Remington and the Curse of the Brain Eaters In the mysterious town of Blackshire, strange occurrences have been taking place. People have been reported missing, only to be found wandering the streets later with vacant eyes and a strange hunger for brains. The town is in a panic, grasping at straws for answers. That is where Remington comes in. Remington, a curious and brave teenager, has always had a knack for solving puzzles and mysteries. With his trusty sidekick, a stray cat named Whiskers, by his side, he sets out on a quest to uncover the truth behind the curse of the brain eaters.
With his trusty sidekick, a stray cat named Whiskers, by his side, he sets out on a quest to uncover the truth behind the curse of the brain eaters. Their investigation leads them to the old abandoned asylum on the outskirts of town. Legend has it that the asylum was once home to a mad scientist who experimented on his patients, trying to unlock the secrets of the human mind.
‘I became convinced I was channelling powers’: my life as a teenage witch
I couldn’t afford a cauldron, but did manage to find work experience as a fortune-teller. Would I grow up to find my coven?
Sat 31 Oct 2020 13.00 CET Last modified on Sun 1 Nov 2020 11.24 CETI don’t trust anyone who didn’t have a teenage Wiccan phase. More than being gay, or British, or refusing to upgrade my iPhone, having been a teenage witch is a crucial part of my identity. I treat my dabblings in the craft like a competitive sport. Sure, you were into Charmed – but did you do your high school work experience as a fortune-teller? Did you ever travel to Croydon to attend Witchfest? Did you pay a membership fee to use a coven directory service, only to discover that none would accept ill-adjusted 14-year-olds?
While some kids embraced the late-90s witchcraft boom by hoarding Buffy The Vampire Slayer box sets, or playing light as a feather, stiff as a board at sleepovers, I was not messing around. All it took was a single viewing of seminal teen horror film The Craft for me to realise that the lifestyle portrayed – being intimidatingly mysterious, wearing pleather, having supernatural dominion over others – was very much my vibe.
I began to wonder whether people drawn to mystical realms really were charmed souls, or misfits
As an adult, I’ve realised that a teenage obsession with witchcraft is much more common among kids who grew up to be queer. It checks out. At that age, you already have a secret that you’re terrified might get you set alight – of course you identify with the maligned women of Salem. Plus witchcraft is inherently camp. Candles? Capes? Crystals? I shouldn’t have to join the dots. Factor in that witchcraft is an established gateway to boys wearing eyeliner and sure, I was interested.
Other kids might have imagined life would be perfect if only their parents hadn’t divorced, or they’d made it into the football team, or could will themselves to go up a bra size. As a heroically camp child who was obsessed with Richard Madeley, I knew that any chance of leading a happy and fulfilled school life would require serious occult intervention. I wasn’t into football, or South Park, or casual racism. It was clear that I stood more chance of communing with the spirits of the four quarters than with my actual classmates.
In lieu of a social life, weekends were spent hovering around the mind, body and spirit section of our nearest Waterstones, hoping that a passing witch might invite me to join her coven. (Unless you’ve actually visited Merry Hill shopping centre in Dudley, it’s impossible for me to impress upon you just how much that was Never Going To Happen.) My favourite book was Teen Witch by Silver Ravenwolf, largely because the cover illustration featured four girls and one boy, the precise gender ratio that teenage gay boys need to feel safe. Evenings were consumed by asking my tarot cards if I’d ever meet a Spice Girl or (this felt like a reach) have physical contact with another man. I spent a lot of time performing midnight rituals designed to make myself popular, and no time at all wondering whether the lingering scent of mugwort was stopping me getting invited to the cool parties.
