Anarchists desecrated the grave of Greg, once a friend of Nat’s, on the anniversary of his interment. There was a hysterical botch of a report in a local paper. Thankfully the corpse was not purloined as intended, for the would-be body snatchers were disturbed before even reaching the casket. The tombstone was daubed with obscene graffiti and as yet unidentified symbols.

MON JUL 9

Whilst out walking with friends in the twilight, we had to go under a railway bridge; I thought of Nat. I do hope he is okay. I have heard nothing of the Snoxell family for ages.

WED SEP 4

I was very sad to hear of the death of Mr. Thistle, the local historian and anthropologist. It was not totally unexpected; he was after all a nonagenarian, although he seemed blissfully unaware of the fact. I wish I had met him more than once.

TUE SEP 24

I attended the funeral of Mr. Thistle, which has been much delayed due to wrangles over his death-bed plea to be buried in Black Langley churchyard, an honour granted only to the village’s most illustrious inhabitants, since plots unaffected by water-table subsidence have for centuries been few and far between. In the end it was the vicar, really a most neurotic fellow, who insisted out of some irrational fear for the vicarage chimney pots that Mr. Thistle’s last wish be granted. There were many mourners; mostly strange, wizened old folk whom I have never seen before.

On returning home, I read the pamphlet Mr. Thistle had given me five years ago. The stories about Nicholas Blackspear, the infamous “Black Pope” who “gave” Ireland to Henry II, and the atrocities he perpetrated are gruesomely entertaining, though as the footnotes acknowledged, almost entirely apocryphal.

WED NOV 20

I saw Nat in the village today. At least, I think it was him.

A gaunt, haggard figure leapt out from the butcher’s shop, spreading a trail of sawdust-confetti in its wake. Thick black hair covered the monstrosity’s face, as if to hide it. Then the thing flicked its head, jettisoning the hair from its face in a manner singularly reminiscent of Nat. It carried a dead piglet runt under its arm. Then, most alarmingly, it wrenched the unplucked corpse of a game bird from a rack on a door and bit its head off in one go, revealing viridescent peg-like teeth, several of which had been sharpened into evil-looking spikes.

By this time a small crowd had gathered to show their outrage at this disgusting behaviour. The creature’s hypersensitive, bloodshot eyes perceived my form. The necrophiliac geek turned and bolted down the street.

The butcher appeared, a huge carving knife in his hand, looking equally as intent on violence as Nat had. I calmed him down and paid for the stolen goods. The crowd gradually dispersed. If that was Nat, he has regressed to some appalling subhuman, bestial state.