It was the Monday before Lammas, or Lughnasadh, if you prefer, and the fog that hung around the island of Hopeless had developed an unusual  texture. It was not just a matter of thickness – after all, Hopeless is no stranger to air so heavy it could be sliced like offal, but this was something new. It glistened. It clung. It made the hair on the back of the neck stand up and whisper a warning. It tasted faintly of ozone and no small amount of danger.

Philomena Bucket was standing at the kitchen window of The Squid and Teapot, elbow-deep in a bowl of glutinous batter, when she first noticed it. The fog was moving. There was nothing particularly unusual with that, but this fog wasn’t moving with the tide. Not with the wind, either. It rolled, as though something was pushing it from within. Then it pulsed. And then it parted.

Philomena could have sworn that she saw a figure step out of it. A woman?

She blinked… surely no one could possibly…

The fog peeled away like a bandage drawn from a wound, to reveal a tall, sharp-shouldered silhouette trudging up the cobbled path with the slow, deliberate tread of someone deeply unimpressed by the reality in which they found themselves.  A white coat flapped around her calves like a war banner. Beneath it, she wore a crisp white blouse, tight leather trousers and knee-length black boots, splattered with sea-brine and flecked with ash. In her hand was a small, battered suitcase covered in faded labels, some in languages that hadn’t existed for centuries.

She did not knock.

The door simply opened, and the woman stepped inside.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was low, amused and precise as a scalpel.

 “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Doctor Pyralia Skant. I was wondering where you might keep your volatile compounds and hexing powders?”

Philomena stared, refusing to be drawn.

“We’ve nettle tea, or ale, if it’s not too early,” she said.

The woman blinked. “Disappointing. I  heard that you were a witch.”

“Then you heard wrong,” said Philomena indignantly, her fingers firmly crossed behind her back.

“Then I’ll go for the nettle tea, please, dear,” said Dr Skant, with a dazzling smile.

“There’s definitely a touch of Caesar’s wife about our Dr Skant,” observed Reggie Upton wistfully, smoothing his moustache as he watched her leave the inn some time later. “Tall, elegant, imperious, beautiful…”

“I’m surprised that you noticed,” said Philomena, suppressing a smirk.

Dr Skant had implied that she was on Hopeless as an exile. From where or why, she gave no clue. One thing that is certain is that nobody, with the possible exception of Mr Squash, comes to the island of their own volition.  Everyone agreed, however, that the woman was an enigma; a stranger – yet somehow, a familiar stranger. 

Tenzin claimed he had once glimpsed her in a dream, where the Yeti spoke of her in whispers. Reggie muttered something about being certain that they had enjoyed a brief liaison once in Cairo, back in ’83. He recalled that there had been some unfortunate business concerning a hatpin and a dirigible. 

Uniquely, Drury the skeletal hound adored her immediately and followed the white-coated doctor like an obedient bag of bones. When he barked, she barked back, only in Dog Latin.

By Tuesday night, she’d commandeered the upper floors of the abandoned lighthouse, installed a collection of humming brass devices that occasionally howled in agony, and lined the spiral staircase with glowing sigils that made grown men forget their middle names.

“I’m just tidying,” she claimed breezily, flicking ash off her lapel.

Wednesday brought a problem. The tides, already erratic, began delivering some quite unusual cargo.

Seth Washwell discovered a bathtub full of toads, each one croaking Shakespearean insults. Within an hour they had all hopped away and, fortunately, were never seen, or indeed heard, again.

More disturbing was the severed human arm that washed up on Mrs Beaten’s front garden. By Hopeless standards this would not have been particularly worrying, but the fact that it was holding a still-lit candle gave it a definite tinge of weirdness.

Strangest of all was the  perfectly preserved haddock that whispered the date of the listener’s death. This caused widespread panic until someone pointed out that the dates mentioned had all passed some centuries earlier.

Doc Willoughby, sitting in his surgery, opined that these sudden aberrations were simply “a case of seasonal aquamancy”. As no one had the foggiest idea what he meant, it was generally assumed that his analysis was correct. Only Durosimi O’Stoat, whose business was sorcery and whose temperament inclined towards vinegar in human form, glared up at the lighthouse and muttered, “This is all down to that blasted woman.” Something, however, persuaded him that to pursue the matter would be pointless, if not fatal.

