Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

It really is a bother when they won’t record correctly. This should work however.

MARTIN

A tape recorder?

ARCHIVIST

I assure you that it works as a perfectly acceptable backup, and—

MARTIN

Oh no, I’m not complaining. I like using tape recorders myself. I use them to record poetry, or listen to old mix tapes. They have a sort of retro, lo-fi charm to them, don’t you think?

ARCHIVIST

I . . . suppose?

MARTIN

I was just surprised to see it. So, ah, you need me to start my story again?

ARCHIVIST

Yes. If you wouldn’t mind starting with your information?

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

My name is Martin Blackwood, and today’s date is the 12^th of March, 2016. It’s about an . . . altercation, I suppose, with a patron of the Chelsea Library.

So, I work at the Chelsea Library. We have a lot of people that come in and out, some to check out books, some to stay for hours reading or just hanging about. When someone comes in enough you start to notice them, and I try to learn the names of the regulars, what they’re interested in. You know, if they like mystery sometimes I’ll set aside a new release so they can check it out first and the like? Or if they’re working on a project I try to help them find what they need and sometimes even keep their project in the office so they don’t need to bring it back and forth on the tube. Just things like that.

Point is, Jane’s Prentiss has been a regular for a while. A couple years now. At first she was interest in occult books, crystals, new age things. She told me she worked at a store that sold those sorts of things, and was a witch. I don’t really know much about all that, but I helped her find books.

And then one day she came in and told me she wanted books on wasps.

I was a bit taken aback about the sudden change, and asked as I brought her to the correct section. She told me there was a wasp nest in her attic, and that it ‘sings’ to her. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure what she meant about ‘singing,’ but the point was it gave a reason for the books. She took them and spent hours at one of the tables looking over them. Strangest thing was, I passed by once and she had the book open to a picture of a wasp larva and was just trailing her finger over it, back and forth.

Jane never checked out another book on the occult after that. She’d come in every week and take out the same few books on insects, sit there for hours and then leave. There was a period we didn’t see her for a while, and when she came back she said she’d been in hospital.

ARCHIVIST

Is that so? I don’t suppose she mentioned more about this stay?

MARTIN

No, she didn’t

ARCHIVIST

Do you remember anything about when this was?

MARTIN

It was right before spring, in 2014.

ARCHIVIST

I did wonder . . . sorry, if you’d continue?

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

Anyways, her visits became less frequent and, well, I don’t know how to put this delicately but we all noticed something off about her. I wondered if the hospital stay hadn’t been for some sort of psychological breakdown, because she just . . . stopped taking care of herself. It didn’t seem like she was washing her hair, and I’d notice she had these injuries in her skin, always round, and she pulled her jacket over them whenever she noticed they were visible.

And there were these . . . okay, this is going to sound strange, but we’d find these worms or maggots or something around the tables she’d been at. They were these silvery things that, ugh, that when we’d get rid of them they would pop in this really unpleasant way. They would leak this black slime that seemed to ooze and gave off this strange smell. Very unpleasant. We were all a little concerned, but mostly just worried about what was going on with Jane, especially when the injuries became more . . . noticeable.

We didn’t want to ban her from the library, you understand, but we need to protect the books. And one day she was taking her books to the normal table and then—do I really need to tell what happened?

ARCHIVIST

I assume this has to do with the reason you’re here.

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

Right. She . . . vommed. All over the books. But it wasn’t normal. It was the same sort of viscus, putrid thing that came from the worms. And she didn’t try to clean it up or move the books, she just kept turning the pages. We had to ask her to leave, and, well, I’d been the one to talk to her most so I was volunteered.

I tried to be nice about it, but she seemed angry. Said something about how I “didn’t understand how the song itched inside her.” And, well, I didn’t, but I did understand you don’t just puke on books and keep sitting it in it reading!

[SOUND OF SOMEONE TAKING CALMING BREATHS]

She did leave, and it seemed to be the end of it. At least until a few days ago. I was closing up, when Jane came to the door. And I mean, it didn’t even matter that she was banned, because we were closed for the day, I just hadn’t locked the front door. She came in anyways. I told her she had to go but when she looked at me she didn’t . . . look right. The sores from before, they were all over: her face, her neck, her hands. And there was wiggling. The worms we’d seen in the library before. They were in the, in the wounds she had, going in and out, dropping from her onto the floor. I didn’t know what to do, so I told her again we were closed. She raised her hand and pointed at me and the worms . . . they began lunging. Leapt right at me. I tried to move out of the way but one landed on me and it just, i-into my hand it . . . here, I can show you where, it’s partially healed now but . . .

[SOUND OF MATERIAL BEING MOVED]

It started just burrowing into my hand. So I turned and ran. The office was close, and I got in without more, more worms getting to me. I locked the door but they tried to come in under it. So I spent a few minutes just grabbing anything I could to block off where the worms were coming from. It wasn’t till I finished I remembered my hand. F-Funny thing is it didn’t hurt. Not really. If I hadn’t seen it, I might not have noticed.

I couldn’t just let it stay in there, and I tried to grab it, but it was slippery and I couldn’t pull it out.

In the end, it was lucky that Sandy had just celebrated her birthday. We’d bought some wine and there was a corkscrew in the attached break room. I was able to use it to get the worm out.

Once it was out and I washed all the blood, well, then the knocking started.

I peeked out the office window and it was Jane, just standing there with all the worms still crawling over her and in her and through the holes. Just going knock, knock, knock. Like I’d answer that? I tried to talk to her, to tell her I’d pay her fines off and unban her from the library, but she didn’t seem to care.

It was around then I realized I had left my phone on the counter. I tried to call from the land line but when I picked up the receiver there was no dial tone. But there was music? Of a sort? It made my skin crawl so I hung up and resolved to just wait. Course, it was Sunday night, and we’re closed Mondays, so I knew it wouldn’t be till Tuesday morning I could expect someone. And so I just . . . waited.

Jane kept knocking, and the worms kept trying to find new ways to get in. I dozed off for a few sometime Monday and when I woke up to the knocking the windows were covered completely with worms. Barely any light from the library came through, just this writhing mass of worms and I really wondered if they might have a chance at breaking the window. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if they did that, and considered my options. M-Maybe it’s grim to say, but I thought exiting on my own terms was better than worm death. Luckily it didn’t come to that. The windows didn’t so much as crack, and while Jane still kept knocking she didn’t seem to want to break down the door.

I don’t know when exactly I fell asleep next. I hadn’t exactly planned for all this, so there wasn’t much in the way of food in the break room. I hadn’t eaten since lunch on Sunday if you ignore a few leftover biscuits I’d found, so getting a migraine wasn’t too unexpected—I get them if I forget to eat, and the worms and knocking only made it feel worse. I ended up wrapping my jumper around my head to muffle the sound from Jane and knocked out.

When I woke up, it was to the screams. Terrifying way to wake up after all that—especially when you can’t see because a jumper is wrapped around your head, but I managed to get it off and saw the worms were gone right before Harriet burst into the office. I told her what happened and she took me to get some breakfast. The whole reception area of the library was covered with worms and this black . . . sludge that came from Jane. By the time we returned the ECDC was there and checked me out before giving me the all clear. One of the doctors recommended I come here to give my statement, and Sandy had heard about the work you do here. So I decided to come in here and give my statement, since I have the next week off anyways—for recovery and because the library is a right mess. Still no idea where Jane went but I decided to waive her fees, just in case that kept her from returning.

ARCHIVIST

I see. Is there anything else?

MARTIN

No? I don’t think so at least. I mean, it all just happened yesterday so there might be more but I hope that’s all.

ARCHIVIST

I hope that’s all as well. I know a little of Jane Prentiss and she is quite dangerous. It’s rather lucky you escaped her. Others who have encountered her haven’t been as lucky.

MARTIN

Oh.

ARCHIVIST

I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about however, if the ECDC cleared you. They’re . . . familiar with her as well. If you or anyone else at the library spot her, you should contact the authorities immediately. I’m sure you can tell now she’s dangerous.

MARTIN

Should I call you too?

ARCHIVIST

Sorry?

MARTIN

If we see her again, let you all know here?

ARCHIVIST

Oh, yes, that would be helpful. For now, we’ll investigate and get back to you if we find anything. Statement ends.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Jane Prentiss . . . I had rather hoped the statement from Mr. Hodge would be the last we heard of her, but I’m not surprised by this development. While it’s disturbing to know Prentiss is still about, it is a relief that it seems this time there were no casualties resulting from her or her . . . worms. Mr. Blackwood was cleared by the ECDC, though I suspect we’ll want to check up on him in a few weeks to make sure he remains whole. I would hate to think that he would end up like Ms. Lee in statement 0140912, but he was bit by one of those worms.

Beyond that, we have little to go on. Sasha pulled the CCTV footage but it does little besides confirming Mr. Blackwood’s story. She was able to catch Prentiss’ retreat, but she simply seemed to decide to leave, any cause for why is unclear. It was approximately a half hour before the head librarian, Harriet Parker, entered the building so it’s possible that, as a former patron of the library, she knew the hours and wished to keep from being caught.

Tim interviewed the rest of the staff and those who remember Jane Prentiss confirm Mr. Blackwood’s accounts of her. The fine owed was not significant and they were making no real effort to collect on it, so we’re still rather at a loss of why she would return to the library of all places to attack an employee. And why not break down the door? Prentiss’ motives are quite beyond me.

I do hope, for Mr. Blackwood’s sake, this is the last we hear about this case.

Recording ends.

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

Knock, knock, knock.

Martin clutched the pocketknife he’d found, hand shaking as he stared at the door. He had blocked it as best he could, but he could see the worms crawling on the windows. There was no hope of escape, and no hope of rescue. He was all alone in the library. No coworkers would be by, and there was no one at home to notice he was missing.

Knock, knock, knock.

The knocking continued, fist pounding against the wood, and he looked around for something more he could brace the door with. It was then he noticed the man. He was all eyes, standing there, watching him. Martin opened his mouth to plea for help before closing it. What could he do? He was trapped in here too. “It, it’s not safe, she’ll get in here, we have to, we have to . . . ” have to what? There was nothing to do. Nowhere to go.

Knock, knock, knock.

The windows cracked and he turned to look, letting out a whimper of fear as the worms pressed further onto the glass. He backed up until he hit something, and realized the man of eyes was there, staring, watching his every movement too. What was he even doing here? Was he some patron who had snuck in? And now he was going to die along with Martin, helpless against the worms.

Knock, knock, knock.

Glass shattered and the worms poured through the window, leaping at them. Martin screamed as they overwhelmed him, burrowing into his flesh, their squirming wrongness inside him. The man of eyes continued to watch, their gaze meeting, and Martin had a moment of relief that at least he wouldn’t die alone.

Gasping as he woke to the shrill alarm, Martin groped for his phone, shutting it off. Rubbing his face, he stumbled to the bathroom, wanting a shower to wash away the phantom feeling of squirming from the nightmare. He’d been having the dreams since the incident a week ago at the library. Sandy had said it wasn’t unusual, what with all the bugs and trauma.

The most unusual part to Martin was that the man of eyes was always there. It was weird, since he hadn’t had anyone with him when the attack happened, let alone a man who was all eyes. His gaze was a bit unsettling, but also . . . comforting, in a strange way? And his eyes didn’t seem to look at Martin with hate or disgust. If anything, there was something melancholic in the gaze and . . .

And really, he was wasting these thoughts by not writing them down in his poetry notebook. He already was never going to show it to anyone, so it didn’t matter if he waxed poetic about a many-eyed man-slash-monster who was constantly in his dreams. It would go nicely with his poetry about the man from the Magnus Institute with the handsome voice.

Look, Martin didn’t get out much, and so if he formed ill-conceived crushes, that was his business. There was nothing like a bit of pining while staring wistfully out the window to make a shift pass faster. Not that he was actually working at the moment. The library was still closed—apparently the ECDC took the worms from Prentiss seriously. Thankfully they were conducting the final inspections today, so Martin could get back to work tomorrow. Even more thankfully, they were getting paid leave for this whole time the library was closed. He didn’t know what he’d have done if he had a week without pay. Seemed unlikely that his mother’s care home would have shown him pity about the lost hours when it came time for the monthly bill.

Tea and toast made a good enough breakfast, and Martin wondered about what he should do with his last bit of free time. The decision was made for him when his phone rang and he picked it up. The number hadn’t been known, but he always picked up in case it was something related to his mother. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Martin Blackwood? I’m Sasha James, from the Magnus Institute.”

Oh! “Yes!  This is Martin!” He was relieved it had nothing to do with his mother and took another sip of his tea. “What can I do for you?”

“We were just doing some follow up on your statement. Do you have time to talk now?”

“Course I do.” Martin walked to his couch and checked it for worms before sitting down, the nightmare still clear in his mind. “So what can I do for you Sasha?”

“Well, first off, how are you? No side effects from the worm in your hand?”

“No, none I’ve noticed.” He looked at his hand as he answered. “Basically healed up now actually. Little bit of a scar, but I doubt anyone will even notice.” Martin wouldn’t admit to how he spent too long in the shower after every nightmare checking for any other injuries he missed, any worms that might have gotten to him in his sleep. That had more to do with his own possibly declining mental state then any follow up Ms. James was doing.

“I’m glad to hear that.” She paused a moment and Martin took that as a chance to sip his tea again. “So first off, you haven’t heard or seen any more from Jane Prentiss have you?”

“No, not at all. Course, haven’t been back to work yet, the ECDC took a while. I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’re hiring a security guard for a bit in case she comes back around. Do . . . ” he hesitated,  not sure he wanted an answer but he pushed on. “Do you think it’s something to be worried about?”

There was a pause as Sasha seemed to consider it. “I don’t think so. We haven’t seen anything in our research about her returning somewhere. She’s currently wanted by the police and ECDC so I doubt she would change her pattern now, but it might be best to make sure no one locks up alone.”

“We’re making sure no one opens or closes alone for the time being,” Martin confirmed, glad his boss had made the decision so he didn’t need to mention it. “So, uh, did you have other questions?”

“Only a couple. One, do you remember the books she was looking at in the library? The one she would stare at.”

“Oh, that was . . . let me see, I think it was A Complete Photographic Guide to the Insects of Britain.”

There was a pause, most likely Sasha writing it down. “Alright. And was there anything else she said about her hospital stay?”

“No. Mr. Sims asked me about that too. Is there a reason?”

“Well . . . ” Sasha’s voice dropped, tone a little hushed. “I shouldn’t tell you, but when she was taken to the hospital, she killed six people.”

Cold dread curled in his gut. “Oh my god.”

“We also have come up with other cases of people who have been . . . assaulted by her and her worms.”

“Jesus. Are they okay?”

There was a silence that was a beat too long and told him they absolutely were not. Since escaping the library he’d wondered if he had been overreacting, since his only injury was his hand. Maybe he’d been making a big deal out of nothing. It was just worms, right? Sure it had been terrifying but Martin was a bit of a wimp, he should have just ‘manned up’ right?

Apparently not.

Apparently he had been one misplaced worm from death. And wasn’t that a terrifying thought?

Maybe he’d pick up more corkscrews when he went shopping later.

“Is there anything else?” he asked, the silence getting too heavy.

“Oh, uh, no I think that’s all. Thank you for helping me with this follow up. Some people won’t take our calls.”

“Of course. Not a problem! If you need anything else for it, well, ha, you have my number?” How pathetic was it that this was the most social interaction he could expect for today? He really should just hang up and let this poor woman get back to her work.

“Thanks. Take care Martin.”

“You too. Bye!”

Rushing out of his bedroom, Martin didn’t even bother to make tea. He was running horribly late, the days of no work making him too accustom to having a lie in. He didn’t know if he’d even make it to work on time, and could only hope that Harriet would be kind since they’d been off a while and . . . and . . .

And he opened his door, and was face to face with Jane Prentiss.

Slamming the door shut, he didn’t even think about how he was now in the library’s office as he scrambled to grab anything and everything he could use to block the cracks under the door and any spot worms could use to get through. The squelching sound of their bodies was the only other sound besides his rapid breathing.

It was only when he was sure there was no spot they could get through that he realized he was dreaming.

An almost hysterical laugh came from him as he made his way to the couch.

Knock, knock, knock.

Martin’s laughter turned to a sob and he wrapped his arms around himself. Knowing this was a dream did nothing to help the terror flowing through his veins. Even if it was a dream he was trapped here with Jane Prentiss and all her worms outside. And if they got in, they would burrow into him until he was a hole ridden corpse—if he was lucky. He didn’t want to turn into something like her.

Time meant nothing here, so he didn’t bother trying to figure out how long he let himself cry before rubbing his eyes and going to wash his face in the sink. Splashing the cold water on his face helped at least a little.

Returning to the couch and seeing the man who was all eyes helped a little more.

Sure, there was the oppressive feeling of being stared at, but it wasn’t worms and helped cement this was a dream. He would, most likely, wake up at some point.

“W-Wonder if you have a name.” Martin’s voice trembled as he spoke, but talking to the eye monster was preferable to the silence which made the worms seem so loud. “D-Don’t suppose you’d mind if I gave you a nickname would you?”

All the eyes continued to watch him, but the ones that would be on the face of a person squinted a little, as if skeptical. “Nothing bad! I just, feels weird to call you ‘the man with a large amount of eyeballs in my work’s office space’ is all. Bit of a mouthful.” He let out a humorless laugh, before flinching as Jane knocked again.

Slowly, the man who was all eyes nodded and Martin tried to smile. “Right, so let’s see. Something with eyes would be appropriate I think. I suppose Mr. Eyeball is out?” The eyes glared at him in a way that made the gaze feel even stronger with disapproval. “R-Right, that’s a no. Let’s see. Something just like, Eyes or Iris or Cornea seems too . . . ugh.”

Pushing himself off the couch, he walked to a bookshelf in the corner. The dream was startling accurate to reality, so that meant his books he looked at on break were there. “I think there was one in here . . . ” muttering to himself, he scanned the titles until he found the reference book he’d been using in regards to his poetry at the moment—one on Greek mythology and legends. Muttering to himself he flipped through looking for the correct myth, knowing there had been something about a guardian who always had eyes open—“Ah-ha!”

Looking up, Martin gave a bright smile. “How about Argus?” The eyes blinked but before Martin could start rambling about the multi-eyed giant in Greek myth there was a nod.

“Do you know where the name comes from?” he asked as he returned to the couch with the book in hand. Argus nodded. “You know Greek myths then? I always was interested in them. I got in trouble in school once for reading about myths instead of . . . whatever the class was. Maths maybe?” Laying back on the couch he tried to ignore the knocking. “Teacher took my book away and everything. Said I needed to pay attention, because it was going to be so important for my future. But you can’t exactly maths your way out of horrific flesh burrowing worms.” Letting out a sigh, Martin jolted again as there was the sound of violent splatting-squishing as some of the worms flung themselves at the window.

Squeezing his eyes shut, not wanting to see if they were getting close to getting through, Martin tried to keep talking if only to make it harder to hear the worms. “Y-You’d think having these dreams so often would make them not so scary but . . . ”

Argus said nothing, but some of the eyes seemed to soften in sympathy. “A-At least I’m not alone. That’s something, right?” Swallowing back his fear as best he could, Martin curled up on the couch. “So, I’ve been re-reading a lot of Greek myths, working them into some of my poems a bit. Heh. Feel a bit like Sisyphus, but my bolder is a worm woman. Wonder if that would work well in a poem?”

He could swear the eyes all rolled at him at the comment.

Thankfully when he actually arrived at the library for work it was on time and without any worm women around. There was a small staff meeting where they met the new security guard, Louis, who had been ‘recommended’ whatever that meant. He looked like the type to rip someone’s arm off, but he had been cordial and gladly accepted the tea Martin made during break. There was a huge pile of books to check in and restock, and they had to fix the order of books that had clearly been moved by the ECDC and not put back correctly.

Time to get to work, Martin supposed.

All in all, it made it remarkably easy to slip back into routine. If not for the constant nightmares, he might not even think about the worms. And even those terrors had slotted into his routine. Wake up in a cold sweat, check his body, check his bed, shower, check the kitchen for worms and make breakfast and then head to work.

It was a few weeks in when something broke up the routine, though only a little. While Martin got paid enough from his job, he was never one to turn down overtime because there was always the risk of some emergency or the care home raising prices. So he didn’t mind when Harriet asked him to stay late with Sandy. They’d recently gotten a large donation of books that needed to be sorted through, and the idea was if Sandy and Martin worked a few hours late for a couple nights they could get it done by the end of the week.  

Honestly, after everything he’d gone though, Martin thought it might be nice to spend some quiet hours with books and a coworker. Sandy had even said they’d put on a few shows while they worked and Harriet had said they could order takeout and expense it. It sounded like it would be a nice time.

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

MARTIN

So here we are again!

[NERVOUS CHUCKLE]

ARCHIVIST

It seems so. I wasn’t expecting to see you again. Especially not so soon. Let me see . . .  if your last statement was 0161203 . . . Good lord it’s been less than a month.

MARTIN

Well, it wasn’t like I planned for this to happen—

ARCHIVIST

Oh! I didn’t mean to imply—

MARTIN

—I just thought it was proper weird and I don’t think it has to do with Jane but—

ARCHIVIST

—Wait, you don’t think? Is it in question?

MARTIN

No? I mean, it just took place in the library as well, and so soon after her that even if I didn’t see worms I just . . . sorry, maybe I shouldn’t—

ARCHIVIST

Nonsense. You’re here already.

MARTIN

Right. Like before?

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

My name is Martin Blackwood, and today’s date is the 4th of April, 2016. It’s about blackout in the Chelsea Library.

So, we got back to work just recently after all the whole . . . worm thing. And things have been going fine on that front! Not a single worm, no sign of Prentiss, and while the new security guard is a little scary looking he’s perfectly nice.

Recently we got a large donation of books. Apparently a used bookstore was closing and they unloaded all their leftover stock on us. My boss wanted to get them sorted so she offered me and Sandy Stevenson, my coworker, overtime if we sorted them out after hours. It’s easy work, it just takes a while: you have to make a note of the book’s condition, the title, author and copyright date, that sort of thing. Sandy would take one box, I’d take another and we’d go through them. It was rather pleasant, Sandy had put on a series she was watching and it was good background noise. Plus, I’ll admit, it was really nice to be able to spend time in the office and there not be worms? I would still get a bit jumpy in there but now . . . well . . . not worms I’m worried about.

No, well, I am but not just worms.

[SOMEONE LETS OUT A NERVOUS LAUGH, THEN THERE’S A CLEARING OF A THROAT]

Right. So the first two days went normal enough. It was the third day that it all started going strange. One of the books in my box didn’t seem to have a title. It was apparently a former library book, though I’d never heard of the Jurgen Leitner—

[A SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH]

—Library but it hardly mattered. What did matter is when I opened the book the pages were all . . . just pure black. I couldn’t see any sort of title or anything. I flipped through the book but nothing. I wondered if it was one of those sketch books, for using specific media on? I know I’ve seen ones with different colored paper. Anyways, I set it aside to ask what to do about it and continued on.

The power seemed to be having a little trouble, there was a surge and the lightbulb in the office blew, and the lights in the main library seemed to be in danger of blowing as well so Sandy and I thought we’d call it early.

I think that’s when she saw the book? I can’t be entirely sure, since she didn’t mention it, but it would make sense.

The next day Sandy was part of the opening shift, and when I got to work she was behind the desk. I was on shelving duty so I got to it. At some point I saw Harriet, my boss, and flagged her down, letting her know about the electrical issues. She was a bit worried Jane Prentiss or the ECDC had done something to the wiring. As we were talking about it, the power seemed to have another surge: the lights growing brighter before flickering badly, a couple of the florescent lights giving up entirely.

