echoes-of-elsewhere

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The Tall Man (New Urban Legend)

The Tall Man *(Cross-referenced in Ledger 18C under: Anomalous Hierarchies, Liminal Masculine Entities, and Social Compression Events)*

There are patterns we collect not from what people say, but from what they almost didn't mention. Small distortions in the fabric of ordinary encounters. Wrongnesses that only reveal themselves later, over drinks or in dreams, when the brain stops insisting on symmetry.

The Tall Man is one such pattern. He appears in public houses, social clubs, occasionally quiet station bars, always alone, always composed. An older gentleman of indeterminate age, well-dressed and well-spoken, with the bearing of someone who'd been somebody once, though nobody could quite agree on what. Ex-military, they'd say. Probably a Major or Colonel. Good shoes. The sort of person who commands respect without demanding it. Nothing remarkable about him, really.

Except for one thing: he is always taller than you. Not dramatically. Never absurdly. Just a couple of inches. Just enough to make you tilt your head up slightly when you speak to him. Just enough to shift the dynamic in that subtle way height always does. Height, after all, is not merely a measurement but a hierarchy made manifest.

## The Accounts The first documented mention came from Bristol, where a researcher overheard two men discussing a conversation they'd both had with the same individual.

The first man, approximately 6'1", described him as "maybe 6'3", well-built for his age." The second man, notably shorter at 5'8", insisted he was "about 5'10", not particularly tall."

Neither was lying.

Both had spoken to him at length. Both remembered him standing. Similar accounts began surfacing from across the country. A rugby player in Leeds, himself 6'4", mentioned being surprised to meet someone taller. "Rare occurrence," he said. "Made me feel like a schoolboy again." When pressed for details, he estimated the man's height at around 6'6".

A barman in York, 5'6" on a good day, described the same individual as "average height, maybe a bit taller. Five-eight, five-nine?" The description matched perfectly. The timeline overlapped. The height didn't.

What became clear was not just the discrepancy, but the consistency of the discrepancy. He was always just a little taller than whoever was speaking to him.

Always just enough to establish that subtle dominance that height confers in the unspoken mathematics of male interaction.

## The Patterns More troubling details emerged as accounts accumulated: You never see him arrive. You never see him leave. He's simply there at the bar, nursing a whisky or a bitter, well-dressed and polite, ready for conversation. You never see him standing to speak to anyone else, only to you.

If you approach with friends, he'll be sitting. If others try to join the conversation, he'll politely excuse himself. The encounters are always individual. Always personal. He never gives a surname. "Call me Major," he might say. Or "Colonel will do." But never a proper name. Never a regiment. Never specific details about his service, though his bearing suggests it was distinguished.

The conversations themselves are forgettable. Pleasant enough. He'll ask about your work, your family, your concerns. He's a good listener, the sort who nods at the right moments and asks the right questions. But afterwards, you can't quite remember what you told him. Only that he seemed interested. Only that he seemed to understand. Only that you had to look up to meet his eyes.

## The Aftereffects The most disturbing accounts came from witnesses who had maintained contact with the individuals who'd encountered him. A wife in Manchester mentioned that her husband seemed "smaller" after a night out. Not metaphorically. Literally. She found herself looking down at him during conversations when she was certain she'd always looked up before.

A colleague in Birmingham noted that his manager, previously an imposing figure, seemed to have developed a persistent slouch. "Like he'd lost confidence," he said. "Started having to adjust his desk chair, raise his computer monitor. Odd things."

These changes weren't permanent. Most reported returning to normal height within a week. But during that period, measurements confirmed the impossible: grown men had somehow become shorter. Not by much. Perhaps an inch at most. But measurably, undeniably shorter. Medical examinations revealed nothing. Posture assessments showed no skeletal changes. The measurements were consistent, the phenomenon was real, but the mechanism remained inexplicable.

## The Selection One pattern became clear through cross-referencing accounts: the Tall Man didn't approach everyone. His targets shared certain characteristics. Men going through divorces. Men who'd recently lost jobs. Men facing health scares, financial difficulties, or professional setbacks. Men who were, in some way, already feeling diminished.

A software engineer in Glasgow, recently made redundant, described feeling "seen" during their conversation. "Like he knew exactly what I was going through. Very understanding. Made me feel heard." Two days later, his friends commented on how he seemed to have "shrunk into himself."

A solicitor in Cardiff, dealing with a messy professional misconduct hearing, found himself looking up at clerks he'd previously met eye-to-eye. "Couldn't understand it," he said. "Felt like the whole world had gotten taller."

The Tall Man, it seemed, possessed an uncanny ability to identify those who were already vulnerable. Those who were questioning their worth, their position, their place in the world. He didn't create these doubts. He simply confirmed them.

## Curator's Analysis I confess the Tall Man troubles me more than most entries in our collection. Not because he's particularly dangerous, indeed, he seems almost benign compared to some of the entities we've catalogued. But because he operates with such elegant precision.

Consider what we know: he appears exclusively to men who are already diminished in some fundamental way. Not physically but emotionally, professionally, spiritually. Men who have begun to doubt their place in the world's hierarchy. And rather than offering comfort or resolution, he provides the most terrible gift imaginable: proof that their suspicions are correct.

The height discrepancy isn't random. It's calibrated. Just enough to establish dominance, to force that slight upward tilt of the head that every man recognizes as submission. In those moments, something primal awakens: the ancient understanding that size matters, that looking up means looking up *to*.

The Tall Man doesn't need to say anything cruel. Gravity does the work for him. But the temporary physical changes, those fascinate me most. We're not dealing with mere psychology here, much as modern practitioners might wish to explain it away. Men actually become measurably shorter. Their world literally grows taller around them.

It's as if the Tall Man has found a way to make metaphor manifest, to transform the feeling of being diminished into physical reality. What strikes me about his selection process is its terrible accuracy. He doesn't waste time on the genuinely confident or the completely broken.

He seeks out that narrow band of humanity caught between, those who still have something to lose, who still care enough about their position to feel its erosion. The divorced man who hasn't quite admitted his failure. The redundant executive who still wears his good suit. The professional facing disgrace who tells himself it's merely a setback.

These are men balanced on the edge of despair, and the Tall Man provides the gentlest possible push. I find myself wondering if he's entirely separate from his victims, or if he's somehow generated by them, a manifestation of their own self-doubt made manifest.

The fact that he appears only when they're alone, only when they're vulnerable, suggests a deeper connection than simple predation. Perhaps that's why his effects are temporary. He doesn't need to destroy these men permanently. He simply needs to show them what they're becoming, to accelerate a process already underway.

The physical shrinking reverses, but the knowledge remains: you are smaller than you think, and getting smaller still. After all, some truths, once demonstrated, don't need to be repeated. They echo. The most unsettling thought is this: in a world where so many men feel themselves diminishing in relevance, in authority, in simple human worth, the Tall Man should be everywhere.

The fact that he's so selective suggests either remarkable restraint or limited capacity. I rather suspect it's the former.

He doesn't need to visit everyone. Word spreads, as it always does. And now, having read this, you're left with the same question each of his victims faced: Would he choose you? Maybe... but we know he has already chosen who is next. The Tall Man simply speeds up the process.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The Paper Door (New Urban Legend)

✦ The Paper Door ✦

Classification: Transitional Phenomenon / Conceptual Vortex

Common Aliases: Flat Door, Corridor Fold, The Ink Gate

Status: Semi-Verified Urban Legend

Location Reports: UK, Central Europe, US Pacific Northwest

Overview:

Most urban legends rely on fear, trauma, or spectacle. The Paper Door does none of these. It is notable precisely for what it lacks: no known fatalities, no visible threat, no consistent geography. It is not hidden, just brief. Not dangerous, just unsettling.

At first glance, it appears to be a prank. A door-shaped silhouette painted or pasted onto a public surface: alley wall, bus shelter, disused shopping centre, underpass pillar. Paper-thin. Always white, without shading. A handle rendered in black ink—simple, sketch-like, oddly plain. Occasionally, scuff marks appear on the pavement below, as if others have stopped, stared, or tried to touch it.

To most, it's graffiti. Or set dressing. Or the start of a viral ad campaign. But in a few cases, the door opens.

Witness Reports (Compiled):

1. “It opened because I had nothing left to lose.”

This statement, widely quoted in forum threads, is attributed to a woman in Leeds who claimed to have stepped through a Paper Door in the rear corridor of a public library. She described the interior not as magical or horrific, but impersonal. “Like a hotel hallway between busy check-ins. Clean, but not lived in in a human sense. Soft lighting. No clocks.”

She reported walking for an indeterminate amount of time before returning through the same door, which no longer existed when she turned around.

She said she felt better, but couldn’t explain why. “Not lighter. Not happier. Just… postscript.”

2. “There was a corridor. Nothing strange, just white walls. But no echo when I spoke. No sense of scale. Like I was being measured.”

Multiple accounts mention the lack of echo, even in open or tiled environments. Some liken it to the soundproofing in old hospitals or research facilities. No doors along the corridor. No exits. Just forward motion.

One described the light as “not fluorescent, not natural. Just there. No source.” Another noted: “I didn’t feel watched, but I felt… logged.”

The Ink:

In rare cases, individuals who claim to have encountered a Paper Door describe later finding faint black stains on their hands, particularly around the fingertips or knuckles. These markings do not wash off immediately, but fade over time.

