Last of 2025 - A Witch's Ride

Well, it's been twelve months. 

Boy howdy.

Anyhow, I'm going to take the weekends up to the New Year off, so be aware: no post next weekend. Service resumes in 2026.

I'm giving serious consideration to going to the Chaosium event in May 2026, in the UK, so if anyone wants to be the tipping point and persuade me to attend now's the time to say.

A brief story snippet based on an item found in Funk & Wagnall's Folklore: the Gandreið, aka witch's ride, which in some versions of the tradition took place at the Epiphany. Briefly, this is a feast of the dead which, if the dead attend in great numbers, signifies good fortune in the year to come. 

It can be customary to remove Christmas decorations at the Ephiphany; at the Museum of the Home in London it was customary to have a public event for exactly this purpose, though I don't know if they still do it. I liked to attend, when I was living in London. The cards, wreaths and other decorations, which would be this point be looking a little ragged, are taken out and burnt. The ceremony is accompanied by singing and festive drinking. At the Museum, of course, they didn't burn the actual decorations - those are historic - but there was a mimicry that did the same thing round an open outdoor fire.

This Bookhounds short assumes that the shop had Christmas decorations on display and are now getting rid of them, at the Epiphany. Whether or not they have a full ceremonial fire or just sweep everything in the bin on Twelfth Night is up to the players.

The Gandreið

It's an especially cold and breezy Twelfth Night this year. All the news is full of it, and people joke about another Frost Fair. A little nervously, perhaps, but they still joke. The last time the Thames froze over was over a hundred years ago, but this year seems destined to be a record-breaker so who knows? Perhaps this will be the year the Thames freezes. 

Most of the shop's regulars are out of London. The well-heeled ones are enjoying comfortable Christmases in the country, or abroad. The less fortunate are huddled at home, not wanting to risk frostbite even for a first edition. Most, bar a few die-hards, and Eliza Gatewell, who either doesn't feel the cold or doesn't let it bother her. 

Eliza is convinced there's a copy of an 1835 first edition (German, naturally) of Jacob Grimm's Deutsche Mythologie out there, and she wants it. Wants it so badly she can taste it. This is the book that, among other things, first described the witches' ride - the Gandreið. Eliza has a bit of a reputation for witchery herself; perhaps deserved, perhaps not. Perhaps that's why she wants it.

The Hounds have heard rumors of a private collection about to go up for sale which may have the elusive volume. A Bright Young Thing in need of readies to fund her Christmas drinking is dying to liquidate her late uncle's stash. The collection is in Belgravia, Westminster, as is the Bright Young Thing - temporarily, anyway, until she can clear the place and relocate somewhere a little less stuffy. The Bright Young Thing might be approachable; her Cleaner is supposed to be bribable, if the Hounds prefer a different approach. 

The question is, does the collection include Grimm's work and, if it does, can it be had for a bargain?

Option One: Bright Lights The Bright Young Thing, Melody, has her own witchery ambitions. She doesn't mind selling Grimm's work but she wants to know who she's selling to, and Eliza is keen that her name not be associated with the purchase. Melody has her own means of finding out secrets and if the Hounds aren't careful she'll find out who the buyer is. That could go poorly for Eliza; Melody and her Nightgaunt allies could come calling on Epiphany. Melody doesn't mind a good deal, but she shan't tolerate a witch rival.

Option Two: Twelfth Night. The Bright Young Thing is clueless as to the book's true value. Eliza could pick the thing up for a mere nothing. However, the cleaner, Mrs. Karswell, worked all her life for that miserly uncle and all she got out of it was a small legacy. Mrs. Karswell was hoping to liquidate the uncle's collection herself, or at least the best bits of it. After all, the Bright Young Thing's clueless as to the true value of the collection, or even what's in it. This would be the easiest fraud ever, were it not for the Hounds and their client. Now Mrs. Karswell and her Rough Lad friends need to tread carefully and snatch the thing before the sale, or that pretty little Christmas bonus she was counting on will vanish like a witch's promise.