There was something about it that made me uneasy, so I walked with Harriet back to the front desk. She went to call someone about it, and I had planned to stay with her when I noticed the book from the previous night on the work station behind the counter, right where Sandy was working.

I couldn’t help but be a bit curious, and so went up to Sandy to ask her about it. She was a little embarrassed that she got caught taking one of the donated books out but assured me she just wanted to read it—which, weird because like I said before there were no words in the book, only black pages. I wondered if I had missed it somehow, and I didn’t want to make a big deal about it and get her into trouble . . . though maybe I should have. I wonder, if I had, maybe she wouldn’t . . .

I guess it doesn’t matter now.

That evening we were supposed to just do more of the same, but when I went to turn on the light in the office nothing happened. I wondered if it had blown again, but when I checked the lightbulb was just gone. I asked Sandy if she knew who took it out but she said she hadn’t a clue but we could just sort the books in the dark. And I mean, there was still some light coming in through the windows. It was still too dark for me to see properly though, so I took my box out to the front counter. Sandy didn’t seem to have an issue with reading and sorting in the office, and finished her box of books even before I did. It was . . . strange really, when I came in with the sorted books she was just sitting there, in the dark. I had to call her name twice to get her attention, but once I did she seemed normal. We locked up and headed out. Nothing seemed off with her.

That brings us to yesterday. I—God, if only I’d noticed!

[THE SOUND OF A LONG SIGH]

Right, so yesterday. Things seemed fine besides the electrical issues persisting. Half the library seemed not to have power, the lights just not turning on in the morning. But the front half and computers were all working as well as always, and the city tends to drag their feet on approving work like this, so we were guessing we had another day or two of this before someone would actually come out. Most people who needed to look for books in the area without light had a cellphone that worked as a torch and the few who didn’t we lent torches to. Everyone was really understanding about it, making a couple jokes about funding and cut backs, but generally pleasant.

Sandy had the book with her again, open on her desk, though she hid it if anyone came close. She seemed to be almost all the way through it, judging by the pages, though they still looked completely black to me. 

When we got close to closing, Harriet said we didn’t need to stay with the power like it was, but Sandy insisted she didn’t mind. After Prentiss, I wasn’t going to let her stay alone. I was worried the power was related to the worms somehow, like maybe they were . . . in the wall chewing wires or something.

[A PAUSE]

MARTIN

You don’t need to give me that look, I know it was stupid, but I—

ARCHIVIST

No, you’re . . . right to be concerned, after what happened. We have no evidence of Prentiss being able affect structures like that, so hopefully worms inside walls won’t be a concern.

MARTIN

Oh. Really?

[SOFT RELIEVED CHUCKLE]

MARTIN

I, ah, that actually makes me feel a lot better hearing that. So, right, where was I?

MARTIN (STATEMENT CONTINUES)

I was concerned about Prentiss, so I didn’t want Sandy working alone. It was also a bit of a relief, to not have to decide on staying or not—I could use the overtime like I said, but the lighting was making me unnerved. With Sandy staying, there wasn’t a choice to be made, even if she told me I didn’t have to stay with her.

Thinking back on it now . . . I don’t think she wanted me to stay. I wonder if it was because she knew what would happen. But then why wouldn’t she say something?

Like the night before there was no light in the office. But even without the light the office seemed darker than it should. I said I’d look for a light bulb and Sandy said it was hardly needed, but I felt it was important to get the light on. I was barely out of the office when the power in the building seemed to blow, all the lights going out. I could barely see anything, but I made my way to the front desk out of habit and was able to find the torches we’d used that day. It didn’t work as well as I felt like it should, and that unnerving feeling was growing. There was something wrong with the library, the darkness felt oppressive.

I shined the light at the office, but it just . . . didn’t? The light illuminated the path to the office but not inside it. I called Sandy’s name but it felt suffocated by the darkness, like I was whispering instead of speaking louder than normal.

Maybe I should have left. But something was wrong and I couldn’t leave Sandy behind. So I walked to the office. Even a foot away the light didn’t penetrate the darkness inside. I didn’t want to go in. My entire body was screaming at me to leave it, but I could hear Sandy’s voice saying something inside the darkness, and so I took a step in.

I realized what I had been in, in the library, it wasn’t real darkness. Even without the torch there had been shapes I could vaguely make out. Inside the office, it was like a void. There was nothing. I took a step, walking towards Sandy’s voice but counting my steps. One, two, three, four, five . . . I hadn’t realized how far her desk was. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten—surely it couldn’t be that far. But I heard her voice from that direction, even if what she was saying made no sense to me because it wasn’t in English. I caught a few words? “Nox” and “Umbra,” which I think have to do with darkness? At least they do in the games I know them from—a-anyways, I couldn’t make out more of what she was saying.

I was about to continue walking towards her voice when the growling started.

It came from all around me, a deep growl of something dangerous. It wasn’t like any dog or cat I’d ever heard, and I was frozen in place for a second.

Sandy screamed.

I, I heard something ripping and her scream stopped.

I turned and took off running, counting the steps back to the library proper. One two three there was more of that ripping sound behind me and I was glad I couldn’t see what was happening. Four five six the ripping stopped and the growling started up again. Seven eight nine I was almost there, and reached out for the door. Ten eleven twelve but there wasn’t a door anymore, only the darkness. The growling was getting closer and the floor under me had a give, like it wasn’t fully solid. That made me lose my balance and I found myself stumbling and eventually falling. I didn’t bother trying to get up.

The growl was closer and closer, and soon I could feel the hot, wet breath of something over me. I think I lost my mind a bit then, because all I could think of was my neighbor’s dog, who looked terrifying but was a sucker for pets so I raised up my hand just like I did for Cookie and went: “shh shh, it’s okay, you’re a good boy.”

[SLIGHTLY HYSTERICAL LAUGH]

The growling stopped for a second, and so I reached forward and touched something wet and soft and, and then my hand slid up it and I realized it was a muzzle of something. I just kept babbling, “good boy, yes you are, you don’t need to be mad, it’s okay,” and stroking this, this thing’s muzzle and face?

It leaned forward and inhaled, l-like a dog, sniffing. And then . . . nothing. The hot breath and growls and muzzle were just . . . gone? I realized I had closed my eyes, since I’d expected to be ripped apart or something and when I finally opened them . . . I was in the office. And everything looked normal. I was right by the wall and when I took a step into the library proper again, the lights all were turning back on.

I, ah, I looked for Sandy, but I didn’t see her or the book.

I know if I go to the police they won’t believe me. I don’t think anyone will. I told Harriet the power went out and I couldn’t find Sandy after it but she didn’t seem worried. I didn’t know how to bring up the screams.

ARCHIVIST

 . . . statement ends. You said this happened yesterday?

MARTIN

Yes. I haven’t been able to reach her at all on her phone, and when I stopped by the library Harriet said she hadn’t shown up.

ARCHIVIST

And this is unlike her?

MARTIN

Well, I mean she’s taken sick days before without notice but with everything . . .

ARCHIVIST

I see. And do you have any proof of what happened?

MARTIN

No. I, I don’t. Not really. My fingers are a little stained but . . .

[A SOFT, MISERABLE LAUGH]

MARTIN

Do you not believe me?

ARCHIVIST

It does seem . . . improbable—but I don’t think you’re lying. You mentioned the book she kept with her was from the library of Jurgen Leitner?

MARTIN

Yes.

ARCHIVIST

If you ever see another book bearing that book plate, you should try not to touch it and contact the Magnus Institute immediately. Those books are incredibly dangerous. I would suggest you ask Tim or Sasha to take you to Artefact Storage after we’re finished—Sonja has instructions on how to secure Leitners while waiting for them to be removed, she can give you print outs to put up in the staff area.

MARTIN

Oh. Thank you.

ARCHIVIST

Of course. Stay safe.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

I will admit I didn’t think I would see Mr. Blackwood again. It’s not often we get a single reasonable statements from someone, let alone multiple statements by the same person that have credence. However, I have no reason to doubt that his encounter is legitimate. The books of Jurgen Leitner’s library have caused too much documented trouble to doubt this could indeed be the effect of another of his books. Unfortunately, with the book missing there is no way to confirm that it will not show up to cause another missing person case later on. I will however hope this is the last we hear of this particular volume and this is the last time Mr. Blackwood will ever encounter something from the Library of Jurgen Leitner.

I don’t put much stock in hope at this point though, so I’m glad Sasha has ensured me that she and Sonja educated Mr. Blackwood on the dangers of such books.

Tim has confirmed there has been no contact with Sandy Stevenson since the last time she was seen at work. There has been a missing person’s report filed by family but knowing the book she was reading, I don’t think there is anything to be done for Ms. Stevenson.

Recording ends.

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

Everything was dark. Beyond dark. There was no hint of even the memory of light, no difference in closing his eyes or keeping them open. That alone was terrifying, but moreso was that he knew he was not alone in the darkness. There was movement, muffled enough that Martin couldn’t pinpoint the location but it was close.

In the darkness, everything sounded louder. Could whatever was lurking hear his breathing? Could it tell how his heart was hammering in his chest?

And then there was something. An intense feeling of being watched and when he turned his breath caught as glowing eyes peered out of the darkness. He felt pinned under the stare, the glow doing nothing to illuminate the dark all around him, only seeming to serve as a beacon for whatever was lurking. It was growing closer, and he could feel the hot breath of something hitting his face. Martin wanted to run but his feet were rooted to the spot under that gaze, so he could do nothing as the beast’s fangs found flesh except scream.

It was so dark he couldn’t even see what was ripping him apart.

The scream woke him, which was embarrassing when Martin realized he had been the one screaming. The world seemed impossibly bright compared to the void of his dream, but it just made any shadows seem all the more threatening. Trying to shake off the fear, he got up and headed for the shower, trying to decide if dreaming about voids of darkness and the monsters in them was better or worse than dreams about worms.

By the time he was done rinsing the shampoo from his hair, Martin conclude they were both awful in different ways, and he’d prefer not to have any dreams actually. Maybe there was something to do for chronic nightmares—he’d need to look it up once he got to work.

And, once at work, he had some fliers to put up and a staff meeting to try and call. The woman in Artefact Storage, Ms. Sonja, had been happy to explain the danger of those sorts of books and gave him instructions (and notes) on how to identify and secure the books, along with the number to call if you found one.

Sasha and Tim had been very nice as well, both sharing some anecdotes regarding the cursed books: Tim had never dealt with one directly, but he told Martin about the cases he’d researched on them, while Sasha shared about her time working in Artefact Storage and having to deal with the books herself, including the trouble with one volume called Dig.

Honestly, it had been reassuring, to hear he wasn’t the only one encountering some spooky and cursed book. Even Mr. Sims had been quietly concerned about him, taking Martin absolutely seriously about his story and instructing his assistants to make sure Martin was prepared in case it happened again.

Too bad he didn’t really have an excuse to talk to them more. Tim and Sasha seemed like people he could become friends with under different circumstances, and Mr. Sims . . .

Martin had a type alright, and it was unobtainable tired academics apparently.

Checking to make sure he had the flyers Sonja had given him, Martin headed to work. He hoped that Harriet would take this seriously.

Martin had the distinct impression that nobody at the library actually took him seriously about cursed books, but he still felt satisfied that they had at least humored him. Maybe he had Jane Prentiss to help with that—she had been wormy enough to help curb skepticism, and left plenty of evidence of her little friends behind.

It wasn’t enough to make any of them believe him that Sandy’s absence from work was anything or the power outage had a supernatural cause, but it had made them listen about the cursed books at least. Tim and Sasha had told him that while it was unlikely that another Leitner would cross his path, the fact he worked in a library made it more likely. As much as Martin would like to avoid the possibility of cursed books in his life, he couldn’t just up and quit his job.

Still, two terrifying encounters at work was enough in his opinion, and he would like it if work returned to its normal, boring pace.

“Excuse me?”

Martin looked up, flushing a bit when he realized he’d been staring off into space instead of checking out the books for the rather handsome man waiting on him. Stuttering out an apology he took the books and the library card. Scanning them he quickly he tried to ignore the way he could feel the man watching him. “Here you go Mr. Banks,” he offered, sliding the books back over. “Due in two weeks, or you can renew them.”

“Oliver,” he said, and Martin just stared at him, not understanding. “Just call me Oliver, Martin.” For a terrifying moment Martin forgot he wore a name tag, and was sure this was the start of some supernatural worm-dark-monster thing.

Then his brain started actually working and he gave his best No-I-Am-A-Happy-Competent-Adult smile. “Alright Oliver. Enjoy your books!”

Watching him leave he put his head in his hands and groaned. Today was just being a day wasn’t it? After a long moment of self-pity he raised his head, letting his gaze settle on his fingers. The black ink-like stain from his fingertips hadn’t washed off last night like he hoped it would. It hadn’t even lessened. He had just wished that it could be a normal ink stain, maybe a broken pen he’d touched and not noticed, instead of a souvenir of the terrifying void of black.

Maybe he should start wearing gloves.

Martin slammed the door to the office closed, and started frantically looking for anything to block the door to prevent the worms from making their way in. He barely paid any mind to Argus as he did; knowing the multi-eyed being never seemed to move from the spot it appeared. Once the cracks in the door were blocked he sat down on the couch, letting out a sigh that turned into an aborted scream as the knocking began.

Clenching his hands until the nails dug into the palm, he let out a pitiful laugh. “You’d think by now the terror would wear off, wouldn’t you? E-Even when I realize it’s a dream, I can’t help it.” Flinching as Jane knocked again, he turned to meet the many glowing eyes. There was fear to be found in that gaze as well, Martin knew. Being seen was never something he cared for, but despite how it made him tremble there was some comfort in his silent watcher.

“I, I’ve been working on a new poem,” Martin tried not to flinch so obviously as another knock cut through the room. “I’m not sure if I like it. I thought I’d play with style some? I’ve always really liked the, the Romantics, like Keats, but worm women and waking up in cold sweats aren’t really going to fit in that genre.”

Though Argus never spoke, his eyes stayed on Martin, watching. Martin wasn’t sure if the man of eyes was actually interested or simply couldn’t stop his ramblings. If it wasn’t a dream, he’d worry about it. “I always wanted to take a poetry class you know? Actually learn techniques for writing it? But college is just so much, especially just to work on, on a hobby of all things. We do hold a writers group at the library, but if anyone I worked with heard my poetry I might actually die?”

The knocking got louder and Martin pulled his legs up onto the couch, wrapping his arms around them. He wished there was more to do here besides listening to worms and knocking. “I’m sure you’re getting tired of this too. Just stuck here watching Martin f-freak out over worms.”

Before he could go further into a self-pity mindset, something wet dripped on him. Looking down blinked in confusion as he saw ink sliding down his leg. Holding out his hand another drop of ink fell into his hand. And another. The drops began falling faster and Martin looked up, letting out a yelp of fear as he saw the great snaking black crack through the ceiling, and the water stains that outlined it, the drops falling all across the room, the floor quickly becoming damp, the smell of brackish water combining with the fetid stench of worms.

There was a groan coming from the ceiling as it began to give way, the drips turning into streams of black water. Martin wanted to run but there was nowhere to go—Jane was still knocking on the door. “What do I do Argus?” he whispered, knowing there was no escape for him, and nothing either he or the watcher in his dreams could do.

And then with a thundering sound, the ceiling gave way and the void poured all around him, dragging him into the Dark.

Gasping for air, Martin sat up in his bed. He spent a few minutes coughing and hacking, trying to get the feel of dark brackish water filling his lungs to go away. It didn’t, not fully, but at least he could take full gasps of air and not find himself dragged under.

Rubbing his face, Martin didn’t even feel like he had the energy for a frantic worm check. Oh, the fear of Jane and her worms was very present in him, but he was exhausted from his sleep. He would kill for a proper lie-in when he wasn’t opening, but of course not. Dragging himself out of bed he headed to the bathroom, wanting to take a shower under his bright florescent light with water that was clear and wash away the dreams.

In the weeks since the book incident he’d taken to replacing his lightbulbs in the house with the most powerful ones he could find in the store. He’d also raided the charity shops for lamps to ensure there was light in every room, including closets. It had been expensive, but it did help when he woke up from those dreams about the darkness.

Stripping down, he checked the mirror to make sure there were no worms or other touches of darkness on his skin. Satisfied there was none he stepped under the spray, hoping it would wake him up and make him feel better. It did at least make him feel clean and the scent of his orange ginger body wash took away the lingering memory of the smell of worms, but by the time he was done and stepping out he was still exhausted.

Maybe it was because, in all his time with these nightmares, he’d never had both terrors converge together. It was always either worms or darkness. Both terrible in their own ways, but it had let him know what to brace for. This had been new and terrifying. Even Argus’ gaze had seemed sharper, as if keenly interested in this change from the norm.

“Maybe I’ll go to the café,” Martin mumbled to himself. He did have work today but it was a later shift. That left time to go to the café, get a sandwich and a tea and work on his poetry for a little longer. It wasn’t something he let himself indulge in too often, but after the nightmare it might be just what he needed.

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

I had rather hoped we wouldn’t be meeting again.

MARTIN

Oh, I’m . . . sorry? I can, I could talk to Tim or Sasha if you’d prefer?

ARCHIVIST

Why would—ah. Martin, I didn’t mean it like that, just that if you’re here then clearly you had some other strange affair and I had hoped after Prentiss and the Leitner you’d finished running into supernatural things.

[HUMORLESS LAUGH]

MARTIN

Afraid not.

ARCHIVIST

It wasn’t another Leitner was it?

MARTIN

No. We haven’t had another. The information Ms. Sonja gave me was very helpful! I have the fliers up in the break room still. I’m not sure if everyone took me seriously but things at work have actually been going well.

What happened was more of a . . . personal matter?

ARCHIVIST

I see. Well, we might as well begin. Statement of Martin Blackwood, taken June 20^th, regarding . . . ?

MARTIN

A date I had last Friday.

ARCHIVIST

Statement Begins.

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

I suppose it’s fair to say I have never had much luck in the dating scene. I assume it has to do with my looks, being a bigger guy, and my personality. I’m a little forgettable, kinda a fade into the background sort of guy, you know? Which is fine by me, just not helpful for my dating life. It could also have to do that I don’t tend to drink much, so bars and clubs where people hook up aren’t really my scene? Whatever it is, it means I don’t get asked out often.

So when I hit it off with Mike at the coffee shop, I was really happy.

I’m sure I’d never seen him there before, because he caught my eye immediately. He had these pale eyes that reminded me of dawn and a scar that looked like a lightning bolt down his neck. He was right before me in line, so I got the chance to look at him as we waited. Normally I don’t talk to people, but then I noticed in his hand he had a book from a series I’ve recently gotten into, and I couldn’t help myself from asking him how he was liking it.

Typically I get my drink to go, but I wasn’t working for another few hours so I ended up sitting in the coffee shop and chatting with him. Mike really liked books and even told me he had tried his hand at collecting them for a time. His preference was books on occult and magic, as well as fantasy, and offered a couple reading suggestions for me. I told him about my work at the library and gave a few recommendations of my own.

Our drinks were done by the time we realized we’d never properly introduced ourselves. His name was Mike Crew, and he then asked if I’d like to have dinner with him. I didn’t even think before accepting, and we traded numbers.

When we finally got up to part ways I, god, I wasn’t sure what was appropriate, a handshake or hug or what, and he came close and looked like he was coming in for a hug, so I hugged him but it turned out he’d been reaching for his book on the table and—

[LONG MISERABLE SOUNDING SIGH ]

—look, the important part is that I felt so embarrassed I hardly realized the feeling of vertigo until I was out of the shop. And it’s only now, looking back, I understand why I felt like that.

During the week leading up to the date, we texted back and forth. Mike looked into one of the books I recommended and we were able to talk about it. He actually seemed to want to know how I was doing when I texted him after work, and it was just nice?

So that’s what I was expecting when it came to the date. Something nice.

We went to an Italian place that I’d never been before, Ave Mario? We met outside. Mike was looking really handsome, and offered me his hand once I got there. I was a blushing mess, but was thrilled to take his hand and let him lead me in. We got out table with no trouble, and Mike ordered us a bottle of wine. I don’t usually drink wine, due to the tannins? It gives me headaches, but it felt rather charming to share a bottle during our date.

We had given our order and I was telling Mike about a rather disastrous attempt by Harriet to reorganize the children’s section when things started to fall apart.

A few tables away from us a man had been . . . loud. I couldn’t see him because he was behind me, but I couldn’t ignore him. I don’t think anyone could. He was belligerent, insulting to the waiter, complaining about some issue with his job. Mike was clearly getting annoyed so I made a joke about the situation. It wasn’t a good joke, but Mike laughed. I suppose the man thought Mike was laughing at him because all of a sudden he’s marching up to our table and screaming at us. Actually said we were being disruptive. Then he moved onto insults, commenting on my weight and Mike’s scar before tossing in some slurs just for extra fun.

That was when there was a rush of air and I couldn’t breathe, not correctly. I was plummeting through endless skies. I tried to scream but the force of the rushing air meant I couldn’t. Some part of me knew I was still sitting in that restaurant, on my date, but I was also falling and falling and falling endlessly.

“That shut you up,” Mike commented and it was only then I realized that past the sound of air whipping past my ears there was no longer the man screaming at us. I managed, with some effort, to look over and saw his face was awash with terror and he was making the small aborted sounds as he too tried to talk, to say something. “Improper to interrupt someone on a date,” Mike said causally. “We were having a nice time and now I have to deal with you. To be left alone during a date and not harassed, is that really so much to ask?” Mike stopped talking to drink his wine, and I tried to say something, anything but I still couldn’t manage a proper sound, let alone a word.

“I was trying hard to be patient, but you just couldn’t stop. Well, try being insulting now.  Hard, isn’t it, talking at terminal velocity? The air it doesn’t leave your lungs like you expect it to. I mean, I know you’re just standing still, you know you’re just standing still. But whether your body knows it when I decide you hit the ground, that’s something I haven’t made my mind up about, yet.”

Mike was looking at the man, not at me, but his words terrified me—because that’s what this was. I was somehow sitting down and plummeting at terminal velocity and might just die where I sat.

“Maybe I’ll let you live, allow you to drag yourself home to lick your wounds, but you need to learn some respect.” Mike’s eyes were glowing as he spoke, and I was scared what it might mean. I couldn’t say anything but I was able to slowly move my hand. It was difficult, I felt like the air was hurting me at this point, but I managed to jolt my hand those last few centimeters to hit my wine glass. It toppled and Mike immediately looked towards me. I saw the moment he realized what he was doing to me, his eyes widening in panic and then just like that the sensation of falling became softer, from a freefall plummet to a drifting until it left me.

Mike apologized, and he seemed sincere, but I was, I was done. My face hurt from windburn and I couldn’t stop shaking. I asked the waiter to get my meal to go, and even though we’d planned to split the check I didn’t protest when Mike mumbled something about taking care of the bill.

I got out of there as fast as I could. I don’t know what happened to the man.

Mike has texted me a couple times since it happened, offering more apologies. I’m sure he didn’t mean to catch me up in all that, but all the same I’m not going on a second date with him.

ARCHIVIST

Statement Ends.

That . . . is the windburn why your cheeks are so red?

MARTIN

Yes. Been trying to do what I can for it but the redness hasn’t faded yet and it still hurts a good deal. It makes it difficult to sleep; my pillow touching my cheeks is enough to irritate it.

ARCHIVIST

I would imagine. Hopefully it will heal soon and . . . ah.

MARTIN

Ah?

ARCHIVIST

I just noticed your fingers. They’re still black.

MARTIN

Yep.

