The Holborn Triangle
For those of you who don’t know it, there’s an area of central London between three tube stations – Tottenham Court Troad, Russel Sqr and Chancery Lane that has become synonimous with strange phenomena and dark goings-on.
There follows a collection of reports of paranormal activity in and around the area – what is known by some as The Holborn Triangle. All events may have happened recently or not so recently, or may be yet to happen in any future, maybe even this one (which at the moment is only theoretical anyway) – timelines are confusing when you’re trying to follow a bunch of different ones at once (now there’s a paradox – express “at once” in relation to multiple timeframes…) whilst not losing the one you’re supposed to be on in the first place. It’s like trying to figure your way through a plate of spaghetti using just your eyes and a toothpick but having to remember which piece you started with. Halfway through you might even remember that you don’t like pasta, which never helps.
Leicester Square tube station, where, I quote, “something bleedin’ ‘orrible with tentacles” was seen snatching passengers off the Northern Line platform.
Large, bat-like creature seen flying through Tottenham Crt Rd station, parts of tube network and stations in the area inexplicably losing power.
Late-night staff in offices in Holborn running from building, jumping from windows, screaming that the whole building is on fire when it isn’t. Young assistant at Shendhi’s Stop And Save all-night store on New Oxford St. – nephew of store owner, academically unremarkable – spontaneously enters trance state and recites string of digits that turn out to be closing rates for following day on the NY Stock Exchange.
A strange mist, reported to smell of nettles, seen by staff and captured on CCTV coming from a case containing a ritual mask from Northern India thought to be over 6000 years old, in the basement of the British Museum. A cleaner who was exposed directly to the vapour then proceeded to fill a dozen A4 pages with flawless Sanskrit that seems to foretell the coming end of an inhabited world somewhere in the Crab Nebula.
A Canadian tourist, stops to check his map outside St. George’s Bloomsbury, looks to the sky, lets the leaflet fall from his hands, declares himself to be the manifestation of ancient god Typhon. Sitting down on the pavement, he begins to chant the names of the sephira of the Kabbalah. Five hours later he is still there and still chanting, having never stopped for breathe. No-one can get close to touch or stop him.
The bark on trees in Gray’s Inn Gardens peels away to reveal trunks of precious stones, much to the surprise of a watching street drinker, who claws at the diamonds and rubies of a plane tree until his fingers become agonisingly ragged and bloodied bone, on his knees he cries a woman’s name – Annie or Mary – and passes out, tears in his eyes. A lone pigeon swoops in to mercilessly devour his sleeping, stinking bulk.
A 6 year old draws in chalk on a pavement outside the cafe her parents are arguing over coffee in. After forty minutes she has produced an accurate diagram representing the flying machine built by the inhabitants of the Nazca region of Peru at the time they created the famous lines. It includes a phase-shifted hydrogen drive and the cabin is pressurized.
She likes it.
A scrying Nazcan’s curiosity is piqued.