magnus-archives-fan-statements

[magnus-archives-fan-statements]

MAG0007 - Stargazer

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Archivist

What’s this? 

Martin

Coffee? 

Archivist

Yes Martin, I know what coffee is. I meant… Why did you give it to me? It’s noon. I’ve had my morning coffee ages ago. It’s not really the time for more coffee, is it? 

Martin

Oh, no no. I’m not- I didn’t buy it. I mean, it just came from the new guy. Front desk? Elias hired him for ‘security reasons’. He isn’t that big of a guy, either. Seems kind of nice? 

Archivist

I get it, you can stop now. Thanks, I suppose. Has he even been down here?

Martin 

Not to my knowledge - I can always ask him?

Archivist

Don’t bother, it’s just me thinking out loud. I’m about to record a statement, by the way. You can stick around if you want. 

Martin

Ok, well, the room’s yours. Enjoy. 

[DOOR CLOSES]

Archivist

Enjoy? It’s a story of a poor woman having her life made worse by a book. What am I supposed to enjoy out of that?

Statement of Angie Gardner, regarding her recent hobby of stargazing, and her involvement in the North Aberdeen Astronomical Society. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins. 

Archivist (Statement)

Sorry, I just need a minute. You’ve already got all of my info, about the stripes, the sky, and the handbook. It’s all in that dossier I brought with me. You guys are better off with it. Although, I still have a copy. It’ll have everything you need, I promise. This all started back in April. April 25th, actually. It was a lunar eclipse, which is all my friend, Eric, talked about, for days on end. He was super excited for it and would not shut up about it. Every day in April, he’d go on to me about the best place to see them, or how they only happen twice a year. We lived in Dyce, at the time, which is just a little further outside of Aberdeen. In order to get him to shut up - I had reluctantly agreed to join him in the countryside for the eclipse. He said he would be going with a few of his friends that were a part of an astronomy group who called themselves the North Aberdeen Astronomical Society. They sound more fancy than they actually are. They have their own merchandise, even though it's just five guys and Eric. They met up every Thursday night, a perfect coincidence saying how the eclipse was going to happen on Thursday. 

Dyce isn’t that far from the city. All of that light pollution had meant that I hadn’t gotten a good view of the sky at all. In all of my time, living in a place that was known for the Northern Lights, I had never gotten a look at the sky. It was always cloudy whenever I went into the shire, which meant that the only good views I got were right in town. I’d be lucky to see a star or two, instead of what everyone online yapped about. So when the time came to drive off to the meetup point, I was ecstatic. Eric tagged along in my car, since his one was in the shop, and he told me where to go in order to get out to a stargazing place called Glen Tanar. I was so excited to finally see something else, other than pale black. 

So, I joined. I couldn’t help myself, it was too much fun. As long as I made sure to come by every week, and go out to the Glen. Eric showed up often, as did the others - but I can’t remember most of their names. They tried to be friendly, but were kind of full of themselves. Even if they didn’t mean to be, I couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, or some sort of spectator, watching them do their thing whilst I sat back and tried to keep up. Seeing the stars for the first time, hundreds of faint dots that illuminated the night sky. They decorated every corner, and the lack of clouds meant that I could stare at them all, whilst waiting for the moon to enter its eclipse. This was all I had wanted to see. I just wanted to see what I dreamt of. 

After that wonderful sight, I was definitely invested. Also there, the founder of the group, Daniel, was there to make sure I wouldn’t miss out on anything. He was definitely the one most invested, and everyone would listen to what he was saying since he had such a fancy way about his words. He talked of how the stars were named, or what constellations they made up, or anything like that. Every week, he told us about the North Star, or some Greek guy who named a constellation. I was starting to think that Daniel’s ramblings were where Eric got his conversations from. Anyways, sorry, I think I’ve been going on about this for long enough. This is the only place that doesn’t treat me like I’m crazy, so I’m hoping to get all of this done. 

A few weeks into my membership, I had found a strange book in this second-hand shop off of Union Street, where the book was essentially free. It was a book on star constellations, which ones were best to see. It was more of a pamphlet, really. The cover page was torn off, but whoever had it before made a copy of the cover name, and the author, I think, on the first page. It was called ‘The Guide to Seeing New Sights, and written underneath it, by Jurgen Leitner. I bought it, though, hoping that it could have something neat to show to the others. I could talk, like the others did, and seem smart. That was the one thing that I didn’t like about the hangouts, to be honest. Everyone there were either university students, doctors, nerds, or just smart-looking. Me? I worked in a café, at the time. It was kind of demoralising at first, but I got used to it. I was there because the stars seemed interesting, and I wasn’t going to let this hobby get ruined by guys who had no idea how to shut up. 

I read the book, and it told me of some constellations that I hadn’t heard at any of the hangouts, from Eric or Daniel. It spoke of the ‘Joshi’ constellation, or the Howard star. Stars that don’t exist. I asked everyone if we could see the Howard Star in Summer, which had them give me all weird looks. I swore that the book said that the Howard Star existed. I even showed the page to the others, proving that a star with that name definitely existed. They just told me that the book must’ve been wrong, or that I accidentally picked up a fictional book, and got back to their stargazing.

After a long period of silence, the guys eventually got to pointing out what they could see. I didn’t really bother listening, at first, more engrossed in my book. I finished most of it in twenty minutes, and when I looked up to the sky, it was different. The stars were in different places. Each one I saw was different. The Big Dipper was supposedly right above us, but all I saw was a sprawling mess of stars. They were bundled together, like clumps, and left so much space between them. They swirled, and spun, and even though they were all small, I could tell that they were wrong in many, many ways. I couldn’t tell, at the time, what colour they were. There was nothing I could compare them to. 

By the time I got to the last page, some of the guys were packing up and leaving. I turned the page, and began to read to myself. It read; “Thank you for looking at the stars. Enjoy seeing more than you could possibly imagine,” By the time I had closed the book, I knew something was wrong. The spine of the book was different. Before, it was a dark blue, and now it was something else. I don’t know what to call it. It’s like the ocean. The sea is different now, too. So is the sky during the day. I’m the only one who sees it, the only person who can tell a difference. That was all it was, at first. The sky, and the sea, were different. But every passing day, things would change, for me. My mug was a colour that I can only describe as being blue before, it was now something else. Since this has started, I have seen dozens of new colours. They are strange, grotesque, and I can’t help but sink into them if I stare for too long. One day, all I’ll be able to see is the colours that started coming to me. I just hope I’m dead by then.  I think that’s what the book did. I can see it. I can see the colours that people are not meant to see. Not just Ultraviolet light, but ones that work in my microwave. They coat my food, and they coat anything that I see. 

Did you know that humans have stripes? Some of us do. I have them, but I could never see them before. Mine are wavy, they twist and go on forever, endlessly. Normal people can’t see them, not at all. They’re only able to be seen under UV light, but I can see them. I had enough, and took out my old shredder. It used to have a glass container at the bottom, so you can see all of the shredded paper, but I can no longer see past it. I just see the colour that I see when I look into outer space. I sink further into it, further and further. I spent two hours looking at that glass, until I finally dropped the book into the shredder. I thought it’d stop it. I thought I’d stop seeing the stripes, and the strange colours, but no. They’re with me forever, I fear. 

There are stripes on Eric. They cover every part of his body - in this colour I can’t seem to describe. It was July when I saw him next, and I could see all the way up his arms. These lines, like fingers, were wrapped tightly around Eric. Eric’s were different.  His patterns were brittle. They broke, and were faded, and pushed inwards to what I could only guess was his heart. I don’t know why we were different, why my ones were different from his, and why they were some patterns on some people, with different ones on basically everyone. One was tiny spots, glowing and twitching around a cafe-goer’s neck. Another was on his knees, dark lines that wrapped around his legs, growing darker and darker by the time they reached his socks. I don’t want to know what it means. I don’t want to know what any of it means. The ink on this paper has changed just now, too. It is something else that I cannot wrap my mind around. 

Please, tell me you guys can stop this.

I just want to see the old sky again. Please, let me admire my stars. 

Archivist

Statement ends. A Leitner book, again. This time, to do with the stars. I can’t seem to escape his library, even after it was burnt down. How come all of Leitner’s books seem so similar, yet unique? This one, though, is completely different from the others. Angie hasn’t been stealing body parts from people, no. Instead, she has been suffering on her own. Nobody else around her has been able to see the same things that she has been seeing. This book has affected her, and her alone. 

Sasha did some research into the North Aberdeen Astronomical Society - they had disbanded after their leader, Daniel, along with Eric, went missing in the Cairngorms national park. We can’t find anything about the other members, and Angie has refused any follow-up interviews. She said that she just wants to put it all behind her. She also refused to directly look at any of our archival assistants. Other than the whole ‘seeing colours that you shouldn’t’, I’d consider Angie Gardner very lucky, to come away from a Leitner book with that kind of impact. 

The fact that she destroyed the book is good, though. It makes  sure that a book with those kinds of qualities would never be read again. She’s smarter than most. 

End recording. 

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Archivist

Supplemental. Somebody went into the tunnels, since I last checked. I left a neat fold of paper between the hatch and the ladder that goes down. It was small enough for nobody to notice it, I hope. Every morning since I came back from my most recent expedition, I have checked to see if the paper is still there. This morning, it was gone. I had even taken a few steps down, and looked for the piece of paper myself. It wasn’t on the ground. 

I should really invest in a camera, or something else, just to make sure that nobody else is going down there, without me knowing. Who would want to go down there? Is there another pathway that I haven’t mapped out yet? I swear, every pathway on the first level has been checked. I left small post-its when I went down last - documenting each room. Which one was empty, which one had a table, and Gertrude’s basement office. 

I hope they’re still there. I’ll have to go back down next weekend. End supplemental. 

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[magnus-archives-fan-statements]

MAG0006 - Revelations

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Archivist

Statement of Brody McClean, regarding the bizarre words of his former classmate, before his disappearance. Original statement given July 23rd, 2003. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. 

Statement begins. 

Archivist (Statement)

My mum told me I had to be quick about this. Sorry if my handwriting isn’t the best, I’m kind of a bad writer. She told me to just write  down what I can, and then I’d be on my way back home. Summer holiday doesn’t last forever, you know! I can’t be wasting it in this hot, stuffy, and pretty lame room. You guys don’t even have posters. Like, have you even heard of decoration? It’s just so, god-damn, boring! 

Please don’t tell my mum I said ‘damn’. 