Option Three: The Gandreið. The dead uncle isn't as dead as he's supposed to be. In fact, the old fellow, a longtime amateur practitioner of witchcraft, became a Ghoul, aided and abetted in the deception by his devoted servant Mrs. Karswell. The uncle, Stephen Norwich, expected to be able to carry on as before, only with a little more subterfuge, after his ghoulish transformation. He wasn't expecting to be declared dead by a rapacious niece, nor was he expecting his collection to be sold off to pay for the niece's Christmas hullaballoo. Now he wants his books back, and he doesn't much care how he does it. He'll need new digs, too; his Belgravia apartments are off limits. Perhaps he can kill two birds with one stone and occupy the Hounds' shop? New management, that's the ticket. After all, reasons Norwich, even if my bank account's been pilfered by relatives and my apartment's being lived in by a regrettably high-profile Bright Young Thing who can't be murdered quietly, I still have Magick on my side, as well as a ghoul's appetite. What Hound could resist a little light extortion? Especially at Christmas?

That's it for this year! Enjoy!   

Christmas Clippings (Bookhounds of London)

 

Extra History

Big fan of that channel. Loved it ever since the Extra Credits early days at the Escapist.

This week's post is inspired be the bit at about 6.50 in, where the conversation turns to clippings from magazines preserved by eager children. 

The magazines would have been 1850-60ish. Fast forward about 70 years and those children are in their dotage, fondly remembering Christmas Past and looking forward, with some uncertainty, to Christmas Future. Probably very near future, in some cases.

Lest Old Acquaintance Be Forgot

There's a sudden uptick in demand for magazines published c. 1850-ish. Heavy on the ish. The magazines need to be in pristine condition to get the real money, but there's a demand even for the indifferent stuff. Given that the magazines in question weren't made to last, indifferent is the standard rather than the exception. 

The Hounds soon discover that this demand comes from the four grandchildren of Oliver Packer, a noted occultist and enquirer into the uncanny. The Hounds may even have relied on Oliver's expertise from time to time. While he doesn't go on adventures anymore, (not with his lumbago), in his day he was quite the active rogue. 

Technicolor: Oliver spent several seasons exploring Egypt's mysteries and his house is practically a museum, filled with peculiar antiquities.

 

Arabesque: Oliver is (and was) an explorer of the ghostly byways of old London and knows more about the hidden side of the city than any two other people.

Sordid: It's said Oliver bargained for his longevity with hideous creatures that dwell beneath the Thames, making who knows what kind of sacrifice.

The grandchildren, Thomas, Alice, Quentin and Prunella (aka the Prune), are jockeying for position. Each of them thinks they might be the one to inherit Oliver's fortune and are sucking up to the old boy. One of them hit on the idea of presenting him with a collection of his favorite magazines from his childhood, and are using an old bound collection of Christmas clippings as a means of identifying the magazines he read as a child. Once one of them had the idea the other three copied it, and now they're all chasing after Oliver's past in hope of presenting him with the perfect Christmas present. 

However, while they can identify most of the magazines (and have bought up reams of the stuff) the one thing they can't identify is something called the Barchester Sampler, apparently published between 1848 and 1853. The illustrations purloined from the Sampler are among the most evocative, and the grandchildren are keen to complete the set. Can the Hounds help?

Option One: Barchester Bull. There's no such town as Barchester. It's a creation of Anthony Trollope, who used it in his Chronicles. However, what the grandchildren don't realize is that Oliver's father, Roger, was an amateur artist and printer who created the fictional Sampler for his son. Oliver, who is no fool, knows full well what his grandchildren are up to, and encourages this snipe hunt as a means of teaching them a lesson. However, there are plenty of unscrupulous people out there - possibly including the Hounds - willing to forge a magazine or two if it will get them easy money.

Option Two: Barchester Dreams. While Trollope created Barchester, young Oliver extended it. In his youth he was a Dreamer and made regular forages into the imaginary landscape of England, including Barchester. Oliver brought back the magazine scraps in his wanderings. Oliver has been trapped on the mortal side of the Gate of Dreams for some time, thanks to a ward put up by his enemies in Dreamland. However, if someone else can make the trip across the veil they might be able to bring back a complete set of the Sampler. Or even get Oliver back into Dreamland again ...