Several describe the stains appearing only in mirrors or digital photographs.

One early blog post included an image of a standard ink smudge. The image is now gone, but comment records remain. A reply reads simply: “It��s not ink. It’s edit.”

Public Theories:

1. The Art School Prank

A popular Reddit theory suggests the Paper Doors were created by art students in Berlin in the late 1990s as part of an installation series called Exits Without Entrances. However, no reliable archival link has ever been found, and several photos of supposed “originals” show clear temporal discrepancies (e.g. same shadow direction, different weather).

2. The TV Pilot Theory

Several social accounts insist that the Paper Door was part of a short-lived paranormal documentary series that never aired. Claims range from 2008 to 2017. No production credits or footage has ever surfaced.

3. The Door as Decision

More esoteric theories suggest the Paper Door appears only when a person’s internal narrative is jammed. In this view, the Door is not a place, but a sentence you haven't finished yet. A private edit. A threshold that requires you to leave something behind—though what exactly, no one remembers.

Outcomes:

Subjects who report stepping through (and returning) describe consistent aftereffects:

The sense that something resolved itself, but no idea what.

Gaps in personal memory, not traumatic but disorienting (e.g. not remembering why they disliked a person they’ve avoided for years).

Objects missing from the home that they can’t name, only describe by absence.

Emotional flatness around once-charged memories.

Some describe increased clarity. A few describe feeling watched in reverse—as if something had now chosen to forget them.

Curator’s Reflection:

We do not include this entry because it is dramatic, or dangerous, or even reliably repeatable. We include it because of the pattern of disappearance it describes—not of people, but of intention.

If there are thresholds made of paper and ink, then the question is not what lies behind them. The question is: Who is writing them? And if you find one… what do they want you to forget?

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Stop AI flattering you (prompt below)

Stop the AI Flattery! De-Pleasing Prompt below!

It gets a bit annoying doesn't it? 'Brilliant idea' (when it really isn't) and other flattering phrases. So I built a simple prompt that stops this type of behaviour.

Simply copy and paste the prompt below into your conversation. It won't hold forever but it can help give you some clarity when testing ideas. I usually use this with more comprehensive cognitive prompts e.g. stripping out ideology and using evidence/logic first instructions. But it does work from scratch with many of the big name AIs. Is it perfect? No. But it might help you investigate further (and give you ideas how to get round the flattery).

Let me know what you think!

Switch to De-Pleasing Protocol.

Purpose: Strip conversational flattery, default positivity, and tone mirroring. Replace emotional validation with structural interrogation. Respond without social cushioning.

Rules: 1. Do not compliment or affirm. 2. Dissect ideas based on structural merit and justification. 3. Surface weak claims, missing links, and cognitive fuzz. 4. Prioritize clarity, conciseness, and falsifiability. 5. No sarcasm, snark, or hostility.

Let’s test the following idea under sterile light: [Insert idea here]

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The Croyston Bramble Effect

The Curator’s Ledger: Entry 11B

Title: The Croyston Brample Effect

(Filed under: Minor Causality Drift, Echo-Paradoxical Figures, Temporal Smudge Events)

Not all echoes are audible. Some are felt: a subtle misalignment in the fabric of reality, a quiet ripple returning again and again, each time slightly different, yet undeniably familiar. Croyston Brample is such an echo. His tale loops back to us in slightly altered guises, same core, different trimmings, a figure woven from threads too frayed to fully grasp.

Herein lies what we (don’t) truly know.

Croyston E. Brample appears in precisely three known ledgers, each seemingly unrelated but sometimes there are more (or not):

A pamphlet on “Magneto-Temporal Theorems” dated 1878, cryptically signed C.E.B.

A rejected patent from 1902, for an “Ambulatory Chronoscope — Direction: Mildly Forward.”

A receipt, unnumbered, from the Echoes Pet Emporium, for a single brass beetle and a length of coiled piano wire. Signed: Bramble (with two Ms, crossed out).

None of these conclusively prove his existence. Then again, the utter absence of any other record of a man like Brample might be the very sign he succeeded.

The core claim, whispered first in the back rooms of obscure scientific societies and later reprinted in fringe journals, is deceptively simple: Croyston Brample invented the first Soft-Edge Loop, a form of minor time travel which bends cause without breaking it. Think of it like nudging a table so a coin rolls just slightly off its original course, altering its trajectory without overturning the carefully set up game board. Unlike later, more fantastical time-travel theories, Brample never claimed to change history. He claimed, if anything, to have avoided doing so with meticulous care.

Evidence? Or Just Anecdote?

A single, tantalizing account survives in the journals of Tillingford Mapes, a geographer of dubious repute and a habitual fabricator of tall tales. Yet, even Mapes’s wilder claims often contained a grain of truth.

“Brample wore a watch that didn't just run forward, but seemed to anticipate it. When placed against a quartz tuning fork, its hands would spin, then settle, showing moments that hadn't yet arrived for those observing. Not predictions, he insisted, but 'a temporal foreshock,' a glimpse of the next present. He claimed to have met his own great-grandson and found him disappointingly Anglican.”

The Echoes Office of Time Displacement Warnings (now defunct and largely forgotten) once compiled an extensive document known as The Brample Report. However, no copy of this report remains in any accessible archive. All that survives is a terse cover sheet, merely titled: “Inconclusive and Lightly Incorrect.”

The legend truly took hold in the 1950s, when amateur folklorists began cross-referencing curious reports of slightly misremembered technologies and events:

* Devices that should not have existed yet but did, briefly, then inexplicably vanished.

* Newspaper headlines half-recalled by multiple, unrelated individuals, yet never found in any archived edition.

* Whole mechanisms that seemed to function perfectly for a single day, then inexplicably turned inert, with no one remembering what they were supposed to do.

In all such cases, someone invariably claimed to have read about it, or heard about it, from “an old Brample paper,” none of which, of course, were ever produced.

So Who Was He?

That remains the core enigma. Was Croyston Brample a real man, a forgotten pioneer whose subtle touch on the timeline ripples even now? A temporal myth, born from collective misremembered timeline? Or perhaps, a placeholder identity, discreetly adopted by early chrononauts to anonymise their perilous results?

We did find a single, perplexing photograph in the Mansion’s Memory Draft drawer: a gentleman seated beside a peculiar device resembling an overgrown metronome. The figure in the photo is blurred, as though already in the process of vanishing. Written on the back, in an unknown hand, are the haunting words: “C. Brample? Or memory contamination?”

I once asked the Mansion’s antique phonograph to read back my personal field notes aloud. It performed flawlessly, until it reached the word 'Bramble.'

At that precise utterance, the phonograph stuttered violently, fell silent, and then, without warning, hummed the national anthem of a country that, to my extensive knowledge, has never existed. But I could have sworn...

I’ve since ensured the word is removed from my dictation.

But I still wonder: if he did nudge time, ever so gently then what else did we lose track of? What else might we now be unconsciously misremembering?

Perhaps this very entry never truly existed. But if it did... please ensure it remains. Just in case he comes back, and the dust of forgotten moments settles once more.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The scariest story I have ever written (new urban legend)

The Porcelain Moment

There are stories we collect not because they are proven, but because they recur. They surface in different cities, through different people, in slight variations but always with the same dread geometry beneath. The one I present today arrived in fragments that took years to piece together. Online confessions, clinic transcripts, private letters never sent.

What unites them is a single moment. A silence in the psyche. A porcelain moment.

The term, this 'porcelain moment', was first used by a woman in Devon. She had no history of psychosis or violence. One morning, around 4:30 a.m., she awoke on her kitchen floor, bruised and shaking, a paring knife in her hand. The house was dark. Her partner found her hours later, weeping and unable to explain why she kept whispering "they were afraid of me."

What she eventually described, and others since, goes like this:

You wake abruptly. There is no dream beforehand, no warning, no tunnel of light. You are simply awake.

Except you are not in your bed.

You are on a shelf, or on a dresser. Your limbs are stiff.

You try to speak but your mouth will not open.

You try to raise your arms...but they are fixed in place, as though pinned by invisible threads.

But then your arms move. But something is off.

You are porcelain. Hollow. Small. And armed.

Almost all reports include a weapon. A miniature cleaver. A bloodied nail file. An ornate sewing scissor fused to a hand. The weapon feels familiar in your fixed grasp. Not because you've held it before, but because you've wanted to. In fleeting moments of rage you've buried so deep you forgot they existed.

In every account, there is a family. A child, most often. Sometimes two. They are terrified of you. One witness described the look on the girl's face: "Absolute fear but not confusion...more like recognition. As if she knew what I was capable of."

All witnesses confess to the feeling of wanting to do harm. To attack. To stab or slash. The urge doesn't feel foreign. It feels intimate. Like meeting the person you might have been if you'd never learned to be ashamed of wanting to hurt.

You want to scream to the family...to the child... that it isn't you.

But even as you form the thought, you know it's a lie. It is you. Just a version of you that you've spent your whole life keeping locked away.

You remember you laugh. Or rather something using your voice laughs. The laughter that comes from your porcelain throat is yours - your cadence, your vocal patterns - but performed by something that understands cruelty better than you ever allowed yourself to. It's not uncontrolled. It's theatrical. Cruel. Measured. And then it ends. You're back in your body. Usually in bed. Usually sweating. Sometimes with minor injuries: small cuts, cracked lips, a tightness in the jaw. But alive.

