Over the years, poetic shades have manifested themselves on the fair grounds and at our events, terrifying school-aged children, English teachers and Ian Thompson. Once in a while they leave behind gruesome missives, scrawled in blood on the back of the arena. Sadly, death has depleted their poetic powers (except for McGonagall who seems, oddly, to have improved) but we include their dire directives here as a warning to those members (Ian!) who might mock the muse.
Remarkably, these disturbing presences sometimes show up in pictures taken by our members. Although revenants can typically be detected only by those schooled in the subtle arts of eidolonatry, if you study these pages carefully you may be able to catch a glimpse of a horribly attenuated poet.