It was Thursday when the children in the Pallid Rock Orphanage began prophesying.

Little Alma Place dropped her spoon at breakfast and said, “There’ll be fire before the feast, and Reverend Davies will lose his hat.” 

The Reverend, seated at the top of the table, snorted in derision, just as the kettle exploded and catapulted his best trilby into the porridge pot.

The islanders were quickly reaching the end of their collective tether. By dusk, a mild panic was setting in. The ghost of Father Stamage retired into his hat. Neville Moore’s raven, Lenore, started muttering about someone called Annabel Lee and, as if waiting for a cue, the fog turned purple.

Philomena had had enough. She marched purposefully up to the lighthouse, Rhys trailing behind her with a resigned look upon his face.

The door swung open before she knocked.

“Yes?” came the voice. Sweet, curious, edged like a scalpel.

“I think you might be the cause of something odd,” said Philomena, folding her arms. “Or perhaps several somethings. Hopeless appears to be shifting.”

Dr Skant raised an eyebrow. “Darling, Hopeless is always shifting. I’ve merely suggested a new rhythm. One a little more… interesting.”

“What is it you’re doing?”

Dr. Skant turned and gestured to the centre of the room.

A great brass ring hovered in midair, spinning slowly. Inside it, suspended like a child’s mobile, were shards of broken mirrors, tiny orbs of bone, and one single, still-beating eyeball, which, happily, belonged to no one present. It made a faint thrumming sound. The walls of the lighthouse shimmered faintly, as if unsure whether they looked best in lavender or blue.

“Fixing things,” she said. “For years Hopeless has stumbled along like a badly designed clock. I’m here to help it tick.”

“By making children prophets and causing Neville’s raven to completely lose the few remaining marbles she had left?”

Dr Skant unbuttoned her lab coat, and grinned, wide and unrepentant.

“Yes darling. Delicious isn’t it?”

By Friday, things became silly. Osbert Chevin’s shadow ran off without him. The church bell rang twelve times in fluent Welsh. Someone saw a lobster in a velvet waistcoat proposing marriage to a length of rope. Even for Hopeless, this sort of behaviour was untenable.

And then… everything stopped.

Just for a moment. The wind, the sea, the breath in every living lung. Time held its breath like a child playing hide and seek.

Dr Skant stood atop the lighthouse, her white lab coat flaring, arms raised to the boiling violet clouds. Then she spoke a single word that fractured into a thousand unreadable syllables.

And just as suddenly the madness passed.

The sky cleared. The fog dissipated. The children woke, smiling. The tides settled. Somewhere in the far distance a colony of Shakespearean Toads gently exploded. 

Hopeless resumed its usual irregularities.

On Saturday, Dr. Skant came back down to The Squid and Teapot. She was wearing stiletto heels, an event never before witnessed on the island. She ordered a pot of nettle tea and enquired after Drury’s health, scolded Tenzin for not using his third eye enough, and kissed Reggie’s cheek for no other reason than to fluster him.

“You’re staying?” Philomena asked, warily.

Dr. Skant smiled, languid and strange.

“Where else could I go, darling? This is the only place that makes sense to me.”

“And probably the one place you can’t easily leave,” mused Philomena, who wisely kept the thought to herself as she poured more tea.

Outside, the fog curled lovingly around the windows.

And deep beneath the island, something ancient chuckled.

It came as something of a shock to Philomena Bucket when Reggie Upton mentioned, in passing, that it was his birthday.

Why this should have come as a shock is difficult to say. Philomena had never doubted that Reggie had, at some point, been born, so it stood to reason that he would, eventually, be the recipient of a birthday like anyone else.

It was just that… well, he was Reggie, and should surely be immune to the passage of time.

An old soldier, spry and dashing in his own faintly mothballed way, Reggie was the last person Philomena wanted to see fade gently into obscurity.

“He must be on the cemetery side of sixty, at least,” commented Rhys Cranham, up to his elbows in soapy water.

Philomena shot him a withering look as she accepted a freshly washed plate.

