Buried behind a lifetime's worth of accumulated rubble in the catacombs beneath the Freemasons pub at the crossroads was a sarcophagus I almost entirely dismissed as structural debris. What stopped me was the pumice — rough-carved by milting as some form of cosmically patient invitation — each block etched with semagrams smaller than a fingernail. Had I not spent the better part of a career training my hands to read what my eyes could not, Hellsborough and The Dark Peak would still be a set of Sheffield pub legends.

Dyapnids don't appear on any DPDC leisure map of The Dark Peak, and that is not accidental. Shad and I made it out to Mam Tor during a thin-murk Windstrom day and I'll say this plainly: cross the fence — the one the signs insist is to keep animals out rather than you in — and whatever finds you will not be on the visitor trail. Whether you'd even be missed afterwards is, apparently, a separate administrative question.

Every lamp post, litter bin and DPDC bunker on Middlewood Road has had the same sticker applied: 'Deter.' My best theory involves a guy of middle age who looks uncannily like Michael Stipe and introduced himself to our pub table several years ago by repeating 'My name is Dieter' until we acknowledged the fact. Whether this constitutes a resistance act or a very specific coping strategy is not yet resolved to my satisfaction.

Thomas Calver's notes from Grinders Walk — an unscheduled, unchosen path the psycmask barely brings itself to label — contain an observation worth returning to: Hellsborough from above has more interior geometry than its footprint permits, the streets too dense for the space they occupy. The psycmask stops annotating entirely if you look directly at the town's outer edge, where the last rooftop meets the Wisewood boundary. Tom managed three seconds before he looked away; Nelly Ambler's advice, formed through repeated visits, was not to look long enough to measure it.