Wait, I have to say things here. I should probably just hurry up. Charlie knew things, we didn’t know them, and it was kind of scary. Wait, you guys need more than just that? Fine… I guess I’ll say it the long way. I don’t know how much I remember, though. It was normal, at first, but it got weird pretty quickly. I’ll try my best to tell you what I know. 

I don’t know what was wrong with Charlie. He seemed normal. He was just as regular as the rest of us. Last year, Charlie had moved down from Newcastle, I think, and was put into our Year 3 class from about November. I only remember that because it was the day after Bonfire Night, and I was really tired from all of the stuff from the day before. Our class was small, there were about fifteen of us, and none of us were angry at each other. We were all friends. We didn’t really care about anything, or anyone in particular. We were too young to know what was going on in the world. I liked it that way. My Mum told me once, that ignorance is bliss. I like that word, ignorance. It is like you’re ignoring something. I bet that is what it actually means, too. Charlie was different. That’s how my Dad put it. He told me not to talk to him much, because of his Mum and Dad. I don’t really know why, I know that if my Dad says something, it usually means that he is right.

Charlie looked like the rest of us. He had brown, curly hair, brown eyes, and a chipped tooth from his last school. His uniform was definitely given to him by someone else, it already had holes in it and it was also way too big. He totally got it from somebody else, but that was okay. It is good to share. Everyone in our class was happy with anyone using their stuff. I got to borrow Darren’s pens - Darren got to have a shot on my Gameboy whenever I could sneak it into class. But Charlie didn’t have anything. He didn’t bring in any pens or pencils, or asked for anything. He just sat there, quietly, reading whatever he was told to read by Mrs Peterson, and then went home. He didn’t bring any food in, either. He just sat down, talked, and left. Nobody knew what to say to him, he didn’t have anything to talk about. We just sat quietly next to him, as he did whatever he wanted to do. Class became boring, with him. 

One day, Charlie began to speak with us. But it wasn’t about whatever cartoons were playing, the card games we had, or about what we were learning. He told us things. Bad things. Kids used to go to heaven when they went into fridges. That’s why magnets are on fridge doors. He told us that, and I had bad dreams of being locked in the fridge for not doing my homework. I don’t like that he told us that. He made Naomi cry for ten minutes, after hearing him. 

He told us some bad things, all of the time. Worms can live after being cut in half, and people can live for a little while after having their heads cut off. He was always saying these things, just to scare us. He talked about it whilst we were talking about other things. It didn’t make sense, why would he tell us about Mount Everest having a lot of dead people on it? I didn’t like him, I don’t think anyone did. But he kept going - he wouldn’t stop. It got to the point that every time I had heard him speak, my head would begin to hurt. I have migraines, and he caused them. 

Darren Whyte had been in our class since Year 1. We got along pretty well, and he always let us play with the toy cars he brought on. He was a nice guy, and I am a little worried that something happened to him. He was in our class until Easter, I think. Once we got back from break, he showed up for two days, and then just disappeared. I stopped talking to Charlie before, but the others still let him hang out with them. I don’t know why. I heard what he said to Darren, though. He told him that he should ask his Dad why he keeps working late, if he doesn’t get given overtime. So he did. He came to school the next day, in tears. He was sent home early, but I haven’t seen him since. Even thinking about what happened to him makes my head spin, but I still miss him. 

I was telling my parents about what I heard. I was told not to tell anyone, but I was also told to not lie to you guys - and to say the truth. Darren’s parents must not have liked each other very much, as his dad was going to hang out with another woman. They asked me how I knew this, and that I shouldn’t be ‘poking my nose’ into other people’s lives. I tried telling them that I didn’t do that - and that I was just told it, but they didn’t listen. 

The week after that, Alice Murison had gone home early, too, and didn’t come back to class for a whole fortnight. Charlie said that she should have been more careful with her cat, Mr Fluff. Charlie swears that he didn’t do anything with her cat, and I believe him. I just don’t like how he knew about what happened to him. Everyone in town had heard about the car accident with her cat, and they even got to bury him in a small patch of grass outside.

That day, I got to have a look at Charlie’s parents, as they picked them up from school. His dad had the most scary scar I had ever seen. It ran across his face, and went over both of his eyes. He wore those red sunglasses you see in comic books with blind characters, but you can see that the big scar must have hurt. Charlie’s mom was no different, and had a fresh bandage wrapped around her head. But, even without being able to see, they were able to walk Charlie home - and walk without any problems. I decided that, then and there, I would never talk to Charlie again. He was too weird, too scary - and I didn’t know if anyone would believe what I saw. They looked so weird, and I know that it is rude to stare, but I couldn’t stop myself. 

It got worse. The bad stories were already scary. I nearly got grounded for asking my parents about Robert Montauk at the dinner table. Charlie wouldn’t stop talking about what he did back then. Zoos with people used to exist, pilots fall asleep all of the time, and you can die at any moment, for no reason. He was the same age as me, and talked about such awful things - I don’t understand. Why did we say those things? He wouldn’t stop, and my headaches only got worse. I got so hungry, or thirsty, or tired, whenever I had them, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything but cry and scream for it to stop. 

It was after Mrs Peterson didn’t come back from her lunch break that Charlie became scary.  Whilst we were all sitting around, not too sure on what to do, he was smiling. It was scary, as he just sat there with a big smile. He said that Mrs Peterson won’t be coming back, and that if we wanted to find her, we’d need to put her back together, first. I never listened to Charlie again, and I had made sure that I wouldn’t be on the same side of the class as him. 

Just like Darren, and Alice, my parents decided to move away. We live in Southend now, and I am happy that I don’t need to hear any other scary facts from classmates. I am so happy that I am away from Charlie. I hope I never see him again. He said such awful things, and I don’t want to think about them ever again. 

But, it does seem kind of scary - that the sun is going to blow up one day. There will be nothing left. No more scary things to tell people. 

Archivist 

Statement ends. I understand why we don’t take statements from children, now. Brody was definitely not a genius when it came to spelling. It took Martin a few reads to understand what he meant with some of his words. I was able to get a hang of it, though. That isn’t important, though. What is important, is understanding how vague he was with what was going on. If only this had happened a few years later - we’d be able to understand what he meant. It didn’t make it any easier, that all of the paper that Brodie had written on are covered in tears. I’d make a digital copy but, well, you know. 

Darren Whyte’s parents had gone through a divorce a few weeks after his disappearance. Alice Murison’s cat ran away from home. Mrs Peterson was found dead in her attic. Butchered, cut up, and sealed away in a vacuum storage bag. The police found her body a few days afterwards, and her husband, Jeremy Peterson, was arrested for her murder. 

What worries me, about the case of Charlie, is that he seems to be rather innocent about all of this. He doesn’t care about what he’s caused. He is simply doing it as if it is second nature. Maybe he’s a harbinger? He knows this knowledge, and causes it to be true. It’d explain what happened with Darren’s parents - Darren bringing up the conversation with his Mom about what his Dad was doing. 

Charlie hasn’t been seen at all, since them. He and his family had gone missing in 2009. They had vanished, into thin air, right by Pimlico Underground Station. The station right outside of our institute. Sasha tells me that they found Charlie’s father, Steven Oakley. Blinded, beaten, and left to die. His autopsy showed that he no longer had his brain. He had nothing left to think about. 

End recording. 

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Archivist

Supplemental. Brody McClean’s statement has nothing to do with the last one. Vandals and fire, to creepy kids. What’s the connection? Is there one? Or was Gertrude Robinson simply in the tunnels to record her statements? 

I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all. Is this Charlie a prophet? Able to look into the future? No. That can’t be it. He wasn’t saying these things as if they haven’t happened yet, but that they simply did. I’m only saying this here, as, simply put, I think Charlie has more to do with what's going on than anything else I’ve read, recently. I can’t get him out of my head - no matter how hard I try. 

Gertrude’s statements are in my drawer. I have some boring files above them, so hopefully nobody decides to start looking around my stuff. Speaking of Gertrude’s statements, Brody McClean’s statement was never recorded. I listened to the start of all of the statements, and none of them mentioned his name. It’s the only reason I decided to record a statement today. This one needed to be done. I felt like it had to be done.

Charlie does seem rather familiar, though. I don’t know why. He is, ultimately, a know it all freak who isn’t aware of overstepping his boundaries. Hits a little too close to home, in my opinion. 

The next time I go into the tunnels, I’ll make sure to find that room again. Gertrude Robinson’s hiding a lot more than I thought she could. I’ve definitely missed something.

End supplement.

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[magnus-archives-fan-statements]

MAG0005 - Burning Hatred

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Archivist

Tonight’s the night. I’m going down to the tunnels again. I’m not going to stop looking until I find something worthwhile. This time, I’m not going to run out of batteries, or drop my only flashlight. It’s Friday night, thankfully. Martin, Tim, and Sasha, they won’t be back until Monday. I’ll be alone, here, in the archives. Nobody will intrude, and I will simply keep going, until I find out what’s going on down there. 

I just hope my back isn’t too sore from all of these supplies. I’ll leave this tape in my office. In case, well, in case I’m not back in time. Or in case I’m not back. End recording.

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Archivist

I’ve… I’ve found something new. It’s only been tunnels and dusty paths, but I’ve found something else. It looks like an office. My office, when I recorded the statement from Nathan Watts. From what I can tell, it’s been about two hours of travelling. I’ve found no signs of being followed - or signs of life, at all. It’s only been dead worms. There’s hundreds of them. Prentiss must’ve been down here for weeks. 

[DOOR CREAKS]

The door’s a lot louder, though. I don’t think anyone’s living here - I’m guessing that this could have been an office for an older archivist, before Robinson. Angus Stacey, I believe. That was a while ago, afterall. This place has certainly seen better days. 

[DRAWER OPENS]

Ah. There’s tapes, too. Some statements too. I guess this’ll do. This is good enough, for now. Lets see… statement of Brody McLean, statement of Andy Walker, Isla Gibson, Jeremy Stuart… Charles Bennett? It goes on and on. There must be a dozen or so statements in here. I’m going to give one of them a listen. I’m… I’m not built for this. I don’t think I’ll do a weekend delve down here again. Not unless I have to. 

[CLICK]

Gertrude

Thank you. I’ll need the room for a little while. Go off and do whatever needs done. 

[DOOR CREAKS]

Gertrude

Case 9891205. Susan Cave. Incident occurred in Earlswood, Warwickshire, March 1989. Statement given 12th of May 1989. Committed to tape 1st of December, 2010. 