Option Three: Barchester Nightmares. There is no such place as Barchester. Not unless you're prepared to make certain sacrifices while travelling in Somerset, where Trollope drew much of his inspiration. Oliver learned the trick years ago; it was one of the first magickal rituals he created, in his younger days when he was full of vinegar and willing to take all sorts of chances. Oliver learned it was possible to cross from mortal realm to fictional one, but the fictional world isn't the kind of place you want to spend a lot of time in. Shadows gather there. Things which ought not be hide between the pages. Oliver soon abandoned this particular ritual but it can be recreated, by someone reckless and willing to try any kind of blasphemy. It will be even easier if they have that bound volume of Christmas clippings ...  

That's it for this week. Enjoy!

Montague James and the Hounds (Bookhounds of London)

I did say we'd be back to normal this week.

I expect most of you have heard of M.R. James, academic, antiquarian and author of some of the finest ghost stories ever published. For those who haven't, there's plenty of chances to rectify that deficiency; you can even get the books for free on Gutenberg, and there are any number of people doing readings of his work on podcasts and YouTube. OutsideXbox's Luke Westaway is quite good at it, if you have an hour or so to spare. Christopher Lee is even better, but his stuff can be difficult to find.

M.R. James originally created these stories as live performances for his friends at Christmas, a tradition that goes back a long, long way but is probably best remembered through Dickens' Christmas Carol. James then published them to great acclaim, and enjoys the best distinction a writer could hope for; his work is still in print almost a century after his death.

This time out I want to focus on two of his stories and talk about their Bookhounds implications. I shan't spoil. If you haven't read these stories please seek them out.

The first is Martin's Close, first published in 1911's More Ghost Stories.

Some few years back I was staying with the rector of a parish in the West, where the society to which I belong owns property. I was to go over some of this land: and, on the first morning of my visit, soon after breakfast, the estate carpenter and general handyman, John Hill, was announced as in readiness to accompany us. The rector asked which part of the parish we were to visit that morning. The estate map was produced, and when we had showed him our round, he put his finger on a particular spot. 'Don't forget,' he said, 'to ask John Hill about Martin's Close when you get there. I should like to hear what he tells you.' 'What ought he to tell us?' I said. 'I haven't the slightest idea,' said the rector, 'or, if that is not exactly true, it will do till lunch-time.' And here he was called away ...

It transpires there's not just a story, there's a criminal trial.

I made search in the more obvious places. The trial seemed to be nowhere reported. A newspaper of the time, and one or more news-letters, however, had some short notices, from which I learnt that, on the ground of local prejudice against the prisoner (he was described as a young gentleman of a good estate), the venue had been moved from Exeter to London; that Jeffreys had been the judge, and death the sentence, and that there had been some 'singular passages' in the evidence. Nothing further transpired till September of this year. A friend who knew me to be interested in Jeffreys then sent me a leaf torn out of a second-hand bookseller's catalogue with the entry: JEFFREYS, JUDGE: Interesting old MS. trial for murder, and so forth, from which I gathered, to my delight, that I could become possessed, for a very few shillings, of what seemed to be a verbatim report, in shorthand, of the Martin trial.

OK, let's talk about this.

Bookhounds - and horror games in general - sometimes treat manuscripts as though every single one of them's a Necronomicon, bound in human skin and dripping with evil. That's far from being so. People publish anything and everything. Most of it is rubbish. That's why the Hounds are always on the lookout for some unmemorable 18th century tat that they can rip apart and use the binding and papers for something more valuable. However, one man's rubbish is another man's gold. 

Here we have someone who's looking for the transcript of a trial. They can't find a copy anywhere, and it seems there may not be one. Yet by chance a transcript turns up in a second-hand bookseller's shop. It might have been that simple, but James adds an extra hurdle: the text is in the court reporter's shorthand, and not only that but a 17th century version of shorthand. The narrator has to find someone who can translate it so the narrator can have a copy typed out. It's a very neat touch that lends authenticity to the story, and doesn't take more than a sentence to describe.

The second piece is from Two Doctors, which first appears in A Thin Ghost And Others (1920).