[FORCED AWKWARD LAUGH]

MARTIN

Turns out it wasn’t ink like I hoped. Nothing I’ve tried has helped it. Luckily no one at work has really questioned it. If they do, well, I certainly can’t tell them the truth.

ARCHIVIST

I can understand why. These things can be hard to talk about to anyone. Here, let me give you my personal cell phone number, if it gets overwhelming feel free to contact me.

MARTIN

Oh! Oh alright! I, texting okay? I’m not much of a speak on the phone sort if I can help it.

ARCHIVIST

I’m much the same. Take care of yourself Martin. Hopefully this will be the last time you come in to give us a Statement.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Mike Crew is a name that’s come up before, and it is concerning to hear he did something supernatural to Mar—to Mr. Blackwood and some other man right here in London. Tim contacted the Ave Mario and managed to speak with a waiter who remembered the shouting customer. Apparently he passed out a few moments after Mr. Blackwood left, and had to be taken to A&E. Unfortunately we don’t know more than that, as he wasn’t identified and no one has come forward about this. It is my hope that he survived this, even if he seems to be a genuinely unpleasant sort of fellow.

With everything we know, I have no reason to doubt Mr. Blackwood’s account is accurate. I would hope this is the last we hear from him, but as he’s been by three times already I worry.

Recording Ends.

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

The restaurant was nice little Italian place. Not so busy that Martin would feel crowded, not so empty as to make him question the food. He had arrived before his date, but that wasn’t a huge deal. Martin preferred being early actually, then he didn’t need to worry he was making people late.

And then he turned and was seated at the table, Argus sitting across from him.  “Do you want to split a bottle?” Martin asked, before flushing a little. “Can you actually drink? I mean, with all the eyes . . . ” he didn’t see a mouth. That would make kissing hard, wouldn’t it?

Actually that made this whole date a rubbish idea. Why had he suggested they go out to dinner? Obviously Martin must have suggested it, because Argus couldn’t speak and—

A hand was on his shoulder, pale and Martin looked up to see someone he knew with a lightning scar, but before he could get out the name he was falling at terminal velocity, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I know you’re just sitting, Argus knows you’re just sitting, you know you’re just sitting. But whether your body knows it when I decide you hit the ground . . .”

As it turned out, his body didn’t know it, and Martin felt every second of the painful terror of hitting the ground after falling for miles.

Jolting awake Martin groaned, the memories from the dream making his body ache with phantom pain. “That was a new one.” Running a hand over his face, Martin let out a long sigh. “Worms, darkness, and now falling . . . love my brain deciding to change it up.” Martin hated to choose a favorite nightmare subject, but falling, while terrifying, was less disturbing than Prentiss and her worms.

Rolling out of bed, he took a long breath before heading to the shower, trying to stop the vertigo that followed him from his dreams. “And at least now I know better than to ask Argus out to a bloody restaurant.”

Not that Argus was real, or would be asked out. If he had a therapist, he was sure they’d have a field day with that.

He almost fell over as he reached the bathroom and had to support himself on the sink, his head still swimming in vertigo. While he usually liked to start his day with a shower maybe he’d be fine skipping it this time. He didn’t want to call off work because he cracked his head on the shower.

He considered, for a moment, about texting Mr. Sims, but thought it would come across a little silly and needy to send a message the day after he’d given a statement, even if he did feel a bit overwhelmed. Besides, he was surely just being nice. No one really wanted to spend time worrying about Martin. Yes, best not to.  

Martin slid the book into the bookshelf and sighed. A normal day at work was rather dull, but he didn’t mind it. No one had caused trouble, and his favorite visitor was here—the always tired head archivist of the Magnus Institute had stopped by, and Martin was purposely shelving books near where he was. In fact if he looked over . . . there he was. And right next to him was his other favorite patron, Argus, who was watching him with all those eyes. It made Martin feel flustered and off balance.

Maybe that was why he stumbled. Martin tried to catch himself but he didn’t have the coordination and fell backwards, bracing himself for impact—but it didn’t come. He kept falling, the library fading away as he fell down down down, faster and faster. Martin tried to scream but the air wouldn’t leave his lungs enough to do more than whimper.

The sky faded from light blue to sunset to the night’s sky and he was still falling falling falling. He couldn’t look down, and didn’t know if he was more scared of seeing how far he was from the ground or the possibility that there was no ground. Stars rose in the sky, except they weren’t stars, but eyes, watching as he plummeted with no end.

Waking up by slamming face first into the ground wasn’t fun, but it did muffle his scream. He’d met his neighbor the previous day, a woman around his age who had gotten a little concerned by the screaming she heard from his rooms. It was mortifying to have to explain that he got night terrors, but she had been kind about it, telling him she worked nights anyways so he wasn’t bothering her, and her cats didn’t seem to care when he screamed and she was home.

He still felt bad, and was planning to bring her over something as an apology (and maybe something for the kitties, he wondered if he could get a picture of them? Mr. Sims, Jon, seemed to like cats, and well . . . )

Jon had texted him a little over a week ago to check up on him. So had Tim, and Sasha. Apparently people didn’t typically make multiple statements that were ‘legitimate’ and as such all of three of them were concerned. It was . . . nice. Strange, to think that three people he had only met a few times were worried about him, but nice. Tim had even offered that he and Sasha would keep an eye on things when Martin had another date. He didn’t think it was necessary, but Martin wasn’t going to give it a hard no yet. Having someone around during his last date might have been nice.

Not that he had plans on dating again soon. He was busy with his work, his poetry, his mother, his lingering trauma from three supernatural events and accompanying nightmares and already had two impossible crushes to pine over when there was a lull in any of that.

Sure, one was an eyeball man in his nightmares. So sue him. It was nice to have someone to talk to in between being mauled by darkness or falling for hours or worms.

The good news was that it had been two weeks since his date, and nothing spooky had happened since. He hadn’t seen Mike, there had been no sign of worms, and not a single Leitner had shown up at work. (There was of course the fact Sandy hadn’t come back to work and that his fingers were still stained, and all the nightmares, but Martin was trying very hard to stay positive.)

Martin took a moment to compartmentalize the horrors, make sure he wasn’t feeling too dizzy to stand, and then let out a long breath. Time to get ready for work. At least nightmares meant he didn’t sleep through his alarm anymore.

The day seemed to go on as typical—books to put away, patrons to assist, bringing Louis tea during his break to thank the man for keeping the library free of worm women. (He was still a bit intimidating, but Martin hoped that meant any worm-filled people would also find him intimidating and stay away.)

It wasn’t until the he got the text from Tim that the day turned a bit odd.

TOOTH APPLE

Martin read the text again to make sure he had gotten that right. Tooth apple? Tim often sent him memes, so was it a new one? He weighed the pros and cons of looking it up before deciding to just send back a simple reply to Tim of ???

He didn’t even have time to set his phone down before he got a reply: SOMEONE BROUGHT IN A TOOTH APPLE

“What the fuck is a tooth apple?” Martin asked himself, squinting at his screen, before sending the question to Tim. This time there was no immediate response. Feeling baffled, Martin went back to his work, still trying to figure out what Tim had meant. It was almost a relief when, an hour later, he got a text message from Tim that explained things. Or, more specifically, Tim sent him a photo that left Martin a little horrified and a little confused. It was a picture of an apple with what appeared to be human teeth around the core.

 Martin stood up, muttering something about using the loo, and headed to the break room. Instead of going to the bathroom though he called Tim. The man picked up in two rings, and was halfway through a greeting when Martin interrupted him with a very impassioned: “What the FUCK is wrong with your work place?!”

Tim let out a burst of laughter. “Hell if I know. This professor came in today to give a statement. Said he had a bunch of students that were proper spooky. One was even named John Doe.”

“Like a dead person?”

“Yeeeeeep. Not just that, but Erika Mustermann, Jan Novak, Piotr and Pavel Petrov, Fulan al-Fulani and Juan Pérez. Which is basically John Doe in a lot of different languages, placeholder names and shit. Then they were spoooooky and at the end the students gave him a tooth apple, which he gave to Jon, who gave it to me and Sasha. We’re going to send it out to have the teeth examined but . . .”

“Christ. I thought my day was weird because three people in a row checked out the same Twilight book.”

“Marto, I would love that to be the weirdest thing to happen here.”

Marto. The nickname had come up over the time of texting Tim. Martin didn’t think he’d ever gotten a nickname before really. It was rather nice. “Could come down, make a statement. Martin Blackwood and a statement on three business men checking out Breaking Dawn in a row.”

“Wonder if it’s for some meeting thing. To connect with the youth of today.”

“Didn’t it come out like, a while ago?”

“Eight years ago come August.”

Martin snorted. “Tim, how do you know that?”

“I am a researcher Marto.” He had struck a haunty tone, as if knowing when Twilight books were released had anything to do with his research. “Of the paranormal.”

“Which includes sparkly vampires?”

“Ehhh. Fifty-fifty, we also get some Anne Rice vampires and the occasional Nosferatu.”

“What, no Underworld?”

Tim let out a laugh at that. “God, we will be, one of those movies is coming out again soon. Plus I heard that Castlevania show is out of development hell which . . . god, we’re going to have so many sexy vampire statements coming up. I’ll need to make Bad Vampire Bingo cards for the group.”

“Will you have a space for tooth apple?”

This caused Tim to let out another laugh. “I should. That will be the free space, just the picture of the tooth apple.”

Martin couldn’t help but grin a little. “Make sure you tell me the worst ones? I should get back to it though, but keep me privy to all apple updates.”

Tim had said for Martin to come down, because there was something else properly weird that they’d gotten in. Martin had the day free, and wouldn’t mind seeing Jon, Tim and Sasha, so he headed over. It was only when he reached the bottom of the stairs he realized something was wrong: the floor wasn’t right. It was dark, black, and crawling through it were pale wriggling bodies he knew too well.

The door behind him was covered in the worms already, and Martin started running, heading towards Jon’s office. He stumbled inside and slammed the door closed, letting out a soft whimper as he tried to block it with everything he could. There was a stench in the air, brackish water and rot, and before he could think of what to do next the lights went off. The room was dark, and a growling reverberated from deeper in Jon’s office. Martin was trapped, worms on one side of the door, and something dangerous in the darkness.

“A-Argus!” He screamed the name into the darkness and like a beacon a million different eyes appeared within, glowing enough to be seen but not illuminating anything within the sprawling dark. The growling was getting closer and Martin tried not to sob as his heart beat rabbit-fast in his chest. “I’m so scared Argus,” his voice trembled and he reached out towards one of the eyes, knowing his friend was there somewhere, amongst the eyes that watched him with such sadness and regret. “Just don’t leave me, please.”

There was a ripple through the eyes, and their glowing grew brighter as did the feeling of being watched, pinned under a gaze. His fingers brushed against something in the darkness, a hand, and he managed to entwine their fingers before the creature of darkness bit down into his stomach and ripped him open. There was a crunch of something and pain, and then there was nothing.

Opening his eyes with a groan, Martin moved a hand to rub over his stomach. There were phantom pains for a second from the nightmare, but his fingers found no ripped flesh or intestines spilling out of him. In some ways, the nightmares had gotten better over the past two weeks—he now only had them almost every night, not every night. There were also repeats now and then, not every nightmare was a new horrible amalgamation. The problem was none of that helped the pure unadulterated horror that shot through him every single time.

At least through them all Argus was there. Martin wasn’t sure what to think of the many-eyed watcher, but it was a source of comfort at this point. Argus was there so he wasn’t alone. He would wake up. One small beat of consistency in all of this.

Still, it made him wonder. Why was Argus always there? Martin had never given much thought to dream symbolism, and still was skeptical as most of his nightmares could be linked directly to trauma. But Argus . . .

Maybe he should look into one of those books on dream meaning. Surely there was something there about eyes in dreams, or strange men who were all eyes? (Martin didn’t want to call Argus a monster, not when he had met Jane Prentiss and the thing in the Darkness)

He wasn’t sure the books would have anything useful to help, but it was something. Closing his eyes he tried to remember everything he could about Argus:

All Eyes

Some clothing but nothing standout about it

So Many Eyes

Shorter than Martin

Eyes That Glowed

Male presenting, or at least seeming to lack any indication of breasts

Sometimes Only Eyes 

Alright, so most of his list was just about the eyes. Could he be blamed? It wasn’t even something as clear as that Argus had a lot of eyes, when he thought back to the dream, there was a person. A man, he thought, almost familiar with dark skin and dark hair with, with clothes—an old shirt that read Oxford?—but at the same time, it was a silhouette that was only eyes; almost as if it was superimposed over the person. It was like the eyes were burned into his mind, until they were all that Argus was.

Dream logic, he supposed.

He kept thinking about it all the way to work, and once he arrived he searched for books on dream meanings, and tried to ignore how he had once shown Jane books in this very section.

Unfortunately the books didn’t seem to help much. They offered things like all seeing eye of God, or that glowing eyes could mean anything from purity and innocence to vampires. The closest he had found was that dreaming of three eyes was a metaphor for the third eye, which provided perception beyond ordinary sight which at least felt correct. Or correct as the book was going to get. (Especially when the book also said that dreaming of an unknown man meant that could be your soul mate which was not something Martin was going to write an embarrassing poem over. It was something he was going to write two embarrassing poems over.)

Knock knock knock

“I hate how it never stops being scary,” Martin complained to Argus as he finished blocking off the space under the door. “I’ve had this dreams, or just worm dreams, for months now. And even when I know it’s another nightmare I can’t stop how scared I am!”

Knock knock knock

The full body flinch Martin made proved his point, he supposed. Walking back to the couch, he all but flopped over onto it and looked up at Argus, who was watching as normal. “At least I get to wake up. What happens to you when I’m not dreaming? Do you just not exist?” That was a terrible thought, and for some reason that bothered him more than the memory of worms when he woke up.

Tapping his fingers on the desk, he glanced at his phone again. Tim had been in the middle of telling Martin about his attempts to woo information from a stubborn secretary when the messages had stopped. Most likely because it was the end of Tim’s lunch break, but Martin had hoped to hear more about the hijinks Tim got up to in the name of Institute Funded Lunch Dates but there had been nothing since. And it didn’t help that it was a slow day in the library.

A mug was set down in front of him and he glanced up, giving Harriet a small smile. She was his boss, sure, but she had always been kind to him—she had been giving him fewer morning shifts, and he suspected it had to do with the fact his eye bags were soon going to need their own post code.

“Are you doing alright Martin?”

Picking up the mug of tea he cradled it in his hands a moment, just enjoying the warmth. “More or less. Just been having an awful time sleeping as of late, it seems almost every night I have some nightmare.”

“Are you seeing anyone about it?” Harriet’s voice was soft with concern, and she glanced at Martin over her glasses. It was something that had taken time to get used to, the fact that his coworkers actually cared about his wellbeing. “I don’t mean to pry, but I know it’s been a few months since The Incident but trauma recovery is never straightforward or easy.”

“Sort of?” Martin didn’t want to outright lie, but he also didn’t want to get into his bitter relationship with therapists in his past. “I have some friends who know about the whole Prentiss thing, and they’ve been a good support system.”

“I’m glad you have that. And if you ever need time off for appointments or a support group, know you only need to say so.”

It was kind of her, though Martin didn’t know where she expected him to go. Worm Survivors Anonymous? He was lucky that he could talk to Tim, Sasha and Jon about what he’d gone through—they believed him, and at least had some understanding about things. “Thanks Harriet. I appreciate it.”

“Of course. Now, I wanted to bring up the workshops we’re hosting next month, I was wondering which ones you’d be alright with helping out with.” Harriet moved to her desk, grabbing the events calendar and returning to Martin. “Which ones would you be up to helping with? I know you usually like helping out with the author talks, and I could use help with the Saturday, and we’re doing one class on bread making . . . ”

Martin pushed thoughts of Tim aside, and began looking over the events calendar. Tim would get back to him whenever he had time.

“Pick up pick up pick up!”

The call went to voicemail and Martin couldn’t help the loud exclamation of “Shit!” He didn’t care if people gave him looks as he scrolled his contacts for Sasha’s number. Jon hadn’t picked up. Tim hadn’t picked up. He’d been rotating through the three numbers since the news alert hit his phone: Bioterrorism Attack on Historical Magnus Institute!

The call went to voicemail. Martin started pacing as he started calling Jon’s phone. The Breaking News had been vague about what exactly happened besides that police, fire and ECDC were on scene. The building had been evacuated and there were quarantine tents set outside it, blocking the streets. Martin had scanned the video and pictures in the article, but seen no one he recognized. When the call hit voicemail again Martin could have screamed. Instead he sent more texts to the three—begging them to let him know they were alright as soon as possible.

He tried calling Tim again as he looked at the entrance to the underground. He wanted to get back home, but was worried if he did he might miss a call, a text, something that would let him know they were okay.

Just a few more minutes.

Part of him wanted to just flag down a cab and go to the Institute but what even would he be able to do? Stand around gawking? Say ‘oh, some of the people who work here are friendly with me, can I pop into this cordoned off area to look for them’?

And what would he do if they weren’t okay?

No. He couldn’t think like that. Tim would finish telling him the story about his date, Sasha would keep giving him advice on what computer to get, Jon would continue to send him pictures of cats he came across. The three of them would be fine.

They had to be.

Straight to voicemail.

Message unread.

Voicemail.

Unread.

Voicemail.

Unread.

Finally Martin took the tube home. He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed when he exited at his stop and there were no missed calls or text notifications. He wasn’t looking at the street as he began walking, trusting his feet to know the way as he checked for updates on the news story: there were none.

And then his phone let out a cheery sound and Martin could have cried with relief when he saw the name Sasha James (Institute) appear. Immediately he hit talk and raised the phone to his ear. “Sasha! Are you okay? I saw the news, the, the Institute and I haven’t been able to get through to any of you!”

“Hey Martin.” It was such a relief to hear her, even if her voice was tired. “We’re alive. But saying any of us are okay might be a lie.” She let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to turning into a sob. “I just got let out of quarantine. Jon and Tim are still in there, they got it worse than I did. Christ, Martin, I had no idea how terrifying it must have been for you, being trapped by Prentiss.”

Martin stopped walking, a chill going down his spine. “Sasha. What happened at the Institute?”

“Prentiss attacked.”

“Jesus. I’m so sorry, if I hadn’t come to give my Statement—”

“Don’t you dare blame yourself Martin. The only one to blame is Prentiss, and she’s dead.” There was a pause before Sasha let out an audible sigh. “We’ve known Prentiss was stalking the Institute for a while anyways. A couple weeks after you gave your statement we started finding the occasional worm.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? I thought we were . . . ” Martin had thought they were becoming friends. Maybe it had all been in his head?

“Because you’d worry, and there wasn’t anything to do about it. We tried exterminators but they never helped. The only thing that killed them was CO₂, and we kept a crap-load of that in the Archives so we thought we would be okay. We just . . . we really didn’t want to worry you.”

Martin took in a deep breath, held it and then slowly exhaled. He understood what they had done in theory, but he wished he had known, wished that he could have helped somehow. “So Prentiss attacked. And you’re okay?”

“Mostly. Got a few worms but, well, since they started showing up a lot we all kept a corkscrew just in case. It worked really well for removing them, like you’d said. But Tim and Jon—”

Martin forgot to breathe a second. “Sasha, please tell me they’re okay.”

“They’re alive, but both are badly injured. We, we got separated, there were tunnels and I thought they were behind me but they must have turned a different way than me and God Martin, it’s all my fault!” Her voice wavered and Martin wished he was there to give her a hug and a nice warm cuppa. She sounded wrecked. “I finally found my way out and they were in the tents. The worms had dug into them, dozens. If, if the CO₂ suppressant hadn’t gone off they would have died and, and they’re still not out and—”

“Do you need me there Sasha?” Martin was ready to flag down a cab if she said the word.

“N-No, no, just stay on the line? U-Until they’re out.” A choked sob came from her and Martin started walking again towards his flat.

“Course. I’m right here Sasha. What do you need huh? Do you want to talk about it or something else or . . . ?”

“Tell me about your day? I just need to hear about something. Something that’s not here.”

Martin was good at making pointless conversation—he did it every time he visited Devon. So he began recounting the event scheduling and the different classes they offered, and how he was actually curious about some—like the one about making bread, that sounded fun honestly, and having fresh baked bread would be nice so he was planning on actually attending that one. There was also the story time for children almost every day which Martin tried his hardest never to get assigned because he didn’t like children, they were so loud and always so sticky. The worst part of it was children loved him. They would flock to him and pull on his jumpers and ask questions and he had to be nice because they were kids for fuck’s sake but even when he put on a smile and answered their stupid kid questions he was screaming inside. (It didn’t help that his coworkers took that to mean he was great with kids and always questioning him if he wanted to help out, while Martin dreamed of a world he never had to interact with anyone under the age of 20 again.)

 Martin had started boiling water and going over having to help clean up the children’s section every day when there was a gasp from Sasha. “Jon! Jon’s out!” There was more she was saying but it was muffled like her phone was in a pocket, but Martin could make out Jon’s muffled voice, the cadence of it unmistakable. His legs trembled and Martin had to brace himself on the counter to keep himself from collapsing. It was only then he realized he’d been waiting for the worst—for someone to tell Sasha that Tim and Jon didn’t make it. If Jon was out, if he was alright . . . Tim had to be too, right?

The world went blurry as his vision filled with tears. Martin bit his lip to muffle the sob as he continued to listen to the sound of Sasha and Jon’s muffled voices. He didn’t care if Sasha forgot he was on the line. Hearing Jon, knowing Jon was okay—!

The voices got clearer after a few minutes and he could make out Jon speaking: “—why it’s taking longer for Tim, but he did breath in a sizable amount of carbon dioxide even before the gas dropped, so respiratory acidosis could be why? I hope so anyways, I—Sasha?”

“Just say hello Jon.” Sasha’s voice sounded shaky still, but it sounded relieved as well.

“Hello?” Jon dutifully said into the phone and Martin couldn’t help the way his heart clenched.

“Jon.”

“Martin?”

“I’m just relieved to hear you. I saw the news about the attack on the Institute and I couldn’t reach any of you.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize it would make the news but . . . yes, of course it would. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up Martin, I was being examined by the ECDC and they had to ensure nothing we had with us was contaminated. But I’m alright.”

Martin fought back a watery laugh. “Bullshit. You got attacked by worms.”

“Alright as a relative term then. More alright then I could have been.”

“I’ll take it. I should let you and Sasha go, I’m sure you both have a lot to deal with. Just make sure Tim contacts me when he’s able? I, I need to hear from him.”

“Of course. I’ll make sure he calls you Martin. And, thank you for worrying about us.”

“Course. You three are important to me, you know? Who else would I trade cat pictures with if you weren’t around?”

There were worms everywhere, covering the floor and writhing as they climbed in and out of the corpses at his feet. Martin felt them burrowing into his skin as he tried to remove them from Jon, Tim and Sasha’s bodies, but there were more, there were always more. They were getting covered in the worms and even if they were already dead it wasn’t right.

And then the arms of his friends reached out, filled with holes and letting out a rasping call of “Maaaahtiiiiinnn . . . ” pulling him down into the worms and corpses.

He could hear singing, and swore the three were singing along.

Waking with a start, Martin shuttered. The dream had been disturbing, but lacked the intense terror most of his nightmares had. Shaking his head he checked his phone, looking over the text messages from the night before to remind himself Jon, Tim and Sasha were alive. Sasha had even sent him a text a few hours ago, complaining about how sore her legs were and that her ‘potato of a cat’ had jumped on her to cuddle and put his ‘toothpick legs’ right on her wounds.

As much as he felt bad her cat had done that, it was nice to hear from her and he texted back about how he’d like a pet someday, and she’d said she would sell Fluffypants for a quid, along with sending a picture of him showing his remorse for hurting Sasha by displaying his butt, because obviously that was what she wanted.