Gertrude Robinson recording. 

Gertrude (Statement)

If there’s one thing I hate in this world, its vandals. Peace is something that you can’t find around every corner, nowadays. So many countries, over the last decade, have been subject to horrible, horrible wars and conflicts, and we remain. Of course, we had the Falklands, but I can’t really consider that. It wasn’t like before, it was nowhere near the devastation as before. So, when I am in town, I see the likes of vandals, hooligans, and scum that do nothing but disrupt the natural order - I can’t help but fume. They take what we have here, a point of peace, and ruin it, with their delinquency. Peace is such a limited thing in this world. Eventually, one person is going to throw a stone at another, for no reason. It’ll continue on and on, until there are no more stones left to throw, or there are no people left to throw it back.

This started a few months ago, back before I had moved back to London. I was minding my business, on a Sunday afternoon, getting some of my weekly shopping done. There’s a garden centre just outside of the main bit of the town, and they had set up this wonderful display, right by Windmill Pool. They had the most beautiful daffodils on display, alongside some flowers that I can’t seem to remember. I didn’t get to admire them in time, as not too long afterwards, they were destroyed. Police didn’t bother coming to the remains of the plants until noon, that Sunday. I got a good sight of the incinerated petals, and the ash that remained in the neat pots on the street. The gardeners that were tending to them were devastated, and we didn’t get too many exhibits in town after that. There were a few boys, teenagers, watching on, and whilst nobody else paid attention to them, I heard their snickers. I saw their pointing and their jestering to what happened. I knew it had to be them. This gut feeling of mine 

I asked around, to see if these three people in balaclavas were known to anyone. I asked every person. The folks from the pubs had no clue who they were, and neither did anyone else I could talk to. I was worried, at first, that they were going to be causing an issue - I heard that the folks from over the sea may be getting a little more rowdy - a fear that plenty of us had, back then. Would there be an attack in our small home, instead of the city? No, I wouldn’t think so - but the worry was too much for me to handle. I had plans the next day - just to stay inside and catch up on some of my books. No, I had to go out again. Those guys could’ve done something again, and I wanted to make sure it was them, before I went to the police. If anything else happened, and they were there, then I made sure to myself that I would report the three of them. 

The following day, another tragedy had occurred. There was a mural, painted next to the community centre, for Gerald, somebody who was really kind to everyone. He was a blessed soul, and when he passed from pancreatic cancer, we all chipped in for a local artist to paint on the side of the community centre. A big mural of Gerald, a nice bit of art to cheer up the community. The following day, it was painted over, with rough, red blotches. Everyone was appalled, but I knew that it had to do with those fowl hooligans. They were in town, that way, and I could swear that I saw a brief flash of the colour red, on one of their palms. It must’ve been painted, there was no doubt about it. It was infuriating, watching yet another point of goodness in our city get ruined, by folks with no care over anything but themselves. 

PC Powell had always been helpful, when it came to any issues in town. He was respected by the community, and wasn’t distant from anyone. He handled what little crime we had without any issues, and was a beacon of hope. He would be the perfect person to handle these three maniacs. I told him what I saw - my evidence, and what should happen. Since the paint was dry, and the flowers the previous day were already cinders, Powell had deduced that the pyromaniacs were striking at night. After some convincing, I had got him to come with me, right into town. He was weary of what could happen, mainly with whatever else was happening in town. 

We both saw the scoundrels by a statue, depicting Sergeant Copland, a man who fought in the Great War, who came from that very street. He fought in numerous battles, and was treated as a hero. They were there, the three of them, dressed in their hoodies and balaclavas. What Powell and I saw, however, is unexplainable. When Powell put his flashlight on the trio, we could see one of them against the statue, which his hoodie discarded. He was wearing a tank top - something that was strange, especially for winter weather. Powell, of course, told him to get down. He wouldn’t listen, and, somehow, destroyed the statue. He didn’t spray paint it, or chip off a finger, or write over the plaque with some rude gesture or phrase. No, he simply bore his chest to the statue, and it began to glow red. His friends were cheering him on, begging for him to continue. I watched as his chest grew hot, and smoke rose from the man. The statue’s head began to twist and turn, turning a bright red, sparks flying into the night sky. Copland’s head fell, and we were both left, stunned. 

Powell believed it to be tools, at first. Some blowtorch, behind the statue, that we couldn’t see. It was a stupid solution, but at least it made sense. We weren’t going to start thinking that the fire came from his chest. He demanded for him to come down, and that he was under arrest. Vandalism, he said, with such a tremble in his soft-spoken voice. The two boys laughed, and the older of the two approached him, with his hands over his head. He looked like he was complying. By the time he had gotten closer, I could tell that Powell was sweating. Not from fear, but from exhaustion. The air grew stiff for us both, and I was unable to focus on him. The air was too hot - my vision was blurred. When he was facing us, though, his chest was soaked red, with his own blood. A large opening was on display, which would’ve been hidden by his hoodie. Where his heart would’ve been, was a ball of fire. It wobbled, and burned. My eyes were irritated by the sight, and I had to back away. Poor Powell, he was too close. In a flash, I watched as his uniform lit in flames, before being snuffed mere moments later. His body crumpled into a pile of ash, to the horror of his friends. This strange man, though, simply looked on in amazement. The lunatic had no clue he could do such a thing. 

I fled. I ran back home, and locked my doors. My windows, too. By the time I was back in my home, I knew that the hooligans must have followed me. By four in the morning, I could hear frequent banging on my door. Yells for me to come see them, followed by sly comments by his underlings. They may have been afraid of him, but they were happy to be his lackeys. The scum that they are. The curtains were closed, and I made sure to be quiet. They knew, though. They always knew where I was, in that house. 

I heard the news, even whilst being locked in my home. Powell was missing, and his uniform was next to the ruined statue of Sergeant Copland. The poor officer was never given anything to identify his remains. The community sobbed for him, as it seems he just disappeared. I couldn’t tell anyone, as I lived alone. 

They waited outside of my home for three days, until they moved on. They just left me, after realising how inefficient it was to stay outside. I could barely survive with the food in my fridge, and I had to make sure that I didn’t look outside too often. They just stood there, by the door, with big smiles on their faces. They loved it. They loved the fact that I was afraid. When I could leave, I just got into my car, and went to London. My sister, Eileen, still lives here, and I am staying at hers until all of this blows over. Maybe soon, I can go back home. Not having to be afraid of anyone out there. I used to think that London was a place of chaos and disarray, but at least this city isn’t home to them. Those hooligans. 

Please, give me updates on this, if you find anything. As soon as I can get back to my home, and I can be safe, and sound, I won’t stop worrying that they’ll be outside my window. All I know is that in the time I was indoors, they had incinerated the expensive sails on the nearby boats. They dismantled the local parks, and set off fireworks next to the community centre, when the veteran’s breakfast clubs were going on. They just wanted people to suffer. 

I just want to go home. 

Gertrude 

Final comments. Well, this was a surprise. This story seemed to be one of hooligans doing whatever they wanted to at first, that this was just a story told from a mad woman too paranoid to see minor vandals as potential terrorists. 

This reeks of the Lightless Flame. Yet, there is no connection to anything from Agnes, nor any other stray members. This does provide some relief, however, that the whole power of the D- 

[CLICK]

Archivist 

This was recorded in 2010. Gertrude must’ve been down here, and I know that because of this door. 

[TAPE REWINDS]

[CLICK]

[DOOR CREAKS]

Gertrude

Case 9891205- 

[CLICK]

[DOOR CREAKS]

Archivist

That is most definitely the same noise. What are all of these tapes involving? The lightless flame? Pyromaniacs? Why would Gertrude keep them down here? 

I’m going to be taking them upstairs, and see if there’s anything else. At least, I’ll be taking all of the ones I can carry. Next time I’m down here, I’ll make sure to take the rest of them.

End recording. 

[CLICK]

[magnus-archives-fan-statements]

MAG004 - Giants

[CLICK]

[FAINT SCRATCHING NOISES]

Tim

Boss, stop scratching.

[SCRATCHING BRIEFLY STOPS, FOLLOWED BY LOUDER SCRATCHES]

Stop it. That’ll just make it worse. 

Archivist

What, do you think I want to do this? I can’t. Plus, I have work to do, plenty of it. I can’t put my entire thought process on not scratching my arm. 

Tim

Christ, okay then. I’m just making sure you don’t leave blood all over your desk. Don’t worry, you can stick to whatever statement you’re reading up on. Don’t mind me. 

[RUFFLING OF PAPER]

Hey, what are you working on, anyways? Once Sasha gets her computer booted up again, I’m sure we can take a crack at some investigation.

Archivist

That's-! That’s none of your business, Tim. Now, I need to record my statement. Can you give me just a little space? 

[LONG SILENCE]

Tim

Fine, then. I don’t know who shat in your cornflakes today, though. Let me know when the room’s free, Jon. 

[DOOR CLOSES, FOLLOWED BY LOCK TWISTING]

Archivist

Finally, now, where was I? Statement of Caster Bernard, regarding his history and experiences with ‘giants’. Statement given November 2nd, 2001. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute.

Archivist (Statement)

Let me just start by saying that I love fantasy novels. High fantasy, specifically. The ones that everyone thinks of. Yes, I know, they tend to be on the basic end, but honestly? They’re the best. The elves, dwarves, orcs, and dark lords, they are all so wonderfully written. Much better than your modern stories, where the villains are whatever the writer doesn’t like in the world. As much as I agree with capitalism being the villain of this world, do we really need it to be a villain in every fantasy world, too? I’m so sick and tired of it. Sometimes, the best villains in stories are the ones that are so obviously villains, that to think of them as anything else is just barbaric and stupid. It’s good, when used properly, but I honestly prefer the villains that are downright villainous, the Dark Lords, and such. Everything in those kinds of books just spoke to me in such a wonderful way.

That reminds me, the one thing I loved the most, whilst reading these stories, was the incorporation of nature and plantlife into the essence of the story. So, as a child, I’d often write things of my own. My favourite thing, in all of the books I read, were the Ents of Tolkien’s ‘Lord of the Rings’. Wonderful stuff. So, when I learnt that Tolkien had come from what would later be known as Bloemfontein, my hometown, my interest in his life only grew. I figured out where the nearest bit of wilderness was to his house. That was guaranteed to hold a piece of inspiration that I could potentially use for my own endeavours. I wanted to be a writer when I was in my early teens, so I decided to get myself more involved in that area. I went off on my own, without anyone else with me. Nobody else would really care about that kind of stuff, it was obvious. So, I went off on my own, and tried to find something to give me inspiration. One thing that had always interested me, however, was this large tree I found, one day. It was about as thick as a tree could get, and I was able to hide behind it whenever somebody would come strolling along. The roots were big enough to step on, to hide my footprints. Good times, I spent most of my time on my own, just by that tree, reading any book I could find, and writing anything I could think of. 