I wasn’t raised in religion, so had no prior experience of the altered states that can be achieved through ritual. This was a revelation. Surrounded by flickering candles, smoking incense and crudely drawn pentagrams, my senses would heighten as I cast a magic circle with my wand. Reciting incantations in a hushed voice, I’d feel the veil between our world and the next begin to shimmer. Nine times out of 10, this rapture would be interrupted by my sister storming into my room to reclaim her nag champa incense sticks. Still, I felt sure that my ascent to a higher frequency was simply a matter of time, dedication and copious amounts of sandalwood oil. When a money spell led to me finding £10 in the street, I became convinced I was channelling powers – dangerous ones – beyond my comprehension. I was delighted.
By the time I was 15, I had to choose where to do my mandatory week of work experience. I was torn between Toni & Guy hairdressers (proximity to gay men meant that I might finally lose my virginity and/or emerge with a trendy mullet), or the nearest metaphysical supply store (I was pretty sure they’d teach me to levitate). In the end, I plumped for being bestowed unimaginable powers, but it was a close call.
Joe aged 12: ‘A money spell led to me finding £10 in the street.’ Photograph: courtesy of Joe Stone
In case you’re picturing Hogwarts, I should say that the scene of my mystical education was a cluttered shop next to a chippy in suburban Birmingham. I was already on first-name terms with the staff, who were used to answering my various questions (Is bergamot or coltsfoot better for protection spells? If I can’t afford a cauldron, is it OK to represent the goddess’s womb with a Simpsons mug? Why am I so lonely?). The owner, Jemima, was a huge advocate of urine, which she insisted could be used as a substitute for pretty much any medicine or cosmetic. On my second day, she pulled me to one side and suggested I get into the habit of washing my face in my own wee, which was apparently more potent than the animal urine she said was used in expensive face creams. When I expressed surprise that luxury brands were trafficking in pig piss, she assured me that they got away with it by labelling the ingredient as plant urine. After a moment spent watching me grapple with the ramifications, she assumed the smug expression of a prosecutor about to deliver their killer detail, and hissed: “But. Plants. Don’t. Urinate.”
The next day I listened as Jemima regaled a customer with her conspiracy theory. When they remained unconverted to the notion that bathing in urine guaranteed eternal youthfulness, she lifted her fringe and demanded to know, “How old do I look to you?” I pretended not to hear when Shola, the shop assistant, muttered, “About 79.” Shola was a non-believer, and nurtured a long-running feud with one of the mediums after he implored her to listen to her child’s psychic pronouncements. At 18, she was livid that he thought she looked old enough to have a child capable of speaking, never mind to dead people. When a pair of schoolkids burst in and screamed, “Is this a hippy shop or something?”, she didn’t look up from her copy of Take A Break before responding, “Yes, now fuck off.”
Fortunately for me, the owners were too busy contemplating their own auras to think that there might be a conflict of interest in asking me to price the assorted amethysts I’d later be buying. My other duties included cleaning the flotation tank, dusting the wands and studying Cunningham’s Encyclopedia Of Crystal, Gem & Metal Magic as if it were a GSCE set text (I hadn’t been explicitly asked to do this, but my work experience guidelines encouraged me to use my own initiative). I should have been on cloud nine, but by the end of the week I felt deflated. I hadn’t learned how to astrally project, or divine the future with runes, or even mastered working the till. At the very least I’d hoped I could leverage my week of retail experience into a Saturday job at Waitrose; but when I later had an interview for the fish counter, they seemed unimpressed by my extensive knowledge of crystal balls.
As a teenager, I felt powerless in a world I couldn’t make sense of; sometimes I still do
Perhaps the biggest disappointment was that I still hadn’t found my people. The witches I idolised were glamorous and enigmatic – like Maxine Sanders, the peroxide blond Witch Queen who ruled the sketchier parts of 1970s London. The pagans I met in real life didn’t look like people who had harnessed the unseen currents of the universe. A surprising number wore fleeces. I began to wonder whether people drawn to mystical realms really were charmed souls, or misfits who had struggled to find a place for themselves anywhere else. It was painful to consider that I might belong to the second category.
