#I've been thriving off of fanfiction and spoilers

[saplingofspunk]

HE KEPT THE HERO NAME?? 😭💀

[turnyourgays]

The Usher Foundation 1: Route 66

Hey, this is a fanfiction centered on the Magnus Institute's American counterpart, the Usher Foundation. It takes place in another universe - neither the one we know and love from the Magnus Archives series nor [spoilers] where they sent the fears, but a third one, that also has the fears. I know that feels confusing but I've got my canonical reason for that planned out, so if this first installment does well then you'll get plenty of that intricate lore.

[Smartphone recorder chimes]

[ARCHIVIST clears his throat]

If you're a researcher doing a paper on spookies, congratulations, you've found the very first Usher Foundation audio statement. I'm Donovan Ellis...[sigh]...'Chief Experience Organizer' of the Usher Foundation, Washington D.C. The boss just did a pretty substantial reorganization of the place - "..needs a hip coat of paint!" he told us, which includes me dusting off the statements and putting them on the cloud. In audio form; for reasons he danced around until I gave up. On the subject...

Statement of Nicholas Sill, regarding the highway between Amarillo and Albuquerque. Originally given November 17th, 2009. Audio recorded July 4th, 2022. Statement begins.

--

I learned to drive at 16, and I haven't stopped since. I'm from New York - upstate, not the city - and every year when the weather gets nippy I hop in the car and drive south down to Savannah, Georgia, then west (and north) all the way to San Francisco, stopping in my favorite cities and landmarks along the way. People think I'm insane to go all that way every year, but I never felt more free than on the road.

Until this year's trip. It was going great at first. I had a great kebab in Atlanta, saw some live music in Nashville, and after hanging out with a girl in Amarillo I was feeling on top of the world as I slid back onto the highway. The first odd thing came just before that, though. I was at an intersection, and a man dressed in a noticeably badly fitting suit was on the side of the road next to a stall that read 'DIRT OF GOD $1 / jar'. I thrive on weird social interactions, personally. Gives me stories to tell when I get home. So I rolled down my window and caught his attention, asking him what 'dirt of god' was. He shuffled awkwardly over to my car; he had very stiff legs. He was bald on the top of his head, but the hair growing on the sides was shoulder-length. He was very, very sunburned. He offered his hand, and I shook it with a smile. Up close, I noticed that his suit wasn't just too large, it was sagging. All his pockets were bulging, filled to the brim with something. He told me: 'God blessed that dirt much as he blessed this whole country'. He said it so earnestly. It felt folksy and quaint. Cozy. So I bought a jar and went on my way. I was excited for a good souvenir, but I regretted it barely a half hour later. It stunk. Like hell. I cracked the windows to help it waft out, but it barely made a dent in the, just, thickness of it. It was the smell of dirt after rain without the nostalgia. Without the fresh plants to accompany it. Just the desert. I opened my window, all the way this time, and chucked the jar.

It wasn't long before the haze started. At first, I assumed a gust of wind had blown up some dust. And then I thought a dust storm must be forming. But that wasn't it. It was a dust devil, a little tornado of sand and dirt, following alongside my car even as I accelerated faster and faster. But it span slow. Very slow, grains of it tickling the paint off my car. It then expanded gradually, not just twisting beside but twisting around. It covered my windshield, so I couldn't keep driving. I pulled over and lay down in my backseat, waiting for it to pass.

But I couldn't rest. What had once been a gentle spinning became a terrifying whirlwind. It whipped against the windows, against the roof and doors, clanging unbelievably loud. Worse, it started to blow through the air conditioner, bringing with it the smell. It wasn't just harassing me from the outside, it was choking me from the inside. The car groaned as it became gorged with dry dust, and even through my shallow breathing I realized that the car was now actively sinking. The sunlight could barely be seen through the windshield, and I watched in horror as the brown darkness rose from the bottom all the way to the top, eating the little remaining light as my car buckled and dented inwards. The windows shattered, and dirt flooded my car, my gasp of shock becoming my last clear breath for a long, long while. I crawled wildly through the ground. Every time I thought I'd gotten through a window I felt another piece of the interior, somehow turning myself around back into my flooded car over and over again, still sinking.

I barely remember what happened next. I was in a stupor of...starvation. And there was no air. But the next thing I knew I was being pulled from the ground and back into the open air. The guy who saved me called himself 'Watchman Kohr', and he gave me a ride to the airport. I meant to fly back to New York, but I decided to come here. I'm not ready for my yearly vacation to be over, even if I can't even think about getting into a car without hyperventilating. I think I'll catch a train back to New York.

--

Statement ends. The enigmatic 'Watchmen' make an appearance here, the completely un-researchable organization due to their shared name with a popular graphic novel. What we know is that they operate all over North America in apparently equal frequency, and that several people who've encountered them - Mr. Sill excluded - note their eyes as their most well-defined feature.

I'll be honest, I would be tempted to file Mr. Sill's experience under 'sudden psychotic break paired with odd weather', but the presence of a Watchman gives it more weight. I had Yvonne and Logan follow up on Mr. Sill, who - according to his Facebook - seems to have moved to New York City, and hasn't left since he got there in early 2010.

Recording ends.