He heard from Tim later that morning, Tim telling him how he had joked with the ECDC and gotten an extended examination for it and how they couldn’t take a joke. Martin thought it wasn’t a very funny joke, but he understood humor as a coping mechanism; “just maybe not with the ECDC Tim?” Tim also told him they had considerable medical leave from this, and made Martin swear to send some good book recommendations because Tim already knew he would go stir crazy in “three days max Marto, it will end up being like the shining if I don’t have some enrichment.”

That evening Martin received a very Jon text, thanking Martin for his statement on Jane—that without Martin having put thought into how to remove the worms they wouldn’t have kept corkscrews to use and it might have been a worse situation.

Martin had replied with a simple just glad you made it out and then a long string of the cutest cat pictures google would show him.

Martin let out a laugh that edged hysteria as he found himself in the break room at work with darkness slowly encroaching. He was terrified, but it wasn’t worms. It wasn’t the corpses of his friends. It wasn’t that terrifying what if that had been plaguing him since the Institute was attacked.

The laughing turned to sobs around the same time the darkness enveloped the edges of the couch and he noticed Argus standing there. He didn’t try speaking, chatting like he normally did, instead lunging to grab the t-shirt he could feel under the impossible number of eyes and pressing his face into the chest. The darkness was curling up both their bodies but Argus’ eyes glowed through it all, and Martin didn’t let go even when the darkness turned to claws and pain and there was wet, not the brackish water but his own blood, the stench of iron filling the air as he felt his bones being snapped in impossible jaws and organs being ruptured.

He didn’t let go until the Lightless Beast ripped away his very life.

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Good Lord Martin!

MARTIN

Hello to you too Jon.

ARCHIVIST

What happened?

MARTIN

Well, I got jealous that you, Tim and Sasha had a traumatic news segment and thought it was my turn.

[WEAK LAUGHTER]

MARTIN

Sorry. Not funny but I think it did make the news? The bakery a few streets over that burned down? There, there were casualties I think. I actually tried not to see anything about it.

ARCHIVIST

And that’s why all the bandages . . . ?

MARTIN

To keep the burns clean, yes. Mostly just first and second degree, didn’t even need to go to hospital for them, it was the gashes on my arms that needed the most treatment. Twenty seven stitches in all. Better than the alternative.

ARCHIVIST

Martin, are you alright? You’re shaking.

MARTIN

I just . . . god, I hate burns. They’re my least favorite type of pain. They’re awful, they scar horribly, and they just . . . sorry. I was so scared and every time my burns hurt I just think about it.

Hell, I didn’t even get to pick up the welcome back pastries I got for you and Sasha.

ARCHIVIST

Welcome back pastries?

MARTIN

Yes, I, well I’ll explain when I give the Statement?

ARCHIVIST

Right let me just turn this—oh, I must have turned it on without realizing it.

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

My name is Martin Blackwood, today is the fifth of September. This is about a fire at Nice Buns Bakery.

I’m sure this won’t come to a surprise to you that I’ve been keeping in touch with Tim and Sasha through this whole thing, since I’ve been texting you as well Jon. That was how I knew you were not planning on taking your full medical leave, even though I think healing fully would be better than rushing to return to work. Sasha has been complaining for a week how you kept trying to come back early. Last Friday she told me that you finally won and she wouldn’t try to kick you out come Monday, even if you really should finish taking your medical leave, it is only two more weeks.

But I know how much you’ve been wanting to get back to work and even if Tim wasn’t here, I thought I’d stop by and get you and Sasha a little treat as a kinda ‘welcome back to work’ thing. It’s not like I worked Mondays anyways and . . . I hoped it would help the nightmares, seeing both of you alive and healed up.

ARCHIVIST

Nightmares?

MARTIN

I’ve had nightmares about Prentis since . . . you know. You three almost getting killed by her didn’t exactly help that.

ARCHIVIST

Ah. I see. Sorry?

MARTIN

It’s not like the three of you decided to get attacked for fun Jon. I’m not blaming anyone besides Prentiss.

ARCHIVIST

She’s dead.

MARTIN

I know.

ARCHIVIST

She, Sasha talked to the ECDC about it, even pulled some strings to get her ashes delivered here as proof, if it helps. She’s really gone Martin.

[SOUND OF A DRAWER OPENING AND SOMETHING BEING PUT DOWN ON THE DESK]

MARTIN

Oh. Thanks. I . . . I think it does help.

MARTIN (STATEMENT CONTINUES)

I thought getting some pastries would be nice, you could have them with tea and if I got an assortment you’d have options of what kind you wanted. There’s a bakery between the library and here called Nice Buns. It made me laugh every time I saw it, and I’d been a few times and it was always delightful, so I thought I’d stop by there, get the pastries, and come here.

The shop seemed normal enough when I entered. They always have a good selection so I began looking at what they had. I figured I’d get us a bit of everything? Make it a nice proper welcome back thing. Having decided, I began telling the lady at the counter what I wanted but that was about when I heard the cursing behind me.

It seemed to be an argument of a sort between two people. There was a round-faced black woman at the table with a coffee, who didn’t seem to be saying much, and a tall severe man standing opposite of her, yelling about some sort of deal? Something she hadn’t done, or needed to do? He then threatened something about how ‘mother will hear about this,’ which I thought was weird to say, since they were both clearly adults and didn’t seem related. But that, that got a reaction when all his cursing hadn’t.

The woman slammed her hands on the table and it was like . . . have you ever seen those videos? Where there’s like someone messing with lighter fluid and a flame just burns in a line and flares? It was like that, from her fingers. The flames flared bright and then the light seemed to drain from it but, but the fire was growing? I don’t know how else to describe it besides it was lacking the light of a normal fire despite so obviously being there. It took seconds before it had spread to cover the table and the man screamed. His clothes were caught ablaze and the woman just sat there as the fire raced up her arm, like she was made of accelerant, eyes fixed on the man.

It was about then the situation got through my shock. Some people were rushing the door but the fire was spreading too quickly. I don’t know how long it should take to catch a building on fire but it shouldn’t be that fast.

I was almost to the door when the ceiling above it collapsed, blocking it off. A few people w-were running out when it collapsed and I don’t know what happened to them. Someone was shouting that there was a back exit but with the heat so intense I didn’t trust that I could make it through in time.

But there was a big window in the front, and though there was fire all around it the ceiling above it hadn’t collapsed yet. The fire was so hot I could feel my skin blistering, and I didn’t bother thinking about if there was another safer way. I blocked my face with my arms and flung myself through it.

It hurt, but it could have been worse.

I looked back once I was through, on the pavement, and I saw the woman was still there, sitting in the flames, though she seemed like she was melting. She wasn’t screaming though. I think she was smiling.

Even being outside the building the fire was intensely hot. Someone helped me get further back until emergency services arrived. I hadn’t even realized the extent of my injuries until the paramedics took a look at me? Jumping through a glass window fucked me right up; my forearms were soaked with blood. Luckily I’d had a wool jumper so the fire didn’t get me as bad as it could have. I had to get twenty seven stitches though, to close up the gashes on my arms. My legs got the worst of the burns. It really hurts but nothing to do besides letting it heal. The police asked me if I saw what happened but I didn’t know how to explain it without them thinking I was crazy.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

I’m glad it wasn’t worse.

MARTIN

I’m sorry I couldn’t get anything to welcome you two back. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go in any shops today.

ARCHIVIST

Understandable. If you want we can get lunch together, the three of us. Talk about something besides . . .

MARTIN

Trauma?

ARCHVIST

Yes.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

Mr. Blackwood’s statement brings to mind several other fire-themed statements I’ve recorded in the past. It is . . . concerning to hear about someone able to cause fires, and while I might have hoped this wasn’t caused by the supernatural I have no doubt he’s that unlucky. As am I.

It is concerning how many of these things seemed to have caused trouble not by any fault of his own but simple bad luck.

Moving on, Sasha looked into Nice Buns. There were three casualties reported, though none seemed close to the description of the woman Martin says started the fire. Sasha managed to pull security footage of the surrounding buildings and what she could make out was in line with Martin’s statement. She also managed to get a still of a woman matching the description walking to the Bakery. Unfortunately unless it was stored off site, there is no footage from inside the bakery, as the building was completely destroyed.

Though there was media coverage of the fire the police seemed reluctant to say more and without Tim and his skills with the police we met a dead end for now.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

Supplemental.

I took lunch with Martin and Sasha. I wondered if she might let something slip being around someone not involved with the Institute, but she acted the same as always. I don’t know if this should be comforting or regarded as suspicious. It’s true that Sasha was another candidate for the position of Head Archivist, but I never had cause to think she wanted it enough to . . .

Thinking back though, it was caught on a recording that she felt slighted over not getting the position. While not a motive for Gertrude’s murder, obviously, I wonder if that means I’m in danger. But if it was Sasha, why discover Gertrude’s body? She could have easily kept it concealed, even with Jane Prentiss’ attack.

At least I can be sure Martin is not involved. There is some comfort in that thought. I don’t dare share with him what I’m investigating but it’s something to know there’s one person I’m safe around.

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

Ordering a coffee at the shop was the first thing that tugged at Martin’s mind that something wasn’t right—he didn’t like coffee. The next was when he turned and saw Argus sitting at the table, waiting for him. “Oh no,” Martin whispered but he couldn’t stop himself from walking to the table, breath speeding up when he heard the familiar argument behind him.

And then there was the heat.

The flames spread as fast as he remembered, but there was no window, no doors, no escape this time. It was all engulfed in flames and Martin wanted to run but where could he even run to? It wouldn’t do any good; he knew it wouldn’t do any good, but when the flames touched his chair he still leapt from it and tried to find some way out. He felt Argus’ eyes on him as he tried to avoid the flames that were growing ever hotter, surrounding him and preventing his escape. “No no no no,” Martin was shaking as his back hit the wall. The flames were no longer rushing forward but crawling, inching closer and closer. His skin was beginning to blister from the heat and Martin squeezed his eyes shut, the tears leaking from them evaporating as the flames finally reached him.

He managed to scream for longer than one should when flames were busy charring skin, melting fat and boiling blood.

Martin woke not with a scream, but with a sob. Clinging tight to his pillow he pressed his face into it and didn’t try to stop the tears. He was used to nightmares, but the flames had been the worst yet. Physically he was fine but he couldn’t banish the fear from the dream, the way he had felt the flames consuming him, the way he had smelled his own body being cooked. Even Argus, who’s presence was usually somewhat of a comfort, hadn’t been able to make the nightmare anything but horrid.

It took an hour before Martin found the will to get his cellphone and call out from work. Harriet didn’t question him, only told him if he needed more time to just let her know. He wished he didn’t feel so drained he could appreciate the kindness more.

In the afternoon he finally gave into the exhaustion, and had a dreamless nap.

When he woke up Martin only  left the bed long enough to wash his face and use the bathroom, before he curled up in his blankets again, hiding and hoping he wouldn’t break down again.

After calling out the next day (not that he’d had another nightmare, Martin actually hadn’t been able to sleep till the early AM and thankfully had no dreams at all) Martin made plans that he hoped might make him feel a little better: lunch with Tim.

He’d been able to see Sasha and Jon at the Institute when he gave his statement, and that had settled some part of his worries. He thought seeing Tim might do the same—reassure him that his friend was alive and whole, and not turned into a worm monster.

Tim opted to meet for pizza, and Martin insisted they go to one close to Tim’s place. Tim was still recovering after all, and seeing all of Jon’s bandaged wounds had really made Martin want to tuck him into bed and make him stay there for the rest of his medical leave. Really, that man. At least Jon was receptive to Martin’s fussy text message about making sure he took care of his injuries.

The pizza place was mostly empty when Martin arrived, which wasn’t too surprising being as it was the middle of a work day for most of London. The only people inside were a few uni students seeming to have a study group and Tim, who was lounging in a booth and gave Martin a huge smile when he entered.

The relief he felt seeing Tim was huge. He gave him a one armed hug before sitting in the booth across from him. “Good to see you Tim. You look good all things considered.”

“Thanks. You too, Sasha told me you’d come by to give another statement, about a fire? Christ Martin, you know most people only come to the Institute like . . . once, right? If at all?”

Martin couldn’t help the wry smile. “Oh, I know. Jon and Sasha seemed to have similar concerns. I’d like not to have horrible things happen but I have rotten luck.”

“Putting it mildly. Glad you could make it for pizza at least. I’m not going back to work before my leave is up but I have been going a bit stir crazy in my flat. Sasha has been by on the weekends but during the day it’s just me and the telly.”

Martin considered a moment before shrugging. “You can always come by the library. I’m sure Harriet will let me have you behind the counter if I ask. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m one customer yelling at me away from a breakdown at all times recently.”

“Hell, sounds like it might be nice.” Tim shrugged. “Maybe I can get a few book recommendations too? Most of the stuff at the Institute is a bit spooky and I’d prefer something . . . not, after Prentiss.”

“I imagine. You and Jon really look like you were chewed up by her worms with all the bandages.”

“Sasha’s just lucky she didn’t end up the same. Though, I guess instead she got the trauma of finding a dead body so—”

“WHAT?!” Martin didn’t mean to cut Tim off but what the fuck? A dead body?

“Oh, she didn’t mention it? Yep.” Tim popped the p. “Gertrude Robinson, the previous Head Archivist, went missing with enough blood loss the police figured ‘hey she’s likely dead’ and Elias hired a replacement—Jon. Turned out she’d been killed and stashed in the tunnels.”

Martin slumped against the booth, taking a moment to digest that. Great. New fear unlocked. He couldn’t wait to have nightmares about Jon, Tim or Sasha being murdered in tunnels. Might as well add it to the repertoire. Why not. “Why would someone kill her?”

“No idea. Sasha said it looked like she was shot, but the police won’t tell us anything. Don’t think they even care. It’s been a month and no one’s been interviewed. And I mean, when she went missing there wasn’t much of an investigation either, despite there being a fuck off amount of blood.”

Great. Not that Martin trusted the police, but this was supposed to be the one thing they actually did that was worthwhile. But no, of course not.

“Enough talk about all that though,” Tim waved his hand a little. “Let’s figure out what pizza we’re getting. My vote is for Hawaiian. Sasha says pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza but I tell her neither do tiny gross fish but no one makes a big deal about anchovies.”

Martin hadn’t known it was possible to feel exhausted in a dream, but he felt the weight of his fatigue as he entered the café. His eyes found Argus’ many and he made his way to the table, trembling. “This again?” he whispered, trying not to whimper as the argument started. “I can’t, I can’t Argus, not this again, I can’t.” There was a flare of heat behind him . . .

And then he was plummeting. A different terror rushed through Martin’s veins as he fell through the sky, unending blue all around him. And yet even as the fear clawed at him he sobbed in relief.

Argus fell beside him and somehow Martin was sure he was the cause of it, the reason the nightmare changed from one scene of terror to another—something that still made his heart beat rabbit-quick with fear, but was still better than the flames.

Reaching out as he fell, he ignored the pain of windburn on his exposed skin as he tangled his fingers in the edge of the shirt he could barely make out under the eyes. “Thank you,” he tried to say, though falling at terminal velocity did make speaking near impossible. Still, Martin once more knew that Argus had heard him and understood.

Groaning as he woke up from the dream of endless falling, Martin rubbed his face. He knew better than to stand too fast after those nightmares—there was always a little lingering vertigo for a few minutes. Looking up at the ceiling he spared a moment to wonder how Argus had been able to pull Martin from one nightmare to another. Sure, it would have been nice if he hadn’t been plunged right into another nightmare, but he had realized Argus never showed up in his nice dreams.

He only showed up in those sorts of dreams, where he woke up still feeling the fear.

It was strange.

At least this nightmare wasn’t going to make him miss work. Tim had mentioned he might be coming by, and Martin was rather looking forward to it. He didn’t usually have something he was really looking forward to at work.

Before he could worry about work though, he pulled out his phone. Opening his phone’s gallery, he scrolled through the folder of cute cat pictures he’d saved and picked one for the day: a cat in an adorable little business suit costume. It had become a bit of a morning ritual for him while Jon was recovering, and Jon had confessed a few days ago how nice it was to see an adorable cat first thing in the morning, so Martin was not planning on stopping anytime soon. Honestly, most of their text conversations lately had just been sending cat pictures back and forth.

It wasn’t that Martin minded, but they’d been talking about other things more before Jon went back to work. He worried Jon was working too hard again, but there was little he could really do about that. Jon had enough on his plate without Martin nagging at him.

And even if he wanted to nag, Martin had work to ready for. He was working opening shift this week, and it wouldn’t do to be late. Harriet was frazzled enough by his run of bad luck that if he was late she might leave work and barge into his apartment to ensure he wasn’t being attacked by some horrible worms or had caught on fire or kidnapped by cannibal clowns or whatever horrors she could come up with.

It was nice, in a way. Not that he liked causing his boss to worry but having people fret about if he was okay, asking him how he was doing and meaning it. He really did appreciate it.

When he felt the heat of flames, his eyes didn’t look for the fire but for Argus. It was a relief when he saw him, all eyes fixed on him before beginning to glow one by one. Martin couldn’t help the fear that ran bone deep, but there was something almost akin to relief as the café around them went dark.

For a moment he could tell where Argus was by the glowing eyes, but they went out one by one. Martin still made his way towards them, holding out his hand and trying to ignore the growling further in the darkness. “It is you changing the nightmares, isn’t it Argus? Though I don’t know how.” He couldn’t expect an answer, but after a few of these he was positive about it.

The growl rumbled closer, and Martin could barely hear steps in the darkness coming towards him, unhurried. Something in the darkness, some unavoidable monster, was out there. Everything was so dark, so Martin didn’t know where to go.

He didn’t see the gore when the beast attacked someone, but he could hear it and recognized the screams. He’d never been able to forget the way Sandy had screamed in that darkness back at the library. This time the scream didn’t cut out, but grew louder as he heard flesh ripping and bones breaking under the force of whatever lurked in the darkness.

Finally her screams died out, but that only meant whatever lurked in the darkness was done with her. A growl rumbled from everywhere in the dark, and Martin didn’t know if it was better to try and run or stay where he was. How could he know running wouldn’t lead him right into the monster of the dark?

So he stayed still until he felt hot breath on his skin. For a second he stood there paralyzed, but before the teeth could catch him he flung himself into a run in the opposite direction. It might be faster to let it kill him, but he couldn’t bring himself to just stay there.

Unfortunately he only got a few steps before he collided with something—no, someone. He recognized the body from the countless nightmares they’d spent together. Besides, it wasn’t the first time terror had led him to crash or cling to Argus. “Argus,” his words were hasty as he felt the presence in the dark draw closer. “Thank you, for changing them.” There was hot breath on his skin again and he felt pinpricks of teeth beginning to close down around his leg. Slowly, as if savoring the terror it caused him. “This is better.”

It was the last thing he managed to get out before he felt the teeth sink into his flesh and the dark sink into everything he was.

Martin had invested in some concealer to hide how dark the circles around his eyes could get on the days after he had a nightmare. He could practically hear his mother’s scoffs about men who used makeup and what a waste of money it was, but he opted to ignore it in the hopes Harriet wouldn’t threaten to send him home early again.

After making sure he looked presentable, Martin took his phone off the charge and headed out of his flat. While walking he checked his phone—he had already sent his morning cat picture to Jon, so he wasn’t expecting much more besides a possible cat picture in return. Tim and Sasha did text him occasionally, but usually not until they were into the work day and had something weird to mention or something annoying to complain about. Lately it had been about how weird Jon had been, which was a little concerning but Martin tried not to dwell on it.

However, he had a text from Jon today: Does the library have any records regarding the blueprints from the Milbank Prison system or other underground architecture constructed around the same time?

Martin had no idea, but promised he would look. It wasn’t a leap to figure this had to do with the tunnels that Prentiss had been in: Sasha said she was worried how obsessed Jon had gotten with them. It seemed unlikely that the library had anything Jon hadn’t been able to find at the Institute, but Martin would still look.

He was in the middle of asking Jon if there was anything else he should look for when he walked right into someone, dropping his phone. “Oh god, sorry, sorry! I wasn’t looking.”

The man was tall and had long blonde hair that curled in a frankly impressive manner. “It’s fine, no harm done.” He smiled in a way that seemed entirely insincere as he picked up Martin’s phone and held it out. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from talking to the Archivist.” He laughed, like it was funny, and his laugh was strange. It was almost like he was laughing quietly but someone had turned the volume up to be loud. There was also an echo to the laughter, which shouldn’t have been possible in the London street.

Martin opened his mouth to ask something, before thinking better of it and taking his phone. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

The man seemed amused, but said nothing else and Martin hurried past him. He wanted to get to work on time, and didn’t exactly fancy delving into anything that seemed unnatural. He’d had quite enough of that already.

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

MARTIN

—for meeting me so late, I just wanted to tell you right away, it seemed important.

ARCHIVIST

Really, it’s fine Martin. Besides, I was still at work.

MARTIN

Which is concerning Jon, it’s half ten.

ARCHIVIST

There’s a lot to do.

MARTIN

Hm.

[CLEARLY SILENTLY JUDGING]

ARCHIVIST

Do you want something to drink? Since we are doing this in the break room instead of the Archives proper. We have tea, instant coffee, I think Sasha has some juice and Tim always has seltzer water somewhere . . .  

MARTIN

I could murder a cuppa. Mind if I make it? It, it’s calming.

ARCHIVIST

Help yourself. There’s milk in the fridge.

[SOUNDS OF MUGS BEING SET DOWN AND A KETTLE BEING TURNED ON]

ARCHIVIST

You don’t seem, I mean, you look better than I expected with your call. No new injuries?

MARTIN

Oh! Yes, well this wasn’t . . . it was proper weird, but they . . . if you hadn’t been mentioned I wouldn’t have even come here to tell you about it. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the fire or worms or any of that. Just weird.

ARCHIVIST

Sorry, I was mentioned?

MARTIN

I mean I assume it’s you. You’re the only ‘Archivist’ I know of. He didn’t use names? Didn’t even like the name it gave for itself, ‘Michael.’

[SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH]

MARTIN

Then again, even that was confusing. Everything about them was. But they didn’t seem malicious. Not like Jane Prentiss or Mike towards that guy or the woman at the coffee shop.

ARCHIVIST

I see.

MARTIN

Here.

ARCHIVIST

Oh, thank you. You didn’t need to make me one too . . .

MARTIN

It’s no trouble.

ARCHIVIST

So what exactly happened?

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

I ran into Michael on Wednesday—while we were texting about the books on Milbank Prison actually. I mean that literally, I wasn’t paying attention and slammed right into him. He was taller than me, with this blonde hair that was long and fell in loose ringlets. I was mortified but he just smiled at me, though it didn’t seem sincere. “It’s fine, no harm done. I wouldn’t want to keep you from talking to the Archivist,” they said and laughed, but it wasn’t a normal laugh. I thought it was downright eerie that it knew who I was texting, but honestly I want to avoid strange things as much as possible so I didn’t ask and headed to work.

The next time I saw him was at work on Thursday. He was sitting at one of the tables, just seeming to watch the patrons. They didn’t have any books, but I thought maybe he was meeting someone. But after an hour passed they was still just sitting there so I went over and asked if he needed help finding something. “Perhaps.” Which wasn’t helpful? He then said I could call him Michael. The way they phrased it was strange and I asked if it was his actual name. I kept my tone light but I was waiting for him to reveal it was, I don’t know, something spookier than Michael.

But I suppose Jane or Mike wasn’t very spooky either. Hell, Mike might have even been short for Michael. Maybe Michael is the spookiest name.