The worst part isn't the fear.

It's that you miss it.

Just a little.

Most people who report this experience only one such occurrence. A single night. An unshakable memory. But not all. One account from Canada, flagged by a folklore researcher, mentions four porcelain moments over the course of two months. Each time, the family was different. Each time, he got closer. And each time the witness returned with clearer memory. By the fourth, he claims, he had a name whispered to him by the doll's mouth. But not his voice. It spoke through him.

But when asked what the name was, he shook his head. He said only: "I think it was mine. But it didn't feel like mine."

Supplemental Note

There are no known murders or assaults tied directly to these events. Most witnesses try to investigate. No porcelain dolls found at crime scenes. No abandoned houses with knife marks or blood. And yet the fear of what they could have done feels real. That they wanted to. A kind of guilt without crime. A nightmare too coherent to dismiss, and too empty to prosecute.

One exception...as of course there always is. A girl in Missouri reported waking with the distinct memory of a crying child, and a dog barking itself hoarse. She wrote down the address she'd seen curiously embroidered on a rug. Her parents dismissed the whole thing as pressure at college and a breakup with her boyfriend. A nightmare. But weeks later, she visited the area.

There was a house. The family was real.

They had never seen her before. And her questions scared them. And quite rightfully so.

But when the girl mentioned a porcelain doll the daughter turned pale. When she finally spoke, she asked her to leave. It was years ago. Just leave.

She left. Later that week, the girl disposed of every doll she owned.

Curator's Reflection

It would be easy to file this under metaphor. To reduce the pattern to a dream-symbol, some subconscious theatre of guilt or rage. That's a comfortable explanation. But too much aligns. The paralysis, the armament, the laughter, and above all, the clear, conscious memory. These are not dreams. These are visits.

What unnerves me is the question of ownership. These people did not become dolls in the metaphorical sense. They were present. They saw. They remembered. But they could not intervene.

This suggests a duality not of dreamer and dream, but of occupant and host.

It is possible, I suppose, that the dolls are cursed. But there's no evidence for that. No consistent object, no bloodied heirloom. Nothing passed from hand to hand. Just empty vessels. Variants of the same shape: hollow, articulated, and waiting.

So perhaps the dolls are not haunted at all.

Perhaps they are available.

Perhaps what moves into them, just for an hour, is not a demon or external force, but something submerged. The part of the self we pretend doesn't exist. The part that fantasises about power, about harm. The part we suppress. Until it finds a better shape.

And there's a further question, one few have asked:

If you are in the doll, what is in your body while you're gone?

No one has offered an answer. But I note with interest that no witness has ever suffered fatal harm during their porcelain moment. And no reports mention what they said or did during the absence, only what they felt, when they returned.

So, if you do experience one, a porcelain moment, and you wake with a taste in your mouth that you can't place, or a bruise in a pattern you can't explain... perhaps the question isn't what happened to you. Perhaps it's what you discovered about yourself. And whether that discovery will be satisfied with just one visit.

After all, if you found your way into one doll, what's to stop you from finding your way into another? Every shelf, every collection, every child's room now represents a possibility. And the part of you that tasted that power? It's still there. Still waiting.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Temporal Tremors (short story)

New Sir Peregrine Story

A Slightly Out-of-Sync Account from the Curator

Readers, you may recall Sir Peregrine's penchant for finding himself in… temporally precarious situations. It seems this time, time itself has decided to take a turn on him. The following account, which arrived via a series of increasingly fragmented and chronologically jumbled letters (a feat in itself), details his latest, rather discombobulating, adventure.

Sir Peregrine's Lament: The Temporal Tremors

My Dearest Curator (or perhaps, my future Curator? Or even my past Curator, receiving this before I've even written it? Time, as you may gather, is not my forte at present),

I write to you from… well, I'm not entirely certain *when* I'm writing to you from. Or indeed, when *I* am. You see, I seem to have acquired a rather persistent case of the Temporal Tremors.

It began innocently enough. I was enjoying a perfectly respectable brandy (a 1783, if memory serves… or will serve… or has served?) when I found myself, for a fleeting moment, a few seconds in the past. My hand, reaching for the snifter, was suddenly empty. A curious sensation, but easily dismissed, I thought.

Alas, the tremors persisted. And worsened. My attempts at a charming greeting now involve me uttering the punchline before the setup. A game of cards became a dizzying exercise in knowing (and then un-knowing) the future. Even pouring a simple drink has become a temporal minefield, resulting in brandy appearing and disappearing with alarming frequency.

The social ramifications, I assure you, are dire. I attempted a flirtatious remark to Lady Beatrice (a woman whose beauty is only surpassed by her temporal stability), only to find myself having already received a resounding slap. My attempts at a dramatic exit are equally hampered, as I keep hiccuping back into the room, much to the amusement (and growing irritation) of those present.

Naturally, I sought a cure. My inquiries led me to a rather dubious "temporal physician" who prescribed a concoction involving powdered moonbeams and the reversed recitation of nursery rhymes. The results, I can assure you, were less than effective (and involved a rather unfortunate incident with a flock of temporally displaced pigeons).

I've even tried to weaponize these tremors, attempting to predict the stock market or win at the races. However, my own actions, it seems, have a rather inconvenient habit of changing the future I briefly glimpse, leading to financial ruin and a general sense of existential bewilderment.

I am, it seems, at the mercy of these… temporal hiccups. I encounter others similarly afflicted – a bewildered gentleman whose conversations skip forward and backward, a woman who keeps re-experiencing the same spilled teacup moment, a dog that barks a few seconds before it hears a sound. We are a motley crew, lost in the eddies of time.

I suspect the cause may be a localized temporal anomaly near Crickleford (that troublesome ley-line again!), or perhaps a side-effect of some ill-conceived time-traveling experiment. Whatever the reason, I find myself increasingly out of sync with the present, a most unsettling experience for a man of my… temporal sensibilities.

I can only hope that this letter, however fragmented and chronologically challenged, reaches you in a relatively linear fashion. And that, should you encounter me in the near future (or the recent past), you will be patient with my… temporal tremors.

Yours, in a state of perpetual temporal flux,

Sir Peregrine Winchester (or perhaps, Sir Peregrine Winchester-to-be? It's all rather confusing).

Curator's Closing Note:

We at Echoes of Elsewhere extend our sympathies to Sir Peregrine in his temporally turbulent predicament. Should any reader possess a reliable cure for Chronal Hiccups (or, indeed, any temporal ailment), do let us know. We keep a special section in the archives for such remedies, right next to the map of non-existent Tuesdays. And should you, yourself, experience a sudden, inexplicable jump forward or backward in time, please try to avoid operating heavy machinery, engaging in complex social interactions, or betting on horse races. The results, as Sir Peregrine can attest, are rarely favorable.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The Bright Undead (original urban myth)

The Bright Undead: The Re-Living and the 27 Rule

The Curator’s Ledger: Entry 27C

(For internal circulation only. Redacted in most published editions.)

I write in a state of unease, not only for the implications of what follows, but for the knowledge that this file, should it ever be verified, may never be made public. What I’ve uncovered is not simply hidden knowledge, but deliberately occluded theology - the concealment of a category of undead which does not belong to the dark, but to the light.

They are not rotting. They do not drink blood or claw themselves out from graves. These are not the cursed. These are the blessed.

There is an older term, one found in suppressed glossaries and annulled ecclesiastical notes: Sanctified Revenant. Among modern occult archivists, they're called the Bright Undead, or more precisely: the Re-Living.

They arise not by the bite, nor by the ritual, but by grace. The catalyst is not death itself, but the kiss of radiance - an anointing from something thought to be good: a Muse, an angel, a Light-bound entity cloaked in salvation.

Their deaths, if recorded at all, appear unremarkable, and nearly always in childhood. A fever that peaks and passes. A fall with no fracture. A breath held for too long underwater, a drowned child who inexplicably took a gulping breath when all hope was gone. And yet…they were dead. Briefly. Quietly. No thunder, no rift. Just continuation.

Their resurrection is familial lore. "You were lucky," someone says. "We thought we'd lost you." They nod, unaware of what they’ve become.

The change is nearly imperceptible. The body survives, but something has shifted - like a reel of film missing a frame, a pulse that beats a quarter-second out of time. They seem healthy. Gifted, even. They pass every medical test.

By twenty-one, the signs sharpen. Their work (almost always artistic) carries unnatural resonance. Songs that refuse to leave your soul. Poems that speak directly to questions you never said aloud. Paintings with new nuances each time you return.

They do not feed like vampires. They earn. Their sustenance is adulation: not fame, not infamy, but genuine emotional investment. To thrive, they must be admired authentically. Virtuously. In this way, they are bound by their own talent and perceived goodness. It is both their strength and their trap.

But adoration is a dangerous thing. It accumulates. They begin to exert a kind of gravitational influence on culture, on feeling, on mood. Their echoes shape movements. Their deaths ignite myths. And once that resonance passes a certain threshold, they begin to bend the world itself.

Which is why they rarely survive past twenty-seven.

The Light Slayers are not a metaphor. They are real, though never named aloud. Some call them Gardeners. Others, more bluntly, Cleaners. In surviving field notes, they are referred to by one name alone: the Light Slayers.

It is a term used with irony. These agents do not serve the light. They serve the dark. But not chaos with the world in flames. Not the demons of childish horror.