“That’s an awful thing to say,” she said. “Reggie is remarkably sprightly and dapper for a… ” She faltered.

“Senior citizen?” offered Rhys.

“I was going to say, for a man who has survived so many military campaigns.”

“He was an officer,” said Rhys. “Hardly cannon fodder, was he?”

“I think he’s seen his share of warfare,” Philomena replied flatly. “And now that we know it’s his birthday, we should give him a present.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “What on earth can we give Reggie that he hasn’t already got? He’s got more in that travelling trunk than everyone else on the island put together.”

This was true. Reggie’s trunk was cavernous, and the contents – bespoke suits, medals, monogrammed cravats, and an alarming number of dancing pumps – suggested an adventurous and rather theatrical life.

“We could throw him a party,” said Philomena. “Some food. A few drinks. A spot of entertainment, maybe.”

“Les Demoiselles?” said Rhys, a little too quickly.

“I suppose so, if  they’re willing to dance. Hopefully Mirielle has shaken off that poetry virus.”

When the Contagious Poetry epidemic recently swept through Hopeless, Maine, Mirielle D’Illay had taken longer than most to recover. Channelling the velvet-draped decadence of Paul Verlaine, she had acquired the uncharacteristic habit of whispering lilac-scented verse into her pillow and wandering the island barefoot.

Always ready to chase away the despondency that clings to Hopeless like its omnipresent fog, Philomena threw herself into party planning. The Edison Bell phonograph was ceremoniously retrieved from the attic, and its wax cylinders gently dusted. A curiously subdued and perfumed Mirielle promised the services of Les Demoiselles (formerly of the Moulin Rouge). Food and drink would be free to all, thereby assuring a good turnout.

The menu at The Squid and Teapot is, by necessity, inventive at the best of times. In honour of Reggie’s birthday, however, it edged into the exquisitely unorthodox. Alongside the inn’s signature Starry-Grabby Pie, Philomena’s array of crudités and charcuterie was served with a garnish of mystery and a strong recommendation not to ask too many questions.

The evening arrived. Regardless of their feelings for Reggie, the island’s usual suspects – including a suspiciously punctual Doc Willoughby – arrived early and jostled for the best seats, where discerning connoisseurs of the Terpsichorean arts might best appreciate the high-kicking talents of Les Demoiselles.

Drury, the skeletal hound, snored beneath a table, his occasional clattering twitches punctuating the hum of cutlery and conversational oddity. He was awaiting the inevitable strains of Molly Malone, as squeezed from the phonograph by a strangulated Irish tenor. Drury had developed a soft spot for the titular seafood vendor, who apparently plied her trade in thoroughfares of variable width.

Outside, the fog thickened.

And within it… something watched.

He’d been standing there for an hour. Perhaps longer. It was hard to say with the Glimmer Man. Time didn’t pass in his presence so much as slink away, ashamed.

Like many things on Hopeless, he had not asked to be there. He’d been spat out from some other dimension and stripped of everything but a coat stitched from shadows and a pair of glowing orange eyes, which tonight stared through the steamed windows with an expression not quite sad, not quite hungry, but some mournful cocktail of both.

He was beginning to unnerve the guests.

“Is he still there?” whispered Reggie, peering over his tankard of Old Colonel.

Philomena wiped her hands on her apron. “He is. And he’s started fogging the glass just by looking at it.”

“You can’t blame him,” muttered Norbert Gannicox. “He’s probably haunting us because he’s lonely.”

“He’s not haunting,” Philomena said firmly. “He’s loitering existentially.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” grumbled Rhys. “Why now?”

No one replied. No one truly knew what the Glimmer Man wanted. He did not speak. He barely moved. He simply yearned.

“Someone should talk to him,” Philomena said at last.

Rhys made a noise like a distressed pheasant and suddenly found something urgent to do in the kitchen.

With a sigh, and the calm authority of someone accustomed to banishing the uninvited dead, Philomena prepared to step outside. Then she felt a hand on her arm.

It was Mirielle D’Illay.

“Do not send him away,” she whispered, her usually raucous voice barely audible. “I feel his anguish.”

“Anguish?” Philomena blinked.

“Oui.” Mirielle took out a lavender-scented handkerchief. “I will speak to him.”

