As the Winter’s first snow falls upon Horsingdon’s silent and sinister topography, strange signs and portents have been sighted throughout the region: through the nocturnal flurry above Horsingdon Hill, one of the local residents photographed this curious congeries of glowing orbs, which subsequently traced strange designs against the darkness before vanishing as suddenly as they had appeared.
Scant minutes ago someone else - a neighbour of mine, in fact - reported hearing an inhuman voice echoing through the darkness of Hallowmere Fields as she was walking home: though barely a whisper, the creaking, gutteral voice nonetheless remained clear and distinct, saying something so terrible that my neighbour could not bear to hear it - something so monstrous (or so she claimed) that it could never bear repeating.
Earlier in the evening, patrons enjoying a quiet pint in the Black Shuck claimed to have spied the phantom shape of a faceless, bat-winged thing lurking in the cemetary of St. Osmunds opposite the pub: a thing that squatted, for a while, on the tombstone of a long-dead women rumoured to have once been the leader of the Horsingdon Coven, before silently taking flight and disappearing into the snow-filled blackness of the night sky.
Strange times indeed for Horsingdon...
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