Whatever I expected though, it wasn’t for them to look so deeply displeased with that question. “It is a name.”

I glanced over to the front but saw there wasn’t anything that Harriet couldn’t handle so I saw down in one of the empty chairs. “But not your name?”

“No. But it is close to fitting.” It drummed its fingers on the table and then looked past me. “It doesn’t matter what I am, I couldn’t describe it even if I wanted to. After all, how would a melody describe itself when asked?”

It was then I started getting an idea of why they could be here? I told him I might have some book recommendations that could help. It seemed open to that at least so I lead it to our LGBTQA+ section. I’ve been helping Harriet make sure we have a lot of current books, so people who are questioning or trying to learn more have proper reference.

I told Michael that they couldn’t check any out without a card, but pointed them to some books I thought might help them navigate the whole identity things. He seemed interested at least, and I left him to it. I didn’t see them again in the library that day, and figured they left.

And then I saw him on my way home.

There’s a café I pass when going from the tube to my flat. I worked till closing on Thursday so it had been closed for hours by the time I passed by it but I saw Michael sitting there. I looked anywhere else and tried to ignore that they were even there.

When Michael was in line at the coffee shop I get my morning tea at, I realized they weren’t going to just go away. It waved me over after it got its order, so I got out of line to see what they wanted—I felt like there wasn’t much of a point in trying not to. When I reached them they offered me the drink, saying it was for me. I took it and thanked Michael, though I had no intention to drink it.

He asked me to come with them. That it was important. I apologized but explained I couldn’t because I had work. Michael seemed confused by that, even though they’d seen me there. I offered maybe after work, mostly because I didn’t want to be kidnapped or filled with worms or something horrible because I was completely blowing them off. That only seemed to confuse it more. It said “time is hard,” which I realized was the only explanation I was going to get.

Michael then said he would see me when I came that way again, which I took to mean he was going to wait for me to be done with work, and then without saying anything else he went to sit at a table by the window.

I wasn’t about to complain about them being rude, so I left for work. The tea they’d handed me looked like my normal order, but I was too worried it was tampered with so I binned it once I got to the tube station.

The thing is, Michael was waiting when I passed by the coffee shop on my way back. It’s open late, so when I spotted Michael though the window I walked inside. I ordered us both a hot chocolate and brought them to the table before sitting down. Michael seemed amused by the drink, but they took it at least.

“You should come with me, Martin Blackwood.” I didn’t like that it knew my full name. “I want to talk to you about your Archivist.”

I was so blindsided I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Are you full of worms?” Why did I even ask that? It’s not like he’d tell me if they were!

Thankfully, instead of being offended or concerned, that made Michael laugh. “No, I was not friends with the Flesh Hive before she died, and she is dead. Very dead. Piles of ashes now. As I said, this has to do with your Archivist, and is a matter of importance if you are to continue to enter those Archives.”

It would have been smarter to say no and walk away. I tried to tell myself that I was too worried about what they would do if I refuse but I think I was just too curious about what they meant. So I agreed.

Michael led me out of the coffee shop and down the street. He stopped once we’d passed a few buildings, and tapped his knuckle on a yellow door. “In here.”

As soon as I stepped inside, I realized how bad of an idea it was.

Inside the doorway was an impossible corridor. There were colors in the green-patterned wall that didn’t make sense, the yellow carpet had some endless spiraling design and I instantly felt disoriented. I almost fell into the wall—I would have if Michael hadn’t helped steady me. When I turned to thank them, they no longer looked like they had before. Its form was distorted—his limbs and body were now unnaturally thin and wavered like heat on asphalt, while their hands were larger and seemed like all the bones that had been in Michael’s body now resided in its hands. The fingers were different too, longer and sharper looking.

Despite how different Michael looked, they didn’t seem to want to attack me. The corridors were dizzying enough that if he had left I would have been lost instantly, but they stayed beside me. One thing I noticed, as we walked, was that we kept going right. It was impossible, sometimes we’d only go forward a few meters before turning right, sometimes the halls seemed to stretch on and on, but it was just always right turns

It was then I realized the mirrors weren’t all mirrors. Some were photographs and paintings of the same corridors. Some were windows that seemed to lead to the same corridor.

“The Archivist will cause your death.”

That certainly got my attention off the vague nausea and dread I’d been feeling. I looked at Michael, and he looked more serious than they had since I first met them. I didn’t even know how to respond to that. I mean, no offense Jon, but I’m pretty I could take you in a fight if I had to. So I just ended up telling it: “Jon wouldn’t hurt me.”

“The Archives have always been a place of danger. The Archivist saw people as pieces in her games. There to be ignored until they could be used or sacrificed. If you go near, you too will be one of them, and you too will be dead.”

It was a lot to try and parse out, and the hallways didn’t help. I mean, how could archives be a place of danger? Worms aside, since that was my fault they even came here.

ARCHIVIST

Martin . . .

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

But one thing I had noticed was that Michael said she. You told me how your predecessor was . . . yeah. So I asked if he meant you, or someone else. They laughed. The sound echoed in a way it shouldn’t have, and it was making my head hurt a bit so I stopped walking. It stopped walking too, though it couldn’t seem to stop laughing.

Finally, even though the laughter was still echoing, they started talking. “All of the Archivists of the Institute are the same.” I told him that didn’t really answer my question, and asked what the name of the Archivist was. I don’t know if it was because of the way my head was pounding but the answer they gave made even less sense. “There is no such thing as a real name.”

The headache and nausea were getting a bit bad so I leaned on the wall. I didn’t think it would give me any straight answers and while it didn’t seem openly malicious to me I was beginning to feel so disoriented and ill I began to wonder if that mattered. So I asked Michael what he wanted from me.

“I was curious, seeing you walk in and out of the Archive, getting more and more marks yet remaining unclaimed.” I don’t really know what that means, but if he was commenting on my poor luck with dates and how single I am, I didn’t appreciate it. Though I don’t know what that would have to do with coming into the Archives unless—well, it doesn’t matter.

I told him that if he was done being curious, I would really like to leave. This seemed to amuse him and he tapped a finger on the wall behind me. Suddenly there was a door where my back had been resting on solid wall. I don’t know how it got there, but I moved away from the wall and opened it.

Through the doorway was my flat.

I don’t know how but I walked through and it was definitely my flat. Michael followed me through, returning to his normal appearance as he did, so I offered him tea. They accepted and I was just glad to have something easy I could do. I made us both tea and offered it to him in blue mug with little yellow flowers on it. He took it in his hands and stared at it for a long moment.

“Stay away from the Archivist. Entering the Institute will only put you in danger. There are worse things than the Flesh Hive, there are things that would slip into your skin hidden under the Eye.” And then he walked into my wall and through a door that hadn’t been there before and was no longer there after he passed through.

I . . . I finished my tea and figured I ought to give you a call.

ARCHIVIST

I see. We’ve encountered a creature going by the name Michael before that matches this description, but I’ll need to talk to Sasha tomorrow and get her opinion.

MARTIN

Just be careful Jon. If the Institute is really so dangerous . . . I’ve only been a few times, but you, Tim and Sasha work here. I was worried enough with Prentiss attacking and Sasha finding a corpse, but if Michael McKnifehands the random spooky creature thinks it’s dangerous here . . .

ARCHIVIST

Yes. I . . . I’ve been erring on the side of caution lately.

MARTIN

Good. Maybe some of that could be not dying of overwork? Seriously Jon, half ten and you’re still here. I think that you—

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Martin didn’t seem to notice I was recording our conversation. I do intend to transcribe his statement and ask Sasha to take a look, but I doubt we’ll get more insight into the being that calls itself Michael. At least Martin was unharmed in this; though I am concerned with the warning he was given.

Danger in the Archives. Could this Michael be talking about Gertrude’s killer? But then why would Martin be at risk? From what I can tell his contact with the Institute has only ever extended to giving statements after her death.

Either way, I think Martin might be right—spending these extra hours at work is starting to wear on me, and I can’t afford weakness until I know who killed Gertrude.

MICHAEL

I hardly see why that would matter.

[CLATTER OF CHAIR BEING PUSHED BACK]

ARCHIVIST

W-Where did you come from? The Institute is closed!

MICHAEL

It is.

ARCHIVIST

This place is off-limits!

MICHAEL

I disagree.

ARCHIVIST

Who even let you in here?!

MICHAEL

“Let?”

[LAUGHTER THAT SEEMS ALMOST TO OVERLAP ON ITSELF]

MICHAEL

I’m afraid that isn’t how this works.

ARCHIVIST

You’re him.

MICHAEL

Yes.

ARCHIVIST

Michael.

MICHAEL

That is a real name.

ARCHIVIST

Are you here to kill me?

MICHAEL

No.

ARCHIVIST

Oh. Why are, why are you here?

MICHAEL

A warning, Archivist. To be careful with the Unclaimed Martin. He was amusing, and kind, things that means I am interested in him continuing.

ARCHIVIST

Well, I don’t know what you believe but I have no intention of harming Martin.

MICHAEL

And yet your Mark is all over him. Curious.

ARCHIVIST

Mark? What does that mean?

MICHAEL

I will say nothing further. I wouldn’t wish to tarnish your ignorance prematurely. Just take care of your Martin Archivist, and of your Assistants, before you lose them.

Goodbye, Archivist.

[SOUND OF A DOOR CREAKING OPEN AND THEN CLOSING]

ARCHIVIST

Good Lord, what was . . .

Hm.

It seems he left a mug on the counter. A yellow mug with blue flowers.

I’m not sure what to make of this.

End recording.

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

It was only right turns.

Every time he took a turn in the hallway it looked like the others he had passed. The same carpet, the same wallpaper—but wasn’t the green pattern on the wall before, and the yellow the carpet? At some point they had changed, or was it that his mind was wrong?

He passed mirrors and he didn’t see himself in it. He saw the hallways reflecting back and back and back, but not hint of where he was inside them.

There was a grinning man in the painting he passed, with hands too full of bones and knives.

There was a man who was all eyes in the paintings he passed, and Martin wished he could stay in talk but maybe, maybe this was the turn where he could find the door out of this place?

He turned right, and the hallway stretched on. It looked like the others he had passed. The same carpet, the same wallpaper—but was the green pattern full of eyes, and the yellow full of spirals? At some point they had changed, or was it that his mind was wrong?

Up ahead there was a right turn in the corridor. He just had to keep going. Maybe this one would lead out.

Waking up to a wave of nausea wasn’t pleasant, but it was a lot more manageable than slamming into the floor, or having to check for worms. “Ginger tea,” Martin muttered to himself as he got out of bed. Grabbing his phone from where it was charging he headed to the kitchen, trying to ignore the roll of his stomach as he put on the kettle.

Flipping through his gallery, he selected a cat picture to send to Jon before pausing to press a hand to his mouth as the nausea tried to convince him that everything inside needed to be outside. God, at least when he had left Michael’s hallways the nausea had gone away, but of course a nightmare didn’t give him that courtesy.

Thankfully the tea he made did help and by the time he was leaving for work he felt fine. The only thing that nagged at him a little was how while Jon had seen the cat picture, it stayed on Read, with Jon sending nothing in return.

It was nothing really, Jon didn’t always send things back, but with Michael’s warnings about danger, Martin still worried.

The scent of smoke and the flicker of flames still made Martin flinch even if the nightmare never lingered past those first few terrifying moments. Martin was sure it was due to Argus, but there was no way for Argus to really explain it to him.

So instead he held tight onto Argus’s arm (though always careful of the eyes, he was All Eyes but there was still enough arm to hold onto) as the darkness smothered the flames and the smell of smoke was replaced with the stench of brackish water. The terror that rushed through him at the growl he could hear never got any easier to manage, and Martin braced himself as there was a sound of the scrape of claws somewhere in the void.

The fear might never get less, but keeping his hand on Argus’ arm made it easier to suffer through somehow.

“Sorry, what?” Martin almost wanted to ask if Tim was joking, but he sounded far too serious for that.

“Like I said, he’s taken pictures of me, and at least one of my place? I think he’s stalking us, Christ. Sash saw the pictures in his office when she went to check on him before we headed off. He said it was for a ‘performance review thing’ and that he had ‘confidential files’ that she wasn’t allowed to look at legally. Which is all total bullshit.”

Dragging a hand over his face, Martin thought back to how Jon had barely responded to the cat texts he sent, except last week when Martin asked if he still wanted him to send them. Jon had responded with a yes but hadn’t responded to Martin’s follow up query of how he was doing.

Well, this is how he was doing apparently. Stalker-ish.

“Plus he keeps going down into the tunnels.”

“Sorry, the ones full of dead worms where Sasha found a body?”

“Yeeeeeep.” Tim sighed audibly. “We saw him coming up out of them when we came into work the other day. Didn’t even look like he’d slept. Maybe he didn’t. He has a cot he keeps in Document Storage for christsake.”

Martin rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh of his own. “That doesn’t sound healthy.”

“Trust me, nothing about any of this seems healthy. We got snacked on by monster worms at work. Double boss called it a workplace hazard.” There was a pause and Martin wished there was something he could offer Tim to help. His immediate thought was to make Tim a cup of tea, but he couldn’t do that over the phone. “I mean, we’re supposed to be archiving not dealing with supernatural monsters and our boss losing his damn mind.”

Martin still didn’t know what to do to help, but when Tim asked him if he wanted to come to the pub Friday with him and Sasha, it seemed like the least he could do.

Knock knock knock.

Martin tried to ignore Prentiss knocking on the door to the break room. He had shoved everything he had around the door to block out the worms but one or two constantly were making it in, so he had to keep circling the room to stomp them before they could get to him. Argus was watching from the couch and Martin would glance at him every time he circled in front of the couch on his rounds.

“It’s been months, you know?” He said as he stomped down on a worm. “It’s November. Prentiss showed up before spring even.” Twisting his heel a bit to make sure the worm was truly dead he went back to pacing around the room. “You’d think my brain would let me move on, but nope! No no, Martin gets to suffer from, from worm ptsd forever!”

One of the worms was almost out of sight, wiggling by the bottom of the counter, but Martin managed to get it with the toe of his shoe.

“And I know she’s dead—Jon told me, Michael told me, but I just, logic doesn’t help with how bloody terrifying it is!” Flopping on the couch beside Argus, he let out a long sigh. “Even realizing it’s a nightmare should help but I think the Knowing it’s a nightmare and I still can’t escape just makes me feel more helpless.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, though Martin made sure not too linger too long. Soon enough he got up to squish the worms that had gotten through. He hated this. The way every worm caused fresh fear to bloom, the way he knew it was hopeless but he had to keep trying.

“At least I have someone to talk to,” Martin said more to himself then his silent watcher. There was still a fear from being seen, but it wasn’t like he suffered that all the time anyways. Argus didn’t seem to judge him for what he saw, even when Martin rambled or cried or screamed in terror. He just watched, and while his gaze was piercing there was something almost sympathetic and kind in those many eyes.

“Shitshitshit!”

Martin was rushing through his flat, trying to gather his things. He’d woken up late then spent too long inspecting himself for worm, and now there was no way he’d get to work on time. He only hoped Harriet would lenient about it—she did worry over him, but could get a bit snappish when someone was late.

Managing to toe his shoes on he didn’t think twice before grabbing the matte black doorknob and yanking the yellow door open. It was only when he was already through that he realized his door was brown and this wasn’t the hall outside his flat but the library.

There was an echoing laugh behind him but Martin didn’t turn fast enough to thank Michael for the help.

Martin was cooking when he got the call from Sasha. It wasn’t anything fancy, but he did have to move around the kitchen so he put the phone on speaker. “Hey Sasha.”

“Hey Martin. Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Nothing exciting, just cooking up some pasta.” He stirred the noodles so they didn’t stick together and then checked on how the sauce was coming. He actually was making it this time instead of having it straight out of a jar (though he did have a backup jar of alfredo just in case).

“Oh nice. Did I ever tell you about the time I was cooking at Tim’s? We were making spaghetti, and I thought it would be funny to break the noodles in half before putting them in. He acted like I had shot someone. Banned me from cooking pasta ever again at his flat.”

Martin snorted. He didn’t personally see why it mattered, breaking the noodles made it sound like it would fit better, but apparently Tim didn’t agree. “Sounds like a good way to get out of cooking.”

“It was. About a month later he came around to mine for a movie night, and I did the same thing.” Sasha was laughing so hard she couldn’t speak. “The look on his face—he almost walked out!”

Martin wondered if they were good enough friends to have the both of them around for dinner sometime. Maybe let Sasha cook spaghetti.

“Well, nothing as drastic is happening here. I’m trying to make my own sauce, which it seems to finally be thickening somewhat . . . ” Martin wouldn’t mention the five minutes he had been sure it was far too watery and he’d wasted the ingredients. “But anyways, what’s going on with you? Figured you had a reason to call besides Tim’s spaghetti trauma.”

“Right. I . . . I wanted an outside opinion? You’re the only person I could think of who knows me, Tim and Jon who doesn’t work for the institute.”

“Well, I’m full of opinions.” Martin checked the sauce before pulling out some bread and slicing it. Might as well make a little cheese bread to go with his meal.

“So you know about the whole . . . Jon situation? It’s not gotten better. He’s not openly stalking us anymore but he’s been recording conversations, and I saw him looking through my desk after hours the other day. He also interrogated Tim—did Tim tell you about that?”

Martin shook his head before remembering Sasha couldn’t see him through the phone. “He sent me a text that Jon was a dick, but when I asked if he wanted to talk about it he said he would rather die, so I sent him about a dozen cat pictures instead.”

“Well, Tim used to work in publishing, but changed jobs to work here for personal reasons. Jon apparently thought that was suspicious and screamed at Tim, accusing him of lying and planning on killing him and just . . . it was a mess.”

“God. I can’t imagine that.”

“So, I was thinking about having an . . . an intervention of sorts? But if it’s just me and Tim, I’m not sure Jon will listen.” Oh, Martin hoped she wasn’t going to ask him to come . . . “Do you think bringing this all up to Elias—oh, he’s the head of the institute—do you think that would be worth it? I don’t want to necessarily get Jon fired, but . . . ”

Martin closed his eyes a moment, and put his crush on Jon aside. This had been going on a while, since around the time Tim had gotten back he thought? Or that’s when he’d started hearing about it. And that had been in September. It only seemed to be escalating. “At this point, bringing it to Elias might be the best idea. You can frame it so he knows you don’t want Jon fired, but you and Tim don’t deserve to have all of this to deal with. It could just be that Jon needs to see someone about his trauma. I . . . I get the idea he’s not good at taking care of himself.”

“That’s putting it mildly. But . . . thanks. I just want things to get better. For Jon to at least trust me and Tim.”

“I wish I could do more to help.”

“No, really Martin, talking it out with you, and just knowing you’ll listen and not judge us or something. It means a lot to me, and I know Tim feels the same.”

Martin had been following Michael, but they kept going faster and faster. Martin tried to call for it to slow down, but his throat was so parched that he could barely make a sound. How long had he been here? Michael turned a corner in front of him and Martin tried to hurry after them but the patterns of the carpet and wall were blending into each other and he ended up stumbling, falling against the wall.

When he managed to get back to his feet, Martin couldn’t remember which turn Michael had taken. Both were the same distance from him.

He was utterly lost.

Still, he couldn’t give up and stay here. So Martin kept walking even when his legs felt like lead, and his stomach rumbled, and he felt so thirsty. It felt like it had been days. Weeks? Years? Had he always been here?

Passing a mirror, Martin glanced at it and froze. That wasn’t his reflection.

For a second he couldn’t look away, trapped in impossible gaze that Looked back. It cut through the confusion in the hallways, the way his mind was lost and distorted within them. It hurt to be Seen like this, like he was flayed open and everyone was watching, but the clarity was worth it.

“Argus.”

His legs gave way and he fell to the ground. Martin must have hit the mirror because when he looked it was beside him, Argus still reflecting back, watching. Martin reached his hand to touch the mirror and the Argus inside it moved his hand in time, their fingers pressed against each other, separated through the glass.

“Glad you’re here,” Martin whispered, though it didn’t help how sore and painful he was scared. At least he wasn’t here in these impossible hallways alone.

Coming back with the drinks, Martin handed them out to Tim and Sasha before sitting down at the table. “To the end of the week.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Tim took his pint and downed it a little faster than Martin thought was healthy, but he didn’t mention it. Instead he began drinking his own. “I’m taking a day Monday, just to stay out of the basement a bit longer.”

That didn’t sound good. “Did the intervention not work? I thought your um, ‘double boss’ provided CCTV recordings to prove you were both innocent?”

 Sasha rested her head on her hand and sighed. “He did. And I’m pissed Elias was sitting on that while Jon just spiraled into paranoia. Still, we were hoping it would help Jon relax at least somewhat but . . . ”

“It hasn’t?” Martin wouldn’t lie, he had been hopeful when Sasha mentioned there had been proof to put Jon at ease.

“Don’t know.” Tim glared at his now-empty glass. “He apologized to us for ‘undue suspicion’ after he watched the footage, and then hasn’t said a word to us since. He’s just locked himself in the office. We know he’s in there, we can hear him recording and yesterday heard him knock something over, but he’s in before us and leaves after. Emails us instructions and . . . ugh. I don’t want to have to worry about him after he’s literally stalked me but there you go.”

“Do you think you could try talking to him Martin?” Sasha was worrying her lip a little. “Nothing we’ve tried has helped and he didn’t seem . . . paranoid about you, even if he hasn’t been texting you back. It might be something?”

Martin shrugged. “I can try.” He pulled out his phone and considered a moment before writing a text: Jon, haven’t heard from you for a while. Would you want to catch up over lunch this weekend? It felt a bit too bold but Martin was worried about Jon just cutting himself off from everyone. For better or worst he sent it.

By the time Tim got the second round, Jon had replied:  Sorry, busy this weekend. It wasn’t telling Martin to sod off but he still felt the sting of rejection mix with the worry. Showing Sasha and Tim, both frowned as well. “I can keep trying,” Martin offered. “He can’t use the busy excuse forever right?”

Tim and Sasha exchanged looks. “Bossman is always busy . . . ”

“But you’re right, we should all keep trying.”

“Why are you so upset?”

“CHRIST Michael!” Martin had jolted so bad he almost fell down the stairs. Looking around he spotted the open door on the ceiling of all things, Michel casually leaning against the doorframe, ignoring things like gravity because of course they were.

“Why are you so upset?”

“Well you just popped up out of nowhere and scared the daylight out of me—”

“You were upset before that.” Michael paused, tilting its head too far to the right. “Though that was amusing.”

Rolling his eyes, Martin climbed the last few steps, not even surprised when he heard Michael following him. “Well, sure, I was a bit upset. Jon’s not doing well. I tried to meet with him but he said no.”

“The Archivist is why you’re upset?” Michael sighed and for some reason it echoed loudly in the hallway. “What a waste.”

Pulling out his keys, Martin scowled. “You might think so but—”

“The Archivist is a danger. But you don’t seem to care.” Michael walked through Martin’s door before he’d unlocked it and Martin hoped secretly that this conversation was done. Opening his door proved it was not, Michael was lounging on his couch.

“What do you want?”

“I want to help. We are . . . something like friends, I think. It has been a long time since I had a friend. The last one I had tore out his veins and dissolved himself into crimson mud.”

“That’s . . . disturbing.”

“I do not want something similar to happen to you. So I will help, I think. Yes. It does go against my nature to help an Archivist, but to distort myself in such a way is part of my nature so it should balance out.”

“What?”

“If you want to coax out an Archivist, you simply need to lay the right bait.”

Martin walked to the kitchen, wanting tea if he was going to listen to Michael’s . . . nonsense. “He’s not a wild animal.”