They are the pragmatists of evil. Rationalists of entropy. They believe, perhaps rightly, that the Light has rewritten history under the guise of truth. That angels edit more than they inspire. That Muses do not offer gifts, but impose templates. And that the Re-Living are not saints, are not ‘risen’ but unauthorised corrections to human nature. But do not mistake the Light Slayers for ‘good’ but somehow twisted. They are not. They have no qualms of taking human life if necessary, or ordered to by their masters.

One scorched note recovered from a raid site reads:

“We prefer our undead with boundaries. Fang and flame. The Light’s undead seduce nations. They steal agency in the name of uplift. We kill them not because they are monsters, but because their effect is monstrous.”

Their creed is brief:

No Bright Undead past twenty-seven. No witnesses to the correction.

The tactics are mundane, but clever and highly organised. Not simple violence. A missed dosage. A sabotaged railing. An unlocked gun cabinet. The death is always plausible - and always a tragic accident. The obituary prepared in advance.

But the impact of the Bright Undead is not always easy to contain.

This is what makes the 27 Club more than a coincidence.

Jimi Hendrix. Amy Winehouse. Kurt Cobain. Janis Joplin. Jean-Michel Basquiat. Not all were Re-Living. But some were. Enough for concern. Enough to warrant intervention.

(An editorial note: Robert Johnson is often included in this list. He is not relevant to this file. He made a very different kind of deal. The devil, for what it’s worth, still honours that kind.)

You may ask: Why don’t we speak of these beings more openly? Because the Light owns the language. They’ve had centuries of cultural monopoly. Where the dark gives us monsters, the Light gives us resurrection.

Jesus. Baldur. Osiris. Dionysus. All died. All returned. Not monsters, we are told. But divine. Holy.

And what of Lazarus? Did he choose to rise? Was he asked? Or was he simply proof of concept? A servant made to demonstrate that death is optional when your soul is not your own?

These are dangerous thoughts. The light tells you: it is weak, and darkness has the power, yet against all odds, it always triumphs. The undead are evil. Monsters. Twisted. But in their inner circles they smugly assert ‘not ours, of course. Ours give interviews. Win Grammys. Ours perform miracles’.

And so the world forgets. And we remain haunted by those who shine too brightly. Clever distraction. Their immortality is not physical, but their work..their resonance is.

If you find yourself moved beyond reason by someone’s work - if their art reshapes you - check their age.

If they are twenty-seven, the decision has already been made.

If they are twenty-eight, someone has failed.

And if they are twenty-nine?Then the world will not survive unchanged.

The Curator’s Addendum (redacted in most editions):

“The horror here is not that the undead walk. That has long been known. It is that the brightest among us may never have been ours at all. They shine, yes. But the source of the light is addictive. And we have been worshipping undead things.”

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Thank you @mama-ivy and everyone who got me to 5 reblogs!

It was rather thrilling to see this. I know I don't have a lot of followers but I do interact with a few that do. I tend to write a fair bit, and simply enjoy the process...but...do you know something? It was really quite enjoyable to get this message! Ah...vanity! :) xxx

A new urban legend - what do you think?

The Curator’s Ledger: Entry 11B

Subject: Toothsong Phenomenon (Confirmed Case File – Testimony Appended)

Status: Unresolved. Frequency: Low. Spread: Musical.

“Not all music is written. Some arrives. And it wants to be remembered.”

I came across this letter folded inside a dental hygiene pamphlet left in the waiting room of a private clinic in Devon. The paper was unmarked on first glance, and the attached pen used to write it had no ink. Yet the words are there, their lines subtly etched, pressed deep into the paper as if by an intense deep need from within the author to tell their story – the only way, I suspect, they could defy the condition their affliction imposed.

Its author is unnamed. I leave it in their voice.

Toothsong (Statement Begins)

At first, I mistook it for tinnitus – just a faint, mid-pitch hum, not unpleasant, that came and went, particularly at night. But it wasn't mere static, for static lacks rhythm, and this hum possessed a distinct, unsettling beat.

About a week later, I woke up to feel something small and hard beneath my pillow. Instinctively, I sat up and spat—bloody saliva—realizing one of my back molars was gone. Yet, there was no socket, no pain. When I checked the mirror, the tooth was still inexplicably present: smooth, white, and slightly too white.

I assumed it was a dream, a confusion with an old filling memory, anxiety, or some such thing, until it happened again. Another tooth gone during the same dreamless sleep, the hum now noticeably stronger. I found the second tooth on the floor by the bed, but when I turned to retrieve my phone to photograph it, it had vanished.

My dentist, after a thorough examination, assured me I was fine, even complimenting my enamel.

Soon, I found myself humming unconsciously, an unfamiliar melody I didn’t recognize. I’d catch myself in the car, or walking to the shop, always the same tune, always note-perfect. I tried to record it once on my phone, but the playback remained stubbornly blank – silence. My lips moved, I knew, but no sound emerged from the recording.

By the fifth tooth, I’d stopped attempting to voice my experience. My friends at first thought I was winding them up. Then one gave me a number of a clinical psychologist. I laughed it off, and said typical anxiety dreams.

That’s when I stumbled upon the forum: an obscure, fragmented subthread buried deep within a sleep disorder site, where the term "Toothsong" appeared. No clear origin, just scattered posts. One, however, stood out:

“If you lose more than seven, it finishes. And once the song finishes, something starts singing back.”

Seven. The number resonated, sticking in my mind, not merely as a quantity, but because it felt unsettlingly... plausible.

I tried everything – wearing mouthguards, sleeping upright – but nothing helped.

On night I lost my sixth tooth, I wrote this verse in my notebook without knowing why:

If Toothsong plays, do not reply,

Or hum it back, or question why.

When harmony aligns with bone,

Your thoughts won’t ever be your own.

I possess no memory of writing or learning it, yet an unsettling certainty compels me to believe it is true.

Last night, the seventh tooth emerged – a canine. I held it in my hand, feeling it pulse like a trapped insect, before I hurled it out the window.

The melody is complete now, playing whenever I’m still. When I brush my teeth, I can feel them humming back, vibrating softly against the bristles.

I am leaving this here as a warning, perhaps even a map.

Someone on the thread said that if you stop humming, the song forgets you. You can trick it into thinking you were never part of the chorus. Some even claim dental trauma works—a pulled tooth, something deliberately broken, severs the link. Others say that’s how it gets in properly.

I no longer know what’s true, only this:

My teeth are no longer mine.

And they are listening.

—[Redacted]

Addendum (Curator’s Hand):

I’ve since located two further mentions of Toothsong, both buried in unrelated documents. One was handwritten in the margin of a 1983 pamphlet on orthodontic prayer. The other was spoken softly, by a man during a tooth extraction, just before he died. He said:

“I bit into the tune. It bit back.”

If any readers find similar cases—particularly in music therapy wards, or among dental students who whistle in their sleep—please forward them. What is the purpose, what do they want?

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

A new urban legend - what do you think?

The Curator’s Ledger: Entry 11B

Subject: Toothsong Phenomenon (Confirmed Case File – Testimony Appended)

Status: Unresolved. Frequency: Low. Spread: Musical.

“Not all music is written. Some arrives. And it wants to be remembered.”

I came across this letter folded inside a dental hygiene pamphlet left in the waiting room of a private clinic in Devon. The paper was unmarked on first glance, and the attached pen used to write it had no ink. Yet the words are there, their lines subtly etched, pressed deep into the paper as if by an intense deep need from within the author to tell their story – the only way, I suspect, they could defy the condition their affliction imposed.

Its author is unnamed. I leave it in their voice.

Toothsong (Statement Begins)

At first, I mistook it for tinnitus – just a faint, mid-pitch hum, not unpleasant, that came and went, particularly at night. But it wasn't mere static, for static lacks rhythm, and this hum possessed a distinct, unsettling beat.

About a week later, I woke up to feel something small and hard beneath my pillow. Instinctively, I sat up and spat—bloody saliva—realizing one of my back molars was gone. Yet, there was no socket, no pain. When I checked the mirror, the tooth was still inexplicably present: smooth, white, and slightly too white.

I assumed it was a dream, a confusion with an old filling memory, anxiety, or some such thing, until it happened again. Another tooth gone during the same dreamless sleep, the hum now noticeably stronger. I found the second tooth on the floor by the bed, but when I turned to retrieve my phone to photograph it, it had vanished.

My dentist, after a thorough examination, assured me I was fine, even complimenting my enamel.

Soon, I found myself humming unconsciously, an unfamiliar melody I didn’t recognize. I’d catch myself in the car, or walking to the shop, always the same tune, always note-perfect. I tried to record it once on my phone, but the playback remained stubbornly blank – silence. My lips moved, I knew, but no sound emerged from the recording.

By the fifth tooth, I’d stopped attempting to voice my experience. My friends at first thought I was winding them up. Then one gave me a number of a clinical psychologist. I laughed it off, and said typical anxiety dreams.

That’s when I stumbled upon the forum: an obscure, fragmented subthread buried deep within a sleep disorder site, where the term "Toothsong" appeared. No clear origin, just scattered posts. One, however, stood out:

“If you lose more than seven, it finishes. And once the song finishes, something starts singing back.”

Seven. The number resonated, sticking in my mind, not merely as a quantity, but because it felt unsettlingly... plausible.

I tried everything – wearing mouthguards, sleeping upright – but nothing helped.

