in a cracked and ancient voice of the terrible secrets that had been learnt from the silence...
Friday, July 21, 2017
This old brick tomb, dating back to the late 17th Century, sits at the edge of the cemetary atop Harlow Hill. There is no visible name on the tomb to denote whoever - or whatever - is sequestered within. Nor there has ever been an expanation as to the necessity of erecting the curious wrought-iron structure which now encases the tomb - although rumour has it that the protective lattice was built not so much with the intention of safeguarding the enclosed vault from vandalism, but of preventing any attempt at egress by that which lies within the crypt's nitrous bounds...
Thursday, July 20, 2017
Further evidence regarding the fate of Reverend John Broadham has appeared in the form of this grotesque witch bottle, recently discovered in the basement of All Hallow's Church in Northwich Park - the only part of the building which survived the fire of 1969 which supposedly claimed the life of the good reverend. There are certainly records of similar bottles being discovered throughout Horsingdon during the late 1960s and 1970s - a time when the UK was in the grip of something of a moral panic which clustered around tabloid-induced fears that the practice of witchcraft and satanism were sweeping through the nation and corrupting its youth.
Witch bottles are usually apotropaic in nature - typically used to trap the malignant power of witchcraft; Horsingdon witch bottles, on the other hand, have often been employed in a manner wholly antithetical to their traditional application: nail or hair clippings - or some other personal effect - of the intended victim are placed within the vessel, after which the bottle is secreted in some obscure corner of their abode where it is unlikely to be discovered. The witch bottle then functions as a kind of beacon for whatever thing the sorcerous assailant has conjured for the occasion of the victim's doom - supposedly to be dragged off to some nameless place for some nameless purpose. In light of which, it is unlikely that Reverand Broadham - wherever or whatever he is now - will ever be seen again.
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
After the electrical storm last night, the Horsingdon airwaves have been awash with numeric cyphers broadcast by the regions numbers stations - some of which have been silent for decades. Whatever it is these enigmatic and impenetrable codes - often announced coldly in the uncanny electronic emulation of a human voice - seek to communicate (and to whom) remains unclear; what is certain, however, is that previous bursts of cryptologic chatter from these stations have usually heralded some significant event - usually of praeternatural provenance. Thus the possibility comes presents itself that both the storm and the feverish activity of the numbers stations are harbingers of future events yet more momentous and more monstrous...
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
In one small corner of Horsigdon, the ubiquitous transmitter arrays seem to be exerting a very different effect upon the airwaves than elsewhere in the region. Here, at the least populous reaches of Burn Hill, the transmitters seek to blanket the aural landscape with some kind of sonic dampening field; not only do radios fail to pick up any signal whatsoever within this area, but they do not even register static: just an appalling silence that seems to stretch into infinity and feels vertiginous in its density of absence - a feeling like you are falling through forever. It is well worn cliche that nature abhors a vacuum, but one wonders what kind of abnatural presence might seek to fill such a vast and unending absence as produced by the transmitters of Burn Hill.
Monday, July 17, 2017
A common trope in modern ufology, the skies of Horsingdon have not been deficient in materialising a number of its own black triangles - like the example above, photographed hovering blurrily over Horsingdon Hill - within its own overpopulous manifest of aerial phenomenon.
Contemporary ufologists tend to treat such spectacles as a species of alien craft; and whilst this may, indeed, be the case, things are rarely quite so simple when it comes to the esoteric configurations which have shaped Horsingdon and its history. In some occult traditions - including the folk iterations of much older hermetic observances employed by the guardians of the Black Bowers - the triangle is both a tool of containment and a gateway: the geometric form into which those monstrous Powers from Outside are called in rituals of evocation, and also a portal which leads to the nameless abysses from which such Powers are summoned.
The appearance of black triangles in the skies above Horsingdon may, indeed, be portent to the intrusion of alien forces - but forces vastly different to what one might care to imagine or encounter.
Sunday, July 16, 2017
Horsingdon Woods contains a number of large, circular caldera-like depressions, many of which are oddly quiet and seemingly absent of wildlife. Local legend holds that these are in fact craters left in the aftermath of 'falling stars' which were 'called down from the gulfs of space' by the Horsingdon coven at some point during the Dark Ages. There are those who claim that whatever the coven brought forth from the voids between the stars was the very thing responsible for warping and transmuting the Horsingdon landscape at some fundamental level, altering the ways in which space-time operates throughout the region - and the ultimate cause of the varied weird and uncanny events which seem to regularly afflict the borough. Whatever the truth of the matter, these hollows are always oddly quiet, exude an aura of menace, and are seemingly absent of wildlife.
Saturday, July 15, 2017
The Crooked Tree stands near the crown of Burn Hill, and is sacred to the guardians of the Black Bowers. There is something intrinsically uncanny about sites such as this, delineating as they do zones of disjuncture: places where the world somehow becomes uncoupled from linear temporal trajectories, and from the hard physics which to all appearances fix and constrain the spatial coordinates it is able to occupy; locations one only ever seems to encounter amid the desolation of sombre grey skies.
