In the privacy of his journal, about a month after his confession to being peculiar, Cattell fully confessed to the Whitman brain disaster, reflecting: “I am a fool, a damnable fool, with no conscious memory, or fitness for any learned position."
OMG, I'm in love with this blog about a place called Scarfolk.
Scarfolk is a town in North West England that did not progress beyond 1979. Instead, the entire decade of the 1970s loops ad infinitum. Here in Scarfolk, pagan rituals blend seamlessly with science; hauntology is a compulsory subject at school, and everyone must be in bed by 8pm because they are perpetually running a slight fever. "Visit Scarfolk today. Our number one priority is keeping rabies at bay."
Not surprisingly, the island’s origins lie in tragedy. The story goes that the island’s only inhabitant, Don Julian Santana, found the body of a drowned child in the canal some 50 years ago. He was haunted by her death, so when he saw a doll floating by in the canal soon after, he hung it in a tree to please the girl. He hoped to both appease her tortured soul and protect the island from further evil.
Wait a minute...the dolls are supposed to keep evil away?
And so on 27 September, the Tofts cut up a cat, took out its guts and liver, inserted into its intestines the backbone of an eel they had eaten for dinner the previous Sunday, placed the concoction in Mary Toft, and left her alone in the house. She then sent for a neighbor, Mary Gill, complained that she was in great pain, feigned a brief labor, and let her friend hear the monster fall into a pot.