“Isn’t he? A wild Archivist is just as dangerous. So is a tame one, of course.” Martin hadn’t even lost his buzz, yet already he was beginning to feel like he had a hangover with how Michael was talking. “As I said, you need to set the right bait. An outing, a friendship, kind concern, none of that will work. What you need to catch an Archivist’s attention, is a Statement.”

“A statement?” Martin poured the hot water and sighed. It would be an excuse to see Jon but it wasn’t like anything really statement worthy had happened recently. Some odd things, mostly involving doors but nothing he could turn into a full statement. “I don’t know if I have anything.”

“I could trap you in my hallways,” Michael offered as a joke. At least Martin thought they were joking. “It doesn’t need to be a good statement. Just something to draw the Eye’s attention. The Archivist will be after a statement like a shark after blood.”

Not the best comparison but . . . “Does it need to be a proper spooky one? Or could it just be something weird.” The wheels in his head were turning, and something he hadn’t thought about properly in years, but was at least unusual, came to mind.

Michel seemed to consider, before tilting his head. “It needs to be true, to lure your Archivist, but how spooky or not . . . ”

Walking over and handing Michael his tea, Martin couldn’t help a small grin. “Then I might just have a story for him.”

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Thanks for making time for me. Like I said over the phone, it’s not urgent, just . . . well, I got a postcard from her this weekend, and it brought things back.

ARCHIVIST

Of course. I don’t mind making time for you Martin. And I’ll admit I’m a bit curious about a ‘weird memory’ you had.

MARTIN

Still, it means a lot. Maybe after I can treat you to a late lunch? If you haven’t eaten yet.

ARCHIVIST

There’s no need—

MARTIN

I know. But we haven’t talked much, and I do appreciate this—you.

ARCHIVIST

Alright, if you’re sure.

MARTIN

Great! Should I just get to it then?

ARCHIVIST

If you don’t mind. Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding a weird memory. Statement recorded direct from subject the fifth of December, 2016. Statement begins.

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

When I was a kid, we lived in Bexley. My mum had moved us there after my dad left. I think she just wanted to get away from everyone who had known us.

I don’t remember exactly when I met our neighbor, Ms. Angela Reeds. She was older lady, I remember thinking back then she reminded me of the Fairy Godmother in Cinderella. She had the same hair, and she always seemed to have an open, welcoming smile. I liked her. I was a lonely kid and she always treated me more like I was a, a grandson than some annoying neighbor kid. When she’d be in the garden I’d always stop and talk with her and she listened, not like how my mum—how some other adults did, where they were waiting for me to shut up.

The important thing is that when money started getting tight, Ms. Angela offered to pay me to help maintain her house and yard.

I liked working for her. I would come home from school, and she would make me some tea before telling me a list of things to do that day. Usually some yard work, sometimes helping her with cleaning the kitchen or doing her dishes. Looking back, I realize she paid me more than the work I did was worth, and that she most likely could have handled everything she hired me for. It was just a kindness on her part.

Sometimes there wasn’t any work to be done, and on those days she would tut at me and say that apparently my job would be to help her with her puzzles. She had a fondness for jigsaw puzzles—most of the pictures in her house were ones she’s completed. I didn’t let her pay me for those days, but she would usually slip a few pounds into my backpack that I didn’t notice till I was home. If I brought it up she would act like she hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.

When I dropped out of secondary to work two jobs, she made it so I could help her on my days off. She’d always ask about my mother. A couple times Ms. Angela asked if I had anything of hers she could use to pray over, but I never remembered to bring anything.

It was in April when it happened. I was exhausted when I came over, so Ms. Angela insisted that instead of working I just help her with one of her puzzles that day—I was too tired from mandatory overtime to argue. I’d been halfway through putting this tree together when someone started banging on the door. Being so tired it really was a shock to hear it, I almost fell out of my chair, but Ms. Angela didn’t seem too bothered. She stood and walked over, opening the door and greeting whoever was at the door like they had knocked politely.

The woman who stormed in didn’t seem to care. She all but shoved Ms. Angela back as she entered, looking around the room frantically like she was looking for something? I don’t know what, but she seemed to give up and just started screaming about how Ms. Angela was ‘ruining things’ and this wasn’t what she wanted.

Ms. Angela nodded and asked if she’d like some coffee, before turning to me and telling me to make her guest a cup. I could tell she was giving me an out, so I wasn’t involved, but I was concerned so I rushed in making the coffee as fast as I could. It was instant, so it wasn’t hard to microwave the water and dump some in.

When I returned to the living room they were both sat on the couch, Ms. Angela smiling sympathetically as the woman complained: “I wanted to get rid of her so he’d be with me, like he’s supposed to be! But as soon as she ended up needing intensive care he wouldn’t leave her side! And then when she finally died, instead of being happy to have another chance with me he yelled at me! Said he was ‘in mourning.’ Like that bitch deserved his grief—just because she met Miguel first and married him—I did everything for him! I saved him from that nagging cunt! And he wants nothing to do with me?!”

The woman had ignored me and the coffee, so I sat it down near her and backed off a bit. I was glad to be ignored in this case; I didn’t really want her to notice me. Ms. Angela patted her shoulder, trying to soothe her. “I did warn you that it might not work like you hoped, but she’s gone now. I can’t do anything to help you with your heartache.”

I really didn’t get it, but the woman was crying and I figured it was none of my business. I headed back to the table, aiming to do my best to ignore the whole situation since it seemed personal? I was going to just focus on finishing the trunk of one of the trees or maybe put my head down to rest. I had almost completely tuned out the two of them when the mug shattered.

I still don’t know exactly what happened. Just that by the time I looked up the woman was about to strike Ms. Angela. I knew I was too far away at this point to stop it, but I got to my feet when all of a sudden the woman . . . stopped. She let out a sound that was almost a sob and then jerked her hand to her mouth and just . . . bit into the flesh. I could hear bone breaking as she bit down again. There was blood spilling from her mouth and she was crying but she wouldn’t stop.

Ms. Angela was just watching her. It took me too long to realize I should call 999, and I ran for the phone I knew was in Ms. Angela’s kitchen. They said they’d send someone right away, but I don’t know if they even believed me.

When I got back to the living room to tell them emergency was on the way, her, her hand it was—on the floor, in a pool of blood. The woman was smeared with gore, and her eyes were blown wide. I think she was sobbing, and she just turned and ran, slamming open the door, leaving her hand behind.

Ms. Angela had me sit down facing away from things, and apologized for that. When the police and medical arrived she explained things as best she could—something about an acquaintance of hers suffering a mental crisis due to a bad break up. I think the police didn’t want to believe us, but the hand was still there and the blood . . . they questioned me, but I wasn’t of much help.

I, maybe it should have put me off visiting and helping, but it didn’t. When we moved I still kept in touch and I visit her on her birthday. Bring some sweets and she’s always happy to see me. We do jigsaw puzzles and I never mention what happened.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

MARTIN

Christ. I, I, Jesus, I didn’t, I didn’t even know I remembered all of that. It was like it was flashing before my eyes, hearing her biting it off and just . . . eugh.

ARCHIVIST

I can see why this memory would be upsetting. Come, we can go to the break room, I’ll make you some tea.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Martin’s story is disturbing, and unfortunately familiar. I was reminded of Statement 0112905, which would have taken place a few years after what Martin witnessed. While Martin has given us a last name, I’m not sure it is in our best interest to contact this Ms. Angela Reeds.

Sasha was able to verify Martin’s statement, in at least the fact the Blackwood family did live in Bexley until 2006, and that their neighbor was a Ms. Angela Reeds. She was also able to find some records of a 999 call to the address in 2005, though nothing else—I wonder if it has to do with the Section 31 mentioned by a previous statement giver.

As the woman visitor was never named, there was little we could do to investigate her. The name Miguel, and taking what we knew from Statement 0112905, led Tim to find what we suspect is the unfortunate Miguel mentioned, a Miguel Whittney and his deceased wife, Jullian Whittney. From what he could find online, Mrs. Whittney supposedly had suffered multiple major injuries, including a loss of a leg in a hit in run, a kidney stolen after she was drugged, something I thought the thing of urban legends, and lost all the fingers on her right hand in some sort of cooking accident. The cause of death isn’t in the online obituary, but there were some comments on the closed-casket nature of her funeral.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Supplemental.

Martin was feeling a bit queasy after giving his statement so I had him rest on the cot for a while. Tim and Sasha seemed especially curious so I told them to investigate the statement. When he woke up I left work early at his insistence to have dinner with him. I told Tim and Sasha they could leave early, but they were still working when I left, and seemed to be whispering between themselves.

It was nice, to catch up with Martin, but I worry being too close to me might put a target on his back.  He seemed concerned though, so I agreed to at least check in with him more often. Martin seems to think my issue is overworking, and I’m glad to leave it at that. The less he knows about the murder and how I’m at risk, the better. I’ve realized Martin can be a bit of a worrier, so hopefully this way I will give him no cause to fret.

At one point Martin asked me about the tension between me, Tim and Sasha. I told him that there was nothing beyond normal workplace issues, though I’m not sure he believed me.

I will admit, while Tim and Sasha are cleared, Martin isn’t wrong about the tension. I remain at a loss of how to talk to them or make amens. I almost wanted to ask Martin, but that would mean confessing about the stalking and I’ve already lost two friends from this, I’d rather not risk the third.  

It might be safer for them to keep a distance from me anyways.

End Supplemental.

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

He couldn’t move, sitting between Angela and Argus, as the woman in front of him bit into her wrist. He wanted to shout for her to stop, but his breath was caught and he couldn’t make more than a wheezing whisper, which was impossible to hear as the crunch of teeth breaking the carpal bones. When she pulled back it was only for a second to spit bone shards and broken teeth and blood on the table before going back in for another bite.

His hands were holding onto his legs so hard it hurt, the fingers digging in, and still he couldn’t manage to look away from the woman even as she spat out a chunk of flesh ripped from her forearm on the table. Her arm was bleeding, some skin hanging in strips from where she tore it in the struggle to bite through the flesh. For a second he can see the broken pieces of bone sticking through the meat of her wrist and had the hysterical thought that oh that’s not white at all before she bit down again and he fought down bile.

“Please make it stop,” he whispered, to her, to Angela, to Argus, to anyone.

Angela tutted lightly and pat his arm, and from the corner of his eye he could see her smile with all her teeth. “Oh Martin, it’s alright.” Her voice was the same soft caring tone it always was, despite the scene before them. “Some hungers are too strong to be denied.”

The sound of bone breaking under teeth only seemed to emphasis her words.

Rinsing out his mouth again, Martin grimaced into the mirror. He had barely made it to the toilet before throwing up. The dream had just been so graphic—just like the memory was now. Martin had never had a nightmare about Angela and what happened that one day before now. Then again, telling Jon all of that seemed to have made the memory come back a lot clearer. Before giving his statement he had only remembered the woman hurting herself, not the grim explanation of how. Now . . .

It was odd though, that he only had the nightmares about Angela after giving his statement about it.

Or maybe it wasn’t odd, since apparently there had been repressed trauma that had gotten unrepressed. If he ever got a therapist, maybe they’d be able to help him figure it out. That might be a good idea, all things considered, but it also sounded like a lot of work, and he was doing fine.

He wasn’t.

Brushing his teeth, Martin opted to skip breakfast. He just didn’t think he had the stomach to eat anything at the moment. Instead he made himself a ginger tea and searched for a picture of a sleepy cat to send to Jon, with the message that Wish I could stay in bed today ):

He was surprised, and delighted, when he got a response almost immediately. Are you not well? Can you call off?

It was a bit of a relief, that Jon was responding and not leaving him on read. Maybe giving the statement had been worth it then, if it meant Jon wouldn’t be isolating himself as much. Bad dreams not worth calling off for, he texted, sipping his tea, hoping the ginger got to work. He didn’t need to give his coworkers more reason to worry about him.

Well, take care of yourself Martin.

The text made him smile dopily at his phone. Yes, giving the statement had been worth it for sure.

He didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to.

The world was blurry from his tears but he couldn’t control his body as his teeth bit down with enough force to rip the skin and tear into the fat and muscles below it. He couldn’t pull his arm away or stop biting, gnawing, crunching even as he felt the splinters of bone cut his lips, even as he sobbed and tried to plead. His frantic eyes met Argus’ and he knew that there was no savior to be found there—Argus was here to watch, he was always here to watch.

Just like Martin, he wouldn’t stop.

 “Are you alright?”

Martin startled a little and looked up. He’d been almost drifting off at the counter. “Oh, hi Oliver.” The man had become a regular. Glancing at the book he raised an eyebrow but didn’t question the strange choice of literature. Corpse: Nature Forensics, And The Struggle To Pinpoint Time Of Death wasn’t something Martin would pick up for some light reading, but it wasn’t the strangest thing Martin had seen Oliver check out. “I’ve just been having trouble sleeping.”

“Insomnia?”

“I wish. No, just . . . really awful dreams.”

Oliver made a bit of a face. “Oh, I know how that is. I suffered from those for a while.” Leaning on the counter he tapped his fingers. “I found a few things that helped at least a little. Not so much with the dream, nothing helped those, but with still getting rest despite them.”

“Honestly I’ll take whatever I can get at this point.” Sliding the book over, Martin offered a smile.

“Let me see if I can find what I was taking specifically.” Taking his book, Oliver returned the smile. “I should have it all written down at home somewhere, once I find it I’ll stop by and hopefully it can help you out some.”

“I appreciate it Oliver.” Waving a bit as Oliver left, Martin slumped on the counter again and pulled out his phone. The nightmares were really wearing on him. Even if they weren’t nightly, they still happened far too often. He could barely remember what normal dreams were like. Even when he had dreams without Argus (who Martin now considered his emotional-support nightmare monster friend) there were never any good dreams. Not anymore.

“Is it strange I’m almost grateful for this?” Martin asked as he turned down yet another impossible hallway, trying to ignore the dread as each turn made him more and more lost and the hallways darker. Argus stared back from the mirrors on the wall, and Martin shrugged a little. “I mean, it’s just nice to get a break from the body horror of it all. I mean, don’t get me wrong, this is terrifying but in a less . . . ” He trailed off as he heard screams somewhere behind him—or was it in front of him? “Visceral way?”

He picked up his pace a little, even though part of Martin knew it was pointless, there was no escape, this might be a nightmare but perhaps this time he would never wake up, never escape from the endless hallways and growing dark, maybe this time he would be lost lost lost lost lost . . .

Taking the pint, Martin nodded to Tim. “So how has work been going?”

“I mean . . .” Sasha started before trailing off and let out out a long sigh. “It’s hard to say. Jon’s been . . .” Her words seemed to fail her again and instead of trying again she took a long drink, leaving it to Tim.

Tim glared down at his pint. “I’m still mad at him. He stalked us, and that’s some bullshit, but he’s just . . . something’s not right with him still. He’s not actively avoiding us, sometimes even will take lunch with us but he’s cagey about anything he’s doing, still working late, we’re sure he’s using the cot again—”

“Christ.”

“And he’s still thinking someone is out to get him—us? Makes sure Tim and I always do follow up together, jumpy around other Institute staff. He set up cameras around the entrance to the tunnels.” Sasha sighed. “He had me help him pick what type to get, though the quality is . . . bad while in the Archives? I  checked the camera itself and it’s working fine. We even took it out and tested it and it’s just in the Archive that its like that.”

“That’s weird. But why is he trying to set up cameras?”

This had Tim let out a dramatic sigh, leaning to rest his head on Sasha’s shoulder. “Well, it seems bossman is convinced someone is sneaking in while no one is here because his files were, quote unquote, moved. Mind you, you’ve seen his desk.”

Martin remembered the last time been in Jon’s office and how messy it had been. There had been files all over the desk when he’d given his statement. Not that Martin didn’t think someone could know when their mess wasn’t right but with Jon’s overall questionable mental state and paranoia, it was concerning. “He’s not accusing you two for that is he?”

“No. Since the CCTV cleared us he hasn’t been suspicious of us. Which is nice but means we don’t really have anything to use as cause for another intervention. Elias barely listened to us before, I’m sure now that things are quiet he wouldn’t care. Not to mention I’m honestly still rightly pissed at Elias. He had that CCTV for who knows how long. He couldn’t tell Jon that the police were reviewing it? Or anything?” Sasha slammed her pint on the table and pointed at Martin. “How would YOU like it if you were pulled into an intervention and then your smug asshole boss just produced CCTV footage that erased all your paranoia that he had for WHO knows how long!?”

Martin raised his hands, unsure how to answer. “Err, bad?”

“Exactly! And that smug misogynistic bastard knew how bad Gertrude’s murder was affecting Jon and did he help, oh no, can’t do anything.”

“Woah Sash, maybe that’s enough. I’m sure Martin doesn’t want to hear your three hour rant on Elias Douchard.” Tim laughed a little, catching Martin’s eye. “Unless you do?”

Martin shrugged. Office politic squabbles sounded like something nicely mundane even with all the weird shit. “Go for it?”

“Oh I will!” Sasha frowned. “So first off, he didn’t even seriously consider me for the position over Jon! Not that I don’t love Jon, he’s great, but I had practical experience in Artefact Storage, and was just a good researcher as he was! I applied before anyone else! I don’t even know if Jon applied . . . ”

There were worms in the break room.

Martin tried to step on them, but there were too many, and he saw the holes in his shoes that meant it was too late. There wasn’t pain, not really, which was even more terrifying. How many were inside him already? How long until he became something like Prentiss? He couldn’t even stop to remove them, there were too many, crawling unceasingly from under the couch, under doors, our from the faucet and empty light socket.

Movement under the skin of his hand, wriggling in that familiar shape, and he slammed his hand on the wall, trying to crush it before it could make him into a home. Slamming again and again until his hand was a mess and worms were writhing in between the bones and tendons. His leg gave way and he saw his body fall to pieces of worm-infected meat, an arm there, a foot to the left, one of his eyes having fallen and rolled to rest between Argus’ feet. “Argus . . . ” Martin whispered as he felt his tongue writhe in his mouth, wishing he could at least reach out, but taking a sort of twisted comfort in the unending gaze.

“Excuse me?”

Martin looked over from where he was shelving books, and offered a smile to the woman who was  shifting from one foot to another. “Can I help you with something?”

“I was wondering if there’s resources to help identify jewelry?”

Offering a smile, Martin nodded. “The more information you have on it, the easier it will be but we have a few guides on identifying different types of jewelry by hallmarks and designs and such.” Directing her where to go, he then almost jumped when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. “If you need any more help just ask any staff, it’s what we’re here for,” he called, before turning to go back to his shelving—or acting like he was at least. Actually, he used the books to shield anyone from noticing him checking his phone.

 It wasn’t from Jon, but Tim. The subject though was unexpected, as was the attached picture: member how we said that we had a youtuber come in before???? got a selfie with her this time!!!!! ever seen ghost hunt uk????

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

—okay? You look . . .

MARTIN

No, not, not really?

[WEAK LAUGHTER]

MARTIN

I’ve never mentioned it, but I’m really claustrophobic, have been since I was a kid. And this, well, this certainly didn’t help!

[VOICE GROWING MORE FRANTIC]

MARTIN

I still, I know I’m out but it was, it was . . .

[SOUND OF MOVEMENT AND RUSTLE OF CLOTHING]

ARCHIVIST

It’s okay now Martin. You’re here, you’re safe. Nothing will get you while you’re in my office.

[SNIFFLING AND THEN A LONG RELEASE OF BREATH FOLLOWED BY MORE FABRIC RUSTLES]

MARTIN

Thanks. I, I thought I was holding it together but, heh, I guess not.

ARCHIVIST

It sounds like whatever happened it was horrible.

MARTIN

It was.

ARCHIVIST

We can take care of you first; you don’t need to do this right away.

MARTIN

I want to. I need to, to tell you what happened.

ARCHIVIST

If you’re sure. Statement of Martin Blackwood, taken the thirteenth of February, regarding . . . ?

MARTIN

Evil jewelry?

ARCHIVIST

Statement Begins.

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

It’s not unusual to have someone come to research something specific. A lot of time people will ask for some pointer on where to look and then get to work on whatever their project is. It’s not enough to stick in my mind usually, so to be honest, I don’t know how often she came in to research things for her work.

I think her name was May. I’m not sure. God, I feel awful for that. She’s dead and I can’t remember her name.

Or. I think she’s dead.

I hope she’s dead.

Anyways, I’d seen May around before, but not enough to know her well. She said she worked for some estate liquidation company, that’s why she was looking up jewelry or dish sets or what have you. Most of the information I assume can be found online, which is why I only occasionally saw her. This time she came in with a locket. It was in a case, that’s what really made me pay attention to it. May noticed me looking and shrugged, said it was instructed to be kept in the case, but that made it hard to tell anything about it.

What also didn’t help was, from what I could see, the thing was dirty. There was some sort of heraldry on it, but it was almost impossible to make out.

May didn’t need much help when she came in, beyond occasionally coming to the front and asking for recommendations on where to find a particular research material. I wouldn’t have even realized what happened if I hadn’t the bad luck of shelving books near her table.

I was halfway through the books when the light catching something caused me to look over. It seemed like May had gotten tired of trying to figure out what the dirt was covering and was taking matters into her own hands. She had a few paper towels around her and had taken the locket out of the case. She was trying clean the thing—and was doing a great job, by how it was shining in the light like that. I wondered if it had inlayed gems or something to sparkle like that.

It was then I felt the rumble. It started low, like a passing car. And it grew until it felt like the whole world was shaking apart. Lights were flickering, the books were falling off the shelves . . . None of which prepared me for the ground to crack open. It was sudden and violent. The floor in the library cracked open, the carpet ripping, and there was no time to move away as May, her table, my book cart and myself fell into the fissure.

May fell where it was deepest, and I heard her screaming for help after I couldn’t see her. I had managed to grab onto some roots sticking out from the ground. The fissure, while deep, was slanted so I began to try and claw my way out. I kept hearing May calling for help, screaming, pleading, but I figured the sooner I was out the sooner I could tell rescue exactly where she was.

It was hard to make my way upward. The dirt and rocks under my feet kept shifting and it seemed like I was always a second from losing my grip and falling into that deep earth under the library. I didn’t dare look back, only focusing on climbing up, on the rebar and broken pipes I could see sticking out from the foundation. I could have cried when I was able to touch concrete instead of dirt. It still took so much effort to climb out; my feet kept sinking too far into the ground.

I know this will sound mad, but it felt like the earth didn’t want to let me go.

Finally though I managed to climb out all the way and rolled away from the opening. I closed my eyes for a moment, catching my breath, and when I opened them . . .

The library was normal. The bookshelves weren’t toppled, my book cart was still half-full beside one. The table was where it had been before all this, the locket covered in dirt and inside its case. But May was gone. And my clothes were filthy and my hands were torn to shreds and I knew it had happened.

I grabbed the case and left work without saying anything. I’ll have to apologize tomorrow but I had to get that necklace somewhere safe. And the only place I could think of was here, where you all know how to handle cursed books and the like. So I handed it over in Artefact Storage and then came down here to give my statement.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

I’m glad you made it out Martin. We should tend to your hands though, they really look quite painful.

MARTIN

They are. I . . . there’s no way she’ll be okay, is there?

ARCHIVIST

I don’t think so. I’m sorry.

MARTIN

Why does this keep happening to me?

ARCHIVIST

I don’t know. Martin, let me take care of you, please. I can’t help with what happened but I can do this at least.

MARTIN

 . . . yeah, yeah that would be nice. They hurt a lot. That new woman in Artefact Storage offered but I just wanted to get out of there. Was a bit sad I didn’t see Sonja though.

ARCHIVIST

You didn’t? She was the one who called and said you were coming down here.

