This October, we’re celebrating our goblins. As you’ve probably noticed, Hopeless, Maine goblins are beings who assemble themselves, and each other, from whatever comes to hand. Their ability to animate themselves is disconcerting.
We invite you to make your own goblin. As you can see from the above image, the odds are good that your kitchen already has everything you need to create a goblin of your own. Sticks, rocks, and shiny things are also a good bet.
If you take photos of goblins that we could share, that would be wonderful, please waft them our way. Hit the comments if you don’t have any other means of getting in touch.
Goblins can also be drawn, cobbled together with image software, collaged out of printed images or exciting combinations of the above. Please no AI. We want to celebrate creativity, and offer a space where anyone would be able to join in. No one needs AI to do something creative.
Frampton Jones was one of the first characters I added to the Hopeless, Maine cast list. He’s the island’s journalist. Back before there was even a webcomic, The Hopeless Vendetta existed as the island’s newspaper, getting Hopeless in front of people. When the comics started appearing as a webcomic, The Vendetta went out in parallel, adding extra dimensions to the tale.
Frampton soon started having his own tales and adventures alongside reporting what was going on. He was the person who first identified the existence of spoonwalkers. It’s hard to imagine now that there was time when islanders had no idea where all their spoons had gone.
He’s a high profile islander, with neatly starched collars that make Mrs Beaten weak at the knees. Frampton considers himself to be a serious journalist, dedicated to the truth. Other people have called him delusional, a rumour-monger, and have suggested that he often has no idea what’s really going on. Given how weird and complicated Hopeless is, and how rarely anyone can agree on what it was that emerged from the clouds, or the sea, or the ground, his is hardly an easy task.
To produce a newspaper, Frampton is obliged to recycle paper on a regular basis. He’s strident about people not using his newspaper for lavatorial purposes. He also has a big blackboard outside his home that islanders can use as a message board or to give feedback. By this means, what happens on the internet can also be fitted in to island life. I have spent a lot of time trying to make all of this make some kind of sense.
Semblance of Truth tells the tale of Frampton’s descent into madness. (Raise your hand if you’ve read too much H.P. Lovecraft.) Frampton owns a camera, and by clever means is able to develop film – this is how The Vendetta gets its pictures. This is one of those times when I have to ask that you please suspend your disbelief for the steampunk elements in the plot.
Frampton finds that what the camera sees is not what he sees, and this rapidly becomes complicated. I do usually try and explain or justify how things work on the island – for my own sanity at the very least. Sometimes we have to just accept that weird items wash in on these peculiar shores, and that said items may be possessed by entities too terrible to describe. The great thing about entities too terrible to describe is the way they let a beleaguered author off the hook in matters of feeling obliged to try and describe them or explain beyond their innate terribleness, how they actually get anything done.
So, it’s a terrible, possessed camera – clearly too terrible to describe, too eldritch to explain etc etc.
Or so Duckhouse Eddie would have thought, were he given to thoughts.
You see, Duckhouse Eddie … but I get ahead of myself.
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Delia Spatchcock.
Yes, you heard me right.
Delia.
It’s an old family name; both my father and my grand-uncle (who was also my grand-aunt for a while) went by the name Delia.
But anyway.
Duckhouse Eddie was a lodger at – well, that doesn’t actually matter for this story.
He was strongly built, with a wide chest and a narrow waist; legs almost too narrow to support his bulk, but fortunately his head was quite light because it was mostly empty. It was said that when it rained – which, given it was mostly cloudy all the time, wasn’t actually that often – that he would feel it first.
But that wasn’t why he was called Duckhouse.
He was called Duckhouse because –
Well. I’m not sure we really need to go into that.
Anyway.
To rd. Yes. Well.
Oh, is that the time? I must be going. Maybe next time. You see, there are lots of interesting people in this cul-de-foggy-sack-built-buildings area. Thing. Whatever we call this place we make a home. I shall introduce you to some more of them later.
Legend has it that on a dark and stormy night, twenty two years ago, a large egg-sack washed up on the shores of Hopeless, Maine. From it emerged a being of modest size, and about the usual number of tentacles. There are some who say that at first, this being resembled a weasel, hence the name. Others say that a weasle is an entirely different thing anyway but just as ravenous.
Over the years, James has divided Hopeless flora and fauna into two categories, primarily.