One day, however, I began to notice a peculiar pattern that had lingered on that tree. Along the southend of the tree, were these strange markings. On the northside, there had been no such marks, but instead a deep crevice, which must’ve gone a few inches deep into the tree. These markings, as I could tell, were watching me. They travelled from the base of the trunk, all the way up until the branches stemmed beyond my view. They were shaped like eyes, and they were, well, strange. I couldn’t exactly understand what I saw, but when I figured out that it felt as if it was looking at me, I was quite afraid. Although, I was more curious, than scared. Could you blame me? I hadn’t seen anything like this, and I am a curious man, by all means. With little hesitation, I brought my hand closer to the tree bark, with the marks of eyes upon itself. My hand traced the rivets, closing in on the marking. Once my hand got close enough, I was given the strangest sight of my life. The eye blinked.��

I leapt back in horror, watching as all of the eyes on the tree had swirled and twitched, eventually focusing in on me. It saw me. Yet, it did nothing. Except, well, asking for my name. As it turned out, the tree, in all of its wonders, was sentient, and capable of speaking english. I was astounded. My investigations came with stranger conclusions, too. When I looked at his roots, I saw fine, intricate patterns, they held the same rivets and curves found on a fingerprint, travelling all the way until the end of the root itself. The eyes were only found on his south-facing side. On his north, however, there had been, what I thought at first to be carvings, had instead been, essentially, a mouth. The sharp trails of thorns and splinters littered its mouth, like a predator’s. It remained still, ultimately, and so, after quite a long-period of panic, I considered myself as having a simple relation to the tree. It asked me for my name. Of course, I told him, Caster, and he said that my name was rather unique, at least to him. He didn’t give me his name. He simply asked me to tell him stories. I remember, fondly, the first one I told him, of the first time I got lost in the city centre, afraid of what anyone around me was capable of doing. Oh, it was wonderful. He asked me details of the story that I hadn’t been entirely sure of, and in return, he got to tell me things that I would not have believed, if it weren’t for a tree telling me. 

The trees, Ents, as he called himself, were large, hulking behemoths. Apparently, according to the story I got, in return, they were everywhere. North and South America, Europe, Asia, and even on pacific islands. These Ents could be anywhere in the world. We continued trading secrets, stuff of my life, in return for knowledge of the occult and the arcane. Wonderful times, truly, these trees give me such wisdom. The things they could do, it truly amazed me. I had no fear for those creatures. All it had given me was the joy of knowledge. They could grow to incredible heights, capable of scaling above the buildings of mankind.

The tree spoke with such a fondness for my stories, as if he was rejuvenated by them. Every time I came up, the tree that spoke to me was able to sprout more branches, and sap had drizzled down some parts of the bark. It seemed like an innocent act, truly, feeding it my stories.

So, I had a friend in the forest, who was rather eager to talk to me. Every day I came back, with my books, and I had conversations on the most wild of things with this tree. Intently, he listened to me. Every word I offered it, he treated it as if it were wisdom that came from Greek philosophers and ancient sorcerers. He was joyous, able to hear the stories of a boy that lived in town. He talked of a man called John, another storyteller, who spoke with him often in his youth. One he hadn’t seen in a long, long time. Regardless, he was happy to see me. The tree was my friend. Eventually, I gave up on the idea of explaining what I had found to other people. It was simply my secret to keep with nature. 

One day, however, after giving my story, I heard the most dreadful thing imaginable. We weren’t alone. He said, my friend, that he was hungry, and not for a story. It mumbled something I could not understand. From what I could tell, he spoke in the form of Elvish, from the Lord of the Rings. Back then, I hadn’t a clue what he was saying. What I could tell, though, was that I was no longer safe, and so, I ran. Northbound, back home. I ran off, and upon moving past a thicker tree, I ran into him. A pale man, with a neatly-trimmed beard, pale white skin, and the look of demented joy had spread on his face. On one hand, a neatly crafted hand axe, and on the other, a tinderbox. He was there for the tree, I could tell. I simply just… knew. I begged him to stop, to consider leaving, but he was stone-faced, and had completely ignored me. It took me having to push him away with my bare hands for him to take notice of me. He raised the axe, and struck me with the blunt end. My head was strumming with pain, as I watched the man trot towards the tree, ready to burn it down, and chop what was left of it. With my consciousness fading, I had only seen one thing. The tree, in all of its glory, had grown tendrils, like vines, and had struck the huntsman in a near instant. At that moment, I could not keep my eyes open, any longer. I slumped down, defeated, and entered a deep slumber. 

By the time that I had returned , I saw that the man who had attacked me was nowhere to be seen. His bloodied machete laid, stuck in the ground, with no sight of the brute anywhere. When I went to inspect the weapon, I heard muffled noises of agony and pain. I looked to my friend, as he stood, and all I could see, were not his eyes, nor his twisting smile. All I saw was the man, branches of wood spewing from his mouth, vines and twigs poking through his clothes, as he laid, embedded in the tree. His eyes were clouded, the splinters on his face drawing more blood than I had ever seen in my life. His hands were pinned to the tree, the bark having shifted and twisted as the eyes radiated, consuming this man who had just tried to kill me. Sap flowed from his mouth, his ears, and eyes. It was stained red with his blood. His axe was gone, and his tinderbox was soaked in crimson gore. He bore no more danger, for he must have died just after I had fallen asleep. 

The tree though, it had changed. The roots were no longer interwoven with prints similar to the ones on my hand - no. They had, instead, grown coarse and twisted, jagging out of the dirt not like a root, but a leg. Its mouth had grown crooked, soaked a deep crimson. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me, and yet, and yet… they weren’t. I knew that they didn’t. They couldn’t. Everything I saw that night was based on his peaceful form, grown sick and twisted from what I could only believe to be a bad story.  

 I hold eternal gratitude to that tree, for saving me, but in that very moment, I was horrified. I ran away. I didn’t want to say anything else to that tree. I had enough stories to tell it. 

Every pace I took, I felt as if I was going to stumble across a root from a nearby tree. Sure, I had only talked with one, but he spoke of other ones. Other trees. Maybe all of them are alive. Yes, I know that plants are alive too, but not like him. My friend, the giant, was not alone. I barely escaped with my own life, as all of the other trees seemed to not be as friendly as my old friend. By the time I got home, I believed that the most scary thing in my life had occurred. By the next morning, I realised that my home was surrounded by trees. I’m glad I live north of the forest. So long as they don’t get closer, they will never see me again. 

I respect the trees. They’re just off, minding their own business, but I’d be labelled a lunatic if I told a therapist this story, or my family. This is just reserved for you guys, since you understand. You had your leak, which means you guys properly categorise your weird stuff. I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t high, and I am not delusional. I saw the truth, and I am sharing it with you. I knew that I had to come here. 

Archivist

Statement ends. 

I can’t investigate this one much, we don’t have access to many files in South Africa. Our other branches haven’t got that much of a presence in the southern hemisphere, unfortunately. We can’t do much. 

Frankly though, trees? I was starting to think that some things wouldn’t be as bad as the others. I have to worry about the sky, musicians playing music so bad that you literally die, and now trees. Where does it end? What else in this world has been turned into monsters and villains? Are flies safe? Horses? Should I fear the coffee mug that lays on my desk, or the lighter in my pocket? I just see, simply put, no use treating anything the same way I would, before. 

I can’t help but think about that man, the lumberjack. He strikes me as being similar to Trevor Herbert, the vampire killer. It just means that, now, there’s tree-hunters. 

What we can do, however, is follow up on Mr. Bernard. Caster Bernard went missing in 2005. In the years prior, Bernard had engaged in plenty of travelling, going to notable places such as Yellowstone national park, the Amazon, the Cairngorms, and Kruger National Park, in South Africa. He never returned. 

If he was right, and that trees are out there, getting people - then I’m sure he got too curious, and went back to see more of those many-eyed creatures. Hopefully he had enough stories to tell it.

End recording. 

[CLICK]

======================================================================

[CLICK]

Archivist

Supplemental. 

Tim Stoker. He was with me, when Prentiss had… well, had done what she did. He has the same scars as me, and we’re both lucky that neither of us were infected. 

He wasn’t this friendly and interested in whatever statement I’ve been reading, before the attack. Maybe he knows that I’m catching on to something? 

Of course, there’s other ways to go about that. He hasn’t done much to arouse suspicion, at least not yet. 

I’m going to try and be subtle about asking him about his life. Maybe then, he might let something slip through. Something out of place. 

I need to take another trip into the tunnels. Cover my suspicion. I fear that I may have been too obvious with my paranoia. 

I’m going back down tomorrow. I’ll report back if I find anything. 

End supplement. 

[CLICK]

[magnus-archives-fan-statements]

MAG0003 - Stage Fright

[CLICK]

Archivist

Hmm? I could’ve sworn- nevermind. I suppose I have the time. Could always push lunch further back. 

Statement of Rupert Burns, regarding his stage fright, and… how he coped with it, until he couldn’t. Original statement given August 6th, 2011. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. 

Archivist (Statement)

Hey. I’m using a pseudonym here. If this leaks, I do not want people to know what goes on in my life behind the curtains. Got it? Don’t use any ‘fancy shmancy’ connections you have to the government in order to figure out who I really am. I mean, you might recognise me. Ask me for an autograph if you want, and I’ll definitely get you one, in return for keeping quiet about this. Kay? Thanks. I don’t want people getting more confused about my disappearance. Hell, I still don’t understand it much, myself. I’m just not here anymore, and I don’t understand why. 

Have you ever got stage fright? That worry that as soon as you get up onto that stage, you’ll forget all of your lines, or choke on the first syllable. Or that your instrument is broken and there isn’t a spare one around. Oh, and all of the staring. Every person, looking at you - scrutinising you. The idea that everything that could go wrong, will go wrong. In the end though, everything turns out to be well enough. Your fears are, as always, irrational. You perform your very best - or at least, you do well enough that nobody cares about a slight slip-up. Believe me, I was there for my GCSEs. Music class was the most stressful thing, back then. Each day involved being in these tiny, cramped rooms, where I can’t breathe, except into my instrument, and there wouldn’t be any space for another classmate. Fun times, definitely. Sorry, I’m getting off track. It’s been a while since I’ve actually spoken to anybody in… well, months.