Philomena watched the dancer vanish into the mist. From the doorway, she caught the end of what Mirielle was murmuring; soft French verse, spoken to the night:

“Au calme clair de lune, triste et beau,
Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres,
Et sangloter d’extase les jets d’eau,
Les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres…”

“She’s still not rid of that poetry virus,” Philomena thought grimly. And yet, despite not understanding a word, she found herself weeping.

The fog was thick and still. The Glimmer Man watched Mirielle retreat into the inn. Philomena remained in the doorway, unmoving.

But he didn’t follow.

Instead, the air around him shimmered faintly in the moonlight, revealing the ghosts of things no one cared to remember: lost lovers, missed chances, birthdays forgotten again.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head. It might have been a nod. Or merely the flicker of an old sadness. The mist around him sighed. Philomena heard the faintest ripple of something like a voice, drifting across the veil:

“I was meant to meet someone… I think.”

She stepped closer. The fog curled around her feet  like curious cats.

“Who were you meeting?”

He did not reply. His eyes, though half-shrouded, held centuries of waiting.

“I don’t think they’re coming,” she said gently. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not welcome to stay. There’s a bench round the back; it faces the fen, where the marsh spirits live. You can see their lights from there sometimes.”

He didn’t move, but something in the atmosphere loosened. The air lightened, slightly.

Then the Glimmer Man turned – slowly, as if compelled by some internal tide – and walked around the side of the inn, fading into the fog. A shimmer of something grateful, or possibly  wistful, trailed in his wake.

Inside, the tension lifted like a fog-dampened blanket. Drury barked at a hatstand and went back to sleep.

Philomena re-entered, brushing droplets of mist from her sleeves.

“Well?” asked Rhys.

“He’s fine,” she said. “Mirielle and I appear to have soothed his anguish, between us.”

Rhys wisely said nothing. He had long since given up trying to understand what went on in his wife’s head.

And so, at The Squid and Teapot, life continued. Starry-Grabby pies were made, secrets exchanged, and lately, the melancholy figure occasionally peering through the window was met not with fear but with kindness.

After all, everyone on Hopeless is hoping for something.

Even the Glimmer Man.

Author’s Note: The lines spoken by Mirielle (chosen for their gentle sorrow and dreamlike atmosphere, in keeping with the quiet longing of the Glimmer Man) are taken from Clair de Lune (1869) by the French poet Paul Verlaine, a leading figure of the Symbolist movement. 

“Well,” said Philomena Bucket, disgustedly, “that was a fat lot of good.”

She gazed down at the grimoire, now sitting innocently upon the hastily repurposed altar – which, until a few hours earlier, had been a perfectly respectable card table. The cracked leather binding was still dusted with a stubborn patina of mould, but now also sported yellowish blotches of hardened candle wax and liberal splashes of cuttlefish ink.

“Give it time, girl,” said the ghost of Granny Bucket, shimmering steadily in the corner of the snuggery. “These things rarely happen straight away. You just need a bit of patience.”

Philomena gave her a steely glare.

“Patience? I may not be Durosimi’s greatest admirer, but I can’t forget he’s stuck in one of the book’s illustrations – and it’s my fault. I’ve no intention of abandoning him to whatever horrors lurk between the covers. And what was he mouthing at me? Something about avoiding the margins?”

Granny shrugged with ghostly indifference. “I’ve no idea. You were lip-reading, so you may well have got it wrong.”

She paused, then added, “Philomena, you’ll have to trust me. The spell will work – but it’ll do so in its own time. You won’t hurry it by fretting. Why not get some rest? Have Rhys – or someone – keep an eye on the book, in case anything happens during the night.”

Philomena nodded, wearied by hours of seemingly fruitless spellcraft. Besides, it was well past midnight.

“Reggie’s a night owl,” she said. “He’ll keep watch for me.”

“Good idea,” said Granny, beginning to fade from view – only to flicker back again a moment later.

“I nearly forgot,” she said. “Before you sleep, have a cup of mugwort tea.”

“Mugwort?” Philomena echoed – but her grandmother’s ghost had already gone.