It is a very common thing, in my experience, to find papers shut up in old books; but one of the rarest things to come across any such that are at all interesting. Still it does happen, and one should never destroy them unlooked at. Now it was a practice of mine before the war occasionally to buy old ledgers of which the paper was good, and which possessed a good many blank leaves, and to extract these and use them for my own notes and writings. One such I purchased for a small sum in 1911. It was tightly clasped, and its boards were warped by having for years been obliged to embrace a number of extraneous sheets. Three-quarters of this inserted matter had lost all vestige of importance for any living human being: one bundle had not. That it belonged to a lawyer is certain, for it is endorsed: The strangest case I have yet met, and bears initials, and an address in Gray's Inn. It is only materials for a case, and consists of statements by possible witnesses. The man who would have been the defendant or prisoner seems never to have appeared. The dossier is not complete, but, such as it is, it furnishes a riddle in which the supernatural appears to play a part. You must see what you can make of it.

Again, legal papers are the focus of the narrative, but look at how they're introduced. Not even as a manuscript; they're shoved into a ledger and forgotten about, until the narrator picks the ledger up for next to nothing. Three quarters of the inserted matter is useless, which is what's going to happen to the Hounds more often than not; all those bits and bobs they pick up in estate sales and so on, and most of it rubbish. Yet every so often there is something interesting 'and one should never destroy them unlooked at.'

So what can we extract from this?

1) Occult and by extension Mythos lore can appear anywhere.

2) Since Occult and Mythos lore is inextricably interwound with human history, it will appear everywhere, and that includes the most mundane of places. 

3) People publish all sorts of things, and while most of it is uninteresting rubbish you never know where you might find that next scrap of useful material.

4) In the 1930s and previous, people saved damn near everything. I couldn't tell you the last time I saw, never mind bought, a second-hand writing ledger in an antiquarian shop. Most of them barely had space for the books, never mind the not-quite-books. I doubt I'd find one at the Spreadeagle, and frankly if you can't find one there you can't find one anywhere.

With all that in mind:

A Peculiar Gazette

Back issues of old newspapers are often of interest to collectors; you never know when you'll find someone potty on the subject of , say, Huddersfield and desperate for new material. 

The Hounds find a bound collection of early 1800s publication The Star Gazette, best remembered for its series on the London Poor; they had a discount Mayhew on staff who liked writing social commentary but lacked academic rigor. The paper's been defunct since 1868, and the collection's a potential squiz.

There's a section towards the beginning of the collection that has some extra papers interspersed, and it becomes clear to anyone who examines the papers that they're about a scandal that was big in the 1830s: the Thevenot Abduction. 

A fortune-hunting 30-year-old bankrupt, Eustace Thevenot, wanted to marry into money, and did so by abducting 15-year-old textile heiress Devony Walker. He managed to spirit her away from her boarding school and then got her alone at the Thevenot family castle in Scotland, where he persuaded her that her father had consented to the marriage. The pair went from Scotland to Calais, but her outraged family tracked them down and prosecuted. Thevenot went to prison and died there. Devony, released from her marriage, had a short and unhappy life. She married again, and died in childbirth in her early 20s. 

Oral History, Occult or similar, 1 point spend: Devony's story has a peculiar postscript. She was never buried. There is no body in the family crypt; someone stole it. This was hushed up at the time, but became part of local ghost lore after her death. Nobody knows where Eustace Thevenot is buried. Presumably in an unmarked prison grave.

[Loosely based on the real-world Shrigley abduction.]

The Star Gazette has the bare-bones account of the abduction and trial. 

The interspersed papers are an unpublished statement from Devony Walker about her experiences at Thevenot Castle, on a tidal islet up in the Highlands. The statement was collected as part of trial prep, but never introduced at the actual trial. 

In game terms the Walker Papers have the following stats:

1 pool point Occult (skim) or +1 Occult (pore over), no Mythos, no spells. Effectively a short treatise on Geomancy, as understood by Walker who was the subject of various Geomantic rituals that Thevenot tried to cast on her while the two of them were alone at the Castle. 

To anyone without a Mythos pool these rituals seem nonsensical. Thevenot was trying to gain the attention of a water horse or kelpie, and get the creature to bless the marriage.

To anyone with a Mythos pool Thevenot was clearly trying to evoke the spirit of (or essence, or gain the approval of - it's not clear from the text) a sacred dragon, or Lloligor, that in times past had guided the Thevenot family.  

Whether the reader has a Mythos pool or not, it's clear from the papers that Thevenot had a library of occult texts at the Castle, some of which were scarce and valuable even at the time and will be much more valuable in the 1930s. 