I’m a comedian. I have been for, what, a decade now? Ever since I left my academy. School was always a real shitty place to be, so I ditched it at the first moment’s notice. Given that my exams were awful, I didn't have many plans. No jobs, no college, no family business. I was a jobless, lifeless bum that waltzed down the high street every single day. Good times. One night, whilst being completely pissed, I ended up in a comedy club near Camden Market, called the Angel Comedy Club. I was beyond any capacity to actually understand what was going on, but by the time that I had recovered from my hangover, the next day, I had checked my phone to see plenty of pictures of what seemed to be me having fun. Soon enough, going there as a drunken hobby became a regular for me, until I decided that maybe, just maybe, I could have some fun with it when I’m sober. 

I’m glad I did that, to be honest. I got a good joy out of being able to go to a place where nobody knew about whatever issues I had going on, and I could just crack a few jokes and get some nice drinks.  Most of my friends came from being into dorky crap, with card games and the like. They weren’t really big on the whole… socialising kind of thing. I kinda went in on my own, all of the time. Making friends there was easy, at least for a few people. A good guy, Robert Forrest - the former owner - was able to get me to do comedy as a proper thing. Forrest was, simply put, the best. He taught me how to get better at the whole comedy thing. My gigs got better laughs, and everything just seemed more fitting. Truth be told, I owe it all to Forrest. Without him, I would be a frozen fool, on that stage, terrified of the masses. 

Doing stand up was alright, and hell, did the people love me. I didn’t fully get the appeal - a lot of guys did what I did, but better. Every single punchline I told, it didn’t feel like I deserved the response I got. They all loved it - and before I knew it, I was kind of popular? People liked what I did, and I was even being recognised whilst out shopping, or going out with some friends. A niche celebrity of the local area, and hell, did I love it. It was perfect - not everyone wants fame, you know, it was more just, well, good company. I changed my schedules so that I’d be popping by the area much more often. Everyone liked what I did, which is what truly surprised me. I went from a bumbling fool, incapable of handling the concept of confidence without a few drinks in me, to being, in his words, the ‘Halo of the Angel Comedy Club’. He was always eccentric and wily about those kinds of things. I miss it, I miss it a lot.

Although, whilst my comedy very much stayed the same, I cannot say that my crowds did. Local gigs became national tours, and I ended up appearing on TV shows where much more talented folks would be. I didn’t fit in - there was nobody that watched those shows specifically for me. I was back to being a nobody, when I was in those rooms. Nobody could perceive me, and god, did I screw up. Before now, that was when I felt the most isolated in my life. I was surrounded by people who saw me, but never looked at me. Soon enough, that became the norm. I was used to being the third-wheel of late-night comedy. I was too big to go to my favourite places, when I was younger, but was too niche to go to massive stadiums without feeling like nobody really cared. Some vague, awful middle-ground that’d stop me from filling out big shows, and being unable to get all of my fans in a cramped pub, or club. I left the business, not too long afterwards. There was no place for me to go without feeling as if I had been doing a disservice to my fans. I felt as if I abandoned the Angel Comedy Club, and the big stages, in turn, abandoned me. 

I tried going to other ventures. I had a few GCSE’s I could lay back on. Some basic jobs at corner shops, until I’d be recognised, and hounded by some weirdos. I never really noticed that, until now. No matter what level of fame I had, there had always been freaks. Jenna Masterson, from my early days, got my name tattooed on her thigh, which still scares me. There was also Ellie Stewart, a Glaswegian lady who tried following me home after every night on the TV shows. I could handle those two - but the worst of the freaks was a man who had lured me back to the comedy business after recognising me by an old phone box near Barnsbury Square, who went by the name of Jeremiah Lukas. He followed me for a few streets, after I finished my shift at a nearby pub. Just wanted some fresh air, but he stopped me, and told me that he recognised me - not from TV - but from my old days with Forrest. Turns out, Jeremiah Lukas had recently taken over, from Robert Forrest. The place had to look for a new owner, and Jeremiah seemed to have plenty of cash. Turns out, Forrest went missing. Vanished, just disappeared. That was a month before I… before I disappeared too. 

This ‘Jeremiah Lukas’, he seemed off. There was a distinct isolation I felt whenever I saw him in a room, as if all of the other people in the room simply ignored everyone around them, and focused solely on him. He didn’t seem to be noteworthy. Just an older guy, a scruffy beard and thick, square glasses - the one you’d see people wear, when they wanted to seem smarter than they actually were. On the few chances that I saw him in a crowd, up until my final performance, he had this strange, magnetic aura about him. People needed his attention, his dedication. Luckily enough, I didn’t care for it. Jeremiah was, to me, just a strange, strange man. Though, what he offered as payment for my return to the Angel Comedy Club, I couldn’t resist. It was more than enough to keep me going for a while. It was more than I was being paid on TV, too. God, I was a total idiot, back then. I should’ve been able to tell that people like me wouldn’t get that kind of money.

Jeremiah drew me back in, after my hiatus, the comedy club wanted to come back with a bang. I was, apparently, the best guy for it. Compared to their other performers, I felt, again, like an outlier. I told Jeremiah, at first, that I would not be returning. He seemed disappointed at first, saying that i’d easily fill the whole venue, and that’d it’d be good for that ‘aching feeling of nostalgia’ that supposedly ran through his veins. He had this sort-of pathetic nature about him. As if he didn’t actually want to do what he was doing - and that he just had to get the job done. That look of bitter sadness that you see on a cashier’s face, or a construction worker who wished he continued doing dance lessons as a kid. The ones I felt during my hiatus. I caved, as I’ve mentioned. His pleas for an old star to come back to his roots had paid off. I had my first gig in a long, long while, that next week. Back in the Angel Comedy Club. 

10 minutes before my performance at the Angel Comedy Club, I had been struck with the greatest sense of fear. As I sat in the hallway of the comedy club, I had remembered my greatest piece of advice that I was given, on my first night doing a sober act. Forrest told me that I should, as he simply put, imagine that I was rehearsing. That nobody in the crowd was actually there. That the audience was empty, and that I was just practicing. Of course, it wouldn’t work whenever I decided to dip my toes into the work of crowd work, but with everything else, boy, it worked like a charm. Forrest really helped me out there, you know. I wish I could thank him, if I ever saw him again - he truly deserves the credit. 

Knowing what he told me, I got out onto that stage, and just pretended that everyone was not there. The seats, filled with people eagerly waiting for a show that they’d remember for the rest of their lives, was, in my mind, desolate and empty. Nothing was watching me, and I had nothing to worry over. I was told, by Jeremiah, that the show was totally sold out. There were no empty seats, but as soon as my act began, and the lights panned onto me, I saw a chair. A chair, just a few feet from me, completely empty. For the entirety of the show, I had seen nobody even note the chair as being empty. The people around it had acted as if there wasn’t an empty chair by them. Usually, there’d be a person or two who stretches their legs out into the space that would’ve been for the other’s legs, or their arms hang just a little further out, and loops around the armrest. There was nothing of the sort. Just an empty, lonesome space, where somebody should be. I tried to ignore it, and began my classic routine, with some modern twists. Good stuff, I hoped. Each passing word, however, every time that I blinked, somebody disappeared. I saw a couple, in a corner booth, swooning at one another, until one simply vanished. The man, he didn’t care. In fact, he looked as if he were still swooning at the empty space. Then he disappeared, too. One by one, everyone in that room, bar me, disappeared. Vanished. Into thin air, and believe me, I looked for them. I had to stop my performance once I realised that my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, and that, rather, everyone had just left. I went outside, and travelled from street to street. Nobody was around. The streets were barren, and I was on my own. I had travelled all the way to Oxford Street. Even in the early hours of the morning, before the sun rises, there should have been hundreds of people. I could stand in the middle of the road, and not worry of being struck by a car. Everywhere I looked, there was nothing. Just me, myself, and I. 

The only person I have seen, in my travels, is Jeremiah Lukas. He was in the comedy club, watching the entirety of the scare I had. He relished in it - and it was the only time I have seen genuine joy on that man’s face, watching from just beyond my reach. Every time I tried to get closer, he would seem to get just a little further. I gave up on trying to catch up to him, after a few weeks. 

I’m not hungry, nor thirsty. Sleep doesn’t matter to me anymore, either. I am in a state between life and death, I believe. Stuck, devoid of the peace of death, and the luxuries of needing to live. 

But here, in this institute, I can see people. Granted, they can’t see me, I am still some sort of phantom, but I can be here, and relish in the comfort of other people. I am being seen, once more, and I am ever-so thankful. But I see you, what you do, here. What you’ve done - the horrors in this building are more than I can imagine, which makes me believe that I have fallen victim to what the others have experienced, in those statements. I can move things here, too, and other people will notice. I’m sure that Sarah will find that pen I borrowed to write this. I’ll put it behind her desk, that way you can believe me. That I am here, even if you can’t see me. 

I relished in thinking that they were there, and now, all I want is for them to come back. 

Don’t throw this out. I’ve seen your archives, Robinson. Nothing here is where it should be - and you just don’t care. If that’s how you treat the official statements here, then I am worried about what you’ll do with this one. Gertrude, that’s your first name, right? It suits you. I knew a Gertrude, once. She was an awful, awful woman. I think you’re just like her. I might not be smart, but I am good at reading people. People like Jeremiah Lukas, people like you.

Archivist

Statement ends. 

There’s been no official records of this statement being collected. I just… found it. Here, on my desk. I checked with Tim - and he hadn’t heard of it, either. Up until now, I don’t think any of us knew that it existed. There’s nothing to prove that a ‘Rupert Burns’ had entered the Magnus Institute in 2011, or, at all. There’s no records of it. Tim and Sasha both checked an hour ago. 

This statement also came with a note, simply saying; ‘I am tired of waiting’. 

I have a feeling that Rupert Burns’ true identity could be Adam Holloway. Holloway disappeared in July, 2011, after a show he had in the Angel Comedy Club. Reports from workers at the venue say that Holloway was ‘erratic’ and ‘unstable’ during the earlier hours of the day. By the time he was about to give his performance, he simply disappeared. He hasn’t been seen since. 