She frowned, then slowly nodded as the penny dropped. Mugwort – the traditional herbal route to lucid dreaming. Typical Granny, to leave out something so critical until the very end.

Downstairs, just a couple of hours later, the grandfather clock – which normally loitered in silence – chose to strike the hour, its three deep, sonorous chimes slicing through the hush of the inn. The sound stirred Philomena into hazy awareness.

She lay still, blinking. The room glowed with a strange, faintly unearthly light. Rhys snored contentedly beside her, so she slipped carefully from the bed, not wanting to wake him, and padded to the window. Outside, the fog hung thick and damp, as always, swallowing moon and stars alike. There was nothing unusual to be seen.

She turned to climb back into bed — and stopped.

Rhys was not alone.

A flaxen-haired beauty now lay next to him, fast asleep.

Philomena stared. Then blinked. Then stared again.

It took a moment to realise, with mingled relief and confusion, that she was looking at herself.

“Hmmm,” she murmured, critically. “Bit pale. Could do with a good breakfast. But not bad. Not bad at all.”

It slowly occurred to her that admiring her own sleeping form from across the room was not entirely standard behaviour.

“This must be a dream,” she reasoned aloud. “And if I know I’m dreaming, then I must be lucid. So… what now?”

She paused, rifling mentally through what little she knew about lucid dreaming.

“I seem to remember the dreamer’s meant to be in control,” she mused. “Well, that can’t be bad. So… what do I need?”

As if summoned by thought alone, Drury, the skeletal hound, trotted into view, tail bones wagging enthusiastically. Of course, the real Drury was downstairs, snoozing in his favourite chair. This was Drury’s dream-self, and – like most animals, living or otherwise – he was a natural at lucid dreaming.

“Just the person – um, dog – I needed,” said Philomena. “I couldn’t ask for a better guide, if I’m to plunge into that book and rescue Durosimi.”

“Better guide? Me?” thought Drury, his bone-eyes gleaming with glee. The truth was, he’d never dreamt himself into a book before. It sounded like a splendid way to spend the night.

Together, they glided soundlessly through the sleeping inn to the snuggery, where the grimoire sat ominously waiting. True to his word, Reggie Upton was keeping watch. He was slumped in an armchair that, like Reggie himself, had known more distinguished days. A half-read book drooped across his lap, a half-drunk tumbler in his hand, and a mostly-full bottle from the Gannicox Distillery perched beside him on the makeshift altar.

Philomena raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think he intends to use that for sacrificial purposes,” she muttered.

Even had he not been quietly astonished by the prose of D. H. Lawrence, Reggie would never have noticed the dream-shapes of Philomena and Drury hovering before him.

Not, at least, until the grimoire gave a sudden shudder and expelled a small but purposeful puff of dust – just as its new visitors willed themselves into its pages.

To be continued…

An icy wind shook the bare branches of the copse that edged the grounds of The Squid and Teapot, bringing with it a heavy sea mist. It curled around the feet of the two men standing in the inn’s open doorway, blotted out the moon, and chilled the bones.

“Quite a pleasant evening,” observed Reggie Upton.

Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk, nodded in agreement. He had been on Hopeless long enough to recognize the truth in this, and besides, for one who had grown up in the less-than-hospitable high Himalayas, the night felt positively balmy.

“Did I ever tell you,” began Reggie, settling in for a lengthy anecdote, “about the time I almost lost my trousers in the Hindu Kush?”

We will never know whether Tenzin had previously enjoyed this particular nugget of military history, for before he could reply, an unearthly wail cut short their conversation.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Reggie. “Some poor soul’s out there in distress. Let’s go and rescue the blighter.”

Ten minutes later, a bedraggled figure stumbled through the inn’s doorway, supported on either side by Reggie and Tenzin. Water dripped from his tattered clothing, forming small puddles as he was lowered into a chair and handed a glass of the Gannicox Distillery’s finest. He looked as though he had just emerged from the sea – which, considering that this is the island of Hopeless, was entirely possible.

Philomena caught Reggie’s eye.

“Another shipwreck?” she asked.

“Looks like it,” Reggie replied. “But we didn’t spot any other survivors.”

“But there must be!” blurted out the damp and disheveled newcomer. “My wife was with me… she has to have survived.”