As I entered my late teens, other things started to preoccupy me, like reordering my Myspace top eight and tending to an asymmetrical haircut that required straightening every four to six hours. By the time I left school for a different sixth form, I’d reinvented myself as someone who wore distressed denim and had never accidentally referred to their form teacher as “Mum”. There was no single moment when I disavowed my pagan past, but my esoteric pursuits began to take up less space. Sabbats would pass unmarked, and I discovered a gay club that charged £8 for entry and all-you-could-drink spirits and mixers. I imagine many of history’s most promising occultists fell by the wayside in a similar manner.
While my interest in mysticism receded, it has never entirely left me. I still occasionally visit psychics, and maintain a crystal collection that could fairly be described as unnerving. As a teenager, I felt powerless in a world I couldn’t make sense of; sometimes I still do. But somewhere along the way, I lost my conviction that the solutions lay in a red candle, or a green knotted ribbon, or a five-pointed star. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it.
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Such arguments may have implicitly drawn strength from the negative example of the Salem witch trials, when accused witches were deprived of even the most basic rights they should have been granted under English common law. That lesson continued to resonate in the centuries to come, especially during periods of crisis such as the Red Scare and McCarthyism in the Cold War era.
It is believed that the curse of the brain eaters originated from these experiments gone horribly wrong. As Remington and Whiskers explore the eerie halls of the asylum, they encounter supernatural obstacles and clues left behind by the mad scientist. It becomes clear that the only way to break the curse is to solve the puzzles and riddles left throughout the asylum, leading to the ultimate discovery of the scientist's hidden laboratory. With each puzzle solved, Remington uncovers not only the true extent of the curse but also his own hidden potential. He learns to harness his intelligence and intuition to outsmart the brain eaters and finally put an end to their reign of terror. Along the way, Remington forms unexpected alliances and faces dangerous enemies. He must confront his fears and tap into his inner courage to stay one step ahead of the brain eaters and their powerful leader, the ghost of the mad scientist himself. In a climactic showdown, Remington and Whiskers face off against the ghost, armed with knowledge, wit, and their unwavering determination. With a final puzzle solved, the curse is lifted, and the brain eaters are no more. The town of Blackshire is saved, and Remington becomes a local hero. He realizes that his true calling is in solving mysteries and helping others. With Whiskers by his side, the brave duo sets off on new adventures, ready to uncover the secrets lurking in the shadows. Remington and the Curse of the Brain Eaters is a thrilling tale of mystery, bravery, and the power of the human mind. It reminds us that even in the darkest of times, there is always hope for a brighter future..
Reviews for "The enigma of the brain eaters in Remington: A never-ending mystery"
1. Samantha - 2 stars
I really tried to enjoy "Remington and the curse of the brain eaters," but I just couldn't get into it. The story felt disjointed, and the characters didn't have depth or development. The dialogue was clunky and unrealistic, making it difficult to connect with the narrative. I also found the plot to be predictable and lacking in excitement. Overall, I was disappointed with this book and wouldn't recommend it to others.
2. Mike - 1 star
"Remington and the curse of the brain eaters" was a complete letdown for me. The writing was subpar with weak descriptions and repetitive phrases. The pacing was all over the place, jumping from one scene to another without proper transitions. The author relied too heavily on clichés and didn't bring anything new or original to the genre. Additionally, the plot twists were predictable, and the ending felt rushed and unsatisfying. I regret spending my time on this book and would advise others to avoid it.
3. Emily - 2 stars
I expected "Remington and the curse of the brain eaters" to be an exciting and thrilling read, but it fell short of my expectations. The characters lacked depth and the dialogue felt forced. The story itself had potential, but the execution was lackluster. The pacing was uneven, with slow moments dragging on and action-packed scenes feeling rushed. I also found several plot holes that were never addressed, leaving me frustrated and confused. I was hoping for a gripping adventure, but unfortunately, this book didn't deliver.