Thursday: A Fateful Discovery

 

Well, well, well. I was in the shed today - you know, the one that’s a bit like the Bermuda Triangle of my allotment - and I was rooting around, as you do, trying to find that blasted rake that’s always somewhere and yet nowhere. And then I found it. Not the rake, mind you, but something far stranger. A book. No, not just any book. This was an ancient one, wedged under the floorboards like a forgotten treasure, its edges all curled and yellowed, as though it had been sleeping there for centuries. The kind of book you’d expect to find in the attic of some eccentric wizard who’s been dead for years but still sends you oddly worded birthday cards.

I pulled it out, dusted it off, and read the title: “Ritual Ablutions and the Summoning of the Immaculate Host.” It was dated 1763 - which is old, even by my standards - and the ink was still faintly dripping, as though it couldn’t quite let go of its unfinished business with the world. Naturally, I thought, “Well, this looks like a jolly good read,” and opened it.

Inside? Well, inside was a different story. It was nothing like the usual manuals I’ve found - no tips on lawn care or how to stop a potato from growing into the shape of a dog. No, this was an entirely different beast. There were rituals. Not the sort you’d use to clean your kitchen, mind you, but rather to clean your soul. Symbols and diagrams filled the pages, looking like they’d been drawn by someone who had a very deep understanding of both the occult and, apparently, interior design. A very eccentric interior design.

Now, Keith-he’s the sort who’ll look at a houseplant and declare it has character-took a look at the symbols. “Looks like Windows 95 icons got possessed,” he said, squinting like he’d just encountered a new species of bug. I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I did have to agree that the symbols did look like they were a little off. Not your average “How to remove mould” diagram, for sure.

But then, things took a turn for the stranger. I went outside to clear my head, and there was Ethel. Now, Ethel’s always been a bit... offbeat, shall we say, but this? This was something else entirely. There she was, hovering about a freshly bleached paving stone - yes, hovering, I tell you - a good few inches above the ground. And she wasn’t just hovering silently like a cat waiting for dinner. No, she was singing, but not in any way a normal person sings. She was singing in a tone so high-pitched, I couldn’t hear a thing, but every single cat in the village could. And they were gathered around her, entranced, like they were at the most exclusive concert of the year. It was the kind of sight that makes you wonder if you've just stepped into a particularly eccentric dream.

I’m not sure whether to be worried or impressed, but it doesn’t stop there. One of the cats - Lord Munchkin, a tabby with far too much self-respect for his own good - suddenly recited the Periodic Table backwards. That’s right. The whole thing. I’ve heard of cats doing tricks, but this was next level. And after he’d finished, he just strolled off to the library. No big deal. And, you’ll never guess, the library offered him a job. A job. Mrs. Trubshaw-who I’m fairly sure has seen everything there is to see, or at least claims to-now insists that Lord Munchkin has an unparalleled knack for reorganising books. She claims he’s been re-shelving them in ways that defy all logic. But who am I to argue?

So, there it is. The cleansing has spread, but it’s no ordinary cleaning. It’s as though some ancient, unhinged force has decided that now’s the time to tidy up. And I’m beginning to think it’s a bit much for this old village to handle. The ducks are all queuing politely, cats are suddenly superb librarians, and Ethel is hovering like she’s about to get a phone call from a higher power.

What’s next? I dread to think. But one thing’s for certain: we’re not just cleaning anymore. Oh no. We’re summoning something. And I’m beginning to think that whatever it is, it won’t be happy until everything is sparkling-and possibly sentient.