Thursday, December 15, 2005


I think H.P. may have had something. Re-reading 'The Thing on the Doorstep'. They are not bats, nor owls. This place is damned.

Wednesday, December 14, 2005


I'm very sorry for the lack of recent updates to my blog. It has been a trying few weeks, most notably because I was forced to fly to Australia in order to participate (against my will, I might add) in a perplexing ritual. The ensuing disortientation I experienced led me to spend many hours contemplating the cold night sky, as my mind and body seemed convinced it was daytime.
However, that is not what you want to hear. I must confess that I will, most probably, not be returning to that deplorable house in the woods, as the concluding events of our stay there were so very harrowing. Instead I have 'gone freelance', offering my ghost-hunting services to the proprietors of a rambling barn-conversion somewhere in the English countryside.
To briefly summarize: problems were first experienced here by the housekeeper, a normally level-headed man, who began complaining of a bat infestation in one of the bedrooms. Sure enough, on my arrival I found three dead bats in the room, which I was assured were not there the previous day. Additionally, several of the inhabitants of the property have heard what they describe as a 'leathery fluttering' emanating from the plughole in one of the bathrooms. When I was told by a zoologist that the dead bats I had found in the bedroom had subsequently 'disappeared' from her laboratory I realised that my hunch was right.
These are not bats.
They are psychic manifestations appearing to us as bats, but actually are something quite different. The residents have retired to a farmhouse several miles away, leaving me alone to deal with this matter. Night draws on, and I must continue with my preparations.