I recently went for a week long stay at an isolated Yorkshire country park with my family. Though it was meant for relaxation, not everything that happened that week left me feeling relaxed. For previous notes, click here.
Day 2, May 31st, 22:13
Everything by this point has been unpacked, we’re all familiar with our new homes, and all 14 of us are well eaten. Wet footprints from the hot tub to each lodge narrate the final journeys of our day before giving ourselves to the night. Tomorrow awaits.
In the still bedroom of Cottage No.1, I am reading the new addition to my book collection, A Hangman’s Diary, whilst Nathan drifts lazily to another dimension beside me. My phone rests on my chest with its torch glowing mildly onto the thick, cream pages that my eyes are now starting to glaze over. My eyelids are heavy and my body slowly prepares itself for shut down, when I hear an obtrusive rattling from the front door. Before I even register what has happened, the rattling has stopped and everything is quiet again.
Usually, my mind would travel to the edges of my imagination to think of the most heinous, disturbing reason for what could be shaking open our only barrier from the outside world so violently, but for some reason, logic and rational thinking prevailed; reassuring me that it was only my Dad checking all of the doors to see if they were indeed locked. (Boring!)
However, all was not lost. For this act, this seemingly innocent act of paternal concern brought with it a moment that happens only a few times per year.
All logic left the premises, my mind went quiet for a moment and a fictional sequence of events began, ran it’s course, and ended all within a few seconds – a story was born.
Normally, I can’t recall what triggers off these sparks of imagination in my brain, it’s usually an emotional state of mind. Not this time. My inspiration this time, my stimulant, was something physical, something that breathed an essence of potential – something that surrounded me. I’ve told you of my first weird encounter, but I think that that was just the call to attention that it wanted, to be noticed. To be appreciated for all of its sinister energy. Within seconds, Cottage No.1 had become the setting for a narrative so unnerving that I now have to sleep with music for the duration of the stay. Once it is completed, I will share it here, but I just wanted you know that when I wrote it, I did so with the perverse assistance of the house itself. Never before have I questioned a building so much so in my life, I’m not sure if I trust it.