The Lukas Family, as always, have declined to give us any information on if there was a ‘Jeremiah Lukas’ that lived in London at this time. I’m not surprised, after what happened with Naomi Herne. I should just tell Martin to not bother emailing them, next time. Maybe then, I can find some important work for him to do. 

What did he mean, calling Gertrude Robinson that? From what I can tell, she was grumpy, and not the best company, but awful? No. I wouldn’t think so. 

This statement was given half a decade ago. We only discovered it today, with it being right here, on my desk. Who put it here? I certainly didn’t. Maybe… just maybe, Holloway decided he was tired of waiting for somebody to see him. Because of this, it finally ended up being read. There’s not much else we can go over here. 

People think it's a stunt, his ‘final performance’ being a constant stream of questions from his social media page. If he is here, and we just can’t see him, I hope he’s doing alright. There’s nobody that he can talk to, nobody to see him. He’s truly by himself. Police tried to investigate the disappearance, but it was said to be some awful joke. Nobody’s taken it seriously for years. 

He is gone, and this statement is… all that’s left of him. Maybe he’s with Robert Forrest. Seeing how he went missing, too. 

Rupert - Adam, keep safe. Hopefully somebody finds you, one day. 

End recording.

[CLICK]

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

[CLICK]

[KNOCKING ON DOOR]

Elias

Martin, will you open the door, please? Martin? 

[AGGRESSIVELY LOUD KNOCKING]

Martin!

Martin, open this door now, or else I’ll-

Martin

Hmm? Oh, Elias- yes, hello! Is something wrong? 

Elias

Yes, Martin. I was fine with you sleeping in the archives, but not until noon. 

Martin

Right, right! Let me find the key. Sorry, there was another case of, you know, the worms. I left the key somewhere… here. I found it. 

Elias

Yes, yes, very good martin. Now, will you please unlock the door? 

[DOOR CREAKS OPEN]

There. Thank you. I have some important business to discuss with you, Martin. It’s about your recent work on Case #0161301, and Case #0110201. 

Martin

As in?

Elias

The ones about the Lukas Family. Did Jon not tell you?

Martin

Yes, I… I still haven’t heard back from the Lukas Family, I sent them an email to do with Jeremiah Lukas? In the… the one with the comedian. 

Elias

Adam Holloway, yes. This is what I want to talk to you about, Martin. Stop contacting the Lukas family for such simple things. You should understand their importance to what we do, here. Without their funding, we’d be… well, on our own.

Martin

Right… so, what, I should stop contacting the Lukas foundation, because they don’t like it when we do the job that they pay us to do?

Elias

Exactly. Leave all matters with the Lukas Family. They are not of your concern. Now that you’re up, there’s some work you can get done around here. Prentiss could attack at any moment, you know. 

Martin

Yes, yes, I know. I’ll make sure Jon knows too. 

[DOOR CREAKS OPEN]

Elias

I’m sure he already does. 

[DOOR CLICKS SHUT]

[CLICK]

[magnus-archives-fan-statements]

TMA Fan Statements - Pinned

Make your statement, face your fear.

Based off of 'The Magnus Archives', a supernatural horror podcast written by Jonathan Sims, and produced by Alexander J Newall - distributed by Rusty Quill. The Magnus Archives Fan Statements are written by, well, a fan.

The statements are, originally, written in the same format used in official transcripts for The Magnus Archives, but are edited to fit with Tumblr's designs. The original PDFs are accessible on the ko-fi link, below.

Buy Xan a Coffee

For Tumblr's formatting, the official manuscript format is replaced with different representations for [STAGE ACTIONS] and the start of CHARACTER DIALOGUE.

It is best to read these statements after reaching the halfway point of the series, as to understand the relevance of each statement with one another requires S3+ spoilers to understand.

This blog is ran by a single individual, with weekly uploads of new statements to terrify the masses. The sole writer, 'Xan', has a ko-fi page, where information on the writing process, and his other ventures, will be uploaded.

As for the lore of TMA, in relation to these statements, this looks at the scope of time from late Season 1, to nearing the middle point of S4.

In the end, this is, ultimately, a fan-made project, which relies on nothing but personal aspirations to becoming a better writer. Every Saturday, at 12:00PM, a new statement is released.

[magnus-archives-fan-statements]

MAG0002 - Rimshot

[CLICK]

Archivist

Statement of Charlie Anderson, and his unwilling involvement in the North Berwick Parade Massacre of 1998. Original statement given February 13th, 2000. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. 

Statement begins. 

Archivist (Statement)

I swear to you all, I did not know that this would happen. If you do take this to the police, please let them know that. I didn’t want any of this to happen, really. I thought that the parade was going to be like any other. I would play my music, there’d be cheering, maybe a few disruptions from the drunk spectators, but other than that, not eventful! If I knew what would have happened, do you really think I’d do that? Who am I kidding, your institute has no clue who I am. All you see is a guy that got mixed up in the wrong crowd, at the wrong time, with the wrong thing. I’m here to just give this to you, alongside my story, and be on my way. I’ve read the forums that became popular last year. I’ve heard stories about the leaks that got out to the public. There were so many confessions in there, and there were no arrests, nothing. The police avoid you guys, so maybe, just maybe, I can say this without fearing for my life. Thank you for not caring, I guess.

I lived in North Berwick for a few years, in the 90s. I had to get away from the constant strain of Edinburgh. There’s too much going on in that city, and Berwick wasn’t too far. I could easily go back into the city at any time I’d want, and in case I had any gigs. It was less than an hour away, which meant that Berwick was the best place for me. Even better, there are yearly festivals done in North Berwick. Well, there were yearly festivals. Back then, they had often been Scottish nationalists travelling through. Edinburgh’s a big place, but the Lothian region gets enough crowds, and funds. Makes for a good place to prepare for the big stage. I played in the marching bands they’d have, or just whatever it was. I’d annoy the hell out of my neighbours when I was younger, because I played the drums. At first, I wanted to just be a rockstar, getting a bunch of ladies to follow me and whoever else was in my band whilst we toured Britain. Of course, that was just a dream, and I had to settle for parades and local gigs. It was just the four of us. Bryan, our bassist, who moved to Ireland long before this story, and our old singer, Chaya. Great singer, until she had to have a couple surgeries to fix something wrong with her lungs - still feel bad about losing contact with her. There was the lead guitarist too, Karl Myers. Total punk. Loved the 80s aesthetic, even a decade and a bit later. Truth be told, I barely got on well with him, but he was the only one who stayed in Edinburgh, and eventually came out to North Berwick once I settled in. The only guy I’ve ever met who’s rocked a mohawk for well over a decade. He was the most arrogant asshole I’ve ever met, and a short one at that too. Always eager to prove himself, prove himself to not be a coward, or to back down upon the threat of the police, or a boxer, or men that you should not mess with. 

Karl had a soft spot though. Antiques. He was obsessed with strange, old, bizarre things. Things that I could never understand. Karl Myers, all things considered, should not have been into those things. He hated ‘old-timers’, and could not stand the idea of delicacy. Hell, he was a wannabe rockstar, so why did he have this strange hobby? I asked him, time and time again, but Karl would always just interrupt my questions with another artefact that he was interested in. Once he finally got kicked out of his folk’s place, his flat was filled with random items that he took interest in. Old fencing equipment, old banners from the French Revolution, and more. Karl didn’t have any licenses for this, which did make me fear for my safety when I saw that he had a bayonet stuffed in his bedside drawer. Maybe he was just paranoid about intruders, or angry neighbours. Just anything that’d be against him, I suppose. I was planning on ditching him at some point, and just hoping he’d move on. My dreams of being a rockstar were always dreams, to be honest. Like I said, I’d play in marches and festivals in order to live out the thought of being a famous performer. After that, I’d travel to as many performances as I could, and maybe Karl would just leave me alone after that. My first one was at home, which meant that I wouldn’t need to travel or prepare in a place I wasn’t familiar with. It should have been the easiest gig of my life. Go in, play the snare drum for half an hour, and then leave. I’ve had jam sessions with my old pals that were more stressful than that. The day before, however, Karl asked me to join him for one of his antique deals.

I should have been more suspicious of how Karl got all of the items he did. He was, to my knowledge, unemployed, and wasn’t buying these items legally. There’d be no way that he could steal them. A mohawk-rocking guy with a busted nose doesn’t blend into crowds too well. Karl managed to convince me by saying that he’d owe me a ‘real good favour’, which I shamefully was bought by. He told me to meet him by the harbour, which was just a five minute walk from my home. Nobody else was around, saying how it was close to midnight. That was when I understood how Karl got a hold of all of that crap of his. Nighttime trades with some less-legal folks that didn’t want to be seen by the cops. Makes sense, in the end. What kind of respectable antiques dealer would want to give some worthwhile antique to a guy like Karl Myers? He was as reckless as he was rude. Once he arrived, about half an hour later, he decided to finally tell me what I was meant to do there. Apparently, he saw me as a strong man. I was just bigger than him. He was small, frail, and rather slow, whilst I had a slight bit of muscle on me. I figured that he’d need protection, and wondered why he’d need it now, of all times, saying how his home was littered with random things that obviously came from this line of business. I told him, when we met up, that I’d only be there for half an hour, and then I’d go back home to get some well-needed sleep for tomorrow. He agreed to it, eventually, and then led the way.

I was suspicious, obviously. Not of Karl, no. If he wanted to do something bad, he would not lie about it. He would not be able to contain his excitement over what he’d be up to. This was different, he trusted me with something as criminal as this. We eventually came to a more discreet part of the harbour, where a ship had ported the day before. Nobody really knew anything about it, and they were gone the next day. Karl must’ve been a regular, I thought. They were gone just as suddenly as they arrived. We stood far from the water, with a large man, followed by his supposed crew, pacing to us in order to welcome us. Karl told me that his name was Mikaele Salesa, who apparently enjoyed trading away these stupidly expensive things for relatively cheap prices. He had his men carry out these large crates, which were filled with what appeared to be random items. Karl was quick to look at the ones that seemed similar to his collection, the ones that came from battle or conflict. He ended up finding a flintlock pistol, which, according to Salesa, had dated back to the 18th century in South Asia. He investigated each item with a magnifying glass, one which was just as out of place as the items he had with him. Their exchange continued, a lot of Salesa’s guys giving weird looks to me. It freaked me out, they all seemed freaky, or freaked out, or a little bit of both. Karl took ages. I’ve never seen him as invested as he was, during that deal. He found dozens of items that ‘spoke to his soul’, until he had settled on the damn pistol that he had picked out from the start. He really was getting on my nerves, then. 