So Cute – Drury, owl demons, dustcats.
So Tasty – everything else.
His hunger does know limits, or at least he has a limited appetite for rocks.
It is best to celebrate this day by giving James offerings of food, As he has infamously low standards, anything passible edible will be attractive to him. Please do not encourage him to eat household items, this has not played out well in the past. Rumour has it that gifts of tasty food can result in odd and arcane blessings from the entity.
(Cosplay by Tracie Tink Voice, costume by Bronte Jade Voice, text by Nimue)
Usually, jellyfish women can be found in the sea. They favour shallow pools that are neither dried out by low tides nor entirely swamped by high ones. They also like sheltered coves – the sort that are ideal for launching small fishing boats.
It is therefore rather unsettling to have a sighting of one in the woods. Is this a new development for jellyfish women, or have they aways been able to get out of the sea at will? We’ve all seen the occasional migrations of lobsters between the woods and the shore, and we know that tentacles get everywhere, but there has been some comfort in thinking that mostly what lives in the sea stays in the sea.
(Image kindly donated by Captain Kuppa T, text by Keith Errington)
Standing by the railing of the Airship Lady Grey, Captain Horatio KuppaT surveyed the skies. It was a beautiful clear day, and he could see from the spires of Oxford right across the Cotswolds. After a few moments, he turned and appraised his craft. It wasn’t a large airship by any means, but in the Captain’s mind, it was a perfectly formed vessel crewed with loyal shipmates. He scanned the deck, checking that everything was suitably airship-shape.
As he was doing so, his first mate, Stoker Sam, popped his head up from below and joined the Captain, who then tutted loudly.
“Captain?” queried Sam, who could see the Captain was not happy.
“Your balls, man!” The Captain said.
“What?” Sam was taken aback and immediately checked his trousers.
“Stow your balls.” The Captain ordered.
“I… err…”
“Your cannonballs, man. They are about to become loose. We can’t have your balls all over the deck – what would Lady Mojo say!”
“Aye, aye, Captain – I’ll get on it straight away.” And Sam went to attend to the task.
As if summoned by the mention of her name, Lady Mojo sauntered across the deck. As always, she was attired in a most colourful and splendid outfit. She exuded grace and charm.
“Good Morning, Captain.” She said. “Everything okay!”
“Oh, Yes. Just talking to Sam about his balls.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh,” the Captain sighed. “Look, err… Never mind. “Are you ready for it?”
“What?” Lady Mojo looked shocked.
“Are you ready for the experiment?”
“I think three people is enough, Captain. I don’t think I could handle one more. Although that waiter the other day was very fit…”
“I’m not talking about the band, Lady Mojo.”
“Neither was I, to be fair.” Countered Lady Mojo, smiling wistfully.
“Are you ready to try the new drive? The experimental airship drive?”
“Oh, yes, Captain – all ready”, replied Lady Mojo, composing herself. “It’s all very exciting, isn’t it?”
Sam had returned from the minor task and was waiting expectantly.
“Stoker Sam, fire up the prototype Oolong drive!” The captain commanded.
It was only a few days ago that the experimental displacement drive had been installed amidships under the watchful eye of the maker, Herr Doktor. The drive was based on an idea dreamed up by Professor Elemental. The Captain was honoured that these two titans of the steampunk world had chosen his airship to test it out. Although, at the back of his mind, he did rather wonder why they didn’t test it themselves. Still, they seemed awfully keen that someone else should have the honour of its maiden voyage, which was very humble of them.
Sam disappeared behind the machinery and a faint rumble issued from the drive.
“Brace yourself!” Warned the Captain.
“We are not doing that again!” said Lady Mojo sternly.
The Captain was about to point out he was only referring to the drive when the whole ship shimmered… no… actually… everything shimmered. The airship, the landscape below them, the clouds and themselves. There was a whoosh, followed by a sucking noise, and then their ears popped, and they appeared to be somewhere else. The blue skies had gone to be replaced by a grey, slightly foggy sky. In between wisps of fog, they could see land below, but it certainly wasn’t England. It was dark and, somehow, menacing.
There was a slight grinding noise as the Captain announced, “It worked! It bally worked!
“Ahem.” Said Sam, who had just run up to the Captain and was now standing to attention.
“We’ve been transported somewhere else!” Said the Captain excitedly. “Well, I must admit I had my doubts, but those two scallywags have actually done it! Total displacement!”