When one delves into the history of these sites, ne discovers that a large number of tales telling of monstrous apparitions and incidences of bloody violence cluster around them - memorialising a past otherwise best forgotten. Indeed, in the folk traditions of Horsingdon, the ritualised spilling of blood is often necessary to effect a renewal and regeneration of the social order, such as it is; at locales such as these the act of bloodletting serves an entirely different purpose: to force open a little further, through the psychic trauma of blood spilt, those hidden doorways to the Outside which lie outside out physical perception.
Even today one might still encounter the aftermath of an act of blood sacrifice at the foot of the Crooked Tree: a wood pidgeon whose head has been shorn from its body, or a hare with its throat torn open. It is rumoured that worse, even more bloody sacrifice is made here on the night of certain festivals. On such nights, the people of Horsingdon ensure that their children are safely in bed, and thar the doors and windows to their homes are firmly bolted well before nightfall.
Friday, July 14, 2017
At twilight, above the Church of St. Jerome near Horsingdon Wood, the sky is split for a few brief seconds by a pulsing beam of black light - accompanied by something like the sound of thunder.
The older inhabitants of the region are all-too-familiar with what such phenomena signify: someone has rent a doorway in the fabric of creation, and given licence - if only for a short time - to something which-should-not-be to stalk the world.
That the progenitors of such a monstrous act will eventually meet an unpleasant and unspeakable end - usually at the hands or nameless paws of whatever it is they have called forth - provides little succor to local residents, whose number will also be diminished on account of the mysterious disappearances which invariably occur At such times. It is likely that the streets of Horsingdon will be more deserted than usual for the next few nights.
Thursday, July 13, 2017
Yet another of James Boreham's now-derelict properties: a domicile made up of entirely windowless rooms, and possessing similarly sealed doorways - long ago bricked up by order of Horsingdon Borough Council.
Outsiders who accidentally alight upon one of these blank facades invariably raise the vexatious question as to how one is supposed to gain entrancebto the interior of the structure. For those who have spent any time whatsoever in the region, and who know something of its history - especially as it pertains to the questionable life and unspeakable works James Boreham - are all too well aware that this is entirely the wrong question to ask: for the intent of such doorless and windowless houses is not to bar entry to them, but to prevent egress into our world by those who still yet reside within the walls of these unholy habitations.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Another mysterious transmitter located along the Ebury way just outside of Horsingdon, and situated not far from a sealed concrete bunker dating from the mid-1950s - a period during which a signicant number of UFO sightings were reported in the region. By the early 1960s, such reports trailed off significantly - until the past decade, during which time the above transmitter was built. Since then, this stretch of the Ebury way has once more become somewhat notorious as a local hotspot for sightings of strange lights in the sky, encounters with other unexplained aerial phenomenon, and even confrontations with mysterious cryptids which seem to appear from nowhere - as well as with other, far stranger visitants from those praeternatural realms which teem invisibly at the thresholds of our own.
Undoubtedly there is something strange about Horsingdon and its surrounding environs: some inherent property of the landscape - the unique hypergeometric organisation of its topography, perhaps - which signals its status as one of the 'window areas' written of by John Keel: conjectural zones which delineate points of intersection between our reality and the infinte superspectrum of other worlds - in relation to which, the many transmitter arrays which dot the region seem placed in locales where the metaphyical membrane between worlds is especially thin - sites whose histories are rife with rumour of the spectral and the unearthly.
Have they, perhaps, been positioned purposely so? A calculated design replicating some arcane pattern or cryptic sigil - perhaps wrought from the ruin of those occult economies which, some conspiracy theorists claim, flourished in secret bunkers and laboratories during the most desperate hours of World War 2, and in which unspeakable secrets and inconceivable technologies of prehuman genesis constituted the principal tokens of exchange? A summoning grid, of sorts, for signalling to and calling forth those vast things that roll mindlessly in the voids of space - and within the unplumbed gulfs beyond time and space? And if such speculation turns out to be even a distorted reflection of the truth, who would do such a thing? And to what purpose?
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Near Trentford stand these crumbling ruins of ancient brickwork, surrounding an even more ancient earthwork mound or tumulus. Legend has it that this is the final resting place of Merlin - although there are many other strange and uncanny sites within the British landscape which also make similar claims.
The guardians of the Black Bowers would tell you an altogether different story - were you brave enough to ask, and willing to pay the price demanded for such knowledge: that the mound is, indeed, the burial site of a most ancient and powerful wizard - but one unnamed in the annals of the region's history, and who was not only the founder of their order, but also of the Boreham line...
They will also tell you that the occult topographies of the Horsingdon landscape sometime press upon those buried within its folds certain monstrous transfigurations - especially upon those whose substance has come to be wrought out of strange alchemies and inhuman power; thus they will also tell you that the nameless sorcerer they count as ancestor still yet walks abroad during those seasons when the stars are right, and for those not schooled in the mysteries of the Black Bowers, this is a place best avoided at night.
Monday, July 10, 2017
One of the windowless Ministry bunker's which litter the Horsingdon region. Most appear to be abandoned now, but a few - this one included - display signs of regular use. No one knows quite what goes on in these places, or why some of them are still maintained. However, those bunkers which remain operational seem to be the focal point of unusual phenomena and strange meteorological conditions: as a case in point, note the amorphous sheet of glaring light poisoning the sky in the above photograph.