Labyrinth (More Fragments from the Tattered House)

Published April 7th, 2014

Marty Campbell's obsession started with the Box but it didn't end until after he had tracked down the building he believed to be the House. His later emails contained the repeated phrase, "The House on Peachtree is no longer on Peachtree." No-one considered the similarities with the monomania that afflicted Rustin Chambers; after all, one was a best-selling novelist while the other was a janitor at the local school.

The photographs that were assembled later were puzzling on a number of fronts; not only was the identity of the photographer unknown (as in the other cases) and not only was there no explanation of how these fragments came to be found in the empty house (as in the other cases); but they clearly show Marty Campbell in some wooded area when was last seen entering the house at Elm and Eighth which had no garden.

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Fragments Found in the Tattered House

Published April 4th, 2014

The final work of Rustin Chambers was an unfinished play, of which only one scene survives. Immediately after he burnt the rest of the manuscript he was seen entering the house on Peachtree which had so dominated his thoughts in recent weeks.

He was never seen again - although the handwriting in the dust of the window of the house on Peachtree seemed to be his. No one has yet deciphered the message of those five single words: 'this. is. not. for. you.'

"Strange is the night where black stars rise,

And strange moons circle through the skies,

But stranger still -

The Tattered House

Song of my soul, my voice is dead,

Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed

Shall dry and die in

The Tattered House"

-'The Tattered House', Act I, Sc ii; Rustin Cole Chambers

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Tranquility

Published August 21st, 2012

There are many ways to find peace; many ways to find a moment of serenity. On one evening, in one place, these were some of the ways that people found a measure of silence.

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Self Image - the Rock God

Published August 19th, 2012

Inside every kid who picks up a guitar is the dream of superstardom.

And it doesn't matter how old you get, or where your life takes you, that dream remains burning inside you.

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The Mist

Published August 19th, 2012

"In the spring of 1928, a queer mist began to seep through the woods bordering the Moors of the North Riding. [...] Thicker than a sea fret, yet more nebulous than a true fog, folk in the area swore that it was somehow insidious, worming its way through cracks in doors and windows. People who suggested that this strange atmospheric phenomenon was in some way connected with the odd events at Robin Hood's Bay that year were roundly dismissed as cranks and superstitious fools; but still, when the mist came, most people found reasons to be indoors."

-The Lore of the Land, Westwood and Simpson, 2008

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Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside...

Published August 17th, 2012

Summer has come, and with it holiday-makers looking for a good British time by the seaside

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Slow Sea

Published August 15th, 2012

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

'Twas sad as sad could be;

And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea!

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Firstborn

Published August 15th, 2012

My wife gave birth to wonderful baby boy...

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