“CAPTAIN!” Sam shouted as the grinding stopped, and the airship lurched slightly.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Sam.” The Captain chided, “Can’t you see this is a significant moment? We are the first people to be displaced!”
“There’s a slight problem…” said Sam.
“Slight?” Asked the Captain.
“Minor, really.”
“How minor?
“The sort of crashing into the ground, minor,” replied Sam.
“Ah… WHAT?”
“Well, the motors that keep the airship moving have failed – and for some reason, the balloon is not keeping us in the air. We are drifting…
“Aha…”
“And slowly descending.”
“I see. Well, can we use the Oolong drive again? Asked the Captain.
“Not without the motors – they power the Oolong drive too.”
“Oh, cannonballs!” Exclaimed the Captain loudly. “Hmm. Well, in that case, there is only one thing for it.”
“What’s that?” asked Sam.
“I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
“Excellent thinking, Horatio!” affirmed Lady Mojo.
A few minutes later, sipping his tea, the Captain could see they were indeed sinking.
“So where are we, Sam?” Asked the Captain.
“We appear to be above an island, but not one that’s on any map. There seems to be nothing but spikey vegetation directly below us. We are going down. It’s hopeless.”
“Ah. I’ve been thinking.” The Captain stated.
“Is that wise?” Asked Lady Mojo.
Ignoring her gentle chide, the Captain continued, “If we were lighter, we might go up. Which would buy us some time.”
“Yes, Captain.” Agreed Sam.
“Right, start tossing Sam.” Ordered the Captain.
“What? Here? Now?” Sam looked aghast.
Dear Lord, thought the Captain, why did his crew not understand simple English? “Jettison all unessential supplies.”
“Aye, aye!” Sam looked relieved.
Sam did as he was told. Minutes later, it was clear that tossing several crates of supplies overboard had only slowed their descent.
“It’s not enough, Captain!” Sam pointed out.
“I can see that. Quick, find something else we can lose. What’s left?”
“Well, there is one thing…”
“Do it, man! This is life and death here!”
“Are you sure, Captain?”
“Look, just get on with it, will you – no time to waste!”
More crates were tossed overboard. They were perilously close to the ground now. But the airship had finally stopped descending.
“Not sure how long it will last without fixing the motors. If only we could fix them, we could inflate the balloon and get moving again.” Explained Stoker Sam.
“Right, well, yes. I think more tea is called for, don’t you, Lady Mojo?”
“Certainly Horatio. Tea!” Agreed Lady Mojo.
“Ah…” said Sam in a significant way.
“Ah?” queried the Captain.
“Well, the last thing we dumped…”
“Yes?” said the Captain slowly, drawing out the word.
“Was all our tea,” explained Sam.
“My God, man! Are you serious?”
“Yes”
“Why the bally badger would you toss the tea? We’re not colonials, you know. What were you thinking?”
“But you said it was life and death,” Sam protested.
“Be reasonable, man! Tea IS life and death!” The Captain shuddered. “Dear Lord, the situation is worse than I thought. We are in dire need!”
The Captain struck a heroic pose. He found it helped him think. “Right, what’s wrong with the motors?”
“As far as I can tell, the drive belt was displaced by effects of the Oolong drive”.
“Displaced? Where?”
“I don’t know, Captain, somewhere else.”
“Hmm.” The Captain struck a second, even more heroic pose.
After a few seconds, the Captain asked, “How long is it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. This is getting ridiculous. How long is the drive belt?”
“Oh. It’s only a small one – four or five feet maximum.” Answered Sam.
“Aha!” The Captain exclaimed. “Here, take my scarf; it’s made of Unbelievabum – strong as steel!”
“I knitted it myself!” Lady Mojo added proudly.
Sam shook his head but did as he was told. He disappeared, and for a few minutes, there were muffled sounds of work.
Suddenly, there was a low humming that the Captain and Lady Mojo recognised.
“The engines!” They exclaimed together.
“Yes,” said the Captain, “They do seem to be running again.”
Within minutes, the balloon was reinflating, and the ship began to rise. Sam returned to them with a slightly smug look on his face.
“Fantastic!” He said, smiling. “That ridiculous trick with the scarf worked! Thank Goodness. We can go home now.”
