Certain statues seem to throb with pagan power. Cast bronze caught summoning something simultaneously old and vital. As if the folk who commission such things were involved in a conspiracy to enchant the streets and parks of Coreham. No wonder people leave offerings at their feet. – #MattAdams, 1982

Goodnight from Brighthaven’s Winter Palace, where the wrestling bout between Lightning Lane and Iron Cyclops has attracted the attention of wagering gods. Goodnight from Fiona Low, marking Spring Equinox with Faery rushlights and a blade made from shadows. Goodnight from Hookland.

In difficult times people petition the Mare de la Mer, on behalf of ageing relatives, loved ones, strangers in need. 'May the Mare de la Mer offer fierce comfort, may the Mare de la Mer protect us all' (traditional Hookland prayer and blessing) @hookland.bsky.social

In my wooden temple, I can hear the land singing its songs of renewal as the trees pull on their green gowns again. In dappled kiss across my skin, growing hope of magics yet to come. This is a time when witchery is fierce bliss. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchSky #Spring

Depictions of owls in Hookland are claimed as avatars for their Queen. Every carved set of eyes, every stitched set of tufted ears, ever pair of painted wings. All are her agents. She peers at us from pictures, hears us at prayer. Those with secrets beg her mercy. – #CLNolan

The Green Grandmother of Hookland. Blessed equinox to you.

My apologies for not being able to reply to your goodnights individually tonight. I am a little poorly. Hopefully, normal serviced will be resumed before too long.

Goodnight from Martha Gad, her witch wages this week extending to several extra port and lemons down The Wren’s Crown. Goodnight from 36 Garston Street, where the poltergeist has grown tired of knocking walls and has turned its attention to building a chapel from Lego. Goodnight from Hookland.

There are streets in Ashcourt where time is sluggish. You may turn a corner and end up not knowing which decade you are walking through. There's a sudden enfolding fear that getting back to 1980 might not be so easy. A sense that nostalgia is always dangerously baited trap. – #MattAdams

These are overly kind words when applied to me, but accurate when applied to what we are all trying to do with our storytelling. We excavate the ghost soil to find and connect.

Goodnight from Bella Ford, detecting Morse messages in the flickering mercury white light of Bridge Street’s lamps. Goodnight from Clive Cooper, wondering who’s repainting wild animal crossing road signs to depict the Lord of the Forest’s antlered skull. Goodnight from Hookland.

For what if I pause at a certain point on the path and pay my respect to a phantom? Do the dead deserve less than curtesy? Are they not owed politeness? If a ghost has had the manners to regularly manifest at a certain spot, I'll happily raise my hat to it. – #CLNolan #Ghosts

Sometimes when you climb Stepstone Hill it's hard not to imagine that you are on an island. You look down and can feel an incoming ghost tide. Waves of phantoms coming across the fields below. Spectre surrounded, a sense of being above time. – Frances Tailwood #VOH

Goodnight from George Cobb, mystified as to how all the owl-faced monkeys in his care have vanished from Coreham Zoo. Goodnight from May Hocking, the bowl of blood at the foot of her bed rippling as it detects the presence of approaching Half-there Folk. Goodnight from Hookland.

Give me a sky with clouds for nephomancy, a tangled field edge for phytognomy and I shall tell you tomorrow. For nature gifts every tool needed to look around the corner of time. The witch does not want for signs. Any walking brings a cascade of omens. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

The witch is her feral conversations with the land. The witch is her fluid conversations with the river. For all magics involve relationships. To walk and to talk with the spirits of place is to move into their mysteries. In our listening is learning. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

You'll come across practitioners who will play hierarchical status games by telling you that your cauldron is cringey. These are the same people who will judge you on their continuity fantasies with no historical basis. Forget them. Witchcraft is what works. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

Goodnight from Brian Danbury’s latest book signing, where hecklers calling him a ‘monster botherer’ are really getting under his skin. Goodnight from Ellie Marling, speaking the names of the restless dead to the wind so it can carry them to where they need to be. Goodnight from Hookland.

What of those White Tower ghosts that walk mid-air? Their walls ruin-reduced, they still stride as if stones were still at apogee. Are these temporal echoes or spirits with no knowledge of the now? Wither way, we must allow their observers an extra portion of discombobulation. – #CJosiffe #Ghosts

Everyone has their own intimate telling of spring's arrival – colt's foot sighting, ash growth, crab apple blossom. For the children in my class it seems to be the first reliable report from a classmate that a Stay Below has been spotted in Thornley Pool. – Joanna Vickers, 1982 #VOH

Elfwisk – a Hookland dialect word for fate. While it can be translated as god-wished, it's more often used to imply that ill or fortunate happenstances in a person’s life are being manipulated by unseen forces of a somewhat lower order, often for no reason other than their fierce merriment. #WOTD

King Under Sea of Hookland. Good morning.

Goodnight from the Thraxstone Cider Works, where certain obscure rites are being carried out to ensure the company’s continuing success. Goodnight from Dr. Emma Cade, hoping to be wowed by narrowband signals on her shift at the Hine Radio Astronomy Observatory. Goodnight from Hookland.

We've reached that turn in the year where we may find moss nests holding written wishes in our sacred spaces. The wise witch is secure in her sorceries. She shares the landscape with different folk faiths, enjoys a diversity of magics– #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchSky #Spring

We risk the road. We risk its ghosts, its possibility of timeslips. We travel in the knowledge that we may be lost beyond easy return. For this is Hookland. Its hodology is haunted. Its navigations rarely bypass the strange. – #DAKilroy, 1982

The witch walks through hedges. The witch walks through the wall of the woods. She knows the words of passing, knows the politeness owed to gates of thorn and tangle. Her constant conversation to the land leads her to secret places, leaf-cloaked sanctuaries. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

Goodnight from The Bronze Heart pub, where the prophetic paws of Jackie its resident cat are in demand for tips on next week’s Pools. Goodnight from Bryony Mayford, convinced one of the walls she just flyposted with The Bone Collective bills growled at her. Goodnight from Hookland.

