Diary of Pip Rippon

I have had a feeling for a while, but I didn't know how, or even what, I needed to express. I have talked before about being watched, and about being followed. Today, I had this realisation, that there are some people here in Hellsborough that I see all too frequently. Every day, no matter where I roam, I see at least one of them, usually more than one.

The most I think I have seen on one day is four -- but I could be wrong, and maybe there are seven, not six, sometimes it's difficult to remember. Sometimes they will stop and chat with me, like they want to know me better, yet I think they know me already. I have had this vision, the six (or seven) are seated around a round table and I am beneath, trapped, unable to get out. They have me surrounded. I am naked. I have no weapons and no way to protect myself, I am vulnerable.

They could kick me in this cage, but they don't. Above the table, they are all confident and communicate their plans, I hear their talk and their chatter -- It is friendly and lulls me into a sense of security. But I know it's not right. I don't know what to do, I am in a state of panic. I am frozen, unable to move. It is fright or flight, but I am in fright mode, I cannot move for the wall that prevents my escape.

I want to refer to them as the denizens as the hex -- there being six of them (or maybe seven) -- but the denizens of the hex are something different (see the curated guide) -- but maybe these are my denizens, but it's not six, I know these are the seven, so why am I questioning it?

I know a couple of their names. One of them frequents a local bar; another works in a local shop -- and I know I'm seen whenever I go in there, like it's known I'm going to be there. Then there are the others, whose names I don't know, but I have my own names for all of them. One of them, we talked for ten long moments a few days ago -- sometimes our walkings with our barkers (Shad is a barghest, but the other is a regular barker) seems like synchronicity, then I saw them the next day from the bar walking down the Middlewood road -- no doubt, searching or looking for me. That's what I felt, anyway. I don't feel threatened, I do feel like I'm under close surveillance.

These aren't clowns though -- although I wondered if they were, but this is something else: This is about me. This is personal. This is about Pip Rippon. I've wondered if they are jellyhead stooges of The Nascenti, but I obviously have no proof one way or the other -- and why would the nascenti be that bothered about me, they wouldn't would they? I am going to watch and report on further encounters, I feel this needs to be recorded.

As the murk was low, thick and humid, we headed for the Dun. For a long time up above I could hear the whump, whumping of a sportster, and there were many sirens here or hereabouts. The sportster didn't seem to leave us -- the further we walked, it would just be hovering their overhead, making me think that maybe, just possibly it was me they was hunting for. But what have I done, I thought? Nothing. Unless of course their are holes in my memory, and I don't recall some of it, because for some reason I was not myself -- I had some sort of black-out or something -- yet I don't seem to think that's it at all -- I mean when would that have happened? No, I chided myself, they are not looking for you at all, there must be some other felon in their tracks, and you just happen to be heading in the same direction (which may, or may not be worrying in its own right!).

I didn't "loose" the sportster until I was properly under the cover of the canopy down on the banks of the Dun. I've been down there a thousand times, but today was the first time I came across a bunker -- similar to the one that I visit down the Loxley. This one is smaller, and there's a reason I've never noticed it before -- from the rear -- that is, the side away from the banks, it is completely camouflaged -- completely invisible. Either that, or it wasn't in the ascendance before, and now it is -- which is always a possibility I suppose. I took shelter in there for a while, the place was littered with the paraphernalia of rockcrust.

Later we headed up into Beeley woods where the scrufftails today were numerous. Shad thought once about making chase, but quickly thought better of it, too humid for him I think. The scrufftails felt mechanical though, that's what occurred to me anyway -- like automaton, scurrying here and there, worker-like; acting with intent. Later, there was an intense squawking, a proper cacophony -- but it eventually subsided to be replaced by a silence so ominous it made wonder if the world had suddenly stopped.

So I've started to record the number of times that I see the seven, to see if I can work out anything about whether they are actually watching me or whether it's my own paranoia -- which I'm not ruling out, because I know what this place is like. I started three days back, one -- but it was a Spanday, which is understandable. Two days ago -- one as well, so maybe my fears are all for nought, but then maybe they're just biding their time. I'll keep making notes. Yesterday zero. Today, one as I was out mid-afternoon, then three more in a row as I walked Shad -- all in close succession. I thought I might be on for the full 7, but the other 3 didn't materialise -- maybe they had been communicating amongst themselves and were happy they had enough reports on me for the day.

While I was away in the off-world, I read some research that linked air pollution to poor mental health. The research said that there was a correlation between exposure to air pollution, particularly from wildfires, and a heightened risk of mental health issues including depression and anxiety. That got me thinking about the humidity plants here in The Dark Peak and the way they sometimes go crazy, the murk and all that it contains (most of it unknown), and the general mania of Hellsborough and its residents. Yes, I think -- from my empirical research at least -- that there's something to that!

Been out and about in the off-world, it had to be done -- there was something I needed to do and something I needed to find -- something that doesn't exist in The Dark Peak. This place that I went to could have been The Dark Peak -- if The Dark Peak was surrounded by the sea. Apart from that, it was almost identical: Briar and thorn, nettle next to foxglove, gorse and purple heather. Oh, and it had a distinctly celtic vibe, but that is what it is. What was I looking for then, I hear you ask. Ah, well, that'll have to be my secret, although truth be told, I don't know why It's needed.

Being absent from Hellsborough, I expected to be seeing the seven en masse; but wrong there as well. I have seen one or two of them, but not what I expected after a prolonged abscence. But then I have noticed others. Maybe they are stand-ins, designed to throw me off-track, because I still feel I am being watched.

There is a guy who plays a battered old guitar in the warmer months on the off-world side of the junction. You'd recognise his music as the blues, I'm sure. He's a rhum character, a jovial fellow with a mirthful grin -- and always a mercurial sparkle in his eyes. In don't know his name, we've never chatted, but I like to call him Bob -- after Robert Johnson.

I've never heard the blues on the other side of The Hinge, the music over there has a weirdness far removed from the blues.

Robert Johnson, if you didn't know, was one of the most influential musicians of the 20th century, and after a recording career that lasted only seven months, and earning himself the moniker of "the first ever rock star", managed to become a member of the 27 club. A story that manifests itself from his short career is the legend where Johnson took his guitar to a crossroad at midnight. There he was met by an ancient trickster god known as Papa Legba -- master of roads and pathways -- who took the guitar and tuned it. Papa Legba played a few songs, then returned the guitar to Johnson. In that exchange Johnson gave up his soul for mastery of his instrument.

For mastery of semagrams and this crossroad -- this junction -- I am wondering if I have sold my soul to milting.