Few books ever become loved. Most linger on, undead—their sallow pages labyrinths of brittle stories and forgotten knowledge. And other things, besides…

Paper-pale forms that rustle through their leaves. Ink-dark shapes swarming beneath faded type. And an invitation…

Harris delights in collecting the unloved. He wonders if you’d care to donate. A small something for the odd, pale children. An old book, perchance? Neat is sweet; battered is better.

Broken spine or torn binding, stained or scarred. And if you’ve left a little of yourself between the pages – a receipt or ticket, a mislaid letter, a scrawled number – that’s just perfect. He might call on you again.

To hell and back again (and again) through Whitby, Scarborough and the Yorkshire Moors. Enjoy your Mobius-trip.