It is my view Nokes that half the things we end up having to investigate wouldn’t come to pass if people had a bit more tolerance and some small part of kindness in their bloody hearts. - #DICallaghan

Each stretch of land gifted with stones is at some level enchanted. For the the Long Neolithic leaks impossible narratives, disrupts our sense of the now. It makes claim to the imagination. The stones are storytellers. The stones make us storytellers. – Dr. K Brophy #StandingStoneSunday

There are some parts of the wood where winter lingers. Tangled stretches that seem unwilling to move forward till the resident Wood Sprite wakes. Snowbell alarms were missed and they continue to growl in their sleep, dreams leaking out as grey headache into a cowered bosk.

Goodnight from the queue for The Arcadia’s midnight showing, where some folk are having second thoughts about seeing a film titled The Devil’s Staircase. Goodnight from Terry Hollis, not sure if the hitchhiker he’s picked up is a Mick Ronson impersonator or a UFOnaut, Goodnight from Hookland.

Occasionally you come across mausoleums bereft of bodies. Some seem to have been waiting patiently for decades to receive corpses that never came. Others hold a sense of having been abandoned by their residents. Stare too long at their locked gates and you may risk a revenant's return. – #CLNolan

Right. Now that I don't have to keep paying lawyers, I can go back to being particular about gigs and working on dream projects. (I've got one lifetime and nothing is promised) This means a collaboration with @hookland.bsky.social is back at the top of my list among other things.

I know there are folk who want to come on social media to show they share the humour of a nine-year old who thinks bum, winkie and poo are the best words in the world, but it’s not for me. Please note, bring it to my timeline and I will ignore and hide, because I am an old, weary curmudgeon.

Out at the brackish end of the Restal Waste, the King-Under-the-Sea shows off boats that did not pay their tide tithe. Mud-fast and salt-bullied, they serve as slow sacrifices. Reminders to pay your dues. Out here, no debt to the monarch goes uncollected. – #DAKilroy

It was a gentle March day, the sort where the village politely coughed its ghosts and pretended there wasn't that much to shiver about. The pub had beer, the shop had biscuits and the gossip only rated 4.2 on the established Banley Spite scale. – Charlotte Perry, 'Doom Pond Diary', 1982

Goodnight from The Last Number nightclub, its doormen well-versed in the dark arts of keeping more than aled up bastards from crossing its threshold. Goodnight from Cherry Lane in Childford, the trees singing cradle songs to its sleeping Moss Maiden. Goodnight from Hookland.

We are watched with carved disdain, watched with stone sneers. Our ephemeral lives are nothing but flicker in the thousand-year stare of lithic lookouts. Time is different for them. We are no more than fast insect blur, ghost vapour. The default of grotesques is contempt. – #DAKilroy

After The Hum became silent, many of the Pylon People who had spent years following below its electric ley, went to live in canal boats on the cut. Often they moored close if not below transmission towers. Still at the ragged margins, waiting for The Hum to return. Waiting to march to again.

Of course, some zines defy easy labels …

Goodnight from Lucas Bradley, carefully making dust sigils as he beds down for another night of rough sleeping in the crypt of St. Brewald’s. Goodnight from Stedman’s Scrapyard, where cars protest the crusher in rust rasp voices and metal screams into the wind. Goodnight from Hookland.

Traditionally the collective nouns for ghosts are an ambush, a stare, a whispering. In the county a risk of ghosts, a procession of ghosts and an unsettling of ghosts are common as are a nagging of ghosts and a disturbance of ghosts.

The county has long history of places that wander. Pubs. Churches. Even whole villages you cannot trust to stay still, to be where you remember when you attempt to revisit. We have centuries of reports that the White Tower is not always at the end of usual track. – George Kindred, 'Haunted Hookland'

Some villages hold their hurts with fearsome grip. Stones leak stories, shadows are spirit-stalked. A visitor may find them picturesque, but the resident knows them as harsh haunted. Mortwell is such a village. It is a risk of ghosts. – #CJosiffe

Goodnight from Weychester Morris, where a record number of injuries have been sustained practising the Leaping Devil stick dance. Goodnight from Felix Draper, rubbing his finger around a glass of apple brandy to produce the tone that summons the Krath Malgav. Goodnight from Hookland.

The witch feels the land's waking. Feels the greening of her soul. Her sorceries grow, her sorceries bloom. A thousand new feral songs swim her blood. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchSky

Goodnight from Lewis Bramwell, comforted by the thought that if he dies due to tripping on one of the hundreds of books on his staircase at least his ghost will have a lot to read. Goodnight from Gemma Cross, scrabbling to make a chalk circle around her bed. Goodnight from Hookland.

Once you realise many tombs are nothing more than dream incubation chambers for the dead, a walk in Ashcourt Necropolis becomes a navigation of visions. No amount of bricked thresholds stops them leaking. Stay still too long and you risk being caught in terminal ephialtes. – #CLNolan

Folk faith sorceries often deploy like to thwart like. A system of sympathetic magic to defeat hostilities believed to be walking abroad. The placement of Wicker Queens on agricultural land as field wards is an example of imitative practice and many a farmer will tell you it works. – Dr. M. Benn

Goodnight from Kit Ambler, finding the journey home from his Harrowhound PTSD support group even more difficult than usual. Goodnight from the abandoned armaments factory at Bishopbere, where the temporal shades of Canary Girls remain stained by TNT. Goodnight from Hookland.