The Captain looked appalled. “Are you insane, man? Somewhere down there is the tea. Our tea! We have to find it, land and get it back!
Following on from the great success of his ghostwalking service, Artemus Deadman is now offering unexorcisms.
Have you had a friend or loved one exorcised recently? Did it not go to plan? Granted, none of us really enjoyed the way Horace Chevin used to screech during the period when he appeared to have been possessed by the spirit of a furious chicken, but what happened next was so much worse.
Reverend Davies’ exorcism returned Horace to his original condition. At which point he took up yelling about foreigners and newcomers and how we ought to throw shipwreckees back in the sea because there isn’t enough milk to go round at the best of times and they do it to themselves because they’re heard about how good our milk is.
On reflection, the Chevin family decided that Horace’s personal belief in the health benefits of drinking your own urine was also rather unpleasant. It turned out that while he thought he was a furious chicken, his personal hygiene greatly improved, and there were far fewer incidents where he actually bit anyone.
Unexorcism fixed all of this, and Horace is back to scratching around in the yard and occasionally eating worms. He shrieks, but he says mercifully little. It turns out to be the least troubling option.
If you’ve tried exorcism, and it hasn’t worked for you, then pay a visit to Artemus Deadman. He will undertake to coax the exorcised spirit back into its former vessel and return your loved one to a more manageable state.
Unexorcism, because sometimes demons aren’t anything like as horrible as the people they’ve possessed.
Are you troubled by restless ghosts? Has there been too much moaning and throwing stuff about lately? Is it all a bit much?
Do you like them too much to want to get Reverend Davies to exorcise them? Consider hiring Artemus Deadman to exercise them instead!
Ghosts benefit from a change of scenery, from a bit of fresh air and the chance to billow about somewhere different now and then. Artemus Deadman is an expert in providing recreational opportunities for the departed. Give your ghosts a grand day out and enjoy some peace and quiet in their temporary absence.
(You can find out more about what Artemus Deadman really does on ghostwalks over here – https://adeadman.co.uk/ . Text by Nimue)
Weavers are subtle, magical creatures. In theory you can find weavers anywhere that there is some sort of life. In practice they can be sadly rare.
Here on the island we have our agents of change – small but powerful entities who like to rearrange things. Often their intentions are mysterious to the point of seeming entirely random. To encounter them is to be altered.
If you encounter Rebecca Adams you are likely to experience change, although she does not seem to be an agent of change herself. The transformations she brings about are so subtle that it has taken a while for anyone to really notice what she’s been doing. People who spend a lot of time with her, especially people who sit with her when she is making cloth, are altered.
At the moment we’re seeing a considerable rise in magical ability on the island. This has happened since the fog became less oppressive. Rebecca seems to be a particular node for new magic, with those who come into close contact with her becoming more obviously magical themselves.
That Rebecca makes weavings out of fibres of course makes it tempting to think she might also be the other sort of weaver. Having spoken at length with occultists and folklorists on the island, I am not much the wiser. Of course all such magically inclined residents are aware of the stories about weavers, but none admit to having knowingly encountered one. Still, it is a delightful thing to watch Rebecca at work, and to feel the soft rhythms of her creating wash gently over your soul, and stir parts of you that previously you had not even been aware of.
This year, the volunteering committee has decided that henceforth, lots should be drawn publicly rather than the usual, private procedure favoured in previous years. This comes after a mistake that resulted in Dominic Wolfgang Wallace being unable to carry out his volunteer duties at the last full moon.
This may have been a genuine error, but somehow Dominic’s lot was drawn for three separate extremely hazardous volunteering jobs, and his attendance of the underwater breathing apparatus test meeting got in the way of his being able to go on vampire patrol, and also left him bereft of an opportunity to attend a recent cliff-top cultist meeting.
Obviously no enterprising young islander would want to have their options so sorely limited. Who knows how long it might be before the cultists next seek a ‘volunteer’?
So, rather than having to wait for that knock at the door, or the letter of summons, we’re all going to meet on the village green every Friday to draw lots in public. Some of you may be surprised to learn that we even have a village green. Apparently it used to be so foggy that you could hardly see it, but it is quite visible in the swirling mist that now fills it.
Meanwhile, Dominic has been volunteered to make sure everyone knows about the change to the system.
(Wolfgang was volunteered for this post by Jennifer Lewis-Auger)