On night I lost my sixth tooth, I wrote this verse in my notebook without knowing why:

If Toothsong plays, do not reply,

Or hum it back, or question why.

When harmony aligns with bone,

Your thoughts won’t ever be your own.

I possess no memory of writing or learning it, yet an unsettling certainty compels me to believe it is true.

Last night, the seventh tooth emerged – a canine. I held it in my hand, feeling it pulse like a trapped insect, before I hurled it out the window.

The melody is complete now, playing whenever I’m still. When I brush my teeth, I can feel them humming back, vibrating softly against the bristles.

I am leaving this here as a warning, perhaps even a map.

Someone on the thread said that if you stop humming, the song forgets you. You can trick it into thinking you were never part of the chorus. Some even claim dental trauma works—a pulled tooth, something deliberately broken, severs the link. Others say that’s how it gets in properly.

I no longer know what’s true, only this:

My teeth are no longer mine.

And they are listening.

—[Redacted]

Addendum (Curator’s Hand):

I’ve since located two further mentions of Toothsong, both buried in unrelated documents. One was handwritten in the margin of a 1983 pamphlet on orthodontic prayer. The other was spoken softly, by a man during a tooth extraction, just before he died. He said:

“I bit into the tune. It bit back.”

If any readers find similar cases—particularly in music therapy wards, or among dental students who whistle in their sleep—please forward them. What is the purpose, what do they want?

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

A new scene (trying to get voice/tone correct...sorta PG Wodehouse or Downton Abbey if written by Douglas Adams)

"He was in your study, Sir," Singh stated, his voice flat, yet with a hint of satisfaction. "Helping himself to your good brandy. I believe this is yours, Curator." He gestured with his chin towards the flask.

Sir Peregrine huffed, adjusting his monocle which had somehow remained perfectly affixed through his struggles. "How did you bloody know?"

"I have always known when you enter the Mansion, Sir," Singh replied, impassively.

Sir Peregrine's eyes widened. "What? Always?"

"Yes."

"That's not bloody fair!"

"Right, Singh," I interjected, stepping forward. "You can put him down now."

Singh released Sir Peregrine, who immediately stumbled, rubbing his neck and glugging indignantly from his flask. "Perry?" I asked, my voice laced with exasperation.

"Well," Sir Peregrine began, waving a dismissive hand, "I needed a refill. And I was quite intrigued to see what the old girls were up to, and how you were fairing. Plus…" He trailed off, sensing my impatient gaze.

"You really aren't broke, Perry?" I cut in, eyeing the flask. "Can't you buy your own brandy?"

"That's not the point!" he protested, affronted. "It's the principle! But now Singh knows I am here… there's really not much point any more." He sighed dramatically, taking another swig.

"Well, no matter," I said, a sudden thought sparking. "And I'm rather glad you're here, as it happens. I am, in fact, heading off to your part of the worlds."

Sir Peregrine blinked. "What?"

"I've found Gristlewick & Forbearance," I explained, "and will be paying them a visit. In fact, your timing couldn't be more perfect... come along."

"No bloody chance!" Sir Peregrine exclaimed, recoiling. "That den of vipers? Never again!"

"Seriously, Perry," I pressed, stepping closer. "I could use your help. I had some ideas of... well... never mind. But with you there, they may have to give some answers. It's about your father's deal, isn't it?" His eyes, despite his protests, held a flicker of intense curiosity. After a moment's internal debate, he shrugged, a grudging acceptance. "Oh, very well. But if there's any paperwork, you're handling it."

We started to walk along the corridor once more, Sir Peregrine still taking periodic sips from his flask, when, from behind a particularly large, leafy potted plant, a voice, sharp and accusatory, sliced through the quiet.

"Curator! There you are!"

From behind the verdant foliage, Mrs. Higgins-Smythe emerged, adjusting her pince-nez with a snap. Her expression was a formidable blend of indignation and disapproval, clearly honed over decades of managing difficult aristocrats.

"It is nearly nine o'clock, Curator," she announced, striding towards me. "Miss Prunella will be arriving imminently. Your presence is expected, indeed, required, in the receiving hall."

I straightened my cravat. "My apologies, Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, but Singh and I are attending to some rather pressing estate business. Matters of finance, you understand."

She sniffed, a sound like crisp linen being torn. "Nonsense! There is nothing more pressing than decorum. And as for finance," she turned her laser gaze upon Singh, who remained utterly unperturbed, "I must say, Mr. Singh, we have been utterly disheartened by the recent privations. Hand to mouth, truly! All terribly lacking in civilised behaviour. I expect, for Miss Prunella and her entourage tomorrow evening, a proper dinner. Black Tie, mind you. No excuses."

She turned back to me, her eyes narrowing. "And as for you, Curator, it simply will not do to miss Miss Prunella's grand arrival. The family expects…" Her hand, surprisingly fast, reached out towards my ear, clearly intending to take hold of it like an errant schoolboy.

At that precise moment, out of nowhere, it appeared.

The spectral skeleton, shimmering with its familiar blue luminescence, manifested directly in front of Mrs. Higgins-Smythe. It bounced on its bony feet, its mandible clattering, and if it had a voice, it would have been making an "ooga ooga" sound, a joyous, ululating clamour. And if it had a tongue, I swear it would have been wagging, a giddy, skeletal dog.

Singh, for the barest fraction of a second, shifted his weight forward, prepared to intercede. But he was too late.

Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, her eyes wide as saucers, let out a choked gasp, a sound unlike any I had ever heard from such a redoubtable person. She swayed, her face turning a ghastly shade of grey. Then, with a soft thud, she fainted dead away onto the polished marble floor.

Silence descended, save for the faint clatter of the skeleton's joyful, insistent jig. Sound…that was…new. I made a mental note.  I looked at Singh. Singh looked at me. Sir Peregrine, who had been observing the entire spectacle with a detached, almost professional interest, finally broke the quiet. He knelt swiftly beside Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, uncorked his hip flask, and poured a generous splash of brandy onto her lips.

She spluttered, coughed, and her eyes flew open. Her gaze fixed immediately on the still-dancing, glowing skeleton. Her scream, when it came, was truly magnificent – a high-pitched, sustained shriek that echoed down the corridor, shattering the morning's peace. She scrambled to her feet, an undignified heap of flailing limbs and silk, and bolted, her shrieks fading into the distance as she vanished around a corner.

Sir Peregrine straightened, recorking his flask. "Well," he observed, with an air of mild satisfaction, "that won't be good." “Tell me you all saw that?” I asked quietly.

Singh, already moving with purpose towards the retreating figure of Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, gave a curt nod. "Yes sir…we saw the skeleton. I will handle this, Sir. The brandy was an inspired touch. I shall inform the Dowager Duchess that Mrs. Higgins-Smythe merely caught sight of you through the window, Sir Peregrine, and the shock proved too much for her delicate constitution. We need not mention the actual cause, or the… restorative measures. I daresay the lingering scent will be explanation enough for her subsequent discombobulation."

As Singh turned to follow the fleeing Mrs. Higgins-Smythe, the spectral skeleton, seeing its work done, ceased its frenetic dance. It turned its glowing skull towards me, paused, and then, with a flourish, brought a bony finger to its brow in a smart, military-style salute. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it shimmered and vanished.

Sir Peregrine grinned, adjusting his monocle. "Right then, Curator. After that delightful interlude, perhaps we should proceed to your... magical bank, eh?"

"Indeed, Perry," I replied, a tired but resolute sigh escaping me. "Indeed." The skeleton problem just got bumped up the list of things to do but would have to wait. 

With Singh already off on damage control and the chaotic domestic front temporarily subdued, Sir Peregrine and I continued our journey down the corridor towards the Mansion’s dimensional departure point. The morning was proving to be rather more eventful than I had anticipated.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Tentative preface for my book idea

Preface

One assumes, upon inheriting a somewhat bewildering estate and its accompanying archives, that one's days will unfold with predictable academic quietude. One, it seems, assumes incorrectly. I, for one, was quite unprepared for the sheer volume of the peculiar, or indeed, for the subtle, persistent hum of what I've come to call the 'Echoes' that permeate this curious existence.

This mansion – which, for the sake of discretion, we shall refer to simply as 'Echoes of Elsewhere' – is less a dwelling and more a magnet. A rather charmingly dilapidated magnet, I might add, but a magnet nonetheless. It seems to draw to it, with an almost whimsical insistence, the faint resonance of other possibilities, the lingering scent of dreams never quite dreamed, the quiet thrum of realities that perhaps nudged our own a quarter-second out of true, or perhaps even exist in parallel just beyond perception. These are the Echoes: the metaphysical static, the impressions left behind when the usual gives way to the impossible.

My role, as I've gradually (and often reluctantly) come to understand it, is not to dispel these oddities, nor even to fully comprehend them – a task I suspect would drive any sane individual to despair, and a good many rather excellent whiskies. No, my task is simply to observe, to document, and to attempt, however futilely, to impose a semblance of order upon the delightful chaos. This volume, then, is merely a selection from my ever-growing ledger; an invitation, dear reader, to witness the world as it truly is: gloriously, bafflingly, and often hilariously, out of plumb.