“We’ll organize a search party,” Philomena said comfortingly. “If she’s anywhere on the island, we’ll find her. Now, let’s have some details.”

The young man, who apparently rejoiced in the name of Cedric Shambles, took little prompting to pour out his tale.

“Clarissa and I were eloping – escaping from her domineering family,” Cedric explained. “We were bound for New England, where no one would know us.”

“But you said she was… that she is your wife…” Philomena interrupted.

“She is,” Cedric said with a half-smile. “The ship’s captain agreed to marry us. He’d just invited me to kiss the bride when we struck the reef. Water started pouring in through the gunnels… it was awful.”

“That’s dashed bad luck for a chap on his wedding day,” observed Reggie. “But don’t worry, old bean. We’ll check along the shoreline.”

“You look very young to be married,” said Philomena.

“I’m not that young,” replied Cedric. “I am just twenty-two.”

“So that means you were born in… ?” said Reggie. Philomena knew exactly where he was going with this.

“Why, eighteen forty-eight of course,” Cedric said 

Reggie glanced at Philomena and raised a single eyebrow. The island was up to its old tricks again, meddling with time. That meant, if Clarissa had managed to survive the shipwreck, she could have arrived on Hopeless at any point in the previous century – or even earlier.

To the surprise of no one (except Cedric), no trace of the young bride was found. Indeed, there was no evidence of a recent shipwreck at all. But despite this, Cedric wandered the island day and night, heedless of peril, searching for his lost love. As time passed, he grew more haggard, more unkempt. Not even the best efforts of Philomena and Reggie could persuade him to abandon his quest, or even rest. Then one night – again, to no one’s surprise – he disappeared completely.

                ——————                                                                                               

Muffled and distant, the church clock struck three. Winston Oldstone, the Night-Soil Man, had almost finished his round. His home, known locally as The House at Poo Corner, was still a good half-hour’s walk away, so he decided to take a breather before the last stretch. Setting his bucket down on the wiry grass of the headland, he flopped down beside it with a weary sigh.

Like every Night-Soil Man before him, Winston felt safe, protected as he was from even the most predatory denizens of the island by the all-pervading stench that accompanied him always. This was both the blessing and the curse of his profession.

Secure in the knowledge that he would not be disturbed, Winston closed his eyes – only to have them snap open when a voice, just a few feet away, said, “Good evening.”

Even in the poor light, he could see that the young man approaching was unshaven, his wild eyes and wilder hair giving him the look of someone who had long since abandoned sanity. His clothing was tattered, even by Hopeless standards. But stranger still was the companion on his arm.

She wore a flowing dress of white taffeta and lace, torn and stained beyond repair, with a bridal headdress still in place, its veil drifting ghostlike in the breeze.

Winston was fairly sure they were not ghosts, yet they made an incongruous – if not downright unnerving – sight, promenading along the headland in the early hours. As they passed, the bride turned to look at him. For just a few seconds, the wind lifted her veil, revealing what remained of her face. Much of the flesh had been eaten away. It was only then that Winston noticed the skeletal fingers protruding through the rotting fabric of her gloves.

Frozen in horror, he could only watch as the pair walked on, until they disappeared into the mist.

Cedric Shambles had at last found his lost bride, but neither were ever seen again on the mysterious island of Hopeless, Maine.

“Where’s Philomena?”

Rhys Cranham sounded somewhat worried. 

“Up in the attics, I believe,” replied Reggie Upton. “She said something about digging out a few books for Neville Moore.”

Rhys sighed with relief. Ever since Durosimi O’Stoat had managed to open a mysterious portal to who-knows-where, commonly referred to by just about everyone as ‘The Anomaly’, Philomena had taken it upon herself to monitor the site. While Rhys was confident that his wife would take every care, the Anomaly seemed to be spitting out nasty little multi-legged creatures here, there and everywhere. It was all very well for Mr Squash to claim that these were busily eating each other, but common-sense would say that there must be a few particularly well-fed ones strolling around the island (if it’s actually possible to stroll with so many tentacles, that is).