MARTIN

What? No, that was the new girl. Or, I don’t know if she’s new, just I hadn’t seen her when Tim and Sasha took me there for the Leitner lecture. I would have remembered how loud the pattern on her blouse was, almost as bright as Tim’s shirts!

ARCHIVIST

Yes, that’s Sonja. She always wears bright clothes.

MARTIN

Oh, really? She had this strict hard-ass sort of vibe when I met her before. No colors or anything. Maybe that was an off day for her, if she’s normally colorful but . . . well, no never mind. Now that the adrenalin with it all is wearing off, my hands are really hurting.

ARCHIVIST

Yes, right. Let me just—

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

I haven’t followed up on Martin’s statement yet. I don’t know how I would in the first place, with no definite name of the woman who vanished, but more than that . . . I just keep thinking about what Martin said about Sonja. He said she had a “strict hard-ass sort of vibe,” but the Sonja we know is very friendly and I’ve always found her a bit too carefree for working in Artefact Storage. I mean, it’s Sonja. Obviously it’s Sonja.  But . . . something . . . There’s more than one thing in the files that can trick you. I can’t just ignore it. So many stories about things that aren’t as they appear to be. Why Martin, though? If . . . Why . . .

It doesn’t matter. I need to do more research. When Martin came in, I was looking through the box of tapes Basira gave me, trying to decide where to start. Now I think . . . I think I have an idea.

End supplemental.

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

Martin couldn’t find his class. He couldn’t remember what the room number was, or even what building it was supposed to be in. He had written it down, he knew he did, but as he searched his backpack he found nothing that could help. Panic was gnawing at him, he had to find his class, he couldn’t be late, if he missed class he’d be in so much trouble!

Desperately he looked around for a classmate, someone he knew, but they were all strangers and he couldn’t bring himself to bother them. It wasn’t their fault he was a stupid idiot incompetent—

And then the ground opened up and Martin was falling from the more mundane anxiety nightmare into one of dirt and soil. He saw the library above him as he slid down the dirt, reaching for roots which only held him for a second. His eyes met the many eyes of Argus but before he could even scream, something else was screaming—

Jolting awake at the sound of his alarm, Martin didn’t feel the normal dread he did after the nightmares. It had been scary, sure, but it kinda felt like the dream had only started when his alarm went off. Normally when he had those dreams it was an all-night horror fest, this time he still felt more bothered by his stupid anxiety dream—he hadn’t been in secondary in AGES why was he STILL stressing about it?!

At least it was better than if the nightmare had continued.

Halfway through making tea his phone buzzed and Martin grabbed it. And then instantly regretted it when he read only the first line: 👋🏻HEY👋🏻 YOU seXXXy💋 LITTLE😫 💃🏼💃🏼SLUTS💃🏼👅‼️‼️📆Today📆 is 💥FUCKUARY 14TH💥 which means👨🏻DADDY CUPID💘💘 is 💦cumming💦 for you⚠️

“Tim why.”

Apparently, it had been sent as a group text because a second later Sasha was texting: if u ever call me a valenhoe again they will never find ur body

Martin was glad she knew how to respond to this, because he had no idea. He could only imagine Tim was watching the chat with unadulterated glee because a second later he sent back: ): don’t you want COCKolate🍫🍫 or 🥖long😩🍆thicc😱🍆 🌹PLOW-HERS🌷🌷

Martin groaned, checking and yep that had been part of the message apparently. His fingers flew over the screen as he finally sent the only thing he could think of: Tim, stop, I’m begging you.

Instantly he got a reply: oh i love making a cute guy beg

Tim was going to kill him.

Rubbing a hand over his face Martin didn’t respond, instead opening his texts with Jon and sending a small Happy Valentine’s Day! As soon as he sent it, doubt crept in. He hoped it wasn’t too weird to send, but they were friends right? And it wasn’t obnoxious like Tim’s message had been. Just a little message to a friend. Normal. Not at all because he had a crush. Oh god what if that made Jon figure it out?

“Fuck I can’t wait for work.” Mindlessly putting away books actually sounded great right about now.

Martin had forgotten about needing to explain his abrupt departure the previous day what with the whole floor-eating-someone thing, but thankfully he was good at stammering apologies while he thought of an excuse, and finally weaved a story about his mother having a health scare he had needed to get sorted immediately, and just not having the presence of mind to explain it when he rushed off. Thankfully no one had noticed the dirt when he left, and he was given a gentle reprimand about it but nothing serious. Harriet’s soft spot for him once again was his saving grace.

Despite that start to the day, it was a rather pleasant Valentine’s Day. He got a couple Valentine’s Day cards from children stopping by, and Oliver was returning a book and gave him some chocolate while chatting about Victorian era embalming techniques. Tim and Sasha continued to text through the day with Tim defending his horrible copypasta while Sasha (and sometimes Martin, if he was sure he wouldn’t be overstepping) poked fun at it and him.

Jon left him on read, but Martin was just trying not to think about it.

The day ended with Martin lying in bed, watching videos on his phone as he fell asleep, nightmares from the previous night forgotten.

Sitting at the table, Martin tried to focus on the flowers and not the vertigo. Mike was smiling, talking but his words were lost in the rush of wind that was too loud in Martin’s ears.  Beside him sat Argus, eyes bright even as Martin squinted against the wind. Kinda sad, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t leave his throat when falling at terminal velocity, that this is the closest to a proper Valentine’s Day date I’ve ever had. Even sadder knowing it would likely end with an abrupt impact from this impossible height. He didn’t know when he would hit the ground and feared it as much as falling forever.

And then there was a violent jerk and Martin blinked his eyes. There was no more wind, or Mike, or Argus. Instead of sitting at a table in an Italian restaurant he was sat down on soft grass in a field, butterflies fluttering about. Leaning back, Martin let out a surprised sound when the ground was even softer than he thought it would be. Turning his head he saw why: he was laying on the fuzzy coat of a large dog with the warm brown eyes and a little stub tail that wiggled its whole butt with wags. Closing his eyes, any thoughts of falling fell away as the breeze, soft and cool, caressed his hair and the dog leaned enough to rest his head on Martin’s shoulder.

It was calm, and peaceful, and there was music somewhere and distant familiar chatter that let him know he was safe. He didn’t need to fret about anything, because the dog squire would help Martin talk to the rabbit king when he was summoned.

Yawning as he woke up, Martin marveled at having a nice sleep. It was increasingly uncommon lately, either the inescapable nightmares based on the horrors he’d experienced or his brain filling in the empty spaces with anxiety dreams that made no sense. Not that this dream had made much sense, but woodland creatures waging battle against oolong tea and his secondary school teachers wasn’t horrifying at least.

Taking a shower, Martin had all but forgotten his dreams as he made himself something to eat and checked his phone. He tried not to think about the fact he was still on read from Jon, and instead agreed to meet up with Tim and Sasha for lunch since they were apparently taking an extended lunch because Tim had said that: if the big boss minds he can fire us. (which wasn’t concerning at all Tim, really)

Still, Martin was looking forward to it. There was a nice little deli just around the corner from work, and Martin was glad for any excuse not to spend extra time in the library. He kept looking at the table the woman had been at before vanishing, and Martin didn’t need to have a breakdown from thinking about it too hard. It was a bit of a blessing he hadn’t had any full nightmares about it yet. Normally he got them soon after, and they were so vivid it was hard to shake off.

It wouldn’t last, it couldn’t last, but Martin would enjoy it while it did.

There were no nightmares that night either.

So of course it made sense that things would be a bit strange that day. Tim and Sasha sent text messages in the early afternoon that Jon was being weirder than usual but by which they meant he sent them home early and told them not to come in the next day. Tim also added the most suspicious part of the conversation was that: he apologized about everything. his words

Martin couldn’t offer any more insight, Jon certainly hadn’t contacted him (it was fine the Valentine’s Day message had been ignored, it didn’t sting, it didn’t mean anything, he was doing great) but he did agree that seemed strange. But maybe he did need the space—Sasha’s text had said Jon claimed to be sick, so maybe it was for the best that they had a day and a half off. And when Jon was well they could talk with him and find out what was going on, right? It wasn’t the best solution Martin could think of, but he didn’t know what else to suggest. At least there wasn’t the threat of worms anymore, and neither Tim nor Sasha had mentioned any other creatures menacing them.

He had almost convinced himself things were fine by the evening as he heated a ready meal, when a door that hadn’t been there earlier opened and Michael stepped through. While they hadn’t been anything approaching normal before, he hadn’t seemed so full of manic energy. “Martin!” it strode across the room and put his long, sharp hands on both of Martin’s shoulders. “Your Archivist, what is your opinion on him?”

“On Jon? He’s great, I mean, he’s been really nice when I gave a statement and checked up on me and I rather hope we’re friends now but—”

“So you would prefer him alive. I see.” Michael removed his hands, letting out a thoughtful sound before turning and opening a door that was in Martin’s kitchen for a moment, and then Michael and the door were never there.

Baffled and now nursing a bit of a headache, Martin turned his focus back on his ready meal. Maybe a bit of Bake Off would help. At the very least, he would understand what was going on in there, as opposed to this day.

Martin had started drifting off to the sound of the technical bakes when there was a rapid pounding on his door. A glance at his phone told him it was almost eleven, which made it all the more confusing why someone was at his this late at night. Was there a problem with a neighbor? Rubbing his face, he made his way to the door, opening it to reveal: “Jon?”

The man looked terrible. He never looked well rested, but he looked like he’d maybe had three hours of sleep since Martin last saw him, and he was shaking. Quickly ushering him in, Martin didn’t even think to question how Jon knew where he lived. “Jon, are you okay?”

“No,” Jon’s reply was frantic, as he hurried around the flat, closing the blinds and turning off lights. “No, no, I’m, I’m not, I, god I need a cigarette.”

Martin didn’t smoke, but he wasn’t about to tell Jon he couldn’t with how fraught the man looked. “If it will help?”

“Help? Nothing is going to help, Christ, someone bashed his head in!” Pacing around the room, Jon fumbled for his pack of cigarettes, but his hand was shaking so bad it fell. Instead of picking it up, Jon looked about to burst into tears.

So Martin ushered him to the couch, pulled a throw blanket around his shoulders and then went to make tea. It was partly because he thought it would help, and partly so if Jon did need to cry he wouldn’t have to suffer someone seeing. It was for that reason he made his steps deliberate when returning to the living room.

Whatever was happening, it seemed bad. Handing over the mug, Martin sat down beside Jon and held his own tea, glad it gave him something to do beside fidget. “Jon? What’s going on?”

Jon didn’t answer, not at first. He was looking down into the mug, hands still trembling. That was fine, Martin wouldn’t push. He let his gaze turn to the TV where bakers were still struggling to figure out whatever their challenge was. There was no rush. They had all night.

Martin had never been a coffee guy. He didn’t even have any in his flat, which was why he had to go to the coffee shop around the corner to get a drink with three espresso shots. It tasted awful, but he’d only gotten two hours of sleep in the end and had a shift to get through before he could go home and pass out. As he waited for his drink his mind wandered back to the revelations from the previous night.

Monsters and murder. Christ.

It wasn’t that Martin didn’t believe Jon, the problem if anything was that he DID believe him. There was no doubt in his mind that his story was true. Being chased by the Not Sonjia (and the fact she was dead, that no one had known and no one beyond Martin remembered the real her) Jon had ended up going through Michael’s doorway to escape. Would the door had even been there if Martin hadn’t told it how important Jon was to him?

When he saw Michael next, Martin would need to make a point to thank him.

Taking his coffee, Martin took a sip, grimacing at the taste before heading out and towards his bus. He couldn’t help looking around as he waited, as if he would suddenly be grabbed and questioned by an officer. Because that was a thing now to worry about it? Harboring a fugitive. Jon seemed convinced the police would assume he killed the man in his office, so he had fled right to Martin’s flat.

Should he be flattered or concerned he was who Jon came to? It made sense he wouldn’t go to Tim or Sasha—they were coworkers and friends and would be the first the police looked at. But ‘person I trust not to turn me into the police for murder’ seemed quite a jump from ‘guy I trade cat pictures with.’ Jon’s only other idea had seemed even worse though: who would trust their ex not to immediately call the police?

 And even if it would get him into massive trouble the police did realize what was going on, there was something nice about Jon trusting him like this.

Finishing his coffee by the time he got to the library, Martin gave a tired hello to his boss as he waited for the espresso to get to work. Hopefully right now Jon was getting some sleep—he’d still been awake when Martin had left, and he looked three seconds from passing out. While he hadn’t answered when Martin had questioned the last time he slept, that was an answer in itself.

It was halfway through his shift when he noticed two familiar people in the library. “Tim? Sasha?” Leaving the book cart he jogged over, giving them a big smile which faded when he noticed how grim their faces were. “What’s wrong?”

“Look, I don’t want to get into it, but if Jon contacts you, let us know.” Tim sounded wound up and Martin fought the urge to offer a cup of tea.

“Okay? He never responded to my text on Valentine’s Day, but I can message him if you—”

“No!” Sasha blurted out the word too loud.

Martin raised an eyebrow slowly and Sasha exchanged a look with Tim. “No, just, let us know if you hear from him or see him.”

“Alright. The last time I saw him was when I gave my statement. You know he hasn’t really been responding to anything in a while.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I don’t think he will but . . . ”

Tim sighed audibly. “Told you this was pointless Sash.”

Sasha elbowed him a little and gave Martin an apologetic smile. “Sorry for bothering you while you’re at work.”

“It’s no problem. It’s nice to see you both. Normally we meet at your job, so a bit of a reversal is a good change.”

That managed to get Tim to smile and Martin glanced back to make sure Harriet wasn’t nearby before he gave into his impulses. “Want a cuppa before you head off? You seem like you could use it.”

It only took Jon attempting to sleep on his couch once for them to decide it was best for them to both have the bed. Martin would take it at night and while he was at work Jon could sleep. That way they could have breakfast and dinner together—Jon even said he didn’t mind cooking, which was thrilling to Martin, who hadn’t had a proper home cooked meal . . . possibly ever.

Jon had said that morning he planned to make stew for dinner, which sounded grand to Martin with February’s chill. So he thought he might come home to that, or even Jon watching one of the competition baking shows and having so many opinions. Instead as he unlocked the door, he heard Jon’s voice in a soft rhythmic cadence, the soothing tone of it diametrically opposed to what he was talking about:

“—forces he barely understood, calling himself a jailor to things he couldn’t even conceptualise. There is so much more horror in this world than I had ever dreamt possible. And my suffering, I now know, pales in comparison to what has befallen others far more innocent than I. But perhaps not for—oh! Martin!”

Cringing a little at how he hadn’t closed the door as quietly as he hoped, Martin offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I was just recording a Statement.”

“For the job you no longer have because of the being on the run from the police?”

“No, well, yes, maybe. It’s complicated.” Jon sighed and turned off the tape recorder. “This is more for me. Everything that’s happened has given me a lot of time to think, and I wanted to make a record of the first . . . encounter with these things I had, even if just for myself.”

“Shall I leave you to it then? I can hide out in the bedroom till you’re done.”

Jon seemed to hesitate a moment before awkwardly patting the couch beside him. “Actually, I think I’d like the company, if you don’t mind.”

Martin didn’t even hesitate. “Of course not.”

“If it gets too much, just tell me but, thank you Martin.” Reaching out, Jon pushed the record button. “Statement continues. These beings that lurk beyond us know my name and, if I understand Leitner correctly, one of them has already claimed me.”

“Statement ends.” Jon let out a heavy sigh and glanced at Martin. “You can see, I hope, why this engendered in me something of a fascination with the supernatural, and some deep feelings regarding the name ‘Jurgen Leitner’.” Martin remembered how quickly Jon had believed him when it came to the cursed book. It made sense now; Jon had first-hand knowledge of how dangerous those books were.

And Jon had been so young. He continued talking, his thoughts on feeling guilty, as if an eight-year-old boy could have done anything. The only thing that would have happened was the spider would have gotten a meal out of him instead—and wouldn’t the spiders prefer a better meal than a child? Instead of eating it, it was using the child to lure in larger prey.

Shaking the thought from his mind, he turned his focus back to Jon. “It has made me reconsider my attitude to getting help. I have consistently kept the others at arm’s length, tried to deal with things myself and it, it hasn’t gone well. Whatever is going on, this ‘Unknowing’ that S– Not! Sonja was talking about, Elias killing Gertrude and maybe Leitner as well . . . I need help. I need allies. I just wish this revelation didn’t come just as everyone is convinced I’m a deranged killer.”

“Not everyone.” Martin said softly, reaching over to squeeze Jon’s knee. He hoped his words were reassuring but something was bothering him, nagging at his mind. Something he didn’t want to think about. Something he didn’t want to confront. “Come on, I’m looking forward to stew. Have you started or can I still help making it?”

But cooking with Jon wasn’t enough to stop him from thoughts turning and turning in his mind. “Jon, about those Statements. How do you know if one’s true?”

“The ones that are real don’t record digitally. More than that, I just have a sense for it now, I suppose.”

Don’t ask don’t ask its better not to know.

“So if I gave you one, you could tell if it was real or not?”

“I . . . suppose? I’ve never tried to before.”

It’s better to think it never happened. It’s better not to know the truth.

“Why do you ask?”

But if it’s true . . .

“I have a Statement for you then.”

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Jon, about those Statements. How do you know if one’s true?

ARCHIVIST

The ones that are real don’t record digitally. More than that, I just have a sense for it now, I suppose.

MARTIN

So if I gave you one, you could tell if it was real or not?

ARCHIVIST

I . . . suppose? I’ve never tried to before. Why do you ask?

MARTIN

I have a Statement for you then.

ARCHIVIST

A statement?

MARTIN

Yeah. I just, I never could tell if it really happened, or if it was a nightmare. And you can.

ARCHIVIST

Are you sure about this?

MARTIN

No. But I need to know.

ARCHIVIST

Right.

[SILENCE]

ARCHIVIST

Martin?

MARTIN

Sorry. It’s just hard.

ARCHIVIST

Take your time. If you want to do this later . . . ?

MARTIN

No. No I just need to get it over with.

[To Self] Just think of it as ripping off the bandage.

Okay. Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding his father’s abuse and abandonment.

ARCHIVIST

[Softly] Oh Martin.

MARTIN

Given, what is it, the eighteenth of February?

ARCHIVIST

Statement begins. In your own time.

MARTIN (STATEMENT)

I don’t really remember my father the way I remember most people. I can’t remember his face, or his voice, just his hands and his anger. I used to think I deserved it, but now that I’m an adult I can’t imagine hurting any kid that way, especially not one who depended on me.

There are some good memories. My first summer vacation, we went to the beach. I remember my parents got me ice cream and how large the waves were and that both me and my father got sunburned, and my mum let me wear her big sunhat to keep me in the shade after that. It was before she got sick, or, well, before we knew she was sick.

It might be the only memory I have from when they loved me.

I don’t remember them ever telling me they loved me, but I think they might have. It was after that things got harder. Mum started having health issues more often, and my father was always working or angry or out. I started looking forward to when he was gone, because then he wouldn’t yell, or slam doors, or threaten me with a belt, or do more than just threaten.

I don’t know when the abuse started, but the last time I remember it happening is when his father died. I loved my grandad. He didn’t live that close, but he called me every day to talk. And then one day he was just . . . gone. It was sudden, I don’t know what, they just told me he was gone, and I wouldn’t see him again. Heh. I remember how when we were at the funeral the coffin was so shiny. It was closed casket, but there was a photo on top of him when he was younger. I saw the photo and thought that’s not my grandad, he didn’t have his white hair or wrinkles, he wasn’t finished. And I began to panic because I was trying to remember exactly what he looked like, his face, but I couldn’t do it. And I knew I’d never see him again.

He loved me and I couldn’t even remember his face.

My dad took my hand, like he meant to comfort me, leaned down and told me to be quiet, to stop making a scene. I don’t remember making a scene, but I was a child panicking at a funeral, so of course I was. He squeezed my hand so hard as he said it, and I wanted to scream but I was scared if I made another sound it would be worse. I held my breath and watched as they lowered my grandad into the ground.

When the funeral was over, I couldn’t move my fingers. I could move my thumb and pinky, but the other three hurt so badly, and they didn’t look right. But I didn’t want to say anything, so I hid it in my pocket till I was home. My dad went in the kitchen and was slamming cabinets, so I went to my mum. I tried to ask for help but she was too tired and just told me to bother her tomorrow. I, uh, I knew better than to pester her when she was upset like that! So I went outside into the garden where I would be alone.

Well, not exactly alone.

My grandad used to tell me all sorts of stories, about how there were magical fairies who would hide in the guise of butterflies or beetles or moths or spiders or bees. If they wanted they could help good people or punish bad people. He said that’s why it was important to always be kind to the ‘little friends’ of the garden, and that if I asked nicely, they might help grant my wishes. I was just a kid, so of course I believed him fully. I would watch the spiders or moths and wonder which ones were normal bugs and which were fairies. There was one spider in the backyard that always had large webs that caught the dew and to my child mind I knew it couldn’t be a normal spider.

So I talked to it. I sat in the garden as the drizzle that had been there all day became a misting rain, and told it everything that had happened. That I missed my grandad and I was so tired of my father hurting me and my mother. When I was talking about my hand the spider even climbed down from its web and crawled over it, its little feet tapping my fingers. It felt like it was listening to me, and I just thought maybe it would listen so I whispered my wish: “I wish my dad would stop being so scary.”

The spider, unsurprisingly, didn’t do anything when I said that. It stayed on my hand a few more minutes before crawling back into its web. But I felt better, giving the fairies my wish. I could almost imagine my grandad nodding approvingly when I walked back inside, being careful not to step on the snails or disturb the web across the top of the doorframe.

The rest of the day I spent in my room, just being sad and watching the rain. At some point it turned into a proper storm and it felt right, like the whole world was sad with me. It also made it easy to fall asleep at night: the sound of rain’s always been soothing to me.

I don’t know what woke me, or what time it was when I woke up. The house was quiet and everything was dark. I sat up in my bed and looked out the window, into the back, though even now I don’t know why. The moon was out, and it felt so bright as it illuminated everything, which meant I could easily see my father.

He was standing in the middle of the backyard, swaying a little like he did went he was drinking. And in front of him was a giant . . .

I’d always liked spiders as a kid, even if other people found them creepy. They never scared me. Still don’t, most of them are just little guys who want to eat pests and avoid people. But this one? It was too big, it took up the whole backyard, body bulbous and eight long legs reaching out slowly, one after another, bringing spider silk out to wrap it around my father, again and again. He just stayed there, swaying as he was completely enveloped in silk. I wanted to hide in my bed but I couldn’t look away. I felt like I was caught in a web too.

W-When he was completely covered in webs, those legs reached out and pulled him in. Suddenly the, there was movement as he started to thrash about. Whatever had kept him still had worn off and he finally tried to struggle his way out. But it was too late. He was trapped, being pulled to the spider’s chelicerae, and when it finally bit down I heard the crunch of bones.

He had kept struggling even then, but slowly he stopped. Only when he was finally still was I able to dive under my covers and hide.

In the morning my mum told me that my father had left in the night. I asked if the spiders had eaten him and she rolled her eyes at me and told me to get ready for school. I mean, it makes sense, who would want to be bothered about a nightmare when their husband had walked out on them.

I tried not to think about it.

I still try not to think about it.

[LONG UNSTEADY BREATH]

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends. Martin, are you alright? You’re shaking.

MARTIN

Was it real?

ARCHIVIST

Martin . . .

MARTIN

[desperately] Was it real?

ARCHIVIST

It . . . yes, it was real.

MARTIN

So I caused that to happen. I killed him.

