Four strange lights manifest above the treetops of Horsingdon Hill - and by the morning another of the resident from the local to the area will have bern reported missing: perhaps a dog-walker who stayed out just a little too late, or an errant rambler who took the wrong path through the woods to satify their curiosity regarding strange chanting heard from a nearby clearing. There is good reason why even the police avoid entering the locale at night - especially on the eve of certain festivals - unless utmost necessity complels them.
And those who have survived an encounter with whatever forces lurk within and about the Hill invariably refuse to speak of what they have witnessed - perhaps because human language is too poor a tool of signification to articulate that which transcends the linear reasoning of moderately sapient hominins.
Thus, when confronted by the devestating insignificance which an encounter with these praeternaturally luminescent phenomena and all that they infer, the people of Horsingdon typically do the only thing they can: turn their faces away from the deadly light of revelation, and pretend that all is right with the world.
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