Moreover a quick study of History, Library Use or similar (no point spend needed) soon realizes that Thevenot Castle's last occupant, Dacre Thevenot, died in 1916 at the Battle of Ginchy. There's no mention of an estate sale. Those books could be sitting all alone up there in Scotland, waiting to be pinched ...

So long as the Hounds are willing to risk the wrath of the kelpie, of course. But who believes in kelpies?

That's it for me this week. Enjoy!

Christmas Keepers (Trail, Lovecraft Country)

This is going to be my last post for the year. Happy holidays to all, and I hope you have a great New Year!

Let's talk Christmas in New England, that jolly time of year when eating a mince pie can get your ears cut off.

When the Puritans settled in New England they brought their customs with them, and being a joyless bunch of asshats one of their most beloved customs was a hatred of all things cheerful. That included Christmas. The holiday season was a complete anathema to those stern Yankees, so much so that in 1647 laws were passed to ensure nobody kept Christmas, or any saint's day, and certainly didn't make mince pies, attend Christmas masques or dramas, dance, or play any musical instrument. Decoration was also banned, which meant no holly or mistletoe; that might encourage kissing, God forbid!

The first Puritans arranged things as they liked, but were constantly threatened by those among them who weren't Puritans and who enjoyed festive cheer. One such was Thomas Morton, who was caught by Miles Standish having a good time in his own home, and promptly banished from Plymouth Colony.

Thomas Morton was playing the Lord of Misrule, which was a particular grievance to good Puritans. The Lord of Misrule was a traditional Yule figure in English folklore, now not often seen in its Christmas role. Each year the Lord, usually a peasant or of low birth, would be appointed and go around the neighborhood dressed in green and orange, with bells at his ankles, dancing with his celebrants, leading the crowd in games and singing. The band would make a nuisance of themselves until given money, at which point they'd go off and find some other householder to torment. Often the merry pranksters would invade the church and interrupt the solstice sermon, which is why the Puritans so disliked the Lord. The tradition may have come from the Roman Saturnalia, but its origins are obscure, and in any case people usually don't need much excuse to get drunk and go round in a group making a nuisance of themselves. The 'getting drunk' part of the ceremony encourages any kind of bad behavior.

Being Puritans, the colonists' treatment of those caught in the act were severe. Morton was lucky to get away with banishment; cash fines, time in the stocks, branding, or having your ears or nose cut off were typical punishments. This was all intended to bring people to Salvation, for on the Day of Doom the Lord would judge impartial, but stern, and woe betide the sinners who passed on Christ's left hand side.

This worked so long as the colonies were made up entirely, or at least in the majority, of Puritans. However as time went by more Catholics, Episcopalians and Universalists arrived in New England, and public opinion changed. By 1681 the laws banning Christmas were repealed. It took time for people to become used to the idea - a small entertainment, called 'educational', here, a modest party there - but over time even the Puritans came to accept some Christmas frivolity.

However even after the law was repealed good Puritans, of whom there were many, treated Christmas like any other day. They did not close their shops or schools; as far as they were concerned, Christmas was a day of work, not play. It wasn't until 1797 that a churchman felt safe enough to call for a celebration of the holiday, and up to the 1870s schools kept on teaching right through the holiday period. It wasn't until after the Civil War, when Christmas became a Federal holiday, that New England really embraced Christmas. By that point the season was becoming commercialized; a time to work so you can buy and give presents, not to play games or dance around with bells on your ankles.

Now, to gamify:

Crack Nouts and Cry Yule

The Hook

The weather this Christmas is particularly harsh, and Arkhamites nervously joke about a return of the great 1921 ice storm that blanketed the town and nearly froze the Miskatonic. People don't hang around on the streets after dark; they hurry home, where there's warmth and cheer.

There's a story going round that a gang of carol singers are making a nuisance of themselves in East-town, the seedy and decaying residential section once so beloved of Arkham's upper class. Rumor has it that they use the singing as a distraction to burgle the houses they visit, and there have been several letters to the paper about it. Where are the police, they ask, and why can't more be done to stop these thieves?