ARCHIVIST

NO! No. That wasn’t your fault Martin. None of that was your fault. You were just a child, in a bad situation.

MARTIN

[voice breaking] But I asked them to get rid of him. If I hadn’t . . .

[MOVEMENT AND FABRIC RUSTLES]

[SOBBING]

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

Martin was in the garden when he noticed the spiders. There weren’t usually this many, but this time there were dozens—no, hundreds. More than just the spiders though, he saw the webs. The ones around his body, keeping him in place. The ones around Argus as well. And the ones around . . .

If there weren’t webs keeping his mouth shut, he would have laughed, a flash of mania rushing though him as he saw a man he hadn’t since he was a child. His father, standing there, but without the fog of distant memory. No, he could see him clearly even as the spiders became one huge creature and began wrapping him in silk. Martin wished they would hurry, so he could stop watching him, stop looking in those too-familiar eyes.

In the webs there were more eyes, all made of spider silk and watching, watching, watching, just like Argus was watching, just like how Martin couldn’t stop watching as his father was wrapped in the webs.

One of the spiders crawled over him, and Martin couldn’t move enough to flinch. “What’s wrong spiderling?” It whispered, voice soft and sweet and sticky. “You wanted this. We only granted your wish.”

They were right. He wanted this. He asked for this. He wished for this.

It was all his fault, and he was almost grateful the webbing kept his sobs muffled as the spider began to devour his father.

Martin didn’t jolt awake, like with some of the nightmares. He felt the tears still streaming but ignored them and the feeling of spider legs over his skin—there was something much more important he needed to do. Stepping over Jon, asleep on the floor, he made his way to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

His father stared back.

Martin didn’t doubt for a second the man in his dream had really been his father, somehow he knew it had to be and if it was . . .

Shaking his head Martin pushed the thoughts trying to crowd his mind away and headed to the kitchen to start breakfast. As he cooked up some eggs, Martin considered calling out of work, still feeling drained from giving Jon the statement about his father. But maybe it was for the best if he kept up with some attempts at normality? It might get his mind off the revelations the nightmare had inadvertently given him last night.

“Wonder if I could think of an excuse to take down the mirror.” What good was it anyways? Sure, he used it to shave, but maybe he could just start trying to grow a beard. (Never mind that he’d tried a few years back and hadn’t been able to stand it in that more-than-stubble-less-than-a-proper-beard state, maybe he could do it this time.)

“What’s that about the mirror?” Jon’s sleep thick voice asked from behind Martin.

“Morning Jon. I, it’s nothing. I’ll get started on tea, could you watch the eggs? They’re almost done.”

As they shuffled around the kitchen, getting breakfast sorted, Martin could forget about his reflection, just for a bit.

“Junk, junk, junk, bills, oh lucky me, I may already be a winner.” Martin sorted the mail and then paused as he came to the last envelope. It had the address and Jon’s name on it, but there was no postmark or return address. Glancing back to the couch where Jon was still asleep, Martin considered his options. He hated to wake Jon when he’d been up all night (writing notes on something it seemed like, he muttered about eyes and idiot motherfucker Jurgen Leitner a couple times, but Martin wasn’t sure what that had been about) but he was also a little concerned. If this letter meant someone knew Jon was here, it could mean the police were a few minutes from banging down his door.

So he walked to the couch and reached down, lightly touching Jon’s shoulder. “Jon, hey Jon?”

Jon opened his eyes after a second with a groan, looking up. “Nn, Martin? What time is it?”

“Not that late. I just, well, there was a letter for you in the post, and I was concerned.”

Jon was suddenly much more awake. Sitting up he took the letter Martin held out for him, examining it before opening it. Martin waited for something to happen, an explosion maybe, but it didn’t seem to be a trap at all. It was just more papers? “What is it?”

“A statement? It must have come from the Institute, but why would someone send it to me? And how would they know? You haven’t mentioned anything to anyone, have you?”

“No! No one knows.”

Jon let out a thoughtful sound and looked at it. “It seems to be from 2013? About a window display at a department store . . .” His shoulders slumped a little. “I rather hoped it was a new one, or something to do with what’s going on but I might as well look into this.”

“You should get some more rest first Jon.”

“Nonsense. Maybe there’s a reason this was sent to me, I just need to figure it out.”

Martin wasn’t sure what he felt about helping Jon research the creepy statement that had been delivered to his flat, but Jon was stubborn and Martin did have access to an archive of newspapers at the library, both digital and on microfilm. With a name, Lana Billings, and a location, Fanton Department Store, it wasn’t hard to find and print up the related news articles. It hadn’t been a huge story, but there were a good handful of news articles—though some were a bit . . . Martin didn’t want to say trashy, but . . .

Still, even the more lurid of the articles did have information he was sure Jon would find important. Martin hadn’t wanted to know a woman was strangled and skinned in a department store, but now he did! It was great! Super! Martin sure did love having new fears unlocked. Why not be scared of, god, what had Jon said it was? A mannequin? Sure, why not be scared of a mannequin killing and skinning him! Just add it to the pile!

Sighing, Martin tried not to be bitter. He had offered to help Jon research things, being as he didn’t have the Magnus Institute’s resources, but he had hoped he could print up the articles without reading them.

“Martin?” He looked up as one of the new hires, Christy, smiled apologetically. “Sorry, but the kids are trying to overrun storytime? I could use some backup before they get the idea to tell the storyteller hostage.”

Shoving the articles aside, Martin was on his feet in a moment. “Right, let’s go before we get another volunteer center blacklisting us.”

Children were honestly more nightmare worthy than anything he’d seen in his dreams. Every time he made it through an encounter with them he counted himself lucky. There was little in this life he found that could freeze his blood with terror the way a sticky child running at him could.

So it was fun to find something else (on the same day no less!) that was terrifying on that level. Martin tried not to let it show as he gave his best customer service smile to the cop glaring at him from across the counter. “You wanted to speak with me officer . . . ?”

“Detective Tonner.”

“Detective Tonner, right. I mean, I can, but I’m still on the clock so it will have to be here.” Martin tried to give her an apologetic smile, but there was no way he was going somewhere more private with this woman who looked like a walking advertisement for ACAB. Christ, he swore she growled at him. Definitely not going somewhere his coworkers and Louis couldn’t see what was going on. He was counting on the security guard to do something if she lunged over the counter—those bribes of biscuits and tea surely had earned him that much, right?

“Fine.” She crossed her arms and Martin shifted a little.

“S-So, what did you want to talk about?”

“Need you to answer some questions.”

“Alright?” He was grateful to see Harriet in his peripheral vision, and he knew Christy was sitting at her desk only a bit away. She wouldn’t do anything with witnesses, right?

“Where is Jonathan Sims?”

“I don’t know . . . ? What’s this about? I mean, I know Tim asked me if I’d heard from Jon, but neither him or Sasha mentioned why to me.”

“Not important. You sure about that? Heard you were friends with him.”

“I mean, I guess a bit? I went to the Institute to give a couple statements in the past, and everyone in the Archives was nice enough. We would send messages now and then but it was mostly just cat pictures.”

“Cat pictures?”

Martin nodded and shrugged. “Jon seemed a bit stressed so I’d send him cat pictures? He didn’t usually send anything back though. I don’t know if we could say that was really a friendship? I mean, it’s not like with Tim and Sasha, where we’ve ended up having movie night.”

“Hm. Right. Well when you talked to him did he give you any idea where he might go if he was on the run? Anywhere he feels safe, any friends or associates he might turn to?”

“Sorry, on the run?!” Martin’s voice pitched higher, and he was glad he had long learned to effectively fake shock.

“Just answer the question Mr. Blackwood.”

“I, I, I don’t really know? He always seemed to be working? Never talked about doing anything else, or mentioned anyone else, besides a couple of cats? He send a couple pictures of a feral near the Institute? But, haha, I don’t think you’d get much interviewing them?” He laughed a little self consciously and cleared his throat as the officer gave him an unamused look.

“Right. And you haven’t seen him or heard from him?”

“No, not since I gave my statement.”

“And when was that?”

Martin squinted a little in thought. “God, it was . . . it was right before Valentines day! The twelfth or thirteenth. I remember because Tim sent me that awful copy pasta text after I woke up to a nightmare about the necklace, saw the text and wished I was back in the nightmare.”

“And that’s the last time you saw Jon? You didn’t talk to him at all after that? If I look at your phone I won’t see him contacting you?”

Biting his lip, Martin shook his head. “The last thing I sent him was a happy Valentine’s day text, which he never replied to so . . . ”

The detective frowned even more and then shook her head. “Right. Useless.” Without another word she turned and left, and Martin gratefully collapsed back in his chair. If he never saw that detective again, it would be too soon.

 There was a soft singing that woke him, and Martin stood, still feeling half asleep as he followed the song. It was silken and he couldn’t quite make up the words but that didn’t matter as it lured him from the bedroom, and through the living room, past where Jon was sleeping on the couch. He wanted to stop and pull the blanket over him more but as soon as the urge came to do anything but follow the song, it seemed to get more insistent and any other thought slipped from his mind.

So he kept walking to the door to his flat, opening up and stepping into the garden. There was a large spider sitting there, and some part of him tried to resist but it was like he was no longer in control of his body. Step by step he walked towards the massive creature, until he could see the passive smile on his face reflected in its black eyes. The spider continued to sing to him as her eight legs worked at gathering webs to wrap around him. This close he could make out the song the spider was singing:

“Resolving there no more to dwell, but break the King’s decree, into a spider’s web he fell, and could not thence get free. The spider watching for his Prey, Tom took to be a fly, and seized him without delay, regarding not his cry. The blood out of his body drains, he yielded up his breath; thus he was freed from all Pains, by his unlook'd for death.”

In the darkness behind the spider he noticed eyes, appearing and watching. He recognized them and could have sobbed if his body would let him. Argus. Martin couldn’t look away from the spider, and knew that while Argus was watching he wouldn’t help. He never did. No one ever did.

The spider didn’t bother wrapping his head in silk, releasing its control over him so he could scream in terror as its fangs injected him with poison.

His body still ached as he woke. Martin sighed and just lay in bed for a long moment, but it would be better to get breakfast started and talk with Jon before the man fell asleep. While it made sense to sleep in shifts due to the whole scary-as-fuck police officer looking into Jon (which he had NOT been happy when he heard that she had shown up and almost convinced himself to go) it still wasn’t the best. It had to be hard for Jon to keep the sleep schedule . . .

Something proved when he stepped out and saw Jon slumped over the coffee table, head on his arms, asleep. Martin chuckled to himself and grabbed the blanket, draping it over Jon’s shoulders. He’d make breakfast and put it in the fridge for Jon when he finally woke up, the man deserved some rest.

“There was another one.”

“Jesus!” Martin had jumped at the voice, having only barely unlocked the door. “Wait till I get in would you?” Closing and locking the door behind him, Martin put aside his work bag and shed his jacket. “Another what?” he asked, headed to the kitchen wanting to put the kettle on.

“Another letter addressed to me. This one was slid under the door.”

Well. That wasn’t good. “Is it as . . . fun as the other one?”

“Well, it lacked the murder mannequins. It’s undated, and by an unknown figure. There’s parts of a poem from by a William Hughes Mearns? Yesterday upon the stair/I met a man who wasn’t there.”

“Oh! Yeah, I recognize that one.”

“But the person who gave the statement by their own admittance isn’t . . . able to be remembered? He himself is ‘the man who wasn’t there.’ There’s a note with the Statement from the assistant who typed out the Statement that he had no memory of the event and needed sick leave after. But there’s nothing more to get into.”

“Yeah, that seems . . .” Martin let his words trail off, not even sure what to say.

“More interesting to me is who could be sending these. This is the second, so someone clearly knows I’m here and has access to the Statements. Which is a small amount of people. Tim and Sasha are the most likely, or . . . maybe Elias? I don’t even know.” Jon sighed and Martin shook his head, pulling out his phone.

He was pretty sure Tim or Sasha would have said something to him if they knew he had Jon here, but maybe not. So he sent a text: Hows work been? Any spooky stories to share?

Tim replied pretty quickly: Haven’t been doing any which was concerning in its own way, but meant he likely hadn’t sent the statement.

Sasha responded by the time tea was ready. Sorry, not been doing actual work either, been looking into some things in the library about India and war ghosts, long story. Miss you though!

Tim’s next message at least sounded more himself: We should catch up, movie night or something. Tell you all the crazy shit that’s been going on.

Martin responded with a few thumbs up emojis and a That sounds great! before closing his phone. “Pretty sure it wasn’t Tim or Sasha, I don’t think they’ve been doing much Archive work?”

Jon scrunched his nose and then sighed. “I suppose that’s fair, after the murder . . . ” Letting out a frustrated grumble, Jon took his tea and drank it while practically pouting. Once he put down the mug he looked to Martin, schooling his features into a look of determination. “Martin, I think we need to reassess me staying here with you. I already don’t like a police officer questioning you, but someone knows exactly where I am, and I might just be putting you at risk. I can stay somewhere else, or—”

“No. I told you before I want you here, safe. And if you consider just leaving without telling me, know I’ll search for you nonstop.”

Jon let out a weak laugh and then sighed. “You’d be the only one who would. But . . . fine.” Trailing a finger around the edge of the mug, it almost seemed like that was the end of it before he spoke up again. “I need the institute’s resources to properly figure this out.” Maritn let out a frustrated groan before e could stop it. “I don’t mean you to do anything Martin—!”

“Look, I’ll try and figure something out. Try being the key word here. Maybe I can visit Tim and Sasha on Monday or something.”

“Martin, do you have a tape recorder?”

It wasn’t the first thing he expected to hear when he stumbled his way out of bed Sunday morning (well, afternoon, but Martin wanted to sleep in so it was still morning to him.)

“I, yeah? I record my po—my thoughts on it? Why?”

Jon held up a cassette tape. “This arrived in the mail today. I wanted to make a second recording of it with my thoughts if possible.”

So Martin went back to his room and searched his drawers for where he’d put the thing, making sure he ejected the tape of embarrassing poems and returned to Jon. “Here, go crazy.”

Jon smiled in a way that made Martin’s heart give a little flip. “Thank you. I, I made tea while you looked for it.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your tape?” Martin walked to the kitchen and made himself some toast as he drank the tea. It was a little weak but it was still nice of Jon to make it for him. He didn’t particularly want to hear what was on the tape, so he stayed in the kitchen where the door could muffle whatever it was. When Jon started speaking he headed back in, hoping that he wouldn’t be talking too much about The Horrors that were in there.

Thankfully it seemed he was more talking about the ‘mysterious pen pal’ which made Martin chuckle a little. His laugh stopped though when something caught his attention. It was . . . circus music? Something about it set him on edge and he moved to the window, looking out. Nothing, but the music seemed to be getting louder somehow.

Jon’s voice came to a halt. “Oh god.”

Martin turned to look. “Yeah, I heard to too. Was looking to see if there was an ice cream van or something  but—”

“Circus!”

The way Jon said it made Martin pause and then step away from the window.  Thankfully the music was beginning to fade but Jon was breathing heavy and his fingers had a death grip on the sofa. “Jon. Are you alright?”

“Um . . . ” the way his eyes darted away told Martin all he needed to know. Sitting down on the sofa beside Jon, he almost smiled when Jon instantly leaned into him, body still trembling. Martin grabbed the blanket and pulled it around them both, and didn’t say more, sitting beside Jon until he seemed to calm.

It was somewhat of a relief when Martin woke up Monday with no nightmares and not a hint of creepy circus music. He walked to the living room where Jon was sitting, a pile of notes all around him and muttering things about ringmasters and mannequins and Havering. Figuring it was best not to ask, Martin made them a fry-up.

By the time Jon had gotten breakfast and some tea (a soothing chamomile, Martin was sure he needed it) he looked ready to drop. Normally he would help with dishes but he looked more likely to fall asleep on his plate. “Jon, go sleep. I have a few errands to run then I’m going to have lunch with Tim and Sasha at work.”

Jon mumbled something, but it was a testament to how exhausted he was that he didn’t argue and all but collapsed on the couch.

Walking down to the Archives, he was glad to hear Tim and Sasha’s voices. He had texted them he was on his way but still worried they’d change their mind at the last moment or something. Pushing open the door to the bullpen, he opened his mouth to say hello but Tim and Sasha beat him to it: “Marto!” “Martin!”

“Hey Tim, Sasha.” Seeing how genuinely happy they were to see him shook away some of the anxiety that had been building in his chest that he was just bothering everyone. “Good to see you both.”

Tim pulled him into a hug and Martin hugged back with one arm, the other still holding the bag of food. “You too man.  Sorry we haven’t hung out much lately. Things have been . . . a lot.”

“Yeah. I figured as much when the cop interrogated me the other day about Jon.”

“She what?!” Sasha looked ready to fight someone and Martin set the food down on the empty desk.

“Yep, came by the library. I still don’t really get it, but I figured it was something to do with how you guys were before and, well, it made me want to see the two of you. Make sure you’re okay.”

“I mean.” Sasha shrugged a little. “Someone was murdered in Jon’s office so—”

“Sash!”

“Tim, if Tonner is questioning Martin, Operation: Don’t Worry Martin has already failed hasn’t it?”

Martin paused in his unloading the sandwiches. “Operation what now?”

Tim grumbled and sat dramatically in his chair. “Well, we didn’t really want to worry you about the insane stuff going on here. Especially when there’s not much you can do about it. Didn’t expect that detective to go after you. Christ. Of course she would, if she threatened to pin the murder on one of us.”

“I’m sorry, she WHAT?!” Martin gaped at Tim and Sasha who both seemed too unbothered by that statement.

“Yeah, said she could pin the murder on me if I didn’t tell her everything. Which I did. Jon sent us home, we came back, Michael showed up and we wandered his hallways for way too long. He kept asking questions too, showing up every few days it felt like, I can’t even remember what he asked.”

“It felt like we were in there for weeks but it was only a few hours when we got out. We made a recording but it was too distorted to be of use. So the ‘great’ detective decided me or Sash were trying to help Jon. I said I was still pissed about his stalking, which I mean, I am but I’m also really worried. Jon wouldn’t kill someone, and if he’s missing . . . ”

Both of them went silent and Martin wished he could reassure them that Jon was okay, but Martin didn’t know if telling them would make things worse if the detective came back. It seemed likely that the less they knew, the better unfortunately.

"So anything interesting been going on here? I know you said you weren’t working Tim, but Sasha, you mentioned something about the library?"

That seemed to ease the tension, and as they ate Tim told Martin about his new hobby of watching Netflix on company time and Sasha explained the stuff she’d been looking into at the library. The ghost hunter from before, Melanie King, Ghost Hunt UK (Martin remembered looking her up when they mentioned her visit last time) had gone to India and apparently been shot by a ghost. She’d wanted more information but hadn’t wanted to come back to the Institute because she got bad vibes from the place, so Sasha had been helping her find information, which she shared during the weekly drinks she’d started having with Melanie.

Apparently last week there had been another person joining: some ghost podcaster, What’s That Ghost or something. Martin had never been one for podcasters, but apparently she went into haunted places or events, giving the knowledge she had and Melanie was collaborating with her since Ghost Hunt UK was now defunct. They’d invited Tim, but: “Said noooo thank you. I get enough spooky bullshit working here, thank you.”

“Oh, actually . . . ” Martin hesitated a moment before soldering on. “Any um, ‘spooky bullshit’ here have to do with circus music?”

Tim seemed to tense a little and scooted his rolling chair closer. “Why? Did something happen Martin? Are you alright?”

“I, no, but yes? Noting happened exactly, it was just really strange, and likely nothing but after all the stuff that’s happened . . . ”

“What was it?”

Sasha had rolled closer too. “Even if it turns out to be nothing, if something is bothering you we want to help.”

Martin could have called them hypocritical, but he was grateful for their offer. “I heard circus music the other day? Out of nowhere. It seemed to be getting closer and I looked out the window but didn’t see anything. And then it was just fading but it just gave me the chills for some reason? I don’t even know why. I’ve never been to a circus, and clowns are weird but not scary to me. But the music was so out of place I guess?”

Tim and Shasha exchanged looks. “If you hear it again, call one of us immediately, I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night.” Tim put a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Promise okay?” He then looked at Sasha.  “We need to check Artefact Storage.”

She nodded. “Right, we do.” Turning back to Martin, she let out a sigh. “There’s been statements that mention calliope music.”

“Calliope?”

“It’s a steam organ, what plays circus music. There was one in Artefact Storage that seemed to be involved in a murder.”

That was . . . no wonder Jon had been worried. “Y-Yeah, if I hear it again I’ll let you know.”

“Good.” Sasha gave a smile that was a little forced. “So, like Tim said, he’s been ditching out of pub time, but that  makes it a bit of a girl’s night which is fun.”

Martin wasn’t surprised when Tim texted him that night that the calliope was missing. He had a feeling they’d heard it the other night, and Jon’s grim look all but confirmed it.

The lack of further circus music lulled Martin into a false sense of security. Things were moving back to a more normal routine and there had been no more mysterious packages. Jon was going a bit stir crazy, but there had been no further signs of supernatural occurrences or police, so Martin was fine with that.

Of course he should have known it couldn’t last, but if you’d asked Martin what sort of horrible thing to happen he would have guessed maybe something with the police, or maybe Jon’s weird ‘pen pal’ showing up and being a monster, or even something with the clown music. He would have been wrong, because all of that would have been easier to deal with than entering his flat after a long day of dealing with the most obnoxious boomers he’d had the pleasure of helping to see Jon with his hand under the sink, shoulders shaking and soft whimpers and suppressed sounds of pain coming from him.

Getting a good look at the hand reminded Martin too much of disapproving looks and cigarettes pushed into his arms, but he swallowed down his trauma and set to looking up what the hell to do.

They couldn’t go to A&E. They should, god they should those burns were bad, second degree, maybe some third degree where the edges of the burns were on the back of Jon’s hand. It looked almost like Jon had shaken hands with a fire.

“Close. A woman made of burning wax.”

And knowing that really didn’t help things Jon, thank you, but they couldn’t go to A&E with Scary As Fuck cop out there so Martin was going to do home treatment. Luckily he had plenty of burn care in his first aid kit as a leftover from his bakery misadventure and knew what to do, so within the hour Jon’s hand was cleaned ointment and wrapped. He set up some pillows so Jon could keep his hand raised to reduce swelling and gave him some pain medication that would help not only the pain but hopefully the swelling too.

“Thank you Martin.”

Martin looked over at Jon and gave a tried smile. “Course. If it gets wet or dirty at all you need to make sure you change the wrappings. I’ll leave the first aid on the table. God, I can’t believe you shook hands with a wax woman.”

“It was worth it though.” Jon frowned as he looked at his hand. “I need to know more about all of this, what might be happening to me. I told you that Leitner said I was part of the Eye, and that this job title isn’t only that. My . . . Jude called it a god, but it doesn’t seem to fit exactly. But she said I needed to feed it, and gave me another lead. Um, it was Mike, Mike Crew? The same one from your statement?”

Martin groaned and rubbed his temple. “The one who accidentally made me feel like I was plummeting to my inevitable death? That one?”

“Yes?”

“I mean . . . ” Martin worried his lip. He’d seen Mike one after that and it had been painfully awkward but not life threatening. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, but he was nice enough before that. And I doubt you’ll listen to me if I tell you to leave it.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s just part of who you are Jon. Just . . . try to get some rest tonight. Let your hand heal a bit before rushing off to ask Mike about his, his god? Jeeze, sounds so religious doesn’t it?”

That night he dreamed he was falling into a void, eyes watching him but unable to scream without the darkness pouring into his mouth, suffocating him and filling him with something dark and wrong and no longer him.