Today's answer to the question: 'What is Hookland?'

Goodnight from Daisy Magor, on shotgun patrol with husband and son in case further spacemen from the Planet Skareg come floating across the fields of Greenhole Farm. Goodnight from David Gore, inking invitations to the spirits of Ashourt’s old Red Rookery. Goodnight from Hookland

Day 5 of the #HooklandChristmasTree decoration and the Star Wraith haunts a branch. The hooded figurine, face and body made from constellations of enamelled stars, seems to float more than dangle. Oddly, the stars seem to have shifted position each time you look closely at it.

We navigated by The Hum. Transmission tower to transmission tower, compelled to walk below its prophetic song. The electric ley of the land manifesting in sound, steel and porcelain insulators. Making itself a map tattooed on our bones. – Signal-catcher Rose, ex-Pylon Person #VOH

Goodnight from Jonah Lidstone, cutting out monsters and Bone Horses from tin cans to adorn the family Christmas tree. Goodnight from Holly Grace, wondering if a whole bag of sherbet lemons is enough appeasement for the Punkle living in their shed. Goodnight from Hookland.

Day 4 of the #HooklandChristmasTree. We drape the Bell Hill Worm, remember legends of dragon-carved paths. The stuffed felt snake is an old friend. Its silver stitches glitter, its scales bounce faery light colours. When we turn away, it seems to slither to a different branch.

Unlike other English counties with bears on their coats of arms, the silvered Ghost Bear of Hookland is unmuzzled, uncollared and unchained. For the Ghost Bear of armorial bearings is the legendary creature that terrorised the Normans in both its physical and spectral forms.

The stones have been tomb, cattle shelter, childhood dare and ley-hunter nexus. They have been and continue to be anchor for folklore and mystery. To reduce our telling of them to one thing reduces them and the power of the Long Neolithic. – Dr. K. Brophy #StandingStones

Goodnight from Weychester Theological College, where so much port has been imbibed that Father Anthony is scaring seminarians with tales of old deliverances. Goodnight from Jo Drake, thanking the forest for giving her bones to carve into a rivening wand. Goodnight from Hookland.

Day 3 of #HooklandChristmasTree decoration. We take out the Dudman and Sackling Child. No-one remembers who made the scarecrow's twists of clothed straw, the stuffed potato sack of prophesying infant. Best we put it on a back branch lest we hear it whispering of tomorrow’s woes.

For folk magic is often a serious of fragile truces with the land, a series of appeasements made to nature’s legion of spirits. The cunning folk are diplomats to enfolding otherworlds. Few in the Foreign Office could match their skill. - Dr. M. Benn, 1981 lecture at Woden College

Goodnight from Phil Holt, trying to make a spectre detector with valves and capacitors salvaged from old Sobell radios. Goodnight from Janey Brake, more nervous than is good for any child after a bedtime story of blood red fog covering the Restal Waste. Goodnight from Hookland.

Day 2 of #HooklandChristmasTree decoration. We gently take the Master of Moss from box. He’s old and fragile, made from twig, clay and clumps of Moss gathered on Barrowcross. We find him a respectful place on the tree and hope he sleeps the season. His waking would be terrible.

Goodnight from the Gelgrove Stitching Society, its members steadily embroidering new Woodwose legends into the village’s banner. Goodnight from Paul Watson’s darkroom, where things not seen in his viewfinder are manifesting in the developing bath. Goodnight from Hookland.

The Boy-in-the-Bracken he screams to steal your breath The Boy-in-the-Bracken he screams to hasten your death The Boy-in-the-Bracken his screams are louder in the dark The Boy-in-the-Bracken’s scream is coming closer - Hark! Hark! - Trad. #Hookland children’s rhyme

Day 1 of the #HooklandChristmasTree. We retrieve the Bloody Boy ornament from the box of china Mummers. Some say it's not blood that makes his skin red, but crabapple bark dye. I say best not spoil the seasonal magic. Besides, we all know where the skin of his drum comes from.

Goodnight from the Cat-in-the-Wall pub, where Lucy Goss has been given the honour of leaving out the mummified moggies ceremonial saucer of milk. Goodnight from the Grey Lady of Maplewyck Farm, crossing the yard with blood on her apron as always. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from David Ash, the distortion pedal on his bass guitar arousing ire inevery residentphantom atThe Ice House nightclub. Goodnight from Ashcourt’s Meymott Street,its bruised tenements weeping new soot scarsigils under cover of power cut darkness. Goodnight from Hookland.

Even in winter, the wood whispers to tramp it. Its Sprites and Woodwose may sleep through days demanding our heaviest coats, but its mysteries don't. Bare branches scratch the low sky and still its mysteries sing. We walk for wonder. We walk for cold magics. – #EmilyCBanting 1981

We should have no surprise the city dreams itself as being beside the ocean even when it is miles from the salt-kissed shore. We should have no surprise the city dreams itself as bordered with Ancient Egypt or Faery. In its nightly shifting of streets, our stories dance and sing.

The city is layers of story. Sometimes it is told in occulted stone symbolism, sometimes in street names and haunted hodology. Thousands of narratives with no editor. Thousands of tales seeping into the city's own strange dreams. No wonder it imagines fabulous things. – #CLNolan