I told him, once he came looking near the boxes by me, that I was going to be leaving soon. I didn’t like any of it, this was off. Of course, I didn’t say that bit out loud. I simply told him that it was already late, and that I had my marching band gig the next day. That certainly caught Salesa’s attention, which annoyed me some more. That creep was listening in to our conversations. He asked me, ‘what do you play?’, which I stupidly answered. To my somewhat luck, there had been a snare drum, resting in a crate beside him. I wasn’t interested in some old drum that was from whatever century, fetching for a price that was more than my rent. I told him no, and that I should be leaving soon. Karl told me to stay, as did Salesa. I fear that they had planned this, somehow. For me to play the drums. Salesa reached for me, and dragged me off to make his deal. £5, the exact amount of cash in my pocket, for his drum. He told me that I was destined to have it, and that it’ll really help me out with my parade tomorrow. I never told him that. I never told Salesa that I’d be up to it. These people were super rough, I knew that if I was gonna get out of there, I’d need to just take it. So I did. I took it. 

With that, Karl finally let us get out of there, and I headed straight home. I didn’t even bother getting the special protections with the drum. It was sold to me for a fiver, it was essentially garbage. I’d be surprised if it’d hold out for tomorrow’s parade. That would’ve been the best time to experiment with it. Before I split from Karl, that night, I asked if he was going to be going to the parade. It wasn’t really his thing, but there was not much else to do in town, other than see the celebrations. He turned up to other ones, before then, but he was quick to decline. Apparently, he had rather busy matters to attend to. The jobless, anti-social night owl had pressing matters to attend to at 1pm on a friday afternoon, in June. Definitely. 

That night, I got enough sleep so that I wouldn’t be exhausted at the parade, but decided to skip out on a warmup. It was an easy piece that I knew off by heart. It was Scotland the Brave, obviously. Every strike was memorised, with there being no room for mistakes in my performance. When it got to the actual march, there were hundreds of onlookers, mainly older people as the parade was very much a traditional thing. I suppose it’d be better that way, I wouldn’t want to think of how much worse I’d be, if a kid got caught in the crossfire. 

Every strike from my drum was loud. Really loud. Something of this quality could not have been just a fiver. I thought that Salesa sold me the wrong drum, as it did seem too good. The quality of the snare was much better than the others I had. It had no issues at all, no issues with quality or tension. It sounded great as well. Although, with every strike, something happened in that parade. At first I thought it was a sharp wind, whistling in the air. Or a party popper, or a confetti cannon. Something that belonged at a simple parade. It wasn’t. I wish it was. Each strike had caused another ‘pop’. Pop, pop, pop. It was only a minute into the parade that the chaos had ensued. Nobody took notice at first, bodies just began to fall, one after another. 

It was the drum. Every time I struck the drum, I felt the weight of murder. It was indiscriminate. With each strike from my sticks, a bullet had appeared, somehow, and killed a man. Every strike. Every single one. It killed somebody, a clean shot going through their chest before the bullet would simply disappear. It targeted onlookers, fellow musicians, and even a local celebrity. The shots were followed by screams of agony and wails of terror, and it had taken me a minute to catch on. A minute of bloodshed that could have stopped if I didn’t give in to Karl Myers and Mikaele Salesa’s pressure, and took the damn drum. Blood trickled down the pavement and stained my shoes. They’re still stained today. 156 people died that day, one of the worst shootings, ever. Nobody knows who caused it, except me. I did. I saw too many people bleed on that street, even if they were dead before they hit the cobble. What truly terrified me, though, is that every time I looked at somebody, during that performance, they were among the deceased. I saw them, and I picked them. I was the executioner for dozens, dozens of innocent people that just wanted to enjoy a day of celebration. They were killed, butchered, and left to die on the street. 

Everyone ran, as did I. I could not stand there, alone, as I’d draw suspicion. I’m not stupid, I had to get back home, and destroy the drum. I wasn’t delusional, I struck the drum twice when I got home, and the bullet holes were still in the wall by the time I moved out of my flat. They happened. They definitely happened. There wasn’t a mysterious shooter, or terrorist attack in a village. I caused it, with a bloody drum, of all things. That’s when I began to piece it together. Did Karl Myers skip out on the parade because he knew that the drum was capable of? Capable of magic? No, magic isn’t real, this is just different. Wrong, it shouldn’t exist, and it did. It’s definitely beyond me, that’s for sure. Karl Myers wanted this to happen, I think. So I visited him. With the drum. It was easy for me to get into his home, he kept a spare key underneath his doormat, as he was more reckless with his belongings than he was with others. Once I got in, I simply presented the drum to him, and asked him if he knew. I didn’t plan on bringing my sticks with me, but after causing such an awful thing to happen, I feel like I had no choice. Or, I just took it with me without thinking. Whichever one it was, it doesn’t matter. It was the right thing to bring it. 

I hadn’t seen Karl’s bedroom in weeks, but it was littered with his collection of antiques, all from wartime. Banners littered his walls, where his punk posters were once taped on. His old action figures were discarded, with personal items of trench soldiers taking their place. Old photographs, pocket watches, and unlit cigarettes lined his desks. It was awful, it was as if some old loonie from back then had begun to bunk with him. It was just him, though. Karl Myers was a changed man. 

He told me he had no clue, but couldn’t keep a look of fascination off of his face, looking at my drum. He wanted it. He wanted it in his collection of Salesa’s oddities, and maybe, just maybe, all of those other things were haunted as well. I knew he wanted it, I could tell from his eyes fidgeting to his drawer. The one with the bayonet. Dozens dead, and he wanted to keep a hold of it? No. I would never give it to him. He would probably use it for fun, or to make sure nobody ripped him off ever again. So, I did what I had to do. 

I played the drums. As loudly as I could, until the noise was slowly drowned out by the bangs from the wall, Karl’s neighbours yelled at him to stop playing his music. I let go of my sticks. Karl was left on his bed, filled with bullet holes. The banging continued, which meant I could leave without anyone really noticing. Made sure that there was no trace of me, too. I left, and made sure that nothing could bring me back to that side of North Berwick. 

I’m back in Edinburgh now. This city is much safer, I don’t feel like I will be hurt at any point by what I’ve done before. Plenty of people moved out from Berwick, after that, anyways. I didn’t seem suspicious, and it was simply for the best. Keep the damn drum, I don’t want to be tempted by it, again. You guys would know what to do with it, I reckon. 

At least now I’m at peace. Dozens, gone. Karl Myers, a dead man, and me. I’m still here. Still looking for Salesa, to give him a taste of his own damn medicine. Still kicking. Now, is that all you guys need? 

Archivist

Statement ends. 

This doesn’t seem like the right outcome for this case. The North Berwick massacre, one of the only shootings that has happened in Britain for decades, was caused by the ignorance of one Charlie Anderson, and the weird hobby of Karl Myers. 

Speaking of Karl Myers, Martin was able to find out about his disappearance. After not being seen for two weeks, police had entered Karl Myers’ flat to discover a bloodsoaked bed, filled with bullet holes, and no sight of Myers himself. It was ruled as a murder, but the case was closed a few months later due to a lack of evidence. It didn’t help that his home was subject to multiple break ins during the investigation, where many of the undocumented artefacts that had been left across his house had ended up being stolen. 

Those artefacts, all of them being from Salesa, I worry that whoever Salesa was involved with, any other buyers, or… sources of acquisition, would have found Myers house to be a perfect place to reclaim what was left. 

Thankfully, Anderson had decided to bring that snare drum with him. It still sits in artefact storage, to this day. Nobody else will ever get to strike that drum, even if it does have nothing to do with this massacre. For all we know, Anderson may have just killed Myers with an actual gun. 

Anderson refused a follow-up interview when emailed by Sasha, weeks later. He has refused to answer our emails since. I hope he gave up on his hunt for Mikaele Salesa. He seemed like he was out of his depth, if he gave up his fancy drum. 

End recording. 

[CLICK]

[magnus-archives-fan-statements]

MAG0001 - Still-Beating

[CLICK]

Archivist

Statement of Pierre-François Percy, regarding the life, and autopsy, of the Frenchman simply known as ‘Tarrare’. Original statement given as a part of a letter to Jonah Magnus, February 18th, 1824. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

Archivist (Statement)

My dearest Jonah, 

Having heard through mutual acquaintances, it must be stated how strangely fond you have become over that endeavour of yours. It amazes me, truly, that there could possibly be as much esoteric substance in this world as you believe. It finally explains one thing that has irked me for the past few decades. Thus, I found it right to finally indulge in your youthful project, as I believe it holds a great deal of value for the future. Perhaps long after both of our times on this earth are up. I grow sick of my memoirs, and thus I shall bestow upon you my statement. One that bodes no relevance in any of my texts. Any relevance that I’d wish to give to the public, that is. 

I’m certain you remember my most notorious autopsy. A man of no proper name, date of birth, or worth. From what I can tell, he earned the name, ‘Tarrare’ from the likes of fellow showmen of the streets of paris. What made him so special, as I am sure you already know, was his nature as a polyphage. He would eat anything. He could devour feasts fit for dozens of full grown men, and yet still remained hungry. In the few moments that we had been within each other's presence, before his death, he spoke rather fondly of being eternally hungry. Alas, he may have associated himself with charlatans and thieves, he could not lie to save his life. That hunger had ached him. It must have been a true pain for his life to constantly endure that necessity to gorge on whatever he could find. If that pain of his was akin to what I’ve had to endure recently, then it is no wonder he went to such taboo thresholds of debauchery. He ate plenty - plenty of things he should not have. Live animals, the poor things, had been subject to being mere meals to him. He didn't have the decency to kill them first, and I struggle to imagine the pain that they’d endure, trapped from within him. A monster he may have been, yes, but a monster that was in pain. I could not stop myself from giving him my sympathies. 

There was always something wrong about poor Tarrare. In all of his tricks, it never seemed to be that he was actually filled by whatever he ate. You would expect a little bit of bloating after he had eaten, say, an entire basket of apples. Alas, he always seemed malnourished. Deathly thin, past his rancid demeanour. As if he hadn’t actually been digesting what he was eating. It was certainly not an illusion, some brave fellows had directly dropped whatever they could find directly into his mouth. I could never. Whilst his cadaver was of interest to me, the idea of being close to him, whilst still being alive haunts me. 