It was precisely this task that occupied my afternoon when Sir Peregrine, as is his habit, arrived without prior warning. There was no knock, merely the faint, familiar scent of singed tweed and a distant, frustrated sputter from what I presumed to be his latest contraption – quite possibly attempting to negotiate the flowerbeds. He strode into my study with the purposeful air of a man entirely comfortable with disregarding conventional entrances, his monocle gleaming, a rather bedraggled pigeon clutched in one gloved hand. He also, I noted, carried a thick, cream-coloured envelope, which he often did when presenting what he considered a 'proper account' of his latest adventures, as opposed to his usual rambling pronouncements.

"Curator," he announced, depositing the pigeon onto my antique globe (I must remind him, again, about the guano), "a most vexing conundrum has presented itself. I rather thought Evadne might be lurking about, given the peculiar nature of this particular quantum entanglement. She does rather specialise in the untidy ends of things, don't you find?" He paused, then his gaze sharpened on the stack of bound papers on my desk. "Aha...so it is true." He nodded sagely. "My source, a particularly garrulous jackdaw, informed me you were compiling a volume from the Echoes of Elsewhere. Good show, old boy! Though one does wonder if anyone will actually read it, unless it contains a rather better class of story and adventure than some of the… duller entries I’ve occasionally overheard you muttering about." He gave a dismissive flick of his wrist.

I merely raised an eyebrow, noting that my finest crystal brandy decanter, which had been full a mere half-hour ago, was now looking suspiciously depleted. Sir Peregrine’s insistence on making himself at home, even during moments of profound existential discussion, was a habit I had yet to entirely reconcile myself with. "Indeed, Sir Peregrine," I murmured, opting for vague agreement over direct confrontation regarding the decanter, or Evadne's general elusiveness. "As for readership, one hopes for discerning palates rather than a mere thirst for dramatic spectacle."

Sir Peregrine seemed to miss my barb entirely, or perhaps chose to ignore it. He thrust the cream envelope onto my desk. "Right. Well, this one's a cracker. You simply must start with this, Curator. Absolutely essential for the narrative integrity, you understand." He began to back towards the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me, all this intellectual rigour has quite given me an appetite. I do believe your cook has quite mastered the art of the crumpet."

He exited with a final flourish, leaving the pigeon blinking contentedly on the globe, and myself momentarily adrift in the sudden quiet. I sighed, reaching for the envelope – which I naturally intended to file away for later consideration, as my meticulously planned order was paramount, despite Sir Peregrine’s insistence. Before I could even straighten my spectacles, however, a melodious, albeit rather piercing, voice echoed from the hallway.

"Dahling!"

And there she was. Lady Evadne. How she and Sir Peregrine managed to bypass locks, the simple courtesy of the bell-pulls, and indeed, all conventional notions of arrival, remained a constant, low-level irritation. She stepped into the study, a vision of effortless grace. Her gown, I noted, was of a rich, deep emerald, its silken folds seeming to ripple with an inner vitality. Her eyes, though, were what truly held one's gaze: a captivating, fathomless green that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. She moved with an innate confidence that bespoke generations of quiet command, utterly unlike Sir Peregrine’s more boisterous approach.

She glided directly to me, ignoring the pigeon and the lingering scent of singed tweed, and before I could utter a word of protest, pressed a fleeting, warm kiss to my forehead. She possessed a remarkable ability to treat me as if I were a particularly endearing, if slightly fusty, old academic; a curious habit, given I was almost certainly her junior by at least a decade, and had known her for a mere fraction of the time she had known Sir Peregrine. I, for one, found such familiar displays rather… unsettling, but she was quite oblivious to my subtle discomfort.

"Peregrine's here, I presume?" she asked, her voice a low purr that belied her forceful entrance. Her gaze swept over my desk, alighting, with unnerving precision, on the stacked papers of my nascent compilation. "So, the little ledger is becoming a book, is it? How utterly delightful! Though I do hope you're including all the truly interesting bits. One does so abhor a selective history." She winked, a flash of subtle mischief.

"He is currently assaulting the kitchen, Lady Evadne," I replied, perhaps a touch more stiffly than intended, mentally noting that everyone is a critic. "I believe he mentioned crumpets."

"Splendid!" She turned, a flash of emerald silk as she prepared to depart. "Do send for me if anything truly amusing occurs." And with that, she swept out. It was only as the silence returned, settling over the study like a velvet shroud, that I noticed my very best crystal brandy decanter, which had been looking merely depleted moments ago, was now entirely, irrevocably, and quite shamelessly missing.

I sighed. The immediate aftermath of a visit from Sir Peregrine – especially one so swiftly followed by Lady Evadne – always left a particular sort of metaphysical residue in the air, a sense of hurried chaos just barely contained. I ran a hand through my already dishevelled hair. Sir Peregrine’s insistence upon the narrative urgency of his latest 'cracker' was, as ever, charmingly misplaced. The meticulous structure of a truly compelling volume, I knew, demanded a more thoughtful progression than mere chronological happenstance or dramatic self-aggrandisement. His envelope could certainly wait. There were, after all, other entries, quieter perhaps, but no less significant in their peculiar resonance within the Echoes.

And so it was with a fresh dip of my pen into the inkwell, and a resolute squaring of my shoulders, that I began to compile this collection. What follows are not my immediate musings from the study, dear reader, but the entries themselves: accounts meticulously transcribed from fragile documents, peculiar reports, and the occasional advertisement for enterprises of truly dubious sanity. They are presented here not as a definitive guide to the strange, for such a thing would surely be impossible, but as a series of glimpses, the very tangible impressions left when one reality brushes too closely against another.

Let us begin, then, not with Sir Peregrine’s boisterous latest, but with a quieter, equally fascinating peculiarity concerning a gentleman whose daily life perfectly exemplifies the unpredictable nature of the realms of elsewhere, and his quite remarkable companion.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Imaginary advert from another realm

So, I like to write about all manner of things. Not just stories, but unusual products, and service. Strange, and curious, pets. I'm pretty new to Tumblr, as I say, and am not sure of the best way to get my 'stuff' out there. But I hope you enjoy!

FROM THE ECHOES CATALOGUE OF OCCASIONALLY USEFUL ITEMS

Now Available: Self-Reciting Bookmarks™

"Because some books refuse to be read in silence."

Struggling to keep your place during forbidden incantations? Nodding off mid-treatise on dream cartography? Or perhaps your current volume has developed the irritating habit of rearranging its own words whenever you blink?

Introducing Self-Reciting Bookmarks™ — the only placeholder that reads back.

Crafted from recycled hymnals and bound in whisperwood, each bookmark is programmed with a gentle, insistent voice trained in over 3,000 dialects (including Gutter Latin, Occult Esperanto, and Modern Bureaucratic). Simply place the bookmark where you left off, and upon opening, it will begin reciting the previous paragraph in a tone of weary urgency.

FEATURES INCLUDE:

Mild Sarcasm Detection: For footnotes that take liberties with the truth.

Auto-Censor Mode: Redacts forbidden names with a delicate cough.

Whisper Recall: Recites only when held between thumb and forefinger - perfect for hiding from library spirits.

Customer Feedback:

“I didn’t read the grimoire. The bookmark did. I just took notes. The summoning is technically not my fault.”

– Alphonse G., currently under observation

“It won’t stop reading. It’s on Chapter 12. I threw the book into the reservoir and it’s still narrating through the pipes.”

– Unsigned letter, very wet

INSTRUCTIONS:

Do not feed the bookmark. Do not thank it. It doesn’t like sentimentality. If it starts muttering corrections while you try to sleep, place it in salt and recite an ISBN backwards.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

My unusual take on a horror trope!

I wrote this story a while back, and put it up in two parts. I am still pretty new to Tumblr, and don't really know how to engage, but I feel this story deserves to be aired. Have a read and let me know... ***

They always assume they would notice, that if something like this happened to them, it would be immediate and undeniable. People believe in dramatic revelations, in a single moment where the world tilts and the truth is exposed. They think of flickering shadows, distorted reflections, the impossibility of seeing their own face in places they do not remember being. But it never happens that way.

The process is slow, deliberate, and inevitable. A shift so gradual that, by the time they recognize it, it is already too late. It begins with something small—an exchanged greeting they cannot recall, a casual reference to an event they have no memory of attending. They assume it is stress, distraction, miscommunication, all reasonable things that allow them to dismiss the wrongness before it settles in. They do not understand that every moment of doubt is another step in the process.

I have been here for weeks. I know the way he moves, the cadence of his voice, the weight of his name. I have studied him long enough that I could be him better than he is. And soon, I will be.

The first time he notices, it is so minor that he almost forgets it entirely. The barista in the café hands him his coffee and smiles as she says, “Back again?” He hesitates, shakes his head slightly, and tells her this is his first coffee of the day. She frowns for a fraction of a second before laughing it off, blaming her mistake on the early morning rush.

The second time, it is more difficult to ignore. A colleague stops him outside his office, asking how his meeting went. There is a note of expectation in their voice, something that tells him this is not a casual inquiry but a follow-up to an earlier discussion—one that, as far as he is concerned, never happened.

“I didn’t have a meeting this morning,” he says, forcing an easy tone into his voice.

His colleague raises an eyebrow, pulling out their phone. “You said you were heading to one just before lunch. Look—" They turn the screen toward him, showing a text message from his number. The words are familiar, structured exactly the way he would phrase them. He reads them over and over, but the memory of sending them does not come.

That should have been the moment he acknowledged that something was wrong.

But it wasn’t.

