The cellars of Northwich and Horsingdon form the first cryptic substrate of the region's inner topographies, functioning as the connective tissue between the surface world and other, less-fathomable worlds of chthonic secrets. During my own psychogeographical forays into the cellars of Northwich's derelict houses and tenements, I have witnessed, amongst other things:
- an old camp bed, blankets soiled by mildew, and empty soup tins strewn about it on a filthy floor: signs of life untenable and since abandoned; and scrawled upon the wall above the bed in greying chalk, words steeped in desperation: 'I don't sleep so I don't dream so I don't wake up frightened';
- an archway leading from a cellar to who-knows-where, but recently bricked-up and the sealed entrance marked with signs of warding.
- an ancient, lightless well, about which small offerings of food had recently been arranged;
- what appeared to be the scene of a suicide swathed in shadows, but which on closer inspection revealed itself to be the worn and faceless form of a shopfront mannequin - hanging from the ceiling by a length of hempen rope.
Whilst such nonsensical scenes remain inscrutable as a consequence of their very outlandishness, they are, nonetheless, an effective deterrant - signifying with clarity and precision the perils of delving too deeply into those immeasurable depths which form the foundations of the world.
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