“As I’m the island’s postman,” said Reggie, importantly, ”doubtless Philomena will be asking me to deliver those books to Neville. I’ll go in daylight and be sure to take my sword stick with me, just in case I run I to any of those little horrors that are on the loose.”

“Maybe Tenzin will go with you,” said Rhys. “I hear that he’s a dab-hand with a fighting stick. Besides, I’m sure he’d like to meet Neville.”

“Not forgetting the lovely Lenore, as well,” grinned Reggie.

Regular readers will know that the hermit, Neville Moore, has a pet raven, named Lenore. She is a decrepit old bird who generally perches on the guano streaked statues that are dotted liberally around Neville’s mausoleum-like home. Lenore has the unsettling habit of loudly croaking Neville’s name whenever anyone approaches, although, many have commented that when she rasps  ‘Neville Moore’, the sound is more of a quoth than a croak.

It was later that afternoon when Reggie and Tenzin, the young Buddhist monk, set off for Neville’s house on Ghastly Green. In order to get there, they had to pass very close to the Anomaly, which, by now, was a pulsating obscenity hanging in the air, emitting thin clouds of sickly green mist. 

“Damn and blast you, O’Stoat. When will you learn not to meddle?” muttered Reggie.

Tenzin made a mental note to spin his prayer wheel a few times on behalf of Reggie and his bad language.

Both men carried their weapons in readiness, expecting, at any moment, to be attacked by the nameless, many-legged creatures that dropped from the Anomaly, but none came. In fact, the walk to the hermit’s house was totally uneventful. They didn’t even have their ears assaulted by Lenore’s cackles and caws for, to Tenzin’s great disappointment, she was nowhere to be seen. Ever since coming to Hopeless, and settling at The Squid and Teapot, he had heard much of this ghastly, grim and ancient raven, and was keen to see her for himself. 

“Lenore? Lately she seems to be spending all day perched on the Ravenstone,” said Neville, when asked about the bird’s whereabouts. “I’m surprised you didn’t see her when you walked through.”

“We were too intent on looking out for those little blighters dropping out of the Anomaly,” said Reggie. “In the event, we didn’t see any, thank goodness.”

Neville smiled knowingly.

“Lenore is picking them off as fast as they drop down,” he said. “She must have put on quite a bit of weight since that Anomaly appeared.”

“You mean that she’s eating them?” asked Tenzin.

“She can’t get enough. It’s a nice change of diet for her,” chuckled Neville. “It’s only a pity that she can’t eat that other thing that fell out at the same time.”

“Other thing?” Said Reggie and Tenzin together.

“The Glimmer Man,” explained Neville. “I have been watching him. He was first out, wriggling like a snake. He crawled up the Ravenstone and took on human form. Weirdly, he has all-but faded away now, except for his eyes. They’re like two burning coals.”

“And that’s why he’s called the Glimmer-Man, I suppose,” said Reggie.

“Exactly,” said Neville, “I don’t know what he’s capable of, but it can’t be good. Watch yourself when you go back to The Squid, the daylight’s already beginning to fade.”

“If we see Lenore, I’ll tell her to fly home,” said Reggie. 

“Good luck with that,” muttered Neville.

As the hermit had predicted, Lenore was perched on top of the Ravenstone, her beady eyes scouring the ground for any wayward droppings from the Anomaly. Reggie waved his sword stick encouragingly and suggested that she should fly home. Lenore gave him a disdainful look, eased her position slightly, and added to the already generous number of white streaks decorating the sides of the Ravenstone. 

The two had walked no more than a dozen paces, however, when they heard the flapping of wings, and Lenore lifted herself awkwardly into the sky, heading back in the direction of Ghastly Green. 

“Hah, old Neville underestimated the power of a British army officer’s command,” said Reggie smugly. 

“I’m not so sure that it was you who persuaded her to leave,” said Tenzin uneasily. “Look over there.”

Hanging in the air, next to the Ravenstone, was a pair of glowing orbs, looking like the burning coals that Neville had described. It was just possible to ascertain a faint, man-like form surrounding them.

“It’s the Glimmer-Man,” whispered Tenzin. “I wonder what he wants?”

“I have absolutely no intention of finding out,” said Reggie. “Discretion is the better part of valour, m’lad. Come on, it’s time that we left.“