However those with History, Occult or possibly Library Use notice a pattern. The lead figure of these criminal characters is dressed as the Lord of Misrule. The Lord never removes his mask or participates in the thievery, but it's clear from the accounts of those who've seen him that the Lord is the most menacing of the group. The attacks seem to radiate out in a circle from a central point: the First Unitarian Church of Arkham, on Federal Street. Further, every location where the carolers have been is visited by another mysterious figure with a much more violent MO. This character, whoever he is, attacks and brutally injures people outside after dark. Four attacks have been recorded, and in each case the victim lost extremities - noses, ears, always due to frostbite. Those who go into this further notice that, according to the hospitals and doctors (Charm, with a bonus die for those with Medicine above base), six people with that kind of injury have been treated by local hospitals or doctors.

The Awful Truth

The Minister of First Unitarian, Doctor Spencer, recently hired a professional archivist, Norton Deane, to help bring the church archive into some kind of order. This was more a question of charity than need; poor Norton recently had a great shock that required a stay in a sanitarium, and this job was meant to put him back on his feet.

Unfortunately for Deane some of the earlier documents in the archive, related to early Christmas traditions in Arkham, contained Mythos knowledge. The revelations Deane encountered, in his weakened mental state, drove him over the edge. He became the Lord of Misrule, visiting nearby houses to spread Christmas insanity.

His first two visits were solo affairs, as the investigators will discover if they talk to newspaper reporters or cops. However a bunch of criminals joined in, seeing an opportunity. These might be young Arkham hoods (the Finns, the Rocks), or more experienced bottom-feeders. Deane doesn't object to them following in his wake, so long as they dance and sing. He insists on that, and they're too frightened of him to object. The level of violence has increased since they joined in, but the Lord of Misrule doesn't mind that; violence is part of Christmas.

However something else has joined in the celebration. Icy Cold Ones are closing in on the Lord of Misrule, determined to put an end to him. They wouldn't be able to do it without the freezing weather, but so long as ice storms threaten they can roam the streets at night. The Mythos texts that Deane found draw these Cold Ones in, so they too congregate around or near First Unitarian. The church at night is a very hazardous place to be.

The two injured men who aren't part of the official tally are part of the gang of crooks that follow Deane, and if they're interrogated they can tell the investigators about the Cold One attacks and the Lord of Misrule. 

Defeating the Lord of Misrule, or burning the Mythos texts, drives off the Cold Ones and end the threat.

There is a time limit on this. The longer the Lord of Misrule, and by extension the Cold Ones, are allowed to do their work, the more likely it is that the gathering Cold Ones will cause an ice storm more dangerous than the 1921 event. Should that happen, the weak and vulnerable of Arkham will die off, frozen to death in their own homes. Assume there is a 10% chance, cumulative, per week, that this will happen. This deadly storm causes a SAN penalty of 1/1D6+1.

Enjoy!

Bookhounds of London: The Christmas Tradition

I used to play with a group that insisted on a Christmas adventure, each and every year. There's a lot of pleasure to be had in the bad jokes, and crazy plotlines, that come with trying to stuff Santa, presents, decorated trees and Lord alone knows what else into an ostensibly horrific situation. That said, there's as much to dislike as like, particularly if you're the sort that prefers to treat the game seriously. Shoggoths with their nose so bright guiding something's sleigh tonight might not be your thing, and if so, that's fine.

But there's still some fun to be had with the idea.  Christmas is also the season for ghost stories, as M.R. James and his friends knew full well. If ever you've wanted to torment your players with something inexplicable and elemental, now's the time to do it. There are also entities, like Krampus - the Christmas Devil - which really only have power at this time of year, and wouldn't suit any other kind of story. Or if you prefer a more pagan tale, there are any number of winter solstice stories to be told, whether inspired by religion or some more obscure, local festival. Besides, who is Father Christmas really? Is the whole idea of a festival devoted to indulgence and good cheer contemptible, as the Puritans believed? Is there something sinister hiding in those red robes?

With that in mind, I propose a Tale of Terror that starts with a narrative auction.