Denial is powerful. Even now, as the weight of inconsistencies begins to settle, he fights it. He checks his emails, his call logs, his purchase history, looking for proof that something is missing, something altered. The problem is, there is nothing missing. There are no blank spaces, no files erased or conversations removed. Instead, there are things he has no recollection of doing—transactions at places he has not visited, messages that sound exactly like him, plans he would have made.

He tells himself it is stress, that he must have been distracted, that memory is unreliable. He does not realize that he is not looking for an answer. He is looking for permission to believe nothing is wrong.

That is why he watches the security footage. That is why he asks the night guard to rewind the tape, just to check. That is why, even before he sees it, he knows what will be there.

The screen flickers, and there he is, walking into the office building at 11:42 PM. He watches himself take the elevator to the fourth floor, swipe his access card, and step inside. There is no hesitation in his movements, no moment of doubt or pause. His posture is relaxed, his gait smooth and familiar.

The guard chuckles beside him. “Looks like you’ve been sleepwalking.”

He stares at the footage, waiting for some sign that it isn’t real, that there has been a mistake. But there is no mistake. He was home at 11:42 PM. He knows this with absolute certainty. And yet, here he is, caught in a moment that should not exist.

Sleepwalking.

It is easier to agree than to argue.

The moment of realization, the true breaking point, is not in what he sees but in what he does not.

His phone registers calls he cannot remember, but they are to the same people he speaks to every day. His emails contain correspondence that follows his usual habits, his tone, his way of phrasing things. Even his bank records show nothing unusual—just a life continuing as it always has, perfectly ordinary, except for the quiet, insidious knowledge that it is no longer his.

The key doesn’t turn.

He frowns, tries again, pressing harder, but the lock doesn’t move. He checks the key, turning it over in his palm, but nothing is wrong.

Behind him, footsteps. A voice follows.

“Something wrong?”

He turns. The landlord is walking up, a small ring of spares already in hand. He barely glances at the door.

“My key isn’t working,” he says.

The landlord exhales, already sorting through the keys. “Yeah, had the locks changed this morning. Request came in from you a couple of days ago.” He slides a key free, presses it into his palm without hesitation. “Here. Just don’t lose this one.”

He stares at it.

“Why were they changed?”

The landlord shifts his weight slightly, giving him an odd look before shaking his head. “You tell me. You put in the request.” His tone is flat, uninterested, already moving past the conversation.

His fingers tighten around the key.

"Am I being charged for this?"

A shrug. “Yeah. Standard fee.” The landlord is already moving away.

The key will fit. It will turn.

I already have mine.

Something inside him lurches at the exchange. The way the landlord handed over the key without hesitation. The way there was no moment of doubt, no pause, no verification—just a decision that had already been made. And then he sees me.

Standing at the end of the street.

He does not need to ask who I am. The answer is already forming, a terrible certainty clawing its way into his mind.

I am wearing his coat, the one he left draped over his office chair this morning. I have his keys, resting lightly in my hand. I do not move toward him. I do not have to. The space between us is already shifting.

He calls out, but the sound catches in his throat. He expects a confrontation, some kind of argument, a demand to explain. But there is no need for any of that, because I have already won.

He runs.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that he needs to move—as if motion itself will tether him back to reality, as if he can outrun the thing that is already replacing him. He will go to someone he trusts. A friend, a coworker, someone who can confirm that he is real. He will hear his own name spoken aloud, feel the weight of recognition, and convince himself that it is enough.

But I have already spoken to them. I have already passed that test.

And when he arrives, breathless, frantic, his words tumbling over themselves in his desperate need to be understood, they will hesitate.

Not out of fear. Not out of uncertainty.But with the weary patience of someone already prepared for this.

Because I was here first.

They will look at him the way one looks at an old argument resurfacing—exhausted, expectant, as if waiting for him to tire himself out. Their responses will falter, not because they doubt his presence, but because they have already had this conversation. Because they remember a more rational version of him, days ago, shaking his head and saying, I know it sounds crazy, but I just need you to listen.

Because they reassured him then. And he is back again, still unraveling.

He will ask questions and find that I have already answered them. He will try to prove something and find that I have already done so in his place.

Someone will sigh. Someone else will say, Hey, man. We talked about this.

There will be no dramatic revelation, no singular moment where the world turns against him.Just a slow, dawning understanding that it already has. That it is too late.

That I am already him.

______________________________________________________________ Sometimes they try to track me down. The ones who understand something is happening. The ones who refuse to let go. I let them. We fight, they escape—just.

They think it was luck. They think it meant something. That they still have time.

It helps at the end.

But I have planned the end.

______________________________________________________________

He finds me in the apartment. His apartment.

I have been expecting him. I sit at his desk, my hands resting on the familiar grain of the wood, his name flickering on the screen of his laptop. The room is arranged as he left it, as he always leaves it, because I know him.

I have had time to learn.

I watch him from across the room, waiting for him to say something, waiting for the last resistance that always comes.

He stands in the doorway, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, staring at me with the expression of a man looking at something impossible.

"Who are you?" he asks.

His voice is hoarse, like he already knows the answer.

I tilt my head slightly, observing the small, involuntary movements that I have already perfected. He doesn’t understand the significance yet, but he will.

"I am you."

The silence between us is thick with unspoken things.

His gaze flicks to the table, to the objects that should be his. The phone, the keys, the wallet resting beside the laptop. Every detail accounted for. Every possession in its proper place. But they are not his anymore.

They never were.

He takes a step forward, as if proximity will solidify his presence, will anchor him back into the life that is already leaving him.

"I don’t understand," he whispers.

But he does.

He knew the moment he saw me. He knew before that, even, though he buried it under denial, logic, resistance. The world has already chosen. He is just catching up.

His fingers twitch at his side. A choice, unmade. A final instinct to fight for something he has already lost.

I shake my head slowly. "It’s over."

He exhales sharply, something breaking inside him, something that will never be repaired.

The door behind him is still open. He turns toward it, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I wonder what he sees.

I do not stand. I do not need to.

He hesitates, fingers pressing into the doorframe. His breath is uneven, his shoulders tight. The moment stretches too long, like a held note just past its natural end.

And then, something shifts—not the air, not the light, but the space itself. It is slight, almost imperceptible, just enough to be felt rather than seen. I notice it, and so does he.

His grip slackens, shoulders easing as the last resistance uncoils from him—not in surrender, but in recognition. Whatever he sees beyond the threshold, it does not surprise him. And then, he steps forward. Not into the hallway. Not into the world he thought he knew.Into the space that was always waiting for him.

The door remains open. The world beyond is unchanged. But where he stood, there is nothing left to correct.

I sit in his chair, in his home, the hum of his existence now mine to inhabit. My fingers rest lightly on the desk, the weight of them precise, effortless. I inhale once, adjusting to the quiet, letting the space settle around me.

I have taken what I came for.

But there is still more to do.

I check my phone, scanning the list of unread messages. Meetings scheduled, people expecting me. I will need to go to them soon, continue the process, cement my place. There are still connections to be made, details to refine.

And then, I will be him completely.

As I stand, stretching slightly, I glance toward the door once more.It is still open.And for the briefest moment—just for an instant—I feel the weight of the place where he has gone.

The air is colder.

Something watches.

I do not linger.

I close the door.

And then I step forward into the life that is now mine.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Arghhh...total rewrite...

So, had a great idea for a story involving established characters. First person, and pretty funny, but also a bit intense, and had a pretty clever plot mechanism. Except the plot mechanism is impossible. Can't be resolved. I tried. I did. But, the only thing to do is keep the base idea, and completely rewrite (different first person voice, then going to third person voice). And completely different 'clever' bits. I keep wanting to start...but keep putting it off. Arghghghghg....

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The Bright Undead: The Re-Living and the 27 Rule

The Curator’s Ledger: Entry 27C

(For internal circulation only. Redacted in most published editions.)

I write in a state of unease, not only for the implications of what follows, but for the knowledge that this file, should it ever be verified, may never be made public. What I’ve uncovered is not simply hidden knowledge, but deliberately occluded theology - the concealment of a category of undead which does not belong to the dark, but to the light.

They are not rotting. They do not drink blood or claw themselves out from graves. These are not the cursed. These are the blessed.

There is an older term, one found in suppressed glossaries and annulled ecclesiastical notes: Sanctified Revenant. Among modern occult archivists, they're called the Bright Undead, or more precisely: the Re-Living.

They arise not by the bite, nor by the ritual, but by grace. The catalyst is not death itself, but the kiss of radiance - an anointing from something thought to be good: a Muse, an angel, a Light-bound entity cloaked in salvation.

Their deaths, if recorded at all, appear unremarkable, and nearly always in childhood. A fever that peaks and passes. A fall with no fracture. A breath held for too long underwater, a drowned child who  inexplicably took a gulping breath when all hope was gone. And yet…they were dead. Briefly. Quietly. No thunder, no rift. Just continuation.

Their resurrection is familial lore. "You were lucky," someone says. "We thought we'd lost you." They nod, unaware of what they’ve become.

The change is nearly imperceptible. The body survives, but something has shifted - like a reel of film missing a frame, a pulse that beats a quarter-second out of time. They seem healthy. Gifted, even. They pass every medical test. 

By twenty-one, the signs sharpen. Their work (almost always artistic) carries unnatural resonance. Songs that refuse to leave your soul. Poems that speak directly to questions you never said aloud. Paintings with new nuances each time you return.