It had not surprised me that his parlour tricks would eventually be the death of him. With nowhere else to go, he must have fled from all forms of medical attention until being diagnosed with tuberculosis, with not much time left to aid him. He called for me, directly. I had to travel from Paris down to Versailles, of all places. In all the years since our initial time together, he really did not get far. I left a few days later, I had unfinished business that was of relative importance. Although, I was too late. Tarrare had been pronounced dead, soon after, in the year of our lord, 1798 AD. By the time I got there, he had been dead for a few days. Not one person had the decency to preserve or care for his remains. They were dirty, and disgusting, but the lack of care for him was what truly aggravated me. A man of his wonders, and everyone sat by and did nothing? Blasphemy, I tell you. Blasphemy to what we work for. For discovery.

 He did not leave a clean corpse behind, to nobody’s surprise. The polyphate was bloated, and had rotted away as if he was being supported only by his strange feasts, and not by the air that we breathe. That was made evident after I volunteered to dissect him, myself. Nobody else could, especially from the dreadful stench that had filled any room that his corpse had been left in. Despite this, my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I had to know what he was hiding, underneath those piles of flesh. This, my dear friend, is the reason that I believe this story belongs in your collection of events. 

I had little help with my investigation, as expected. From my discovery, though, I could tell that his hunger had a perfect explanation. His torso, alone, had almost been entirely dedicated to his digestion system. From what I could tell, his lungs, whilst being of a fully-grown man, had been the size of a toddlers. He should have been dead long, long ago, and yet he remained relatively healthy, for his deformities. The same could be said for his heart, kidneys, and his ribcage. By all means, he should never have been alive to begin with. And yet he had lived for so, so long. His eyes twitched with every pull and twist I had made from within his cadaver. Even when I pulled his heart from his chest, there had still been a strange sense of life in his twisted face. I had to investigate, you know me. It was strange, even for a man of his uniqueness. The first place I investigated were his eyes. They should have been dull, with the corneas clouded. He passed away a day or two ago, you see. He should have been showcasing more symptoms than simply being… dead. Yet, here he remained. His eyes were clear, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw them look at me. Not in my direction, no, but rather directly at me. That hadn’t been the only peculiar thing about him, though. Saliva dribbled from his mouth, as if he were still hungry, even in death!

The most disgusting part of that procedure was his skin, and any visible aspect of his body before I began to make any incisions. When I stood above him, I had the faintest idea that he may have still been alive. His body had a sense of weakness to it. One that had a flicker of warmth, not found in the healthy, nor the dead. Alas, he had no pulse, and when I had eventually found his heart, it remained still. That’s why I still feel nervous, over what I had observed of him, before looking inside. His skin was horrid, rancid, even. Disgusting to even imagine, to this day. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I had removed his heart mere moments ago, I’d suspect that he was still alive. My suspicions were, unfortunately, correct. Involuntary spasms are common in the dead, last moments of life desperately trying to hold on. Yet, I’ve never heard of a corpse that could talk. 

He told me something that I fear I’ll never forget. As if paralysed, he moved only his eyes, and began to speak. ‘Please help’ was all he could muster, without blood foaming at his mouth. It could not have happened, I swear on it. Perhaps they were delusions, frightful delusions. There’s nothing that could cause that, and still it happened. I had to keep going, ignore the falsehoods that projected in front of me. That delusion of mine was auditory only, it must’ve been the idea of him still being alive that made me think of him looking at me. 

I finally got to his stomach, the bloated, ulcerated mess that it was. Almost all of his torso was dedicated to his digestion system, the damn thing. I’ve seen plenty of organs in my lifetime, of the human variety and of beasts. Nothing ever looked like what I saw. It was noxious, to say the least. It still moved. Gargling, twisting, jerking. Like a heart.

I had to remove it. I could not think of anything else to do. If something was causing it to move, it was a danger to me, and to anything else in the vicinity. It grumbled, churned, akin to a parasite. Putting my palms on either side of it, I pulled. Nothing. After a few incisions, slicing it away from the rest of his body, I pulled again. Still, nothing. With all of my force, I tried one final time, and ripped it apart. From the other side of his stomach, there was no inner lining. No resemblance of stomach acid. Instead, there was a hole. Not a wound, it wasn’t bloodied, and there was no resemblance of damage to his back either. Yet it was there. Gaping wide, what I could imagine to be saliva having dribbled from its crevice. I regret looking inside. What I saw wasn't right. 

I saw meat. Plenty of it, more than what could have been from within his body. It wasn’t right, it wasn't his flesh, it was of his prey. Snake meat is easy to differentiate, and it made up plenty of what was inside of him. I took it out, piece by piece, heap by heap, and yet it was never ending. I had carved away everything that was once inside of Tarrare, and yet there was more. It wasn’t possible. I turned Tarrare on his side, and pushed my hand in. I would feel his spine, eventually, but never did. I only stopped once I pushed my elbow past his skin. It would not stop. 

When I looked back at Tarrare's face, he fell dormant. His eyes were fully opaque. I hate to imagine what that meant. He was human, despite the abnormalities, but that could not have made sense. 

I looked within. Curiosity had latched onto me, and I knew that I would not stop until I’d find a proper explanation. Something to define this vile monstrosity. There were piles of it. Blood-coated things, that laid in great mountains, from within him. The smell was enough to make me nearly faint. The hells were open, and I am afraid that it may be the same place that poor Tarrare’s soul has been dammed to. The mountains were getting smaller, toppling over, small pieces being dragged away by the floor itself. As if I had peered into a hall of putrid flesh, made manifest. 

If I kept my hand in, much longer, I fear it would’ve been taken. It seemed to be a place with pure indifference to what entered the heaps. I saw gold. Shiny materials interwoven with the blood. Cutlery, a gold fork, something he apparently spoke of as being the cause of his illness, was lodged in the piles of flesh. He did eat the fork, yes, despite what my medical records show. I couldn’t write in them saying that I had found a mountain of meat from within him, containing the very fork, no. I’m eccentric, but I am not crazy. 

Upon this horrific inspection, I had to excuse myself from the morgue, for my own wellbeing. More and more of the impossible had been unveiled about this polyphate, more than what I was happy to think of. In the halls, I managed to breathe some relatively fresh air. That was when I had run into a strange fellow, one I had never met before. He seemed as if he came from your part of London. The one of Aristocracy and arrogance. Of course, I mean nothing of the sort to you, Jonah. I find you to be welcoming company, unlike that man. 

Despite his voice, that man was built as if he were a tavern brawler. He dressed as a surgeon, had the scalpel and equipment of a surgeon, and yet seemed so out of place. His clothing seemed to be a few sizes too small for him, and the clothes were certainly not clean enough for him to consider doing his job. I believe he stole it. The name that’d be stitched into his shirt had been ripped away, too, and a crude patch was sewn on in its place. He wouldn’t let me see what was written there, saying that his word was more than enough proof to who he was. In one hand had been a glove, gripped tightly into a fist, whereas his other hand was keeping a hold of a potato sack, stained red. It bulged and contorted in shapes that made me believe that it was not potatoes inside. Something else. He called himself Doctor Aver. He hadn’t given me any proof of that name, so I believe it could’ve been a lie, or that he wasn’t a doctor at all. He asked if he could see ‘The Remains’. My belief is that only the doctors who had begun the investigation should keep with a cadaver. They know what they’re looking for. If this Aver fellow ended up removing the wrong thing, it could remove all notions of interest on what made Tarrare into, well, into what he was. I stood my ground, if you’d believe it. Against such a behemoth, I felt akin to David against Goliath. But, it wasn’t enough. He attacked me. Threw me to the ground, and gave me a rather nasty head injury. By the time I had come to my senses, I had returned to the surgery. Tarrare was gone, the tiles on the floor were shattered, and the surgical table that I had him laid upon was toppled over. Aver was nowhere to be seen, either. They had both disappeared into thin air. All that had remained was a steaming pile of fresh blood and guts, with the same potato sack, empty, thrown across the room. 

What truly terrifies me of this realisation, is not that the remains seemed fresh, but what I had seen, buried within the piles of flesh and still-beating organs. A twitching, golden chain, and the faint noise of ticking. He must have eaten it before his last meal. Memory serves me issues, nowadays, but I do faintly recall his desire to eat a surgeon’s watch, after saving his life. The Surgeon, Giraud, had threatened to cut him open and retrieve the watch himself - years before the autopsy. I worry that there may have been some sort of dastardly trick being played on me, by my associates, and yet, I found myself unable to ask anybody else what I was being subject to. It laid, bloodsoaked, on the ground, surrounded by piles of gore. Human gore.

 I burned what was left. I left that watch somewhere, a place that I do not care to remember now. I knew I could not make sense of it all, Aver, the fork, the meat… and so I kept it secret, until now. I bid to you my last secret, one that I am certain will plague me with nightmares. Although, I did do some investigations of my own, on the watch. To my amazement, and dreadful terror, Giraud had passed away mere days before that autopsy. He was found, bare, in the streets of Paris. Returning home from work, I’d assume. He was gutted, and was left as a hollow cadaver. 

My most sincere apologies for neglecting to tell you of this paranormal encounter any sooner. I figured that your work, whilst consisting of the crazed commoners of London, would be unfit for your institute. Alas, I believe that a story that goes untold is a story not worth remembering. And if there were to be a person I’d exchange this tale with, it’d certainly be you. Keep safe, Jonah. And look out for any possible surgeons, who knows what they may be holding onto.  

Yours to trust, 

Pierre-François Percy

Archivist

Statement ends.

Well, I am certainly happy that I had lunch early today. 

Jonah Magnus, in all of his wonders, certainly had famed friends. I had Sasha do some investigations into Percy’s papers, and yes, it did not mention this supposed ‘Aver’, or whatever the contents of that stomach of Tarrare’s actually held. Other than that, though, there’s not much that we can do to validate his thoughts. It should be stated that Pierre-François Percy passed away a year after giving his statement to Jonah Magnus. Unknown illness, in the end. 

I do find myself drawn to ‘Aver’, however. If it’s true that he was the one who had killed Giraud, then it’d explain how he managed to enter a morgue without drawing suspicion. Although, the name ‘Aver’ does seem to remind me of Case 0130109, with Aver Meats and its… excessive amounts of gore and guts. I worry that whatever Tarrare’s stomach had led to… it ended up in that abattoir. 

I’m getting tired of all of the meat. 

End recording. 

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