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

You are at a house sale, where the contents of the library are being picked over by one or two knowledgeable rivals and the usual gaggle of nosy neighbors. Most of the collection is second-rate stuff, fit only for the shop's lending library or bargain bin, but there are one or two items that would fetch a decent price, or make a useful squiz. It's a chilly December day, and while it's not snowing yet, you don't like the look of those clouds. If it does start to come down, your car (or van) may not be able to handle the roads. The sooner you get on your way, the better. But there's a rumor going round of a special candle auction about to be held upstairs, and you notice that your knowledgeable rivals are headed up to participate. What's this all about? And why is this special auction being held in the Blue Room, the manor house's allegedly haunted bedroom?

1. Snow starts tumbling past the window as the auction begins. The candle is the only light in the room, and as it slowly flickers to its death the auctioneer brings out all kinds of odd rarities. With each new addition to the pile, the bids go up. But there is something outside, a large horned beast clutching a coal-black sack in its hands. It can barely be seen as the snow thickens, and the candlelight fades. Nobody believes you if you tell them what you saw; but if it gets into this darkening room, what will it do next?

2. The 'auctioneer' is a man of straw, dressed as Father Christmas, of all things. The candle flickers in the gloom, as your rivals start pawing the merchandise. A hat is placed at Christmas' feet, for bids to be placed, on an honor system. A side table is piled high with mince pies and ham, as well as some quite decent wine. But woe betide the bidder who takes, and leaves behind only a pittance in the hat, or nothing at all. Father Christmas is watching, and anyone who tries to cheat him will be tracked down and punished.

3. The goods up here are marginally better than the stuff downstairs, but not by much. The auction is presided over by one of the family who does his best to inject some enthusiasm into the proceedings, but it's a losing proposition. Funny thing, though; that mirror on the wall reflects an image of a room quite different from this. This room has a blazing fire, and Christmas cards and greenery hung all over, but the other is bare, almost austere. The same people are in the room, doing the same things, but there's one extra. As you watch, this extra man - or thing - drags one of the participants out of view. When it returns, there's a nasty red smear round its mouth. It seems to be eying other reflections.

Spring Cleaning in Winter

I own a lot of stuff.

Bought, received, collected, whichever term best applies: there's heaped mounds of it in the unlikliest of places. Much of it is books, and some of it is old board games. The rest is an eclectic grouping of 'things' which you'd think nobody in their right mind would keep and yet we all seem to have. Old papers from when I was an A level student, yearbooks, notes (I seem to be addicted to notebooks and cue cards), old extension cords and electrical gear, dead beard trimmers, batteries: all of them things that can easily be shoved in a drawer and forgotten about, which is precisely what happened to them.

It's so easy to let these things take over your life. Some of them have sentimental value, but most are just junk. At first they were in my rooms, then they got boxed and put somewhere else, and a lot are still at my parent's house including Tintins and Asterix, old toys and long forgotten memorabilia.

I've been slowly getting rid of it. I started with the books, all the ones I didn't think I'd read again or knew I could get electronic versions of. So while I do like Agatha Christie and Wodehouse, they went out the door in plain brown bags on their way to the charity market. One day I'll have the lot on kindle or the equivalent. I kept a few back on cover art grounds - the old White Circle paperbacks that date back to the 40s or 50s, practically worthless but fun to have around, things like that.

Oddly I've been less eager to tackle the real junk. All those piles of tat, old papers and school yearbooks, which by rights should be in the bin. I suppose it's because sorting through those won't be nearly as much fun as going through the book collection. When it's pure donkey work, motivation is hard to come by.

Today I went for board games. If I was still in the UK I might be tempted to save these for the next gaming convention and flog them at the bring and buy. I'm not, and the cost of shipping these things far outweighs their value even for the ebay crowd. So the old Judge Dredd RPG, Squad Leader, Cross of Iron and Richtofen's War among others are going the way of all things: off to the charity market, and thank heaven for Christmas. I loved these things once, but now the memories are distant and I doubt very much whether there's a local market for them here in Bermuda.

I suppose I ought to feel more sentimental about this, but I've seen too many people - hell, my brother's one of them - keep every single scrap of their lives like some kind of shrine to their past. The past is another country, and far away; there's no getting back to it, not even with a Tardis made out of faded school reports and half a board game you used to play when you were twelve.

So out the door it goes, and while it isn't quite good riddance, I shan't be sorry to see the back of it. Bon voyage, stuff! I hope you make someone else as happy as I was, once upon a time.