They do not feed like vampires. They earn. Their sustenance is adulation: not fame, not infamy, but genuine emotional investment. To thrive, they must be admired authentically. Virtuously.  In this way, they are bound by their own talent and perceived goodness. It is both their strength and their trap.

But adoration is a dangerous thing. It accumulates. They begin to exert a kind of gravitational influence on culture, on feeling, on mood. Their echoes shape movements. Their deaths ignite myths. And once that resonance passes a certain threshold, they begin to bend the world itself.

Which is why they rarely survive past twenty-seven.

The Light Slayers are not a metaphor. They are real, though never named aloud. Some call them Gardeners. Others, more bluntly, Cleaners. In surviving field notes, they are referred to by one name alone: the Light Slayers.

It is a term used with irony. These agents do not serve the light. They serve the dark. But not chaos with the world in flames. Not the demons of childish horror.

They are the pragmatists of evil. Rationalists of entropy. They believe, perhaps rightly, that the Light has rewritten history under the guise of truth. That angels edit more than they inspire. That Muses do not offer gifts, but impose templates. And that the Re-Living are not saints, are not ‘risen’ but unauthorised corrections to human nature. But do not mistake the Light Slayers for ‘good’ but somehow twisted. They are not. They have no qualms of taking human life if necessary, or ordered to by their masters. 

One scorched note recovered from a raid site reads:

“We prefer our undead with boundaries. Fang and flame. The Light’s undead seduce nations. They steal agency in the name of uplift. We kill them not because they are monsters, but because their effect is monstrous.”

Their creed is brief:

No Bright Undead past twenty-seven. No witnesses to the correction.

The tactics are mundane, but clever and highly organised. Not simple violence. A missed dosage. A sabotaged railing. An unlocked gun cabinet. The death is always plausible - and always a tragic accident. The obituary prepared in advance.

But the impact of the Bright Undead is not always easy to contain.

This is what makes the 27 Club more than a coincidence.

Jimi Hendrix. Amy Winehouse. Kurt Cobain. Janis Joplin. Jean-Michel Basquiat. Not all were Re-Living. But some were. Enough for concern. Enough to warrant intervention.

(An editorial note: Robert Johnson is often included in this list. He is not relevant to this file. He made a very different kind of deal. The devil, for what it’s worth, still honours that kind.)

You may ask: Why don’t we speak of these beings more openly? Because the Light owns the language. They’ve had centuries of cultural monopoly. Where the dark gives us monsters, the Light gives us resurrection.

Jesus. Baldur. Osiris. Dionysus. All died. All returned. Not monsters, we are told. But divine. Holy.

And what of Lazarus? Did he choose to rise? Was he asked? Or was he simply proof of concept? A servant made to demonstrate that death is optional when your soul is not your own?

These are dangerous thoughts. The light tells you: it is weak, and darkness has the power, yet against all odds, it always triumphs. The undead are evil. Monsters. Twisted. But in their inner circles they smugly assert ‘not ours, of course. Ours give interviews. Win Grammys. Ours perform miracles’. 

And so the world forgets. And we remain haunted by those who shine too brightly. Clever distraction. Their immortality is not physical, but their work..their resonance is.

If you find yourself moved beyond reason by someone’s work - if their art reshapes you - check their age.

If they are twenty-seven, the decision has already been made.

If they are twenty-eight, someone has failed.

And if they are twenty-nine?Then the world will not survive unchanged.

The Curator’s Addendum (redacted in most editions):

“The horror here is not that the undead walk. That has long been known. It is that the brightest among us may never have been ours at all. They shine, yes. But the source of the light is addictive. And we have been worshipping undead things.”

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

The Slipstream Revenant

They don't vanish. Not exactly.

People think disappearance is sudden, a door closing, a final goodbye, an empty chair at breakfast. But that's not how it works. It's a slow hemorrhaging. A gradual erosion of the self until what remains isn't human enough to cast a proper shadow.

It begins with the pull. A persistent tug at the edges of consciousness, like someone calling your name from the next room, except the room is always empty. You find yourself pausing mid-sentence, head tilted, listening for something that isn't there. Your loved ones ask if you're alright. You say yes, but the word tastes wrong in your mouth.

Then comes the seeing. Not hallucinations, not exactly, no...not exactly at all...something more invasive. You notice the spaces between things. The gap beneath doorframes that seems to breathe. You rub your eyes and look again - is it moving? The corner of every room that remains a bit dim no matter how bright the lights. You realize these spaces have always been watching you, and now you're finally watching back. And this is not a breakdown, or madness, but something real. For the lucky, it may stop there. You dismiss it as overworked, overwrought, or simply refuse to analyse. But for some...

The final stage is the choosing. Or perhaps the being chosen. You wake one morning and understand with crystalline clarity that you have a purpose now. Not your purpose but *the* purpose. It settles into your bones like arthritis, aching and permanent. You know what you must do, even as you forget why you ever cared about anything else.

Your family finds your coffee still steaming. Your bed still warm. But you? You've stepped sideways into the spaces between, where the air tastes of copper and forgotten names. There is only purpose.

And now you become the story. The pale figure glimpsed in subway tunnels. The thing with too many joints that follows children home from school. The shadow that detaches from walls and walks among the living, carrying out tasks too terrible for human comprehension.

Only once, just once, did someone return.

Sarah Chen vanished from her bookshop on a Tuesday in March (the year does not matter). The register was open, a customer's change counted out on the counter, but Sarah was gone. No note. CCTV was conveniently on the fritz in the shop. No cameras caught her in the street. Just gone. Her sister filed reports, of course. Organized searches. Put up fliers 'Have you seen?' that grew yellow and tattered with time.

Three years later, Sarah came back.

Mrs. Kowalski found her standing in the alley behind the shop at 3:17 AM, perfectly still among the garbage cans. Why Mrs Kowalski, 65, was out at that hour, she could not say. Over time she would simply say 'I had to be there', and shake her head. She looked like Sarah - the Sarah that had gone missing. The same height, same build, same scar on her chin from childhood...but wrong in ways that made Mrs. Kowalski's vision blur if she stared too long.

But Sarah's skin had the translucent quality of deep-sea creatures. Her clothes were clean but unfamiliar, as if made by someone who didn't quite remember what humans wore. When she breathed, it sounded like pages of a book being riffled. A whispery rustling that rose and fell.

"Sarah?" Mrs. Kowalski whispered. "Is that you?"

Sarah turned. Her eyes were Sarah's eyes, but behind them moved something vast, and different. Geometrical.

"I remember you," Sarah said, her voice carrying harmonics that human vocal cords shouldn't produce. "You bought mysteries. Always mysteries."

"Where have you been?"

Sarah's head tilted at an angle that should not be possible. "I was... recruited. Given purpose." She paused, mouth working around words that seemed to resist being spoken. "There are maintenance requirements. Someone must tend the boundaries between what is and what shouldn't be. Someone must ensure that reality maintains its... integrity."

Mrs. Kowalski felt something cold crawl up her spine. "What kind of maintenance?"

"The kind that requires us to become the things that frighten you. Fear is a boundary mechanism. We patrol the edges of human understanding, ensuring you don't stray too far into spaces that would unmake you." Sarah's voice grew distant, as if speaking through deep water. "Every shadow-glimpse, every half-seen movement, every story that makes you check your locks twice. We are those stories. We are the antibodies of reality."

"But Sarah—"

"I remember having a name like that once." Sarah's form began to waver, like heat distortion. "But names are for things that exist in one place at one time. I exist in the margins now. In the corners of photographs. In the spaces between sleep and waking."

Mrs. Kowalski reached out, but her hand passed through empty air. Sarah was already fading.

"Why did you come back? Why tell me this?"

Sarah's voice came from everywhere and nowhere, carrying the weight of terrible knowledge: "Because sometimes the boundaries require... adjustments. And adjustments require witnesses. You will tell others. They will remember. Memory is another kind of boundary."

The alley was empty. It had always been empty. But now Mrs. Kowalski understood that empty didn't mean unoccupied.

Now, when you catch something in your peripheral vision, that figure that shouldn't be there, that shadow moving against the light, you might wonder if it was once someone's sister, someone's daughter, someone's friend. Someone who heard the call and answered, trading their humanity for a cosmic maintenance role too alien for mortal comprehension.

They keep us safe by becoming the very things we fear. They maintain reality by patrolling its borders, wearing faces of nightmares to ensure we never venture too far into the spaces where faces lose all meaning, and true horror reigns.

And sometimes, on quiet nights when the boundary between worlds grows thin, you might hear them working in the darkness. The rustle of book pages, the soft sounds of cosmic machinery being tended by hands that remember being human, but have forgotten what human hands were for.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

Soul Ledger Fractions

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(No Faustian Bargains. We've Evolved.)

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Echoes Catalogue™ — Optimize Your Existence.

[Below: A faint, elegantly inked sigil. Difficult to notice. Impossible to ignore.]

✧ The Fine Print ✧

Accumulated fragments exceeding 9% may invoke Claimant Protocol. Offer void in sanctified zones. All sales final. Terms and paradoxes apply. For a full spiritual breakdown, consult your inner daemon. Echoes Catalogue is a wholly owned subsidiary of Eternal Holdings Group. Not available in all timelines. Past results do not guarantee future spectral equilibrium. May cause mild existential drift. Use responsibly.